Work Text:
hospitality
from the Latin hospes , meaning “host”, “guest”, or “stranger”
from the Latin hostis , meaning “stranger” or “enemy”
“Would you care for a drink?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley pulls up to the kerb. “I’ve still got a bottle or two of that brandy you’re so fond of.”
It’s not like Aziraphale to offer up the hard stuff to start with, and Crowley cuts him a sharp glance. “From the ‘50s?” she asks, tapping her perfect nails against the steering in a flawless tattoo.
Aziraphale looks out the windows to hide his sudden flush, caught out by Crowley’s perceptive stare. “Of course from the 50s, I did say it was your favorite, didn’t I?”
Crowley smiles indulgently and doesn’t point out that Aziraphale had not said anything about a favorite. It’s not like him to get so flustered over a simple invitation, not anymore. She reaches across the space between them to tuck a glowing curl behind his ear.
“Angel, how often do I say no to you?” she asks, low and sincere and so unbearably fond.
Aziraphale turns his face into her hand, pressing his cheek into the curve of her cupped palm. “Rarely,” he admits, still a little flushed and off-kilter. He must be up to something, and she wonders if tonight’s the night.
“I want you to take advantage of me,” Crowley says, not careful enough with his mouth in the hazy afterglow of a truly satisfying fuck. He feels Aziraphale tense beneath him, and he nuzzles beneath the angel’s soft chin. “Not for real, I mean. Just pretend.”
Aziraphale relaxes slightly. They’ve dipped their toes into playing pretend a few times now. “If there anything specific you’d want me to do?”
Crowley shakes his head slightly, making Aziraphale’s teeth click together at the movement. “Anything you want to, angel.”
“Anything?” Aziraphale presses, but so gently, so carefully. Crowley nods. “Surely there’s something you wouldn’t want?”
“No fire,” Crowley grumbles into the skin of his neck, where dull pinpoints of pain warn of bruises left by earlier activities. “Let’s not talk about the particulars tonight, love,” he sighs, somehow burrowing deeper into the bed, and Aziraphale. “I’ll make you a list tomorrow, promise.”
Anticipation creeps up Crowley’s spine, like a slow-growing vine, and she leans across the space to press a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s utterly tempting mouth. “Let’s see about those drinks then?” she prompts, knowing full well that if they don’t leave the Bentley soon, they’ll be making a mess of her upholstery.
Aziraphale’s laugh is bright, and awkward from nerves rather than any real fear. How the sound of it lifts her heart. She smiles so hard it hurts as they climb out of the Bentley together, and wrestles it back under control as she follows Aziraphale up the bookshop steps.
Ever the gentleman, Aziraphale holds the door for her. “After you, foul temptress,” he teases, flatterer. She does not see the eager, nervous smile he flashes at her back as she steps inside.
“Please, have a seat,” he offers, taking Crowley’s coat with gentle hands, and a few well-placed touches on the back of her neck. He is pleased to hear her breath catch and to feel the hairs at the nape of her neck stand up beneath the pads of his fingers. “I’ll fetch the drinks.”
While Aziraphale is collecting glasses, he hears Crowley call for him, shrill and slightly alarmed. A little thrill runs through him, and he honestly cannot be sure if it's excitement he feels, or fear, so long they've gone hand in hand for him.
"Yes, darling?" he answers the call, as if nothing at all is amiss.
"Aziraphale, why am I trapped on your sofa?" Crowley demands, sounding furious, and beneath that, truly frightened.
He darts out of the kitchen, just to check everything is alright. The drinks he left behind, afraid to drop them in his hurry. "Are you alright, my dear?" he asks, not having to play up his concern.
When Crowley turns toward him, wide-eyed and trembling, Aziraphale doesn't hesitate to drop to his knees at her feet.
"Oh, Crowley, it's mine, I put a devil's trap beneath the cushions and I–"
It's all tumbling out of him in a rush, while he tries to pick apart the trap with shaking fingers and a shaken will. He doesn't notice how the tension melts from her the instant he says ' it's mine '.
"You could have warned me," she says gently, running gentle fingers through his hair and halting his poor attempts at undoing the spell.
"I thought you wanted it to be a surprise," Aziraphale pouts, feeling very disappointed to have misread the situation so drastically.
"I did," Crowley laughs, and Aziraphale feels relief soaking into his bones at the sound. He can't have done something terrible, not if Crowley's laughing like that.
"Even though I suspected you were up to something," she leans down to kiss his cheek, "it was a bit much to find myself trapped and you nowhere to be seen."
"I do apologize, Crowley," Aziraphale insists, "I'll be more careful in the future." He rests his head in Crowley's lap for a moment. "Do you want to stop? Try again some other time?"
Crowley hums thoughtfully, still stroking his downsoft hair. "I think I want to go on, if you'll set me free first?" As if there were ever any question.
"Of course," Aziraphale says vehemently, deftly picking apart the trap he'd set now that he's no longer so shaky.
Crowley rolls her shoulders and sighs contentedly once freed. "Much better… Would you like to pick up where we left off? I believe you lured me in here with the promise of some very old brandy."
"Yes, I suppose I did," Aziraphale admits, glancing up at Crowley to check in before getting to his feet. She looks perfectly content, sprawled on his sofa like it belongs to her (which it has, really, for more years than Aziraphale cares to count), so he disappears once more into the kitchen for the promised drinks.
While re-collecting the drinking supplies, Aziraphale quickly reviews the parameters Crowley had given him for this encounter.
‘Just, you know, use me. Take what you want from me. Like I don’t have any say in the matter.’ They hadn’t quite gotten there yet, but he’d meant to begin with the trap. Which had clearly been too much for Crowley, despite having been enthusiastically bound before. Perhaps it was the nature of the trap itself, or that she wanted to feel like she could escape, if she wished.
‘No fire.’ Done! Aziraphale’s fireplace has never known such disuse, and he’d even avoided lighting any candles to set the mood.
‘No cutting.’ Another one Crowley had asked for before, but Aziraphale could understand not wanting to get blood on her lovely dress. Whether or not they could miracle any stains away, they’d never truly be gone.
And so he goes over the bulletpoints of their conversation in his head, stretching out his awareness to check on Crowley. She remains on the sofa, as relaxed as she ever is.
Aziraphale returns from the kitchen at last, this time with liquor and glasses in hand, he pauses a moment in the doorway to take in the view. Crowley, sprawled more artfully now across his well-cared-for and well-used sofa, her dignity preserved only by the very restrictive nature of the black dress, silken fabric shot through with gold, that clings to her legs all the way to just past her knees.
The shape of it only adds to the tempting sway of Crowley's hips; but more than the tight skirt, or the plunging neckline that would have been beyond indecent if Crowley were any less flat-chested, it is the touch of gold that will not stop drawing his eye.
She wears a golden chain Aziraphale had gifted her, and the sight of her twisting it around her long fingers, unaware of his gaze, makes his mouth go dry.
Aziraphale swallows thickly, to little effect, and crosses the room. Crowley looks up at his approach, and watches in curious silence as he pours just one glass. She can't help but wonder what will happen next.
He takes the first sip from the deep, round glass, slowly savoring it as he looks down at Crowley through heavy-lidded eyes.
"Just as lovely as I remembered," Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley flushes hotly. He could be speaking about the brandy, of course, but Crowley knows better.
She also knows that if she protests the compliment, as she is wont to do, he will deny it, and call her vain. She licks her lips coyly, the barest flash of a pink tongue meant as a request and a temptation both.
Aziraphale offers the glass to her, but does not relinquish his hold on the base, even when her hands have wrapped securely around the vessel itself. "Would you like a taste, pretty one?" he asks, a sly smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
Crowley shoots him a sharp look and lets her fingers press sharply into his as she rises up from her enticing slouch to fit her unnaturally red lips around the rim of the snifter.
Aziraphale tips a small swallow against her lips, and she gulps at it greedily. He chides her for her impatience. Such good things are to be savored , and enjoyed with all the respect they are due.
He lets her have another, and another, and another. So long as she behaves. Until he tips the snifter up one last time and they both realize, with frustrated groans, that the glass has been emptied, and they too entranced by the ritual of it to notice.
Aziraphale leans down to whisper in her ear, and Crowley shivers with the closeness of it. The heat of his breath stirring her long hair and warming her neck. "Will you let me have you now, my sweet?" he murmurs, touching her cheek.
He lifts a miraculously refilled glass into her line of vision, his voice a little louder than before, and much firmer. "Or do you require more persuasion?"
Crowley cannot immediately answer, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she tries not to squirm under Aziraphale's imperious stare. She moans low in her throat, mouth still glued shut, as he takes a handful of her rust-red curls in hand and tugs .
Her eyebrows shoot up, and her jaw works, but no sound comes out. Aziraphale lets go of her hair and takes a moment to stroke her cheek gently before plucking her glasses from her face.
"There," he says soothingly, "isn't that better?" Crowley gives the smallest of nods. "Now I can see your beautiful eyes."
Crowley's eyes slam shut, and her mouth drops open in another moan, sharp with emotion and desire both. Aziraphale tsks and lifts her head with a firm touch beneath her chin.
"You haven't answered me yet, love. What will you give me in return for what I've given you tonight?" He steps closer; until her thighs are trapped between his knees, and the point of her chin rests on his belt buckle.
Crowley turns her head and takes his thumb into her mouth, fumbling with his belt as soon as her chin and his hand are out of the way.
She sucks hard, once, when Aziraphale's belt comes undone in her hands, then pulls away to breathe a needy "please " into the swell of his stomach.
The brandy glass returns to the coffee table for safekeeping, so that Aziraphale can sink both hands into Crowley's firelight hair. "You know what to do, don't you?" he murmurs, encouraging, as she fumbles his trousers open. "Wicked Jezebel."
Crowley whimpers at the name, pulling Aziraphale's half hard cock from his trousers and guiding it into her mouth with trembling hands. She lets it rest on her tongue, mouth still and slack, until Aziraphale uses his hold on her hair to pull her down onto it fully.
Swallowing around it, Crowley fabricates a gag reflex and chokes on the pressure in her throat. Aziraphale seems pleased with this development, she can feel his cock swelling in her mouth and throat, and she struggles to make her whimpers sound pained rather than pleasured.
"Come now, you foul temptress," Aziraphale scolds her, rocking her back and forth on his cock, ever so slightly, by his grip in her hair. "You owe me something, don't you agree? Or did you think my generosity was free?"
Crowley lifts her hands to press them into Aziraphale's hips, digging her fingers in as if trying to push him away and pull him closer at the same time. She swallows around him; has to, or else she really will choke on her own saliva.
"Don't you want my cock, you greedy thing?" Aziraphale urges, pulling back and thrusting roughly into her mouth. "Well, you'll have it anyway," he grunts, holding Crowley's head firmly in place as he begins to fuck her mouth with abandon.
For her part, Crowley holds tight to Aziraphale's hips, keeps her mouth slick with spit and her jaw slack as he uses her mouth thoughtlessly. He seems to grow and grow inside her; until her jaw aches with the girth of him, and he's fucking her throat just as much as her mouth.
Her throat will be raw from his carelessness. She moans at the thought.
Aziraphale chuckles darkly. "There she is," he says, pulling back so that the head of his cock rests on her swollen lower lip. Red from use now where the red of her lipstick has chafed off. "My very own whore of Babylon."
Even knowing she's meant to be hesitant, and resisting, Crowley closes her lips around Aziraphale's cockhead, and sucks hard at the tip.
"Yes, just like that, you filthy demon," Aziraphale praises and condemns her, sliding his hands from her hair. One moves to grip her jaw, and the other wraps around the delicate column of her neck.
With no more warning than that, Aziraphale fucks back into her throat with a vicious thrust. Beneath his hands he can feel the way he fills her; stretching her mouth wide, how the opening of her throat strains to take him. He wonders if she could bear it, if she were anything other than what she is, while she gags on his cock. He slides his hands back into her hair to hold her steady, so close her nose presses into his skin, until the spasms of her throat stop.
His next thrusts are less brutal, but faster, and she struggles to keep her lips closed around his shaft for some degree of suction. He can't seem to choose whether he'd prefer to hold her still while he thrusts into her willing mouth, or drag her up and down the length of his cock. He alternates between the two often while she tries to grind down into the sofa cushions, unnoticed.
Aziraphale seems beyond the ability to speak, his eyes closed against the sight of her as he chases his orgasm with shallow gasps and low moans.
Crowley removes her hands from his hips, one sliding around to grip the plush curve of his arse cheek. The other she drops to her lap, working it between her thighs. It's no easy task with Aziraphale's knees holding her legs together, and she groans her frustration.
The speed with which Aziraphale uses her mouth quickens again, taking the noise she makes as encouragement rather than frustration.
With her hand wedged between her thighs at last, Crowley presses her fingers against herself, as if she could sink her fingers into her dripping cunt through the material of her dress and her underwear. She grinds against the heel of her hand, and she's so needy her whole body jerks with the shock of it.
The sudden movement makes Aziraphale's cockhead bump roughly against her palate before finding the opening of her throat. She swallows around him as she tries to calm her breathing, and he comes down her throat in thick spurts.
"Such a good whore for me," he murmurs in praise as she works him with her tongue while he comes. Her tongue has gone forked to better wrap around his length and stroke him through it, and she tries to track the time she spends sucking him dry.
Deep in a haze, it's too hard to keep count of the seconds ticking by, or how many times he's flooded her throat and made her swallow. Crowley gives up trying, and loses herself for what seems like a very long time, and yet only seconds. Until she's pulled from the pleasant fog by his voice calling her name.
He's going soft in her mouth, Crowley realizes dimly, and lets him slip from between her lips. She feels fuller than she had after dinner, where Aziraphale had insisted she eat and even fed her from his own fork.
She rests her forehead against Aziraphale's belly, and does not move her hand again for fear she'll come on the spot. "Thank you," she murmurs, and startles to feel the touch of a soft cockhead against her lips again, and then the shape of Aziraphale's fist as he slowly stroked himself.
"Oh, did you think that if you gave me your mouth, and let me come down your throat, I would be satisfied?" Aziraphale asks, harsh and sweet, pumping his fist from the base of his cock to where it rests against her lips.
Crowley wonders if they will be bruised from all this tomorrow. Every bump of his knuckles against them aches now, and she leans into it without speaking. Her silence does not quiet him at all.
"Did you think I wouldn't want more? That I wouldn't be able to take more?" he demands, still working his already-renewed erection, and Crowley whimpers. It's no longer an effort to sound pitiful, and she only hopes he takes it as (feigned) resistance and not the eagerness she knows it to be.
Without warning, Aziraphale ceases touching himself and hauls Crowley to her feet. She sways, surprised, and clings to his lapels for balance. He bats them away and stoops slightly to wrap his arms around her waist, then hefts her over his shoulder.
Ever weak to such displays of strength, Crowley moans and sinks her teeth into Aziraphale's shoulder blade as he starts toward the bedroom. Distantly, it occurs to her that she might get a mouthful of feathers for her efforts, and she switches to kicking ineffectually at him instead, though it is much less satisfying than biting.
Aziraphale gives her a sharp swat in the middle of her arse, pausing when she jerks against him and curls up tight and shaking over his shoulder. He feels her low, trembling moan as much as he hears it, and worries for the state of his coat where she has sunk her fingers into it.
"Did you just-?" he asks, momentarily startled from the scene.
"Yesssss," Crowley hisses into the space between his shoulderblades, absolutely mortified and devastatingly weak in the knees. Thank Someone she doesn't need them at the moment.
"Do you still wish to continue?" Aziraphale asks delicately, one hand slipping beneath the edge of her skirt to squeeze the back of her knee reassuringly. Like she hadn't just come in her pants from a slap on the arse.
"Please, " her answer is muffled against the back of Aziraphale's coat, but he hears it and turns to press a kiss to her hip before starting toward the bedroom again.
As Aziraphale carries Crowley, now laying limp and unresisting across his shoulder, he slips his hand even further up her skirt to stroke her soaked underwear.
"Look at how wet you are for me," he murmurs wonderingly, working a finger past the frilly edge to sink into her. She gasps and jerks against him, clawing at his back.
"It's no use fighting me, sweet harlot," he croons, adding a second finger and sliding them in and out of her cunt with shallow thrusts. "You're aching for my cock, aren't you?"
Crowley is just opening her mouth to snap at him to shut his filthy mouth and get on with it when Aziraphale tosses her down onto the bed.
"How shall I defile you next, foul fiend?" Aziraphale asks with a wicked grin, stripping off his trousers and following her down to the bed.