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Apparently, Aziraphale likes a “soft touch.”
Crowley decided to take that literally. For his dignity.
He purchased Aziraphale a pair of alpaca-lined gloves this past autumn, and a ridiculously indulgent hand cream the following winter.
By February, his dignity-preserving plan had backfired spectacularly. A soft touch indeed.
In spring, Crowley purchased (for himself, thank you very much) a set of pens—silver barrels, black ink, fully functional in space—and left them by Aziraphale’s desk. The summer has been spent watching him draw.
Excellent excuse for suddenly feeling a bit warm, summer.
Not that excuses are needed anymore. They're retired. These days, Crowley can watch Aziraphale’s tendons flex around a pen as freely as a human can. He can ogle at that careful, steady hand, and drool over the way his broad fingers maintain a delicate grip.
Crowley might have an obsession.
Aziraphale knows this. He’s quick study, that one, and he’s currently using his big, beautiful brain for torture.
It has been hours.
They’re fairly new at this, but Aziraphale has taken to sex like a— like whatever it is that takes to things naturally. Crowley, however, has taken to sex like a champagne bottle to a hot car.
He’s surprised he’s lasted this long. Aziraphale’s very good at this, very— very talented with his—
“Oh, oh fuck, fuck—” Aziraphale quickly pulls his hand away. Crowley sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, shaking as he lets it out.
“Shh, I know,” Aziraphale whispers in his ear. “You’re doing so well.”
Crowley groans, head lolling back on Aziraphale’s shoulder. A kiss lands on the exposed curve of his neck and a very unhelpful wash of warmth follows it, making his cock jump. Aziraphale hums contentedly. Bastard.
The sensation barely wanes anymore, Crowley’s so pent up. It lingers all over like static on a balloon. A very desperate and admittedly very squeaky balloon.
Sweat spreads between his back and Aziraphale’s chest as he attempts a deep breath, but perfect, perfect fingertips start drawing gentle lines up and over the head of his cock again, and he chokes on a helpless moan.
“Mm,” Aziraphale murmurs. He rocks his hips forwards with a groan, wrapping his legs tighter around Crowley’s, spreading him farther apart. “Ready for me again?”
“Yeah,” Crowley replies, strained. He tilts his head to watch, nails digging deeper into his thighs where they're trapped beneath Aziraphale’s. Completely at his mercy. “Fuck, please.”
The tip of his cock disappears into the loose circle of Aziraphale’s fingers, again and again, faster and faster and oh, fuck, fuck, that’s— he’s— yes, that’s good. His whole body spasms into it, jolting against Aziraphale’s embrace and—
Aziraphale stops. A pathetic whine escapes Crowley’s lips.
“Keep still.”
Aziraphale’s hand is lingering, but unmoving. A threat but not a promise.
Crowley squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard, trying to relax.
“That’s it,” Aziraphale murmurs as Crowley melts into him. “Very good.” With his free hand, he tucks a strand of crimson behind Crowley’s ear and presses a gentle kiss there. “You’ve always been so good to me, haven’t you?”
Crowley nods, brainless. He swallows dry, staring helplessly at his lap as Aziraphale begins to move again, up and down, squeezing, oh, that’s— that’s perfect. A broad thumb rubs over his dripping slit, faster with every stroke, fuck, fuck.
“So eager to please, so perfect,” Aziraphale pants. He’s finally starting to unravel, letting soft grunts fall from his mouth as he grinds against Crowley’s back.
“Angel,” Crowley breathes. Aziraphale’s hand is drenched now, fully slick with precome, slippery and warm, and Crowley’s breath turns ragged as he watches, transfixed and overwhelmed and unable to be anything else.
“You’re everything I want, Crowley.”
Crowley lets out a desperate, guttural groan. “You— you better stop if you don’t want me to— oh—”
“Oh, God. Come for me, come on my fingers.”
That’s all it takes. He finally spills over Aziraphale’s fist with a sob, gasping, and then collapses into Aziraphale’s arms. Held. A soft touch.