Chapter Text
In the course of her long existence, Crowley had often fantasised about what it would be like to be in love with Aziraphale. Really in love. With the I love yous all said and done and out in the open, and with the two of them happily shacked up in a cottage on the South Downs, not too dissimilar to the South Downs cottage where they had first become lovers. She had daydreamed about bringing the angel morning tea in bed, and late night cognac by the fire, and summer evenings walking barefoot on the beach, hand in hand. And the whole time she had always told herself – even while torturing herself with these visions – that something this close to heaven was too far out of reach for a literal thing from Hell.
The reality of living with Aziraphale was a lot less soft focus than Crowley’s fantasies. There were the books to contend with, for a start. Then there were the shoes. Aziraphale, who had once pranced across the bloodstained cobbles of revolutionary Paris in a pair of the most darling cream satin kicks, turned out to have as big a penchant for pretty shoes as she had for frilly knickers. She bought cream ballet pumps and nude high heels, and a pair of pale rose-gold sandals with four inch heels, because she wanted to see if ‘fuck-me shoes’ worked as advertised.
They did.
Pleased, Aziraphale bought even more shoes, and the boxes piled up in the corner of the bedroom until Crowley swore there was no space in the house for anything but shoes and rare books of prophecy. Aziraphale shot back that Crowley was a fine one to talk, given the way that she accumulated houseplants until a simple visit to the bathroom – for Aziraphale – was starting to feel like an expedition to find the source of the bleeding Nile.
They made up, of course, but after that the relationship headed for strange places that Crowley had never envisioned in all her wildest daydreams. Like the garden centre. And IKEA. And it was actually delightful, because those moments where they were wrangling Swedish shoe racks and drawing up plans for a conservatory were mixed with the sublime, and their mundanity made the sublime that much more real. And maybe that was a good thing, because there were some times – like when Crowley was watching the way Aziraphale’s English rose complexion bloomed in a red firelight or an early frost – that she had cause to wonder if you could actually die from happiness.
The summer was so close to being over that Crowley could almost smell the first bonfire whiff of autumn on the breeze. Beyond the bottom of the hill the Channel – hazy with a summer sea mist – gleamed pale blue. Crowley and Harriet sat barefoot in deckchairs, and watched the kids at play on the lawn. Warlock had taken the stabilisers off the back wheel of Ursula’s bike, and she was eyeing it with a new trepidation. Aziraphale was inside, unseen but very much heard, as she cheerfully smashed up ice cubes for cocktails.
Ursula mounted the bicycle, and Warlock held onto the back of her seat to steady her. “Don’t let go,” she said.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Swear. Pinky swear!”
The children locked fingers. Not that there was much of the child left in their boy. It seemed like he’d streaked upwards overnight without gaining so much as a pound, so that now he looked stretched, like chewing gum. His hands and feet were enormous. “They’re so grown up,” Crowley said.
“I know,” said Harriet. “They’re babies for the blink of an eye. I still remember the first time Ursula told me not to call her baby anymore. She was three.”
“Whether she likes it or not, she’ll still be your baby when she’s thirty-five.”
"She will. And she won’t. Like it, that is.”
Ursula was peddling furiously, wobbling slightly. Warlock had nothing but the tips of two fingers on the back of her bicycle seat. “Are you still holding me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you,” Warlock lied, running alongside to keep up the pretence.
“Holy shit. She’s doing it,” said Harriet, peering over her sunglasses. “No training wheels. Think we should let her in on the secret?”
“No,” said Crowley. “Not yet. I’m sure he’ll tell her eventually. Once she’s got her confidence up.”
“He’s such a good big brother.” Harriet sighed. “My taste in men sucks, but I really couldn’t have wished for nicer kids. Or a better nanny.”
“Oh, stop. I don’t deserve that.”
“No, you don’t, not with the way you ran off.” Harriet glared, but there was no real anger to it. “Which I’m still pissed off about, by the way. I missed you.”
“I know,” said Crowley, patting her hand. “And I’m sorry, my dear. I really am, but I was…well…” She glanced furtively around and lowered her voice – already dipped down to Nanny Ashtoreth’s genteel register – even further. “…I was reactivated.”
Harriet’s brown eyes were huge. “MI5?” she whispered.
Crowley nodded. “And I’ve told you much more than I ever should.”
“Right,” said Harriet. “I kind of suspected that was what had happened.”
“If I’d had a choice,” said Crowley. “I would never have left. Those were some of the happiest days of my life, with you, and the children.”
“And Frances.”
“Oh yes,” said Crowley, as ‘Frances’ emerged from the kitchen. Aziraphale had entered the house as a bathing beauty in polka dots and sunglasses, but had evidently got chilly while smashing up the ice, and had thrown a cream cableknit sweater over her bikini. It had the odd effect of making her look even more like a pin-up than before. She was bare legged in Birkenstocks, and she was carrying a tray of interesting looking drinks.
“There you are,” said Crowley, and if it hadn’t been for Harriet and the kids she would have pounced right there and then. “What have you been up to?”
“Mischief,” said Aziraphale, setting down her tray and settling into the deckchair on Crowley’s other side. “May I introduce you to a little concoction known as a Bramble?” She passed a glass to Crowley. “You take gin, lemon, and simple syrup, then you shake them up, pour over lots of crushed ice, and then you pour crème de mure over the top.”
“Crème de mure?” said Harriet.
“Blackberry liqueur,” said Aziraphale. “It’s homemade.”
“She never managed to get the hang of jam,” said Crowley, stroking the back of Aziraphale’s ankle with her foot. “But of course she figured out to make booze out of blackberries.”
Harriet blinked and hesitated, but Aziraphale wasn’t in the business of leading people astray.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, handing Harriet a glass. “I made yours virgin. Elderflower cordial instead of gin.”
They sat and sipped and enjoyed the view. The sinking sun was starting to turn the sea pink, but Crowley only had eyes for the angel. It was one of the chief delights of her new life, to simply gaze without restriction. Aziraphale sat perched on the edge of her deckchair, lips parted, the cooling breeze catching the ends of her bobbed curls. Her feet, peeking toenails defiantly painted fire engine red, were posed pigeon, her knees together. The sunset light caught the barely-there blonde hairs standing upright on her goosebumped thigh, lending her an almost celestial glow. At first Crowley had assumed it was simply an angel thing, but on closer inspection she’d discovered that Aziraphale was covered in all kinds of interesting hairs, from the peach fuzz on her upper lip to the wisp of silver blonde fluff – that Crowley had begged her not to shave – on her plump pubic mound.
Crowley reached out, unable to resist the urge to touch. Her fingers brushed along the outside of Aziraphale’s thigh, and Aziraphale captured her hand, their fingers twisting together in a way that made Crowley feel like her heart was several sizes too big for her chest. And she wasn’t even drunk yet.
“This place is so beautiful,” Harriet said. “I’m gonna miss England.”
“You can always come back and visit.”
Harriet sighed. “I hope so. I have a feeling I’m going to be very busy for a while, though.”
“Oh?” said Aziraphale. “You have plans?”
“She’s joining the family business,” said Crowley.
“Politics,” said Harriet, in response to Aziraphale’s searching look. “My dad, my grandfather – all the contacts that Thad relied on when was coming up were really mine. I might have lost a few in the divorce, but I’m still my father’s daughter. And I totally sucked at being a politician’s wife. Perhaps I’ll be better at being a politician.”
"I’m sure you will,” said Aziraphale. “What’s your manifesto going to be?”
“Oh, lots of things. The environment. Daycare. Maternity pay. Wage equality. I have all kinds of ideas.”
“How exciting!”
“Yeah, and terrifying,” said Harriet. “I’ve already been accused of being a bra burning harpy, and I haven’t even finished filing the paperwork to run.”
“Isn’t that an urban legend?” said Crowley, stirring herself from the bottom of a gin glass.
“What’s that, dear?”
“Bra burning,” Crowley said. “I’m sure I heard somewhere that it was something the press invented to make feminists look deranged and unreasonable.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Harriet.
“Neither would I,” said Aziraphale. “Witchcraft, bra burning, hysteria. I seem to remember that at one point at the turn of the previous century that some doctors had a very good go at trying to pathologise suffragettes’ desire to break windows.”
Harriet snorted. “What did they call it? Wannavoteitis?”
Aziraphale giggled into her gin. “Something like that. Funny how some men always reach for the medical dictionary whenever a woman gets heated.”
“Nymphomania,” said Crowley, stroking the back of Aziraphale’s ankle with her toes.
“Is that even real?” said Harriet. “Or just some horny medical fantasy?”
“Oh, probably the latter,” said Aziraphale. “Just another one of those things that men like to pin on difficult women.”
Ursula shrieked then, because she’d finally realised she was peddling on her own. They all leapt to their feet and gave her a standing ovation, while Warlock whooped and cheered from the sidelines.
“It was so nice to see them again,” Aziraphale said, when they were standing in the lane, watching the rear lights of Harriet’s car disappear into the dark.
“It was,” said Crowley. “Felt like we’re a proper couple.”
“We are a proper couple.”
“I know, but it feels…I don’t know. Real. Realer.”
“We’re very real,” said Aziraphale, leading the way back into the cottage. She was still bare legged and was starting to shiver. “You are mine, and I am yours, and that’s all there is to it.”
She kicked off her sandals in the hallway and padded barefoot into the kitchen. Lovely legs – rounded calves, plump thighs, dainty ankles. Crowley followed her, not wanting to let her out of her sight for an instant, and found her bending over to load the dishwasher. From this angle the view was even more delightful, the polka dots of Aziraphale’s bikini stretched into ellipses by her big bottom and voluptuous hips. The fleshy tops of her thighs primly concealed the hungry gap between them, but then she bent just a little farther to reach something in the back, and Crowley could make out the tempting pout of her pussy beneath the tight lycra.
Aziraphale stepped back and straightened up to close the dishwasher. She caught Crowley staring out of the corner of her eye and turned, and there it was, rich as butter and radiant as the sun. That smile. The Sussex smile, the one that said they were home free and belonged to each other.
“What are you staring at?” said Aziraphale, with a sexy smugness that said she knew very well what had captured Crowley’s attention. Aziraphale had always had a coquettish side, but now that she had the freedom to indulge it she had turned into a weapons grade flirt. She was always scattering innuendos like confetti in her wake, or prancing around with that gleam in her eye, the one that said her knickers were currently in her handbag. Sometimes she’d come down in nothing but high heels and pearls and declare that she literally couldn’t find anything to wear. Crowley ate it all up like an angel gone feral in a Parisian patisserie.
“You,” she said, moving closer and squishing Aziraphale up against the side of the kitchen counter. “How do you manage to look that luscious in an old sweater?”
“You don’t look so bad yourself,” Aziraphale said, winding her arms around Crowley’s neck. Her kiss tasted of sugared lemons, juniper lingering on her breath as she sighed. She wriggled her hips against the kitchen surface, and Crowley took the hint, reaching down to cup her through the bathing suit. That bikini was almost as old as Warlock, but Aziraphale always took good care of her things, and it was as pristine as it had been on the night when it had landed with a wet splat next to the Dowlings’ pool, and when Crowley had learned that wet splats could – under the right and very specific circumstances – be intensely erotic noises.
Aziraphale was making some seriously sexy noises right now, contralto rumbles deep in the back of her throat as her tongue chased Crowley’s, and she rubbed herself against Crowley’s hand. Crowley pushed the bikini bottoms aside so that the side seam settled directly between Aziraphale’s legs, baring one soft outer lip and giving Aziraphale yet another reason to wriggle. The angel’s hips were already in subtle but urgent motion. She leaned back, unfastened her bra and pushed both sweater and bikini top up to her neck, offering her magnificent tits for attention. “I fucking love you,” Crowley said, because she could, and dipped her head to suckle on a big, peachy, pink-tipped nipple. Her thumb slipped under the leg hole of Aziraphale’s skewed bikini bottoms, and she could feel the wet heat of her already. “How are you so horny?”
“Quite easily,” said Aziraphale. “You haven’t fucked me since before breakfast.”
She’d been asking for that. She had lured Crowley out of bed with the scent of good coffee, and Crowley had come down to find Aziraphale drifting around the kitchen in one of her lacy little nothings, one that barely covered her bum and left her nipples clearly visible. Then Aziraphale had started licking a honey spoon with purpose and intent, and things had gotten…sticky. Part of Crowley was relieved that it had taken Aziraphale six thousand years to embrace a female corporation, because she wasn’t sure she would have survived that level of torment. Aziraphale’s realisation that her new corporation was beautiful and desirable also seemed to have come hand in hand with a determination to turn herself into some kind of one woman sexual amusement park. And still Crowley couldn’t get enough of her.
Aziraphale stepped out of her bikini bottoms and leaned back, her feet apart and her cunt dewy. “Would you like to go upstairs, or are you happy to have me here?”
“Oh, I’m happy to have you anywhere,” said Crowley, sliding easily inside her with three fingers. Aziraphale moaned and pushed back with her hips, taking what she wanted. She was soaked and silky, a literal work of heaven. “Although I think nymphomania might be real after all.”
Aziraphale tried to look as baleful as she could, which wasn’t very baleful at all, under the circumstances. She was already wearing the greedy, rosy-lipped, heavy-lidded, come-fuck-me-look she wore whenever she was completely lost in pleasure, and her clit was so high and tight under Crowley’s thumb that Crowley wondered how long she’d been looking forward to this. “I want to come,” she said, gyrating eagerly, swallowing Crowley up to the third knuckle.
“Well, that’s convenient,” said Crowley. “Because I want to make you come.” She did a lot of that these days. There were few things as fun as following an angel around the cottage, pouncing on her at every opportunity, and making her go off like a bottle rocket.
Crowley knelt, pulling her black one piece tight between her legs. She’d get hers later, but right now all she wanted was to lick and suck and taste. Aziraphale always smelled delicious – salt and flesh and peaches – and tasted even better. She spread her thighs even wider and wailed when Crowley’s tongue snaked up inside her and found the last lingering traces of the honey from this morning. Crowley devoured her like she was the oyster she had offered two thousand years ago, only with a lot more relish, since Crowley had never cared that much for oysters. This, on the other hand, this she would never get sick of. She was four fingers deep, diving for Aziraphale’s g-spot while sucking on the perfect pink pearl of her clit. Aziraphale was in full jiggle now, thighs trembling, tits bouncing. Her sweater had slipped down again, covering one breast and making her look twice as undressed as if she’d been completely nude. Crowley moaned into her and felt her tighten, a weak contraction at first, then growing stronger and deeper as Aziraphale threw back her head and whispered, “Oh God, I’m coming. I’m coming, ohfuckmeImcoming…”
As she came her bare heel slipped on the tiled floor, and she instinctively threw herself backwards, almost ending up in the kitchen sink. Crowley steadied her and muffled her laugh in Aziraphale’s bush, holding her through the last slow rocks of her hips.
“Oh God,” Aziraphale said. She pulled off her sweater and the dangling remains of her bra, and ran her tongue over her pant parched lips. “Right. Your turn.”
Crowley squirmed hopefully, grinding onto the seam of her bathing suit. “What are you going to do to me?” she said.
“Nothing you don’t richly deserve,” said Aziraphale. “Come on. Upstairs.”
Crowley did as she was told and followed Aziraphale to their bedroom, hypnotised by the view. Aziraphale must have known she was looking, because she swung her hips a little harder as she climbed, waving her sumptuously rounded bum in Crowley’s face. “Everything off, and onto the bed, please,” she said, with a brisk bossiness that made something inside Crowley snort and paw the dirt, because she knew she was about to place herself at the mercy of Aziraphale’s surprisingly and impressively dirty mind. Crowley stripped off and stretched out naked on the bed, curious to see what came next, because Aziraphale had opened the toy chest they kept at the foot of the bed. Crowley was about to sit up and take a closer look, when she felt something soft slither round both of her wrists, pulling her backwards and tugging her arms above her head. Next thing she knew she was tied to the bars of the headboard with a couple of Aziraphale’s old magic silks.
“Nice,” she said. “Why didn’t you do magic tricks like this before?”
Aziraphale peeked over the lid of the chest. “Not exactly suitable for children’s parties, dear,” she said, and with a flourish whipped out her favourite purple sparkly dildo. “Ah. Knew it was in here somewhere.”
Crowley spread her legs. “Please tell me you’re going to make that disappear,” she said. She had managed to put her own needs aside up until now, but now she was aching for attention. Twice as much now that she couldn’t even touch herself.
“All in good time,” said Aziraphale, closing the lid of the chest. For the first time Crowley saw that Aziraphale – who wasn’t as comfortable as slipping between sexes as Crowley – had taken the opportunity to put on the harness that went with the cock.
“Now would be a good time,” said Crowley, watching Aziraphale slip the dick into position. It was an expensive model that curved to fit into the top’s pussy and stimulate her clit, and Aziraphale bit her lip as she settled it into place. Crowley whined and twisted against her bonds, but the silks only tightened.
“You can’t rush a skilled magician, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, crawling onto the bed on her hands and knees.
“You’re not a skilled magician. You’re a fucking terrible magici…oh. Oh God, yes. Yes. Please.” At that moment Aziraphale pinched her nipples, and the longed-for touch almost set Crowley bouncing off the ceiling. “Touch me, please.”
“Would you like me to get the nipple clamps, darling?”
“No. Don’t you dare take your hands off me.”
Deep in her essential nature, Crowley had always known that everything automatically became more tempting as soon as you put it on a high shelf out of reach, and perhaps slapped a DO NOT TOUCH sign on it for added allure, but even she hadn’t been prepared for how well Aziraphale had pulled off this ancient trick. Now that she was unable to touch, there was nothing Crowley wanted to do more, except perhaps be touched. She arched into Aziraphale’s caress, moaning as Aziraphale lowered her head to suck at her nipples. This was where the trick came undone, because Aziraphale’s boobs wanted nothing to do with whatever slow tease she was attempting to execute on Crowley. They spilled forward, jostling and squishing, a pillowy party of skin on skin. Crowley bucked and tried to wind her legs around Aziraphale, but Aziraphale shook her head.
“Behave,” she said, sliding down the bed. “Or I’ll tie your ankles, too. Now, lift up.” She shoved a pillow under Crowley’s hips, smiled sweetly and pushed inside her with one smooth motion. A weird, needy wailing noise burst from somewhere, and Crowley had barely had time to register that the sound was coming from her own throat before Aziraphale slipped out again.
“No, don’t tease me,” Crowley said. “No, no, no…yes…oh God, yes.” Aziraphale’s soft, greedy mouth fastened over her clit, suckling, tongue trembling in maddening circles. Crowley couldn’t tell if she had two fingers or four inside, but whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. She hitched her feet in the air and Aziraphale pushed gently on the backs of her knees, spreading her higher and wider. Aziraphale’s tongue moved lower, flicking indecently at her arse and wringing another strange noise from the depths of her throat.
“Oh, silly me,” Aziraphale murmured. “Forgot the buttplug.”
“I don’t care,” said Crowley, writhing her hips back and forth on the pillow. “Fuck me. I’m going mad.”
Aziraphale raised her head. She looked so sweet and well-scrubbed that nobody but Crowley could ever have imagined how cheerfully filthy she really was. “What’s the magic word?”
“Aziraphale, fuck me right now, or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Near enough,” said Aziraphale, settling back on top. She lined herself up. “Now you see it…” Crowley moaned. “…now you don’t.”
“Really?” said Crowley, trying - and failing - to feel as disgusted as she thought she should. She wrapped her legs around Aziraphale’s waist and held her there, determined not to be teased this time. “Was that from your magic act?”
Aziraphale giggled and started to rock slowly into her. “Not your style?”
“You’re a monster. Don’t ever stop.”
“Not sure that I could at this point.” She’d found her rhythm, fucking Crowley with deep, steady strokes, her big pink boobs swinging like bells. As she picked up speed her breasts bounced faster and harder, driving Crowley half mad with the desire to suck on them. Unable to touch, Crowley gave vent to her enthusiasm with her hips and her voice, moaning, swearing, and pleading. Aziraphale was moaning, too, head down, palms open, grinding into the toy inside her. Crowley unwound her legs from Aziraphale’s waist, hitched up her heels and rode her, her arse bouncing up and down on the bed to meet each thrust, pouring out a loud stream of obscene encouragement – fuck me, fuck my pussy, pound me like a dirt cheap steak, yes, there, there, there…
She came hard enough to feel something gush, and perhaps Aziraphale felt it, too, because she threw back her head, opened her mouth and came along with her, fingers digging into the flesh of Crowley’s hips. Crowley crossed her ankles across Aziraphale’s back and held her tight and deep, feeling her flesh still pulsing and squeezing gently against the intrusion. The silks slid off Crowley’s wrists and Crowley went near berserk in her desperation to touch everything, Aziraphale’s face and hair and mouth, her neck, her breasts, her belly and thighs.
Eventually they rolled apart. Aziraphale lay panting on her back, ripe breasts heaving and the slick, sparkly purple dick stirring gently in time with her breaths. Crowley sat up and straddled her, sinking down to take it all the way. She drew in her muscles and sighed, eager to harvest every last drop of her satisfaction. “You know, I’ve often wondered why you don’t decide to go with the real thing,” she said. “But I can see your point. At least silicone never goes soft on you.”
Aziraphale smiled, her hands on Crowley’s hips. “And you look an absolute treat sitting on it like that,” she said. “Have you had enough?”
“For now. I just like the way it feels inside me.” Crowley rocked back on her heels, went too far and winced. “God, you really fucking banged me.”
Aziraphale apologised, but she knew Crowley well enough to know what Crowley wanted next. She divested herself of the harness and wriggled down the bed to spread Crowley’s legs and kiss her bruises better. Sometimes, after Crowley had taken her wrist deep, there would be ice packs and cold kisses, and slow, shuddery orgasms coaxed from the tip of Aziraphale’s chilled, flickering tongue. “You lovely thing,” Aziraphale said, her delicate, healing fingers slipping inside and soothing. “You’re so good to me, to indulge all my over the top appetites the way you do.”
“I don’t mind,” said Crowley, reaching down to caress Aziraphale’s tangled curls. “We’re in the honeymoon period. I’m thinking of at least five or six decades of total, balls to the wall depravity, and then maybe we’ll switch it up and get into leather and bondage or something.”
Aziraphale giggled and kissed her on the belly. “Did you ever imagine this?” she said. “When we first met?”
“What? Did I look at you standing on the wall of the Garden of Eden and think ‘Yep, we’re going to end up as a couple of lesbians living in a cottage on the South Downs’? No. No, I can honestly say it didn’t cross my mind at the time.”
“Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
“Not with you, no,” said Crowley. “You’ve always been full of surprises.”
Aziraphale turned sweetly pink. “Do you really think so?”
“I know so. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”
“Darling,” said Aziraphale, rubbing her cheek against Crowley’s stomach. “My serpent of old Nile.”
“Wait.” Crowley frowned. “Isn’t that one of the gloomy ones?”
“Not this time, dear. Not this time.”
The End