Work Text:
London, 1922
As the Bentley came to a stop in front of the discreet theater space set back from Green Street, Crowley braked a little too hard, and Aziraphale's arm shot out to keep him from smacking into the wheel.
“Sorry, sorry,” Crowley said, and she tutted.
“Are you having second thoughts, my dear?” she asked her voice soft and sympathetic, but he shook his head.
“Absolutely not. Are you?”
There was a steely glint in her blue eyes, visible even under the dim streetlights, and he shivered with anticipation.
“No.”
“Well. Good. Wait there, I want to hand you out properly.”
“Dear boy.”
He wasn't as neat in his manners as the angel, but he didn't always let the side down. He opened the door and took her hand, helping her out of his car with creditable style, and he turned to toss the keys to a suitably-impressed car hop.
“Bring her back with a single scratch, and I'll see you in Hell,” he said cordially, and instead of fussing at him, Aziraphale only laughed.
“Rotten boy,” she said, amused.
“You're going to want to cut it out with that boy stuff,” Crowley advised her as they went up the stairs. “Once those doors close, I won't like it so well.”
She pinked around the cheeks, and in his mouth, Crowley's teeth didn't grow sharper but it felt like that they did.
Crowley produced their completely legitimately-obtained invitation from his tuxedo jacket at the door, and they were allowed past the silent security into a lobby that was already bustling with well-dressed people and those who were significantly less dressed.
Crowley traded nods with a gray-haired woman in sharp red velvet who had a pair of rather well-matched young things on a lead, and he thought he recognized one of the local alderman, blushing a little as his wife helped him out of his trousers and affixed a rather fetching pair of cat ears to his head.
“Nice crowd,” he said, turning to Aziraphale. “Let's class it up a little, shall we, angel?”
Aziraphale dimpled prettily, but Crowley shook his head.
“Cute, but not what I meant. Off with all of it. Now.”
He still wasn't used to this, command based on location and situation rather than forced through demonic tooth and claw, but he was taking to it like he had taken to wine, to fast cars and bright lights … to a certain angel.
Something went soft and almost dreamy in her eyes as her pale head dipped in a gracious nod. She still wore braids, claiming the new bobs were rather too young for her (“and what the hell isn't, you six-thousand year old antique?”) but her hair pinned up gave him a beautiful view of her soft throat, her round cheeks, the way pale wisps brushed the back of her neck as she turned to summon the coat check girl.
First came off the white fox fur coat, revealing a sparkling light blue dress threaded through with silver stitches. It took Crowley away, how very beautiful she was when she let herself shine, and he hoped he still looked distant and imposing as she reached for the jeweled straps at her shoulders.
The dress was heavy enough that it hit the floor as soon as the straps were undone. He knew her lingerie well enough to raise his eyebrows at the black lacy bra and the black pair of panties that were next to nothing on her generous hips.
“I was thinking of you, sir,” she offered, meltingly sweet, and he allowed himself a brief smile before shaking his head.
“Doesn't mean you get to keep them. Come on. Off.”
Aziraphale caught her breath in pretended nervousness, and Crowley bit the inside of his cheek against a smile as she reached for the clasp at her back with trembling fingers.
The impassive coat check girl offered her a box for her clothing, and then she stood in front of Crowley with her plump hands clasped in front of her, naked except for her diamond earrings, her garnet hairpins, her silk heels, and, most important, the glittering diamond collar at her throat.
“Well, well,” Crowley said, looking her over as if his heart weren't pounding fit to burst in his chest. “Don't you look expensive. Hands down.”
She dropped her hands at once, and Crowley nodded.
“Good girl."
There was still a thrill of danger in approaching her with the delicate gold chain he took from his pocket. He had been a bit of a terror during the war, but she was in a different class entirely, a principality, one of the rooks on Heaven's board- set them on a line and watch them tear the nascent world apart. Now she waited, her head bowed, as he came up to her as if he had every right to do so, as he lifted her chin slightly to connect the lead to her collar with a gentle clink.
He couldn't resist the urge to lean and graze his cheek against her hair, smelling her bath oil and her pomade, getting just a little drunk on the love and the power and her willingness to play with him, to give him any time at all.
“Best girl,” he whispered, and when she smiled, he kissed her, light and fast as if they were at home.
Then Crowley remembered that they were certainly not at home, and he stepped back to give the leash a quick tug.
“A drink,” he said, almost to himself. “We still have a bit before the fun starts, I think.”
The fun had already started for some of the crowd, and Crowley noted with interest an up and coming lawyer on his knees in a shrouded alcove, his lead tethered to a pillar as a growing line of interested parties took their turn. More people were shedding their clothes or putting on outfits that suited them better, and as they navigated the increasingly liberating crowd, Crowley spotted a gilt and velvet throne in one of the alcoves open up, a pair of young women dashing out with their lipstick on each other's bare arms and breasts, giggling madly.
Crowley settled himself on the throne, shutting down the impulse to offer it to the angel, and threw the cushion from the back onto the ground at his side.
“All right, angel. Open up so the nice people can see.”
Aziraphale shivered, a little more realistically this time, and she knelt on the cushion he had provided. After a hesitant moment, one where he headily wondered if he would have to (get to) call over one of the ever-so-handy lads who carried a variety of paddles and crops and canes to use, she took a deep breath and spread her knees wide, settling back on her heels with her spine regally straight and her hands resting palms up on her plush thighs.
Crowley tilted his head, taking in the slightly quickened rise and fall of her breasts, the blush rising from her collarbones and the revealed tuft of pale hair between her legs. He knew if he reached down, he would find her growing wet already, already eager, already longing.
He ignored it, scanning the crowd as he toyed with her lead in his hand. He spotted one of the waistaff running by, one with a white towel rather than the whips, and he gestured him over.
He only half listened as the waiter reeled down the list of drinks, more hungry over the way the man couldn't quite keep his eyes off the angel on display, her bowed head, her legs parted so invitingly. Any more, and it would have been too much and they would have a problem, but looking, that was fine. He blinked when the drinks list recitation came to an end, and shrugged.
“Angel, order me something I'll like.”
“Sir will have a Dubonnet cocktail,” said Aziraphale sweetly. “Only instead of the lemon twist, please add a few mint leaves.”
The waiter looked to Crowley for confirmation, and left at the nod.
There was something about the way he could simply order her to do this or that that made him hungry for more. He knew, regretfully, that they didn't have quite the time to get a line-up going like the lawyer had, not if they wanted to make their seats, but he glanced down at her.
“What would you think if I put you on your knees in front of me?” he asked idly, as if he didn't care at all. “I could get my cock in your mouth, offer up those tight little holes of yours to anyone who came by.”
She drew a quick breath, scared and delighted as she shifted on her knees, but she only lowered her eyes demurely.
“If that would please you, sir.”
“Might do.”
Then the waiter was back with his order, a cloudy velvety red drink in a cocktail glass with, as promised a sprig of mint floating on the surface. He plucked the mint out of the glass, and inspired, traced the scratchy leaf over Aziraphale's nipples, watching the way they tightened before he grew bored and pressed the leaf between her lips.
“Go on. It's a treat for you.”
She took the mint from his hands delicately and he caressed her lower lip with the pad of his finger before returning to his drink.
“You know if I don't like this, I'm going to call over one of those waiters with a leather paddle,” he commented. “I'll bend you straight over this throne and beat you until you cry for making such a poor choice.”
She uttered a soft heartbroken little sound, and Crowley hid his grin in the glass. That was a good game for his desperate angel, scolding and repentance, punishment and forgiveness.
The Dubonnet cocktail was bitter and bright, the taste of quinine mingling pleasantly on his tongue with the sharpness of the mint. She had been right that he would prefer mint over lemon, and he nodded.
“Guess your rear's safe for the moment, angel,” and he caught the very slight wisp of regret over that.
He drained half the cocktail glass and a bit more before he brought it to the angel's lips.
“Here you go, pet.”
She drank in delicate sips before it was gone, and then as Crowley handed the glass off to another waiter, an older man approached with a dignified woman his own age at his side. She was dressed entirely normally except for the plain leather collar at her throat and the linen blindfold covering her eyes.
The man was interested in seeing if perhaps they might swap, or barring that, if their ladies might entertain both of them together.
“She's quite good with her hands and her mouth,” said the man proudly. “I'm sure she could please your darling very well.”
Crowley pretended to think about it, stroking his fingers over Aziraphale's hair. The answer was absolutely no, but he was allowed to play a little.
“What about a phallus?” he asked curiously. “If I wanted her to strap one on between her legs and give my angel a proper seeing to?”
The man shook his head.
“Ah, no, that doesn't please. Perhaps another time, then?”
Crowley saw the man off with a friendly nod, and then he turned to Aziraphale, who was shivering a little.
“Up in front of me,” he said. “Face the crowd, bend over, hands on your knees.”
She did as he said, and he spread her cheeks as she presented them to him, teasing the tight rear hole for a moment before dipping his fingers down to find her soft and wet.
“Oh you liked that, angel,” he murmured, thrusting two fingers briskly into her warmth. “You liked the idea of getting opened up by that woman, split with something just a little big so you'd feel it...”
“No, sir, I don't-” Aziraphale moaned, and then she yelped as Crowley pulled his hand back to land a brisk spank to her rump.
“Don't lie.”
“If you watched, sir. I would like it if you watched.”
Crowley's breath went a little ragged as he imagined Aziraphale on all fours, that dignified lady thrusting into her and making her breasts bounce, her entire body shake, and all the while her gorgeous eyes would be on him, only him-
There was a gentle chime, and Crowley pulled his fingers from her easily, wiping them with a handkerchief.
“Sounds like the show's about to start, angel.”
A gentle tug to the lead got her heeling politely at his side, and they made their way to their box where he unclipped her lead and placed it in his pocket. There was a common floor in front of the orchestra, where everyone was available to everyone, but that was hardly their scene and it wasn't as if money was any object. Crowley got Aziraphale settled on the kneeling bench in front of him and took his own seat, idly running his hand down her soft back. There were old scars under his touch, hidden with a shake of powder, and he traced his fingers along one then another.
“You're so beautiful, angel,” he said softly, and she made a purring sound, leaning on the railing in front of her and putting a little dip in her back so her rear stuck out towards him.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What did you say this was again?” he asked as a X shaped stand was secured to the stage. They usually had decent shows here, but he never really cared what they were.
“The Seduction of Elaine,” Aziraphale said a touch disapprovingly. “A rather loose take on the myth.”
Crowley cracked his palm against her rear, giving her red mark that might bruise a little.
“Ah! Sir. I'm sorry. A rather loose take on the myth, sir.”
“Pedantry will be your great downfall, angel,” said Crowley, amused.
“Yes, sir.”
The play started, a rather gorgeous woman in a white shift brought out on the stage struggling dramatically between two masked men. There was a bit of dialog that stuck not at all, and then she was stripped and lashed to the cross, not facing it, as Crowley had guessed, but facing out.
“Oh poor thing,” Aziraphale whispered, not sounding sorry at all, and when Crowley slid two fingers inside her quim again, he found her wet and clenching.
“Do you really think that?” he inquired. “Do you want to be in her place?”
The man on the stage dressed in some terrible facsimile of thirteenth century armor brandished a cane and then measured it over the bare woman's breasts, heavy and pendulous, not unlike Aziraphale's own. He snapped his arm back and delivered a blow across them, making the woman draw breath and shout in pain.
Aziraphale wiggled, pushing herself further back on his fingers, and Crowley chuckled.
“Or do you imagine yourself with the cane in your hand, vengeful angel? A little righteous wrath on the deserving, making them squeak without all the fire and brimstone?”
She spread her knees wider on the bench, and on the stage, the woman was dealt another blow, this time a red line appearing along the undersides of her heavy breasts. Aziraphale was squirming now, positively soaked, and Crowley fucked her with three fingers as she rocked back on him.
“Would you do it for me?” he wondered. “I could bring you a sweet little thing in need of correction, tell you to do a good job of it. Would you do a good job for me? Really make her squeal even if she begged you oh so prettily to be merciful?”
“Yes, yes, sir,” Aziraphale said. It was a little loud, but it didn't matter as people were getting loud all over the theater, the play or the environment or both giving them leave to do exactly as they liked.
Sounds like its time to do exactly what I like, too, he decided.
He pulled his fingers from her, not bothering to wipe them before seizing Aziraphale's thick shoulder and turning her around to kneel on the floor.
“Your breasts,” he said roughly, working his erect cock from his tight trousers. He had no idea when he had started getting hard, but he was almost achingly so now. He took the railing on either side behind her, gripping the brass bar in his hands. She was squeezed between him and the balcony wall, looking up at him, a little dazed and her mouth open in want.
“Your breasts,” he said again, “Or I really will ask for a riding crop and start seeing how you might like it in that girl's place.
Hurriedly, Aziraphale scooped her breasts up in either hand, bringing them up around Crowley's cock, and he could have died at how soft they were and how her hands kept them tight around him. The room had warmed up enough that there was a thin shine of sweat on her breasts, letting him slip forward and back with just enough grip to make him moan.
If he looked straight ahead, he could see the action of the play, the woman taken down and bent over a barrel to get her rear tenderized with a paddle, and when he looked down, there was the angel on her knees, offering her breasts up solely for his pleasure, working her own body to give him what he demanded.
Heaven's best angel, he thought. My angel, mine, mine, mine to humiliate and hurt and embarrass and pleasure and love and –
He tried to hold out as long as he could, but it wasn't much use against Aziraphale, never had been. He came without bothering to pull away from her, painting her breasts as he did so. She made a mortified little sound, but he only slumped back into the chair, not bothering to tuck his cock away.
“Satan, but I'm a mess,” Crowley observed, taking an impish delight in her little twitch at how much more messy she was.
“Come over here and take care of it for me, angel. Light with your mouth, mind. I want you there for a little while. I'm sensitive.”
She heroically did not roll her eyes, but instead she crawled to him, kneeling up to almost primly take his cock in her mouth. It was soft and warm, just dreamy enough he could avoid getting hard or over-sensitive again, and he relaxed, one hand cradling her skull as he continued to watch the play on the stage.
It had rather lost the plot- the woman was working herself down on an improbably large phallus affixed to a stool and he had no idea how that figured- but he didn't mind. They had hours yet to play, and then, best of all worlds, he'd take his angel home and please her so well for pleasing him.