'he could do really weird things with his tongue'- w/ flamingprincipality- nsfw

[anguiform]

Continued from here

The blushing (human eyes couldn't see it, with the starlit dark and the shade of Aziraphale's skin, but Crowley isn't human) is a little unexpected, but between the two of them, it's always been the odd little things that cross the border into squirming discomfort. For Crowley, any hint of the huge, consuming, ineffable love Aziraphale is capable of makes him want to curl up into snake-form and bury his head in his own coils. It's not the love in general terms; Aziraphale is an angel, after all; love is kind of what he does; but specific love, focussed on Crowley, is unaccountably terrifying. He tries his best not to let on about that. For Aziraphale, it's his own carnal desires, or at least that's Crowley's hypothesis. The angel's come to terms very neatly with gluttony and drunkenness and avarice over the centuries, but he still manages to freak himself out when he wants with the intensity that humans want.

It's a strange combination. But then, they are by definition a strange combination, so perhaps it's to be expected.

In any event, Aziraphale plainly doesn't need persuading in this instance, just encouraging past his own tongue-tied embarrassment. And, well, Crowley can hardly pretend he doesn't enjoy the pleading. He tightens himself around Aziraphale's skinny torso, scales smooth against warm, human-feeling skin, constricting just enough that Aziraphale won't be able to draw a full breath without it hitching.

There's a part of his brain that wants to keep going, the bit of him that remembers being a snake, back at not-quite-the-beginning, remembers the sensation of bones crunching under his strong coils, the animal satisfaction of life ended and warm raw meat. The rest of him is appropriately rather grossed out by that thought in this context, and he makes a face at himself.

Half a second later, he catches himself doing so, and surges up to cover it with another kiss, his hands going to hook into the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers. He hopes, between his fingers popping the button of his flies and his tongue doing decidedly inhuman things in Aziraphale's mouth, that's enough of a distraction for both of them.

Comments

[bibliophale]

Whatever sense Aziraphale might have of Crowley's bout of identity crisis is lost when Crowley meets his stuttered request, dragging around him with a force that is somehow both affectionate and ruthless. None of Aziraphale's horrible, terrible, sinful pride nor his general prissiness can keep him from moaning outright, desperate and wanton, oh how pitiful. Like a whore of Babylon. Crowley must be enjoying this. Aziraphale would be lying to himself (and he frequently does) if he tried to pretend he doesn't really, indecently enjoy debasing himself like this. It feels cumbersomely like a compromise with the demon, who, if memory serves, was just shy of gleeful when Aziraphale first allowed this kind of thing to happen. And it was so different then, too. So comparatively... domestic.

But here he is, beside himself, wrapped in the demon's lovely, sinuous coils and moaning. Heaven forgive him. Better yet, don't look. Heaven is not invited to this engagement.

The kiss stifles him a moment later, and Aziraphale meets it with startled, open-mouthed submission, helpless with his arms pinned and Crowley's tongue, what is it even doing; helpless to do anything apart from fall apart at its (the kiss's) proverbial feet. Crowley opens his trousers and he rolls forward, desperate, wanting, in spite of everything, wanting.