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like icarus; twixt sun and sea

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Crowley is falling.

The sensation catches him every now and again, the world veering around him as if to open below. His body jolts instinctively — not that it’d been able to stop it all that time ago — and snags against Aziraphale’s ropes, keeping him perfectly in place, safe, floating. The rope creaks, swinging from a hook embedded in one of the ceiling beams, and the gentle swaying lulls Crowley back into the headspace where he needn’t worry about a single blessed thing.

Crowley arches just to feel how the ropes hug him, hold him, and sighs when he hears a soft mechanical hum. The heated lamp overhead must have kicked off a while ago, and Aziraphale has restarted it, soaking Crowley’s body in warmth in stark contrast to the breeze that rolls through the open windows, tasting of seasalt and carrying the distant crash of the waves to his ears.

He’s not blindfolded, but his eyes are closed as he sinks into his body, luxuriating in the picture he’s painting in his head. He’s suspended somewhere between the sky and sea. The sun kisses color and freckles into his skin, sinking into him until he’s warm all the way to his bones. The ocean turns endlessly with the tides, biting cold if it could touch him, but it won’t, can’t, because he’s being held out of its reach. He’s not a captive, but neither is he an active participant. He just is, and he is falling for so long that it might as well be flying until Aziraphale is ready to catch him.

Crowley loses track of time, minutes turning into hours without his notice. A fine sheen of sweat covers his naked body, and it’s finally cooling where it sticks to his skin.

“Ah—” he rasps, then stops to wet his mouth and swallow thickly before he tries again, “Aziraphale.”

Pages rustle, and there’s a soft clap as Aziraphale closes his book. Crowley blinks his eyes open blearily, pulling the upside-down cottage into focus as Aziraphale crosses the sitting room. A smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a dimple in his cheek as he reaches out, gently trailing his fingers through the silky locks of Crowley’s hair. Crowley bumps his head into Aziraphale’s palm like a demanding cat, sighing pleasantly when Aziraphale cups his head, tender as anything.

“Ready to come down?”

He is and he isn’t. He had been ready, but then Aziraphale had touched him. It opens a floodgate every single time, reminds him of how long he spent craving Aziraphale in any way he could have him and every way he couldn’t. Things are different now, but the need is the same as ever.

“In a minute,” Crowley says. Then, in the next breath, aware that he sounds hopeful in a way that would be unbearably vulnerable if Aziraphale were anyone else, he asks, “Fuck my mouth?”

Aziraphale’s breath stutters in his chest. While Crowley is perfectly pleased with himself for catching Aziraphale off guard, the satisfaction is nothing compared to Aziraphale’s voice, husky and low, intimate as his fingers tighten so slightly where they’re holding Crowley’s head. “Are you certain, my darling?”

Crowley nudges forward, bending his head back and kissing Aziraphale’s belly over his waistcoat with a soft whine. “Please, angel.”

He could bend the rules of physics or lengthen the ropes anchoring him to the ceiling himself and put his mouth to use instead of asking again, but he’s put himself in Aziraphale’s immaculate hands for a reason. He wants to be given to, taken care of, lovingly used.

Aziraphale tips Crowley’s head up and kisses him quite soundly, then straightens again. His hands brush the ropes, slowly lengthening them until Crowley’s at the right level. He resists the urge to swing himself closer, to start mouthing at Aziraphale through his trousers.

He gets the best view of Aziraphale undoing his belt, opening his flies, and pulling his zip tantalizingly down. The scent of him grows stronger on Crowley’s tongue, musk and salt, making his mouth water before Aziraphale’s pulled his plump cock and balls out through the flap of his pants. Crowley leans as much as he can, but Aziraphale is just out of reach. His hand strokes slowly, pulling his foreskin back to expose the fat rosy head before his hand eases back up the shaft. He twists his wrist just under the head, and his hips flex against the instinct to thrust as Aziraphale sighs pleasantly.

“You do want my cock, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks with another slow stroke down. “Show me, dear.”

Crowley’s head drops back, his mouth opening automatically. Aziraphale’s hands close in on the sides of his head, and he steps near. His cock drags over Crowley’s cheek, testing if he’ll turn his head or use his tongue, or if he’ll be patient and take what he’s given.

He holds himself still, tongue extended and mouth open and achingly empty. Aziraphale’s thumbs smooth over his jawline approvingly before he shifts and slides home in one easy movement, expecting Crowley to take him to the hilt without any fuss as he splits his mouth open.

Crowley doesn’t have a gag reflex, really, but he contracts his throat around Aziraphale’s cock in spasms anyway, thick spit pooling in his mouth and sliding down his throat between desperate gasps.

“Darling,” Aziraphale chides gently, sliding back until he’s only half in Crowley’s mouth, leaving Crowley with the choice to catch the breath he doesn’t need or make do with what Aziraphale’s given him. His tongue curls around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, cheeks hollowing as he sucks him in. He leaves the lightheaded feeling, letting it feed his desperation, the way he feels like he’s careening wildly out of control even though he’s still safely in Aziraphale’s hands. “You need to calm down, or I won’t be able to take what I want.”

Crowley makes a noise in his throat, guttural vibrations in his chest. How easily Aziraphale flips the script, where he takes what Crowley has asked for and rephrases it as if Crowley’s desires are second to whatever Aziraphale wants from him. He takes a few deep breaths, forcing himself to visibly calm.

“There we are. All of it, now,” Aziraphale murmurs, fingers tight on Crowley’s head, holding him in place as he thrusts, easing all the way in. Crowley breathes shallowly through his nose, Aziraphale’s scent overwhelming him until he moans for it. Aziraphale thrusts slowly, out and in.

One of his hands moves to rest on Crowley’s throat, squeezing lightly when he pushes in, contracting around himself. “Oh,” Aziraphale barely breathes. “Oh, look at you, you marvelous thing. Look at how deep you take me. I could finish myself down your throat just like this.” He rubs down the length of Crowley’s throat, and he obediently swallows around the obstruction in his throat, tightening around Aziraphale who moans and gives the most restrained buck into Crowley’s mouth. “What was that wonderful word you taught me? Cocksleeve?”

Crowley’s vision starts going dark at the edges. Arousal burns through his body like a wildfire.

“You were made to take me, weren’t you? You ache for it when I’m not here.” He strokes up and down the length of Crowley’s throat again, watching him struggle and swallow as he bucks in his bindings, desperate for more. “No more, lovely. I’ll keep you satisfied.” He pulls back, and Crowley gets one beautiful, crisp breath of air, vision starting to clear, before Aziraphale fucks forward, fast and shallow. “Full of me,” he manages, and after a few more desperate plunges, he cums down Crowley’s throat with a shattered moan.

Crowley is floating, mouth hanging open as air desperately shudders into his lungs. He’s falling into Aziraphale’s arms, curled against his soft chest. When he feels water around him, it is warm and smells of lavender, and he blinks to find himself immersed in the bathtub, every muscle in his body feeling light and loose save for the ache between his legs.

Ssomebody’s sssake,” he blesses, ragged and relishing the ache in his throat, “the thingss you sssay.”

Aziraphale leans against the side of the tub, the tips of his fingers dragging through the water until he skims one of Crowley’s bony knees. He’s radiant and smug, self-satisfied. “Oh, but darling, you love it, don’t you?”

Crowley makes a strangled but affirmative noise, reaching for Aziraphale’s hand and leading it down between his thighs. Aziraphale smiles with just the barest flash of white teeth, an utter bastard smile, and Crowley falls in love impossibly more.