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Aziraphale may have been a bit greedy, on the whole, when it came to exploring Earth’s physical pleasures, but he never rushed when it came to exploring you . No frantic hands, no snapping-away of clothes; just slow, deliberate movements. Button by button undone, inch by inch of skin revealed as he rid you of your clothing, his usually posh tones turned dark and honey-rich as he praised you for being such a good, obedient little plaything. 

You’d earned every word of that praise. It took every ounce of willpower you had in you to keep your vocal reactions to just gasps instead of moans, to keep from taking his face in your hands and crushing his mouth to yours. As it was, by the time he had finally gotten you naked and restrained, sitting upright on a table in the back room of the bookshop, your arms tied above your head, your patience was beginning to run a bit thin. 

He tsked, as though reading your mind. “Now, pet, there’s no need to glare at me like that.” You hadn’t realized you were glaring, but once he mentioned it, you doubled your efforts. He pursed his lips in a barely-concealed smile, peering at you over gold-rimmed glasses with such adoration, you would have thought he was looking at a bunny, or a crêpe. It was infuriating. “Oh. You really do look so pretty all tied up, don’t you?”

As he said it, he reached out one soft, plump hand to cup your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “And you remember the safeword—er, gesture—we agreed upon?” The light touch nearly undid you; you let out a soft whimper of affirmation through the gag, nuzzling into his palm for a moment before remembering that you were supposed to be pouting. “Good.” When you did return to the pout, it so clearly lacked any real venom behind it that he couldn’t help but laugh. 

“So impatient.” He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose. You closed your eyes in response. Just as you did, you heard a snap, and then felt the soft pressure of a silk blindfold against your eyes. Your pulse sped up a bit. It was arousing enough to know you were naked, vulnerable, laid bare before him, while he remained as buttoned-up and unruffled as always; now, sightless, you didn’t even have the benefit of seeing what he planned to do next.

You didn’t have to wonder long. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, grabbing your hair and yanking your head to one side. Your attempts to remain quiet quickly fell apart as you felt him brush his lips against the sensitive patch of skin where your neck met your shoulder. He moved down from there, nipping at the hollow of your throat, tracing your clavicle with hot, wet kisses, before travelling back up to stop by your ear. His other hand continued to trace lazy patterns up and down your waist as he whispered, “Needy little thing.” 

He kissed your neck once more, then pulled away. You whined in protest. 

“Ah, ah, ah, what did we say about complaining?” You could hear him shuffling around, like he was looking for something. That was curious—usually he and Crowley just miracled up any toys and things he wanted in the moment, and then miracled them back once you’d finished. Saved a lot of space that way. You couldn’t fathom what he could possibly—


Oh, no.

“Now, my dear, I must admit that I wasn’t entirely forward about my intentions in getting you here.” Footsteps; he was in front of you, now, walking closer. Closer. “But you haven’t been entirely honest with me, either, have you?”

The footsteps stopped; he must be inches away. As if to confirm it, there was a click —softer than his usual snap—and the beginning of a low hum, right next to your ear.

“I imagine you recognize this, my dear?” You let out a vague, muffled objection; he chuckled. “A nod will do.”

Reluctantly, you nodded.

“Now, didn’t we agree last week that you would be rewarded today only if you restrained from touching yourself in the meantime?”

Another, even guiltier nod.

“I thought so. So you can only imagine my surprise when I was making the bed this morning and discovered a vibrator, of all things, underneath your pillow.” You wiggled a bit, unsure of where he was going with this. “Seems like someone’s been a bit of a troublemaker.”

Another click, and the hum grew louder. You bite your tongue lightly, swallowing back the nerves. But before you could fully calm yourself, he pressed the vibrator to your slick, aching entrance, and you just about sobbed .

“My, my, that’s quite the reaction.” He worked in just the tip, letting out a pleased gasp of his own when you bucked your hips up against the thing. “Does that feel good, darling?” You nodded, a strangled cross between a moan and a plea escaping your throat. 

“Better than my fingers?” His tone shifted like quicksand, from dirty to dangerous before you even had the chance to notice. “Better than Crowley’s tongue?”

You shook your head at that, a tad frantically. 

“Patience is a virtue, my dear. Were you really so needy that you would take the instant gratification of a cheap piece of plastic over a real cock?” You tried to keep shaking your head, but he slipped the vibrator in deeper, ridding your brain of any semblance of organized thought. 

“Perhaps I’m to blame.” His voice shifted back to something like pity. You could practically hear the way he tilted his head, the pursing of his lips, the softening of the eyes. “Not satisfying my poor pet, making you wait so long, not even letting you touch yourself—you must have been truly desperate.” You nodded vehemently—or as close to a nod as you could muster. He’d begun thrusting the vibrator into you with increasing force, and though he was right in saying it didn’t measure up to—well, you know—he was picking up speed, and angling it just so, and his words were just about enough to send you over the edge. “The kind thing to do would be to let you come now, hm?”

The sensations within you combined to a glorious crescendo, and you were just about ready for the wave to break—

But it didn’t. 

You concentrated as hard as you could, making an effort to clench the right muscles, create the right friction, do something. But you couldn’t. You were stuck on the peak, unable to come down, and you swear, you would have strangled that smug bastard if your hands weren’t otherwise occupied.

“No, I don’t think so.” He snapped, and the vibrations came to a stop. Everything felt oversensitized, every point of contact in incredibly sharp focus—the bindings on your wrists. The silk fabric against your fluttering eyelids. The smooth mahogany beneath you. He kept fucking you with the toy, too, in and out at a torturously slow pace. It would have been easier if he’d just stopped using the damn thing all together. “I can hardly reward such naughty behavior. It would set such a poor precedent. And besides,” he added, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice, “it’s about time I opened up shop for the day.”

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbe-freaking-lievable.

“So here’s what’s going to happen, pet.” He took his hand off the toy, leaving it inside you, and cupped your face back in both hands. “You’re going to stay right here—” Here he kissed one cheek— “And wait for me to finish serving my customers—” The other cheek now— “And you’re going to be very, very quiet. And if you can do that, then maybe when I return— maybe —I’ll let you come. Does that sound fair?” 

You let out a choked whimper of agreement, and felt him smile against your forehead. “Good.”

And with that, he turned and left—though not before snapping the vibrator back to life. Moments later, you could hear the ringing of the bell, and the voices of customers entering the shop. He must not have closed the door all the way.

It was going to be a long morning.

Chapter Text

Upon meeting Aziraphale, one was liable to make any number of assumptions (angelic looks and a 1950s wardrobe will do that for you). More specifically, no rational patron of A.Z. Fell & Co. would ever, in a million years, guess that the mild-mannered shop owner could have someone bound, gagged, and blindfolded in the back room. You knew this. Crowley knew this. Aziraphale himself knew this, and it’s the only reason he could be so bold as to do something like that.

As far as you knew, since Aziraphale had left, you may have been alone in the back of the shop for five minutes or for fifty. You couldn’t tell. The seconds stretched to unfair lengths, helpless as you were, struggling to remain silent with cool air on your skin and a vibrator still inside you. Every so often, the setting changed—the vibrations would come to a halt, and you’d have half a second’s reprieve, before it’d switch back on to the highest setting. You were clenching your teeth, biting your tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood, and you knew that, wherever he was in the shop, one mischievous angel was snapping his fingers behind his back.

It was so unfair , how he could do this to you. Not “this” as in the tying-up-with-vibrator scenario, but this —the ache between your thighs, the slight, involuntary bucking of your hips, the needy sounds fighting to escape your throat. Everything about the angel, from his clever fingers to his dandelion curls, drove you crazy. Even when he wasn’t trying. You knew, deep down, that he likely felt the same way. But he was so much better at hiding it, the smug bastard.

Unless, of course, you made it really, really difficult to hide.

Ultimately, any minor inconvenience you made for Aziraphale now would only result in your own punishment later on. You knew this. But knowing something logically and being able to put that knowledge into practice were two very different things. 

Hey—if you were going to go, might as well go with style.

So the next time the speed of the vibrator leapt up unexpectedly, you threw your head back, clenched your thighs together harder, and moaned as loud as you could.

You paused a moment. There were a few seconds of silence from the shop proper, then:

“What was that?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer right away, and you found just enough focus in your pleasure-addled brain to feel smug. “Er. You know, these old buildings really can be a bit...creaky sometimes—”

You let out a whine, this time, even louder than before.

Dead silence from the shop. Not as much silence on your end; you kept at it, your voice climbing in volume, in pitch, in desperation

Just like that, the gag was gone from your mouth, and the vibrator as well. Vanished. It surprised you enough that you quieted mid-moan, just long enough to hear the quickly approaching footsteps.

“For Heaven’s sake—”

You didn’t get to hear the end of whatever it was Aziraphale had planned to say. It was by no fault of yours— he cut himself off, when he kissed you deeply, hungrily. The practiced, pompous restraint of earlier was nowhere to be found. One hand in your hair, the other cradling your cheek; he drank you in, his own moans deepening to a soft growl when you sucked his lower lip into your mouth. The sound seemed to trickle down your spine, joining the heat pooling in your lower abdomen as you wrapped your legs around his waist, as best you could manage, and pulled him closer. 

When he pulled away from the kiss, you were left leaning in, breathless with want. “Aziraphale—”

“Yes, my dear.” Even with the blindfold, you could tell (both from his voice and from the sound of a belt coming undone) that he, mercifully, wasn’t about to tease you any further. “I know, I— fuck.

The expletive slipped out as he slipped into you; you arched your torso into his and hooked your heels behind his back, wishing desperately for full use of your arms. He made good use of his own, though. You felt his hands tighten around your hips as he lifted you slightly off the table, his fingertips pressing into the softness of your thighs. 

But then he didn’t. Move. At all.

“Zira, pl—” He shifted slightly, adjusting his grip, and you gasped from the friction. “Please , I—”

“Easy, pet.” He murmured it as softly as he could manage, his breath hot by your ear, but the tone was strained, his cool demeanor ruined by the slight tremor that ran through it. “I want you to— oh— I want you to have time to adjust.”

“Fuck that, I want—” You rolled your hips against his, and he responded by gripping you more tightly still. “You, Aziraphale, I want—”

And then your hands were free, your wrists no longer shackled, and you fell forward, clinging to the soft, strong mass of him with your entire body, and finally, finally , he began to thrust. 

The pace picked up quickly, his hips snapping forward with a force that nearly brought tears to your eyes even as the pleasure built up within you. It didn’t take long for you to come; he had been edging you for so long, a cup filled to the brim in an earthquake, that it was a miracle you hadn’t overflowed earlier. You shook with the force of it, your nails digging into Aziraphale’s back in an effort to ground yourself, before nearly collapsing with relief.

He slowed his own movements as you came down from the high, but not entirely. It struck you that, in spite of the exhaustion, you were already, immediately building to another crest. You had just enough time to be aware of his mouth on your neck before your second orgasm hit; less explosive than the first, but just as potent. Through the haze, you could still feel him, his curls soft and damp beneath your fingers, his breathing heavy and tense, his hips moving slowly but steadily against yours. You turned your head until you found his cheek with your lips, nuzzling into the soft, flushed skin. 

The blindfold dissolved, and you blinked your eyes open, slowly. Though the world hadn’t come back in detail quite yet, you willed yourself to focus on the golden lashes, the cheeks as pink as you’d expected, his lower lip nearly trembling with the effort of holding himself back. The tremble, the softness of it, bled into his voice as he spoke again:

“One more.”

The familiar fire was beginning to build in your core yet again. You gripped him weakly, tears beginning to well up—from tenderness, from exhaustion, you didn’t know. “I don’t know if I can—”

He clicked his tongue with gentle disappointment. “This is supposed to be a punishment, remember?” You closed your eyes and whimpered, resting your forehead against his. When he spoke again, it was a whisper. “One more, darling. I know you can.”

He began to pick up the pace slightly, thrusting up into you at an angle that had you close to sobbing. 

“Aziraphale—fuck, fuck, fuck .”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. You’re doing so well.” He leaned his head back, your foreheads no longer touching, and you felt something like a miracle reach out and caress your cheek, lifting your chin gently. “Look at me, darling.”

With Herculean effort, you opened your eyes and met his gaze. It may have just been the endorphins, but you could have sworn that when his eyes met yours, through all the blurriness and delirium, something behind them shifted, softened. And it was this image that stayed with you as you came undone for a third time—Aziraphale’s eyes, watching with adoration as you were carried away by pleasure, open and vulnerable and wanting. He swore one last time before he finished, too, burying his face in your shoulder.

For a long, long moment, neither of you dared so much as speak. No movement besides the occasional shudder, no noise but that of both of you trying to catch your breath. Aziraphale laid you gently back on the table; through the fog, you heard a faint snap, and then he was wrapping you in something warm and fluffy, and lifting you, bridal style, into his arms. There was the gentle pressure of lips against your forehead as he began to walk with you, out of the back room and up the stairs to the small apartment above the shop.

“Whaddabout th’customers?” you slurred, pressing your face into his (somehow clothed again) shoulder. He chuckled.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I sent them away the moment you started making those obscene noises.” When he laid you down again, it was on the bed. You immediately rolled over onto your stomach, burrito-ing yourself in the blanket. The mattress squealed as he sat beside you, and you felt a soft, cool hand gently brushing the hair off your face, before rubbing your back in small, tight circles. “How are you feeling, my dear?”


“I can only imagine.” You felt the mattress shift again, and then the full length of him was pressed against you, with one arm snaking beneath your head and the other wrapped around your waist. “Mm. You should misbehave more often.”

You smiled, snuggling back into his chest. “Just think of all the books you won’t be able to sell because you’re busy ‘punishing’ me.”

“Oh, hush.” But you could hear the fondness in his voice. “Have sweet dreams, darling.”

“You too, Zira.”

And you did.