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“I should go.”
Aziraphale’s eyes flash up at Crowley like a slightly alarmed deer, then melt into a soft protest. “Oh, do stay. There’s half a bottle left. Such a shame to waste it.”
Crowley hesitates, falling into that familiar grey, cosy gaze. Yes, it would be a shame to waste such a perfect night of wine and conversation, the scent of old books and beeswax drifting amongst the gentle dance of dust motes. They’ve spent another pleasant evening in the bookshop, Crowley slouched into the curves of the Chesterfield, Aziraphale gradually sagging into his comfortable chair.
Crowley shoves his empty glass forward. “Go on, then. Can’t let a good wine go undrunk. Undrinked? Undrank? They all sound wrong.”
Aziraphale leans forward to fill Crowley’s glass. “I believe you were correct the first time.”
Aziraphale’s chair creaks as he settles back, and Crowley’s gaze travels to Aziraphale’s thighs, his tan trousers pulled snug across them, forming two plump pillows. Crowley stares, wondering what it would feel like to kneel at Aziraphale’s feet and rest his head against his thighs, to eventually turn his cheek and nuzzle his nose into the gap between his legs, to hear Aziraphale’s soft gasp as his knees drop open, allowing Crowley to burrow deeper, to press his open mouth against the growing mound of heat bulging beneath the fabric.
“Crowley?”
“Hm?” He drags himself back from his illicit musing, his cheeks flushing. He’s grateful he’d put his sunglasses back on earlier, hiding his wayward eyes. This isn’t the first time he’s entertained erotic thoughts about Aziraphale; it’s more like the millionth. Usually, Crowley just suppresses them or wanks it out in the privacy of his dark bedroom. Lately, however, such thoughts have been harder to ignore.
“I was asking if you wanted to try that new restaurant in Bloomsbury, the Greek one.” Aziraphale looks at him over the top of his glass as he takes another sip.
“Uh, sure.” But Crowley isn’t really listening, still distracted by the image of Aziraphale gripping the arms of his chair as Crowley pushes his face into his crotch, a damp patch blooming on the khaki trousers where Crowley is exploring and teasing with his teeth and tongue, breathing in the heady scent of an angel’s forbidden desire.
Crowley feels his own very real arousal stirring in his jeans, an insistent pressure against tight denim. He shifts, the motion sending an unexpected spark of pleasure through his stomach, and he’s mortified. He takes another long drink and crosses his legs, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice his agitated state.
“There’s also a new exhibit at the British Museum,” Aziraphale continues, his glass balanced casually on his right thigh, much to Crowley’s intense distraction. “‘The Nude Form in Antiquity,’ I believe it’s called. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
“Yup. Sounds great,” Crowley manages to grunt, tightening his grip on his glass, the word nude lodging itself in his psyche. The scenario in his mind is now flesh-coloured, warm candlelight licking over the planes of their naked bodies, Aziraphale still seated in his chair with Crowley kneeling between his legs.
The hair on Aziraphale’s thighs is illuminated like tiny strands of gold, his pinkish skin marbled with blue-green veins. Aziraphale is looking down at him, lips parted, chin trembling — not in fear, but with anticipation that he seems desperate to quell but cannot.
Crowley wraps his hands around the meat of Aziraphale’s outer thighs, letting his fingers sink into the yielding fat and muscle. A gust of Aziraphale’s warm breath tickles across Crowley’s lashes and he smiles, his mouth a slash of wicked hunger, then he bends forward, returning his lips to the hot crease where thigh meets hip.
“I hardly see the point of adding fig leaves to nude statues,” Aziraphale is saying, and Crowley struggles to nod, showing he’s still tracking the conversation.
“The human form is nothing to be ashamed of,” Aziraphale continues. “Why, for instance, should the male member be singled out for attention?”
“Dunno,” Crowley croaks, shifting deeper into the sofa cushions, his sweaty palm sliding dangerously up his own leg.
In his mind’s eye, his hands slide up Aziraphale’s legs, pinning him in place like an ivory-winged butterfly against a velvet board, the flutter of his rapid heartbeat palpable against Crowley’s fingertips.
Crowley brushes his lips against the tender skin of Aziraphale’s inner thighs, then dips his mouth to skim his heavy balls.
“Ohh…” Aziraphale moans in his fantasy, his legs spreading wider.
Crowley lifts his glass again, suddenly thirsty, and welcomes the red liquid pooling over his tongue and burning a thin trail down his throat. He digs the heel of his palm against his crotch, adjusting his half-hard cock.
Aziraphale pauses and lifts an inquisitive eyebrow, a silent Are you quite alright?
“Wedgie.” Crowley makes up an inelegant explanation. “Bloody tight jeans. You know how it is.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale answers politely. “One must adjust one’s fig leaf now and then.” Aziraphale giggles at his own joke, slumping further down into his chair. He splays his legs in a tipsy attempt to stabilise himself.
His groin is now on full display, and Crowley easily slips back into his fantasy. His tongue is now resting at the base of Aziraphale’s erect cock, tasting the tang of salt as he licks a slow stripe up the underside. He looks up, locking his eyes with Aziraphale’s, drinking in the haziness of Aziraphale’s expression — his eyes a swirl of shock, amazement, and sultry desire. Aziraphale's hand moves to Crowley’s nape, but he makes no attempt to direct his motions, simply cradling Crowley's head like a precious relic.
Crowley glides his tongue to the tip of Aziraphale’s cock and lets it hover there, teasing, gauging, his mouth suspended mere millimeters from the slit glistening with the first hint of precome. He curls his hand around the root of Aziraphale’s thick shaft, then descends again, his tongue tracing the path of a prominent vein. Aziraphale exhales shakily, his fingers tightening against Crowley’s scalp. Crowley is highly aware of what the angel wants, but he waits to hear him say it.
He shifts his gaze again, finding Aziraphale’s eyes. There’s a sort of anguish in them, but also an unmistakable lust.
“Take me,” Aziraphale whispers hoarsely, his hand winding into Crowley’s hair, slowly drawing him upwards, guiding him back to the sensitive tip of his cock, “into your mouth.”
Crowley pauses, savouring this moment, ignoring the pressure of his knees digging into the rug.
“Please…” Aziraphale’s voice is raspy, his pale body exposed and vulnerable, his flushed nipples peaked, his belly soft and round. But his cock is hard. So incredibly hard.
Crowley lowers his head.
The gurgle of wine being poured penetrates Crowley’s attention long enough for him to focus on Aziraphale filling his glass again.
“It’s a good vintage, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asks, squinting at the label. “It has a lovely, round mouthfeel.”
“Big mouthful. Huge,” Crowley agrees hastily, taking another long drink. The wine floods his palate with warm berries and tannins, and now there’s the taste of salt and skin, a hot, silky girth filling his mouth and flattening his tongue as he sucks and hollows his cheeks, bobbing his head in a slow rhythm. He can sense Aziraphale’s bare toes curling into the rug with pleasure, can feel how Aziraphale’s breath quickens as he sucks and licks, drawing out whimpers and groans and slick droplets of arousal.
“Crowley…” Aziraphale moans his name, his hips rocking forward in time with the strokes of Crowley’s hand, his fingers tangling in his hair, his words breathy. “Oh, it feels so good… Take me deeper… I want… I want… to fuck your mouth.”
Crowley is instantly rock hard, the very real bulge trapped in his jeans so stiff that it’s almost painful. He’s firmly back in reality, and he grabs a throw pillow from the corner of the sofa. He stuffs it into his lap and hunches over, trying to hide his awkward predicament.
Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, still engrossed in the wine bottle label and rambling on about grapes and harvesting methods.
Crowley desperately wants to make an exit, but he can’t exactly walk at the moment, so he’ll just have to wait out his massive boner.
“Yes, a very good bottle,” Aziraphale declares, slurring his words a bit. He looks momentarily perplexed as he gives the bottle a little shake, then he tilts it up to his mouth and drains the contents, his lips wrapped around the phallic bottleneck with an exaggerated enthusiasm that strikes Crowley as extremely sexual.
And he’s instantly transported back onto his knees where he’s worshiping Aziraphale’s dick, taking glorious thrusts into his mouth and throat as saliva drips and drools down his chin. He controls the depth and speed of Aziraphale’s plunges with a looser or tighter grip around his cock, coaxing and playing with him to prolong the experience. Crowley knows he can take all of Aziraphale’s substantial length; he is, after all, essentially a serpent with a hinged jaw and a spectacularly supple throat.
“You like the way I fill you up, don’t you? My big cock stretching your pretty lips so tight.” Aziraphale pets and praises Crowley, his hips lifting and falling on the edge of the chair, his words delightfully filthy. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages… fuck you, your arse, your mouth, everything…”
Crowley relishes the way Aziraphale is losing himself in dirty talk and hair pulling, the most beautifully sinful angel ever to walk the Earth. He loves the way Aziraphale feels, the way he tastes and smells and sounds, and he wants to try everything with him — mouths and fingers, cocks and pussies, in beds and chairs and cars, top, bottom, fast, slow, morning, noon, and night, he wants it all.
And right now, he wants to make Aziraphale come. He angles his head just so, relaxes his throat, and lets Aziraphale thrust more deeply than ever.
“Oh, God — that’s — good —” Aziraphale falters, his rhythm changing, slowing then gradually gaining speed, his eyes drifting shut as he chases ecstasy.
“Mmmm,” both Aziraphales moan, and Crowley’s ability to distinguish reality from fantasy suddenly blurs, one mouth filled with wine and one with cock, his hand slipping to his own erection to give it a squeeze (Is he really touching himself? Is he sucking Aziraphale off, or is Aziraphale sucking greedily on that bottle? God, who’s making that noise?) and the screen of his mind goes static white. There’s a burst of heat and waves of pleasure, a sensation of wetness and ripples of satisfaction, and a long sigh of contentment from Aziraphale.
“One last swallow,” Aziraphale says, collapsing against the back of his chair, the now empty bottle dangling from his hand. “Had to get that last drop.”
Crowley slowly comes back to his senses, his fingers trailing along his lips. They feel swollen and puffy — had he accidentally bitten his lower lip somehow? Then he pales, feeling the dampness in his jeans, and he clutches the pillow closer. Fuck. His imagination had gotten him so worked up that he’d come in his pants like a horny teenager. If Aziraphale hadn’t sucked on that bottle like he was giving it a world-class blow job, he might have kept his fantasy under control.
“You’ve gone white as a sheet,” Aziraphale says with concern. “Are you feeling ill?”
Crowley pulls himself together and conjures a subtle miracle to clean up his embarrassing problem. He clears his throat. “Nah, I’m fine. Just had a bit too much to drink, maybe.”
“You poor thing. I am a terrible influence, aren’t I?” Aziraphale stands up, wobbles, and weaves to the sofa, plopping down next to Crowley.
This unexpected action surprises Crowley, but he doesn’t move away.
“Now,” Aziraphale pats his lap invitingly, “why don’t you rest your head right here until you feel better?”
Crowley stares at Aziraphale, his eyes traveling to the two plump pillows of his thighs. This is madness. Dangerous. A bizarre coincidence. But also an incredible opportunity.
He swallows, slowly peels off his sunglasses and tosses them onto a side table, then gingerly lowers his head onto Aziraphale’s soft lap, wondering what would happen if he eventually nuzzled his nose into the gap between his legs.