Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aziraphale learned early on that he was not the biggest fan of making an Effort of any kind. It wasn’t something he gave much thought to initially, simply because there was no reason to; he had no intention of making use of it, so what was the point? Around the time that he discovered the joys of food, though, he found himself quite curious about all aspects of human life. If such things as fresh fruits, roasted nuts, thin bread baked over an open fire, were available to him, what else might the human experience have to offer?

As he chose to identify as male, he decided to try out that kind of Effort first. He found it to be rather lacking, actually; so much fuss for such little reward, and it was dreadfully uncomfortable, dangling and flopping about, always needing adjustment. Quite frankly, he had no idea how human males dealt with it. So he tried the other, and was frustrated by how difficult it seemed to be to find his pleasure; with a penis, it was just a few quick tugs and away you went, but a vagina was such work. Plus, they were messy, damp, and he found that just as uncomfortable as trying to deal with a penis.

Best to just leave himself Effortless, as it were. Food was much better than the pleasures of the flesh, as far as he was concerned. After banishing his vagina, he didn’t think of Efforts again.

That is, until one night in Rome, several hundred years before they went for oysters but, coincidentally, in the very same establishment that they would meet at in the future (it would be much changed by that point, owned by someone else, but it has a faint scent of fate to it, don’t you think?), the two of them tucked in a corner drinking wine as people bustled about and laughed and generally made merry.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Crowley says, one of his arms draped over the back of his chair, the other holding his cup of wine. “S’going to be the same no matter who’s in charge, a king or a senate or a.....a.....”

“Consul,” Aziraphale supplies, sitting up straight in his chair, certainly not envying how comfortable Crowley looks in his loose sprawl. “They’re calling them consul and co-consul, the last I heard. They seem like pleasant enough men, good heads on their shoulders. So long as they keep the best interest of the people at heart, they should be successful rulers.”

“So you blessed them, and that’s that,” Crowley says, draining his cup and holding it out. Aziraphale uses one hand to keep the sleeve of his toga from dragging over the table, and the other to pour the wine. “On your way after tonight, then?”

“Yes, I’ve got a new assignment in Alexandria, so I’ll be going that way next,” Aziraphale says, topping off his cup before setting the jug down. “And what of you? What mischief have you in store for the city?”

After several inelegant gulps of wine (which, really, must he drink so quickly? There’s no way he’s able to savor the taste like that), Crowley rolls his eyes and makes a vaguely dismissive noise. “Fertility ritual, pagan gods, y’know. Basic stuff.”

“Fertility ritual?” Aziraphale asks, his eyebrows raising. “Is...hm. Is that something you’re qualified for, dear boy?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Crowley asks, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, you know.” Gesturing vaguely, Aziraphale picks up his own cup, taking a dainty sip. “You’re a demon. I don’t imagine you can become with child.”

“You do remember one of the reasons the Earth was flooded, right?” There’s something almost incredulous in his expression.

Aziraphale has the good nature to blush. “The angels were impregnating the human women, I don’t know if it works the other way.”

“Don’t see why it wouldn’t,” Crowley mutters, taking another swig of his wine as if he needs to wash the taste of that out of his mouth. “But that’s not the point, angel, I’m not the one getting pregnant, my role is more....symbolic. You know, a vision of womanhood, naked in the moonlight, blessing all the attendants with my presence.”

“You aren’t blessing anyone, it’s hardly fair to use that terminology.”

Crowley holds his hands up as if in supplication. “Not my words.”

“Fine. Whatever it is you’re doing, then. I assume that means...” Aziraphale trails off, clears his throat. Moves the pitcher so it’s perfectly in the center of the table.

Crowley leans further back in his chair, somehow, and looks supremely unimpressed. “Yes, I’ve got a cunt, angel. Always do.”

“Crowley!” he fusses, aghast, glancing around to make sure they haven’t been overheard. (They haven’t. People are very good at ignoring things that seem out of the ordinary, and the uptight looking blond and snake-eyed redhead are out of the ordinary enough that they’re ignored completely.)

“You’re the one who asked!”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale says, and his tone isn’t huffy, certainly not, but it’s close. “Always, though? How can you stand it?”

Crowley shrugs, a lazy, easy motion of his shoulders. “S’not that much trouble. ‘Tis the season for fertility rituals and the like, I got in the habit of keeping it around. No sense in wasting a miracle on having it come and go when it doesn’t really bother me to keep it around.”

“Oh. I see.” He doesn’t quite lean back in his chair, but Aziraphale does seem to settle in a bit, his brow furrowed, his expression thoughtful. While he’s been alive long enough to know that so many of the stereotypes about the differences between men and women, penises and vaginas, are little more than human conjecture, it feels like occasionally they stumble into something close to the truth. Crowley can be rather tetchy sometimes, moody and unpredictable, and there’s certain schools of medicine that provide a decent explanation as to why, considering the biology he’s chosen to adapt. “That explains some things, then.”

“Don’t,” Crowley says, giving him a dirty look over the rim of his cup. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

So Aziraphale doesn’t. That time, at least.

(Several hundred years in the future, while Aziraphale savors oysters and Crowley stares moodily at the wall and pointedly doesn’t eat anything at all, a suggestion will be put forth.

“Have you considered a bout of scent therapy, my dear? You seem to have a touch of the hysterics.”

Crowley pushes his sunglasses down on his nose, and the look on his face could curdle milk. “If you try and put roses under my toga, angel, I’ll discorporate you on the spot.”

“Just trying to help,” Aziraphale sniffs, and doesn’t bring it up again for several hundred years more. Perhaps Crowley just doesn’t like flowers.)

Chapter Text

There’s much to be done in France in the seventeenth century, and Crowley and Aziraphale have been busy with miracles and temptations aplenty. While Crowley has mostly been in Paris, up to his elbows in the monarchy, Aziraphale has been following the coastline, stopping in to bless and check up on the various small villages and townships that are far-thrown from the capital. What he desperately wants to be doing is visiting the newly established Academie in Rome, opened just a handful of years prior, as he’s always been so fond of the main school, but there’s only so much shirking of one’s duties that can be tolerated by upper management.

(Aziraphale doesn’t like to think of it as “shirking one’s duties”, however. It’s merely a rearrangement of priorities, taking advantage of what’s available to him at the time instead of the vague directions of the head office.)

Eventually, he finds himself in Paris, where he knows Crowley is residing at the time, and arranges via letter to stop by for tea while he’s in the area.

Since he’s rubbing elbows with the monarchy, Crowley is staying at a lovely little villa just outside the city, with sprawling, lush gardens, and a salon with floor to ceiling windows that allow the mid-morning sunlight to pour in, reflecting off the truly gaudy amounts of gold ornamentation and baubles that decorate the area. Crowley is shimmering in a similar fashion, dressed as the noblewoman he is, his long, curled hair elegantly pinned up, clad in the more casual robe à l’anglais as he’s currently lounging in his own home. Usually, Crowley isn't too fond of lighter colors, but the cream and gold and forest green of his current attire is very fetching, Aziraphale must admit. Nobility has always set well on him.

The impression sours a bit, though, because Crowley is in a mood. Sprawled on the chaise lounge in a very unladylike fashion, he fidgets with his tea more than he drinks it, swirling and clinking the ornamental golden spoon about in the delicate china cup, scraping it against the bottom in a way that makes Aziraphale’s toes curl in displeasure. His lips are turned down in a frown, and he seems uninterested in every conversation topic Aziraphale brings up.

“My dear, you simply must stop,” Aziraphale eventually says, positively fed up, his own tea gone quite cold in his distraction. “You’re going to ruin that lovely cup, for one thing.”

Crowley gives him a withering look, yellow eyes unobscured by frames of any sort due to the private setting. Given that all this is just a facade, he doesn’t keep a staff for the house, and no one thinks to question it, just like no one seems to question the wedding ring he wears despite the fact no one has seen hide nor hair of the implied husband. (It’s simply easier to avoid unwanted advances when mingling in these upper crust societies, Crowley had explained once, if he pretends to be wed. Aziraphale doesn’t know what tales he spins of his husband, but he’s more curious than he ought to be.)

“The cup’ll be fine,” he says, but he puts it down on the end table anyways, the china clinking softly as he does so. “I’m just so bloody sick of Paris. Work’s going well, Versailles is going to be the most gaudy, opulent piece of architecture anyone in France has ever seen, but if I have to go to one more dinner with Monsieur Hardouin or help Maria look at drapes one more time, I’m going to drown myself in the Seine.”

“There’s no need to get hysterical about it,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley a withering look to rival the one he just received. “We’ve not seen each other in nearly sixty years, so I was quite looking forward to a spot of tea and catching up, but I’ve not seen you in such a foul mood since the 1400s.”

“The 1400s were, objectively, the absolute worst fucking era of human history,” Crowley hisses.

“I’m certain no one was seeing to your hysteria in the 1400s either,” Aziraphale mutters into his cup.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve always been prone to moods like these, dear boy,” he sighs, setting his own cup down, making sure it’s exactly in the center of the end table, at a right angle from the oil lamp, and smooths his hands over his trousers. “It’s a shame, because they’re so easily remedied, I’ve been assured. I know you’re a demon, but I can’t imagine you enjoy being so irritated and worked up. There’s much beauty and joy to be found in Paris at present, and you’re in the privileged position to be enjoying the best she has to offer.”

Crowley has leaned back against the lounge as he talks, his eyebrows up, and there’s something difficult to discern in his gold eyes. There’s trepidation, irritation, and...curiosity? Interest? It’s hard to discern. “What, exactly, are you suggesting?” he asks.

“Manual stimulation to achieve a hysterical paroxysm,” Aziraphale says, not looking bothered or flustered in the slightest. It’s a medical procedure, a relatively common one at that; what is there to be affected by?

Crowley laughs, a loud, bellowing sound, his head tipping back with the force of it. “You want to finger me?”

“Don’t be crass.” The words are enough to bring a flush to his cheeks, though, and it sounds more lurid when stated like that. “I’ve heard it helps. I would like to enjoy our day together, and if I can offer my assistance, I’d be more than happy to.”

“You’d like to lend a hand, as it were,” Crowley says, grinning, doing something wholly inappropriate and suggestive with his eyebrows.

“I can leave, if you’d rather.” Oh, he’s quite used to Crowley’s teasing, but in this context, it has him feeling tense, embarrassed. There’s nothing untoward about offering to help a....friend? No, that’s too familiar. An acquaintance with which he has a mutual understanding and agreement with. It’s not lurid, or sexual; in fact, he thinks it’s rather angelic of him, offering to help a demon in this fashion. He’s showing love to his hereditary enemy, compassion!

Crowley looks skeptical, which is probably a fair reaction to have as well as whatever he glimpsed in his expression; it’s been centuries since the last time Crowley’s hysteria was brought up. Since Rome, Aziraphale has made but a single remark around the much hated 1400s, when Crowley was truly a sight to behold in how foul his mood was, but the fact of the matter is that their time together has been short, and infrequent. There’s been very few opportunities to spend more than a couple hours together, passing like ships in the night, so if Crowley’s been of particularly foul mood, Aziraphale hasn’t been present long enough to really bear the brunt of it.

Today is different, though. Aziraphale has a personal day, as it were, and Crowley has naught to do but lounge around and brood. They have plans to go to the opera together tonight, and dine at one of Paris’s many fine establishments, and Aziraphale wants to be able to enjoy that without tiptoeing around Crowley’s snappish temper. If there’s anything he can do to help ease that, he will do so without hesitation.

“Alright,” Crowley says eventually. “But I want it on the record that I don’t really expect you to be able to induce a...what was the word you used?”

“Hysterical paroxysm.”

Crowley coughs to hide a laugh. “Yeah, one of those.”

Aziraphale stands, unbuttoning and removing his coat, and after a moment of consideration, the ornately embroidered waistcoat as well. He’s rather fond of it, and would hate to see it rumpled or otherwise marred before their outing tonight. That leaves him in just the thin silk undershirt and his lace jabot, and he rolls his sleeves up to the elbow before approaching Crowley, who’s still lounging on the chaise, watching him intently, following the motions of his fingers as he turns up the sheer fabric, letting it settle at the pale inside of his forearm.

“Here, sit up straight for a moment,” Aziraphale instructs, and Crowley obliges without protest. Now that he’s agreed, it seems like he’s along for the ride, and has no intention of arguing further, which suits Aziraphale just fine. Sitting against the arm of the chaise, he turns, drawing Crowley close enough to settle against his chest. He notes, against his will, that Crowley fits against him quite perfectly, angular and boney where Aziraphale is round and soft. He’s warm, and smells like roses and powder and faintly, ever so faintly, of ash and a freshly extinguished fire.

With his hair drawn up as it is, Aziraphale can see a flush coloring the otherwise pale nape of Crowley’s neck, drawing his eyes to the elegant curve of it, the enticing bumps of his spine before they disappear under the fabric of his dress. Crowley, with his back turned to him as it is, can’t see the way he’s being stared at, and starts to draw up his skirts.

“No, best to preserve your modesty as much as we can, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmurs. “I don’t need to see what I’m doing, I don’t think.”

“Alright,” Crowley says, his hands falling away, and for a long moment, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. Eventually, he folds them over his stomach, and Aziraphale notices he’s breathing a bit quicker, his pulse accelerated.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he says, which makes Crowley snort. It could be disgust, or disbelief, but Aziraphale isn’t entirely sure. “I’ll be gentle, and I can stop if you feel uncomfortable or grow tired of my fumbling.” It’s not as if he’s done this before; he’s merely read texts on the matter, discussed it with a few physicians during his brief forays into the medical field.

“Trust me, you’ll know the moment I get sick of it,” Crowley says, which is a relief. If there’s one thing Aziraphale trusts him to do, it’s speak his mind no matter what, and he’d dearly hoped that he’d do the same in this situation.

“Thank you. I’m going to touch you, now, if that’s alright?” A nod is the only answer he gets, and Aziraphale does have to draw Crowley’s skirts up a bit to get his hand underneath, but it’s not such a chore. Thankfully, he’s not wearing panniers, or anything beyond the necessary petticoats, to make this more arduous a task. And as he slips his hand up one skinny thigh, he realizes Crowley isn’t wearing bloomers.

“I certainly hope you’re planning on putting on proper underthings before we leave the house,” he mutters, brushing over a sharp hipbone, trying and failing not to notice how smooth Crowley’s skin is, how nice he feels under his hand.

“Why would I need to? It’s not like anyone can tell, with all these layers.” There’s definitely something smug there, amused, and Aziraphale is suddenly struck with the realization that Crowley probably never wears proper underthings. Why that makes him feel entirely too warm is something he doesn’t dare examine too closely.

“You’re horrid,” is all he’ll say to that, because his fingers have found hair, coarse curls that he wonders about the color of. Would they be fiery red, like the hair on Crowley’s head, or a more muted auburn? Perhaps a different color entirely.

It doesn’t matter, Aziraphale reminds himself, as he finds Crowley already damp when he strokes his fingers over his mound, parting the curls to get at the heat he can feel radiating from him. The first touch to his clitoris, down over his labia, brushing over his entrance, makes Crowley startle in his arms, his breath catching.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asks, not moving again, just pressing there, his hand cupping him between the legs, just a soft, warm pressure.

“Y-yeah, was just surprised,” Crowley assures, his voice a little tight, and Aziraphale watches as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips, those luminous yellow eyes closing.

Not wanting to surprise him again, Aziraphale rubs with his palm, his fingers still sliding over his slit, the heel of his hand brushing against his clitoris again and again, in steady motions. It’s more to get him used to his touch, to help him relax, than anything, and it seems to be working. Crowley seems to be focusing on keeping his breathing even, but his legs shift restlessly, spreading wider, his hips twitching like he’s trying very hard not to move.

It’s alluring, how he’s trying so very hard to hide his reactions, to keep a stiff upper lip as it were. Aziraphale leans forward, his breath ghosting against Crowley’s neck, watching the way his hand moves under the layers of his skirts. There’s almost nothing to be seen, just the slight rocking of his hand, the twitches of Crowley’s thighs, but it makes the room feel hotter all the same.

As he draws his hand back this time, Aziraphale presses down more firmly, his index finger slipping through the growing wetness to properly penetrate Crowley. A long, shaky exhale escapes him as he does so, his hips pressing against him, and Aziraphale finds himself focusing all too much on how he feels, tight and slick and warm. It hadn’t felt like this when he touched himself, all those years ago, which seems like nonsense; this is the same equipment, just on a different person. That shouldn’t make a difference.

There is a difference, though. There’s a huge difference between laying in his bed, touching his own cunt with a clinical curiosity, and having Crowley in his arms, warm and breathing heavily, grinding against his finger, cunt squeezing at the intrusion like he wants more, like it feels good. And that’s the point, isn’t it? Helping him, reducing his agitation.

So Aziraphale rocks his finger, curling it, and when he draws back, he presses in with a second one. A ghost of a sound carries on Crowley’s exhale, like a whine, and he isn’t trying to keep still any longer. One of his hands is grasping the back of the chaise, white-knuckled in its intensity, and the other is grasping the folds of his dress, just below the bodice, as his hips squirm and grind against his hand. His legs are still moving, still trying to spread wider, and eventually, he hooks one over Aziraphale’s thigh, the other drawing up to plant his foot on the chaise, leaving him as open as he can be in this situation.

“You’re doing so well, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his lips brushing Crowley’s neck as he speaks, his thumb finding his clitoris and rubbing small, gentle circles against it, utterly taken with how swollen it feels under his touch, how each time he moves the hood to touch him directly it makes Crowley’s hips buck, his chest heave.

Aziraphale is a man who’s seen most of, if not all, the fine art the world has to offer, from paintings to plays to pottery, and that includes not just art appreciated by the mainstream, but erotic art as well. And oh, if Crowley isn’t a work of art right now, tense and trembling against his chest, his skirts a sea of gold and ivory and green, rumpled and drawn up to bare enticing glimpses of his legs but preserving the most important bit of his modesty. There’s no denying he’s being pleasured, though, with the gentleman’s arm disappearing under his skirts, a flush coloring his cheeks and bleeding down his neck, pooling at the top of his chest. It makes Aziraphale wonder if it continues down under the handkerchief at the neckline of his dress, beneath the bodice, if his small, round breasts are pink as well, if his nipples are tight and begging for a mouth to find them.

In the quiet of the room, Aziraphale can hear the slick sounds of his fingers, pressing in and out, in and out, his thumb still working over his clitoris. “Angel,” Crowley says, his tone ragged, the sound almost a moan, almost. “You can. That is.”

“What is it you want?” Aziraphale asks, and his lips are so close to the curve of Crowley’s neck, where it slopes gently to his shoulder, it could be a kiss.

“More,” he breathes, his cunt clenching around Aziraphale’s fingers. “Another finger. Harder. Please.”

This is an act of service, is it not? It would be cruel not to give him what he wants, what he needs, as that’s the point of this exercise. Being the kind angel that he is, Aziraphale obliges. Three fingers, thick and stretching Crowley open around them, curled just so, and the volume of those lewd, slick sounds increases as he stops rocking and starts thrusting. It’s hard to move his thumb like this, but the motion of his hand has it rubbing over Crowley’s clitoris, no matter how inelegantly, and at any rate, it doesn’t seem like he minds.

Crowley’s head has lolled back against his shoulder, his breathing dissolved into pants and gasps that occasionally carry sound, the most delicious whimpers and whines as he trembles and shakes against him. He’s squirming, riding his fingers with such ardor that it makes Aziraphale’s wrist ache, but he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“Just like that, take what you need.” Crowley shudders, clenches, moans high and long. “Perfect, you’re doing perfect, darling.”

“Oh. Oh, angel.” The squirming stops, and Crowley presses down against his hand, keeping his fingers deep inside his cunt as he jerks in his arms, spasming, clenching, and cries out, the sound almost pained but tinged with relief.

Slowly, so slowly, Crowley goes limp, trying to catch his breath as little shudders shake through him. For all that it seems his work is complete, Aziraphale is loathe to remove his fingers from him, so he stays as he is, buried deep inside him, cupping him with his palm like he had when they first began, just to give him a sensation of touch, of warmth.

“Fuck,” Crowely says, which is rather crass, but he still seems a bit out of sorts (and at least it isn't blasphemy), his cunt still clenching around his fingers, so Aziraphale kindly forgives him.

“I believe you said that you doubted my ability to induce a hysterical paroxysm,” Aziraphale replies, and can’t help but sound a bit smug about this fact.

“Oh, piss off.” That’s enough to get Crowley moving, shaking Aziraphale off him, and while he knows it’s ridiculous, Aziraphale can’t help but feel a little morose when his fingers slip free, when instead of warm, wet flesh there’s only the cool air of the room.

Examining his hand, Aziraphale is unsurprised to see just how slick his skin is, all the way down his wrist, but he isn’t expecting to see his fingers wrinkled, like he’s been in the bath for too long. “Goodness. You certainly do get quite wet, don’t you, dear boy.”

Crowley goes scarlet as he gets to his feet, straightening his dress. “It’s not like I can help it.”

The smug, pleased feeling only increases, and immediately gets tabled with all the other odd reactions he’s had. “My apologies.” He fetches his handkerchief from his coat and wipes his hand clean. “How are you feeling?”

Smoothing the bodice of his dress, Crowley pauses, as if taking stock of himself, and then smiles. “A lot better, I’ve gotta say.”

Aziraphale practically glows with happiness.

(Their night out is the best, most pleasant evening they’ve spent together. Aziraphale makes a mental note that manual stimulation is a quite effective mood booster for Crowley, and he’s not opposed to utilizing it in the future, should the need arise.

He hopes the need arises. But that’s neither here nor there.)