Lady crowley

Aziraphale /never/ swears, so when he curls his fingers inside Crowley and whispers against her clit “You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to fuck”, it’s understandable that Crowley’s extremely pre-occupied mind latches on to the naughty word first, and then to the implication of the rest of her lover’s sentence.

“/Fuck/,” Crowley agrees, once her brain has caught up with itself.  “Y’can’t just /say/ that…”

There was more she’d planned for that sentence, but she loses it when Aziraphale thrusts his thick fingers in her again, deep and angled forward like he’s petting the front wall of her cunt, appraising it like a fine tome.  “It’s true,” he says, politely waiting for her to finish squealing out an embarrassing little gasp, “so I don’t see why I shouldn’t.  Say it, I mean.  But there’s also no reason why I shouldn’t f—“

“/Sshhsh/!” Crowley hisses.  She raises herself shakily, bracing on her elbows to glare down at Aziraphale and the happy little mess he’s making of her.  “Too much talking.  Get in me or I’ll come on your fingers.”

By the blotchy pink rising on Aziraphale’s skin, she suspects that that’s maybe not such a terrible ultimatum to him.  Still, she knows what she wants tonight;  went through all the labour of thinking up a pretty dress for him to take her out of, and a neat little cunt for her to take him into, and she’s not about to blow her first orgasm on anything less than the whole of his cock.

Thankfully, Aziraphale doesn’t dally once his fingers are out of her.  His trousers come off, and then his socks — even before Crowley can snap at him to do it;  he’s finally learning! — and then he’s just where she needs him, his lips against her cheek as he guides their bodies together.

It takes them both a long, electrified second before either of them can breathe again, and then, on the exhale, it all suddenly seems a little less tense.  Crowley shifts until her thighs are bracketing Aziraphale’s waist, keens softly at how it feels to move with him inside her.  Aziraphale’s warm hands cup her thigh, her hip, tracing her up to her burning-hot cheek.  When looking in his eyes becomes too blinding, Crowley closes hers, and says, “I didn’t mean it, actually.  Y’don’t talk too much.  You could say it again.”

Aziraphale kisses her jaw, her neck;  moves minutely inside her, so fastidious that she only barely registers the feeling.  “All true, darling girl.”  Another kiss, warm and bright.  “You’re the only one for me.”