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Crowley was laid out, naked as the first day in Eden, on the bed upstairs in the shop. Rooms that smelled of dust and the ever pervasive musty vanilla scent of old books. Dust swirled in the late afternoon sunlight creeping in through the window, hindered by the lace of the curtain and stack of half read books and half drunk mugs of cocoa that cluttered the sill.

A tan jacket and worn waistcoat were neatly folded over an overstuffed wingback chair next to the bed, and Aziraphale sat before him in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled past his elbow. The sight of the angel’s forearms and hint of throat from his open collar were. Well. It was completely indecent. (Crowley refused to acknowledge the irony of thinking of Aziraphale as indecent from his position.)

It’s not the first time he’s been here, but sex is a new enough stage of the arrangement so as to be thrilling. Terrifying. Completely overwhelming.

Aziraphale’s soft hand stroked Crowley’s cheek gently, steady brown eyes fast on his own. Crowley, who was completely fine and very comfortable, thank you, with the level of intimacy involved in a mutual loving gaze was about to say something teasing and petty—tell him to get on with it and stop being so infuriatingly kind. He opened his mouth to complain, but before he could get a word out Aziraphale took advantage of his open mouth pushed two fingers past his lips, thumb gripping his jaw.

“None of that, dear.” The fond expression on the Angel’s face changed subtly. Still obnoxiously adoring, but also. A bit devious. A bit commanding. As if he could tell Crowley’s mind was still going a mile a minute, still resisting. A running commentary of ironic complaints as a defense mechanism, keeping him distant. Apparently Aziraphale could see right through him. And also knew exactly how to shut him up. Crowley shivered with it. Being seen like that. Being known.

The snide, defensive insistence that he hadn’t even said anything—how could the angel know what he was going to say—sounded petulant and weak even in his head, and Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow at him and pushed his fingers deeper into Crowley’s mouth. Any further thoughts of nit-picking fizzled out immediately—any other thoughts at all quickly followed suit. He sucked at Aziraphale’s fingers without elegance, all teeth and tongue. Aziraphale watched him as his tongue worked at the spaces between the angel’s fingers, as he took him deeper, almost to the point of gagging, but not quite.

“There’s a good love,” Aziraphale said. “Much better.” The hitch in his voice and the intensity of his gaze were all that hinted that this was affecting him as well. He added a third finger, then his pinky, stretching Crowley’s mouth wide. Crowley groaned around him and sucked his fingers as deep as he could stand.

Aziraphale was staring at him as if he were a particularly decadent Italian dessert or a first edition he hadn’t yet made the winning bid for. Coveting and ravenous, but still so fond. his other hand wandered down to Crowley’s bare chest, to play over his nipple, light and teasing. Crowley squirmed under the attention, and whined around his fingers. Aziraphale smiled at the sound, and removed his fingers, taking the time to run them over Crowley’s swollen lips. Crowley followed the angel’s hand with his mouth, greedily nipping his fingertips, following closely with his tongue.

The angel hummed, soft and indulgent. He gave Crowley his fingers again, but only for a moment, before he trailed his saliva-slick fingers down the demon’s slight frame to circle his clit, touch feather light.

“Aah, Angel—“

“Gorgeous,” Aziraphale breathed, leaning in to plant a kiss on Crowley’s mouth, still wet from moments before.

This was getting out of hand, Crowley thought desperately, as he arched into Aziraphale’s gentle touch. He’d planned on having the angel squirming beneath him this time, begging him for mercy, or at least begging to come. He certainly hadn’t envisioned himself here, naked and exposed, while his fully clothed erstwhile adversary shoved half his blessed hand down his throat. He hadn’t expected, either, to be very nearly gagging for it. The look of smug adoration on the angel’s face wasn’t helping matters either—Crowley had a feeling that Aziraphale had planned out exactly how to spend their time together. Anxiety twinned in his chest with anticipation—but, God—or someone, anyway— it felt better than he’d like to admit to lay back and take it. To trust Aziraphale implicitly to have his way with him—trusting that he’d take care of him, give him what he didn’t even know he wanted. Sure, it was a little humiliating to suck at the angel’s fingers like they were covered in ambrosia, but that—that was thrilling in a way Crowley didn’t want to examine right at the moment.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the feeling of one finger slipping into him, slick and easy, too empty, and too much all at once. He hissed, low and breathy.
“Do pay attention, love. Am I boring you?”

“Nn—Bastard. Stop teasing, will you? Fuck me properly.”

“Patience is a virtue, dear.” A fond, smug smile played at the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth. Those emotions shouldn’t go together so well, but there they were— “Perhaps if you asked nicely.”

Aziraphale was teasing in earnest now, barely circling his clit and one finger now very still inside. Crowley ground his hips into his hand, and groaned with frustration. “I hate you.”

“You don’t.”

“Hh—Nnh—All right, all right. I don’t, please—just give me more, Angel, please.”

And yes, finally, blessedly, he was full—three fingers, at a guess, though of course he couldn’t see. “Three—?”

Aziraphale hmmed affirmative with a small nod, eyes closed appreciatively. “Have you any idea how incredible you feel around me? You’re a wonder.”

And his thumb on his clit, with proper pressure now. “Nnn—“ After all that light teasing, the new sensation was almost too much—he was too close already, already coming undone. He hadn’t realized. “Angel, I’m—“ Aziraphale quickened his fingers, matching pace with the thumb on his clit. He twisted inside of him, and Crowley came with a hiss, reaching up to grasp at the angel’s shoulders.

Aziraphale held him steady as he came, pulsing around his fingers, gasping for breath. He gradually became aware that as the angel held him close and stroked his hair through it, he’s also added his pinky to Crowley’s cunt, and is still, maddeningly slow, so as not to hurt him, fucking deep into him with almost half of his hand.

“Angel— Oh, that feels—“ It’s too much, he’s too sensitive— he’d just had an orgasm for fuck’s sake— and the stretch and burn — and then Aziraphale twisted his hand and Crowley may have lost consciousness for a moment. Aziraphale touched thumb to Crowley’s clit and he keened, not sure whether to arch into the touch or away from it.

“Nnnn,” he said helpfully, thrashing on the sweat-damp sheets. Aziraphale pressed harder, as deep as the obstacle of his thumb will allow.

Crowley thinks suddenly, through the haze, that he knows what Aziraphale’s planning. Is that even possible? There’s no way he can take Aziraphale’s entire hand—“Oh. Oh G—. Oh my—Angel—“

The pressure from Aziraphale’s thumb leaves his clit, and it’s almost a relief. Now at least he can focus on one sensation, not both the unendurable pressure in his cunt and the pressure on his over-sensitive clit. The sense of reprieve doesn’t last long, because Aziraphale has indeed pulled his fingers out just enough to add his thumb, and instead of the deep pressure, now it’s slick, and stretch, and oh, it burns. The pressure is too much, insistent, huge. The feeling is indescribable, and his poor human body can’t decide whether it’s the most intense pleasure he’s ever felt, or unbearable pain. He can’t take all of it, he can barely take the first knuckle. Aziraphale has miracled up some lube on his other hand, and is spreading him with it, stroking slick around his cunt, coating the rest of his own hand. He presses further, just past the first knuckle.

Crowley screamed a sob, clutching tight to Aziraphale’s shirt. He was dimly aware that he was babbling.
“I can’t—it’s too much—hurts. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—Aziraphale, please—“
The hand stilled, the pressure let up a bit, but Aziraphale did not take his hand away. His free hand, suddenly clean, stroked the hair out of Crowley’s face.

“Hush now. You can, my dear. You’re all right.” Crowley pressed his cheek into Aziraphale’s hand, tears escaping his eyes. “Would you like me to stop?”

Crowley shook his head, breathing hard and uneven. Aziraphale believed in him. The thought warmed his chest, made him want to prove himself, to show the angel that he could.
“Nnn—Don’t you dare. Please don’t—Don’t sssssssstop—“

The pressure was back, and Crowley realized he had missed it.

Aziraphale breathed out softly, beatific pleasure on his face. “Lovely. My wonderful boy.”

Crowley preened for just a moment, pressing his face into Azirphale’s hand again. “Nnn.” The pressure mounted, the burning un-fucking bearable. The heavy, weighted stretch of his cunt around Aziraphale’s big soft hand—insistent, slow pressure, bearing down on him, into him. There was a rythm to it, push, relax. In, wait. In, wait. A little further each time. Sometimes Aziraphale would twist his wrist, just a little bit, just to get a little more leverage. It was such a small motion, amplified a hundredfold by the stretch, and the pressure. Crowley was sure he wasn’t made to hold something this big. This—this holy. It was like being worshipped and punished all at once. He was dimly aware that he was still talking, panting nonsense and pleading into Aziraphale’s grounding hand on his cheek.

“Nearly there, love. I have you now, you’re doing so well.”

It was to much, he was going to die now from the sweet pleasure-pain-burn of it—and then, feeling of release, replaced by an overwhelming fullness. “Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—“

Breathlessly, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in his, guiding Crowley’s fingers to his wet cunt. Showing him, look—there— do you feel? And Crowley could. He felt the straining tension of his cunt wrapped around—god, his wrist. He circled Aziraphale’s wrist with his fingers, exploring. Then held it fast where it joined his body.

“Don’t move—please—I can’t—“ He wasn’t sure exactly what he couldn’t—could’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t cope with the sensation of being filled to the brim, filled to bursting with his angel. He just had to get his bearings. Just had to breathe for a moment. He laughed through tears, breathlessly. “Wow.”

“Wow indeed,”

They shared a glance, and a bit of a giggle. Crowley felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice.

Which of course he was, because Aziraphale then started moving his hand. And Crowley toppled over the edge.

Every movement was multiplied. The angel was barely moving, very subtly shifting his hand back and forth, twisting gently inside him. Crowley keened, his own fingers moving to his neglected clit. The combination of Aziraphale’s fist inside him and his own fingers playing at his clit were again, entirely too much. He was going to die, he was going to die if it kept going, he would die even harder if it ever stopped.

“Oh god, Angel—Yes, Fuck me—Never stop, please, don’t, Oh, oh, oh—“

Aziraphale knocked Crowley’s hand away, replacing it seamlessly with his mouth. Like he was greedy for Crowley’s pleasure, like he couldn’t stand to share. That didn’t bear thinking about.

Aziraphale circled Crowley’s clit with is tongue. He sucked hard, just as he fucked into him with increased vigor, and Crowley came with a feral scream, hands buried tight in the Angel’s curls. He was dimly aware that he was pulling hard enough to hurt, and felt, more than heard the angel’s surprised “Oh,” breathed against his clit. He came again? Or was it still the same as earlier? The feeling of his cunt pulsing, tightening around the Angel’s hand was more than he could take, and he whimpered, tears coming again through eyes screwed tight. Aziraphale seemed to be talking, and it took Crowley a moment to remember how words worked.

“Darling boy, just look at you—You’re gorgeous, you’re perfect. My dear love.”

Crowley pawed at him, hands going from Aziraphale’s wrist, (still buried inside him, his cunt still pulsing weakly around him) to his chest, to his hair. Crowley settled on his lapel, pulling the angel up into a sloppy kiss. Stop complimenting me, he thought. Don’t tell me I’m good. Also, never stop, and don’t tell me anything else, ever. He’d have said it, if he could get his mouth working.

“I’m going to take my hand back now,” Aziraphale told him, and Crowley wondered why he bothered warning him, when the angel began to, tantalizingly slowly, pull his hand back. The wrist wasn’t as thick as the rest of the hand, and the burn and stretch—Crowley hissed—it hurt more now, he was so sensitive, and his own fingers flew to his clit to match the pain with a little pleasure. It felt like it took ages to remove the length of him—surely by now, but no—it was still coming.

And then it was gone. He sobbed and whined at the gaping, empty feeling. He felt bereft and hollow. He ached. He wanted Aziraphale back inside of him.

Aziraphale kissed his neck, open mouthed and wet. “Well done. I’m so proud of you. My dearest.”

Crowley clutched at his shoulders, gripping his shirt. He whined desperately hands moving clumsily to the button. He couldn’t get his fingers to work correctly—he pawed at his collar, not really asking for the shirt to come off, but not sure how to communicate what he needed. He hoped Aziraphale would get the idea.
“In me,” he manages, “Too empty—“

When Aziraphale finally slides his cock into him, Crowley hisses. The empty feeling is gone, replaced with the comforting weight of Aziraphale. His cunt is so sensitive, a little swollen, not quite raw, and dripping wet—this is exactly what he wants. He doesn’t feel that urgent need, now—he’s not chasing an orgasm anymore, not overwhelmed with sensation. It’s cozy.

Crowley has come back to himself enough to chide himself for being so ridiculous, but then Aziraphale rocks his hips into him, and he’s too content to worry about sounding cool, even in his own head. This feels good too, Aziraphale seeking his own pleasure in Crowley’s body. They’re pressed so close, and Aziraphale is panting into his shoulder, and the gentle rock of his hips is a balm. The swell of Aziraphale’s belly brushes his clit every time they move, and Crowley keeps his arms tight around the angel as another orgasm gently washes over him. Aziraphale follows him closely, with the most endearing little gasp Crowley has ever heard. He’s been so in control this whole time, and that involuntary gasp as he comes makes Crowley’s chest feel impossibly warm.

Aziraphale begins to pull away, ostensibly to get cleaned up and find a more comfortable position. Crowley is having none of it. He is keeping the angel inside as long as he can get away with it.

“No. You broke me and I’m going to sssleep like this. Thiss is what you get.” His words were slurred and sluggish, but he would worry about being suave again tomorrow. Or possibly next week. Whenever consciousness deigned to return.

Aziraphale laughed, fond and indulgent, and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s temple. “Whatever you like.”

Perhaps later, Crowley will wake to the feeling of Aziraphale growing hard inside of him again, and they will make gentle, sleepy love into the wee hours of the morning. Maybe he’ll wake to find the angel in the chair, reading. Or the smell of croissants from the cafe next door will wake him, and he’ll stretch in the sun, luxuriating in the pleasant ache between his legs, and hunt down Aziraphale and breakfast.

One thing is certain. It will be a new day, with new possibilities, and his angel won’t be far away.