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That Hard to Reach Itch

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Aziraphale tuts and hushes him when he whines and whimpers.  The angel’s free hand, so strong and cool, descends on Crowley’s burning forehead and calms him nearly instantly, though he doesn’t know if it’s some sort of ethereal magic or by plain fact that it’s HIM.  


Crowley arches so perfectly, half balanced on their mattress: overstuffed and downy-soft, much like Crowley will be himself.  His ass hangs off the edge of the bed because Aziraphale has declared that he must position himself just so. His cuffed hands, clad in brown leather lined with wool, clasp hard against the back of his neck.  He’s not tied down but he doesn’t move his hands from under his head, he wouldn’t: for Aziraphale told him not to.  


Aziraphale takes such good care of him that he’d never disobey.  


He holds his lower half up off the ground on trembling legs, thrusting up into the empty air in sheer frustration as Aziraphale gently works him into a hardness rivalled only by marble.  Those thick, pale hands grip Crowley so perfectly; gently rolling his balls and squeezing the base of his cock, rolling gently over the over-sensitive head in a way that makes his hips jump.  Every nerve in his body from the ribs down sings in perfect harmony with every feathery touch, made more acute by the fact that he’s miracled away all body hair; a barrier between his too-perfect flesh and Aziraphale’s.  He usually sports a pleasant smattering of fiery-colored body hair from the navel down, thicker and dark where it cradles his cock and testicles. But not tonight. Tonight he is even more naked than usual, and his flesh sings with sensitivity, nerves unable to hide and granted not a hair of protection.  


“It’s time,” Aziraphale coos, placing an affectionate kiss on the head of Crowley’s cock, which swells with a red-flushed frustration.  He miracles the sounding rod out of thin air between two fingertips with a flourish: it’s hot-white and without a single imperfection, long and thin and Crowley swears he can hear a soft ringing tone in the air as if from a tuning fork.  There is a large white pearl on one end of it, iridescent and flawless.  


“Breathe,” he orders Crowley, sweeping a hand up the dramatic scoop of the demon’s ribs, stretched out as he is over the edge of the bed it makes them arch proudly up and accentuate his thin frame.  Aziraphale’s fingers meander across his chest, tweaking each nipple once to keep them interested, and they swell just a touch.  


Crowley lets his head fall back onto the mattress, overwhelmed at the sight of the wicked instrument and the feel of Aziraphale’s hand.  He does as he’s told, making sure his angel can hear how he takes in the air and releases it slowly.  


“My brave darling,” he sighs, voice so heavy with affection that Crowley almost doesn’t expect the sounding rod’s penetration in the very next instant.  It nudges against the two tiny mounds on either side of the meatus, where he’s so acutely sensitive that his brain takes over and his body tries to protect the precious opening, Crowley’s hips thrust back and his knees come up.  


Aziraphale doesn’t punish him for this inexorable reaction: he anticipated it, and the sounding rod does not leave the sensitive opening at the tip of his cock even for a moment.  Aziraphale coaxes Crowley’s hips back to where they were and for good measure, he kneels and places a knee under Crowley’s ass, so that it can’t happen again. Crowley feels truly pinned open now, supported by the bed and Aziraphale’s otherworldly strength under his tailbone, blocking his escape.  


Aziraphale lets the sounding rod sink slowly, almost entirely by gravity’s own will.  It pushes Crowley open and wider in places he’d never considered or felt, crawling closer and closer to where his cock meets his body.  He writhes unabashedly and sobs into the open air, remembering to breathe deeply because Aziraphale told him to.  


He keeps thinking “Aziraphale.”  But it’s Zira at the moment. Zira the calculating and crafty, the perverse and possessive, the dominant and dastardly, the calm and collected… When Zira gets Crowley naked and bound and vulnerable nothing can stop him.  Nothing but a single word, agreed upon beforehand: an infallible and precise word that Crowley keeps in mind for when he absolutely can’t take it anymore.  


He’s never used it.  Zira knows him too well.  


The sounding rod’s pearl comes to rest gently at the tip of his cock and Crowley heaves a breath of relief and an absurd pride in himself for achieving such a strange feat.  Zira releases it from between his fingers and holds Crowley’s cock nice and still to observe and appreciate the pretty picture it makes. “Lovely,” he gushes and leans close to kiss messily at the corona of Crowley’s stuffed and straining prick.  His wicked tongue darts out to sweep across the glans and the perfect pink tip of it nudges the rod’s pearl completely on purpose, which makes Crowley buck and sob.  


He can feel the sounding rod’s every movement deep inside him now, nudging his prostate from the inside, just gently enough to be maddening.  With Zira tongueing him now he can feel himself approaching climax at a frightening pace. He doesn’t know how he’s going to come with this rod blocking the way, he can’t think, he can’t do anything except squirm like a worm on a hook.  


Mmm, Mmmm!”  He breathes and attempts again to speak.  “Gonna, I’m gonna… I have to… please, take it--” 


Zira licks his lips and nuzzles the pearl one last time with the tip of his nose before conjuring a little extra lube and circling the frenulum of Crowley’s swollen cockhead with the pad of his thumb.  The casual and gentle stimulation of his most sensitive of spots has Crowley coming suddenly and shockingly, tossing his head back and convulsing and his cock strains and jumps around the rod.  


Zira ever so gently pulls the rod up and out of Crowley, watching the demon’s face twist in intense and exquisite agony and pleasure.  He held his beautiful demon in such glorious ecstasy, this is what he treasured more than anything.


The rod slips free and Crowley shoots thick ropes of come up his own stomach and chest, and Zira barely gets his hand out of the way in time.  He conjures copious amounts of lube to work Crowley’s cock with the other hand. He strokes firmly and slowly, pulling everything his brave little serpent has to give out of him while murmuring soft purrs of encouragement under his breath, “oh that’s beautiful, so good my dear, yes, give me everything you’ve got, let it all go… let it all go now.”  The demon in turn cries out and growls despite himself, fucking into that tight grip with all of his strength to expel the lingering effects of frustration and tightness within his cock. Zira squeezes and jerks the beautiful cock until actual tears spring to Crowley’s eyes at the unceasing overstimulation and only then he relents, gently releasing Crowley from the iron grip.


He quickly snaps away the mess and appreciates the sight of Crowley’s heaving chest for a moment, then he strokes the demon’s taut and twitching stomach with the flat of his hand.  “Shhh, now,” he hums when Crowley’s frantic breathing remains rapid for more than a minute or two. He slows his strokes, reaching up to Crowley’s clavicle and gently smoothing his hand down the skin all the way to a prominent hip-bone.  He repeats the motion as though taming a feral beast. He lets his gold ring drag and catch over one of Crowley’s still-stiff nipples, because he’s just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.  


They’ve done this so many times but the next part never gets old: It will take a few more minutes for Crowley to calm down.  He will descend from the high fast and hard once he catches his breath, tumbling down a hill of rapidly dissipating pleasure hormones and adrenaline.  Aziraphale will be there with a perfectly heated cup of tea and a blanket that can only be described as, “miraculously soft.” Aziraphale will then murmur sweet nothings into the red shock of Crowley’s hair until they both float away into the ether of sleep; an angel protecting his demon from the fall.