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Aziraphale hated these sorts of parties.
Well, he hated most sorts of parties, to be frank, and avoided them wherever possible. He'd have avoided this one, had the legate he'd been sent to influence not proven infuriatingly elusive. Every time Aziraphale had tried to meet with him the legate had been ill, or urgently called away on business, or otherwise indisposed.
And so Aziraphale had been forced to take desperate measures. He tried not to pay attention to the other guests as he wound his way across the room in search of his target. This early in the evening, of course, many of them were still mingling with feigned ease, playing the intricate games of power that high society so enjoyed. Others, though, had skipped the pleasantries entirely and already moved on to more…concupiscent activities.
Not that Aziraphale was against such things, of course. Free will was a wonderful thing, and human bodies were capable of such many and varied pleasures that it was, if anything, a wonder that they got anything else done. He'd even experimented himself, somewhat, alone in his bed at night.
No, disapproval of the acts wasn't the reason Aziraphale hated these parties. It was the hot, twisting lurch in his stomach, the smell of sex and lust and sweat that lingered on his clothes and on his skin, despite only ever being a passive observer. The constant reminder that he wanted things that an angel categorically should not want.
Finding the legate was proving to be more difficult than Aziraphale had anticipated. While he had seen portraits of the man, he was notoriously vain, and Aziraphale suspected that the artists had been well compensated to highlight his more attractive features. He had to resort to actually asking somebody to point him out, and was directed vaguely across the room.
Lord, he hoped the legate was still politicking and not…anything else. Aziraphale did not relish the thought of interrupting, nor of standing on the sidelines, awaiting the legate's satisfaction.
Further polite enquiry, however, directed him to a man standing at the centre of a small group of hangers-on, all of whom were currently being ignored by the legate in favour of a tall, slender woman with elaborately curled, flame-red hair—
Oh.
Oh, no.
He should have expected it, really. They'd been running into each other with increasing frequency lately; ever since the Crucifixion, their respective masters had shown an increasing interest in the Empire. And it was hardly a surprise that he hadn't sensed his demonic counterpart, what with the general miasma of sin in this place.
Aziraphale's internal debate on his next course of action was still raging when the legate placed his hand on Crowley's arm.
Something inside Aziraphale flared hot, several emotions battling for supremacy inside him, none of them suitable for an angel of the Lord. Before he could even begin to untangle them, he found himself stepping forwards, shouldering rudely past the rest of the group to stand beside Crowley.
"Fancy meeting you here!" said Aziraphale brightly, sparing only the slightest glance for the man he should be trying to talk to.
"Aziraphale?" Crowley turned, removing her arm from the legate's grasp as she did so. "What an unexpected pleasure!"
"Unexpected indeed," Aziraphale agreed. "And perfect timing, really. I had been wondering when we might finish our last conversation? I feel we were quite rudely interrupted at the time, and I'd be interested to know the rest of your thoughts."
Crowley's brown furrowed briefly in confusion—and well it might, since their last conversation had, in fact, meandered its way through several bottles of rather good wine and ended with them both passed out on the floor of Crowley's lodgings—but then her eyes, only partially obscured by the smoked glass she'd taken to wearing, flickered to the legate.
"I'm sure we'll have time for that later," she said. "I was rather in the middle of—"
"I'm afraid I must insist," Aziraphale found himself saying, his own hand reaching for Crowley's arm. He smiled mildly at the legate, all thoughts of influencing the man fled. "I'm sure we won't be long."
He'd dragged Crowley maybe a dozen paces away when the reality of what he'd just done hit him, and he dropped her arm like he'd been burned.
"Lord, Crowley, I'm sorry, I—"
"What do you think you're doing, angel?" Crowley hissed, yanking her arm back and rubbing at where his hand had been, as if she were the one burned, though he hadn't been that rough. "I'm working here."
"Thwarting you, obviously. Since we both seem to have been given the same assignment."
"The legate?"
"The legate," Aziraphale confirmed. Crowley snorted.
"Good luck with that one. I've had orders to corrupt him but, as you can see, it's hardly required. One whisper in his ear at the right moment, and he'd have been throwing money wherever I asked."
"You would have…you were going to sleep with him?"
Crowley face pinched, her voice turned sharp. "Not a lot of sleeping planned here, angel."
"You know what I mean!"
"Fine! Yes, yes, I'd have fucked him. If I had to. To get the job done. Would hardly be the first time."
"You shouldn't have to do that."
Crowley's laugh this time was bitter. "It's just sex, angel. It's even good, sometimes. Look at them, they're having fun."
Aziraphale chanced a look at the nearest group of people; one man lay on his back on a lectus, thrusting roughly upwards into a woman's mouth as another man pounded into her from behind. There was one of those hot feelings again, quickly stamped down.
"That's not the point, Crowley. Do you want to…to…with him?"
"Not particularly, no. Guy seems like a prat."
"Then don't."
"It's not that easy, angel," Crowley began, but Aziraphale was no longer listening. An idea had seized him, mad, desperate, foolhardy. He grabbed Crowley's wrist again and pulled her towards the nearest unoccupied lectus. He sat down, leaning against the wall behind him, and guiding her to stand in front of him.
"Aziraphale, what—"
"As I said, I'm thwarting you." He'd never touched her so much before, not in four thousand years. It was difficult to convince himself to let go of her wrist. "Will you sit?"
Crowley looked down, considering. Aziraphale had planted himself in the centre of the lectus, and while there was room on either side of him it would hardly accommodate Crowley's rather idiosyncratic manner of sitting.
"What exactly is your plan here, angel?"
"If the legate believes you have been…otherwise engaged in more than idle conversation, surely he will turn his attentions elsewhere. And while we could, if you prefer, spend the remainder of the evening playing tug-of-war with the man's immortal soul, it will end in a draw just the same if we decide not to play."
"What if I enjoy the game for its own sake?" Crowley asked. "No matter what the outcome?"
"Then by all means, we can play. Lady's choice."
"Oh, I'm no lady, angel." Crowley hiked up the hem of her tunic, and placed first one bared knee, then the other, either side of Aziraphale's hips on the lectus. There was nowhere that they were touching, not quite, though a casual onlooker wouldn't be able to tell past the layers of fabric. Aziraphale could feel the heat radiating from her body, his own burning hot in response.
Aziraphale leant forwards until his lips hovered a hair's breadth from Crowley's neck, from the pounding of her pulse. Was it always that fast? Aziraphale's own heart was certainly beating with a fierceness it had never had before, blood rushing with new purpose towards his groin.
"Is this convincing enough, do you think?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.
"You should probably, I dunno, touch me some more," Crowley said, her own voice sounding slightly strangled. "And we should, er, move?"
Oh, Lord, moving. Rocking, thrusting, bouncing, grinding. Crowley was right, Aziraphale knew how this was done.
Touching first, though. Hesitantly, Aziraphale placed one hand on Crowley's silk-covered thigh, and the other on the bare skin of her arm.
"Is this all right?" he whispered. He could almost feel Crowley swallow.
"Aziraphale, you don't…you don't have to do this. This was a stupid idea, I'm sorry. I can't make you—"
"Make me?" Aziraphale drew back to look her in the eye. "Are you forgetting whose idea this was, Crowley?"
"Just because you were being all...all stupidly noble and chivalrous. They haven't even invented chivalry yet, angel, you're way ahead of times. I know you don't want to have to…to touch me. I could see how much you hated it, just holding my arm—"
"Crowley!" Her mouth snapped shut in surprise. "I didn't hate touching you. I don't." Very slowly, Aziraphale moved his hand, dragging it slowly up her arm, over the curve of her shoulder, until his palm was cradling her face, the sharp line of her jaw. "I don't," he repeated, softer.
"What are you doing?" Crowley asked again, a tremor in her voice.
In a daze, Aziraphale ran his thumb over her bottom lip and found himself leaning forwards.
"Thwarting you."
He'd spent a lot of time imagining kissing Crowley, in the long, lonely hours when most of humanity was asleep, in the decades and centuries between their encounters. True, Crowley's corporation was male in most of those fancies, but Aziraphale hardly found her current arrangement any less alluring.
She was still at first, unbreathing as Aziraphale's lips brushed against hers, unresisting but unresponsive. It was only when Aziraphale began to pull away, horror slowly dawning, that she came to life again, clutching at his shoulders to keep him still and chasing his lips with her own.
Aziraphale groaned into the kiss and pulled her closer; the hand on her jaw sliding up into her intricately styled hair, the other moving to her back and bringing their chests flush together.
The battle inside him had come to an end, anger and jealousy falling in defeat, lust the all-powerful victor, no longer bound deep down and ignored.
"Is this convincing enough?" Crowley teased, pulling back breathlessly. She ground down into his lap, eyes widening as she felt the shape and heat of him. "Fuck, angel. That's not very fashionable of you, is it? Thought you'd have gone all restrained and civilised."
"You have always criticised my sense of fashion," Aziraphale pointed out. Lord, he wanted to kiss her again, not just her mouth but every inch of her skin. And he wanted her to grind down on him again, and oh, so many other things.
"You're still wearing a toga, Aziraphale, who does that anymore? This is an orgy, not a gathering of the Senate."
"There's no harm in being well-dressed, Crowley. It show…ah…moral fortitude and—"
"Moral fortitude?" Crowley laughed. She ground down again, slowly and deliberately, on Aziraphale's erection. "Not much of that going around here, angel."
"No," Aziraphale groaned in agreement. His hands went to her waist, now, encouraging her keep moving, just like that. He gave in to impulse and licked a stripe up her neck, kissed the swirling black snake below her ear. Her skin tasted of smoke and salt and sweetness, and Aziraphale wanted to devour it.
The fibulae holding her tunic in place were elaborate golden coils, forming the same serpentine shape as the mark Aziraphale was still tracing with his tongue. Luckily, despite the ornamentation, the fastenings themselves were simple enough to be opened with trembling hands and only a fraction of Aziraphale's attention. Just the one side, at first, the black silk slipping from Crowley's shoulder, exposing one small, rounded breast.
Aziraphale hesitated, surprised at his own boldness. Kissing was one thing—one delicious, forbidden thing—and the way Crowley was rolling her body in his lap was entirely her doing, but this…
"Angel, stop gawping at it and put your mouth to good use." She grabbed his hair and tried to push his head towards her breast, but Aziraphale caught it at the wrist and held them both still.
"Say please."
"Ngk…fuck…please."
Aziraphale acquiesced to the press of her hand; she was enough taller than he that, with the added height from being sat in his lap, he barely needed to dip his head to find her nipple with his mouth, to feel it stiffen and swell under his tongue. Crowley groaned and rocked down harder, chasing the friction, her fingers still tight in Aziraphale's hair.
It was all quite delicious, but it was far from enough to sate Aziraphale's growing hunger. The other fibula fell to the floor with a clatter that they both ignored as Aziraphale tasted her other breast, plucking and twisting at the nipple his mouth had abandoned with the fingers of one hand.
His other hand found the place where the silk of Crowley's tunic was bunched up around her knees—a terrible thing to do to such fine fabric, but hardly the worst thing Aziraphale wanted to do to it—and crept up under it, his fingers walking slowly up the soft skin of her thigh.
"You appear to be missing something," Aziraphale growled against Crowley's breast, tracing a single finger over her the jut of her hipbone.
"I came to an orgy, angel. Underwear isn't really a—oh, fuck."
"I presume an oh, fuck was exactly what you were here to achieve, dear girl." Good Lord, she was wet. Aziraphale hadn't done more than the lightest, fleeting touch, but his fingers had come away damp.
"Good thing you—ngk!—were here to thwart me, huh?"
"As you say." Aziraphale forced himself to keep things slow, to maintain a gentle exploration, even if that did involve the occasional brush against particularly sensitive parts. Crowley whimpered and tried to chase his fingers.
"Patience, demon," Aziraphale intoned, the angelic resonance creeping into his voice entirely by accident. He opened his mouth again to apologise, but oh, that wasn't fear that had Crowley trembling, was it? Or if it was, that fear was only feeding the arousal that rushed through her body and coated Aziraphale's hand.
Resisting temptation had never been Aziraphale's strong point, and he wanted so desperately to feel Crowley around him. The broken noise she made at the first breach of his finger was enough to banish any lingering worries—or indeed, any other thoughts at all.
It was at this point—with his mouth working a mark into Crowley's collarbone, one hand idly fondling a breast and the other curling inside her cunt—that a slave approached, bearing cups of wine. To move either of his hands to take a cup seemed impossible, but Crowley smiled and thanked the boy with a politeness that Aziraphale rarely saw extended to slaves, taking a cup and sending him on his way.
"Thirsty, angel?" Crowley murmured, before taking a long drink herself. Aziraphale watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed, and his own mouth went dry.
"Parched."
Crowley grinned wickedly, and gently pulled on Aziraphale's hair until his head tilted back. Then she put the cup to his lips and tipped it, letting the richly-spiced wine flood his mouth and drip down his chin before taking it away again.
Aziraphale hadn't even finished swallowing when she leant forward and licked the spill of wine from his neck, his face, chasing the ruby drops back to his mouth with her tongue. He needed little encouragement to draw her back into a kiss, deep and filthy, to give up his hand's place on her chest to tangle in her hair again and guide the movement of their mouths together.
The tiniest hint of a miracle loosened her hair from its elaborate style, letting scarlet curls tumble down over her bare shoulders as Aziraphale pressed a second finger inside her.
Forget the mess they'd made of her silks; Aziraphale's plain white linen toga, hideously unfashionable as it was, was damp from the slick that spilled with each thrust of his fingers, and the subligaculum underneath his own tunic was soaked from the sympathetic leaking of his cock. And three layers of fabric between them was three layers too many. Aziraphale wanted to feel all of Crowley's skin against his, wanted them pressed together from hip to shoulder, wanted to feel that damp, clutching heat around his hard and aching cock instead of his fingers.
Somebody would notice if all their clothes just miraculously disappeared though—or, perhaps not, given the general state of distraction in the room—so a little finesse was in order, if Aziraphale could keep his focus for long enough.
The subligaculum was easy enough, already out of sight; Aziraphale sent it into the ether. Another, very minor, miracle moved his tunic and toga up around his waist, so Crowley's thighs were now pressed against his.
It was all greedy, grasping hands after that. Crowley pulled at Aziraphale's toga until the careful drape of it unravelled and it slid off onto the lectus. She lifted her arms to let Aziraphale yank, one-handed, at her tunic, pulling it finally over her head and leaving her naked in his lap, his other hand still busy between her legs.
"Aziraphale, if you don't hurry up and stick that unfashionably large cock in me soon I—"
"You'll what?" Aziraphale crooked his fingers and found her clitoris with his thumb, shutting Crowley up rather effectively. A trick he'd have to remember for later…not that he could let this happen again of course. "You'll be forced to ride my fingers like this all night? Take what pleasure I'll allow you, and no more?"
"Where d'you learn—nghhh yes, like that angel—to talk like that?"
"This is not my first orgy, my dear. There is little use, after all, in trying to unearth the goodness in those already brought to the light. While I have never been a participant, of course, I have seen and heard a great deal."
Aziraphale finally took pity on her—or perhaps on himself and his throbbing prick—and withdrew his fingers. They slid out easily, though Crowley's cunt clenched around them in a futile attempt to keep them there, and they came out soaked, and, well, Aziraphale always had been a little orally fixated. Keen to try new flavours. And this flavour…Aziraphale groaned around the fingers in his mouth, his eyes closing in satisfaction.
"Angel!" Crowley whined, reaching between them and wrapping a hand around Aziraphale's cock. "I promise you can have as much of me as you like. Later. Please."
Oh, God, later. Aziraphale wanted to spend the whole night between Crowley's thighs, fucking her, tasting her, finding out exactly how much pleasure he could wring from her body before she could take no more.
Oh, God, later. When the reality of their situation would reassert itself, and they would go their separate ways, when they would have to decide what this meant for them, going forwards.
But that was later. This was now, with Crowley guiding his cock between her legs, Aziraphale's hips rising to meet her. This was soft and tight and hot, and lips pressing messily together, tinged with wine and Crowley's arousal, teeth clacking against each other, Crowley's breathless laugh into Aziraphale's mouth. This was soft skin under Aziraphale's palms, a breast, a hip, a buttock; and long fingers gripping his shoulders, tearing the fibulae from his tunic so it, too, fell around his waist. This was the slight swell of Crowley's chest crushed against his, sweat-slicked and burning hot and heaving, hands and mouths clumsy and everywhere, grunts and moans and whimpers.
This was forgetting all their responsibilities, forgetting about right and wrong and whose side was whose, ignoring the consequences in favour of the hot, electric pressure building in their spines.
Crowley's hand snaked between them, reaching between her legs as she trembled on the edge of a precipice, but Aziraphale again wrapped his own hand around her wrist and dragged it away, yanked her head back with his other hand in her hair.
"Stay your hand, demon," Aziraphale ordered, the divine resonance fully intentional this time. Crowley made a beautifully broken noise, her whole body going wonderfully tense and trembling, and Aziraphale thrust up into her wildly.
"Angel…you…nnnggghhhhh…glowing…" Crowley moaned, before words deserted her entirely.
Aziraphale spared his skin the briefest of glances. It was glowing, the divinity he'd pushed out of his mouth making its way through his body as well, not quite enough yet for humans and their terrible eyesight to notice but steadily building alongside that boiling heat in his belly. And still, it wasn't worth more than a second's attention, because Crowley's mouth was falling open, her whole face slack with pleasure, and nothing in the world could be as important as bringing her through it and safely out the other side.
When Crowley went limp, falling forward to bury her face in Aziraphale's shoulder, he finally let go. The luminescence of his skin was visible even through his eyelids as, with a last handful of erratic thrusts, his cock emptied into the wonderful heat of Crowley's body.
"Convincing enough?" Crowley asked.
"Oh, do be quiet."
"Mmm. Make me."
Aziraphale knew what she was asking for, but still, he hesitated, as good sense began to return. This wasn't something they could do, wasn't something they could have. Even if this incident went unnoticed, the risk was too great…
"Overthink later, angel." Crowley said, a hint of despair in her voice, because she knew as well as Aziraphale what had to happen. "Just…kiss me. Please?"
So Aziraphale did.