Take These Broken Wings And Learn To Fly

Chapter Thirteen

Smut incoming! Wahoooo let's go xD

Can't believe this fic is almost done, you guys. Thanks for coming (no pun intended) along for the ride!

~oOo~oOo~oOo~

Oh, Aziraphale already knows he will never tire of this sight- of Crowley, perched on his lap like this.

"Darling", he says, twisting the hem of Crowley's shirt around his fingers. "I want to feel you. Want to see you. May I?"

Crowley nods, raising his arms to help Aziraphale as he divests him of his shirt. He drops it carelessly to the floor, lets his fingertips trail down the centre of the demon's chest, feeling the sparse auburn hair there, the way Crowley's ribcage lifts and falls with every short breath.

There hadn't been enough time for Aziraphale to explore all of Crowley properly, not the way the demon deserves, the way Aziraphale has yearned to do for centuries. But he has time now, allows his eyes to rake hungrily over his demon's form, eager to take in every curve and angle, every hair and freckle painting his skin.

Aziraphale knows what Crowley feels like when he climaxes around his cock, know what the demon's pleasure tastes like on his tongue - and yet he doesn't know the constellation of freckles on his shoulder, the warmth of Crowley's hand in his as they walk through a park, or the number of laughter lines around his eyes.

It feels sacrilegious somehow, and Aziraphale is determined to learn everything he missed.

He's going to worship him. Every piece of his body and soul.

Crowley's eyes are calm and patient when Aziraphale lifts his gaze from the spot where his palm is resting against the center of Crowley's chest. He doesn't say anything, simply waits as he allows Aziraphale to take his time and look his fill. And Aziraphale loves him. Oh, how completely, utterly, how desperately he loves him.

Aziraphale smiles, lifting his free hand to stroke Crowley's hair back from his forehead before it comes to rest under the demon's chin, his thumb trailing lightly over the swell of Crowley's lower lip. His lips part, a soft exhale against the angel's thumb, a silent moment as their eyes meet, and Aziraphale is guiding him forward gently, mouths connecting in the middle.

Aziraphale kisses him, all slow and languid and soft, because Crowley deserves to be kissed and have it not feel like a war, to know there is no battle to be won between them now, just this, just them.

"My love", he breathes, trailing kisses from the demon's lips over his cheek, the line of his jaw. "My Crowley."

Arms wrap around him, Crowley's legs parting, body shifting until he has slid forward gracefully on the angel's lap. He feels Crowley's hands stroking his scars, pulling him in until their chests are flush together, the angel's hands roaming over his back in return, fingers splayed out possessively.

He kisses up the demon's throat, licking over his pulse point before nibbling on the skin there, not hard enough to leave a mark, but just enough to make Crowley groan quietly.

"Angel..."

Aziraphale kisses him, swallowing the rest of that lovely noise.

His hands are around Crowley's waist, digging in where he notices bruises still left from their earlier escapades, and he forces his grip to loosen.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" He has to ask, feels his chest tightening when he sees the purple adorning Crowley's skin, marks that fit the shape of Aziraphale's fingers perfectly.

Crowley shakes his head, and the angel's shoulders relax a little.

"Feels good", Crowley says, kissing the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. "Love your hands on me like that."