Archive of Our Own ^beta

It wasn’t a surprising turn of events, all things considered. Aziraphale had already said no to an arrangement once, Crowley shouldn’t be surprised that she would get angry about it being suggested a second time. Probably shouldn’t have been surprised when the wine was thrown in her face. Also shouldn’t have been surprised when the angel stormed off soon after, back to her quarters for the night. 

Getting back on her good side could prove tricky, but Crowley has been here before. And if there’s one thing Crowley knows, she knows how much Aziraphale values good food.

The banquet had been… decidedly less than that. Much more posturing by nobles trying to worm their way into the angel’s good graces or trying to worm their way into Crowley’s skirts. But, with a couple of well placed smiles and compliments, Crowley had walked away with a very delectable bowl of fruit, draped over with a fine silk cloth. Apples, pears, grapes, anything Aziraphale could possibly want.

Crowley decidedly does not think about feeding Aziraphale those grapes one by one. Doesn’t think about teasing them at her lips, about the possibility of those lips around her finger.

Nope. That way lies madness.

Crowley makes her way through the castle halls.  Her boots click against the stone and her skirt swishes around her legs, kicking up the slightest hint of dust into the air.  Finding her destination, she raises a hand to knock at Aziraphale’s door, but it’s flung open before she can connect.

“Oh, hello,” Aziraphale says, fluttering her eyelashes and trying to appear taller than she is, scowl on her face.  She’s in just her nightshirt, and Crowley has to force herself not to take in the way it clings to her soft frame.  “Have you come to make a spectacle of yourself again, dear girl?”

“Actually, I’ve got you something,” Crowley says, keeping the fruit hidden behind her back.

Aziraphale scoffs and crosses her arms.  “There is nothing you have that I could possibly want.”  

She turns away with a huff, but Crowley sees her eyes dart back.

“Right then,” Crowley says, backing away. “My mistake, just thought the banquet seemed a bit lackluster for your discerning tastes.”  

Crowley turns to cross to her room across the hall, picking a shiny apple out of the fruit bowl as she does.  She bites into it as loudly as she can, hears the angel’s breath hitch behind her.

Aziraphale is at her side in an instant, a soft hand placed over Crowley’s.  She brings the apple to her lips and takes an extremely messy bite, lets the juice trail down her chin.  Crowley wants to trail that path with her tongue, across the gentle lines of Aziraphale’s throat and over her pulse point.  Let the tart of the apple juice mingle with the salt of Aziraphale’s sweat on her tongue and Crowley will want for nothing in the name of sustenance ever again.  Aziraphale moans obscenely around the bite of apple, like a creature starved.  Crowley’s mouth waters.

Aziraphale takes the bowl of fruit from her, making her way back to her room.  She looks back at Crowley with a knowing glint in her eye.  “You know, Crowley, you really can be quite nice given the opp—“

Crowley moves swiftly, hands bunching in the angel’s nightshirt, pinning her to the door, slamming it back into the wall.  The bowl of fruit clatters to the ground as Aziraphale braces herself against the rough hewn door.

“ Why do you insist on doing that, angel?” Crowley snarls at her, feeling the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest against hers where they’re pressed together, heartbeat to racing heartbeat.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, dear girl,” Aziraphale says, trying for steely and falling short.  There’s a hitch in her breath and a wildness in her eyes.  Crowley recognizes it all too well.

“Do you always drive your demons to madness just before bedtime?”  Crowley asks in a low growl a mere breath away from Aziraphale’s ear.  Feels her shiver under her hands.

“You know that I don’t sleep, Crowley.”

“Too many other pressing matters?” Crowley presses closer, gently trailing her hands up from Aziraphale’s nightshirt to her shoulders, down her arms and to her wrists.  She pins her to the door with her whole body as Aziraphale laces their fingers together.  “Other nocturnal activities keeping your attention?”

“I assure you I haven’t the, oh—“ Aziraphale gasps as Crowley slots her knee between the angel’s thighs. ”— slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

This is absolute madness, and Crowley knows it.  Knows she should stop, and with just a word from Aziraphale she will. Aziraphale could easily overpower her.  The angel might be all soft curves, but there’s a power underneath.  The power of a Principality, made to guard and made to fight.  But she isn’t pushing Crowley away.

Aziraphale isn’t fighting; Aziraphale isn’t stopping her at all.

“Never gotten up to any yourself?” Crowley dips her head low, running her teeth over the soft skin of Aziraphale’s neck, feeling the rumble of the angel’s moans through her skin.  “Find that hard to believe, just look at you .”

“Never had a reason for… for…” Aziraphale is breathing heavily, words catching in her throat as Crowley noses at the divot of her collarbone, darting her tongue out just barely. Just enough to get the scent.  The apples and book dust and sweat of her. The tingle of holy power that’s there, too.

“Love rituals?” Crowley asks, shifting her knee.  Aziraphale gasps and ruts against her, a blush immediately rising in the angel’s cheeks. “Primitive sexual practices?” Crowley asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Don’t be crass, Crowley.”  It’s meant to be chiding, but it’s said in a whisper, with searching hazel eyes full of something that Crowley won’t quite risk naming.

“Not being crass, angel.”  Crowley brings her hands up to cup Aziraphale’s face, stroking a thumb over the wrinkles and the laugh lines, the proof of this angel, this heavenly creature being on Earth just as long as Crowley has.  The well-worn edges of her corporation, of her humanity.  “Just making an observation.”

“And I suppose you’d call yourself an expert?”  Aziraphale asks as she melts into Crowley’s touch, breath warm against her lips.  Tantalizingly close. Untouchable until this moment.  

“Lots of work in the field, as it were.” 

Crowley’s forked tongue darts out to wet her lips as Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed.  Crowley isn’t sure which of them closed the distance, only that suddenly her lips are on Aziraphale’s.  Aziraphale is insistent, teasing at Crowley’s lips with her tongue.  There’s no recourse to be had but to let her in. To map the crevices of the angel’s mouth with her own.  To chase the forbidden taste of apple on her angel’s lips as she moans under Crowley’s hands.

Crowley doesn’t know what has finally tipped them over the edge, but knows she won’t go back.  Not now. Not after this.  Just one taste, just one moment, and there’s no forgetting it.

Aziraphale’s hands come up slowly to rest on her waist, before making a pilgrimage up Crowley’s spine and eventually into her hair.  She pulls Crowley impossibly closer, sharp angles against soft curves as she ruts against Crowley’s thigh

“I’m sorry, by the by,” Aziraphale breathes into Crowley’s neck when they break, trailing kisses down the long line of it. “I know I can be hard to handle.”

“Trust me angel,” Crowley says leaning her head back, giving Aziraphale more room to work.  Her hands venture downwards. Over Aziraphale’s shoulders, down to her sides, relishing the pillowy softness of her beneath her palms.  “I’ve had worse.”

“Hmmmm…,” Aziraphale keens at the touch.  “But you’ll never have better.”

“I’m almost sure of it,” Crowley says, snapping her fingers to slam the doors shut and finally — finally — grabbing a handful of that perfect peach of an arse.

She’s rewarded with a slap to the face as Aziraphale throws the door back open.

“Well, I never!  You… you… snake !”  Aziraphale shouts, face still flushed and lips red from their kissing.  “I am most definitely not that easy!”

“Wha…huh…gk…,” Crowley sputters as she searches around for a response.  “I’m not that easy either!”  

Not the words she would’ve chosen, had she the presence of mind.  But with the taste of Aziraphale still on her lips, that battle was a surefire loss.  

Aziraphale crosses her arms, shifts from foot to foot, chin held high in the air.  Bastard angel, always needling.  Never asking outright.  Pulling Crowley in, then pushing her away.

“You know what the trouble with you is, angel ?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re entirely too used to getting your own way.  To weedling your way around things to get what you want.”

“And you’re too proud to admit that you like it .”

Crowley stands, staring with a dumbstruck expression.  Aziraphale is red in the face, hands twitching as though she desperately wants to start pacing and dithering.

“Right, fine,” Crowley says, turning back to her room, swaying her hips a tiny bit more than she might usually.  In for a penny and all that.  “If you want me, you know where to find me.”

“Five minutes!” Aziraphale shouts across as Crowley opens her door. “You’ll be back over here in five minutes.”

“Oi, I’ll be asleep in five minutes!”

“Five,” Aziraphale says holding up her hand, counts them off. One for each minute.  “You know it, and I know it.”

Crowley steps into her room and slams the door behind her.  Aziraphale does the same.

- - -

“Five minutes,” Aziraphale says, snapping
and bringing an extremely surprised
hourglass into existence on her bedside table.

Crowley lights the candle clock in
her room with her finger, hisses at
the burn of it.  “Four and a half,” she
sneers as she watches the wax drip.

Aziraphale checks the mirror, adjusts her hair
a bit before rolling her eyes at the vanity of it. 
Crowley surely isn’t coming.

Crowley checks her own mirror, adjusting
the neckline of her dress and the fall of
her skirts, before plopping back on the
bed and groaning.

The bed is soft where Aziraphale falls onto it,
staring at the door, almost willing it to swing open. 
She watches the sand in the hourglass fall.

Every drip of wax is another moment that
Crowley is overthinking things.  There’s no
reason to go.  No reason to draw this out. 
She should just go to sleep and not think about it.

Aziraphale stares at the fruit on the floor,
listens to her stomach grumble, though
she knows it’s not food she wants right
now. She’d pushed Crowley away again. 
But Crowley could’ve pushed back,
why didn’t she?

“ Nice when you have the opportunity ,”
Crowley mocks.  Nice .  Where did
Aziraphale get off, doesn’t she know what
that word does to her?  How many times
has this happened now?  Dreadful word,
unbecoming of a demon.

“ Primitive sexual pleasures , well, I never,”
Aziraphale huffs as she paces the room,
not able to sit still as the sands roll along.  And
Crowley is quite crass.  And quite rude. 
And quite lovely…tempting… maddening… 

Oh good lord.

“Calling me a snake , well that’s just uncalled for.”
Crowley tells herself unconvincingly. Trying to
stop herself from walking for the door.  Trying to
spit the taste of Aziraphale out of her mouth. 
Trying to banish the ghost of her softness under
that sheer nightshirt, melting in Crowley’s arms and
under Crowley’s lips.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

“I can’t believe she’s not coming…,”
Aziraphale says, heading for the door
as the last grains of sand fall.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going…,”
Crowley says, doing the same as the
candle snuffs out.

- - -

Aziraphale stares across the hall at Crowley, standing in her open doorway.  Staring straight back at her with golden eyes.  Eyes holding a question.

She isn’t sure why she closed the door, why she’d sent Crowley away in the first place.  Pride?  Fear?  Mixture of the two?  It’s anyone’s guess at this point.

Crowley is still searching her face, searching for a sign.  Her hand still rests on the door, long fingers twitching.  Anxiety follows Crowley around wherever she goes. She can’t hold still, constantly in flux.  Waiting.  

Aziraphale closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.  She nods, a small imperceptible thing.  Anyone with a human eye might miss it, but this is a thing she cannot possibly say aloud.  Cannot possibly give voice to.  She opens her eyes, searching Crowley’s face.  Finding the answer in a smile.

Crowley crosses the hall in three short strides, hands coming to rest on her face, their lips crashing together.  Aziraphale wraps her arms around Crowley and holds tight, the both of them stumbling backwards into her room.

“Aziraphale, do you—are you sure?” Crowley asks in between kisses.

“Yes, Crowley, please, I need you,” Aziraphale answers as she teases at the demon’s lips with her tongue again. Imprinting the taste of cinnamon and fire on her memory.  The first time was good, the second is a revelation.

They kiss each other like it’s oxygen. Like to break apart would be to drown without it.  Crowley maneuvers her foot behind the door to kick it closed as Aziraphale pulls them backwards toward the bed.  

Crowley’s hands ghost lower, along Aziraphale’s thighs.  She pulls on the nightshirt, pulling it up as her hands roam up Aziraphale’s body. 

“Can I, angel?” A question against lips, spoken with breath more than voice.

“Please, darling, please,” Aziraphale whines into their shared airspace.  

Crowley takes a step back and slowly pulls the nightshirt up and over Aziraphale’s head, baring her to the cold of the room.  She shivers, under the cool draft and under her demon’s gaze.

“Oh, angel, just look at you,” Crowley says, voice low as she runs a gentle touch along Aziraphale’s arms.  It’s soft and reverent, like worship.  Crowley lifts one of Aziraphale’s hands, places a gentle kiss to the soft skin at her wrist, eyes still on Aziraphale’s face.  The sight of it, of this supplication, threatens to undo her with love.

Crowley trails a soft touch up her arms and across her shoulders, to her neck and then tangles her hands in Aziraphale’s hair, holding just tight enough not to hurt, as she brings their lips together again.  Slow and lingering, not hurried or rushed.  Something to be savored, something clearly wanted.  

Aziraphale rests her hands on Crowley’s hips, the wool of her dress rough and warm as she pulls her closer, pressing them flush together.  They stumble backwards, a tangle of limbs and lips, until Aziraphale’s knees hit the bed.  She falls backwards, pulling Crowley with her.  

“Oops,” Aziraphale says and she isn’t sure why.  It feels like an awkward thing to just fall out of her mouth.  She’s suddenly very aware of the feel of the woolen dress against her skin, the stark contrast of her naked curves against Crowley’s lithe and still clothed body.  A creeping thought at the audacity of this, of this expectation of attraction seeps through her skin.  

But then, Crowley laughs.  A great barking thing, her body shaking with the force of it as she covers her mouth.  It’s contagious and Aziraphale is soon giggling beneath her, building like bubbles into a full laugh that shakes her entire body.  Crowley has tears at the corner of her eyes and Aziraphale wants to taste the salt of them, see if she can pick out the notes of mirth and joy on her tongue.

Aziraphale wants to shout from the rooftops. Wants to bask in this happiness and this laughter, and take it to it’s logical conclusion.  To a confession, to a promise, to a commitment.  She settles for kissing Crowley soundly again, for running her hands up Crowley’s sides, feeling the rib bones and the pattern of her breathing.

She wraps her arms around Crowley’s neck, playing with the edges of her hair where it escapes from the braids.  Their laughter dies down, and they’re left like this in the silence.  Smiling and joyful, staring into each other’s eyes.  

Crowley’s eyes go soft as she strokes a thumb over Aziraphale’s collarbone.  

“You’re so beautiful, angel.”  

It’s a whisper on a shaky breath, a secret between them, hidden from the world and their sides and anything outside of this room.  Aziraphale kisses her again, licks into her mouth and commits the taste to memory.  Maps out the points of her teeth and the velvet of her tongue, the smokiness of her is a taste Aziraphale could savor.

Crowley’s hands roam her soft curves like she can’t decide where to touch first.  It’s a sure and steady touch, an imprint on her skin.  Everywhere Crowley touches, Aziraphale burns.  Not in a literal sense, but in a way that catches in her soul, in the core of her.  Her breath hitches as Crowley swipes a thumb over one of her nipples.

“Aziraphale, do you want to do this?”  Crowley asks, serious as anything.  

Aziraphale knows, in the core of her, if she doesn’t want it, Crowley won’t push.  Crowley will stop if she says to, always has.  But she can feel the wet heat of her own arousal between her legs, the ache in the core of her that begs for closeness.  Crowley has been circling and wondering and waiting for so long.  They both have.  And now here, in this room, just them, Aziraphale doesn’t want to wait any longer.

“Crowley, please,” she gasps as the demon trails kisses down her neck, accenting them with a bit of that tongue, just a dash of her teeth, just enough to be maddening.  Aziraphale threads a hand through Crowley’s hair, stilling her, holding her close.  

“Please, I want you to take me,” she breathes into Crowley’s ear before taking the lobe between her teeth and pulling.

Crowley shudders under her hands and under her mouth, bites down into Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel gasps out loud.  Crowley kisses her again. It’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. Pressing her down into the mattress.  The full weight of Crowley on top of her only heightens things.  The wool rough against the sensitive parts of her skin, Crowley’s hair falling around her face.  A sea of crimson she doesn’t want to surface from.

“Angel, oh , angel,” Crowley breathes against her skin, kissing everywhere that she can reach.  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you like this?” 

Aziraphale’s hips cant up helplessly, searching for some friction.  Crowley smirks against her mouth.  “Aren’t we eager?”

“I quite think I’ve waited long enough, my darling.”

“Five minutes?” Crowley asks with a crooked smile Aziraphale can feel against her skin.  

Aziraphale hooks a finger under her chin, pulls her face up to look her in the eyes.

“I hope for your sake, you can last longer than that,” Aziraphale says lowly before leaning in to trail bites and kisses down Crowley’s neck, reveling in the moan she’s gifted for her troubles.

 “Because,” she says against Crowley’s skin, “I fully intend to run you through your paces, since you’re such an expert.”

Crowley keens at this, sinks her hands into Aziraphale’s hair and pulls her back into another searing kiss.  

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley says against her mouth, trading breath like they need each other to breathe.  She murmurs endearments into the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat, kissing and licking her way down.  She kisses blasphemies into the swell of Aziraphale’s breasts. Swipes her forked tongue over Aziraphale’s nipples - one and then the other, making Aziraphale arch her back off of the bed.  

“Christ, Aziraphale,” Crowley says as she gently parts her folds, tentative fingers seeking out the core of her.  “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

“Do you— oh —“ her question is interrupted by the soft swipe of a thumb along her labia, through the slick already gathered there. That’s been gathering there since Crowley slammed her into that door.  

“Angel,” Crowley growls against her mouth as she kisses her again, “show me.”

“Show you?”  Aziraphale asks, barely able to think under Crowley’s steady hand as she bucks and writhes, trying to maneuver Crowley where she wants her

“Surely you must’ve touched yourself—“ Crowley kisses her cheek, her neck, her nose. “— must know what you like .  Hedonist that you are.”

“Perhaps a time or — oh, Crowley, ” she begins to answer, but the slow circles Crowley is tracing with her thumb over Aziraphale’s clit are making things distinctly impossible to articulate.

All at once the sensation is gone and Aziraphale whimpers at the loss.  Crowley sits back up, adjusts her skirts and straddles one of Aziraphale’s legs.  Crowley hisses as she grinds her hips down onto Aziraphale’s thigh.  Aziraphale moans out loud at the contact. Crowley is already wet as well, and the proof is there, slick against her thigh.

“Show me how you touch yourself, Angel,” Crowley says around shaky breaths, hand stroking over Aziraphale’s stomach, tracing her stretch marks.  “Show me so I can make this good for you.”

Aziraphale swallows thickly and slowly trails her hand down across her stomach and to her mound, eyes on Crowley the whole time.  Aziraphale spreads her folds with her index and ring finger, circles her own clit with the middle one.  Crowley is staring, wide-eyed and unblinking.  Taking in every movement and every moment.  Crowley’s tongue darts out to wet her lips as she watches Aziraphale carefully trace around her labia, watches her stroke her clit with two fingers, one on either side.  Watches her slowly plunge her middle finger inside, pulse it in and out while she ruts against her own palm. 

It’s strange, someone seeing this.  She hasn’t done it often, though she’s thought about it often.  Thought about someone else doing it.  It’s never felt like this on her own. There’s something about Crowley here.  About being able to feel Crowley twitch against her thigh. Feeling the wetness spread across her skin.  Feeling the exact moment when Crowley’s hips buck.  Just slightly, not a large movement.  

There’s a wildness in Crowley’s features. An unvoiced need.  Her eyes grow wider and wider at the sight of Aziraphale writhing and moaning under her own hand.

“ Fuck , angel,” Crowley gasps, shaky and breathless.  “I can’t, I need—“

“—Do it, what ever you need,” Aziraphale gasps, eyes closing and back arching as she chases down pleasure, “Crowley, please, I want you.”

Crowley lets out a string of unintelligible syllables as she starts to rut in earnest against Aziraphale’s thigh.  

“Damn you and these thighs, angel,” Crowley gasps out as she grinds down.  As Aziraphale moves her fingers faster.  The sight of Crowley taking pleasure in her body makes something warm and bright light up in the deepest part of her.  “Satan, I could get off just like this.”

Aziraphale’s whines and brings in a second finger, rocking against her hand.  She bends her leg, changing the angle, bringing Crowley face to face with her again as she falls on top of her, still rutting against her thigh.  It’s obscene, the spread of wetness, the slick slide of her.  Aziraphale can smell it in the air, on both of them.

Crowley reaches down and places her hand over Aziraphale’s where she touches herself, the warmth of the gesture washing over her.  They try to kiss but they’re both breathing too hard, more like moaning against each other’s lips.  

Crowley had been paying attention, as she reaches down and repeats the two finger motion on Aziraphale’s clit.  Aziraphale moans loudly, feeling so very close to the precipice and ready to tumble over.  The sensations are too much, the slick on her thigh, the fingers in her cunt, Crowley’s hand on her in the most intimate of places — massaging her clit and bringing her over the brink.

She arches again, throwing her head back and Crowley lathes her tongue over Aziraphale’s neck, taking advantage of the position to taste her skin.  Slowly and gently, Crowley works in one of her own fingers alongside Aziraphale’s, keeping time with the rhythm and circling Aziraphale’s clit with her thumb.

The pooling heat in Azirpahale’s stomach burns hotter and hotter as they rock against each other. The stretch is incredible and just this side of too much, but never enough.  She knows now, as she’s known for centuries, she’ll never have enough of Crowley.  She’ll take Crowley in, hide her inside of her heart, deep in the core of her, away from anyone who would wish either of them harm.

Aziraphale cries out, a cracked and broken sound  in the best way. Crowley soon follows, her legs shaking where they bracket Aziraphale’s thighs.  Aziraphale’s skin is hot underneath Crowley’s skirt. A sheen of sweat covers them both as they collapse against each other.

Crowley nuzzles into her chest, trailing kisses across her breasts as Aziraphale works the braids out of her hair.  Crowley mumbles something about the heat and snaps her fingers, her clothes fizzle into the ether and they lie, skin to skin.  

Aziraphale pauses, taken at the sight.  Crowley has always been a bundle of bones.  A thatch of right angles pointing in all different directions.  She’s delicate, the lines of her bones feigning a fragility.  Aziraphale knows that Crowley is anything but fragile, but her hands roam skin gently either way.

She presses soft kisses to Crowley’s temple, to her cheeks.  Runs her hands along the sharp edges of her, softer than they might first appear.  Every stroke of her hands, Crowley melts into her deeper, here in the afterglow of something bright and beautiful.

Aziraphale reaches down between them, to where Crowley’s legs are wrapped around her thigh with no intention of letting go.  She slips her fingers easily between Crowley and herself. Feels Crowley roll her hips down against her as she runs her finger along her folds.  Crowley whines when she stops, looking up to meet her gaze.  She goes wide eyed when Aziraphale licks the slick off her fingers, moaning around them like it’s a particularly delectable desert.

“Just as I had thought,” Aziraphale says, staring Crowley straight in the eye. “You taste divine, my love.”

“Your love?”  Crowley asks, trepidation and hopefulness alight in her yellow eyes.

“Well, that is,” Aziraphale says, backtracking and fearing a misstep. “If you’d like to be?”

Crowley leans in and kisses her.  A soft press of lips, none of the heat of before, but all of the promise.  

“Waited a few thousand years for you to say that.”

“Better late than never?” Aziraphale asks.  

Crowley nods, coiling around her like the snake that she is.  Aziraphale strokes a hand through her hair, relishing the feeling of being this close.

“I do say though, dearest,” Aziraphale says, placing a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head, “I did want to run you through your paces.  I’d very much like to taste you at the source instead of on my fingers.”

Crowley lifts her head up and lets out a string of noises that could sound like words if she just tried a bit harder.  Aziraphale’s heart lurches at how endearing it is as she smiles at her.

“ Don’t you smile at me like that, bastard angel,” Crowley says in fond offense, before collapsing back onto her chest. “I’ll have you know I can go several more rounds.  All the way til morning, if you wanted.”

“Oh my, what a prospect.”

“Don’t get sarcastic, angel. I can and I will.”

“ Of course, darling.”

“You can do whatever you want with me,” Crowley says, suddenly a bit earnest.  There are things they should talk about, things they should say.  But here, in each other’s arms, there’s no rush.  There will be time for conversation later, tonight is for them.  “And I mean anything, Aziraphale, just one thing…”

“Whatever you need, Crowley.”

“Give me five minutes.”