A/C

He doesn’t even try to stop himself from reaching his hand down Aziraphale’s pants, really.  It’s the first thing Crowley thought of when they brought up the switching of their bodies, even before “fuck, I should shave”, or “how am I going to keep myself from swearing?” or anything.  Just how, as soon as he found a private moment, Crowley in Aziraphale’s body and no-one to judge him for it, he was absolutely going to get himself off.

Get /him/ off.  Get Aziraphale off.  He’s never been one for linguistics.

Aziraphale’s bed smells like nothing to Aziraphale’s nose, but a wire gets crossed somewhere between the body’s olfactory senses and Crowley’s consciousness, and as he lays his head on the pillow, he’s welcomed by a soft scent of clean apple-scented fabric softener and dusty books.  It makes Crowley’s — Aziraphale’s — anxious heartbeat plateau pleasantly.  Makes the cock in these well-pressed trousers stir slightly.

Crowley’s always been rather attached to his cunt, and thusly never bothered to change to anything else.  There’s a rush of feeling very /right/ when he smooths his palm down Aziraphale’s length, sure, but he attributes that more to the fact that it’s /Aziraphale’s/ body;  a body which is always feels right and good, no matter what angle Crowley’s approaching it from.

It takes nothing to get hard, really.  If the two of them were both there, separate, Crowley might have ribbed him for it.  He likes making Az blush.  He can feel it on the skin of the body now, even, all hot in the cheeks and shoulders.  He licks his palm and tugs himself in earnest, a little clumsy from fingers shorter and chubbier than he’s used to.

The feedback loop begins to hit as he gets closer, and, hell, Crowley remembers this feeling.  As an angel, every expression of affection and love and shite re-doubles  — a joyful noise being exhaled and then breathed back in — and it nips at him now, warming his fingers and toes and chest.  /I Am love/, She used to say to them, and She certainly made Her army in Her image in that regard.  Aziraphale more so than some others, he’s sure.  /He/ is love, certainly.

His orgasm hits him quick, a wall of energy shivering its way through his veins.  Aziraphale’s voice crests in a gorgeous little moan that almost startles Crowley before he realises himself, and when he can breathe again, his palm is sticky with come and his whole body flushed red and burning.

Crowley can only half-taste Aziraphale when he licks his hand clean.  Makes him want to do it again proper;  suck on these fingers with his own tongue, take his time with it.  Vaguely, he wonders if he’s making Aziraphale’s face do that soft, knit-brow smile he gets when he has a bite of a warm dessert, and the thought alone is enough to get him blushing all over again.