London. Crowley's Mayfair flat. Late evening. Crowley and Aziraphale are returning from a light sushi dinner. They're wearing their kilts, having decided upon a casual evening out. Crowley has been a bit droopy the entire time, however.
I say, Crowley, you seem more than a little down this evening. What is it?
Oh, I don't know, Angel. Just feel edgy. Out of sorts. Let's have a nightcap and cuddle in bed.
Aziraphale waves his hand downward, and they're now both in their robes. Except he's swapped his lavender tartan flannel with the velvet lining for Crowley's sik gown.
Satan's sins, Angel. I could curl up and sleep in this right on the spot. Feels like a swan's down nest.
Don't you dare. And when did you ever sleep in a swan's nest?
Snake. Back in Eden. Ate the eggs, then took a cozy nap and digested for a week.
You hung around in Eden after Adam and Eve were expelled?
Sure. You remember what a nice place it was. Took Michael awhile to find me and chase me out. Fortunately I'm faster than the average angel, so he couldn't discorporate me with that damned flaming sword.
Rather wish I'd been there to see that.
Best part was when I torched his robes with my fiery breath. Satan's assboil, was he mad.
Aziraphale laughs. Crowley continues:
Black silk suits you, I rather think. That platinum hair. You look like one of those celebrity wrestlers.
Oh, please. As if. . . . Here's your whisky.
They amble off to the bedroom, settle themselves companionably against the giant pillows, and hold hands as they sip their scotch.
Mm. Talisker is the best. I keep trying to talk myself into buying something else, but just can't seem to do it.
Maybe we should go out whisky tasting some evening.
That would be fun. Like, tomorrow night?
'Tis the season to be jolly.
A pleasantly relaxing time follows. Upon finishing their whisky, they contemplate one another.
Have we ever tried female-female?
Haven't ever wanted to. My claws. Can't caress you when I'm wearing them.
Crowley removes his hand from Aziraphale's grasp. Morphs into snake demoness. Holds out her hand for inspection. Vicious curved ruby claws engraved with satanic sigils inlaid with gold. She runs her other hand over the black marble wall adjacent to the bed. The claws scratch powdery little lines into the stone.
They're actual corundum, you see. Not animal claws. And they stay sharp.
She daintily pricks her leg with an index finger, and a droplet of blood wells up.
I remember the time you clenched your fists.
Yep. That's what I'm talking about. A moment's inattention, and blood all over the place. You know what I do to the carpet and upholstery.
Easily repaired.
But pillows don't feel pain. You would. And I'd want to discorporate if I hurt you.
I wonder if I could blunt them?
I've tried. I can't do it.
Let me try.
Crowley stretches her hand toward Aziraphale, who takes the little finger and holds it between his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger. The angel is watching the demon's hand, and doesn't see Crowley's face as a mask of pain comes over it. Releasing's the demon's finger, Aziraphale notices Crowley's stiffened body and expression.
Oh good lord. Crowley, did that hurt?
A bit.
You always make light of pain. It did hurt, didn't it.
Rather like having a finger hammered, if you must know.
They contemplate the claw. It has been blunted, but then slowly regrows to its initial shape.
Fail. Oh, Crowley. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.
Nothing to forgive, Angel. Just my punishment in action yet again. Or maybe Beelzebul set me up this way because he liked it. A design feature, not a flaw. I wish they looked like my toenails.
The pair gaze at Crowley's feet. Crowley writhes around so her legs are atop Aziraphale's, feet in the angel's lap. She points her toes.
See? A bit pointy, but not sharp.
Rather pretty, actually. You have such slender, graceful feet.
Back in my Philistine concubine days, I set the fashion for red toenails. All the other women wanted them. Made them feel sexy, they said. Red lips, red toenails, red nipples. But I was the only one for the job when drawing blood was required.
Let's not reminisce about those days, shall we? I've always found human fertility rituals to be absolutely appalling.
Aziraphale shudders. Then he morphs into his creamy female body, Crowley's feet resting upon the angel's now soft pillowy thighs.
But as long as I have your feet in my lap, let me massage them.
She flicks her fingers downward, and a small vial of oil appears in her hand.
Almond oil. Don't worry, it's not sticky like olive oil.
I never minded olive oil. Can you make it warm?
Aziraphale briefly holds the vial in her fist to warm it up, then pours a bit upon Crowley's feet.
Not too hot?
Oh no. Didn't know you angels could do that.
Well, I can't ignite things like you can. Just warm them up a bit. Handy for keeping a mug of cocoa warm outdoors.
Aziraphale smiles as she strokes and massages Crowley's feet, making mental note of the places that cause the demon to make little breathy noises when she rubs them.
You have very sensitive feet, Crowley.
Crowley is rapidly turning to goo, breathing in shallow gasps. And then Aziraphale rubs one spot in particular, causing Crowley's legs to jerk out of the angel's lap, and her toes to curl up.
Angel. Do something!
Crowley legs are orgiastically raised, her arms outstretched alongside her body with claws embedded to the quick in the bedding and mattress.
Aziraphale throws herself forward into a prone position between Crowley's legs. Massages Crowley's groin and flanks and belly, places her mouth atop the demon's labia and gets to work with her tongue and lips. The demon begins to writhe, and then pant and jerk rhythmically as pulses of Divine Ecstasy cascade through her. Aziraphale pushes Crowley's thighs closer so her legs are resting comfortably atop the angel's shoulders, and enjoys gently keep Crowley aloft for over an hour.
But Crowley hasn't had enough.
Angel. Do me.
Aziraphale morphs back into male, erection ready, willing, and able. Slides it in and collapses upon the demon's breasts as Crowley wraps her long legs around the angel's back, feet twisted together and toes curled.
They don't come to until the wee hours.
