To A Point

Aziraphale considered the nature of temptation.

He considered the difference between genuine independent desire and succumbing to temptation. He wondered vaguely if one was more of a sin, at this stage, than the other.

Aziraphale considered the nature of temptation and tried very hard to stay upright as a pair of inescapably demonic lips traced the rounded line of his jaw. Crowley pushed at him, just gently enough so that he could pretend that he was taking a step backwards, then two, then four, then pressing his shoulderblades against the wall, of his own volition.

And the demon's lightly exploratory touch turned decisive, and then demanding, and Aziraphale's hands fisted in the thrice-patented, highly technologically advanced microfiber of Crowley's shirt.

"Crowley," he murmured in a voice was nowhere near as steady as he'd meant it to be. "Crowley."

Crowley, however, seemed wholly preoccupied with the patch of skin just below his ear, and did not reply.

The tongue on his skin, noticed Aziraphale, grateful for the unyielding wood against his back keeping him on his feet, was considerably more agile than a tongue really ought to be. He heard a small, throaty noise and decided to pretend that it hadn't emerged from his own mouth.

The angel's physical strength was, on the whole, unremarkable, (More than once he'd had to enlist Crowley's help in the gargantuan feat of opening a mustard jar.) and of his current state of distraction, little need be said; however, desperation lent him force as he wound his fingers into the dark hair curling just a little at the nape of Crowley's neck and hauled with all his might.

There was a soft sucking noise as the demon's mouth separated wetly from Aziraphale's throat and then Crowley's yellow eyes were meeting his dazedly in the pale glow of the apartment's sleek, modern light fixtures.

"What?" Crowley's tone was annoyed, as if he'd been interrupted while draining the ink out of all the ballpoint pens in an office building. His lips were pursed and almost obscenely red. Had his lips always been so scarlet, so tempting? It didn't seem worth it to try to recall. With some effort, Aziraphale focused his thoughts.

"Um," he said, and paused.

"I'm not sure I –" he added, then sighed. Those lips really were distractingly red. And…moist. Aziraphale didn't think he'd ever needed the word "kissable" to describe something before, but he was fairly sure that if anything merited the adjective, it was Crowley's lips.

Crowley examined him patiently, first with one eye, then the other.

"There really isn't much point in –" the angel tried again, and then gave up. "I do hope you know what you're doing, Crowley," he said finally.

"Who would know better than I?" There was mischief in the demon's pointed grin. Mischief, and a core-deep knowing that was doing unexpected things to unexpected bits of Aziraphale's anatomy.

As temptations went, considered Aziraphale as he allowed himself resignedly to be led, warm fingers circling his elbow, to Crowley's impeccable white leather couch, this one was quality work, really top-notch. In the scheme of things, he really couldn't be blamed for – were those Crowley's teeth?

"I said," murmured Crowley, "Sit down, won't you?"

Aziraphale did. The sofa gave a soft creak of protest under his weight. The following whine as Crowley joined him there, one knee on either side of his thighs, could have come from sofa springs unaccustomed to such use, or from an angel unaccustomed to such contact.

Crowley undid the buttons before him with nimble fingers as he bent his dark head forward to suck lightly at Aziraphale's lower lip. There was a faint sweetness there, residue from the tea that Crowley could not dissuade him from sugaring into oblivion, or maybe that was just the way an angel's skin was supposed to taste. Rocking back on his heels, Crowley licked his way downwards to investigate further.

Aziraphale's bare chest had a light dusting of pale hair on it and tasted just as sweet as his lips. Crowley mouthed at it greedily, delighting in the sound of the hastily choked-off murmur that rumbled beneath his tongue. That sound, that quiet almost-whimper – it was the sound of temptation, and Crowley knew it well. To his ears it was Tchaikovsky, it was Schubert and it was rich, dark wine and it was all things full of delicious sin.

And Crowley – not as a demon delighting in successful temptation, but as a man (rather, as a man with a particularly maddening and as yet unfulfilled desire for his closest friend who also happened to be chaste by nature and whose skin was just so soft) – couldn't help but let his breath out in a growl that was decidedly needy when said best friend wound strong, soft fingers into his hair and yanked him up into another eager kiss.

"Crowley, I swear," the angel mumbled, pulling away, lips glistening and cheeks flushed, "You are the most – maddening –"

Crowley cut off that train of thought with efficiency, shifting his legs forward on the couch in a motion calculated to bring all his weight into the searing point of contact between one cloth-covered groin (black, linen, insistently hard) and another (white, tweedish, straining with clumsy and unfamiliar desire).

The two reacted to it in the same instant – Crowley's eyes going wide and dark gold,
Aziraphale's closing, lashes so fine, so delicate against the flush of his cheek.
"Open your eyes," hissed Crowley, "I want you to see me touch you."
And of course, Aziraphale had no choice but to obey. Pupils dilated so wide that they were surrounded only by a thin ring of pale blue, he stared into Crowley's slitted eyes and felt himself shudder under the demon's body.

And then his trousers were open much too suddenly to have been anything but Crowley working his will on them with no regard for the laws of physics, nature, or what really should or should not be done to a good pair of pants. Aziraphale had just enough time to swallow hard against the brush of cool air before Crowley's hands were like fire against him and he would have cried out but he hadn't the breath.

Crowley was undulating against him, and surely a spine wasn't meant to be so flexible? The angel's hands closed around Crowley's wrists and Crowley tensed, expecting to be pushed away again. But quite unexpectedly, Aziraphale was pulling him closer, pleading with his eyes, and trying without much subtlety to urge the demon once more into motion.

Crowley smiled, and he had never looked more serpentine than in that moment.

"Want something, Angel?"

Aziraphale made a sound that was very nearly a whine, and then shut his mouth in surprise that such a noise had emanated from it.

"Um," he said, "Yes?"

Crowley's lips brushed his chest, his stomach, then fastened wetly over the sensitive spot just inside his hipbone and began to suck, and Aziraphale's "Yes" became a "YeeaghlkCrowley!"

"What?"

Oh, heavens. Aziraphale threw patience and angelic propriety to the winds and yanked at Crowley's collar.

"Stop teasing me, you… you demon," he very-nearly snarled, "Stop teasing and touch me."

"Matthew, seven," murmured Crowley, his hot breath brushing like fingers over Aziraphale's skin, " – ask, and ye shall receive."

And receive, Aziraphale did. Crowley's mouth, unsurprisingly, was as hot as the inferno roiling beneath his skin, and the angel's lips parted in a near-soundless cry.

(It should here be noted that Aziraphale was generally reluctant to defile his tongue with profanity. At this juncture, however, his tongue could be said to be thoroughly defiled already, so the shudder that encompassed his psyche at the feel of the word "fuck" in his mouth was greatly eclipsed by the other sensations rolling through him, and he let it pass.)

Crowley glanced up and met Aziraphale's eyes again, doing something complicated with his tongue that made his back arch and his fingers clench and relax on the back of Crowley's neck.

Creatures of the divine and of the infernal have a different sense of time than do their human cousins; an unsurprising consequence of immortality. Centuries can pass between one breath and the next, or from the time one brews a cup of cocoa to when it's finished.

Meanwhile, the space of several minutes, as Aziraphale could now testify, could seem like aeons untold when one has the wicked circle of a demon's mouth busy with one's nether regions.

So empires rose and fell while Aziraphale writhed against the couch and whimpered things that had never before been heard from a mouth so sanctified, and Crowley stopped bothering to breathe altogether, wrapping one hand around Aziraphale's hip and letting the other move with shameless desperation into his own trousers.

For a long moment, there was a fire-white, rushing silence. Aziraphale's hand had found his way to his mouth and his knuckle was hard between his teeth.

The muscles in Crowley's throat moved as he swallowed.

Aziraphale released a shaky breath and wished Crowley wouldn't look quite so smug as he rose from his supplicant's kneel and kissed him, hot and lingering, cupping his jawbone in one possessive hand.

"Oh," said Aziraphale, "God."

"Don't blame me," said a cheerful voice from somewhere. "Even I saw that one coming."