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As the waiter poured the champagne, Aziraphale felt ready to bubble over, himself. They'd done it. They'd saved the world -- well, sort of, a bit -- and they'd saved themselves. Life stretched gloriously ahead of them filled with scrummy dinners and books and music and conversation, and no more bullying from Above or Below.

Crowley looked pleased, and Aziraphale basked in his sweet smile and the memory of his outright laughter -- such a rare, blessed thing -- over the towel and the rubber duck. Aziraphale was full of love. He had known for millennia now that this was not because he was an angel. It was because he was Aziraphale, and because Crowley was Crowley.

The rush of love he felt whenever he saw or even thought of Crowley was a reliable source of joy, and also of frustration. Crowley was both a balm and an irritant, swelling Aziraphale's heart and raising his lusts, tempting his body and gratifying his soul, so welcome always and so utterly, utterly forbidden. Smothering his feelings had become outright painful, as Aziraphale would react, in spite of himself, to Crowley’s smoldering gazes and surprising acts of kindness, and then have to squash it all down as he remembered who he was and what Heaven demanded of him. He would go off alone and indulge himself in fantasies, imagining Crowley’s arms around him, Crowley’s mouth devouring him, Crowley’s cock... Sometimes, as Aziraphale buttoned himself up afterward, there were tears in his eyes.

There were times when he knew he was doing a poor job of hiding his feelings. Indeed, there were times when he couldn't restrain himself from trying to get a rise out of Crowley, too. Crowley's love for him was as plain as the dear, beaky nose on his face, and it was all too easy to play the tempter himself, a little. Crowley obviously enjoyed their flirtation -- he could be quite attractively heroic when Aziraphale made himself vulnerable, and he got deliciously snarly when his kindness was pointed out. When Crowley's blood was up, well, there was never anything more seductive.

So when Aziraphale told Crowley that he was, at heart, a good person, he was saying it because it was true, and because he loved Crowley and his slide into occasional nobility above all things. But perhaps he was also saying it, a tiny bit, because he hoped Crowley might, later, throw him against a wall.

Instead, Crowley called him a bastard, and that was even better. Aziraphale glowed under his praise -- even rarer than his laughter -- and as they raised their glasses to the world, Aziraphale thought he had never been so happy.

Aziraphale was aware that it had been a rough week for Crowley, though. And some of that, he had to admit, was his own doing. He had felt awful about the things he’d said to Crowley, about pushing him away when Crowley needed him most, about pushing away what he himself wanted most in all the world. Now, thank goodness, Aziraphale had the chance to make it all up to him, and he couldn't wait to begin. So they could be on the same page again, so to speak.

“My dear, the dukes of Hell are absolutely terrified of you now. Even Beelzebub themself! They all but promised to leave you alone! It was marvelous.”

Crowley continued to gaze at him fondly, taking a sip of champagne. “Treated me well, did they?”

The duck liver starter arrived. Aziraphale was momentarily distracted by its gorgeous presentation, a circlet of tender, slightly rosy flesh decorated with ripe, glossy slices of cherries. The plate was dusted with crushed pistachio in vibrant spring green and dolloped with pink sauce.

“Oh, look at this,” Aziraphale murmured, taking up his fork and knife. He cut himself a delicate wedge and sighed with contentment as sweet fruit, bright acidity, savory umami, and lush richness rolled over his tongue. Thyme and onion married gently with the boldness of the cherries and the wine that had glazed them. He opened his eyes to see Crowley leaning toward him, a study in beguilement. Aziraphale loved good food, but he never felt this decadent when he enjoyed it alone. Crowley’s presence -- Crowley watching him with such obvious pleasure -- made the whole experience that much more exquisite.

"The amazing thing, Crowley, was that after the first few minutes, I wasn't actually frightened. It was so dreadfully important that they believe in the illusion, you know, and to make that happen I had to be, well, not brave…I had to look like I didn't give a toss. So I worked very hard at that for a while, and then I started to believe it myself. And after that, it was fun!"

“Fake it ‘til you make it. Good strategy,” Crowley said, shaking his head at the bite Aziraphale offered at the end of his fork. "Can't say 'fun' is a word I'd use about Hell, myself, but glad you enjoyed it." He pushed his plate of scallops over to Aziraphale. "Talking of enjoying things, you should try these." Crowley so rarely ate anything, and then only with mild interest.

Aziraphale tried a scallop with a bit of smoked eel and minced lovage. Clean, savory, and a melting softness. He chewed thoughtfully as the flavors spread over his palate. “Very refreshing. Thank you.”

“So you weren’t worried they’d find you out? Do something -- worse?” There was concern on Crowley’s face now that Aziraphale couldn’t wait to dispel.

"Oh no, not in the least! I was very convincing. I have known you for six thousand years, after all. I know how you -- how you act.” Crowley’s lips twitched into a smile which he tried unsuccessfully to shove into his champagne flute. “And mostly they did all the talking and I just had to stand there looking unimpressed. Once Michael came with the holy water, I knew I wasn’t in any danger. If I hadn't been worried about you, I daresay I would have had a thoroughly pleasant experience -- or as pleasant as one can have in Hell, I suppose."

"Come on then, angel. Tell me all about it. I want to hear the whole thing, in your best dramatic style. The Deception of Hell by Aziraphale, a story in five acts." He drained his glass and grinned at Aziraphale. "With especial attention to just how pissed off that wanker Hastur looked."

Aziraphale told him, through the cutlet and fillet of lamb with wood roast pepper and basil, the turn of summer on a plate, and Crowley's untouched dover sole with leeks and caviar. He felt positively giddy, and Crowley hung on his every word, leaning toward him, chin on his hand, that wicked smile still playing about his lips. It was working: Crowley had caught his mood. Aziraphale pressed his advantage, telling about splashing the holy water at the demons behind the glass. Crowley showed his teeth.

"Pudding?" Aziraphale offered him a cloudlike morsel of cherry and almond mousse, served cunningly in little glasses, at the end of his spoon. Crowley actually craned further over the table, opened his mouth, and sucked the dollop of sweetness away. Aziraphale caught the flicker of his tongue for the barest instant and felt a most delectable tingle. He was sure Crowley was beaming at him behind those infernal glasses. Aziraphale had never seen him so openly affectionate. If history was any indication, Aziraphale would be living on the memory of this moment for decades, perhaps centuries. He squirmed, flushing from head to toe, and tried to keep his voice under control. "How was it for you, then?"

Crowley's fingers tightened around his glass. "Fine," he muttered.

"Oh, come now, you must tell me. I only wish I'd been there to see Gabriel's face."

Crowley put the glass down, his face souring, his fist clenching and flexing on the table. "If I ever see that utter pillock Gabriel's face again," Crowley said through gritted teeth, staring down at his hand. "I will set him on fire and drive the Bentley over whatever’s left.” He looked up. “Aziraphale, when I saw how they are with you, the way they talk to you...I wanted to tear them to pieces."

Aziraphale had seen Crowley irritated many times, and angry on occasion. But he'd never seen Crowley furious on his behalf. Crowley was restless, shifting in his seat even more than usual, giving the impression of a caged animal.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Aziraphale said, caught between embarrassment, empathy, and melting love.

Crowley was not done. “I nearly killed Gabriel. And I would have, only --” Crowley picked up his glass again, suddenly nonchalant.

This was beyond love, Aziraphale realized with amazement. Crowley didn’t just love him. Crowley, virtuous demon that he paradoxically was, wanted to protect him. Aziraphale flooded with passion. He wanted Crowley’s arms around him, holding him fiercely. He wanted to soothe Crowley, to stroke his hair and kiss his cheek. He wanted to unburden himself, to comfort them both by voicing the truth they so clearly felt and yearned for. But he knew it was too risky. He feared he would say or do something that there was no going back from, and he ached, body and soul, with regret.

He began as usual to tamp down his feelings, when with an electric flash he realized that he didn't have to. No one was watching them anymore. No one was coming for them. They could do as they liked. They were free.

A shimmer rolled through Aziraphale's body and his heart quickened. Everything was possible now. He could touch Crowley, could even do it here, now, in public. With a thrilling heat in his chest, he laid his hand gently atop Crowley's where it rested on the table, feeling the tension in it as Crowley flinched ever so slightly, then relaxed. Aziraphale lifted his gaze to Crowley's lips, which were parted in surprise, and said quietly, "Take me home."

Crowley seemed frozen, not breathing, hand motionless beneath Aziraphale's but very much alive, coiled, ready to spring. Crowley swallowed. "...angel?"

Oh, the poor thing. He was shocked. Well, Aziraphale couldn't blame him. After six thousand years of denial, this must seem rather sudden. "My dear," he said, and then, rejoicing, "My love. Take. Me home."

--

Crowley was a trembling mess of a demon. “My love” echoed in his incredulous ears, “take me home” in Aziraphale’s mouth the hottest thing he had ever heard. He paid the bill and transported them to the bookshop in an eyeblink. The door barely closed behind them before Aziraphale was in his arms. Crowley wasn't sure which one of them had moved. Perhaps both.

When he had imagined this moment, and he had done thousands of times, Crowley had thought a kiss, or perhaps a caress of Aziraphale's face, or possibly a quick heedless grind against him that turned into frantic shagging and heated confessions. He had never imagined something so simple and so desperate as this urgent, clinging hug. Crowley held Aziraphale hard, one hand gripping the back of his head and the other wrapped around his waist, breathing in deep lungfuls of the angel's petrichor scent, soft heat pressed against him, soft curls tickling his nose. Crowley could feel his heart going a mile a minute, everywhere. He could barely speak. "You-- you--"

"Yes, my dear," Aziraphale murmured into his ear, his arms round Crowley's shoulders. "I love you. I love you. It's all right. It's -- it's wonderful!"

"I know," Crowley croaked, then collected himself for a minute. He pulled back just enough to see Aziraphale's face, keeping his hands on him, their bodies still pressed together hip to toe. As far as Crowley was concerned, now that he’d got him, he was never taking his hands off Aziraphale again. "I've always known. I never thought you'd admit it." The hope Crowley had never dared to allow was rising in spite of himself. For millennia, Aziraphale had lit up whenever Crowley entered a room, his face radiating desire for a split second when Crowley would make any kind of suggestion, and then an instant later the portcullis would come crashing down. Crowley knew why, and he hated it, but he had accepted it. Now, disbelieving, he searched Aziraphale's luminous blue eyes for confirmation. "I never thought you'd want…"

"Oh, I want," Aziraphale said, raising his hands to Crowley's face. The delicate brush of Aziraphale's fingertips at his temples as Aziraphale gently removed his sunglasses sent a crackle of fire through his scalp and down the back of his neck. Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes, all barriers gone. Thousands of years of watching Aziraphale eat, and Crowley had never seen anything like the naked hunger in his face now. "I want you, Crowley, in every possible way."

Crowley reckoned he was never going to get a plainer invitation than that, and kissed him.

Aziraphale’s lips parted instantly and he melted against Crowley, his arms tightening around Crowley’s shoulders and a high noise thrilling from the back of his throat. Crowley moaned in response, chasing that sound, drawing his tongue across Aziraphale’s succulent bottom lip and dipping inside to taste him. Aziraphale keened again and Crowley could feel him hard against his thigh. The strangled lusts of six thousand years roared through him and he tilted his head to deepen the kiss as he pressed his swelling prick to Aziraphale’s hip.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale broke off to say, panting, “You kiss me so beautifully. I always dreamed --”

Crowley’s heart gave a little squeeze of anguished delight as he considered the implications of Aziraphale always dreaming of this, but he didn’t give either of them time to complete the thought. He kissed Aziraphale again, sliding against his tongue, learning his teeth, his palate, tasting champagne and cherries. He had started to think there would be more on the menu, but if all Aziraphale had dreamed about was kissing, Crowley thought he could be almost content. He had loved Aziraphale since the moment they met, and wanted him almost as long. Aziraphale had been the bright spot in his workaday existence for centuries, the thing to look forward to, the reward at the end of a hard decade’s drudgery. It would have been easy to say that there simply was no one else, no one else who could possibly have understood him. But Aziraphale, bless him, was special: kind, yet selfish; clever, yet foolish; innocent, yet wickedly seductive. And Aziraphale's beauty left Crowley breathless. He had known for centuries that he would do anything for Aziraphale, and he knew that Aziraphale knew it, too. They spoke the same language now, a secret code half philosophy and half innuendo, every moment together sweeter for being stolen. Then apocalypse had (nearly) come, and they’d been in each other’s pockets for eleven years, and if Crowley hadn’t been a shivering wreck of anxiety the entire time he probably would have been happy.

He was happy now, he realized dimly, somewhere beneath the desperate want lighting up his body and making his whole skin itch for more contact, more Aziraphale. He always wanted more Aziraphale. There would never be enough Aziraphale. He kissed a line up the angel’s jaw to his ear, scenting his cologne along with the familiar fresh rain and the new and entirely welcome rising musk of arousal.

“Use your teeth,” Aziraphale murmured, and something about Aziraphale asking for -- no, demanding -- what he wanted, and wanting teeth, made Crowley hiss as a rush of pre-come shot down his prick. Crowley bit him, gently at first, just below his ear. Aziraphale gasped. Crowley sank his teeth in a little harder, and shook his head side to side, worrying the skin. Aziraphale let out a low moan. “Oh, Crowley!”

Crowley wanted to bite him all over, if this was the reaction he was getting. He reached up to undo Aziraphale’s tie, slowly drawing the bow apart until it hung loose, and unfastened his top button. A tiny wedge of Aziraphale’s throat was exposed, the small hollow between the angles of his collar. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. At the moment that inch of skin was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, and he pressed a kiss there, licked, and then, as Aziraphale’s hips bucked against him, sucked hard.

“Aah,” Aziraphale cried, his hands in Crowley’s hair. “Oh, my dear, what you’re doing to me. Please don’t stop. I want your mouth everywhere.”

Crowley knew he was grinning all over his face, but he couldn’t help it. Aziraphale wanted him, Aziraphale was begging to be kissed, licked, sucked -- talking of always dreamed! He allowed himself the shortcut of miracling Aziraphale’s waistcoat and shirt buttons open, but then slowed down to push the jacket off Aziraphale’s shoulders, stroking down his arms as he did so. As he removed the waistcoat he noticed how Aziraphale’s chest was heaving, how the heat was pouring off him. Damn, he was doing that. He shoved Aziraphale’s shirt aside and pressed kisses to his breastbone, filling his nose with the warm scent of his desire. He took Aziraphale’s left nipple into his mouth, pink and salty-sweet, and passed his tongue over the rising flesh while Aziraphale sighed. He dragged his teeth across, then bit down. Aziraphale arched in his arms with a cry, hands clamped on his shoulders. Crowley tightened his grip around Aziraphale’s waist and alternated slow, rough licking with sucking bites until the nipple was red and swollen and Aziraphale gasped. Crowley switched to the other nipple for a while, eliciting more gasps as Aziraphale curled his fists in his hair. Crowley dropped to his knees, pressing open, gentle kisses to the swell of Aziraphale’s belly.

“You’re delicious, angel,” he said, inflamed anew by the blond treasure trail leading into Aziraphale’s trousers. “I knew you would be.”

“Do you want to taste me, my love?” Aziraphale’s voice was rough as his fingers dragged across Crowley’s scalp. “Because I want to taste you. Very, very much.”

Oh. "Do you." Crowley stood up again, lightheaded, and began undoing his trousers.

“Not here,” Aziraphale said quickly. Crowley’s hands stilled on his flies. “The floor is so hard and not very clean, I’m afraid.”

Crowley took a breath, squared his shoulders, and lifted Aziraphale into his arms. Demonic power was useful for a lot of things, and while this wasn’t, perhaps, as grand a gesture as stopping time, maybe the angel would like it. The angel in question inhaled sharply with surprise and then beamed from ear to ear. Crowley carried Aziraphale into the back room and laid him gently on the sofa. Then he miracled off his boots and lay down next to him.

“Resourceful,” Aziraphale said, kissing him. “Romantic.” Aziraphale slid his palm down Crowley’s chest and abdomen to press against his straining prick. Crowley hissed in pleasure and agony. “My dear, you are rampant! Hurry and get your clothes off.”

Crowley wished his kit off and then felt, suddenly, shy, so he dispatched the rest of Aziraphale’s clothes as well. For a moment they lay side by side, looking at one another. They had seen each other naked before, of course, though not for hundreds of years and never like this -- flushed, hard, and hot. Aziraphale was rosy, rounded, squeezable, his chest dusted with the softest golden hair, his thick cock curving like a wicked smile, and what Crowley could see of his plush arse hinted at absolute splendor.

“Aziraphale, you are fucking perfect.” Crowley launched himself at Aziraphale’s mouth again and tried to send all the need in his body through his tongue. The hot press of Aziraphale’s whole bare body against his -- at last, at last -- made his heart ache. Aziraphale hummed into his mouth, sucked his tongue in a truly filthy way, and slid down.

“As are you,” Aziraphale murmured to the head of his prick, winding his tongue around it and then sucking the whole thing into his mouth with an obscene slurp. Crowley could barely stand to see him, his idealized cupid’s bow lips stretched around his prick, cheeks hollowing as he sucked, his eyelashes fluttering closed.

“Oh, god, Aziraphale,” Crowley blasphemed, as Aziraphale’s tongue pressed against the underside of his prick along the ridge, the heat and wet pressure engulfing his whole length as Aziraphale opened his throat. Crowley couldn’t be surprised that Aziraphale had done this before -- in Crowley’s opinion, everything about Aziraphale’s presentation, preferences, and life choices announced him as a skilled and determined cocksucker. This idea had indeed been wank fodder for Crowley for over a hundred years. The fact that Aziraphale didn’t have a gag reflex was perfectly plausible -- Crowley didn’t, himself, and right now he badly wanted to prove it. “Angel, that is-- ungh-- that is so good-- but I-- I want to--”

Aziraphale pulled off his cock with an indecent swirling slide and Crowley sucked in his breath through his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten, my dear, and I do, too,” Aziraphale said, turning so that they lay side-to-side, head to foot. Gratefully, Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s thick cock and felt him throb in his hand as the angel moaned. Then he felt Aziraphale’s mouth on him again, and he turned to his own work.

The angel was hung. Long and broad, with a well-defined head and thick veins, a pronounced curve that was already suggesting interesting anatomical possibilities, and a tidy but slightly ruffled foreskin. He was dripping like a honeycomb. Crowley’s mouth watered. He ran his tongue over the tip to gather up that sweet essence, and it was sweet, ridiculously, improbably. Holding the base of Aziraphale’s cock, he licked it like a lolly, running his tongue under the foreskin, getting him wet everywhere. Aziraphale echoed his movements, each flicker of his tongue, every kiss given back to him. He sucked Aziraphale down, and felt himself plunged into Aziraphale’s throat once again. A human would say this was heaven. Crowley knew better. This was paradise on Earth -- the only paradise to be found.

Crowley moved back and forth languorously over Aziraphale and felt him mirroring the movements on his prick. If there was a better way to show a lover what he liked, he couldn’t imagine it, and he got caught up for a while in demonstrating exactly the way he preferred to be touched and licked and sucked, then burned with need while Aziraphale showed him what he’d learned. Then Aziraphale took control, throat working, hands gripping Crowley’s arse, thumb circling his hole. Crowley moaned and returned the favor, feeling Aziraphale open like a sigh under his fingers. He wished some slickness there and pushed two fingers into Aziraphale’s heat, and there was that high thrilling noise from the back of Aziraphale’s throat again. Crowley nearly came at the sound of it, at the feel of Aziraphale’s body clutching at his fingers. He didn’t want this to be over yet. He pulled off Aziraphale to gasp, “Stop, stop, Aziraphale, I’m gonna --”

Aziraphale slid off his cock long enough to ask, breathlessly, “But, surely you can come as many times as you like?”

Crowley felt ridiculous, but in all honesty the idea had never occurred to him. Humans with penises had a refractory period. With a partner, he had generally had a single orgasm, if any. Alone, the image of Aziraphale unattainably dissolving as the aftershocks ebbed away, he was miserable enough after just one. He had never thought to have more. But of course Aziraphale had. Of course Aziraphale, the hedonist, would find ways to prolong his pleasure, to have multiple orgasms, to climax for hours, perhaps days...Crowley wrapped his lips around Aziraphale once more and felt his cock engulfed again as Aziraphale sucked it back down, slick heat and pressure firing every nerve. Crowley, imagining the angel’s endless transports of delight, came like a rocket, thrusting helplessly.

Aziraphale drew the orgasm out of him for what seemed like minutes, and Crowley felt ecstatic relief but also, as the last shudders rolled through him, was still hard and still wanting. He was experimenting with this whole “as many times as you like” idea, and so far the experiment was a resounding success. Aziraphale’s cock had grown fatter in Crowley’s throat as he groaned around it, and he was glad he didn’t need air because he wasn’t getting any. He redoubled his efforts on Aziraphale’s magnificent cock, moving his head faster, angling his fingers to stroke Aziraphale’s prostate. Aziraphale pulled off of him then so that he could cry out, “Yes, my dear! Just like that!” And Crowley wished badly he could see Aziraphale’s face as he gave him what he wanted, heart soaring as he kept up the tempo and pressure until the angel seized around him and inside him, shouting an arpeggio of “ah!”s as he shot sweet hot spunk down Crowley’s throat.

And sure enough, Aziraphale’s orgasm went on and on. And on. Aziraphale had both Crowley’s thighs in his hands and was gripping hard enough to bruise, and he was shamelessly fucking Crowley’s throat. Crowley kept working his fingers in Aziraphale’s spasming arse, jaw aching, amazed, thrilled, until finally Aziraphale slowed down and pulled out, panting. His cock was still hard.

Crowley couldn’t wait for another kiss, and he wanted very much to see what Aziraphale looked like in this state. He maneuvered himself around and pressed himself against Aziraphale. The angel’s hair was rumpled, his cheeks rosy, his chest heaving. They were both sweating, Crowley noticed, something neither of them generally needed or bothered to do. Crowley had always thought he would not care for this, but Aziraphale was both flushed and gleaming. He also looked happier than Crowley had ever seen him. Aziraphale happy made Crowley warm at any time. Aziraphale at his happiest, with the knowledge that he, Crowley, had done it, was just about the most glorious sight he had ever beheld.

“I love you,” Crowley said, unable and at this point unwilling to restrain himself.

Aziraphale suddenly looked even happier, and Crowley felt flooded with light, as though the angel had blessed him. “Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him, cupping his face in both hands. Crowley pressed them together more tightly, rocking his hips against Aziraphale’s, and slipped his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale met him grind for grind, and Crowley felt a great wave of desire rising in him as though nothing had happened yet, his prick hard and demanding with the weight of six thousand years’ unfulfilled yearning. He held tight to Aziraphale’s shoulders and began seriously to rut against him, kissing and biting his mouth, his jaw, his neck. The taste of Aziraphale and that sweet, hot friction made him want to dig his nails in, dig his teeth in, get under Aziraphale's skin.

“Mmm, I’m glad you’re still so hungry," Aziraphale said, with a particularly ribald thrust of his hips. "I want you to fuck me.”

--

Oh, dear. Crowley looked stunned. “Aziraphale,” he breathed. Oh, Lord, he was so beautiful, his lips swollen, his exquisite eyes dark with lust. But his hips had stuttered to a stop.

“Don’t you --” Aziraphale brought a hand to Crowley’s cheek. “Don’t you want to?” He didn’t think he was wrong about this. He prayed he wasn’t. He'd dreamed of it for a thousand years. Aziraphale had loved every moment of what had gone before, wouldn’t trade it for anything, but oh, it would break his heart to give this up.

Crowley swallowed and met his eyes. “Oh, angel,” he said, "I just can't believe my luck." His hips resumed their luscious sinuous movements, his cock sliding against Aziraphale’s, “Fuck yes, I want to.” Crowley kissed him, a deep, wet, messy kiss, and Aziraphale whined and pulled him closer, thrilling in anticipation. He was so hard, and so open, desperate to be filled.

“You sucked me so well, my dear, so divinely,” he said in Crowley’s ear, manifesting slickness in his palm and anointing Crowley’s long, tapering cock with it. Crowley shuddered under his touch. “Now I want you to fuck me until I shout your name, and then again until I have no words left at all.”

Crowley moaned, dropped three hasty kisses on his lips, and pushed his legs up. Aziraphale felt the hot pressure of his cock and breathed, unfurling himself, welcoming Crowley’s slow slide inside with a sigh and a sudden burst of tears. Crowley felt perfect inside him, perfect, stretching him, just beginning to fill him. How long he had waited for this moment! He looked up to see Crowley’s eyes, wide with wonder, beholding him.

“All right, angel?” Crowley murmured. Aziraphale groped for his hand, and Crowley gave it, a strong, reassuring grip.

“Never better,” Aziraphale said in complete sincerity, his voice trembling. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. He would never, ever let go.

Then Crowley began to move. The first slow, shallow strokes were a blessed intimation of the glories to come, igniting Aziraphale’s every nerve. Crowley was taking his time, gradually opening Aziraphale further with every leisurely thrust, his serpentine hips adding lovely twisting motions that made Aziraphale gasp. “Oh, so sweet,” he breathed, pressing back against Crowley to urge him deeper.

Crowley hissed and drove into him more forcefully, faster for a while and then slowing down again, maintaining and then building the intensity of his thrusts but never letting Aziraphale climb too high. Tormenting and satisfying at once, as Crowley always did. Aziraphale chased the friction, grinding against Crowley with short jerks of his hips, and Crowley backed off a little, infuriatingly, enticingly. Aziraphale's head tipped back and he felt himself smiling.

“You like to be teased, don’t you,” Crowley said, drawing his fingers lightly along Aziraphale’s cock.

“Almost as much as you do,” Aziraphale agreed, and writhed as Crowley took hold of him for a few short strokes, Aziraphale thrusting blissfully into his hand, before letting him go again.

“I am loving this, angel,” Crowley said, “I’d like to toy with you forever, but you feel too good. I can’t--” His hips rolled and he dragged over Aziraphale’s prostate, an electric jolt of pleasure that made every muscle clench and release in agonized joy. Aziraphale cried out.

“Yes! Yes! There!

Crowley did it again. And again.

“Don’t stop!”

Crowley fucked him faster, a steady rhythm now, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. A wave of astonishing pleasure spread from Aziraphale’s pelvis through his entire body. He gripped Crowley's hand and shoulder, bracing against the glorious sensations, heart expanding, all his dreams fulfilled.

"Not gonna stop," Crowley said in a rough voice, plunging into him, holding his hand, eyes shining. "Never want to stop. Never."

The wave broke over Aziraphale’s head and he spent in a frenzy, shouting “Ah! Ah! Crowley!” He was shaking all over as the rapture went on, spasm after spasm, his voice harsh from the repeated cries he could not contain.

“Angel! Ah! Azira--ziraphale!” Crowley was coming too, driving in even harder now, eyes shut tight against bliss, hand squeezing Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale thrust back against him, tightening himself as much as he could, and Crowley groaned the most beautiful groan and arched his back, displaying his long, lean, lovely torso, splattered with Aziraphale’s spunk, as his hips snapped hard a few last times. It was the most erotic thing Aziraphale had ever seen.

Crowley pushed hard inside him and stayed there, trembling, as he leaned down for a kiss. Aziraphale dove into his mouth ravenously, stroking his tongue, wanting to consume him from the inside. He broke the handhold to card Crowley’s hair. “My dear,” he said against Crowley’s lips, “you were magnificent.”

“Oh, I’m not finished,” Crowley said, dragging his teeth down Aziraphale’s neck. “And neither, I suspect, are you.”

"I'll never be finished with you," Aziraphale said, scraping Crowley’s scalp with his nails. Crowley made a hungry little mewl. Aziraphale tilted his chin to allow him further access to his neck and throat. His sharp bites raised gooseflesh and Aziraphale could feel his nipples peaking. Aziraphale fluttered around Crowley’s cock, which was still thrillingly hard, and sighed with delight.

"Mmm," Crowley's cock pulsed in response. "We do have a lot of catching up to do," He sucked a bruising kiss below Aziraphale's collarbone. "But we'll have to get up sometime." This was a most uncharacteristic declaration for a slothful old serpent, and Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

"Will we?” Aziraphale was only half joking, beguiled for a moment by the image of years stretching out in front of them, years spent doing this, this, and only this. He tugged at Crowley’s hair to pull his head up and look him in the eyes. “Whatever for?"

For the second time that day, Crowley laughed. This time, Aziraphale could feel it, could feel Crowley’s belly contract, his arms judder, his cock twitch inside him as he threw back his head to bare the elegant arc of his throat. Aziraphale, awash with happiness and renewed desire, laughed too.

“So you’d have me laze about with you on this sofa indefinitely? Who’s doing the tempting now?” Crowley asked, still smiling, stroking Aziraphale’s chest.

“Oh, I think we both know it’s always been me,” Aziraphale said. “Please fuck me again.”

Crowley closed his eyes as his cock jumped most pleasingly. “Ngk. Aziraphale, if you knew what it does to me when you say that.”

“Show me. Show me what it does to you.”

Crowley did. He began with the most subtle, insinuating movements of his hips while remaining fully inside Aziraphale, not thrusting, just rubbing against him in a snaky way that brought his sensitive flesh roaring back to life. He trailed his fingers lightly up and down Aziraphale’s cock, and Aziraphale moaned.

“You are so damned beautiful,” Crowley said, sliding out just the barest inch and thrusting back in, short but slow movements that roused Aziraphale to panting and begging within moments.

“More. Please, more.”

Crowley smiled and wrapped his hand firmly around Aziraphale’s cock without changing the depth or speed of his thrusts. Aziraphale let go of a highly undignified whine, and Crowley’s smile grew. “I could do this all day, as you pointed out,” he said. Aziraphale shoved himself down on Crowley’s cock, hard, and Crowley gasped “--or not!”

At last, he picked up the pace, still slow enough for Aziraphale to feel every stroke, but deeper, and once again masterfully gliding over his prostate. His hand worked Aziraphale’s cock in long, firm caresses, sliding the foreskin back and forth. Aziraphale ached everywhere, the sweetest ache imaginable, and he didn’t ever want it to end.

Crowley’s eyes were open, gazing at him, his face flushed and contorted in pleasure, straining to control his movements. Aziraphale could see that Crowley was striving to give him everything he wanted, to make it good for him. Aziraphale had never been fucked by someone who could equal his stamina, who could match the depth and breadth of his hunger. By someone he loved. His heart swelled. “So good, my darling,” he breathed.

Crowley’s strokes were getting faster now, and the sensation blurred into an all-encompassing ocean of ecstasy. The heat and pressure on his cock and inside him drove him onto a precipice of pleasure, just on the brink of orgasm, where he revelled for minutes in the liminal space of gratification, glorying in his own greed before hurtling over the edge. Bliss erupted from his cock and his belly and spread all over his body, and he shouted with joy for a long time. Crowley fucked him through it all, hard, and then, as Aziraphale began to quiet, he sobbed out “Angel, angel!” and spilled inside him.

Aziraphale moved against Crowley to draw it out for him, rewarded with Crowley's soft moans and expression of bliss as his hips slowed to a stop. Crowley clutched at Aziraphale's face and kissed him deeply, with something of desperation in it, as he finally withdrew. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him, pillowing Crowley's head on his chest. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere, not without you. Not ever."

A pause, while Crowley caught his breath. Then he said, "This week has been...worse than usual."

Aziraphale's throat tightened. "I'm so sorry, Crowley. I'm so sorry." He stroked Crowley's hair. "Thank you. Thank you for waiting for me. For not...for not leaving me."

Crowley placed a kiss over Aziraphale's heart. "Empty threats. I couldn't have left you. I would have waited another six thousand years, however long it took. Hell doesn't own me, not since the start. It's always been you."

Tears filled Aziraphale's eyes. "Oh, Crowley." He'd known. And yet he hadn't. Hearing the words brought all the suppressed pain of their long wait to the surface, the pain he could have spared them both. "It took me all this time -- and nearly the end of the world -- to learn that Heaven doesn't own me."

Crowley placed another kiss atop his heart, and smiled. "Well, you always were a bit thick."

"I am NOT!" Aziraphale objected, loudly and with some relief.

"No," Crowley said, lifting his head and giving him a look full of love. "You're not. You just have to do everything the hard way."

Aziraphale stroked his cheek. "Not anymore, my love. Not anymore."

Crowley turned his head to kiss Aziraphale's palm, and then settled back down on his chest. Aziraphale miracled a blanket over them and resumed petting Crowley's head. The freedom to do this simple thing, just to hold Crowley and gently caress him, made Aziraphale’s heart glow with warmth and wonder. Before long Crowley’s breathing evened out and his body went heavy with sleep.

A few hours later, Aziraphale put down Lorca’s Sonnets of Dark Love and prodded Crowley awake. "I've thought of a reason to get up off this sofa," Aziraphale said, kissing his eyelids.

"What's that?" Crowley yawned.

"Sushi."

A short time later, with only a modest amount of grumbling and a slight delay what with Crowley unbuttoning Aziraphale's shirt as soon as he put it on, they exited the bookshop and stepped out into the warm summer night.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale in the crowded street and, with a meaningful look, crooked his elbow. Aziraphale, heart leaping with joy, took Crowley's arm, and along they went.