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The Weight of Well Tailored Clothes

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“Come back to mine," said Crowley. "We'll get you sorted."

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow.

"Your clothes, angel. 'm not sending you back to London dressed like a revolutionary executioner. There's no telling what kind of diplomatic stir you might cause."

“I thought your side rather liked that sort of thing," Aziraphale said. But he did miss his lovely suit. It was a decade old and still in perfect condition: the silk hadn't a single run. And—he glanced down at himself—black really wasn't his color.

''Never mind my side. I don't like seeing you in anything as drab as all that." Crowley gestured at him with a dismissive wave of his demitasse spoon. “It’s depressing.” 

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warm, or perhaps it was only the table wine they’d been steadily imbibing since late afternoon. Sometime during the 14th century they’d begun to drink quite a lot. Humanity could do that to you. 

"I’ve got standards, too,” Crowley added. He wasn’t smirking but it felt like he was. 

Ah, definitely not the wine then. They’d been here before and it usually passed when the intoxication did. A bit of beguiling, then the parting of ways until they met again and waltzed to the exact same tune. It almost felt like part of The Arrangement—a spot of dinner, maybe just wine—and a bout of shameless flirting: Crowley smiling at him with his eyes, glasses slipped down just so; a cup that never seemed empty of libation; the kind of casual touching that would ask for more if they were anyone else, if they weren’t on opposite sides. 

Aziraphale didn’t mind. It made him feel more like a person; it made him feel a little less alone in the world. He was an agent of Heaven after all, and the human life was only so long. 

Crowley’s toe touched his ankle. The cafe they’d inhabited for several hours had steadily filled with students and workers gathering together to drink deep into the night and engage in raucous conversation. The sawdust floor made Aziraphale’s flat shoes slide against the wood when he shifted his leg away, then thought better of it and put it back where it was. 

“Are you staying nearby?” He asked. 

Now Crowley did smirk. “Just down the way.” 

“It’s gotten rather crowded in here, hasn’t it.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Crowley picked up his wine glass and swallowed its contents in a long, slow pull. 

Aziraphale very consciously didn’t stare. 

“How exactly do you mean to get me sorted?”

“Ah.” The demon swayed in his seat. Aziraphale could tell he had his eyes closed behind his glasses, he could see little crow's feet on either side of the dark lenses. There was the mild scent of brimstone which meant Crowley was concentrating very hard and then he snapped and smiled. “Good to go,” he said. 

“Just like that?” 

“C’mon angel, if you weren’t on probation it’d be just as easy for you.” He stood and came around to Aziraphale’s chair to offer his hand, the picture of gallantry. “And we can’t very well get you kitted out here. Not with this lot in the vicinity. Bunch of blood thirsty twats.” 

“Twats? Really?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes before dabbing delicately at his mouth with a crude linen napkin. He dropped it back to the table and let Crowley help him to his feet. He was very tired of France. 

“Twatssss, but clever ones. Can’t help but be a little impressed by madame guillotine. Man’s ingenuity truly knows no bounds when it comes to murdering for the cause.” 

Crowley guided him through the press of bodies around them and out to the darkened street. Aziraphale shuddered. He could still smell the blood and hear the joyous shouting from beyond the walls of the Bastille. The whole city smelled of fear and righteous intent. He’d encountered the combination before and it had been no less unpleasant.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, as they walked down the lantern lit cobblestones, “it’s all part of Her plan, I suppose.” 

“You would, wouldn’t you.” Crowley sounded just a smidge fond, but also just a smidge sad. “Anyway, we’re here.” 

It really had been just down the way. 

Aziraphale blinked at the building they’d come to. The downstairs looked like a tavern and there were men—a very particular sort of men, hanging about the entrance. He turned to Crowley and frowned. 

“Above a molly house? How bold.” 

Crowley shrugged. “No one asks questions.” 

“Not getting some temptation in on the side then?” Aziraphale tried to keep sudden jealousy at bay. He didn’t like thinking about this aspect of Crowley’s line of work. 

“If a hesitant young man is driven into the arms of his dear companion, you can hardly blame me for helping him along.” 

“So you’re not—“

“Naaah.” 

“Oh-okay.” He smiled; his mouth felt wobbly. 

“I’m just back through this alley.” 

They stepped past the rouged boys and shabbily dapper men at the front entrance and Aziraphale pointedly avoided the looks they got on the way. He knew what it looked like; they had been on the receiving end of those interested glances before. It was becoming a trend if he were being wholly honest. He also carefully avoided the fetid water that filled the gutters on either side of their path. 

Crowley waved at the door then held it open for him. “Watch your step,” he said. 

“Not exactly a high class establishment,” Aziraphale sniffed, gripping the railing. 

“I assure you my rooms are more than serviceable.” 

“I’m sure they are.” 

“Don’t be prudish, angel, otherwise I won’t share my wine with you. I’m through here—“ 

Another door unlocked itself at the top of the stairs and Aziraphale found himself in a cozy sitting room: a wooden table and two chairs, a low settee and a small hearth. It smelled like Crowley. There were flowers on a sideboard by the door, and next to them as though it had been set out just for him: the promised wine. 1789 had been a wonderful year for Bordeaux. 

“Oh, this isn’t too terrible.” Aziraphale sighed. He felt safer behind a locked door. With a demon. The future was very strange. 

“I aim to please.” Crowley’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Bedroom’s over there. Let me just.“ He threw open the door and gestured grandly toward the bed. 

Aziraphale followed after him and gasped. His clothes were there, and it looked like everything was—

“All present and accounted for. I’ll just leave you to it then,” Crowley said, backing out of the room. “Privacy and all that.” 

“Yes. Yes, privacy,” Aziraphale trailed off, not feeling disappointed at all. He looked at his suit laid out neatly on Crowley’s mussed up bed. Clearly his friend hadn’t sprung for a housemaid, let alone a valet. Although he supposed this kind of business didn’t offer those services. 

All was blessedly there at least: his coat, waistcoat, blouse, breeches, his lovely blush-pink stockings, and at the foot of the bed, nestled together like a pair of doves, the white silk shoes he’d come to adore. Crowley had certainly kept his word when performing whatever bit of demonic magick he’d used to bring a perfect facsimile of Aziraphale’s outfit to his lodgings. He hoped it was the transmogrifying kind of magick and not the transporting kind. He wasn’t keen on wearing clothes in which someone had expired. 

Best not to think about it, Aziraphale told himself. That usually did the trick. 

“Okay in there?” Crowley called through the door. “I’m fully prepared to drink all the Bordeaux without you.” 

“Just fine,” Aziraphale called back. “Absolutely tickety-boo.” He heard Crowley snort, and began to hastily pull off his borrowed sans-culottes garments. They smelled absolutely wretched; how hadn’t he noticed before? They, he sniffed gingerly, reeked of righteousness and barbarism. He couldn’t wait to get back to London. He would simply have to find suitable crépes at home until this whole chopping off heads in the name of democracy nonsense had passed. 

Aziraphale lifted his hand, about to snap his fingers and return himself to form, when—like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head—sudden dread raced down his spine, chilling him. That was how this whole mess had begun, hadn’t it? And surely using a miracle to dress oneself was the very definition of frivolous miracle use. He’d already done it once that day, too. 

“Oh, drat,” he said. “Drat, drat, drat.”

And he was getting cold, standing about naked as the day he was—well. Naked, anyway. He cast about the room looking for something he could put on to ward off the chill and landed on Crowley’s black banyan, thrown casually over a half-closed dresser drawer. That would do nicely. Aziraphale snatched it up gratefully and nearly moaned at the feel of fine, black silk sliding over his bare skin. He only ever wore his banyan over his nightshirt. He was clearly missing out on a heretofore unknown level of bliss. 

Heaven help him, but Crowley’s robe smelled as lovely as it felt. Aziraphale took one deep breath, cinched it tightly closed at the waist and turned back to his own clothes. 

He frowned. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dressed himself. Unlike Crowley, he had a valet. He was a proper gentleman and the clothes he favored had far too many buttons and complicated bits and bobs to do up all on his own. 

What had been incredibly thrilling a moment ago—having his own things back—now seemed like a daunting and miserable puzzle. How was he supposed to manage to do up his breeches without ruining the lines of his stockings? Or his cravat! How was he to make sure it was correctly placed? There wasn’t even a looking glass! 

Aziraphale nearly stamped his foot in frustration. Perhaps he stamped a little. He certainly sighed, audibly and through his nose like an angry bull. 

“Angel, honestly,“ came Crowley’s voice again. “Have you escaped out the window?” 

“Ah—“ Aziraphale cleared his throat. He would ask for assistance. Angels groomed each other’s wings. Crowley must have done as much when he was still an angel. It was perfectly normal to ask a—a friend for help with this kind of thing. He might have even considered his actual valet a friend, or at least someone interesting to speak with until he one day would die and Aziraphale would remain. And oh, wasn’t that a depressing thought. He would miss Archie, who was very witty and always had news from around the city—

“For Satan’s sake, Aziraphale!” Crowley burst through the door. “Would you get—“ He stopped speaking. He skidded to a halt, hand still on the knob. He’d taken off his silly little glasses and Aziraphale watched him blink once, twice, and a third time, his normally slitted pupils going round and very dark. He made a series of unintelligible noises that Aziraphale had come to understand as Crowley’s mouth and his brain running on parallel tracks. “S’my dressing coat,” he said. 

Aziraphale clutched at the fabric self-consciously, then released it feeling equally guilty. “I was cold,” he said. His mouth pulled into a pathetic little moue of its own accord.  

“Right. Right, ‘course.“ 

“Can-you-help-me-please?” The words clacked into one another, the verbal equivalent of a terrible carriage accident. 

“Help you with what?” 

“Help me dress. Please. I’m not accustomed to—my valet, Archie, usually handles all of this.“

“Archie?” 

“Crowley, you’ve met him. Don’t be intentionally dim, it isn’t—“

“Rather helpless, aren’t we?” Crowley cut him off, visibly projecting that he now felt he had the upper hand. “You really are a daft aristocratic little thing, angel. However did that happen?” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes skyward. “You’re no better.” 

I can dress myself.” 

“This is all very complicated clothing! It’s fashion, something to which you are slavishly devoted and so one might think—“

“Shhhh.” Crowley smiled at him with teeth. He held a hand out toward the bed, palm up. “Sit down, Master Fell, and I’ll attend to you.” 

“You aren’t funny, Crowley.”

Aziraphale sat anyway. The bed was very soft considering the general state of the accommodations.

Crowley let the door fall closed and meandered toward the bed as though there were ten yards between them and not two. His slouch was very suggestive; he looked like he ought to have his hands in his pockets but didn’t have pockets to put them in. He came to stand before Aziraphale and regarded him with a curious expression, thumb and forefinger stroking his chin, seemingly deep in thought. 

Aziraphale shivered under the heavy scrutiny. He resisted an admonition to get on with it already. 

“From the top or the bottom?” Crowley asked. 

“I beg your pardon?” Aziraphale felt a drop of sweat slide down his back, just between the place where his wings would be. He’d preferred being cold. He didn’t like sweating. 

“Do you dress head down or toe up?” 

“Oh. Silly me!” A helpless titter of nervous laughter left his mouth without asking him. “Shirt first, please.”

“You’ll have to take this off then.” Crowley meant the banyan. 

“Right. Yes.” Aziraphale shimmied out of the long, wide sleeves and let the fabric fall to his sides and pool across his lap. He wasn’t ashamed, not of his soft middle or the goose flesh raised up on his arms. They had seen each other’s bodies before. They had both been in Rome, after all, and Greece. 

Crowley picked up Aziraphale’s folded blouse and shook it out. Made a bit of a show of it, fluffing the ruffles. 

“Such nice things you have,” he said in a very pleasant way that also sounded like he was calling Aziraphale out for every single lifestyle choice he’d ever made that veered from asceticism. Which was all of them. “Business good then? At your little shop?” 

Aziraphale clucked his tongue. “Don’t start.”

“Arms up.” 

He decided Crowley was enjoying this far to much but obeyed, somewhat mulishly, and Crowley helped him into the shirt, straightened the cuffs for him and everything. That was good, that made him feel more himself. He sighed with relief and let his eyes close, but the relief didn’t last long. Crowley was at his feet, lifting one foot with incredible tenderness and inching a very silky—silkier than before?—stocking up his calf with the utmost care. Aziraphale could not look at him. Couldn’t stand the sight of Crowley on his knees before him, attending to him. It was the stuff of fantasies he mostly chose to ignore. Wish away. Not indulge in if he could help it, which he usually could. He tilted his head back and stared resolutely up at the ceiling unblinking; it didn’t seem like an appropriate moment to ask for Her divine guidance. 

Crowley’s index finger trailed along the arch of the foot he’d just covered, his nail leaving a tingly sensation in its wake and Aziraphale nearly leapt out of his skin. 

“Stand up and turn around,” he murmured when both stockings were pulled up over Aziraphale’s knees. “I need to check your seams.”

Aziraphale’s mouth felt glued shut. The flesh on his arms was still raised. He was both shivery and too warm and thoroughly, desperately aroused and he had not even made an Effort. He nodded mutely, stood and turned, and once he had Crowley at his back he untied the banyan and let his shirt fall into place to cover his backside and front. Crowley took the silk from his hands and tossed it away. 

Aziraphale had to use the mattress to steady his suddenly wobbly legs. 

He was especially grateful for doing so when Crowley remained on his knees and began to gently tug his stockings into place, fingers working deftly, barely there touches leaving him flayed open somehow. For the first time in his immortal life, the choice to make an Effort happened entirely without his permission. It was just there, prodding the bed, and harder than it had ever felt before. 

He moaned at the pressure, at the pleasure of soft sheets on his skin, and the mental image of Crowley behind him, before he could stop himself: a stuttery, ugly sound that seemed to come from someone else, someone far more uncouth. His hands dug into the duvet. It was possible he heard Crowley snicker. 

Crowley’s clever fingers touched the sensitive places behind his knees and Aziraphale thought he may actually discorporate. Even his wings were tingling in their interdimensional hiding place. All of him, every last inch of him, strained for something more, and Crowley, damn him, was only doing him a favor. 

“Almost right,” Crowley said. 

“Oh, God,” Aziraphale begged. “Please—it’s too. It’s too much, I’m—” He stopped. Swallowed. 

“Steady on now.” Crowley was sliding his thumbs up between Aziraphale’s thighs which was not something that Archie had ever done while dressing him. His tailor, yes, but he wasn’t wearing pants and—

“What about the wine?” Aziraphale asked, sounding hysterical to his own ears. “All of that lovely wine must be going off as we, as we.” He shifted his legs apart as though they had been drawn there by strings, as though he were a marionette, unable to stop the movement. “1789 was a very good year,” he tried to say, but it came out strangled.  

Crowley ignored him. His hands were very close to the most intimate parts of Aziraphale’s newly defined nether regions.  His face, too, felt very close. 

“Forget the blasted wine,” he said. “Let it turn to vinegar for all I care.” 

“You can’t mean that!” 

“Oh I mean it.” Crowley nipped at him, over his shirt and at the very bottom of one buttock where it met his thigh. Aziraphale yelped and Crowley did it again, this time to the other side. 

“You fiend,” Aziraphale groaned. “That’s practically sacrilege.” 

“I think you’ll find I have a gift for it.” 

Crowley’s large palms swept down again, and his fingers stroked at the tops of Aziraphale’s stockings, and his mouth—Aziraphale could feel those words as much as he’d heard them, because Crowley’s mouth, his mouth and his nose, were presently nuzzling against Aziraphale’s fabric covered back side. 

“This really is a fine shirt,” he went on, and this time he wasn’t teasing, he was purring, his voice a sultry, low timbre. “You should introduce me to your tailor.” 

“I’d love to, any time you—ohhhhh, goodness.”

One of Crowley’s hands had ventured from Aziraphale’s thigh to his hip. It remained there, and then there were two hands on his hips, squeezing him, pushing his shirt up, up until there was nothing but air between Crowley and his very revealed buttocks. 

“Very fine indeed,” Crowley crooned at him. And if Aziraphale could feel the words before he could really feel them now, wet breath ghosting over his skin, tickling him, tantalizing him, tempting him. 

“What are you playing at?” Had he ever sounded quite so breathy?

“Attending to you, as requested.” 

“You and I both know this isn’t what I—“ 

“You and I both know this is exactly what you meant,”  Crowley said. “Bend over, angel.” 

It felt less like a suggestion than demand. 

Aziraphale hesitated. Was Crowley right? Had he intended for this to happen all along? Couldn’t he, a perfectly capable angel with working hands and seeing eyes, have buttoned his own buttons and straightened his own stockings? He thought of all the hundreds of bodies that had seen the guillotine in recent months. He had almost been 999th. The sign of the beast inverted. He had almost been—

“Go on,” Crowley said, very gently. He kissed Aziraphale’s skin. “Think of this as my reward.”

“You saved me.

“Then thank me properly.” 

Crowley.” 

“Please.” It was soft, especially sibilant, as earnest as a love song. “Give me thisssss.”

Aziraphale’s heart threatened to stop beating. He wanted—he had a dreadful need. And if he wasn’t, if he wasn’t an active participant, if he were only allowing Crowley to—and gratitude was grace, wasn’t it? Wasn’t offering thanks a divine kindness? Wouldn’t it be Good of him?

“Yes,” Aziraphale stuttered. “Yes, okay. You’ve—“ he tugged his lower lip between his teeth and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’ve earned it; haven’t you, dear boy?” 

Crowley exhaled in a way that Aziraphale normally associated with pain. His fingers tightened on Aziraphale’s skin, his thumbs pressing down hard enough to leave behind marks.

“Say that again.” 

“You’ve earned it.” 

Again, angel.”

Aziraphale dropped down onto his forearms, overcome. His chest heaved though he required no breath. “All of me,” he said. “You’ve earned the right—to take.” 

“Nnnggh,” said Crowley, and he licked between Aziraphale’s ass cheeks. He pressed kisses above and below the hole that had seen no use or purpose before today. And then he kissed that too, his nose flush with the skin above it, his breath hot. Aziraphale felt saliva drip onto him and the sheer filth of that made him moan without managing to cover it up. Crowley’s tongue wasn’t standard issue, that much was obvious, and it writhed and slithered and pushed inside him. It felt like Crowley wanted to climb into him, devour him, eat him whole. 

Aziraphale moaned again, uninhibited this time, and felt plundered. 

“You know what kind of place this is. I’ve got thin walls,” Crowley said, partially muffled by Aziraphale’s body. He made a horrendous slurping noise. It sounded and felt as if he were trying to pull his own spit out of him. It felt like Crowley intended to suck at him until he couldn’t stand, until he was inside out.

The feeling, the very notion, made Aziraphale wail loudly, high-pitched and desperate. 

“You’re going to wake the neighbors. You’re going to wake the whole bloody neighborhood.” 

Aziraphale bit down on the duvet, he tried to stay quiet. He really did, but Crowley had two handfuls of his ass in a vice grip as he pulled him apart to have more of him, and Aziraphale couldn’t seem to stop, not if his immortal life depended on it. He had been reduced to sounds and sensation alone. 

“I’m—“ he gasped. “I’m dreadfully sorry. I don’t—“ 

Crowley shifted suddenly away, so Aziraphale couldn’t miss his fiery conviction when he said, “I want you to. I want to make you loud, angel. Don’t hide from me.”

“Oh, fuck.

Crowley shoved his face between his thighs again  and this time he went in tongue first, so deeply that it wasn’t possible for him to be entirely human. He added a finger, wriggling in alongside it. Aziraphale let loose a stream of curses in Aramaic. Crowley doubled his efforts in response, a second finger joining the first, stretching Aziraphale open, stroking at his internal walls, keeping his body from desperately clenching down the way it wanted to so very badly, and still Crowley’s tongue was a ceaseless undulating force and it—

It wasn’t enough. 

How could it ever be enough when all Aziraphale wanted in that moment was to consume and be consumed. To be taken, and then again. Would he ever know peace, now that he knew this? Would he be haunted forever by blinding need? He thought he might be crying, saying things he wouldn’t dream of saying otherwise. And it turned out he was. 

“Oh, you wreck me, darling. Please. It isn’t enough. I need—“ he reached back and gripped Crowley’s shoulder, staying him, cursing himself for making him stop his delightful onslaught

“You want me inside you, angel?” Crowley’s voice sounded raw, the words themselves seemed wet. 

“Please,” Aziraphale said. He returned to clutching at the duvet and felt as though he were presenting himself. Lifting his ass up and pushing his chest down into the mattress before Crowley could get to his feet and do it for him.

Greedy thing,” Crowley said. He kissed Aziraphale’s tailbone. He used Aziraphale’s hips to help himself upright. He put a hand low on Aziraphale’s back and must have been getting out of his trousers because he seemed unsteady. And he was talking, muttering under his breath. 

“Look at you,” he said, more clearly. “I wish you could see what you look like.”

“I don’t want—“ Aziraphale’s thighs were trembling. He felt empty in a place that had only been filled for the first time this day. He missed the slick heat of Crowley’s tongue, the breadth of his fingers as he’d licked between them and up, up inside. “I need you, Crowley. Don’t make me wait.” 

“Couldn’t if I tried. You make me ravenous.”

He pushed into Aziraphale without warning, as though the promise had been notice enough. Aziraphale cried out at the breach. He felt—he was both floating off and intensely tethered to the place where they were joined, all of his conscious thought focused on the sting and stretch of it, on the fact that Crowley had made him receptive to the intrusion with his mouth and hands alone, and that it was so very, very much what he wanted. 

Crowley groaned; his hips came flush to Aziraphale’s ass when he was fully sheathed, and he stilled. “You—you’re perfect, s’what I mean. You feel perfect.” He pulled out slightly and pushed back in again.

Aziraphale wished he could see. He wanted to know what it looked like, now that it was happening. He wanted to see how they looked together. If the sight of Crowley splitting him open looked as obscene and wonderful as it felt. Lord, he wanted more. He always wanted more. More wine, more delicious food, more Crowley—his company and his smiles when he shared them, his hands now that he knew their shape intimately. He would have taken Crowley’s fingers alongside his cock; he could ask for them and he was certain Crowley wouldn’t refuse him. He could ask for anything in the world—

He was a terrible angel. 

“Tell me it’s good?” Crowley whispered. He seemed to be holding himself just at the entrance to Aziraphale’s body, holding him open just so. Aziraphale could feel his body reaching for him, fluttering around him. “Please, angel. I need to know if—“

“It’s marvelous, darling.” 

Crowley made a choked off sound and his hips thrust forward, hard enough to nearly drive  Aziraphale up onto the bed. He did it again, and again, and each motion forced words from Aziraphale’s mouth and tears from his eyes. 

“You’re marvelous,” he heard himself say. “My—my hero. My dashing knight. It’s so good, so good and—oh, darling, harder please, deeper still if you can—“

Crowley hissed. He wrapped one arm around Aziraphale’s waist and hauled him back onto his cock, lifted Aziraphale’s thigh with his other hand. Aziraphale clung to the mattress and, perhaps by demonic miracle, Crowley was deeper. He was filling Aziraphale, his mouth on Aziraphale’s throat, his long hair come undone and falling onto the pinprick sensitive skin along Aziraphale’s shoulders. He was everywhere, covering him, holding him, stroking his cock in time with each wonderful thrust of his hips. 

“Deep enough for you?” Crowley murmured. “Ready for me?” 

He was going to come. Aziraphale understood that much. He wanted Crowley’s essence diffused through him. He wanted it in a frightening sort of way, like the first storm had been all those years ago. The mark of the beginning, and the end of something long known. 

Now.” Aziraphale clenched down; he didn’t want to lose a drop. 

Crowley whimpered. His whole body seemed to shudder and shake. Aziraphale felt his release. He could feel Crowley pulse inside him, and he could feel the heat of it. He tried to hold still; he couldn’t bring himself to care about finishing, not when he felt so remarkably well used.  

“Angel,” Crowley kept saying, hips working weakly as he rode out his orgasm. “Angel, get on the bed.” 

Aziraphale did. He was wet and holding in what he could and he felt—oh, better than he’d realized he could. And then—Crowley had him on his back and was kissing him, kissing him with tongue and he was hard again, sliding back inside of Aziraphale’s body, fucking his own seed further into Aziraphale and it was exquisite, it was pure bliss. 

“I have wanted you,” Crowley said, between kisses. He reached between them to bring Aziraphale off in earnest and all Aziraphale could do was lie there and receive him, pleasure-stricken, legs fallen open, whole body flushed and undone. “I have wanted you forever.”

Crowley.” 

“Come for me, angel. Let me feel you.”

Aziraphale was helpless to resist the suggestion. It had weight behind it. The rush overtook him: a supernova, the spark of creation, of divinity, all of it. All of it. It was a wonder his wings didn’t burst forth in his abandon. 

“Yesssss,” Crowley said, slowing down, then pulling free. The hand he’d used to stroke Aziraphale slid down between Aziraphale’s thighs to touch his hole: one finger, then two slipping inside and petting at him, so gently. A balm he hadn’t known he’d need in the aftermath. But Crowley knew—he knew that being suddenly empty would hurt. 

“Thank—thank you.”

Crowley hushed him. “I know how you are.” He kissed Aziraphale’s shoulder, propped up on his elbow and smiled down at him. His eyes were a beautiful reminder of what they were and what they shouldn’t be. 

”We never drank the wine.” 

“There’s time.” 

Crowley didn’t stop touching him. 

“Maybe try for a third,” Aziraphale sighed. 

“Oh, angel.” Crowley’s grin was wicked and so were his hands, and so was Paris in 1793, and maybe, just a little bit, Aziraphale too. 

Years later, after touching too much and touching too little, and ebbing and flowing repression and desire, and after the Apocalypse that wasn’t, Crowley had him on his back again, three fingers deep as Aziraphale had learned he preferred when he suddenly stopped the delicious rubbing he’d been doing. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale had been very close. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said slowly. He blew his fringe out of his eyes and gave the angel a squinty look. “Back in 1793–“

“You mean the first time we—“ 

“Yes, yes.” Crowley twisted his fingers with a smirk. “But.”

“Ah—Lord.” 

“Aziraphale, were you the Scarlet Pimpernel?” 

“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said daintily. “The only thing that stands out about that visit across the channel is you.” 

“And the crepes.” Crowley kissed him. 

“Well, of course. Who could forget those?”