Good Lord, Crowley's mouth. How does the demon know exactly what to do to make Aziraphale moan with every thrust and succumb to wave after wave of hot pleasure. Is it instinct? Or has he fantasized about this for so long that he's bound to get it right?
It doesn't matter. It feels so blessedly good, Crowley groaning with want, his hands holding onto Aziraphale's hips, so open and giving. The angel doesn't hold back, but he doesn't give more than Crowley can take, he makes sure of that.
The litany of praise starts up again, a sweet contrast to the demanding pace of his hips. But all too soon, he feels his climax building, and his words dissolve into a near frantic whine. And then, suddenly:
"Crowley! Crowley, wait --" He pulls tight on Crowley's hair, pulls him off his cock and up towards his lips for a desperate kiss. "Please, I want --" He fumbles with Crowley's hips, trying to align them like earlier, their arousals caught between them. "Can we -- that is, can we climax together?"
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It doesn't matter. It feels so blessedly good, Crowley groaning with want, his hands holding onto Aziraphale's hips, so open and giving. The angel doesn't hold back, but he doesn't give more than Crowley can take, he makes sure of that.
The litany of praise starts up again, a sweet contrast to the demanding pace of his hips. But all too soon, he feels his climax building, and his words dissolve into a near frantic whine. And then, suddenly:
"Crowley! Crowley, wait --" He pulls tight on Crowley's hair, pulls him off his cock and up towards his lips for a desperate kiss. "Please, I want --" He fumbles with Crowley's hips, trying to align them like earlier, their arousals caught between them. "Can we -- that is, can we climax together?"