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Crowley had only intended to see Aziraphale home and make sure he'd scheduled their next lunch date, have a casual verbal exchange of wiles and thwarting, et cetera. But the adrenaline of the day before hadn't quite worn off, and that tall chap in the park had given Crowley the creeps. And there'd been the vague sense of loss he'd felt as he turned to exit the bookshop, and the stunned catch of breath when he realized he wasn't the only one who'd turned on his heel and headed straight back towards the only creature in the universe he couldn't stand the thought of losing.

Instead, he's standing a stone's throw from leaving and a soul-scorching kiss away from heaven. They're shaking with it, never mind that their respective pairs of glasses clashed on the first try. For minutes on end, they forget to breathe altogether.

What happens next is not even up for debate.

The desk is far from ideal, but it's all they've got to work with. How Crowley's come to be seated on Aziraphale's chivalrously spread coat is anybody's guess, given he can hardly remember the particulars of getting from where they were to where they are now.

Under the coat, there's a notebook somewhere off to the right that he keeps bumping with his thigh (oh, he's scarlet with this, he's sure, shirt unbuttoned, tie askew, naked from the waist down), and he's pretty sure that what's directly under his arse must be Aziraphale's unfinished Telegraph crossword (pencil included).

But when Aziraphale, in the same state of semi-undress, standing, draws Crowley's knees up tight on either side of his hips and thrusts—well, that's about the end of it.

Crowley has never known anything like this: the ache in every fiber of his over-sensitized flesh, the not-quite-pain of arousal, the unaccountable way in which the sound of Aziraphale's low groan mingled with his own sharp cry is perfection.

There's the blushing clean-up, of course, and the realization that they've behaved like a pair of desperate human teenagers. Crowley rolls onto his side on the desk, not bothering to remedy the state of his clothing, and tugs Aziraphale by the hand until he follows, spooning behind Crowley on the cramped surface. Aziraphale's arm around his waist is reassuring, and Crowley shivers with the reverent kiss pressed to his nape.

It's not what Crowley would have chosen, not by a long shot. He would have preferred them safe and private in his bed, under soft light and softer sheets, free to sleep off the shell-shocked wonder and wake to discover it all over again.

All of that aside, it's more than enough.



What's the point of having an oversized white leather sofa if you don't use it?

It's a bit laughable, really, how Aziraphale sinks into the plush cushion with a startled expression until the back of his neck hits the equally plush arm. They've mostly got past making love whilst partially dressed—mostly in that Aziraphale is currently wearing one of Crowley's black terry-cloth bathrobes, or half wearing it, at any rate, because his chest and slightly padded belly are exposed, thighs spread to reveal just how little the surprise of being toppled backwards has affected him.

Crowley bends to investigate, blushing profusely. He hasn't quite got past that. This is another first.

Aziraphale's hands hover at his shoulders. "You shouldn't—"

By then, it's too late, because Crowley is lost in the newness of Aziraphale's taste and the helpless sounds that the angel is clearly trying very hard not to make. The way the leather slides and sticks under them is satisfying, Crowley decides, although not as satisfying as Aziraphale shouting his name and—oh. Crowley chokes, but only briefly, recovering quickly enough to swallow without thinking about the fact that it will definitely take some getting used to. Aziraphale is already dragging Crowley up the length of his body and into an unashamedly wanton kiss. He licks his lips.

"My dear, anything you want," he murmurs hoarsely. "It's yours."

It's a good job Crowley isn't wearing anything, because it's all he can do to crush their mouths back together and let Aziraphale encourage him to move exactly the way he's moving, the scrape and slide of his fingernails against flesh and leather deafening in his ears as he comes quick and hard, like a punch to the gut, securely cradled.

Afterward, Aziraphale strokes Crowley's back and runs an idle fingertip through the mess they've made. He banishes it, leaving the leather pristine.

Crowley is too drowsily content to feign indignation.



Shopping with Aziraphale is nothing if not first-class entertainment.

Crowley studies his reflection critically in the fitting-room mirror, uncertain of the suit's cut. There's knowing your size and favorite designers and going with them, which is Crowley's usual modus operandi, and then there's this: custom tailoring at Harrod's without your consent. He's going to have to be very, very careful about sleeping around Aziraphale from now on, although that may prove difficult, given that they now almost perpetually share a bed. Or sofa. Or wine-bottle littered floor.

"May I see?" inquires Aziraphale, the polite tone failing to mask his impatience.

"They don't allow more than one person per room," Crowley replies, frowning.

Of course, that's not about to stop Aziraphale. A split second later, the stale fitting-room air stirs, and his reflection joins Crowley's in the mirror.

"My dear, don't look so scandalized," Aziraphale says, brushing a bit of loose thread off Crowley's shoulder. "They'll never know. Now, isn't that a splendid fit?"

"I feel violated," Crowley mutters, slipping out of the jacket and returning it to its tissue-papered hanger. "You don't bother with this yourself, so why start with me?"

For the first time, he notices that Aziraphale's look is both covetous and predatory.

"I spend more time looking at you than you spend looking at yourself, for one. And, given the arrangement is reciprocal, if you cared enough, I just might." He's standing so close that Crowley's mouth has gone dry at the mere thought.

"Fashion isn't everything," replies Crowley, weakly. "It's just for show."

Aziraphale shakes him. "I've discarded at least half of my tartan for you!"

"I hope that means you donated it to Oxfam," says Crowley, but his breath's already lost in a kiss and to the slightly alarming sensation of Aziraphale's hands rucking up his shirt and unfastening his trousers. He gasps, "You can't be ssserious—"

"They can't hear us," Aziraphale replies, mildly, kissing Crowley's neck. "Sit."

On what? Crowley wants to ask, but then he remembers that there's a ridiculous burgundy velvet settee behind him, on which all of his clothes are not-so-neatly draped. Aziraphale's fingers clench on his thighs as he trails kisses from Crowley's chest to his belly, entirely absorbed in the task.

"I can't believe this," Crowley hisses. "We're in public." His head falls back against the partition. There's rustling in the next fitting-room over, but he's still acutely aroused.

"You'll get used to it," Aziraphale reassures him, nuzzling the strained fabric of Crowley's shorts. He hasn't even bothered to tug the expensive trousers down and off Crowley's hips. His sofa is one thing, but garments he doesn't yet own are another.

A split-second later, it's clear he hasn't any choice in the matter.

Crowley bites his lip so hard that one over-sharp eyetooth draws blood, but Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind his increasingly more frantic thrusts. Aziraphale takes him impossibly deep, both hands molded possessively to Crowley's hips. With his eyes screwed shut and his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, Crowley fleetingly wonders if circumstances aren't just helping how much he's enjoying this.

"Fine," he rasps at length, slumping forward over the angel. "I'll take it."



High summer in London inevitably means increased automobile traffic and streets so packed with tourists you can scarcely locate your favorite haunts. Soho becomes a nightmare awash in relentless shoppers, none of whom are looking for mint-condition antiquarian books or even the latest outlandish Biggles release. Mayfair's countless cobbled side streets, on the other hand, remain islands of eerie, peaceful quiet. There are distinct advantages to living up-market from the average visitor's budget.

There are also distinct advantages to having a balcony overlooking a private courtyard. They've put down a camping mat and covered it with blankets. They're well below the balcony's waist-high brick wall, shielded from view, and nobody can look down on them, given that the upper level of Crowley's flat occupies the top floor.

Crowley shivers at the contrast between the sun's warmth on his back, the slight breeze, and Aziraphale's tight heat surrounding him. His vision blurs as he withdraws and pushes back in again slowly, Aziraphale's taut moan bringing him back into focus. He buries his face in the sweat-dampened waves of Aziraphale's hair and tightens his unsteady grip on the angel's erection, panting. They won't last long. They can't.

Light flares behind Crowley's eyelids as he comes, blinded. Aziraphale isn't far behind.

They lie in silence for a while, enjoying how the wind prickles their skins as it picks up, listening to the dull hum of central London in the near distance. Crowley props his chin up on Aziraphale's breastbone, idly stretching his freshly manifested wings.

"We could up the stakes a bit," he ventures. "St. James's after dark?"

Aziraphale ruffles his feathers fondly. "Too vulgar. We won't have been the first."

"Fine. Hyde Park, the Rose Garden, high noon."

"Who's taking care of invisibility, exactly? No offense, but your focus suffers far worse than mine. Tracking down all those civilians would be a nightmare, and memory alteration isn't cheap. Granted, I'm not sure who's cooking the books, at this point."

Crowley huffs, folding in his wings. "Fine. So it's a stupid idea."

"I don't know," Aziraphale muses. "I rather fancy a go in the back—"

"Don't even think about it, angel," says Crowley, and kisses him soundly.