Chapter Text
Crowley can feel herself getting more and more riled up, and it's because of Aziraphale, and she can't even blame him.
First of all, she's the one who flung herself down next to him on the couch earlier and thumped the back of her head in his lap like she's decided to try her hand at adverse possession. It's a common enough position for them to take up these days when Aziraphale's absorbed in a book, which he currently is. It's also a common enough thing for him to rest his hand on her belly, where it currently is. The position is, if not platonic, certainly not provocative, just between her decorative navel and the bottom of her ribcage.
Second of all, she can't blame him for the knowledge that, for her, an orgasm wrought with assistance from a partner—specifically a certain bastard-angel-shaped partner—is vastly more satisfying than a simple wank. That one's on her, for (a) not having the sense she gave Eve not to ask the angel on a drunken evening back in the eighteenth century if he'd ever tried orgasms with a partner before,[3] and then (b) on a day she'd been particularly antsy a few months after the Apocallapsed storming into the bookshop asking if he wouldn't mind giving her a hands-on demonstration.[4]
Third of all, she knew when she woke up this morning that this infernal corporation was clamoring for a feel-good chemical reboot, and still she chose to come over and pester Aziraphale instead of just manifesting a set of genitals to rub and/or vibrate one out to be done with it.
So, there's no reason to be tetchy with the angel for the fact that she's increasingly itchy-tingly all over but most irritatingly in certain places in particular.
Except that he's just sitting there, hand on her abdomen, and every once in awhile absently rubbing his fingers over the velvety nap of the short (black) waistcoat she's wearing bare under her slim-cut (also black) suit jacket. And if he were to draw back his fingers just a little more on the next flex, his fingertips might slip through the gap between the garnet-studded buttoned join and rub against her bare skin. And if he were feeling impish and decided to tuck his hand under the deep V of the neckline, there'd be nothing stopping him from getting a handful of naked breast because she is an idiot and chose fashion over bloody self-preservation when snapping herself dressed this morning.
She wriggles a bit because she can't not, and isn't sure if she's hoping it will dislodge his hand entirely or just cause it to migrate to more interesting territory. Ugh. If she could figure out how to sublimate her libido—which, to be fair,[5] is relatively small—into something else the way Aziraphale claims he can, she'd do it in a heartbeat. This feeling, like there's some sort of ineffable button pusher willy nilly pushing arousal buttons hidden under her skin to make her squirm, is one she'd happily do without. It's her corporation, after all. She can modify and bypass a fair amount of it, so why not this?[6]
"Angel," she whines, finally, deciding to bow to the inevitable before he notices and springs some sort of embarrassing offer on her.
"Hmm?" He sounds distracted enough she knows it's more reflex than a true response. His eyes, when she tips her head up far enough to see, are still ticking regularly back and forth like a bloody typewriter carriage over the page of his book.
"Oi, Aziraphale," she snaps, harsher than she means to, and immediately pets awkwardly at his shoulder so he knows she's not really mad.
"Hmm?" he says again, but this time he tears his eyes from his book and blinks down at her owlishly. "Yes? What is it, dear?"
She stares, feeling a blush crawling up her neck, and wonders if it's possible to just beam the request directly into his mind. But then he moves his hand up her abdomen just a fraction—probably just the start of a comforting belly rub—and her breath catches with a sharp hiss, and she can feel how red her face must be, and he blinks rapidly several times as he apparently cottons on.
"Oh!" he exclaims, and then looks down at his hand in some consternation before jerking it up off her, letting it hover awkwardly as he begins spilling out heartfelt apologies.
"No, Angel," she protests, grasping his hand back and folding it firmly between her own. "Aziraphale," she insists when he doesn't immediately stuff it. When he finally snaps his mouth shut, she huffs out a sigh. "It's not your fault. I've been randy all day."
"Then what—oh," he says, mouth rounding perfectly as his eyebrows shoot up. Almost as quickly, his mobile features relax into something more puckish. "Is it safe to assume you wouldn't still be lying in my lap if you were planning on taking care of it yourself?"
"Assume away," she deadpans.
He grins at her. "My dear, you are coming perilously close to asking me outright for what you want," he teases, but his expression softens and he puts his book down in favor of stroking softly at her temple and down over the serpent mark by her ear. "You must be in quite a state," he surmises.
She rolls her eyes. It's true she's much quicker to offer to do him a turn than to make a request the other way, but it's not like it's completely unprecedented.[7]
"Aziraphale, please help me achieve orgasm," she says, desert dry, because he might as well have thrown down a gauntlet, and she knows he'll pull a face to hear her ask so clinically.
His lips purse into a displeased moue—there it is—but he doesn't stop the gentle petting at the side of her face.
"I'd be happy to, my dear," he says, perfectly put together, and then tilts his head consideringly. "What would you like? What do you have today?"
"Factory standard for this shape," she says with a shrug. "And, I dunno, whatever you're feeling up to. I just want this blessed bloody itch to go away," she complains with a squirm and turns her face to hide briefly in the soft give of his belly, clutching the hand she's still holding to her ribcage.
He makes a cooing, sympathetic noise and begins smoothing his free hand over her hair.
"Oh, my, you look like you could use something with a bit more contact than usual," he observes.
She grunts noncommittally into the fabric of his waistcoat, but her body betrays her by curling in just a bit toward him when her unhelpful thoughts conjure visions of full-body contact.
"Hmm, I thought so," he says, and then, because he is becoming increasingly comfortable letting his bastard flag fly now that they're retired, "Crowley, would you like to ride my cock?"
The noises that escape her in response to the offer, to the audacity—he is an angel, of the lord—to the sheer bloody cheek—Gabriel wishes he had had half the big dick energy Aziraphale is capable of unexpectedly exuding on occasion—are incomprehensible and very, very horny.
Aziraphale chuckles—chuckles! the absolute menace. "I'll take that as a yes. I confess, it's something I've been curious to try—intercourse, I mean—as circumstances have never quite lined up and it's always seemed too messy to bother. But you're always so exquisitely hot inside when I use my fingers. And I must admit to liking the idea of it—being so intimately connected to you in such a human way."
Crowley moans in protest. Bloody hell, he's simultaneously the worst and best at dirty talk—far too sappy and romantic but with the occasional wallop of carnal sensuality that said in his plummy voice never fails to knock her on her arse.
"Oh, there, there, my dearest," he tutts. "We'll get that naughty itch taken care of and you'll be feeling right as rain again in no time."
Why in all of heaven, hell, and earth would he think those words in that order would be at all appropriate for the situation.
"You're going to be the death of me," she gripes, pushing up and slithering off the sofa so they can begin the little ritual of getting physically and mentally ready to fuck.
"Well," he says as he stands, tugging his waistcoat back into place. He tips a brief look up at her, lips pursed in mirth, and she mentally braces herself. "One or two little ones, at least, if I have any say."
Crowley gives him a flatly unimpressed look. "Say it in French," she challenges.
Aziraphale looks a bit chagrined before turning his nose up at her. "No," he declares and turns to walk with immense dignity up the stairs to the flat to fetch supplies.
"T'es pas cap,"[8] she taunts lazily at his retreating back.
"Wouldn't that be a disappointment for you?" he retorts, voice fading as he disappears into the flat.
She gives up and snorts in exasperated humor.
More consideringly, she looks down at her outfit and tries to decide what to change into for the occasion. Nothing too scratchy or pinchy if she's going to be rubbing up against her angel's soft skin. But something with a bit of aesthetic; he does enjoy looking at her in pretty things, especially thing's he's bought for her.
After a moment's consideration, she snaps and replaces the semi-slutty suit she'd been sporting with a set of black silk French knickers with red-lace trim at the waist and sides and a matching camisole. Aziraphale bought it for her over a year ago during a binge of gifting one-upmanship they'd been embroiled in for a few months. She's worn it a few times in a variety of gender presentations, and it never fails to bring out an appreciative, near-possessive gleam in the angel's eye.
After that, she undoes her shoulder-length hair from the half bun it had been pulled up in and gives it a good shake with the stern suggestion that any crimping from the hair tie won't be tolerated. It obediently falls in soft, perfect waves.
"I've brought a few options," Aziraphale says, emerging from the flat and making his way back down the stairs carefully, balancing an armful of towels and lube and what looks like several vibrators and silicone accoutrements. He's changed into a silk dressing gown, light blue and embroidered elaborately at the collar and cuffs with delicate vines and flowers. From the frankly shocking amount of pale skin peeking through the drooping folds crossed over his chest, she suspects he's hasn't got anything on underneath.
"Oh, don't you look a picture," he coos as he deposits his bounty on the coffee table and turns to rake her with a pleased onceover. "I do love that set," he says admiringly.
Ridiculously, she blushes. For someone's sake, she picked it precisely because she knew he would like it. It shouldn't come as such a thrilling shock that he'd remark on it positively.
"I know," she admits, powering through the heat suffusing her face and then pointedly moving the conversation along. "Where are we doing this? Sofa? Chair? The rug over your heavenly dialup connection?"
Aziraphale gives her an admonishing look. "My dear, you'd break out in a rash." He picks up a towel and looks consideringly between the sofa and chair. "Hmm, the chair, I think. More handholds for you, if you need something to brace yourself on." He smirks. "Other than me, of course."
She doesn't rise to the bait and just saunters closer to the chair pointedly. He pouts at her but bustles over and fusses with the placement of the towel, and then the position of the table next to it, and finally his own posture and the lay of his dressing gown when he sits down. Crowley waits him out, arms crossed and hip cocked. When he finally looks up and pats his thighs invitingly, she lets out a speakingly long sigh through her nose before slinking closer.
When she's close enough, he reaches up and draws her eagerly forward by the hips, encouraging her to kneel up over him and then get comfortable straddling his lap, legs tucked under her.
"How's that?" he asks solicitously. "Comfortable?" His hands pet lightly over the silk draped over her sides and then the lace pulled taught against the outside of her thighs.
"Yeah, angel," she murmurs and lets herself go boneless against him for a moment, tucking her face into the side of his neck and relishing in the soft warmth of him seeping into her all over her front through the thin layers of silk.
"I was thinking the little bullet with the nobbly cocksleeve," he says quietly, wrapping his arms around her back and nuzzling his cheek to her temple. "The one we usually put on the sparkly fellow."
His ridiculousness finally bulldozes past her cool demon defenses, and she giggles before she can stifle herself.
"You mean the great honking dildo?" she wheezes.
"Yes," he says, unfazed, "the sparkly one."
"Sounds like a plan, Angel," she sighs out on the trailing edge of her laughter and then burrows in closer, one arm snaking behind the small of his back, the other coming up to grasp behind his neck. She squeezes him all over then, trapping him between thighs, arms, and the press of her torso pinning him to the high chair back.
"Wily serpent," he murmurs, voice dropping in pitch to let her know he's taken her signal that it's time to shift the mood, though he still asks, because he always does, "Are you ready, Crowley?"
"Yeah," she breathes out, and shifts restlessly in his lap, focusing on the tantalizing drag of silk across her already mildly sensitized skin, the warm solidness of his body beneath hers, and the promising though soft Effort he's manifested for her benefit that she can feel between his legs.
She tilts and twitches her hips until his bulge is nestled into the warm depression of her vulva and begins a slow, lazy undulation to provide them both enough friction to kick things off. Aziraphale immediately responds by spreading his thighs just a bit wider, causing her to sink and rest a little more firmly against him. His hands drag in heavy sweeps up and down her back in time with her undulations.
"I would very much like to touch your breasts, my dear," he says softly. "Would you like that?"
She wordlessly hums agreement, and he runs one hand all the way up her back into her hair until he can gather a generous handful and use it to gently tug her up off his shoulder and upright. The soft-sharp prickle at her scalp as he keeps pulling, encouraging her to tip her head back and arch her chest up, causes gooseflesh to break out all over her skin with hot zings of sensation clustering in her nipples and vulva.
She moans softly, willingly curving back and leaning into the firm press of his forearm against her upper back as she continues to rock her hips, the pressure between their lower bodies increasing the further back she leans. Aziraphale's cock is slowly filling and stiffening, providing a firmer surface for her clit to catch and rub against as she moves. The anticipation of full hardness, of the muffling layers of silk eventually going away, so she can rub even more satisfyingly against him triggers a pulse of heat through her that has her squirming against him in earnest.
"Lovely," Aziraphale murmurs, trailing the fingers of his free hand down the side of her face and delicately over the sensitive skin of her exposed throat. "You're already so beautifully worked up and we've barely even started," he remarks approvingly, which perversely makes another wave of heat wash over her entire body. She's not sure whether it's the praise, some sort of built up pavlovian response to him showering her with compliments when he's working her over, or both, but it makes her writhe.
"Oh, and just look at you," he goes on, dragging his fingers down lightly over her sternum and diverting to draw tickling circles with his fingernails over the silk covering her areola, avoiding the stiff nubs. "Shall I have a nibble?" he asks politely.
The question and the not-quite touch are making her nipples ache with phantom sensation. She jerks pathetically on his lap, rubbing her increasingly sensitive clitoris against his full cock, which has slipped through the folds of the dressing gown with all the persistent wriggling she's been doing. It's hot and firm and not where she's increasingly, desperately wanting it. Her vagina clenches sympathetically around nothing with the thought.
"Yeah, please, Angel," she gasps, fighting to keep the grip she has on the back of his neck and upper arm from bruising.
He bends his head obligingly and touches just the tip of his tongue to the silk covering her nipple, and then blows on it, the bastard, just to hear her grunt. He takes pity on her, though, because after only a moment he gently takes her between his teeth and with delicate precision shifts his jaw left to right. She moans, feeling the sharp pressure as though he's caught her clit instead.
"You!" she accuses, momentarily overwhelmed.
His hand tugs, sharp, on her hair and he thrusts his hips up at the same time, teeth still worrying gently against her nipple, and it's like an electrical current running through her from the top of her head, down through the molten center of her, all the way out through her toes, which curl in sensation.
"More," she demands, grinding down against him pointedly, though fearing it just comes across unhinged. He wasn't joking about her being wound up tighter than usual. It normally takes quite a bit longer for her to get worked up enough to be ready for penetration this quickly. As it is, she's already soaking through the silk of her knickers and feeling achingly empty in a way that's quickly veering toward maddening instead of pleasantly arousing.
He lifts his head to say, "Of course," and flicks his free hand down with a snap, and suddenly her knickers are sporting a long slit along the crotch.
She yelps in surprise as she goes from rubbing against increasingly soppy silk to the hot velvet of Aziraphale's very engaged cock. It only takes a couple of gyrations of her hips to spread enough slick wetness that she's gliding up against him.
"Enough?" he asks, bringing his hand up to pluck her neglected nipple in time with her shifting hips.
She lets barely a minute pass before shaking her head rapidly, groaning at the way it causes his hand to pull harder at her hair.
"Well, then," he says, sounding a little breathless himself, and tugs her back upright and releases her hair. Confused, and a little bereft, she blinks down at him. He gives her a wicked smile, puts both hands to her waist and, without ceremony, lifts her up easily half a foot, and then brings her down unerringly, miraculously onto the stiff heat of his cock.
The plunging sensation is so wildly gratifying that she immediately clenches down and curls in everywhere, grasping his face and pressing as tight and close around him with her limbs as she had at the beginning and gripping at him desperately where he's buried deep inside.
"Oh ssshit," she stutters out, and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth, her own half open and huffing frantically.
Aziraphale seems similarly affected, clutching at her with one around around her waist and the other across her back to grab at her left shoulder. "Ooh, that is very satisfying," he gasps out. "Oh, darling, you feel so exquisite." His cock twitches, and they both shift restlessly at the sensation.
"All right?" she asks shakily. While she tends to get flustered when she's helps Aziraphale with an orgasm, he almost never gets ruffled during sessions focused on her. Then again, they haven't tried this particular configuration before. She does find it easier to get to a satisfying orgasm with a cock than a clitoris; maybe Aziraphale is discovering the same is true for him.
Instead of answering, he rolls his hips experimentally. She clenches around him in response. They both groan.
"You know, I think I could get off tonight," Aziraphale says, and if they were another type of couple, Crowley supposes she would probably be offended by the level of incredulity in his tone. As it is, she grins against his cheek and wriggles enticingly in his lap.
"Yeah? You want to go for it?" she prods.
"Oh, certainly not until we get you sorted, of course," he says, relaxing enough to unclench his arms and move his hands back to her waist. "Let's play it by ear, shall we?" he says as he encourages her to sit back a little. "Once you're finished, we'll see how ambitious I'm feeling."
"Sensible," she says mock seriously, and braces her hands on his chest and slides up and down experimentally.
"Oof," Aziraphale says and adjusts his grip on her waist to help her along. "How are you feeling, by the by? Shall we pause to put on necessary accessories?" He's looking quite chuffed with the situation, obviously not having expected to enjoy himself quite so erotically during the session.[9]
Crowley hums and grinds down on him. "S'good but not enough friction," she concludes.
Aziraphale nods and reaches for the side table for the toys.[10]
When everything is situated and she lowers herself back down on him again, not only is she treated to the heady feeling of being so full of and close to her angel, but her clit is treated to the faintly cool but warming press of firm, nubbly silicone.
"Ooh, yeah, all right, we're in business," she gasps out and braces her hands more firmly on Aziraphale's shoulders so she can begin pistoning herself up and down with prejudice.
"Excellent," Aziraphale coos, relaxing back into the support of the plush chair back, eyes going half lidded and mouth sporting a pleased little smirk. "Let me know when you want me to turn it on," he says, arching his hips up into her when she pauses to grind down against the toy.
She huffs something that might be agreement, distracted by the decadent lift of his chin, the fluttering of his eyelashes. It's delicious and deliciously naughty, seeing him look so pleased from fucking her, a demon. Not to bring thoughts of certain bootlicking agents of heaven too close to what is a very enjoyable moment, but the half-formed thought of their shocked affront at realizing what a grand, earthly time they're having together sends a frisson of demonic glee up her spine.
"Hmm, this is just delightful," Aziraphale groans, sounding for all the world like he's just enjoyed a bite of some decadent dessert. He's left off helping her work herself up and down his cock and is instead petting lazily all over, drawing firm fingers over the tops of her thighs, palming at the flex of muscle as she rises and falls, and then up and back to feel the jut of her scapula against her skin, and finally around to skim gently over her breasts.
"S'cause I'm doing all the work right now," she pants, but can't help the fond grin spreading over her face as she kneads at his shoulders.
"Oh, pardon me," he murmurs, flashing her a bastard smile and bracing his feet on the ground so he can start thrusting up to meet her downward press. The movement of his hands intensifies so he's grasping and tugging insistently on her breasts and nipples, because he's taken the time to study and discern the patterns of her corporation and knows there's some sort of spooky action at a distance going on between her nipples and clitoris.
"Fffffuck," she gutters out, chasing sensation as warmth begins to spread all over. "Yeah, yeah, turn it on, m'almost there."
He doesn't bother with snapping, just blinks, and then the thrum of the bullet is helping her along. Her orgasm crests lazily, making her insides clench like gentle waves lapping against a shore. It's perfectly pleasant, and Aziraphale keeps thrusting to help her eek out every drop of serviceable pleasure she can get from it.
After a minute, she taps his shoulder, and the vibrator shuts off.
Aziraphale brings his hands up to cup her face gently, thumbs brushing under her eyes, and Crowley blinks them open in surprise, not having realized she'd closed them at some point.
"There you are," he says warmly, face lightly flushed and smile beatific. "How was that, my dear."
"Eh," she says, a little breathless despite herself.
"Nice and warmed up, then?"
"Yeah."
"Ready for the real one?"
"In a minute," she huffs, shifting minutely and shivering around the feel of Aziraphale's cock still hard and full inside of her. "Huh," she comments, surprised.
"Yes, it's quite remarkable," he agrees cheerfully, and then twitches, which causes all kinds of squirmy reactions with her newly sensitive everything.
"Oi, I'm catching my breath here," she warns, shoving him lightly on the shoulder in reprimand.
He beams up at her, the picture of innocence, and twitches his cock inside her again. She narrows her eyes at him and clenches for all she's worth. His eyes go wide, but the stretch of his smile gets impossibly more pleased, and he twitches again immediately. The extra pressure from clenching down zings through her, and she groans despite herself, rolling her eyes in defeat as she gives in and begins grinding against him and the toy again.
"You are the worst," she complains, and reaches up to grumpily bring his hands back down to her breasts.
He obligingly resumes lightly torturing her nipples and meeting her thrust for thrust.
"Turn it on again?" he asks, and at her nod the agitating vibration starts back up.
Now that she's gotten past the first, lackluster orgasm, her arousal is less a warm, taffy stretch and more an intense, thrumming need. She tips her head back and moans, pausing longer and longer to grind against the vibrator and letting Aziraphale take over more of the work of thrusting.
"That's it, dear heart," he croons, pinching mercilessly at her nipples. "Just relax and let me take care of you."
She opens her eyes, realizing they've slipped shut again, and sees there's the faintest hint of sweat beading at his hairline, which is frankly ridiculous. They don't need to sweat, but he must be getting too caught up to remind his corporation to behave itself. Entranced, she runs her hands up his arms and over the sides of his face to dig her fingers into his soft curls. He smiles softly up at her and she's helpless but to smile back, breath panting harsh from her mouth as she feels her corporation climbing back up in fits and starts to that higher, more satisfying peak she can only achieve with a lot of time and careful management.
It's elusive, though, that second orgasm. She gets into a good rhythm, climbing steadily, only for the shivery, electric sensation to slip away, and she's left contemplating how awkward it is to have a vibrating bit of silicone pressed against her tender bits. And suddenly the slippery warmth of their bodies moving together is just sticky and humid, and she's no longer sure if the expression on Aziraphale's face is relaxation or the beginnings of boredom.
"Argh," she grits out, writhing in frustration.
"Oh, dear," Aziraphale says, leaving off her nipples immediately, which is a relief because it was tipping into overstimulated pain. "Getting into our head a bit, are we?" he guesses with sympathetic murmur and reaches around to run his hands soothingly up and down her back.
She hisses at him, loving and hating the feeling of being coddled, and still desperately chasing after the peak she can tell is just ahead if she can figure out how to get off this bloody damned plateau.
"What do you need?" he asks, sitting up straighter and completely unperturbed by her bratty behavior, which she's suddenly and brutally grateful for. Here he is, patiently waiting for her to just get on with it already, and she's pitching a fit.
"Ergh, dunno," she whines, rattled and desperate. The thrice damned vibrator just needs to do its bloody job, damn it.
"Shall I divinely inspire our little helper?" he asks.
"Yeah, whatever, just want to bloody come," she all but howls, tipping her head forward to press their foreheads together in defeat.
"Oh, my darling Crowley," he murmurs, and catches her gaze and stares earnestly into her eyes as he says, "As you wish."
Her breath catches in surprise. "Wait, is that a Prin—ohhhhh," she cuts off in breathless rapture because suddenly the vibrator ratchets up in intensity at least two degrees higher than factory setting, and she's yanked forcibly from the plateau and is rushing up and up and over, and then she's coming so hard her eyes start to cross. She moans in punched-out time with the near-agonizing full-body clenching radiating from where the vibrator and Aziraphale's continued thrusting are ruthlessly dragging her through every last pulse of her orgasm. It's intense and ecstatic and just a little bit terrifying.
"Angel," she pants, fingers clawing at his hair as she starts rolling her forehead back and forth against his to signal she's beyond done.
Mercifully, the vibrator shuts off, and it's like removing her finger, or maybe her pussy, from an electrical socket because she abruptly goes boneless and slumps against Aziraphale, head dropping down to his shoulder.
Aziraphale makes soothing noises and wraps grounding arms around her back, holding her close. She focuses on the feeling of his heart thumping quick and steady under her chest and does her best to ride out the aftershock twitches of her vagina and tingling numbness of her clitoris as her breath and heartbeat and bloody everything calms down.
Sometime later she mutters tonelessly, "Was that a bloody ‘Princess Bride' reference?"
Aziraphale giggles.
"You Wesley-ed me in the middle of sex?" she demands, some outraged heat seeping into her tone.
"It got you out of your own head, didn't it?" he says, sounding far too smug for such a ridiculous man-shaped being.
"I cannot believe you."
He chuckles again, giving her a pleased squeeze around the ribs before shifting pointedly beneath her. "How are you feeling, Crowley, my most beloved serpent."
"You still want to try getting off?" she asks, possibly needlessly, since he's still improbably hard inside her.
"If you don't mind," he demures. "You won't have to do a thing," he promises, shifting to rub soothing hands over her abused thigh muscles.
"Yeah, go for it," she says, mellowed out enough now from the immediate intensity of her orgasm that she's feeling loose and generous with the world.
He snaps the toy away, and then shuffles them forward in the chair so he's sitting right at the edge.
"What're you...?" she asks, lifting her head up and bracing her forearms on his shoulders.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself, darling," he says, spreading his legs a bit for a wider base and grasping her firmly by her boney hips. "Just hang on."
"Are you serious," she deadpans, but does as instructed, grasping him where his shoulders meet his neck, arms still feeling like cooked noodles.
He flashes her his fiercest bastard smile and then lifts her up with casual angelic strength and brings her back down hard on his cock, sending juddering sensation all through her pelvis.
"Ohhhh, fuck me," she gasps, surprised by how unexpectedly good it feels.
"Yes, that's the idea," he pants, and then gets to work with the single-minded focus he usually reserves for demolishing a plate of crepes.
"Holy shit, Angel," she shrieks, grasping weakly at him and feeling an unexpected laugh bubbling out of her as her hair and tiny breasts and belly all bounce and jiggle delightfully in time with the steady pounding. "This is really fucking hot."
"Like a bit of manhandling?" he shoots back, breathless but far too coherent in her opinion, for all his head is tipping back and he's beginning to moan softly on each exhale.
"That's demonhandling," she corrects. There really isn't anything she can do but hold on and enjoy the delightful, shuddering warmth that radiates through her with every thrust. It isn't intense enough to go anywhere, but it makes it no hardship to let him literally take his pleasure from her.
When she can feel him getting close, thrusts getting uneven and breathing more labored, she dares detach one of her handholds to scratch over one of his nipples the way he likes. "Go on, then, Aziraphale," she encourages softly, and then leans in and presses trembling lips right up against his ear and whispers, "Come on, love."
He groans and shudders to his own end, and Crowley holds on for dear life through it, pressing her hot face against the side of his neck.
When the last jerking thrust subsides, he takes a shaky breath and turns to press a fervent kiss to the serpent mark just below her temple. "Oh, you wicked temptress," he giggles against her face, sounding a little punch drunk.
"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles into his neck and then grimaces as the high begins to fade and the immediacy of all the damp stickiness reasserts itself. It takes a couple of tries, but she coordinates enough tension into her fingers to snap them both clean and put her knickers and Aziraphale's dressing gown back to rights.
"Oh, thank you, dear," Aziraphale hums, and then, "here, let me help you," as he tucks his hands behind her knees to help her noodly limbs unbend and wrap all the way around his waist.
She grumbles through the process, ungainly as it is, but can't argue with the results, as it allows her to give him a full-body constrictor hug. Aziraphale grunts lightly under the attention but doesn't protest. Instead, he leans back and settles them more comfortably in the chair, miracling a pillow or two to allow him a comfortable recline.
Crowley lets herself unspool and drift, not quite having gotten around to lifting her face from where it's still mashed into the angel's neck. Aziraphale scratches idle patterns onto her back and shoulders, alternating over and under the silk of the camisole.
"Well, that was simply delightful," he finally says, and Crowley jerks back to full consciousness.
Her mouth ejects a series of vowel with a vaguely rising intonation at the end before she collects herself enough to splutter, "You mean fucking me?"
"Of course, my dear. To be precise, the intercourse," he says, sounding so smug and cheerful she can only imagine the look on his face and immediately wants to physically wipe it off. Her limbs only coordinate so far as to accomplish a vague pawing motion at his shoulder. Somehow, soft appearances aside, he would be the type to find intensely physically athletic sex invigorating. Can't jog worth a damn, but pistoning her pussy into oblivion is rejuvenating.
"I hate you," she whines. "Why can't you be tired like a normal person-shaped being."
He tutts. "I have it on good authority you feel quite the opposite," he gloats. "And I did give you a moment, dear. A full half hour of moments, in fact."
Whoops. She must have been out longer than she thought.
"All right, Angel," she mutters, "full post-fuck debrief, go on then. Should I pull out a scratchpad?"
He heaves an elaborate sigh that rocks her bodily as his chest rises and falls. "Was there anything you didn't like?" he asks, sounding Beset and Beleaguered, possibly even Bedeviled. She grins.
"Nah, everything was pretty great. Got a little stuck, but then you moved me with the power of the written word."
"I knew you read the funny ones," Aziraphale huffs.
Or watch the movie, but she's not so heartless she's willing to burst her angel's bubble at this particular moment. Best to let that sort of thing simmer, anyway, for proper fallout.
"To be honest, I'm surprised you made it through," she says, the only bit she's actually interested in recapping. "Lots of downtime, but you didn't flag."
"Quite unusual," Aziraphale agrees with the sort of unselfconsciousness that could cause the entire advertising industry revolving around little blue pills and their like to spontaneously collapse if overheard. "I can't guarantee a repeat performance," he warns, "and it wouldn't do for anal unless I finished first—you'd be too sensitive—and that seems far too risky given my track record."
Crowley chokes on a hysterical laugh: an angel of the lord nattering on about anal and his frequently limp dick and the importance of making sure the demon finishes first. Christ in a cracker.
To distract herself, she blindly catches one of Aziraphale's roaming hands and moves it to her hair. He obligingly begins scratching lightly at her scalp.
Aziraphale continues a deeply unnecessarily thorough run down of the entire session, noting what little things he'd tried to see if he liked it or she liked it, and prodding at her until she confirms or denies his assessment of her level of enjoyment with a grunt. That's followed by completely uncalled for commentary on how "lovely" she looked at this particular moment or that, and how gratifying it was when he got her to make one "rapturous" expression or sound or another. She grimly focuses on the feel of his fingers through her hair in self defense until he finally winds down and lapses into pleased silence.
"Glad you enjoyed yourself, Angel," she murmurs when it feels safe to do so without setting him off on another round of embarrassing praise.
He hums in agreement. "I'm so glad you asked, dear heart," he replies, pressing his lips to her hair. "I know how hard you find it to ask for things you need. It was quite courageous of you, love," he says, low and quiet and devastating.
She hisses and squirms, and he just adjusts his grip to make sure she doesn't accidentally launch herself off his lap in abject mortification.
"Aziraphale," she wheezes furiously.
"Crowley," he sighs happily.
Eventually, she settles for wriggling down until she can press the whole of her face into his plush chest and scream quietly.
Aziraphale continues petting her hair and her back until she recovers enough to suggest ordering takeout from that place he likes. He agrees, happily.
3 He had, and ranked it superior to solo work, which he had tried a few times and didn't consider worth the bother. [return to text]
4 He'd been a bit bemused but happy to oblige. [return to text]
5 Not that she's interested in being fair at the moment. [return to text]
6 Aziraphale has Theories to do with certain Quartermasters he's still salty toward not being nearly as skilled as he claims and buggering up the base modifications performed on all corporations designed for supernatural use. "I've sent him memos," he insisted once in the early days of the Arrangement, when he'd started to unbend enough to complain about aspects of Heaven he apparently deemed safe to complain about to a demon. "They remembered to turn off hunger and thirst but not radiation damage from the sun," he'd bitched. "Honestly, the incompetence, when nearly all Her chosen peoples kept winding up in one desert or another for the first four millenia." [return to text]
7 She's asked a grand total of one (1) time—that first time, in fact, when she'd been running high on bravado and alcohol rather than sense—and since then has always failed to work up the nerve before the angel sniffs her out and preemptively offers instead. [return to text]
8 Loosely, "You're not capable," only infinitely more childish. [return to text]
9 Crowley gives it even odds the novelty's causing the lion's share of excited arousal. But, maybe it'll be this enjoyable consistently for the angel, and they can consider trying more mutual orgasm sessions instead of taking turns. [return to text]
10 The less said about the awkward shuffling required to get the bullet into the slot in the cockring, and the lubed-up cockring around Aziraphale's dick—which is a lazy bastard without near-constant attention—all while Crowley stubbornly refuses to give up her close, warm perch on the angel's thighs, the better. [return to text]