Aziraphale has not been blind to certain aspects of Crowley's affection for him. Multiple conversations with his partner in the last couple of weeks have built up enough in Aziraphale's mind to cause him to hatch a sexy plan!

This is where Aziraphale preps for the evening's naughty magic. We also take a bit of an exploration back in time, into the history of Aziraphale's sexual desires, such as they were. (In fact, this chapter is a bit like chapter 1, and shows Aziraphale's side of things.)

He's all alone, yet it's a bit smutty. Definitely NSFW!

For context on Aziraphale's historical attitude toward his own bodily functions of pleasure, you might like to refer back to chapters 8 and 13 of "The Third Domain."

For context on what he is planning for tonight, you might like to refer back to chapter 19 of that same story. It will also explain the existence of the "Icicles" box and the thing inside. ;-)

Enjoy!

IGNORANCE OF BLISS

As expected, when Aziraphale arrived home, the flat was empty. He had asked Crowley to stay out until eight p.m., as he had a few things to prepare. The ex-demon had had his curiosity piqued by this request, and had readily agreed. He and the estate agent had things to do, if the couple were thinking of moving house, and it's not as though Crowley had ever wanted for ideas on how to spend an otherwise unoccupied afternoon and early evening in London.

Aziraphale had already spent two or three hours fussily readying the relevant areas of their residence, the sun was on its way down, and the flat was mostly dark. In the kitchen, there were two aluminium containers of Mozzafiato's squash and lobster ravioli in the oven, along with a small thermal paper bag, keeping warm. The bag from the restaurant was sitting prominently out on the counter, so that anyone who walked into the room could make no mistake about where the food had come from. The table was set, including a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and glasses. Several candles were ready to light, as soon as the former-demon-in-question arrived.

As an afterthought, Aziraphale had written the words "light my fire" on a Post-it note, and placed it next to the candle on the decorative table in the entryway. He knew it was camp, but that it would make Crowley chuckle. It now lay there, along with the wand-like lighter he'd purchased on the way home. In the old days, Crowley could have waved his hand over the wick, and produced a flame, but these days, they relied upon an apparatus with a small amount of combustible fuel, and a mechanism that made friction.

Human ingenuity never ceased to amaze.

He had showered (cleansed, uneventfully), shaved, and chosen a set of clean clothes for the evening. But he did not get dressed yet, because there was one crucial thing left to do before he could do so.

Still just wearing a towel round his waist, he searched Crowley's nightstand for something in particular, and found it straight away.

Just looking at it gave him a cool chill, and then a hot surge of lust.

It was a white box, labelled "Icicles," and he knew that it contained a spade-shaped piece of glass, used for… well, it was an implement of pleasure. Crowley had used it to, in his words, "stretch and train" Aziraphale's body a bit. But before that, he had narrated a fantasy scenario in which they use the piece of glass for a slightly different purpose. Crowley had mused over the term 'anal plug,; and how it was rather blunt and vulgar a name for something so lovely, that could make one feel so much, and so good. And just now, Aziraphale reckoned he wasn't wrong.

He removed the glass from the box, and just bouncing it in his hand made him feel a bit naughty and abandoned, and he felt a now very familiar twinge between his legs.
That twinge wasn't what he wanted – not yet, anyway. However, he had figured that a little bit of this was to be expected, considering what he was about to do… and then what would happen after that.

He took a deep breath, and forced down the tightening in his groin, the desire.

He set the box aside, held the glass in one hand, and with the other, he reached out for the rapidly-diminishing, tiny bottle of lube sitting on the night table, between Crowley's dark glasses and a lamp. He laid them on the comforter, shed his towel, and lay down right where he was, on the left side of the bed.

Crowley's side of the bed.

The blanket beneath his bum and back, as well as the pillow, it all smelled of Crowley.

This did not help Aziraphale to keep his lust in check.

Again, he took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself.

He looked down at his naked form, and felt lascivious and indulgent – he was nude upon the very surface where his lover slept, and had slept, dreaming about him, for years before they'd become lovers. He felt the air circulating over his exposed skin, he had a tumescent phallus, and the entire experience caused him to give an involuntary moan. He had never, ever done anything like this before - being so intentionally, decadently naked on his own, and certainly never with such wicked intentions.

But the arousal, the excitement was all too soon, and he continued to try to force down the thoughts, coax the blood away from his groin, and his body into a more Zen-like state.

It was quite a familiar state of affairs for him, in fact.

When he and Crowley had had their first 'encounter' together, he had reported that he'd never seen his own cock standing up before. And that had been true. But only because whenever it happened, he would close his eyes, meditate, and will the unruly appendage back into submission. Over the years, he'd become quite expert at denying his erections, through force of will.

On that same occasion, he had also reported that he had never had an orgasm before (though he went on to have two that night, literally at Crowley's hands). This was also true. But only because of the aforementioned acts of will-power he would exert, in order to remain a chaste (if imperfect) angel.

There had been hints of various un-angelic feelings in Crowley's presence for thousands of years. But Aziraphale reached a kind of terrifying clarity one night in Rome, about two thousand years ago. It was a clarity he acknowledged, then quickly dismissed for another handful of centuries. This, in fact, was a pattern of behaviour that would plague most of the past two millennia, in the friendship (or whatever it was called) between Crowley and Aziraphale. By then, the angel had come to terms with the fact that Crowley was not "his personal demon" to slay, which is to say, he had not been laid as a trap (directly or indirectly) for Aziraphale. He'd leaned into spending time with the demon on occasion, but would never truly admit to why.

That day in Rome, he'd spied Crowley sitting at what might today be called a bar. He said he'd simply popped into town for a quick temptation, and Aziraphale, who was on an actual (rare) holiday at the time, told him he'd come to try out a new restaurant, where the chef had managed to innovate a new way to serve oysters. For some ungodly reason which Aziraphale would never understand, he'd used the phrase, "Let me tempt you," in order to convince Crowley to try the new restaurant with him. The demon had allowed the angel to, indeed, tempt him, and they'd spent the evening gorging themselves on oysters, wine, and conversation.

When Aziraphale had returned to his room that night, the scent of Crowley was in his clothing. A powerful aphrodisiac was running in his veins (about which he'd had no idea at the time), he was loose with alcohol, and had spent a lovely evening with a flirty friend who had always had him feeling a bit conflicted as an angel.

Perhaps inevitably, Crowley ran through his mind like a sexy gazelle whilst he performed a few nightly ablutions. The way the demon moved demanded attention. His yellow eyes were penetrating. His mouth was pretty enough to have been sculpted for the express purpose of slurping oysters. He used scandalous language that delighted Aziraphale in spite of himself, he was cuttingly amusing, clearly intelligent, and looked at the angel like piece of meat.

Crowley was an intoxicating package – he had literally been designed as such – and naïvely, Aziraphale had thought he could simply rest for a few hours, perhaps sober up, and get on with his life.

Not all of him would rest, though. There was one pesky part of his body that would not lie down.

As he slipped off his shoes, just before pulling his toga over his head, he noticed a protuberance below the waist. He was not, however, naïve enough not to realise what it was, but he did, foolishly run back over his thoughts from the last few hours, to explore what could possibly be causing it.

Well, the thoughts proved so pleasant, that he couldn't bring himself to stop thinking them, and he found that his erection (not his first, by the way, merely the most powerful thus far) had only grown more insistent. Of course, Crowley's mouth, his words, the swerve of his hips, the hunger in his predator's eyes…

"Ugh," Aziraphale said to himself at that time, but it came out as more of a moan than an exclamation of disgust.

Which only made things worse.

There was an ache, and he had no idea how to relieve it.

More to the point, he had some idea of how to relieve it, but had no idea what would happen next, whether it might hurt more than the ache, or whether relieving the ache would cause more aching, which would lead to more relieving...

But he did have some measure of curiosity. So, just to see how his body might react, he reached down with one hand, and ran his palm over the annoying member, through the fabric of his clothing. No skin-to-skin, no grasping, no looking. Still the feeling was so painful and pleasurable at the same time, all he could do was moan. He had no words, no recourse…

Except that he realised as he rubbed a bit longer that the desire was growing. His member was growing harder. The discomfort was only going to become more unbearable, unless…

Well, no, he couldn't go there. Out of the question.

"Blast it!" he had hissed, alone in his Roman room. He stopped touching himself, and resolved to stay in-check.

He had always been taught that angels were sexless unless they cared to make the effort, so… well, this was exasperating indeed! What was happening here? What was this business with having to make an effort to be sexless?

He kept his eyes closed, took a deep breath, and reminded himself that he was an angel and the object of his lust was a demon, no less! How inappropriate! And that demon had been moulded as a temptation for all Eartly creatures, and he had fallen victim to that ruse, like any common human! For shame!

He was Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, a servant of the Almighty! His corporeal form was merely a vehicle for him to move about, so that he could perform his great works on Earth. It was not a heaving, throbbing mass of flesh for him to play with, to sully, to let be taken over by out-of-control human angst. He was stronger of will than that, and certainly stronger than a demon. The fact that he felt longing and lust was merely a by-product of being in a humanoid wrapping, with flesh, bone, blood, and muscle. And anyway, it was a borrowed body. It, like everything else about him, belonged to God.

God, God, God.

Great doses of this pious self-admonishment, coupled with meditation techniques he'd learned during a brief foray into the Far East, worked. His erection abated, and he was able to venture out into the Forum, and play a few games, before retiring once again for a bit of a rest.

The following day, he tried to forget the incident, even as he ran across a dodgy, skittish Crowley who couldn't wait to get away from him. Just as well, he thought – angels and demons don't mix. Already he had begun to discount the demon's role in the previous night's dilemma.

From time to time over the next two millennia, he would finish a visit with Crowley, and similar things would happen. As best he could, he meditated and willed away the lust, without actually acknowledging within himself where it had come from. He swatted away memories of that infernally tempting mouth, the walk, the wicked smile, without dwelling, and while remaining within the confines of total denial. It was the only way he could survive it.

Even more bizarre, he felt, were the times when his body would spontaneously react merely to thoughts of the demon – not even to his presence, or erstwhile presence.

It didn't happen every time Aziraphale thought of Crowley, far from it – how exhausting would have have been? But it was often enough that anyone other than an angel who desired to stay in the good graces of God would have realised there was some truly deep desire at work.

And so, Aziraphale drew on past experiences in order to keep himself under control tonight, lying in a barely-contained frenzy on Crowley's side of the bed. Although, now, holding back had nothing to do with an angelic ethic and/or being beholden to an Almighty God. It had more to do with not ruining what he hoped would turn out to be a scorching hot evening with his mortal beloved.

He drizzled the last of the lubricant on the tip of the spade-shaped glass, and did as he'd seen Crowley do, which is to say, spread it sensually all over the implement, with his entire hand.

This action left him breathless, and his cock throbbed. What he really wanted was fuck that lubed-up hand, to give himself a good pumping, and watch the white spurts emerge as the urgency tore away from his body. It could be, he knew, glorious. He could see the appeal of having that experience one one's own, now that he was here. But that wasn't why he was here.

And so, he continued for a few moments simply to stroke the spade. He channelled his desire into this harmless little act, though he moaned in frustration, and his hips involuntarily pressed up and down, his dick rigidly pointing upwards, piercing the air, looking for purchase.

Ugh, this wouldn't do at all. At this rate, he'd never accomplish what he'd come here to accomplish.

"Okay, Aziraphale, just relax," he said aloud, to himself.

He placed the greasy spade on his chest, and his hands clasped over his stomach, and he began to meditate.

After several minutes, he was more relaxed, though upon opening his eyes, he realised, his erection was far too adamant to be expected to abate already.

That was all right. What he needed was relaxation and pliancy in other areas of his body.

He took a deep breath, fought down some nervousness and bent his knees. He reached over to the right grabbed his own pillow, and shoved it underneath his lower back. He then took up the spade in his hand, and reached down, playing at his rear entrance with the head of the smooth, slick tool.

He moaned with the deliciousness of the sensation. He slipped it back and forth a few times, then at last, put pressure on it, and the tip slipped past his opening. He grunted. He whispered, "Oh, yes," and pushed a bit further. He could not help but move it back and forth a few times, closing his eyes with the licentious pleasure of it, fucking himself gently, running the head back and forth over his prostate, and moaning hard with each pass. But, best laid plans… before he knew it, he was thrusting the thing in and out, no longer gently, and his hips were, once again, involuntarily thrusting into the air.

He stopped short, took a deep breath, admonished himself for going too far, and then pressed the tool all the way inside of himself, and let go. What was left outside of his body was the base of the plug, too wide to enter him, flush flat against his bum.

He lay there for another few minutes, panting, trying to get hold of his libido.

The fire had become so hot and bright, his thinking had become so addled, that though he had come here to insert the spade, and for that purpose only, he now wondered…

Would it really be the worst thing in the world, if he wrapped his hand around his dick right now, and tugged until he came all over himself, and then cleaned up, dressed, and executed the evening with Crowley as planned?

Probably not.

Hadn't they learned that this human body could perform at least two sexual acts per night, especially if it was given an hour's rest, and plenty of stimulation on the second go? And wouldn't he have plenty of stimulation on the second go?

They had, and he would.

Would Crowley be upset?

On the contrary, he would likely be ravenously aroused by the thought of it.

Wouldn't it calm him down a bit, and make going through with tonight's plan easier? Wouldn't he be able to push forward and be suave and knowing, rather than buzzing with desire and anxiety?

Yes.

But… wouldn't it be exponentially more satisfying if he held off now, and waited to orgasm along with Crowley? Wouldn't it cause his body to absolutely spark when the time came to begin their little evening of debauchery, if he didn't come now?

It would.

And that was enough.

Aziraphale turned to his left, and stood up quickly. He replaced the pillow on his side of the bed. He discarded the bottle of lube in the little rubbish bin beside the night stand, regretting a bit that he hadn't had the foresight to pick up another bottle, but then reckoned they might not need it...

Then picked up the Icicles box, and brought it with him, along with his towel, across the hall to his own bedroom.

From there, he dressed, and decided to gift-wrap the empty box. When that was done, he brought the gift to the kitchen.

Dressing had helped calm him, but the gift-wrapping had caused his cock to throb again… he tried meditation one more time, and now that he was in his clothes – the usual light-coloured suit, with velveteen waistcoat, tartan bowtie and dress shirt, it worked a bit better. In spite of the spade, the swelling subsided.

He set the little gift on top of Crowley's plate. On his own plate, he emptied the warmed gourmet ravioli from Mozzafiato's. He poured wine for both of them.

It was now 7:55.

The front door opened and closed, but he resisted the urge to run to greet his partner. If nothing else, the spade made it difficult to do anything too quickly, as it provided a heavy amount of stimulation, each time he shifted at all.

He heard the click of the wand lighter, then saw a warm glow coming from the foyer.

Crowley appeared in the kitchen just then, with the lighter in his hand. "Hi angel. Sorry I'm early. Hope you're ready for me."

Unfortunately, the effects of Aziraphale's meditation dissipated when the scent and scene and sound of his beautiful companion penetrated the room. Aziraphale's calm had been hanging by a thread anyway.

Hold it! Don't hate me!

The next chapter will be much more (ahem) satisfying, and I'll try to get it posted asap!

I'm still receiving precious few reviews... let me know what you're thinking, folks! It keeps me motivated to continue! Thank you so much for reading!