Aziraphale flashed his invitation as he walked into the already noisy ballroom. The place was full of well-dressed men and women, many of the men in kilts, most of the women in long, elegant dresses. He sighed, adjusted his kilt and moved into the throng of people, looking for his quarry. A quick blessing and he could go back to his inn and read a book.
To his surprise, he spotted a familiar shock of red hair engaged in conversation with a Duke. Aziraphale certainly didn’t feel jealousy as he looked at the pair. Crowley was in a dress that was not actually black, but a deep blue, all satin and velvet. The broad skirt had tiny silver accents that twinkled like stars. She was beautiful, of course, standing elegantly, hair perfectly coiffed and dark glasses perched on her nose.
Aziraphale tore his gaze away but felt Crowley glance in his direction. He bit his lip and took a few steps towards the punchbowl. Yes, certainly needed to get this done and over with.
“Good evening,” said Crowley at his elbow, nearly making him jump.
Aziraphale took a breath and smiled at Crowley. “Hello. Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Crowley managed to make a shrug look elegant. “Just a bit of business. Assume you’re here for the same?”
“Of course,” said Aziraphale, handing her a cup of punch and taking one of his own.
Crowley took a sip, looking over Aziraphale. “I think I’ve missed seeing your calves.”
Aziraphale certainly didn’t blush. “Ah, well, thank you. If you’ll excuse me I need to go find this person in need of a blessing. I’m sure you have someone to tempt.”
Crowley’s tongue wet her lips and she leaned into his ear. “Meet me in the garden in twenty minutes,” she whispered.
Aziraphale hadn't produced a blessing that quickly since 1634. In fifteen minutes he was outside, taking a breath of fresh air. Of course, Crowley was already waiting, fanning herself slowly, standing at the balustrade and looking out at the night.
Straightening his clothes again from habit, Aziraphale walked to her and offered his arm. “Would you care to take a stroll?”
“Certainly,” said Crowley, accepting his arm and letting Aziraphale guide her down the stairs and out into the garden.
They passed a few other strolling couples. Aziraphale was glad he’d been here before because he already knew where to turn to take them farther from the garden and closer to the stand of trees and the false ruins that decorated the edge of the forest.
Behind the folly was a bench and an open area that was often used for picnics. They moved into the space and Crowley leaned down to kiss him.
Aziraphale sighed against her lips. Crowley took his hand and led him onto the grass, moving with sinuous grace.
“You’re beautiful,” murmured Aziraphale.
“So are you,” said Crowley softly, as if the night could hide away her words. She wrapped her arms around Aziraphale and kissed him again, sliding her tongue against his lips until Aziraphale gave him entrance.
Aziraphale moaned softly. Seemed Crowley wished to lead. He wasn’t going to argue, especially not as Crowley’s hands slid underneath his kilt.
Crowley broke the kiss to smile wickedly at him. “Wearing it like a true Scotsman, are you?”
“Only proper,” said Aziraphale, rocking into his touch.
Crowley nibbled on his ear as she teased Aziraphale, fingers suddenly slick. Crowley wandered between genders far more than Aziraphale did, but he never minded when the demon decided to take what she wanted, no matter the form.
“No one will hear us,” murmured Crowley, pressing two digits into him.
Aziraphale gasped, rocking up on his toes and clutching Crowley’s arms. “More,” moaned Aziraphale. Crowley rewarded him with another finger.
Crowley withdrew her hand and Aziraphale gasped at the loss. But then Crowley was guiding him down, onto his hands and knees in the dewy grass, kilt rucked up to his waist. He could hear Crowley adjusting her dress and getting clothes out of the way.
Then she was folding over Aziraphale, pressing in, the delightful miracle that was Crowley’s body knowing exactly what her angel craved.
Aziraphale braced himself, moaning softly, moving with Crowley. A variation on the same dance they’d been performing across centuries and borders, human-drawn and otherwise.
“I want you to come untouched,” murmured Crowley.
“You wicked creature,” muttered Aziraphale.
Crowley grasped his hair and pulled, forcing his head back. “Yes,” she growled in his ear.
Aziraphale shuddered, close already.
Crowley let go of his hair to grab his hips. If he were human Aziraphale would be bruised, but as it was, the touch was hot and grounding. No matter what liquor or how much of it they drank, nothing could be as intoxicating as Crowley.
With a shift of those flexible hips, Crowley struck the exact right spot in Aziraphale. Crying out, he came, Crowley’s name on his lips, sweet as the finest wine.
Crowley doubled her efforts, wringing another cry from Aziraphale, chasing her own climax. Aziraphale rested on his elbows, eyes screwed shut, soul aching for its other half. Surely God had made Aziraphale for Crowley, and Crowley for Aziraphale.
Groaning, Crowley came, muffling the cries against Aziraphale’s shoulder, even here unwilling to fully voice her pleasures. Aziraphale squeezed around her, shivering in the moonlight.
After some time, their breathing slowed. Crowley pulled back. Aziraphale ungracefully rolled to the side and onto his back, opening his eyes to look up at the stars. As always the stars reminded him of Crowley and the touch of grace the demon kept so carefully hidden, even from themself.
“We should head back,” said Crowley, dress perfectly back in place. She offered Aziraphale a hand up. He accepted it and brushed off his kilt.
“I’m staying at the Rusted Sparrow,” said Aziraphale, not wanting the evening to end quite so quickly.
Crowley took his arm again. “As am I, now,” she said, smiling, her luggage no doubt demonically miracled into the room next to Aziraphale’s.
“Well then, if our business is concluded, perhaps we should retire for the evening,” said Aziraphale, looking at the bright lights of the house and wanting to hide away in the darkness with Crowley until dawn.
“I think perhaps we should,” said Crowley. “I need to wrap up one more thing here. Meet you at the inn?”
Aziraphale turned and took her hand, kissing the back of it. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, with more than a hint of promise.
Crowley bit her lip and swayed her way back into the light of the party. Aziraphale made a few adjustments to his clothes, then went to call his carriage. The evening wasn’t quite over yet, and the appetizer had whetted his appetite rather than sated it. He hoped Crowley didn’t take long.