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The Milkman Cometh

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With some trepidation, Aziraphale turns his milk float down Mayfair Lane. It’s his last delivery of the day. Once a week. 666 Mayfair.

There's no reason for him to want to turn tail and run while his heart beats a fine frenzy in his chest. He lets his truck rumble to a stop and checks the order list but knows what it will say. Two pints of semi-skimmed, pint of cream. Half dozen eggs. 

He hops out of the float and grabs the carton he plans to deposit on the stoop at 666. If he's lucky nothing will happen. If he's lucky-

He places the carton carefully in front of the blue-painted door just as it creaks open, revealing delicate feet. Toenails painted blood red.

"If it isn't the milkman."


6 months ago

It isn't a hardship to have Tadfield added to his route. Service had dropped off in Lowry, so instead of pretending to make himself busy at the dairy when finishing his deliveries, he just has to get to know a few new orders.

The life of a milkman isn't glamorous, but he likes working at Heavenly Dairy. Driving from place to place in his float, getting to know people through their orders. It's quiet. Peaceful, easy.

In the summertime, the heat does start to get to him. He brings along his water bottle and does his best to stay cool, but the float lets in the heat of the sun on all sides. Sometimes, he undoes his uniform coveralls and ties it around his waist. It's an unprofessional concession to the heat, but it's that or succumb to the even more unprofessional risk of heatstroke, baking alive in the tin can of the float and wishing he were the milk in the back, actually kept cool.

It makes him think about shaving his beard and cutting his hair. He hasn’t shaved his beard in years. He’s forced to remind himself that every heat wave passes. He just has to get through it.

He pulls through Tadfield, dropping off  four pints or the Young family. A dozen eggs and three pints for the Wensleydales. Then he comes to AJ Crowley. An odd order. Precise. Two pints of semi-skimmed and a pint of cream. Half dozen eggs.

He'd call that the order of a baker if it weren't so small.

He drives up to the small cottage and turns off the float. It's his last order so he doesn't bother sliding back on the arms of his jumpsuit, just hops out with the final crate in hand to deposit on the stoop and see his way home.

The garden beyond the mangled, weatherbeaten fence is overgrown, tall grasses obscuring a small path that leads to a blue door that could use repainting. Aziraphale has delivered to homes in more disrepair so he pushes through the gate and down the small path, boots crunching on the dirt.

"Are you the milkman?"

He startles halfway down the garden path and looks into the grass.

In the middle of a patch of dirt, digging up a forgotten flowerbed is a woman with fiery red hair tied back in a loose french braid that reaches between her shoulder blades. It's the sort of color that's either the envy of every salon worker or comes straight out of a bottle. She looks up at him with big honey-colored eyes and he almost stumbles back at the sheer beauty of her face. Her eye makeup is smudged at the far corners of her eyes. She has freckles across her large hawkish nose and a thin mouth stretched in a teasing smirk as she lifts one perfectly sculpted brow. 

The effect of her isn't helped by the fact she is wearing a grey tank top and no bra and he can see the stiff peaks of her nipples through the material. His mouth goes dry at the sight.

"I've got your delivery," he says, holding up the crate and smiling as brightly as he can in lieu of saying something daft.

The woman's smirk tilts into something truly mischievous, revealing a dimple in her left cheek that makes Aziraphale's stomach swoop. She stands and dusts her hands off. She’s the same height as him and it's like her legs are a mile long in shorts that barely go past her fingertips. She has a garter tattoo, a black and red snake wrapped around her upper thigh in an ouroboros. It puts terrible thoughts in Aziraphale’s head about how he could trace it with his tongue. It's the heat. It's getting to him. He wishes he could knock these thoughts straight into the gutter where they belong.

"Yeah. Come on in," she says, gesturing for him to follow her.

He hesitates. "I usually just leave it by the door."

She rolls her eyes. "It's hot as Satan's arsehole. Come in out of the sun and I'll get you a cold drink."

He still waffles for a moment. It's not as if there's some milkman code of ethics preventing him from taking her up on her hospitality.

"Unless you have somewhere to be," she says.

"No, you're last on my route."

“Then it should be easy for me to tempt you inside,” she says with a wink before retreating into the shadows of the house.

It’s not as if this is the first time he’s been invited inside someone’s house. Tracy Potts regularly insists he stays for tea and sometimes he indulges. But there’s something transgressive about stepping inside the Crowley home. Perhaps it's the half-unpacked boxes, the evidence of a new start.

No, Aziraphale knows what it is. It’s how good this woman looks in her barely-there shorts and revealing tank top and how it’s adding proverbial sweat to the very literal sweat at the small of his back.

“Let me get you some water,” she says as she washes her hands in the kitchen sink basin. The kitchen is the only room that’s clearly unpacked and Aziraphale stands there like a fool, unsure what to do with the carton he’s meant to deliver.

When she hands him the water, she takes his burden and deposits it on the counter by the refrigerator before getting a glass of her own. Her eyes linger on his chest and he’s suddenly very aware he’s taken off the top of his uniform and tied it around his waist. They’re both in an odd state of undress and it makes him skittish.

“So what’s your name, Mr. Milkman?” she asks between leisurely sips of water. 

“Ah,” he says, stepping away and setting his glass on the counter. “Aziraphale. And you’re…”

“Isn’t it on the order?” she teases, but relents quickly when he says nothing. “AJ but I prefer Crowley.”

“Crowley,” he repeats, rolling it in his mouth and finding it suits her. 

It wouldn't be a massive overstep to ask her to dinner. Or drinks. They are in her house. Perhaps when he leaves. He hasn't dated anyone since Uriel was promoted at the dairy and they mutually decided business and pleasure would no longer mix. He hasn't thought of himself as lonely, but perhaps he is if he's standing in a random woman's kitchen contemplating first dates.

"Well, it was lovely to meet you," he says instead of any of that, deciding to hold off on invitations to get his head straight. Maybe when he can think more clearly. "And thank you for the drink."

He goes to set the cup on the counter just as Crowley reaches for it and his hand brushes over the side of her breast. He snatches his hand back, stammering over an apology, but Crowley simply laughs.

"Why, Mr. Milkman, whatever would my husband think,” she says as she presses her hand dramatically to her chest and that’s when Aziraphale's barely formed dreams of dinner for two go straight to hell.


Four months ago

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Crowley says, ripping open the door as soon as he steps into the path. 

It’s become a semi-regular thing between them now – Crowley inviting him inside for some reason or other. He has yet to meet the erstwhile Mr. Crowley and he is thankful for it. He thinks his jealousy would be unbearable.


She strides forward to meet him, completely barefoot in a long gray dress that swims about her legs like water, and snatches the bottle of cream from his crate before dashing back inside.

"My cream, angel!" she singsong calls back behind her and he dutifully follows to leave her crate inside the door.

She'd decided Heavenly Dairy meant he was an angel instead of a simple milkman. It makes his cheeks burn every time she implies such a thing.

"Come try this!" she says from the kitchen and he finds he can't refuse.

In the last few months, Aziraphale has come to find out that Crowley is some sort of lifestyle blogger...vlogger. Something on a phone application he doesn't understand that involves taking lots of pictures and being sent free things and being generally glamorous.

Why she moved into a dilapidated cottage in Tadfield he also doesn't understand.

"It’s about the renovation potential," Crowley had said when he asked. "Everything on instagram is DIY nonsense. Exposed brick and old wood and whatever."

"You sound thrilled," he'd observed.

"Don't I strike you as completely suited to the country lifestyle," she’d countered with a slow blink before taking a long drink from the metal straw in her iced coffee.

Now she is watching over cream in an electric mixer like a witch cackling over her potions. 

“Fresh strawberries and cream,” she says. “The garden finally got its act together.”

It's then Aziraphale sees the berries on the plates on the kitchen table, carefully arranged in artful shapes. Crowley shuts off the mixer and gives him a grin that almost edges into silly before scooping out a large spoonful to add to the middle of each plate. 

She pulls out her phone and fiddles with the layout of the table, the spoon, taking several pictures before turning her attention back to Aziraphale and sliding into the chair on the farside of the table. She swipes her finger through the top of a pile of whipped cream, ruining its perfection and then slides her finger between her lips. Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat as she licks off the cream. “Delicious,” she declares, looking at him with half-lidded eyes.

She pushes a plate across the table and kicks her feet. "Now you."

He picks up the spoon and dips it into the cream. It cuts through the softness and he brings it up to his mouth as Crowley watches, chin cradled in her hand.

"It's good," he says after he swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from her face. “I didn’t know something so simple could taste like that.”

“Doesn’t Mrs. Milkman make you any treats?”

“Uh, there isn’t a Mrs. Milkman,” Aziraphale says awkwardly, pushing the strawberries through the cream with his spoon.

Crowley grins and pops a berry into her mouth. "Good."

Three months ago

"If it isn't the sweet angel of milk," Crowley cries when he approaches with his carton in hand. It’s her same order. Always is. She is lounging in her now immaculately maintained front garden, an impromptu picnic laid out. 

"I told you not to call me that," he says. "It sounds filthy."

She sprawls back onto the picnic blanket and smirks that devastating smirk. "C’mon, Aziraphale, I am celebrating."

She sips sangria from a tumbler and then pushes her cat eye sunglasses into her hair. It’s up today in a high ponytail. She’s in a polka dot sundress with a 50’s flare, and why is it that looking at her gives him thoughts like, I want to bury my face in her chest? He’s not the sort of man to think that way. Least of all about a married woman. But part of him would give anything to see the scratchy red marks his beard would leave behind on her pale skin, to hear the sounds she would make when he pushes inside her. She’s so expressive. He can’t imagine she’d be any different in bed. It’s abominable that he thinks this way of her, and yet he can’t help it. 

“Join me,” she says, waving him over, and he is drawn as a moth to a flame. 

“What are we celebrating?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s smile is equal parts sly and brilliant.

“I unpacked the last box.”

“Oh, quite the accomplishment.”

She hands him a glass of wine and Aziraphale demurs. “I have to drive home.”

“One glass won’t hurt,” she insists. “Besides, if you can’t hold your liquor, my sofa is always free.”

Aziraphale should bite his tongue but he can’t stop himself. “I doubt your husband would like the milkman sleeping over.”

Crowley snorts and the wine sloshes into the glass. “If my husband gave two figs about who was sleeping on the couch, we’d have something else to fight about.”

Aziraphale swallows around the lump in his throat. He has no right to comment on the state of Crowley’s marriage, especially considering his own selfish desires. He has slowly developed an image of the man who has never once shown his face in the last three months. Works in London, clearly either commutes or works remote. Crowley is unhappy with the relationship given her comments. But marriage is marriage and it is sacred and Aziraphale has no right -

“But fuck it!” Crowley says, handing him a glass of wine. She taps her glass against his. “To new friends.”

Her eyes land on his, something heavy in her expression and his mouth goes dry. “To new friends.”

The moment breaks and Crowley waves her hands. “That reminds me. I need your help, dear friend. Some frou-frou place sent me furniture and I’m supposed to post photos online.”

“And you want me to -”

“I’ve got everything set up,” she says. “I just need you to point and click and tell me if it looks good.”

Aziraphale’s stomach does a complicated dance and he nods before taking a long gulp of his drink. 

That’s how he ends up in Crowley’s living room as she arranges herself on her new sofa artfully. “It’s supposed to be a 50’s housewife thing,” she explains.

He supposes the gray couch does have a midcentury modern aesthetic, but the way Crowley has crossed her legs exposes the barest hint of her thigh tattoo, making him think of pushing her back on the cushions. There's nothing demure or housewife about it. He looks at the digital display of the camera instead of lingering on his thoughts.

“It looks fine,” he says around the dryness in his throat.

Crowley places her arm along the back of the sofa and her painted lips curl into her patented smirk. “I think you can take a few.”

He’d pocket these photos, he thinks. Save them for himself. She looks devastating in her black polka dots and red heels. She always looks devastating. 

And when she stands to look through the photos, she nudges his arm. “You’ve got a good eye, angel.”

“I’ve got a good subject,” he says without thinking. An absolute fool. He needs to leave before he says something else. Or worse, does something.

Crowley’s mouth parts as if she wants to say something and whatever it is, it’s lost to Aziraphale’s rush to leave.

“Sorry, sorry,” he stammers. “I have to get the truck back to the dairy.”

Crowley blinks and shows him to the door. When it shuts, he thinks he hears a muffled, fuck, through the wood.



Aziraphale looks up from the milk crate, up the impossible length of Crowley’s legs, and his blood pounds in his ears. It is two o’clock, the end of his route, and Crowley is dressed in some slip of a thing. He’d call it a negligee, but he’s no expert.

His heart is battering against his ribs as he straightens up, unsure of where to look. The sheer black fabric under the bodice floats over her torso and doesn’t disguise the fact that she’s wearing nothing but a black thong and the bodice itself barely covers her breasts. The soft black material is rouched to cup her tits and pull back around her neck into a halter. She’s wearing a silk dressing gown over it which affords her a touch of modesty, but that does nothing to stop the way all the blood in Aziraphale’s body rushes to his cock.


"I made biscuits," she says, running her finger down the neckline of her nightgown. "You should try some."

Aziraphale can't resist her. He steps inside with her milk order and follows her to the kitchen. The dressing gown barely covers the bottom of her arse, and the ties sway at her hips as she moves. He feels dizzy.

She moves to the cupboard and bends down and Aziraphale's mind goes blank for a sharp moment. Then, stupidly, he thinks he now has confirmation that her hair is naturally red. The robe hides nothing. Neither does the nightgown. Her pussy peeks out between her thighs, the black stripe of her thong not covering anything. Her cunt is flushed and shining like she’s aroused and Aziraphalr wants to lick inside her. Taste her pleasure. Hear it. Aziraphale can't think like that. He simply can't.

He tries to push down the feelings like he always does, but they crest inside him like a wave threatening to break. His cock is hard inside his unforgiving uniform and he can do nothing to hide it but stand behind the table and hope she doesn't notice the way the material tents obscenely.

She straightens, a decorative container in hand. "Here it is. Fresh biscuits just for you."

Aziraphale takes the container, feeling overwhelmed.

"Are you alright?'' Crowley asks and Aziraphale imagines there's a thread of practiced innocence in her voice.

"Your-your outfit’s a bit, erm, risque," he finally manages.

She glances down at herself as if surprised to see what she's wearing. "Oh, this? Some company sent it to me to put up on instagram. I’m still feeling it out."

She shrugs off the dressing gown and tosses it on the back of the kitchen chair. "What do you think?"

Then she turns around and looks over her shoulder, a bit coquettish. The back of the thing is cut sinfully low. It's the full expanse of her skin, her shoulder blades, the dip of her spine. His cock jerks against his thigh.

The bow at the nape of her neck is slipping loose and without thought, Aziraphale steps forward.

"You need to retie this," he says, tapping the knot. He can feel the heat of her back in the scant inches between them. He's making a mistake. He knows it. The situation is slipping through his fingers, lost to him with every passing moment and he's struggling to care because he can smell Crowley's perfume, charcoal and vanilla. 

"Help me out, angel," she says, voice gone husky.

His fingers fumble on the delicate fabric as he unties the bow fully, one end slips down the front of Crowley's chest and she catches it, cupping it to her chest. He reaches down to take it back but she presses into him. They both drop the thin excuse holding them apart and his hand slides down her front to cup the fullness of her breast.

Her breath hitches and she pushes her hips back against him. The friction makes his cock pulse and he gasps.

"Fuck," she breathes as the front of her negligee falls down entirely, and she takes Aziraphale’s other hand to place it on her chest.

"Crowley, we shouldn't," he protests weakly even as he kneads the soft flesh, thumbing over her hardening nipples. It's clear as he explores that she likes when he tugs on them so he does, a bit rough, pulling a guttural moan from her throat.

"The fuck we shouldn’t," she says, pressing her hands against his and tipping her head back against his shoulder. Her hair tickles his throat and he can see the sharp incline of her clavicle, the desperate heaving of her chest as she squirms against him. "Touch me," she says, mouth parting on a wet exhale and he shatters. 

He slides his hand down her front and into her knickers.

"You're so wet," he groans into her ear, kissing hotly against her neck.

"It's you. Want you," she whines. The idea burns through his blood. The fact that he has this effect on her.

His fingers make a loud, slick noise as they slip over her swollen clit, the pads of his fingers rubbing over her opening as she presses down against his hand. It's everything he’s dreamed, the delicious heat of it, the pressure of her against his erection, the warmth of her body in his arms. 

He grasps her breast, holding her to him as he explores her with his hand, wanting desperately to see her shake apart. He has her now. He wishes it could last forever. "Is that alright?"

"I like it soft," she gasps and Aziraphale gentles his touch, brushing his knuckles over her, petting her cunt. Teasing her.

"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you want."

He slides his fingers on either side of her clit, stroking her and he can feel her throbbing against the heat of his hand. 

"Oh god, like that," she begs and then he pulls her thong completely to the side to get better purchase, continuing to touch her exactly the way that pushes the most beautiful moan from her throat. He wants to kiss her, but the angle’s wrong. It's all wrong, but he can't stop. It has to be ok. This one error in his judgment. 

Kissing her neck, he feels her begin to shake in his arms as he plays with her hard nipple and continues to move his fingers just right between her legs. "Aziraphale, yes, yes, I- don’t stop," she gasps as she clutches at his forearm and comes. Her body goes taut with pleasure before falling back against his chest with a sweet sigh of delight.

Every bit of resistance in Aziraphale crumbles at the sound, and he turns her around, forcing her back against the cupboard. She laughs and says, “Oh, I like that."

Curling his hand around the nape of her neck, he can’t stop himself. He’s thought about it for too long. He kisses her, and she opens to him immediately, moaning into his mouth. She clutches at his shirt and sucks on his tongue with abandon, and it’s every bit as passionate as he’d fantasized about. He hauls her up onto the counter as she unzips his work coveralls.

"You can fuck me," she says. "I have one of those- those thingies in."

Aziraphale is having trouble focusing over the sight of her, half naked on the counter top. Her tits are as gorgeous as they felt, heavy and tipped in small coral nipples. He ducks his head to suck one into his mouth, laving it with his tongue and savoring the taste of her skin.

She lets out a sharp, gasping breath and her legs wrap around his waist. "Ah, fuck," she says. "Get in me. I’ve needed you to fuck me since I saw you that first day.”

"Crowley," he moans into her sternum, unable to bear the thought that she was just as attracted to him as he had been to her from the start. He stands up straight and shrugs off the sleeves to his coveralls before pushing down his boxers. 

Crowley sucks in a breath at the sight of his cock and grasps his length, stroking him. 

“I knew you’d be big.” It's said with a smirk, pleased and teasing, and that familiar expression makes his chest clutch with a painful affection. He's attracted to Crowley but more than that, he wants her. He wants this.

She scoots to the edge of the counter and presses the blunt head of his cock against her entrance, urging him to push inside her. She's so hot. Everything he’s wanted. His cockhead catches in between her slick folds as she guides him with her fingers before pressing inside. His hands dig into her thighs, and he's afraid this is going to end before it begins. Her hand is still at the root of his cock. He’s only partway inside and she’s gasping, fucking herself on the tip, pressing it in and out like she’s teasing herself. He’s going mad with it.

And then finally, he’s pushing all the way inside and the sound she makes –  a delicate huffing exhale, as one hand clutches at his shoulder and the other guides him inside –  it’s perfect. She’s perfect. 

Her head falls back against the kitchen cupboard with a soft thunk, exposing the long line of her throat as her eyes flutter shut. His hands shake as he grabs her waist, trying his best not to move, not to thrust into her tight heat. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He’d do anything to make this good. The best she’s ever had. It’s already a terrible mistake and if he’s going to make a mistake, he’s going to make it worthwhile.

But he can’t think that way, not balls deep inside her as she begins to roll her hips, fucking herself on his cock in a way that pushes all doubts from his mind.

"You're fucking huge," she says between labored breaths, hips working and thighs flexing. A flush has stolen over her face, highlighting her freckles.

"You like it?" he asks, sliding his hands up her neck and into her hair. "I can give you more. Make you full of me."

A little whine chokes out of Crowley's throat as she pushes into Aziraphale's hand and he reaches between them and rubs at her clit, letting her continue to take her fill at first, knowing his patience won't last. Just the sight of her, the afternoon sun spilling in through the kitchen window, turning her hair to fire, the movement of her heavy breasts as she begins to breathe harder. “Oh angel, bloody hell,” she gasps as if she can't contain it any longer, just as overwhelmed as he is.

She drags him down into a kiss, harsh and needy, and it shreds the threadbare remnants of his control. He snaps his hips against her cunt, hiking her thighs around his waist. She moans into the kiss, permission enough to continue. He fucks her hard, and each thrust is met with a sound of pleasure that he is going to keep tucked away in his mind for as long as he lives. She grasps at his shoulders, the counter, his hips, before reaching down to rub herself off. 

“Yes,” she moans against his mouth. “Come in me. You can. I like it.” She groans again, her legs tightening around his waist. “Leave me a fucking mess.”

The idea of it sends a pulse of possessive want down Aziraphale’s spine, pleasure coursing through him. Her fingers press against the shaft of his cock as he plunges inside her and he struggles to hold back. He feels her walls spasming as she comes and that pushes him over the edge; he groans and grasps her waist, pressing his forehead into her shoulder as he buries himself inside her, coming harder than he has in months.

He doesn’t want to stop. He can’t yet. This was his one mistake. Maybe after this he will never see her again. He wants to sear this memory into his mind forever.

Pulling back, his cock slips out of her with a slick, wet noise and he drops to his knees in front of her, pushing her thighs open so he can see his spend trickling out of her. He succumbs to his longheld fantasy and kisses her tattoo, licks over the long line of the snake, raising goosebumps on her skin.

“Angel,” she breathes, pushing his hair from his face where the curls have stuck to his forehead with sweat. 

He runs his thumbs along the outer lips of her sex and she is beautiful, clit swollen with pleasure. He dips his fingers into the trickle of semen that runs from her opening, making even more of a mess. Her thighs tremble when he pushes two fingers inside her, forcing his own come out of her as he presses his tongue against her. She cries out and grips his hair, bucking against his face without thought. It’s so good, the salty tang of their coupling slides over his tongue for a moment before he spreads the wet spend further down over the furled rim of her arsehole with his thumb. He feels it flutter against the pad of his finger as he eats her out. He just wants her to come again. He wants to feel it under his tongue. Against his face. Feel her spilling against his chin. 

“I used to -” she gasps as she digs her heel into his shoulder. “You’d leave and I’d finger myself on the sofa thinking about your mouth. Fucking sinful thing. Your beard on my thighs.”

Aziraphale moans against her before sucking her clit into his mouth. She’d thought about this too; this clandestine thing between them hadn't been in his imagination. All those looks, those invitations, they had been as full of meaning as he'd hoped.

It's a beautiful thing to be on his knees for her after so long fantasizing about exactly this. He wants to learn her, worship her, be the best she's ever had. His heart aches knowing it's over before it begins, but he can't regret it. He won't. 

Crowley moans his name when he curls his fingers and he realizes he’s getting hard again. He can’t believe it. He’s in his forties. He hasn’t had this sort of refractory period in over fifteen years.

“Oh like that, suck me, suck me,” she begs as he continues to push his fingers in and out and suck gently on her clit. He’d do anything to hear her like this again. He’s desperate. Hard against his thigh where his wet cock is still out of his trousers.

When she comes, it's with a wet pulse over his fingers, slick and heady. She pushes him off, oversensitive, and he falls back on the balls of his feet for a moment to catch his breath before she topples off the counter, pressing into him to kiss him, heedless of the mess on his face. 

“Fuck, you’re so good,” she says between heaving breaths. 

He ducks his head and sucks a nipple into his mouth, licking over the hardened bud before rubbing the rough texture of his beard over it. She gasps and squirms in his hands and he says, “Let me fuck you again.”

“Are you - can you?”

“Yes, Crowley - darling,” he groans into her throat, unable to think as he palms her other breast, kissing her chest, touching everything he can. “If you’ll let me.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” she says, pushing him onto his back and tearing off her thong so she can straddle him.

His hands circle her waist. Part of him can't believe this and yet it all seems so inevitable as she strokes his cock to full hardness, bending down to suckle on the tip with something like reverence. That smart mouth doing that makes Aziraphale's eyes roll back in his head. His toes curl in his boots and he resists the urge to fist his hands in Crowley's hair and find his relief.

"You gonna fill me up, angel?" she asks, pulling back before he loses control. She rises up onto her knees, positioning his cock at her entrance.

"Whatever you need," he says, completely at her mercy as she sinks down on him, eyes dropping closed in bliss.

"So fucking big," she moans and her thighs flex as she struggles to take all of him, working to fuck herself down on his cock. He can feel the rest of his spend dripping out of her, down over his shaft when he enters her and she begins to move.

Her tits shake as she rises up and down, gaining rhythm and he can't help himself, reaching up to squeeze one and then the other. He wants to fuck up into her, but she's still adjusting so instead he just touches, skating his hands over her body, enjoying this while he can.

Her dress bunches at her waist as Aziraphale pushes into her cunt, the slick of her orgasms and his come filling the room with the wet sounds of sex and pleasure. He finally sits up and wraps his arms around her waist. "I want to fuck you."

She brushes her hair back from her face, clearly pleasure-drunk. "Good. S'good."

Aziraphale bucks his hips once and Crowley grasps at his shoulders so he does it again. It's easy to find a rhythm like this despite the strain of driving into her. He imagines the sweetness of making love to her in bed. All day tangled together in between kisses and sweet nothings. The beginning of something he wants so badly and can never have. He pours it all into this instead. He makes love to her, rolling his hips into her body as they share breath. Then she kisses him, desperate and messy, lips sliding over his beard, before biting his bottom lip softly, almost sweet. 

The pull of his orgasm is building as she cries out, begging for more, saying his name, calling him angel. It's all terrible and it's all wonderful in the same breath.

He cracks finally, burying himself inside her as he comes. She shakes in his arms and he doesn't want to let her go, but he can feel their moment sliding away. It is over. 

Not trying to linger, he shuffles Crowley out of his lap and moves to collect his things. He hasn’t fucked like that in years. It feels good. Felt good.

Come is cooling on his thigh and he feels like a fool, despite telling himself he should appreciate the moment for what it was. He can’t help it. It's who he is. This penchant for shame. “I’m so sorry,” he says as he begins to put himself to rights. 

Crowley’s face crumples into confusion and something like hurt. “Sorry? For what? For fucking me?”

Aziraphale stands and shakes his head. “Your husband - I shouldn’t have -”

Crowley pushes her mess of curls back from her face and laughs. She really does look beautiful with the red marks all over her chest from his beard, from being kissed. 

“My ex-husband?” Crowley asks. “Are you so noble you're worried about fucking a divorcee? I knew you were all concerned, holding back because we were separated, but the papers went through on Monday which is why I put this shit on and decided to make a move. I knew you bloody wouldn’t.”

Aziraphale gapes at her as everything slots into very logical place. 

“Oh that’s a cute look,” Crowley says. Then she rises to her feet and slides her hands around his hips. 

“Divorced,” he confirms.

“Happily,” she says, pressing closer. 

All the guilt washes away as she kisses him and there’s something like the promise of a future in it.