Ac accelorator

“There’s a dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, soft and nonchalant like he’s talking to a whiny house-cat.  It’d be maddening if it were anyone else talking to him like that, but as it stands, Crowley’s hanging on to each syllable like they’re holy psalms.  “Do make sure my shoes stay clean.”

Crowley says nothing, doesn’t know if he has any words to use at all.  He just digs his nails into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’s thigh, and harder again when Aziraphale adjusts his foot so that Crowley’s cock presses right up on the tongue of his smart leather dress shoes.  Crowley’s knees are sore and creaking already, the worn rug beneath them doing little to alleviate the pressure of the wooden floor below, but he’d be damned all over again if he’d give up when Aziraphale’s perfect, gentle disregard has gotten him so close already.

Aziraphale turns the page of his book, the same hand then coming down to pry Crowley’s claws out of his slacks and rap him softly on the knuckles for it.  “Poor creature, hm?”  And anyone-at-all help him, if that doesn’t send a shock down to Crowley’s empty cunt.  “Go on and rest your head on my lap, now.  That’s a good boy.”

Crowley could fucking cry if his eyes weren’t scrunched so tightly closed.  With his face pressed into the soft of Aziraphale’s thigh, he can just barely feel and smell the salt of the man’s growing erection.  Being so ignored and so coveted at once sends all kinds of crossed wires down to his crotch, where enough wetness has been drawn from him that it’s easier to slide himself against his Angel’s pretty ankle.

He finds a rhythm there just moments before Aziraphale dog-ears his page and sets his book down beside him on the chesterfield.  Crowley looks up from where he’d hidden his face in his own crossed arms;  Aziraphale meets him with a soft kiss on the forehead, and then pushes him back with a hand on each side of his bare collarbone.  He could resist, but tumbling back with his legs spread wide and his arms braced behind him is all he could imagine wanting to do.

“Come on, darling, enough playing.”  The pointed toe of Aziraphale’s oxford, impeccably clean and shining off the lamp light, comes down heavy on Crowley’s clit.  It’s not forceful, it doesn’t hurt;  it’s the same way Crowley taps the brake on the Bentley to keep the tyres fresh.  Insistent and coy in tandem.

Crowley pushes up towards the sensation, a few stitches popping in his leggings as he works to keep his thighs spread wide.  He has Aziraphale’s attention entirely now, those bright eyes appraising him like an extensive wine list.  Aziraphale bears down further, grinds his heel like a less refined man might snub out a cigarette on the pavement, and Crowley comes with a sob that rattles his chest, travelling down his spine in waves until he soaks the fake leather of his pants right through.

It takes him a proper second to get his elbows to unlock when he next goes to move, and from there he only has it in him to pivot on his ass and turn to rest his back against the edge of the chesterfield.  His shirt’s got so messed up that one of his tits is almost all the way out, which he does nothing about after realising, since Aziraphale is probably looking from up on his higher vantage point.

“‘Spose I should offer to return the favour.”  Crowley realises it’s the first coherent thing he’s said in a while only as the words come out of his mouth, tacky and slow like he just woke up.  Above him, Aziraphale chuckles.

“Why don’t we take it to the bed instead?  The way your old bones crack and groan when you’re on the ground... Almighty, I’m afraid I’ll break you to splinters one of these days.”  A warm hand comes down to pet Crowley’s hair, which undoubtedly looks like shit, and he leans into the touch like a spoilt lap dog.

“No need to worry, darl’.”  Crowley stretches, keening high in his throat at the pleasure of it.  “I’m already well broken for you.”