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Crowley is a roguish thing, as expected of a serpent out to sow dissent and general irritation among the public.
Crowley is a roguish thing but he makes it a point to be dashingly so, donning the sharpest fashions suited to the royal court, and thereby catching the eye of almost every woman and man*, as he mingles confidently among the British elite to whisper his temptations.
(* The men eye him more covertly than the fairer sex as it would not do for a lord to be so openly taken with another, no matter now comely the tall red-haired gentleman is.)
It’s not an uncommon situation, particularly when he is on assignments that require being seen, and tonight is no different. Crowley strolls into the ball thrown by Queen Anne in The Orangery, dressed to the nines in a fitted burgundy jacket, embroidered waistcoat and tight black breeches. He is swinging a stylish cane for added measure*, ready to command the attention of all the politicians presently annoying the queen in parliament.
(* The cane is a pretentious accessory humans adopted purely to make a fashion statement. Since Crowley is all for pretentiousness, fashion and making statements, he is more than happy to endorse it.)
However, the attention he grabs right off the bat tonight belongs not to a woman or man, but a woman-shaped being, whose blue eyes pin him in place within the first fifteen seconds of Crowley entering the ballroom.
Crowley freezes, jaw slackening. ‘Aziraphale?’
The same surprise is reflected on Aziraphale’s face, apparent even from across the expansive room - and it is Aziraphale, without a doubt. Not the one Crowley is more accustomed to, but that is immaterial. Crowley could have pinpointed the Angel from her celestial aura alone, never mind that he has seen her, though rarely, in her current form before.
And Aziraphale is presenting not just as a her but a high-born her. As Crowley advances on the Angel, immediately drawn to her past the dancing couples and forgetting his infernal reason for being here, he appreciatively observes how she is dressed in pastel silks of sky blue embroidered in muted gold that positively scream luxury. Her white blonde tresses are piled on top of her head, just this side of modest and, Crowley notes with real pleasure, definitely not a wig.*
(* Crowley himself is wearing his curls long, almost down to the middle of his back, in the high-parted fashion of the day. But it is very much his own hair.
He had a hand in the invention of wigs - they itch like crazy, promoting a constant bad mood among humans - but he draws the line at wearing one himself.)
She is also, Crowley notices with a bit more surprise, dressed a stitch more provocatively than he is used to seeing Aziraphale in any form. The bordered neckline of her gown just barely clings to her shoulders and plunges in a wide arc that leaves the tops of her breasts exposed. With her neck bare and her bosom even more accentuated by her stays, there is nothing to defer attention away from her décolletage.
Utterly enchanted by the vision she makes, it takes Crowley a few seconds to tear his gaze up from Aziraphale’s body*. The Angel is staring at him, eyes widening as Crowley draws closer; she makes no move to approach or step away.
(* True to Aziraphale’s usual corporation, her female form looks soft and voluptuous - even under her stays, which is doing a valiant job of cinching in her waist and highlighting the flair of her skirts.)
It is only then that Crowley notices Aziraphale is standing beside a small group of women; the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. He recognises them not because he is a regular face in court - tonight is, in fact, his first time inside the Kensington Gardens - but by the presence of Sarah Churchill. Seeing her brings him up short, several feet away from Aziraphale.
He has run into the Duchess of Marlborough and her husband enough times during his ongoing assignment to know the particulars of her difficult relationship with Queen Anne. Crowley weighs the risk of being recognised by Lady Churchill if he approached Aziraphale now, against the possibility of Aziraphale deigning to meet him in a more private corner to chat.
His decision is made in the next minute when Aziraphale’s attention is drawn away from him by another gentleman. The approach of the broad-shouldered dark-haired lord makes the ladies titter and blush. He greets them all genially before focussing on Aziraphale with a winning smile.
‘Lady Fell, forgive me for being untoward, but you do look most exquisite tonight.’
Aziraphale’s face splits into a lovely smile while her peers giggle behind their hands. Crowley stops breathing.
’Thank you, my lord, you are too kind. I must admit, I was not expecting to see you here. Your sister mentioned you were away on business a fortnight hence.’
‘Aye. I was fortunate to return to London in time to accept the queen’s invitation. A fine sight I should have missed, indeed, were I but a day late.’
The man says it in a tone implying the ball in general, but his admiring gaze not once leaves Aziraphale. Or her décolletage.
There are more appreciative sounds from the ladies. The Duchess of Marlborough in particular appears invested in the scene unfolding in front of them.
The Angel’s smile takes a turn towards more polite and less relaxed. ‘Well, the queen is a patroness of the arts -’
‘Would you not honour me with a few sets, my lady?’ The lord interrupts, gesturing at the dancers.
‘Oh! I - I’m afraid -’ Aziraphale begins, her smile almost mechanical now. She takes a step back.
‘Oh, do indulge him, Lady Fell.’ Sarah Churchill is abruptly at Aziraphale’s shoulder, smiling widely. ‘You do deprive yourself of even the most innocent diversions. You would be the envy of the room on Lord Henry’s arm.’
The man - Lord Henry - grins at the support. He holds his arm out to the Angel. ‘Shall we, my lady?’
‘I -’
‘Forgive me, my lady, for keeping you waiting.’
Everybody whirls around in surprise at the newcomer’s voice, though none looks more shocked than Aziraphale herself when Crowley purposefully strides up to her. Supremely ignoring everyone else, including Lady Churchill who starts upon recognising Crowley, he smiles down at Aziraphale’s upturned face.
‘My footman, would you believe, realised our mare had gone lame only after I entered my carriage. Had to wait dreadfully long for him to change horses, but here we are. I did not leave you alone for too long, did I.’
‘I - Cro …’ Aziraphale trails off, gaping at him.
‘Lord Crowley, it is a surprise to see you here,’ Lady Churchill says, greeting him with a little curtesy. The other noble ladies watch on with interest.
Crowley coolly returns the greeting with a short bow. He grits his teeth when the man, Henry, greets him as well but allows a stiff nod in acknowledgement.
Lord Henry is looking between Crowley and Aziraphale in bewilderment and just a touch of anger. Crowley fights down the instinct to pull Aziraphale into his arms.
‘Lord Henry, this is -’ Sarah Churchill begins, but he interrupts her introduction.
‘Crowley. Yes. I know of you,’ he says grudgingly. ‘Not many among the Whigs who don’t.’
‘Ah.’ Crowley swallows a smirk. Although he’d wanted to avoid the duchess, right now he is more than glad to know his reputation precedes him. Lord Henry might be furious at being thwarted*, but from the reluctant deference in his tone, Crowley knows he won’t attempt any advances on Aziraphale. Not anymore.
(* Ha! Crowley thinks, smugly.)
The final nail is driven in when Lady Churchill ventures carefully, ‘And you are acquainted with Lady Fell, I see.’
‘We have been for sometime,’ Crowley says affably. He smiles down at Aziraphale, not bothering to hide the fondness he knows is breaking through.
Aziraphale ducks her head. ‘Quite,’ she murmurs, clasping her hands together demurely.
Lady Churchill gives a titillating laugh. ‘Why, Lady Fell, you did not tell us that you were being courted by Lord Crowley!’
Crowley is pleased at the puce colour on Henry’s face. He is downright ecstatic at the heavy blush on Aziraphale’s.
‘My lady!’ she protests.
‘A most pleasing suitor, to be sure.’
Lord Henry is still lingering, a lost look on his face as if he is unsure what he ought to do next. Crowley decides to make the choice easy for him.
‘I have spent enough of this evening waiting about for horses instead of giving my lady her promised dance. If you will excuse us.’ He offers his arm to Aziraphale.
She hesitates only a second before she takes his elbow.
With a triumphant smile, and a vicious glare at Henry who doesn’t catch it through Crowley’s dark glasses, he leads Aziraphale away, purposefully weaving through more crowded areas in order to throw their acquaintances off.
They are halfway across the room when Aziraphale tightens her grip on Crowley’s arm and mutters, ‘I … Crowley, I … I don’t dance.’
Crowley snorts. ‘I’m aware.’ He still remembers what affairs were like Upstairs, after all.
‘Won’t they be, well, suspicious if they don’t see us on the floor?’
Crowley crocks an eyebrow. ‘Do you want us to make a spectacle?’
Aziraphale cringes. ‘No.’
Crowley breathes in relief, because while Angels may not dance, Demons just suck at it. Not that he is in any way or form against dancing with Aziraphale, but Crowley cannot visualise any likely scenario where that is possible.
Instead, he snaps his fingers and says reassuringly, ‘They’ve already forgotten about us.’
They don’t stop until they reach the opposite end of the ballroom, well away from Aziraphale’s group. Crowley leads them to a secluded corner where they won’t be overheard but still have an unhindered view of the floor and the elevated dais, where Queen Anne is seated.
‘What are you doing here?’ Aziraphale finally hisses, which is more or less her usual reaction when they run across each other, as they do.
Crowley huffs, a little resentful when Aziraphale drops his arm. ‘What do you think? I’m on assignment. What are you doing?’
‘I’m on assignment too, obviously.’
‘And this mission requires you to seduce every man in the room?’
‘What?’ Aziraphale squawks indignantly.
‘Did I bloody imagine that swine’s advances on you just now?’ Crowley snaps, waving an arm in the general direction of the Angel’s companions.
Aziraphale bristles. ‘Lord Henry is a perfectly respectable gentleman -’
‘Yesss, the way he wasss leering at your titsss wasss downright angelic.’
‘Oh, like you were?’ Aziraphale retorts, but her cheeks are colouring and she wraps her arms around herself; not to cover her bosom, but the self-consciousness of the action speaks volumes.
The burning feeling in Crowley immediately dies down to remorseful embers. ‘Angel, I … I didn’t mea -’
‘Never mind,’ Aziraphale mutters, not looking at him.
Crowley clears his throat, shifting his cane awkwardly from one hand to the other. Observing her in the silence stretching between them, he abruptly notices that despite the lack of jewels on her ears and neck, Aziraphale is wearing ribbons in her hair. They are the same shade of blue as her gown but with a tartan pattern; a detail that makes Crowley smile despite himself. Beside the ribbons, nestled strategically in her hair are pearls, hardly discernible against the platinum sheen of her tresses.
Somehow her hairdo, luxurious but not gaudily so, is more a reflection of the Aziraphale he knows, in contrast with her enticing silks.
‘Why are you dressed like that anyway?’
‘Oh, as if you haven’t pranced around a hundred times more scandalously clad than this!’
‘I have. You never did,’ says Crowley simply.
With a wince, Aziraphale tightens her arms about her midriff.
‘You’re not telling me Heaven picked out your outfit for you!’ Crowley exclaims incredulously.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Aziraphale says. Then her shoulders droop as the fight seeps out of her. ‘If you must know, it was Lady Sarah Churchill.’
Crowley blinks. ‘The duchess?’
‘Yes.’
‘From-queen’s-favourite-to-pain-in-the-royal-arsehole Sarah Churchill made you dress like a harl - like that?’
Aziraphale glares at him, clearly picking up on the slur Crowley cut off at the last moment.
‘Didn’t realise ladies-in-waiting picked out clothes for each other and not just the queen,’ says Crowley dryly.
‘No, she …’ Aziraphale sighs and drops her arms. ‘She thought it most improper and depressing that, um, a lady of my station and age is yet unwed.’
Crowley raises an eyebrow.
‘She lent me this gown and, uh … I believe she hoped I would attract suitors at this ball.’
‘Clearly the busybody was right,’ says Crowley through gritted teeth.
‘She is very insistent. Intrusive, almost,’ says Aziraphale. ‘It’s simply easier to humour her for a night.’
‘Even when her schemes win you attentions from such respectable gentlemen as Lord Henry?’ says Crowley, lips curling back in a sneer.
Aziraphale stiffens. ‘That hardly matters.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘It certainly won me your attentions, didn’t it?’ Aziraphale snaps, eyes flashing up at him.
Crowley goes still.
Tense silence falls between them, the cheerful music behind them fading in the roar of blood in Crowley’s ears. He can feel the heat on his cheeks, is aware that he must be reddening, but he can’t look away from Aziraphale’s piercing eyes.
Aziraphale is flushed, appearing as shocked as Crowley feels as if she’s just realised what she said. She is breathing hard, the rise and fall of her chest pressing against her stays. Her painted lips are parted, just so.
Crowley wants to kiss them. He wants to smear the rouge on her lips with his and leave stains down the sides of her white throat. He wants to mark the unblemished skin of her chest, smudge her lovely breasts pink with rouge and purple with his claiming mouth. He wants to leave Aziraphale ruined and sated, marked his for all the world to see.
The rush of his desire is so overwhelming it blocks out everything else for an instant.
Then Aziraphale is speaking, her voice low and gaze elsewhere, ‘How do you know Lady Churchill? Both of you are acquainted, I could tell.’
It takes a second for Crowley’s brain to catch up. ‘Eh? Uh … right. I run into her and her man, Duke what’s-his-face, now and then on the job.’
That catches Aziraphale’s attention. Her eyebrows furrow. ‘What are you up to, Crowley?’
He shrugs. ‘Lighting little fires between the Whigs and Tories, mostly. Dabbling a wee bit in propaganda.’
‘So basically, you’re the root cause of the queen’s headaches,’ Aziraphale surmises, frowning at him.
‘Credit where due, angel. Humans still hold the reins of this horse.’
‘And you’re the snake in its path.’
A slow grin unfurls on Crowley’s face. ‘Aziraphale! Did you just -’
‘Oh hush, you,’ Aziraphale mumbles, turning away with a blush. She stills, eyes suddenly widening. ‘Where is the queen?’
Crowley spins around. The dais is, indeed, empty and its immediate vicinity scarcely populated, indicating the queen’s retinue has also left. It appears to have been a quiet affair, for the dance floor is still alive with movement and not many people seem to have caught on to their host’s abrupt absence.
‘Abigail is also gone,’ says Aziraphale in a hushed voice. ‘And Sarah … oh dear.’
Following the Angel’s gaze, Crowley locates Sarah Churchill standing stiffly to the side of the ballroom, away from the knot of ladies-in-waiting. Even from across the room, he can read the thunderous expression on her face.
‘Looks like she quarrelled with the queen again,’ he observes. ‘And who’s Abigail? Name sounds familiar.’
‘I must go,’ says Aziraphale quickly. She spares Crowley a glance. ‘Enjoy the ball.’
‘Wait -’ Crowley begins but Aziraphale is gone in a swish of blue silk. She hurries past the humans without drawing attention and slips through the doors leading out of The Orangery.
Crowley stares after her. And then he takes off half-running in pursuit.
~***~
Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen when Crowley makes it out of the doors, but he can pinpoint her ethereal aura easily enough and follows it through the lush Gardens. He runs, drawing a minor shield around him to escape human notice.
Within minutes, he comes upon the Kensington Palace. Crowley is not surprised. The queen must have escaped to the privacy of her rooms after whatever fiasco went down at the ball with Lady Churchill and Aziraphale is rushing to be with her.
With a thought, he miracles himself inside the imposing building, racing after the feel of Aziraphale’s essence which is growing stronger with every step.
Crowley has no idea where he is when he catches up with Aziraphale at last, all of his senses focussed on her aura and, when she finally comes into view down a long corridor, the flash of her blonde hair and light gown.
‘Crowley!’ gasps Aziraphale in surprise when he catches her by the arm from behind, halting her in her tracks. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Huh. Deja vu. I think you asked me that once already’, says Crowley, gasping for breath he doesn’t need.*
(* It’s an odd thing, breathing, and a habit hard to get rid of once you get into it.)
‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale repeats, chiding now. ‘You’re not supposed to be here! This is a private wing.’
‘It’s the bloody royal palace. Pretty sure I’m not supposed to be anywhere in here at all.’ Crowley rolls his eyes.
‘We’re just a corridor away from the queen’s stateroom, you should leave!’
‘Will you tell me what’s wrong?’ Crowley asks, not letting go of Aziraphale. ‘What happened? Why are you so worried?’
‘I must see to the queen and make sure she’s all right -’
Crowley tries a different tactic. ’Is she alone, without help? You mentioned an Abigail was also missing from the ball.’
‘Yes, she must be with her already -’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Oh, well … good, I suppose. The two have grown very close.’
‘Then the queen is being looked after and you can take a minute to tell me what’s going on,’ says Crowley. Leaning on his cane, he places his free hand gently on Aziraphale’s shoulder, thumb gracing over her exposed skin. ‘What on earth happened, angel?’
Aziraphale bites her lip but she appears to calm down, no longer pulling away. ‘I … I was sent to keep an eye on Queen Anne during the final years of her reign. Help her navigate tricky political messes and - she’s the last of House Stuart, you know? She has no heirs, poor thing. She will be the end of an era, and her decisions, Upstairs tells me, will pave the way for a new Britain.’
‘Right,’ says Crowley, because that seems the appropriate thing to say. He is still waiting to hear the problem.
‘You are aware, I presume, of the fallout between Queen Anne and Lady Churchill? They used to be such good friends.’
‘I know the gist of it.’
‘Right. Well.’ Aziraphale wrings her hands together. ‘The queen’s confidante now is Abigail Masham. She’s another Gentlewoman of her Bedchamber.’
‘Masham? Oh! Now I know why the name’s familiar,’ says Crowley, straightening. ‘She’s related to Churchill, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but politically …’ Aziraphale trails off meaningfully.
‘Ah. Right. So they don’t like each other,’ says Crowley.
‘It grew worse after the queen gave Abigail rooms here in the palace. Sarah was furious. She … came to court recently with a … poem.’
‘A poem?’ Crowley echoes blankly.
‘Propaganda, really. It was rather appalling. It implied that,’ Aziraphale looks away, biting her lip, ‘that the queen was, um … committing adultery. With Abigail. I suspect Sarah hounded her about it again tonight.’
Crowley stares at her, eyebrows raised. ‘Is she?’
‘What?’
‘Fucking Abigail?’
Aziraphale’s jaw drops. ‘Of course not! H-how could y - she is married!’
Crowley makes a derisive noise. ‘If only that were enough, infidelity wouldn’t exist.’
‘No, this - this is different!’ says Aziraphale. Crowley is taken aback at the sheer emotion in her voice. ‘I’ve grown to know her very well and - Queen Anne and Prince George have been utterly devoted to each other since they were wed. She would not betray him!’
‘Wasn’t it an arranged marriage?’ Crowley says sceptically.
‘And love cannot bloom in an arranged match?’ Aziraphale demands hotly. ‘Spouses cannot be faithful? She loves him dearly and he has been nothing but good to her. Even with her ill health and state affairs, the prince makes her happy and - oh, Crowley, you were not there! She - she was with child seventeen times. They lost all of their children! Even I couldn’t …’
Aziraphale trails off, looking completely distraught. The expression pulls at something Crowley doesn’t want to acknowledge inside him.
'You didn’t see their devastation. You don’t know how they wept, and how they healed each other.’
‘Oh, angel -’
‘And she was absolutely shattered when she heard those derogatory rumours! No, I refuse to believe she is not loyal. She -’
‘Angel,’ Crowley says, stepping closer to Aziraphale. He smooths his hands down her arms in a soothing caress, gently catching her bare wrists at the end. ‘I believe you.’
Aziraphale looks up at him, catching her breath from her outburst.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Crowley softly. ‘I didn’t think it would upset you so much. But you must admit, unfaithfulness is often the brand among royals forced together.’
Aziraphale shakes her head again, but she doesn’t pull away from him. ‘I am aware of that. It is all the more for that reason that I treasure and glorify love when I see it. Humans have it in abundance but so often it is difficult to find it uncorrupted. I won’t have anyone tainting what Anne and George have. They have suffered greatly but they have love.’
‘I believe you,’ Crowley repeats. Hardly realising what he’s doing, he raises his hand to caress her cheek. ‘I won’t say that again.’
Exhaling, Aziraphale finally gives him a smile, small and weary. ‘You didn’t know. And you weren’t wrong to say it, generally speaking. As you said, infidelity exists.’ Tilting her head into Crowley’s palm, Aziraphale adds almost offhandedly, ‘Doesn’t Downstairs encourage that sort of thing anyway?’
Crowley stiffens. He drops his hand.
The Angel blinks up at him. ‘Crowley?’
Trying to keep his face neutral, Crowley mutters, ‘Is that what it always comes down to for you? That I’m a Demon?’
‘I … what?’
Crowley smiles mirthlessly down at her. ‘Yes, Aziraphale. I am a Demon. And Hell does encourage that sort of thing. Indisputably.’
‘Crowley -’
‘But the thing you seem to entirely miss,’ Crowley continues over her, ‘is that my being a Demon doesn’t mean I don’t know what fidelity is. I know. Intimately. I know what it is to be devoted to someone, as your Anne and George are. I know what it is to be faithful.’
Aziraphale is staring at him, mouth slack. ‘Crowley, I … are you …’
‘Speaking from personal experience?’ Crowley says in a sibilant hiss. ‘Yes, angel, I am.’
He can see the meaning behind his words fully dawn on her, in the widening of her eyes and the audible hitch in her breath. Her cheeks are flaming, a blush that spreads alluringly down to dust her pale chest.
For an agonising moment, Crowley wonders if he ought to leave. He has broken a wall between them, an unspoken boundary of their wicked game that has lasted the test of centuries since Rome. He shouldn’t have followed her, he thinks, feeling the onset of rising panic in his gut.
But then something shifts in Aziraphale’s expression, a gentle surrender that softens her features into something vulnerable.
‘Crowley.’ His name comes out on a breath, carrying a million unsaid words.
The uncertainty vanishes. With a single stride, Crowley is in front of Aziraphale, dropping his cane to cup her face in his hands. She leans up, tilting her face to meet him halfway, the action so natural and intimate it makes Crowley ache.
Her lips easily give way against his, pressing back with feeling and a hint of underlying urgency. Crowley’s heart leaps at the familiarity of it all, the softness of Aziraphale’s lips and the warm taste of her as she presses her tongue into Crowley’s mouth. The physical change in Aziraphale’s corporation changes nothing in the emotions she evokes in Crowley.
This should be theirs. This is what they should be doing, being with each other like this. This is Aziraphale and Crowley’s, the act of coming together so easy, as if it were written in the stars.*
(* Crowley admires humans’ creativity but they also romanticise things too much, he thinks. He’d helped forge the stars and they don’t have hidden messages anywhere.)
It should be theirs but never will. The thought makes his heart ache again, despair sparking at the unfairness of it, in tandem with his anger at Heaven and Hell.
Anger at Aziraphale, too, for playing this wicked game with him, keeping him half-fed but eternally starving for what he cannot have.
But mostly, just anger at himself.
He pulls back slowly, mourning the loss of Aziraphale’s touch the moment they part. Flushed, they look at each other for a few seconds. The rouge on Aziraphale’s lips is smeared, smudging the corners of her mouth in pink; something Crowley notes with disproportionate pleasure.
And then Aziraphale is pressing up against him once more, pulling him down by the collar for another kiss. Aziraphale is not petite, but she manifests her female corporation to be shorter and slighter than her usual form, and Crowley can’t resist taking her in his arms. He pulls her up and against him, bringing her to her tiptoes and almost lifting her off the floor.
Aziraphale responds with a surprised gasp that Crowley takes advantage of to lick into her mouth. The Angel lets go of Crowley’s collar only to throw her arms around his neck, clinging closer.
When they break away this time, Aziraphale takes his hand and Crowley finds himself pulled into a shadowy nook of the corridor. They won’t be fully hidden should anyone come across them, but the thought dies immediately when Aziraphale tugs Crowley flush against her front, trapping herself between his lean body and the wall behind her.
Crowley hears the message loud and clear. He moves to kiss her again, but Aziraphale turns her face, eyes closed and head tipped back to expose her throat invitingly. Crowley’s mouth goes dry. Swallowing, he takes the cue and dips down to kiss her neck, sucking lightly on the warm skin. Aziraphale shivers.
As Crowley moves lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her neck and bare shoulder, Aziraphale speaks again.
‘You have never … not with anyone else?’ Her voice cracks on the last words.
She is still thinking about what he’d said then. Crowley doesn’t lift his head. ‘Why would I with humans?’
He doesn’t know if Aziraphale remembers it but his reply is an echo of what the Angel told him right before they fucked for the first time, a millennium and a half ago. Crowley has never forgotten; he thinks about it often enough, particularly on lonely nights when he wonders if Aziraphale seeks pleasures of the flesh with anyone besides Crowley.
It’s a thought that leaves a bitter taste in his mouth every time.
Before Aziraphale can answer, Crowley continues against his better judgement, ‘Hell, why would I with anyone else?’
Aziraphale’s breath hitches again. Crowley keeps kissing her neck, ignoring the roaring in his ears; his reckless confession has left him feeling more vulnerable than he imagined.
Vague words Aziraphale spoke in the throes of passion centuries ago are not set in stone. Crowley cannot know what Aziraphale does with humans, if she does anything at all. But it’s true that he hasn’t sought anyone else, human or otherwise, to warm his bed.
Crowley can only dream that Aziraphale does the same. Not out of any sense of obligation for they owe each other nothing, least of all sexual fidelity - but purely because Aziraphale feels for Crowley what he does for her.
Because she wants him, just as hopelessly.
Aziraphale finally breaks the silence. ‘Oh Crowley,’ she whispers.
She turns to capture his lips in a desperate kiss that has Crowley gathering her in his arms again. He lifts Aziraphale up and pushes her against the wall, a small miracle* hitching up the skirts of her gown and chemise so that she can wrap her stockinged legs around his hips. There is a clatter as her right shoe falls off. Neither of them pays it any mind.
(* Whether it was of a celestial or infernal nature is a mystery.)
Aziraphale sinks her fingers into Crowley’s long hair, combing greedily* through his curls as they kiss. It’s easier at this angle with her face on level with his. Crowley matches the heated movements of their mouths with a roll of his hips. Aziraphale breaks away with a moan, throwing her head back against the wall.
(* Crowley’s hair knows better than to have a single knot.)
Crowley grinds against her again, watching the wanton display. The rouge is all but gone from her lips. The rosy pink is smeared over her mouth and chin, and smudged across the pale skin of her neck and left shoulder. She is breathing hard, her breasts heaving against her stays. She has not let go of his hair.
And she’s made her effort already. Even with skirts and breeches between them, Crowley can feel the heat of her sex.
A kiss and fondle, and Aziraphale already looks wrecked. Crowley has done that to her.
‘Do you do this with others too?’ The words slip before Crowley can stop them. The moment they’re out, there is no stopping the rest. ‘Would you have spread your legs for that man tonight, him with his pretty words for you?’
Aziraphale opens her eyes. Even in the shadows, they look startlingly blue.
‘Is that what you think of me?’ she asks, her breath stuttering as Crowley continues to press his hardness against her. She abruptly lets go of his hair.
She snatches Crowley’s dark glasses off, flicking them away. Crowley doesn’t hear them hit the floor.
And then she is looking him squarely in the eye. ‘Why would I with anyone else?’
The words hit him like the crack of a whip, lighting him up from inside. ‘A-angel,’ he chokes out but then Aziraphale winds her hands through his hair again, pulling him back in none too gently. He groans into her mouth, bucking his hips harder against hers and shivering at the sounds she makes in response.
‘None has ever walked this Earth looking as tempting as you do tonight,’ he growls against her lips. ‘You don’t know what you do to me.’
She shudders when Crowley nuzzles into her neck, nipping at her jumping pulse.
‘I want to ruin you, angel.’
Aziraphale meets his heated gaze. ‘Please,’ she whispers.
Pressed flush together as they are, it shouldn’t be possible for Crowley to lunge forward, but that’s exactly what he does at her invitation. Aziraphale meets his kiss with unbridled passion, their teeth clacking together in their urgency. Crowley bites down on her lower lip and Aziraphale involuntarily tugs at his hair.
The sharp sting of pain makes him hiss.
‘I-I’m sorry!’ Aziraphale looks contrite. ‘I didn’t -’
‘You can pull,’ says Crowley quietly.
‘Oh,’ Aziraphale breathes. And then, ‘Oh!’, when Crowley suddenly cards his fingers through her own hair, miraculously pulling the ribbons and pins free.
Aziraphale’s white-blonde tresses cascade around her shoulders, the pearls in her hair sent scattering across the floor.
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale exclaims, but her next words are lost when Crowley buries his face in her chest. With a whimper, Aziraphale leans her head against the wall, wrapping her arms around his neck to cradle him close.
Crowley drags his tongue over her collarbones and lightly scrapes his teeth over them, the way he knows she likes. He licks into the hollow of her throat and then trails down to pepper kisses across Aziraphale’s chest. Flicking his tongue out, he sucks at the top of her right breast and then carefully sinks his teeth into the soft flesh.
Aziraphale gasps and suddenly snaps her fingers. Startled, Crowley looks up.
‘Just - don’t want people to see,’ she whispers, still breathing hard. Crowley realises then that the shadows in their little nook have grown darker.
Crowley doesn’t need light to see but Aziraphale’s miracle - or rather, her choice to use one just for this - leaves him more turned on than before, if that were possible. He eagerly returns his mouth to her breasts, licking into her cleavage to taste the salt of her skin, and raises a hand -
Aziraphale catches his wrist, stopping him from snapping.
Crowley glares heatedly at her. ‘I either miracle your pretty dress off or rip it open, angel,’ he growls.
Considering how particular Aziraphale is about her clothes, Crowley fully expects her to relent. What he doesn’t see coming is the look of overwhelming arousal on Aziraphale’s face at his threat. Lips parting, she glances down at her bosom and then at him; her cheeks are flaming red.
Fucking heaven.
He moves without thinking, drunk on the knowledge of what Aziraphale wants. Crowley grasps her neckline and, locking eyes with Aziraphale, pulls.* Her silks give way at once, and then her stays, ripping open her bodice to free her breasts.
(* His demonic strength would’ve been enough but Crowley employs a small miracle nonetheless, to ensure it doesn’t hurt Aziraphale.)
For several seconds, Crowley just stares. He has seen Aziraphale like this before but it is a rarity. Her breasts are large and heavy, and tipped with dusky nipples already peaked and begging for attention. The rapid rise and fall of them as Aziraphale pants sends Crowley’s blood rushing to his already straining cock.
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale says, her voice shot with need.
He should’ve liked to tease her more but as he is jolted back into action, Crowley realises he can’t wait much longer either. He wants Aziraphale so badly.
Returning his free hand to under her thigh, Crowley heaves Aziraphale further up against the wall and uses his own weight to keep her there. The new angle brings her breasts right to his lips, literally.
Aziraphale keens when Crowley immediately sucks a nipple into his mouth. The flesh of her breast is so soft he can’t resist pressing his face in, pleasuring her nipple with tongue and teeth. The Angel moans again, arching her back while her hands seek purchase in Crowley’s hair.
Crowley pulls off with an obscene slurp. ‘You’re going to wake up the whole palace, angel,’ he murmurs, mouthing at her tit. ‘Isn’t the queen and her friend just a corridor away?’
Immediately, Aziraphale slaps a hand over her mouth. Crowley is mildly disappointed; hearing Aziraphale fall apart under his ministrations is one of his favourite things* about their encounters. But on the other hand, that Aziraphale doesn’t trust herself to be quiet with him despite the risk of discovery, heats his blood just that much more.
(* Specifically, everything about their encounters is Crowley’s favourite.)
And there certainly is the risk of discovery. Their little nook would hardly hide them should anyone pass down their corridor. But Crowley won’t miracle the risk away; the fact that Aziraphale used her own powers to only darken the shadows around them is enough for Crowley to glean that she is secretly enjoying the danger. Very much.
Hiding a smile, Crowley licks at her nipple again before nuzzling over to take the other into his mouth. Aziraphale grips his hair harder and muffles her groan into her palm, the sound only spurring Crowley to suck harder.
He drags the gentle torment out for several seconds - perhaps minutes, he’s lost track of time - drowning in the feel and taste of her breasts as he moves from one to the other and back again. As he laves his tongue over her nipples, adding a hint of teeth now and again - always sure to make Aziraphale go high pitched - Crowley vaguely wonders if they are more sensitive in this body than Aziraphale’s usual male corporation. He can never tell, only that Aziraphale makes the most delicious noises when Crowley pleasures the Angel like this.
At length, Aziraphale pulls herself together to choke out a coherent sentence. Barely. ‘C-Crowley, please … please, I need - ohh!’
‘Hmm?’ Crowley hums into her skin. Aziraphale’s breasts are wet from his attentions and they smell like him when Crowley returns to kiss them. A small part of him thinks he ought to be put off, but the larger part wants more of this - he wants to kiss and lick Aziraphale over, wants her to smell entirely of him, him and his.
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale whines.
‘What do you want, angel?’ Crowley tugs on a nipple with his teeth.
Aziraphale whines, arching her back. ‘Oh, don’t be horrid…’
‘Horrid, hmm? Could swear you’re enjoying all the horrid things this Demon is doing to you.’ Crowley gives her a sharp grin.
‘Crowley!’
Crowley leans up to kiss Aziraphale deeply. ‘Tell me what you want, angel,’ he murmurs against her lips. ‘You know all you need is to say the word.’
Aziraphale looks at him, blue eyes hazy with desire. ‘Want you to stop teasing,’ she mumbles, and then before he can push it further, ‘I want you in me.’
Crowley crushes their lips together, groaning into Aziraphale’s mouth. They reach this point in almost all of their encounters, but hearing Aziraphale voice what she wants never fails to punch the breath out of him.
Holding Aziraphale up with one hand and a swift miracle, he shoves the other between them, fumbling under the Angel’s skirts.
‘Cunt or arse?’ Crowley asks bluntly as his hand finds her inner thigh and follows it down.
Aziraphale gapes, open-mouthed, for a second. ‘Um, the first one,’ she stammers with a heavy blush, just as Crowley’s fingers find their mark.
He stills. And then his lips curve into a smirk. ‘No drawers, eh?’
‘Most women don’t wear them,’ Aziraphale says defensively, squirming as Crowley slides his hand to fully cup her between the legs.
‘A few do.’
Since Aziraphale is, well, Aziraphale, Crowley had somehow imagined that the Angel would wear drawers, regardless of whether an effort was made or not. But he’s certainly not complaining. Smirking harder, Crowley caresses his fingers teasingly over her naked folds, enjoying Aziraphale’s little breathless gasps.
He hasn’t even breached her but she’s already soaked, her folds slick on his fingers.
‘So wet for me, angel,’ he purrs, finally parting her labia to stroke her properly. ‘You’re just ready for me, aren’t you.’
‘You’re one to talk,’ Aziraphale huffs, shivering as Crowley circles her entrance with two fingers. ‘You’ve been stabbing me with your …’ she trails off, biting her lip.
Crowley chuckles low in his throat. ‘You can say it,’ he grins, dipping the tips of his fingers into her cunt before moving up to circle her clit.
Aziraphale keens throatily, clinging to his shoulders. Crowley doesn’t let up, teasing her clit with swift, clever fingers for several seconds before sliding them down to press them inside. His fingers sink easily into her dripping pussy and he grinds the heel of his hand into her clit with every thrust.
Panting, Aziraphale reaches between them as well, her arm brushing past Crowley’s to grab at his breeches. He doesn’t feel her undoing the fastenings, but then his flap is open and Aziraphale’s fingers close around his cock, freeing it from its uncomfortable confines.
Crowley gasps. Her hand is smaller than he is used to but just as soft and smooth as he remembers. And slick, miraculously, as Aziraphale grasps his prick just the way Crowley likes and begins to stroke him, in time with Crowley’s fingers pumping into her cunt.
Their lips meet in a messy kiss, Aziraphale flinging her free arm around Crowley’s neck. She suddenly twists her hand on the upstroke, thumb brushing over his slit and Crowley almost comes right then. He nearly loses his grip on the miracle holding Aziraphale up.
Aziraphale lets go as if realising what happened. She meets his eyes wildly. ‘My dear, I’m - I’m close! Please, now -’
He slips his fingers out, not bothering to clean them before grabbing at her skirts and pushing them out of the way. Aziraphale reaches for his cock again, helping to align them, and then Crowley is pushing up into her, the searing clutch of her body welcoming him easily.
Aziraphale practically sighs when Crowley bottoms out, her face an odd mix of bliss and what seems like pure relief. Crowley watches her dazedly, leaning forward to brush a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
She smiles, her eyes hazy. ‘Move, my dear,’ she whispers.
Crowley obeys at once, rolling his hips and drinking in the way she sighs again. He builds up a gentle rhythm, moaning a little at the tight grip of her slick cunt around his cock. They’ve done this so many times but it’s never enough.
He lets go of her skirts and moves to place his arm under her thigh again, but Aziraphale catches his wrist once more. Crowley blinks at her, puzzled.
‘C-Crowley, I …’ Aziraphale licks her lips slowly. She looks embarrassed.
He has seen Aziraphale look like this enough times to know what it means.
‘What do you want, angel?’ Crowley asks in a low voice, thrusting harder into her.
‘I … Cro - ohh! Ah … I,’ Aziraphale bites her lip, ‘That is … would yo - oh!’
Panting hard, she lets go of his wrist. Then she raises both of her arms to rest the backs of her hands, fingers curled laxly, on the wall just above her head.
Crowley blinks.
Aziraphale glances at his free hand once. She raises her arms slightly higher, looking Crowley in the eye.
Crowley stops moving.
Fucking heaven, he thinks for the second time that night.
Before he can second guess himself, Crowley strikes up with his free hand to grab Aziraphale’s wrists together, pinning her arms firmly above her head.
The little moan that escapes her tells Crowley that he’s guessed right.
Crowley stares at her. ‘This what you want?’ he asks, his voice almost a growl. ‘You want to be taken like this? To be ravished?’
Aziraphale gazes back steadily. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
Crowley pauses. He has her in an iron grip, but they are both aware that Aziraphale can throw him through the opposite wall if she wished. The reminder of that, somehow, makes it feel all right.
‘As you wish, angel,’ he says silkily and then snaps his hips, hard.
Aziraphale moans, her voice saturated with pleasure as Crowley fucks her, building up the rhythm between them.
Crowley drinks in the vision of her greedily; with her eyes closed and kiss-bitten lips parted in an endless cry, Aziraphale looks undone already. Her hair falls about her neck and shoulders, barely hiding the smears of rouge and bruises Crowley has left on her pale skin. Her round breasts carry the marks of his mouth too, and they bounce enticingly with his every thrust.
She is twisting her hands against Crowley’s grip, but not hard enough to free herself. Just enough to feed into this farce of being pinned against the wall; being ravished.
Crowley doesn’t always fully understand the things Aziraphale wants when they are together like this, but he has long learnt that it doesn’t matter. As long as Aziraphale is asking them of him; as long as Crowley is giving her pleasure.
At least he’s allowed to give her that, whatever else may be denied him.
And he can’t deny he’s enjoying this, Aziraphale wanting him to fuck her like this. It feels like a claiming, every move between them a silent song of mine, mine, mine.
He picks up the pace, burying his face in her neck as he drives harder into her. Aziraphale arches against him, crying out. It occurs to Crowley then that with her hands pinned, she can no longer silence herself. He is tempted to let it happen; he wants to hear Aziraphale scream his name when he brings her to the brink.
But Crowley knows better and he captures her lips, kissing her hard.
She clenches down on him then, jerking harshly against his body, and Crowley lets go of her hands. Aziraphale grabs on to his hair, moaning loudly into his mouth as her orgasm hits. Her cunt pulses around his prick and Aziraphale pulls at his curls, shaking.
Crowley groans with both pain and pleasure, and then he’s coming, spilling deep inside her.
Aziraphale snaps her fingers.
Panting and dazed, Crowley pulls away from her mouth to stare at her.
’S-some - someone saw us,’ she explains shakily, breathing just as hard.
Crowley looks around and sees no one.
‘I took care of it. She just left.’*
(* It was a young servant, who’d come across them quite a while ago. She’d hidden a ways off and spied on the scandal taking place within the royal palace.
Catching sight of her at the last second, Aziraphale only wiped their identities from the girl’s memories, but not what she saw. The girl will later write down in her journal**, in exhaustive detail, all the wicked, immoral, exciting things she witnessed the lord do to the lady. She will also commit the sin of onanism for the first time to the memory of it, but that’s neither here nor there.
** Through a series of unrelated events, these journal papers will make it into the hands of one Samuel Richardson. It will influence the writing of what will come to be known popularly as ‘the first true English novel’, and rather less popularly as the predecessor to a questionable genre of books that will fully emerge centuries later, to be read by most humans as a ‘guilty pleasure’.)
They look at each other for a few seconds, catching their breath. Then Aziraphale begins to remove her legs from around Crowley’s hips and, taking the cue, he gently pulls out of her. Aziraphale winces slightly and clings to his shoulders when Crowley helps her down, still holding her skirts up.
For a split second, he glimpses her bare thighs and cunt; the mess he’s made of her. Then Aziraphale pulls down her skirts, her shift and gown covering her up again. Or at least, half of her.
Her bodice is still hanging open in the front, baring her breasts and torso down to her navel. Red and purple marks litter her neck, her shoulders, her bosom, joining the smears of rouge Crowley has left everywhere. Her hair falls around her face in a mess, the lightness of it highlighting the redness of her swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, her piercing blue eyes. A single pearl clings stubbornly to a strand of hair.
Aziraphale looks ruined.
She looks his.
Crowley gazes down at her, feeling unbearably tender and soft. He wants to kiss her again.
But then Aziraphale wraps her arms around herself, not meeting his eyes. ‘I … I should … check up on the queen.’
Crowley stills. Right. She had been - and he had … Right.
Without being asked, Crowley snaps his fingers. The pearls and ribbons scattered around them fly back up into Aziraphale’s hair, which immaculately piles on top of her head again. The smeared rouge returns to her lips, painting them rosy pink, while the purpling bruises on her skin fade into nothingness. The discarded shoe returns to Aziraphale’s right foot, and her stays and silk gown stitch together, closing up her torso and hiding her lovely breasts from view again.
She looks just like she did when Crowley first saw her tonight.*
(* Except between her legs. That is for Aziraphale to clean up.)
Aziraphale looks down at herself again, at where Crowley had ripped her bodice. The tear is gone, but she will always know it is there, underneath.
Taking a step back, Crowley waves a hand to put himself to rights as well. His cane, flung aside, leaps back into his hand.
Meeting his eyes, Aziraphale makes a motion as if she is pulling something out of the air. She holds out his glasses.
‘Well…’ says Crowley, putting them on.
‘Well,’ Aziraphale echoes. Clearing her throat, she offers him a tentative smile. ‘It was … good seeing you again, Crowley.’
‘Right.’
Aziraphale bites her lips. ‘I suppose you’ll be back to spreading wiles between the Whigs and Tories again.’
‘Yep. Wily serpent, that’s me.’
She gives him a look so unexpectedly affectionate that Crowley stops breathing. ‘We’ll … see each other again?’
Crowley blinks. ‘’Course, we will. We always do.’ Then, thinking closer on her words, he adds pointedly, ‘Why would I see anyone else anyway?’
The sudden blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks is all Crowley needs to know that she understands what he means*. With a jaunty good night and nod, Crowley leaves.
(* Because Crowley may be a roguish thing, and dashing while he does it - but he is not all infidel.
He may no longer be devoted to Her, but Crowley has always been utterly loyal and faithful where it counts.)