Category: Love, attraction, kissing, not-quite-touching
Summary: If you back up by ten minutes, this all started with a little too much wine, flushed angel cheeks and bright demon eyes. Where it has led to, is Crowley's bed with the both of them kneeling, facing each other on the rather opulently big and comfortable bed.
Series: Welcome to my own personal end times (multifandom)
Word count: 1,018
Crowley wants to yell at Aziraphale to get on with it, he can tell. They do know each other so terribly well that any little microscopical change of expression is a glaring giveaway.
Aziraphale doesn't really care. Well, he does care about Crowley. A great deal, too. More than is probably good for an angel when it comes to a demon, and more than heaven and hell will tolerate in the long run.
And they know about him and Crowley anyway. They still have to be careful out there, in the world, but the cat's quite frankly out of the bag now, isn't it? And this allows Aziraphale to focus on things he hadn't let himself before.
Like how magnificent Crowley's eyes are in the light of the evening sun coming through the windows of Crowley's bedroom. For a demon who should be craving the dark and shunning the light, Crowley has rather large windows that allow in a lot of daylight. More than enough to bathe them in an almost heavenly glow.
If you back up by ten minutes, this all started with a little too much wine, flushed angel cheeks and bright demon eyes. Where it has led to, is Crowley's bed with the both of them kneeling, facing each other on the rather opulently big and comfortable bed.
They've rarely touched through the centuries. When even a brush of fingers when handing something to the other has created small sparks under their skin, who knew what might happen if they were to fully touch. That at least is how Aziraphale had sold it to Crowley.
Such a thinly veiled excuse.
Aziraphale reaches out but rather than touching Crowley's face, he cups the air at his cheek, fingertips stretching to touch the tip of his dark red hair. There are no sparks as such, save for the ones he can see in Crowley's eyes. The slits are normally quite narrow, but they've steadily been dilating for the past few minutes, making Crowley seem more approachable and soft than normally.
Not that he doesn't always appear approachable and soft to Aziraphale. A thing that Crowley will most certainly not like to hear. He never does. So Aziraphale has had to develop other ways of letting him know over the years. Most of those were never quite consciously made. He can not help but soften his own gaze when he sees Crowley, sure that it is a miracle that heaven and hell hadn't seen the beacon of love in him years back - and found them out well before the end times that were not.
Aziraphale realizes that he doesn't really have to be careful about what he says now. Their friendship is known and hated by both sides. And if they do see it as an abomination, it's also strangely freeing.
"Your eyes truly are quite magnificent, my dear," he says, voice low and soft. He turns his hand and runs his fingers a fraction above Crowley's lips. He can feel the heat of them, feel the stuttered exhalation against the sensitive tips of his fingers.
Crowley parts his lips to reply but no words escape.
It makes Aziraphale smile. He can't help it. It is so unusual to see Crowley this still, almost mesmerized by his hand that isn't even touching. Yet.
"I wish you wouldn't hide them away," Aziraphale continues, moving his hand up to almost brush against Crowley's brow. "Although I am glad you do not feel the need to do so in my company. And I feel I should tell you I'm quite happy to be the only one to ever see how lovely they are - so responsive to physical arousal as well."
Crowley swallows hard, his own hands resting on his thighs, though fisted with a tension that tells Aziraphale that he wants nothing more than to grab him and- well, perhaps he should push a little more to see what it might take to un-clench those hands.
"And your lips are exquisite, my darling dearest," Aziraphale continues, leaning forward to almost brush his across them. This almost gets him the reaction he is looking for. There's an un-clenching and clenching of Crowley's hands, but that's all.
Aziraphale stays where he is, leaned in so close they would be breathing the same air if they did, indeed, need air. He lifts his hand to run it lovingly just above Crowley's shoulder. "And you take so very good care of your wings, my love - if you were to permit me to, I should love to spend an afternoon paying them my full attention."
He can feel the shiver in the not-quite-there wings and he knows he's nearing Crowley's breaking point. Without moving away, he allows his own to unfold - on the same barely-there plane. He can hear the raw intake of breath from Crowly. They may not need air, but they have both gone a little native, haven't they?
As he stretches them and curves them around the two of them, to form a perfect half circle with Crowley's, sheltering them both, wingtips brushing against each other and that touch sets off sparks. They're not unpleasant, but very much electrifying.
He'd be lying if he said he felt unaffected by this. His own breathing has quickened and his body tingles most fascinatingly. He wants what Crowley wants, but this sweet, drawn out torment is like the most exquisite morsel, like the most enticing taste of wine.
Like the first rain on a raised wing, offering shelter from the first storm.
"Crowley, my dearest friend-" Aziraphale says, barely audible.
Hands grab his shirt, Crowley moving as fast as only a snake can strike. And he looks utterly wrecked, his pupils almost round, eclipsing the yellow and orange. "Would you just shut up and kiss me already, angel?" Even his voice is cracking and thick with the same thing that fills Aziraphale's chest and burns through his veins.
"There is nothing I would like more, my darling love," he replies, laughing into the sloppy, desperate kiss they've been sauntering towards for six millennia now.