Surprisingly busy in Aziraphale’s bookshop, given that it’s Friday and close to tea time. Bell jingles and Crowley enters . . . Makes An Entrance might be more accurate. All heads turn, and several books drop to the floor. A wave of temptation and desire roils through the room as if someone has uncorked a bottle of a particularly lascivious perfume. Were Anathema here to employ AuraVision, she’d see a storm of flaring shades of purple. Crowley’s hair is now a russet mane flowing to his shoulders. The angel Raphael would have immediately started looking for a new stylist had she been there to see it. Black shearling and cashmere overcoat so haut it could sail into the stratosphere all on its own power. Black silk scarf in Escher’s snakes pattern, tied in a Parisian knot. Tailored Italian black striped slacks perfectly meet tasseled snakeskin pumps. Maroon silk socks. Black gloves worthy of a serial killer. Carrying his cobra-headed walking stick from the 1800s. Oscar Wilde joins the Mafia. But it works.
Crowley? Oh good Lord . . .
Aziraphale gets control of himself and approaches.
There’s a bottle of chenin blanc on the table in the back room. I just got it today. Perfect for an autumn evening. You’re welcome to go back and open it. If you’d like.
Sounds just “tickety-boo,” Angel. See you there shortly?
Crowley unbuttons his overcoat as he saunters toward the back room in a manner that would have had a top catwalk model chewing the carpet. All eyes follow him as if attached by latex strings. A tall black woman and her shorter sandy-haired companion regard one another speculatively after this vision has gone into the back room and out of sight. They link arms as they leave the shop, possibly to plan a weekend of apparel shopping.
I’m very sorry, everyone. I must close now.
Aziraphale starts shooing reluctant customers toward the door. A portly gray-haired Minister claps Aziraphale on the shoulder as he passes and murmurs,
You’d be a fool not to, my lad.
After making a quick search to be sure no one is hiding somewhere in the stacks, Aziraphale locks the doors, flips the sign to “Closed,” and pulls the shades. Hustles into the back room . . .
Crowley is sprawled atop a dainty Victorian horsehair settee as if it were a park bench, glass of wine in hand. Overcoat is tossed to the side, revealing Crowley wearing a charcoal v-neck pullover (probably from an Italian designer and knit from some sinfully rare and fine fleece) that softly hugs his body before dropping in a gentle fold just short of his favorite belt, the one with the carved black jade snakehead. A touch of color from a maroon silk undershirt. Still wearing the Valentino glasses that he likes so much, but now also sporting a large oval onyx signet ring engraved with his serpent sigil, and a black Patek Philippe chronograph, with a special dial for that one place where the time is always Too Late.
Decided it was time for a new look. Thought I’d try something more Oscar Wilde-ish this time around. (Takes off his glasses and gestures with them toward Aziraphale’s collection of Wilde first editions on a nearby shelf.) Do you like it?
Aziraphale says nothing, but walks over and drops to his knees between Crowley’s legs. Encircles an arm around Crowley’s hip and lays his head on Crowley’s thigh. Crowley drops his glasses to the carpet and runs his hand through Aziraphale’s fluffy lambswool hair.
I take it that’s a “Yes?”
Aziraphale doesn’t answer. Instead, he flicks his fingers and his and Crowley’s apparel now appear on the other side of the room, neatly arranged upon two furniture valets. Gives the tip of Crowley’s cock a large icy kiss.
Crowley’s back arches and his body goes rigid. His hand clenches Aziraphale’s curls. The wine glass falls to the carpet. Crowley & Aziraphale had discovered that angels don’t wait around for orgasm, but get right to it if they feel one coming down the track. And they can keep it up for hours. And without any unpleasant secretions or messy stains. Aziraphale continues trying out various entertaining tricks with his lips and tongue to keep Crowley aloft, idly moving his hand up and down to caress Crowley’s thigh and flank. That hot skin feels so good. It’s going to be a long night of Divine Ecstasy.