Work Text:
As she makes her way to the address in Soho she’s been given by the agency, Crowley goes over her plan. She’ll need to be subtle, give off just enough of an air of sexuality that the ladies in this drawing group pick up on it, but not so much any of them actually realize she’s doing it. The point is for them to start to think lascivious thoughts about each other, after all, not about her. As if she has time to deal with a whole roomful of London’s aspiring gentry suddenly developing wanton lust aimed in her direction.
No, the best approach is to just delicately scent the air with the idea of sex, so that the ladies start giving each other furtive looks and having secret meetings. And when, in a few years, the lot of them have all fallen into lust and sin, Crowley can file the entire stack of reports and get a reprieve for a while.
Satan, does she need a reprieve.
She did get credit for the guillotine and the Reign of Terror, but that’s been nearly a decade hence, and she gets more snotty missives from Hell every month about what she’s been up to lately. A tidy bunch of souls should help buy her a few more decades at least.
When she arrives at the address, she’s led by a butler to a parlor. Crowley smooths her skirts in a bit of a self-soothing gesture—not that it matters, as she won’t be spending long in them anyway—but it helps settle her nerves. Been a long time since she’s attempted a temptation on this many people at once.
Yet when the butler announces “Miss J. Anthony” and a roomful of heads turn toward her, Crowley’s heart stops beating.
“Crowley!” exclaims Aziraphale—her corporation feminine, just like Crowley’s.
All the heads swivel toward Aziraphale, and Crowley has to suppress a thousand expressions she’d very much like to make, all of them variations on rolling her eyes. “Sorry, it’s Miss Anthony, actually. Were you expecting someone else?”
Aziraphale’s mouth moves without any sound coming out for several moments, then she glances around at the group. “So sorry, Miss Anthony. Of course, of course. How can I help you?”
“I’m your model.” Crowley steps further into the room, toward the circle of easels set up around a stool draped with a white cloth. If not for the easels Crowley might have thought she’d made a terrible error—the place doesn’t look like an artist’s studio in any other regard, but rather a library in significant need of attention, with stacks of books along every wall, which are made of shelves further crammed with books. Yet every lady in the room is seated in front of an easel. Every one except the one who isn’t actually a lady, but an angel, who looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else in the universe at this moment.
“Oh. Lovely to meet you, then.” Aziraphale twists her hands together. “I’m, erm. I’m Mrs. Fell, and these lovely ladies are my students.”
Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “A pleasure, Mrs. Fell.” Fell? Of all the names—
But Aziraphale is crossing the room, holding out her arm. “If you’d like to join me over here, we can set down your things…”
She steers Crowley into a corner with a tight grip on her arm, where a screen blocks the corner from the rest of the room. Once they’re both behind it, she turns and leans close, speaking in a hissing whisper.
“What in the world are you doing here?”
“Modeling for an art class.” Crowley curls her lip. “Obviously.”
“Yes, but—”
“Who I suspect are all straining their ears to hear why Mrs. Fell is on personal terms with an artist’s model.” She gives Aziraphale a significant look.
Aziraphale presses her lips together, her nostrils flaring. Finally, she says, “You can set your things here when you’ve taken them off. Come on out when you’re ready.”
And she turns and flounces away.
Crowley huffs an irritated sigh as she begins pulling off her bonnet and spencer jacket. She could leave, but that would probably make Aziraphale look even worse, and perhaps ruin whatever it is she’s attempting to do here. The angel has always been flustered by nudity. Crowley can’t imagine why she decided to lead this class. It’ll serve her right to have to teach these women how to draw while tripping over her own tongue every time she tries to speak, with Crowley sitting naked in the middle of the room.
With a wicked grin on her lips, Crowley tugs her chemisette out of her dress and begins unfastening buttons.
When she’s finally fully starkers, she steps out from behind the screen. A couple of the ladies titter, and a couple more blush, but none quite so brilliantly as Aziraphale, whose entire face turns completely scarlet. With a satisfied smirk, Crowley cocks a hip. “Where do you want me?”
Aziraphale’s blush somehow deepens, becoming nearly purple. She waves vaguely at the center of the room, stammering, “J-just— just there.”
Crowley lets a bit of swagger affect her steps as she crosses to the fabric-draped stool, but not a seductive one. Despite having come here for the express purpose of tempting a roomful of women, if these are friends or even just social peers of Aziraphale’s, it would go against their Arrangement in every way to drag them to ruin.
The angel, on the other hand… all’s fair in… well, whatever this is, anyway.
Crowley drops onto the stool, leaning back on one elbow, one foot tucked under her and the other thrown haphazardly out at an angle.
“Thank you, dear girl,” Aziraphale says, “but do you think you might sit a bit more naturally?”
“I am sitting naturally,” Crowley retorts, curling her lip.
“Yes but… perhaps not in a way that will read naturally on paper.” Aziraphale is twisting her hands together again.
With a sigh, Crowley shifts, slumping forward with her elbows on her knees.
“No, that’s not—” Aziraphale huffs in frustration. “Here, let me help.”
Then—okay, yeah, Crowley should have anticipated this probably, but honestly, she’s sitting fully naked in a room full of staring women, and she perhaps wasn’t thinking far enough ahead.
Aziraphale walks up to her and begins touching her—moving her arms this way and that, setting a hand against her spine to straighten it as she pushes Crowley’s shoulders, lifting her chin with a finger, nudging her knees. Crowley swallows hard, hoping the flush she feels on her chest isn’t visible, or at least isn’t very visible. Nor the goosebumps rising on every spot of skin the angel touches.
Aziraphale smiles. “Much better. Just hold that pose.” Then she turns to the others. “Alright ladies, you may begin. Remember, sketch your basic shapes first, and build out from there. Look at the light, the shadow, the contours. And do please ask if you have any questions.”
Crowley is obliged to hold the pose Aziraphale put her in, but she tracks the angel with her eyes as the little group all put pencils to paper. Aziraphale is remarkably good, actually, moving from one student to the next, offering a suggestion here and encouragement there, pointing out things about their technique that are probably insightful—Crowley wouldn’t really know, not being an artist herself.
Is Aziraphale an artist? Crowley’s never thought to ask. Thousands of years they’ve known each other, yet sometimes parts of the angel’s existence on Earth seem entirely opaque to Crowley.
The class goes on, and a human might get stiff or sore holding a pose like this for so long, but it doesn’t bother Crowley in the slightest. She holds it even after the students begin packing up, sort of a badge of pride—look, angel, you thought I wasn’t up for this, yet here I still am, exactly where you put me.
Aziraphale waves goodbye to the last student, shutting the door behind her, then turns.
“Well,” she huffs, “that was certainly an experience. What in the world are you doing here, Crowley?”
Crowley stretches her arms and legs, shifting her weight, getting her blood flowing properly again. She quirks an eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Modeling. You hired me.”
Aziraphale rolls her eyes, beginning to tidy up her students’ easels, collapsing them and setting them against a wall. “Don’t be thick, you know what I mean.”
Crowley shrugs. “I’m a bit behind in my books, thought I’d knock out a whole room full of temptations in one go.” At Aziraphale’s startled expression, she clarifies, “I didn’t! Not once I found out they were yours.”
Aziraphale looks sideways at her. “Not at all?”
“Not a bit. It would violate the spirit of our Arrangement.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale gives her a tiny smile. “Alright then. Thank you.” She gathers some pencils, then turns to Crowley, her brows drawn together. “Only you’re absolutely sure you didn’t? Because you were sitting there naked the entire time, and if you gave any of them an indication you were available—”
“No, not like that. Never like that.” Crowley rushes to cut Aziraphale off. “I was only going to make them interested in each other. I wasn’t going to touch them myself.” She huffs ruefully. “Wouldn’t know how to do that anyway.”
Aziraphale cocks her head. “What?”
Crowley feels her neck and ears heat. “Nothing, never mind.”
“Sorry,” Aziraphale says, transferring a bunch of pencils to one hand, “are you saying you don’t know how to make a woman’s body aroused?”
“Erf.” Crowley sputters. “I mean I wouldn’t— I don’t— it’s not like I go around having sex with women!”
Aziraphale blinks at her, biting her lip as the corners tug into a grin. She shakes her head, then gestures to Crowley’s body. “But surely you know about your own body, at least.”
“Well I don’t go around having sex with men, either!” Crowley snaps.
Aziraphale’s grin widens, and she looks away, taking a deep breath. Then, turning back, she asks, “But haven’t you—how did you once put it? Taken it for a test drive?”
Crowley thinks about the few times she’s tried getting herself off in this form—rubbing desperately until her skin was raw and her arm ached, to absolutely no avail, inevitably switching back to a cock to actually be able to finish the job. She mutters under her breath noncommittally.
“Pardon?” Aziraphale asks.
“I said it doesn’t work!” Crowley fairly shouts. “Not in this form. At least.” She peers at Aziraphale. “Wait, have you?”
“Well, of course! It’s a lovely experience.” Aziraphale sets the pencils down in a little box, her back turned to Crowley. Without turning around, she says, “You know, you were so kind to me in Rome, showing me how. Perhaps now I could return the favor?”
“What?” Crowley isn’t certain she heard that correctly, with Aziraphale facing away.
But Aziraphale turns, meeting her gaze, her eyes liquid. “I could walk you through it. Like you did with me.”
Crowley’s mouth goes dry. “You mean… you want to show me how to…”
“How to make yourself orgasm like this, yes.” She takes a step closer. “Would you like me to?”
“Ngk.” Crowley swallows hard. Never in all her existence did she think Aziraphale would outright proposition her. Only she isn’t, quite, is she? She’s just offering to show Crowley how to get herself off.
Aziraphale is still looking at her expectantly, so Crowley takes a deep breath.
“Um. Yeah. Could be— sounds good. Fine.”
“Lovely.” Aziraphale’s face lights up, and Crowley almost has to look away from the shine in her eyes. “You can begin, as you told me back in Rome, by touching yourself.”
Fuck. They’re doing this. They’re actually doing this. This is really happening. Okay.
Crowley can handle this. She’s done similar before, after all. That day in Rome, that was just like this, really.
Except in Rome, Crowley was the one leading. Now she’s following Aziraphale.
It’s not a sin, not really. Crowley never lied about that. No sin in feeling the pleasure your body makes for itself.
But technically everything a demon does is a sin, right? So if Crowley’s thoughts about Aziraphale happen to be the kind that can get a person’s soul damned for all eternity, well… luckily, Crowley has already sealed her fate.
But will Aziraphale know? Will she be able to read all of Crowley’s desires, displayed on her face, as Crowley lets the angel guide her through bringing herself to orgasm? Will she be able to see how much Crowley has longed for—so much more than they will ever have?
And yet, they can have this. They’ve had it before.
Fuck it. If Aziraphale wants to lead her down this path, Crowley will happily follow. She reaches a hand toward her labia, but it’s suddenly caught in a strong grip.
“I think I perhaps begin to see the trouble.” Aziraphale clutches Crowley’s wrist, her hand on Crowley’s skin like fire, the thrill of it tingling up her arm. Crowley raises startled eyes to Aziraphale’s. “You can’t treat a vulva like a penis. You can’t just go from nothing at all to direct stimulation. You must warm it up, come at it from an oblique angle.”
“Oblique angle,” Crowley repeats stupidly, not following Aziraphale’s words at all, simply watching her mouth form them.
“Like this.” Aziraphale loosens her tight grip on Crowley’s wrist but doesn’t release it entirely, instead softening her touch and running it up Crowley’s arm to her shoulder. Crowley sucks in a breath as shivers race across her skin. She looks up and meets Aziraphale’s eyes briefly, and the angel smiles before walking behind Crowley, trailing her fingers over her shoulder.
Crowley feels Aziraphale press against her back, then her lips brush against Crowley’s ear, and when she speaks, her breath is warm against Crowley’s skin.
“You have to build the sensations slowly.”
Crowley lets out a shaky breath as Aziraphale’s hands slide down her back. She finds herself leaning back into her touch, but Aziraphale allows it, pressing against Crowley’s back, the fabric of her dress almost but not quite rough against her skin. Her hands follow Crowley’s ribs around her sides to her front, then travel upward—
Crowley lets out a cry as Aziraphale’s hands cup her breasts.
“Shh, it’s alright,” Aziraphale says softly, her mouth still next to Crowley’s ear. “The nipples can be very sensitive. I’ll stop if it’s too much, but you might find you like it.”
Like it. Sure, yeah, that’s what Crowley’s doing. Liking it. Not teetering on the verge of discorporation from the angel’s soft fingers against her nipples. Not shuddering right out of her skin like the snake she is at the fire of her touch. Not instantly flooding a wet patch on the fabric beneath her at the pinch of Aziraphale’s fingers on her nipples. Liking it. That’s all.
“Now try it yourself,” Aziraphale says, letting go of Crowley’s right breast to take her hand again, pulling it to her chest.
Crowley tries desperately to control her breathing—Aziraphale must have noticed how fast and shallow it’s gotten, since she still has a hand on Crowley’s breast, but it’s no use—Crowley can barely keep from bursting into flame right now, much less act like everything is normal.
She lets Aziraphale press her fingers against her own skin, massaging herself under the angel’s guidance. Aziraphale’s torso stays against her back, trapping her in place—not that Crowley would dream of trying to leave, she wants to be nowhere in the universe more than right here.
“How do you feel?” Aziraphale asks, and just how the Heaven is Crowley supposed to answer that? She feels like she’s barely hanging together, she feels fully alight, she feels like she might drown in her own desire for the angel pressed against her back.
“Good,” she chokes out.
“Wonderful,” Aziraphale says, her warm breath still tickling Crowley’s ear. “When you feel ready, move your hands to other parts of yourself. But don’t touch your vulva, not yet.”
Crowley whimpers at the word vulva whispered so sweetly into her ear while Aziraphale is still touching her like this. She lets her hand slide down her stomach to her hip, achingly close to her cunt, which has become almost embarrassingly wet, but she obeys Aziraphale’s instructions, digging her fingers into the meat of her thigh instead.
“Oh, very good,” Aziraphale purrs, and Crowley nearly comes entirely apart in her arms. She squirms a bit, she can’t help it—if she doesn’t get a hand on herself in the next few moments she surely will discorporate, and won’t the paperwork for how that happened be something? The princes of Hell won’t stop talking about it for centuries.
Crowley closes her eyes and grits her teeth against the need to dissolve in Aziraphale’s arms, and Aziraphale helps by letting go of her and stepping away. Crowley opens her eyes to find Aziraphale standing in front of her, looking cool and calm and infuriating.
She smiles. “Alright, when you feel ready, try touching your vulva.”
Crowley lets out a high-pitched squeak. She clears her throat. “Aren’t you going to guide me?”
Aziraphale’s smile falls. “What?”
“Show me,” Crowley begs. “Like I showed you in Rome.”
“Oh.” Aziraphale’s hands flutter as she looks away, like she might find reassurance among the stacks of easels. “I don’t know if I—”
“Angel,” Crowley chokes, “don’t make me do this alone.”
Aziraphale’s eyes snap back to her, and her expression softens. “Of course not. Yes, of course I’ll show you.”
She straightens her back and squares her shoulders, then levels an even and heated gaze at Crowley as she reaches up to the cords on the front of her dress. There are two—one at the neckline and one at the waistline. Aziraphale grasps the top one, tugging slowly on it, her eyes locked on Crowley’s. Crowley holds her gaze as the tie comes open, letting Aziraphale’s voluptuous breasts spill out, though they’re still covered by the fabric of her undergarments. But then Aziraphale does the same with the second cord, and Crowley can’t help dropping her gaze to look as Aziraphale’s dress falls fully open, her white petticoat barely containing the swell of her generous breasts. The angel shrugs out of the dress, gathering it and folding it before setting it neatly aside and turning back to Crowley, her form now hidden beneath her petticoat.
She tugs the left strap of it over her shoulder, a dainty movement that nevertheless makes her breast bounce slightly, and a tiny moan escapes Crowley’s lips. As Aziraphale slips the other strap off her right shoulder and lets the petticoat fall in a pool of white linen at her feet, Crowley’s fingers dig so hard into her thigh that she’s certain the nails break the skin.
Then Aziraphale unlaces her stays and pulls off the chemise beneath, and Crowley’s breath stops in her throat as the angel emerges, clad now in nothing but stockings. Her plump form is nothing but soft curves—soft neck curving into soft shoulders over soft breasts that sit over a soft stomach between soft, curving hips. Crowley longs to sink her hands into all that delightful flesh, to press her face against it, to feel it against her skin.
Aziraphale in just stockings is somehow almost worse than being naked—the creamy white of her thighs disappearing beneath the snow white of the stockings themselves. She finally looks away from Crowley as she lifts a foot to balance it on a nearby chair and begins untying the ribbon of her garter. She slips fingers beneath the edge of the stocking and slides it down, down, down, over her knee, then her calf, then her ankle, and as she drags it finally off her foot Crowley is sitting in a small puddle and gripping the edge of the stool for dear life.
And yet there’s the other leg as well, and Crowley sees a flash of cotton-white pubic hair as Aziraphale switches legs, and she has to bite back a loud moan, because they haven’t even really started and already she’s on the brink.
Finally, Aziraphale is fully undressed. She walks closer, holding out a hand, and Crowley has to stop herself from flinching away—if Aziraphale touches her right now she really and truly will discorporate, probably combust and turn to ash or vaporize into a fine mist. But Aziraphale merely smiles, inclining her head.
“Shall we move to the settee?”
Crowley swallows hard and nods, forcing her fingers to relax their grip, then stands, slipping her hand into the angel’s, ignoring the fiery jolt that shoots up her arm at the touch. She tries both to cover the wet stain on the fabric of the stool where she was sitting and also not look back to check it, which would inevitably draw Aziraphale’s attention to it.
But Aziraphale has already turned her attention to pulling Crowley across the room, back toward the screen behind which Crowley got undressed earlier, so much less gracefully and to so much less effect than Aziraphale did just now. A couch sits nearby—room enough for both of them, but they’ll be close. Perhaps not room enough to do what they’re about to do without touching.
Crowley’s mind unhelpfully supplies a memory of Aziraphale beside him in a Roman tepidarium, his hand in his own, his grip tight on Crowley’s leg as they both stroked themselves to orgasm, Crowley leaning so close he could inhale Aziraphale’s delicate scent, could very nearly taste him, could smell the change in him just before he came.
Crowley shakes her head. That won’t help her keep her wits when they’re seated naked next to each other.
Aziraphale sits, and Crowley sits beside her, feeling entirely ridiculous—as though they’re about to take tea, only both of them are completely naked.
But then Aziraphale turns her body, pulling one leg up onto the couch beside her, opening her legs as she faces Crowley.
Crowley swallows hard, not quite daring to look at her.
“Face me, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, “so you can see what I do and copy me. And so I can see you and let you know how you’re doing.”
Crowley tries not to pass out as she turns and copies Aziraphale’s posture. There’s not as much room for them, sitting like this, so they end up with their legs stretched out against each other, feet resting against each other’s thighs.
And if that weren’t bad enough, now Crowley can’t look away from Aziraphale. She’s never seen her like this—naked and feminine, and what’s more, aroused, because it’s patently clear that she is. Her nipples are tight little buds in the light pink of her areolas, contrasting with the sweet, soft swell of her breasts. A lovely flush colors her chest—not her breasts, but the space between them, up to her collarbones, which are themselves delicate and gently curved, like her shoulders, like the rest of her. All of her is so soft, so plump, so perfectly rounded, just right for grabbing and squeezing and sinking teeth into. And her cunt—
When Crowley finally lets her gaze rest on Aziraphale’s vulva, she has to ball her hands into fists and curl her toes not to shove her fingers hard into her own cunt. Aziraphale’s pale hairs are darker around her folds, slick with the moisture spreading out from her slit, which is a dusky pink several shades darker than her nipples.
Aziraphale leans back against the arm of the couch, setting her arm along the back, and smiles at Crowley. “Alright. Let’s begin, shall we?”
Crowley merely nods, not trusting herself to speak.
Aziraphale follows her own advice, setting her hand not against her vulva, but against her neck, tipping her head back and running fingers lightly over her skin. She trails them down her chest to her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple, before continuing down her stomach, and finally settling with a fingertip at the top of her pubic hair as she lifts her head and locks eyes with Crowley.
Crowley tries to keep breathing as her own hand comes to hover in front of her hips, not quite daring to touch herself, not yet, not until the angel does so as well.
Which she seems to understand, because Aziraphale slides her hand lower, her fingers slipping between her folds, then gasps as one finger slides in—only barely, just disappearing inside her.
Crowley mimics her, setting her hand against her pubic bone, then sliding fingers down, down, down into the slippery wetness between her thighs, down over the shockingly electric nub of her clit, down to her entrance.
But here, Crowley’s patience runs out. She slides in not one finger but two, as far as she can push them, throwing her head back and groaning, her eyes closed.
“Oh, yes, Crowley, that’s perfect,” Aziraphale breathes, and Crowley nearly comes completely undone, keening and squirming, feeling her muscles all tighten. A heated throb pulses deep within her, and her hand becomes drenched in slick.
“Angel,” she gasps, “oh fuck, oh fuck—”
“You’re doing wonderfully,” Aziraphale says softly. “How do you feel?”
“I feel—” Crowley feels coiled like a spring, she feels full to bursting, she feels like the last step before she spreads her wings and leaves the ground. “I feel—” She feels hot and tight and wet and like she’s going to explode or turn inside out or, worst of all, grab onto the angel in front of her. “I—”
Then words fail her as her entire body seizes, jerking and shuddering, her cunt clenching hard around her fingers, the thrill of it shuddering over and over up her spine. She closes her eyes, moaning and gasping, her fingers pressed deep inside her as her back arches and her hips thrust up. It goes on and on, an eternity of bliss, shutting out sound and light and everything but the pulsing clench of her body.
When at long last it subsides, Crowley falls back against the arm of the couch, opens her eyes, and raises her head.
Aziraphale is staring, open-mouthed, fingers still inside herself.
“My dear,” she asks, her voice hoarse, “did you just have an orgasm?”
“Uh.” Crowley pulls her fingers out as she mentally checks in with her body, which feels entirely made of jelly. “Yeah, think I did.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale’s body gives a little jerk, and Crowley’s attention snaps instantly back to her. “Oh, that’s excellent!”
“Is it?” Crowley quirks an eyebrow. “Seems a bit fast.”
“Yes but—” Aziraphale gasps, rocking slightly against her hand— “try touching yourself again.”
“Again?”
“Just trust me.”
Something knots tightly in Crowley’s chest at those words. Aziraphale is an angel—nemesis, enemy, adversary, however you want to call it, someone she should never, ever trust. And yet there hasn’t been a time in their existence together that Crowley didn’t trust her completely.
So she sets the heel of her palm against her pubic bone and slides her slick fingers back into herself.
And gasps.
Well. Fuck.
Crowley has had a body on Earth for thousands of years. It’s not like she hasn’t had plenty of time to experiment. She’s well-acquainted with the mechanics of orgasm—especially the bit where you have to take a break for a while afterward.
Only not, apparently, when you have a vulva instead of a cock.
“Yes?” Aziraphale asks, brows rising as her lips begin to tug into a grin.
Crowley pulls her fingers out a bit, then pushes them back in, and the shudder that runs up her spine makes her gasp. Her body is already beginning to tighten, slipping toward the edge again. “How is this possible?”
Aziraphale’s grin widens. “You’ll find a great many things about this form are different from the masculine one.”
Crowley shifts her hips, settling more comfortably against the arm of the couch, and the movement slides her leg against Aziraphale’s, whose foot rests just above Crowley’s knee. Aziraphale startles, her mouth dropping open, and her fingers push deeper into herself.
Crowley fixes her with a level gaze.
“Show me, then,” she says. “What else should I do?”
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, her breasts rising with her next intake of breath. She shifts as well, her hips moving lower, her foot sliding up Crowley’s thigh just a bit. “Well, you might try curling your fingers.”
The muscles of Aziraphale’s arm flex beneath her skin, showing that she’s doing as she just instructed. Crowley follows, watching the spot where Aziraphale’s fingers disappear inside her, thinking about sliding her own fingers into her, feeling Aziraphale’s slick wetness coat her hand.
Her fingers press against a nub of tissue inside her, and she lets out a small cry.
“Yes, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “just like that.”
Crowley shivers as the angel’s words wash over her. The sensation of pressing on that nub inside her is good, but Aziraphale’s praise is better. She needs more instructions to be able to obey them. “What else?”
“The heel of your palm,” Aziraphale says, her voice coarse and breathy. “Press it against your clitoris. Keep your fingers inside yourself. The rest of your palm can touch as much as you want.”
Crowley does as instructed, making sure her thighs are wide open so Aziraphale can see. It must work, because the angel’s jaw drops open slightly as Crowley’s hand makes contact. The shock of it shoots up her spine, and she grits her teeth as her back arches off the couch.
“Too much?” Aziraphale asks, pressing her own hand down and rubbing up and down.
Crowley shakes her head, following Aziraphale’s movement. The meat of her hand rubs against her clit, and she presses a bit harder, taking the electric sting out of it, keeping the feeling grounded in her body. She curls her fingers again, as Aziraphale had told her, and it’s as though a hot string connects the nub inside her with the one outside. She groans, her hips thrusting up of their own accord.
“Yes, darling, that’s it,” Aziraphale purrs, and a whimper escapes Crowley’s lips.
She shifts her weight again, moving her hips down slightly, her foot sliding higher up Aziraphale’s leg. Aziraphale sucks in a breath, then copies her, pushing herself up a bit and moving completely away from the arm of the couch. Her foot is all but in Crowley’s lap now, her toes brushing Crowley’s pubic hair.
Crowley pushes herself up as well, leaning forward, the change in angle pressing her hand even harder against her cunt. Her slick is all over the couch now, making a large wet stain, but that can be dealt with later.
Aziraphale leans forward as well, bringing their faces close together, so close Crowley can’t look anywhere but into her clear-sky eyes.
“What now?” she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Aziraphale swallows hard, her gaze on Crowley’s lips. “Taste,” she replies, also nearly a whisper.
And oh, how Crowley wants to—wants to close that last distance between them, wants to lick those crimson lips, wants to push her tongue past the angel’s teeth, wants to dive into her mouth and drown there.
But there are lines that cannot, must not be crossed, boundaries that exist to prevent disaster.
So what taste can Aziraphale mean?
“Taste what?” Crowley asks, doing none of the things she would so dearly love to do.
Aziraphale pulls her hand out of herself and raises it, her fingers shining with slick, hovering between them. Her candy-pink tongue slips out between her lips and flicks over the tip of two of them.
Fuck.
Absolute holy fuck.
“Angel,” Crowley whines.
“You recall in Rome,” Aziraphale says softly, “you taught me that the fluids from masturbation are enjoyable to taste? I find it’s not limited to the masculine form.”
Her fingers are still there, hovering in front of Crowley’s face, and here Aziraphale is talking about tasting them, and it would be so easy to lean forward and take them into her mouth, to suck Aziraphale’s juices off her fingers, to learn the taste of her arousal.
And yet not only would that cross the line from masturbation to sex, it would do it doubly so, because Crowley is certain that if she were to ever know Aziraphale in that way, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself, she wouldn’t be able to keep holding back—she would wrap herself around the angel and devour her, lips and tongue and teeth finding every part of her body they could reach. Crowley would sit at Aziraphale’s feet and press her mouth to her cunt and never stop. She would live only for Aziraphale’s pleasure.
And they would both burn for it.
So, with every bit of strength she has, Crowley instead leans back slightly, pulling her own fingers out of herself, turning them back and forth in front of her. They’re coated in a thick, slick wetness, smeared over her palm and the back of her hand, beginning to drip down her wrist. She darts her tongue out and catches the drop.
It’s startling. She thought she knew what to expect, since she’s tasted the juices her masculine form makes, but this is nothing at all like that. It’s not nearly as salty, and the musky notes are entirely different, more floral, where her masculine juices taste more bitter. She slips her first two fingers into her mouth, wrapping her tongue around them, and the taste itself is arousing, making a heat build low in her belly once more.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, a flush high on her cheeks, her eyes on Crowley’s mouth. “Oh, Crowley, yes.”
Crowley pulls her fingers out of her mouth with a wet sucking sound. “Yes?”
“That’s good, that’s—”
A shudder runs down Crowley’s spine at those words, and she moans softly. Aziraphale has leaned perilously closer, so close her breath puffs warm against Crowley’s lips. Crowley feels the heat of her body, rising into the air between them.
She leans back out of instinct, putting a safer distance between them, stopping herself from crossing a boundary that can’t be put back into place.
“More,” she croaks, her voice choked. “Show me more.”
Aziraphale swallows and nods, leaning back as well, and Crowley lets out a sigh of relief.
“You might like clitoral stimulation,” Aziraphale says, her voice just as wrecked as Crowley’s. “Like this.”
She slips her fingers back down to her vulva once more, pulling apart her folds, rubbing one fingertip over her clit. Crowley does the same, leaning back on her other hand, tilting her hips up. It’s an awkward angle, especially with her foot trapped against Aziraphale’s thigh, so she scoots closer, letting her leg come to rest with her knee draped over Aziraphale’s hip.
“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, and does the same, and now Crowley has to lean back even farther because they’re very nearly in each other’s laps—if she moves her hand too much, she’s going to bump Aziraphale’s wrist.
So easy, to draw her fingers out of herself, turn her wrist, and slide them into Aziraphale instead. So easy, to touch the angel from the inside, to find that nub inside of her that makes her squirm, to stroke her until she writhes and gasps and floods Crowley’s hand.
So easy, to destroy them both.
She doesn’t. She keeps her fingers moving on herself—rubbing circles on her clit, making the spring at the base of her spine coil tighter and tighter. Aziraphale dips her fingers into her slit a time or two, then back up, spreading her slick over her folds, and Crowley copies the gesture—not that she needs to be any wetter, she’s soaked from thigh to thigh, but the added touch lights up her spine and fans the flame in her belly.
With Aziraphale’s leg pressed against her thigh, she can feel every movement the angel makes, and it tightens all her muscles, draws all her attention to the fiery points of contact between them. It’s Rome all over again, magnified by a thousand.
Yet in Rome, Crowley had learned something, something about Aziraphale.
It’s a risk, when they’re close like this, when Crowley is supposed to be following Aziraphale’s lead. But she’s already come once, and the angel hasn’t, and when has Crowley ever held back?
“You’ve taught me so well,” she says.
And indeed, Aziraphale gasps and arches her back, her fingers moving faster.
“Because you’re so good at this,” Crowley continues, thrilling at the moan that escapes Aziraphale’s lips. “So well-practiced, so adept.”
“Crowley, I—” Aziraphale cuts herself off with a gasp, her eyes falling closed, her fingers plunging into herself.
“A wonder, you are,” Crowley says, her own fingers slipping back into her slit, palm pressed against her clit. “Just incredible.”
Aziraphale whimpers, her lip caught in her teeth.
Crowley dares to lean forward slightly, hooking her foot around Aziraphale’s hip. “Couldn’t ask for better,” she says, her voice low, “because you’re the best, aren’t you? My marvelous, perfect angel.”
Aziraphale cries out, her hips jerking, her fingers thrusting into herself up to the last knuckle, over and over and over. The hot coil of tension in Crowley’s belly slips lower and tighter—it was her words that got Aziraphale there, her voice in Aziraphale’s ears pushing the angel over the edge.
With a final shudder, Aziraphale stops her movements and blinks open her eyes. She meets Crowley’s gaze. And she smiles.
And that’s what does Crowley in, shuddering and gasping and clenching around her fingers for the second time, her body in tight spasm as she falls over the edge. She lets Aziraphale’s name fall from her lips as she comes—she could have controlled that, could have stopped it, but she wants Aziraphale to know that she did this to her, and she wants the angel to think of her next time she’s alone, recall Crowley’s voice in her ear whispering praise and moaning the angel’s name. Wants to make her come over and over and over, even if she’s not there to witness it.
When the shudders finally subside, Crowley pulls her fingers out and lifts her head. Aziraphale is still smiling at her—a hopeless, half-drunk little grin, her cheeks pink and her eyes soft. And now Crowley’s control really does nearly fail—Aziraphale is so sweet and so close, Crowley nearly reaches out and pulls her in, nearly wraps her arms around her and presses her lips to the angel’s.
Nearly.
Instead, she takes a deep breath, then pushes herself backward, untangling her leg from around Aziraphale’s waist.
“Thank you,” she says, clearing her throat, “that was very… educational.”
“Oh. Yes. Well.” Aziraphale shifts her posture, sitting almost primly, turning to put both feet on the floor. “You’re quite welcome.”
“I should, ah—” Crowley casts around desperately, needing a reason to put distance between them. She spies the little pile of her clothing on a chair behind the screen and levers herself off the couch. “I’ll get dressed.”
“Mm. As I ought to do, as well.”
Crowley keeps her back to Aziraphale as she pulls on undergarments and laces up her stays. As she’s slipping her petticoat back on, however, she asks over her shoulder, “Mrs. Fell? What’s that about?”
“Oh!” Aziraphale huffs a nervous laugh. “I’ve told people I’m a widow. It makes so many things so much easier. Widows get much more freedom than maidens. And nobody tries to introduce me to their nephews.”
Crowley turns, shrugging into her dress and tugging at the ties. “But Fell, angel? Of all the names you could’ve picked…”
Aziraphale’s eyes go wide as she stops in the process of tying her stays. “Oh no, I never thought— I didn’t mean that! It’s just, Aziraphale, Fell, it’s very similar… anyway, what’s with this Anthony business?”
Crowley shrugs. “What’s wrong with it?”
Aziraphale slips on her petticoat. “Well, nothing’s wrong with it, of course. It’s just that I like Crowley so much.”
Crowley smirks. “I’m fond of you too, angel.”
“Oh!” Aziraphale flushes crimson. “I didn’t mean— I meant— oh, you serpent, you’re impossible!”
Crowley grins more widely. “And this art business—are you really an artist?”
Aziraphale shrugs on her dress and begins tying up its cords as she replies. “Oh, you know, I dabble. Well enough to lead little instructional sessions, at least.”
Crowley looks around the room—easels now stacked in a corner, all the walls lined in shelves crammed full of books, books piled on the floor and every other available flat surface. What’s Aziraphale even doing, hosting drawing lessons in this space? “Ought to turn this place into a bookshop.”
“Oh, goodness, I couldn’t!” Aziraphale says.
“Why not?” Crowley tugs on her bonnet and begins tying the ribbon. “You adore books.”
“Exactly! What if there was a customer? Oh, I couldn’t bear to part with them.”
“Mm.” Crowley shrugs, stepping around the couch. She spots the stains both she and Aziraphale left—generous, both of them, darkening the fabric in two great patches. She snaps her fingers, and the couch is pristine. “You wouldn’t actually have to sell any books, of course, if you didn’t want to. And it would be a great cover for acquiring rare volumes.”
A light sparks in Aziraphale’s eyes. “It would, wouldn’t it?”
“It really is a great space.” Crowley casts one last glance around, then crosses the room to Aziraphale. She stands close enough to touch, but balls her hands into fists at her sides—her control has returned, now that both of them are dressed. “Thank you for a fantastic lesson, angel.”
Two spots of pink appear on Aziraphale’s cheeks, but she smiles. “It was truly my pleasure. Truly.”
“I’ve got to go sort out some business,” Crowley says, thinking of the roomful of souls she let slip away today, “but I could come ’round on Sunday for dinner, if you’re free.”
Aziraphale smiles. “That would be lovely. I look forward to it.”
“See you then.”
Crowley takes her leave, and as she steps out into the street, she reflects on the day. Sure, she’ll have to come up with a whole new plan to get Hell off her back, find a new bunch of souls to tempt to ruin. But it doesn’t feel like a loss, not really—not when she gained so much with Aziraphale after.
No, on balance, Crowley feels she’s rather come out on top today.
She whistles happily as she walks away, looking forward to Sunday dinner more than ever.