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Aziraphale conjures a bed for them upstairs, which seems somehow appropriate. A new space for this new intimacy between them. Crowley would be happy to twist together there and kiss him all night, but Aziraphale is already pushing at his clothes with eager fingers, smiling like he wants nothing else than to strip Crowley bare. How can he object when Aziraphale seems just as happy to let Crowley do the same, to find his way under an infinity of buttons, and clasps, and knots. To find skin beneath that's soft and warm, new under his fingers and pushing instantly into his hands. Every part of Aziraphale seems happy to let Crowley touch him, and making Aziraphale happy has become something of a habit.

Crowley's naked first, but then he has far less clothing, and no underwear to speak of. He worries, briefly, that he'll seem too eager, or worse too impatient. But Aziraphale just makes a breathy, delighted noise, as if he'd been waiting for this, and will waste no more time getting his hands on it. Which he does, almost immediately, when his palms catch Crowley's waist and draw him in, smoothing upwards to feel the twisting line of him while they fall together again. Aziraphale mouths at his throat, touches his chest and hips and thighs, thoroughly distracted away from helping Crowley remove the last of his clothes in turn. But how can Crowley possibly complain, when he has this, when he gets to have this.

"Which do you generally prefer?" Aziraphale asks, curiously. "On your sexual partners. It's not the sort of thing we've ever spoken about, but I really don't mind. I'm amenable to whatever preference you have."

"I don't mind either," Crowley says, having finally managed to reduce Aziraphale to his underwear. His fingers dip underneath to push them over the lush curve of his behind. "I'm good with anything you want. Whatever you have will be fine."

Aziraphale slides hands to Crowley's wrists, not to stop him, but to draw his attention.

"I don't have anything yet. I wasn't expecting -" There's a pause and then a smile, something that still looks surprised and delighted on his face. "I wasn't expecting to be this brave tonight. I don't really have enough experience for it to be instinctive, for anything spontaneous, it still takes something of an effort, so to speak."

"Aziraphale, you don't have to make anything," Crowley tells him. Because he doesn't want this first time to be something Aziraphale worries about. To be something he feels he has to perform for. There's honestly nothing Aziraphale could offer him that would make any difference to how he feels. "You can stay just as you are. I don't mind."

"You want me to refrain from making an effort?" Aziraphale looks confused, enough to sway back a little.

"It's not as overwhelming," Crowley explains. "But it can still feel good."

Aziraphale looks dubious. "Doesn't that rather miss the point of sex."

Crowley wrinkles his nose, makes a noise.

"Nah, the point of sex is to feel good with someone else," he reminds him. Which it already does, which it will, he knows it will. How could it not between them. He's sliding long hands into Aziraphale's underwear now, drawing them down his thighs in one long movement. Trying not to be thoroughly distracted by the way Aziraphale's thighs shift up and slightly apart to make it easier. The way they let him, encourage him in slow, wordless movements. "Does this feel good?"

Aziraphale sighs out a breath, lifts his leg so Crowley can strip him completely naked.

"My dear, when you touch me 'good' is something of an understatement."

Crowley's throat makes a noise he didn't give it permission for, and curves into Aziraphale's body, a press of skin from shoulder to thigh that still thrills him. Aziraphale is soft and bare, the centre of him a gently curved mound that leaves Crowley catching one of his thighs with a knee, and slowly easing it towards him, opening him up. It's so smooth and new - or perhaps old, the way they were both made. Crowley squeezes the top of Aziraphale's thigh and just looks for a moment, teasing himself, not that he needs to, he's been hard since the second time they kissed. He's just a sharp, heavy ache of want that can't quite believe what he's being allowed.

"Now that is just as lovely as I expected," he says.

Aziraphale gives the faintest laugh and draws him down low enough to kiss, and it's still slow, and a little hesitant, as if he thinks someone will make him stop. Will separate them for daring to have this. Crowley threads a hand into his soft hair and opens up to him, promises that they won't, that they can do this now. They always could have done this. He never would have said no.

Crowley breaks away with his own laugh, too happy to bite down on it, like he can't contain all the stupid feelings inside him. He eases his body gently to one side, until he's leant over Aziraphale, all of him close enough to touch, he spreads one hand on the gentle give of his stomach, fingertips sliding down slowly enough that Aziraphale can still choose whether they stop or not.

"You want me to show you?" Crowley asks. He never thought he'd get to do this, never thought they'd be allowed, or that the angel would say yes. Before he even had the courage to ask.

Aziraphale leans up far enough to kiss him, quick and not hesitant at all this time. He smiles against his mouth and gently encourages Crowley's hand to continue downwards.

Crowley's fingers reach the dip where stomach becomes pelvis, goes past it, sliding lower, and then cupping and gently squeezing the rise of Aziraphale's mound. Crowley spreads his fingers and then slowly glides them back and forth across that warm skin. There are no imperfections at all, it's perfect, it's utterly perfect. Aziraphale's other thigh drifts out just a touch, encouragement for Crowley to explore more of him. To separate his fingers, slip into the junction of this thighs and press there.

"Oh," Aziraphale says quietly, the warm surprise of someone discovering something unexpected about a body they'd thought they were intimately familiar with.

"Nice?" Crowley asks, already knowing the answer.

"Very nice," Aziraphale agrees.

Crowley touches him like he touches himself sometimes, long slow pulls from bottom to top, just the slightest pressure, where the skin is soft and gives a little. Pressing and stroking, fingers spreading again to lift and then gently tease the sensitive underside, to roll in gentle circles, and then harder circles. Aziraphale is making sounds now, little bursts of air and quiet murmurs, thigh shifting against Crowley's forearm.

"Can I put my mouth on you?" Crowley's voice shakes on the words, at the thought of it, of tasting that soft, gentle rise, laying his tongue there and feeling Aziraphale press up into his mouth, push up into his mouth, chasing his own pleasure on Crowley's tongue. Just the thought of it leaves him breathless.

"Would you like that?" Aziraphale asks, genuinely curious.

"Yesss, and I think you'll like it too. It's new down there, sensitive, it's not used to being touched, not used to the attention." Crowley swallows when his throat sticks. "I want to, if you'll let me." He doesn't know what expression shows on his face, but it makes Aziraphale kiss him again, hand curving round the back of his neck.

"Of course I will," he says, and Crowley feels the angel's legs ease open, encouraging Crowley down with the faintest push, though he honestly doesn't need the urging, slithering into that space between Aziraphale's thighs, drawing one of them over his shoulder and letting it gently squeeze down in exactly the way he wanted it to. Like Aziraphale knows - already knows everything that will unravel him.

The skin under his mouth is warm and smooth, firm against his tongue and it moves under every slow drag, goes slick when Crowley makes it wet, tongue tip trailing up and down the gentle slope. Aziraphale takes a shaky breath, fingers threading through Crowley's hair in a way that's both unbearably soft and rich with the promise of so much more. He looks up, eyes catching Aziraphale's over the gently rising curves of his body. There's a warm, eager sort of focus to him, as he watches Crowley, the way the angel's mouth is open just a touch, chest rising and falling a little faster than before. Expression caught somewhere between gentle encouragement and bright-eyed arousal.

"Still nice?" Crowley murmurs into the skin.

"Ah, oh, you know it is," Aziraphale says, too shaky to sound anything but desperate. He can't seem to look away, fingers gently moving in Crowley's hair. It seems to be a fascination of Aziraphale's, this new permission to thread his fingers there, and he'd have mentioned it, if he wasn't terrified it would make him stop.

Crowley carefully drags his teeth over the plump swell of flesh, judges how much Aziraphale reacts, how quickly he arches, and then lets his tongue flatten and slide after it, finding all the soft, secret places that make his breathing pull in sharply, strain out, or shiver its way through both. He finds one just beneath the softest part, where mound would just reach the shadow of thighs, where his body would just start to curve down and open, if he chose to make it.

Aziraphale's fingers clench in the sheets and he digs a heel in the bed, pushes up just a little.

"There," he says breathlessly, still looking down at him. "Would you - oh, that's - please." He stops talking and just rocks into Crowley's tongue. His lips are parted, skin flushed, eyes soft and drunk, so open for it, for everything Crowley wants to give him. He's never seen Aziraphale like this, no one has ever seen him like this, this secret, warm version of him that touches, and wants, and gives just like this. Crowley pushes down a little harder, opens wider and moans into that curve of soft skin, fingers curling tight on Aziraphale's thighs, and pulling.

Aziraphale's body tries to curve upwards, the hand in Crowley's hair pushing him down hard enough that his whole mouth is full of Aziraphale, tongue still moving, trapped and wet and relentless. Crowley's so hard it hurts, dick crushed to his own thigh, a sting of pleasure-pain that's sharp and delicious, that he's perfectly willing to ignore in favour or Aziraphale quickly losing whatever rhythm he had. Until he's just shaking, thighs pulling together, his slippery mound warm under Crowley's tongue.

God, he could have waited six thousand more years for this, and never had a single moment of complaint.

"Oh." Long shivers go through Aziraphale's thighs that Crowley can feel through his back. He can't resist one last sliding lick over the mound of soft, wet skin, and it makes Aziraphale gasp, and laugh shakily. His thigh slides off Crowley's shoulder, legs spreading in a way that's unbearably arousing. Crowley hadn't known he could ever need anything this much.

"That was lovely." Aziraphale's voice is slow and warm, utterly new. His hands are already moving, sliding onto as much of Crowley's face as he can reach. "Now come here and let me -"

"You don't have to." Crowley swallows the grate in his throat. Because he's fine here, just here, sprawled between Aziraphale's thighs, still feeling the weight of him on his tongue. But Aziraphale is already reaching for his arms, pulling him up, drawing him in with hands and thighs, and then gathering him closer. Until the hot, hard, desperate line of Crowley's dick presses right up against the soft, wet skin at Aziraphale's centre, and he can't resist the desperate punch of air that comes out of him as the weight of Aziraphale's thigh encourages him to slide over it. To push against it. To take his pleasure against him while he's warm, and soft, and still flushed with his own.

Aziraphale draws him down and kisses him, too desperate and too coordinated for someone who's just had their first orgasm. Before he pulls away and slides a hand over Crowley's arse, encourages him, in one flexing pull to just take what he needs.

"I've thought about this," Aziraphale confesses, which punches Crowley right in the gut with arousal, makes him weak with it, the noises in his throat going hard and broken. "How could I not. So many times, and I should like it if you -"

Crowley doesn't hear the end of that sentence, because his hips have stopped paying attention to him, too busy rolling and pushing into Aziraphale's skin, still wet from his mouth, soft and sensitive enough to leave little shaken gasps rushing across Crowley's mouth from Aziraphale's. He gives three helpless shoves, and then shudders to a stop, paints that soft mound, Aziraphale's stomach, and the curve of his abdomen, moaning like he doesn't know how to stop. A blasphemy that's just for him.

"Oh," Aziraphale says, as if he's fucking delighted, watching the whole thing in a way that makes Crowley feel carved open and raw. "Oh, look at you," Aziraphale manages, like Crowley has given him something beautiful. His hands catch Crowley's waist, hold him so tightly, which is good because he's not sure he can hold himself right now.

Crowley's whole body gives in, falls into Aziraphale's, lets Aziraphale kiss him until he can't breathe and stops trying. Until they're twisting together finding a comfortable position to lay in together, a way to combine their soft and hard edges. Crowley finds his mouth tucked into Aziraphale's throat, one solid thigh held between his own. There's an arm around his waist, a bare foot pressed to his calf. There is so much of Aziraphale, and it strikes him suddenly that this is a thing that they do now, this is a thing they can do.

"You were quite right," Aziraphale says eventually. "That was perfect."