No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable.

the kiss prompts - number 5! :D

hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp

[Inspired by this absolutely stunning art piece by @selene-yoshi-chan that i have not been able to get out of my head, so this is an attempt to free myself (who am i joking we all know we’ll never be free)]

It happened on a Wednesday afternoon, and where else would it have happened if not in the bookshop? Their safe haven. Their home, though they’d never admit it.

Sure, they (Crowley) had an elaborate code system of secret meet-up places, but he’d have been lying if he told you they were either truly safe or secret. No, there was nowhere he felt as at ease as in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop, with the shutters down.

Which was where they were now, except something had changed.

The sofa was empty, two wine glasses, empty still, were abandoned on the table, the wine beside them likewise untouched.

What was not untouched, was—well, it was Aziraphale.

It was only just his hand, for now, which rested between Crowley’s, and yet he felt the touch like flames, his cheeks reddening as he listened to the words spill from the demon’s lips like a barrel wrenched open. Crowley bent his head, grip tightening, and Aziraphale registered the pressure on his limp hand. The words, though spoken with such unstudied haste, trickled into his head slowly.

I love you. I’m sorry.

There were other words, many, but those were the ones that stuck. And repeated, in his head, until they filled it whole.

“Say something. Angel?” Crowley’s voice almost broke on the last syllable, and Aziraphale blinked, fighting against his stupor. Crowley’s eyes, when he met them, were filled with sorrow and something waiting to turn into panic.

He wasn’t expecting something good, Aziraphale realised. He was just expecting something. It hit him harder, this look, because it was not filtered by Crowley’s sunglasses.

He was so vulnerable, like this. For him.

Everything inside Aziraphale ached, and he wanted so badly to turn it into a good ache. Oh, I love you too, he wanted to say, and I’m not sorry.

What was stopping him?

He wasn’t sure anymore. He’d gotten so used to fighting it, to suppressing it, to thinking it impossible.

But here Crowley was, in front of him, so much braver than himself. Baring his feelings, his heart, and offering it up for a weighing he was sure he would not pass.

Not because he thought Aziraphale indifferent, the angel was sure (he had to know how much he loved him, too, right, right?), but because he knew him to be bound by duty, belief, loyalty. Divine shackles, if you will.

But just for one moment, Aziraphale let himself be unbound.

Life returned to his hand, and he lifted Crowley’s, still holding on, with it. He looked at their hands, intertwined, and then he looked at Crowley’s lips. And didn’t hide the longing in his eyes.

That was enough for Crowley to crumble; Crowley who was not shackled by anything save his own heart.

Gently, carefully, slowly, he moved closer. Aziraphale watched his eyes flutter shut, and then his own world turned dark. (But bright, oh so bright behind his eyelids.)

When their lips touched, it was with reverence.

It was the softest of kisses, a little unsure, like a question. Aziraphale leaned in, and provided the answer. There were no words between them now, because they did not dare speak. Words meant acknowledging, and this was not a moment for acknowledgement: it was a moment for kissing.

And feeling wonderful for it.

After the moment, sooner or later but inexorably, there would come the consequences. The aftermath, the having-to-talk-about-it. But not now.

Now Crowley’s arms snaked around Aziraphale and pulled tight, never wanting to let go. Now his hands were on Aziraphale’s back, holding on for dear life.

And Aziraphale parted his lips, and exhaled softly, and let his fingers feel the fabric of Crowley’s shirt, let himself feel the demon’s body and warmth and everything.

They were so close, so tangled into each other, as if they were trying to become one.

Their clothes pushed and shifted as they moved, and then there was an opening for Crowley’s hand, stumbled upon by accident, and when his fingertips touched bare skin they both gasped.

And locked eyes.

There was so much need in both of them that they averted them hastily. Only to gingerly, almost shyly, bring them back together.

“Wait,” Crowley breathed. “Angel, I don’t want to… For you…Would it…” He stumbled over his words, his question. But it came down to this, and he did find the strength to ask it: “Would this be a sin?”

Aziraphale swallowed, looking up into the hesitant demon’s eyes. “A good one.”

And the moment he said it, he knew it to be true. If there was such a thing as a good sin, this was it. And if there wasn’t—well, he’d be damned.

The ghost of a smile haunted Crowley’s face before he softly, very softly resumed his trail of kisses along the angel’s jawline. His hand settled on his belly, moving along the crumpled shirt until his fingertips touched soft, warm skin, and started drawing circles.

The angel, sighing, closed his eyes.

He had learned many things, throughout his millennia on earth. But above all, Aziraphale thought as Crowley’s lips reached his neck and he trembled, he had learned that not every temptation needed to be withstood.

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Kids who live inside of volcanoes are probably really good at playing “the floor is carpet.”