Aziraphale was making an absolute glutton of himself and all Crowley could do was sit and stare. His hands always faintly itched to make contact, but never more so than when Aziraphale was stuffing himself with course after course, moaning, wanton, around his fork, or wiggling in his seat to make room for just a few more bites.
It was a blessing they were dining alone for once. The whole scenario was obscene and, more importantly, Crowley did not want to share this with anyone. Luckily, nobody is more discrete than Parisian hotel staff assigned to a seemingly filthy rich pair of honeymooners.
The display wasn’t even for him, not really. This was just Aziraphale in his most natural state: stuffed full, hedonistic, and gloriously chubby. When he moved, the seams of his clothing audibly threatened to give way in protest. If they weren't careful, so would the chair.
Post-Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, Aziraphale found himself experimenting with more (frankly extremely boring by anyone else's standards) feminine attire. So far he had added a staggering total of three new garments to his wardrobe: a floor length skirt, a cream blouse and a waistcoat distinguishable from his regular only by a slight difference in cut. It was this outfit he chose to wear to their private dinner this evening, and Crowley was dismayed to discover Aziraphale had had it made to the measurements of his usual waistcoat. The one he had to strain to button each morning for the past two weeks. Clothing wasn't the only thing they had been experimenting with, after all.
There was no lipstick, it wouldn't have survived the first course, but his lips were plump and wine-reddened and Crowley ached for a taste.
Crowley closed the space between them the moment Aziraphale’s fork left his chubby little fingers, but he knew better than to touch without permission on nights like this. He waited a matter of seconds, barely breathing, and the next thing he knew he was being pulled down to straddle Aziraphale’s thighs.
They shifted closer until they were flush, stomach-to-stomach. Feeling the press of soft flesh the entire length of his body made his face burn in a way he wasn't used to so, unsure how else to fix it, he just pressed his face into the tender muscle of Aziraphale’s neck and bit down in retaliation. Pinpricks of blood hit his tongue and Crowley felt five perfectly manicured nails drive into the flesh of his arse, another five clawing at the nape of his neck. He hoped to Someone they would leave bruises, but to be sure he sucked on the tiny wound until Aziraphale’s breath shuddered and his fingers gripped impossibly harder.
Crowley found himself panting into Aziraphale's neck, one hand mindlessly squeezing the soft curve of fat circling his ribs. He was burning up: this was too much, too real, too right. It could be the first time or the fiftieth, he’d still never be used to this. He pressed himself into his lover as firmly as his weak, shaky limbs could manage in his present state and tried to breathe. Aziraphale smelled like sugar but his skin was delightfully salty when Crowley traced his tongue over his pulse point, bit a small bruise into the plush double chin in front of him. Aziraphale moaned and turned his head for a bruising kiss that tasted like sweet wine and creme patissiere and the faintest hint of blood, and for the first time in a long while he didn't regret the sharpness of his fangs.
‘How are you feeling, Angel?’
‘Divine, my dear, keep doing that. Don’t worry about hurting me.’
‘Yes sss- sir?’ Aziraphale hummed, filing through a hundred languages before settling on something setting-appropriate, at least in his anachronistic way.
‘As much as I love your little hiss, darling, Madame feels more appropriate, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, Madame, of course.’
Aziraphale—his sweet, beautiful, ethereal lover, he would never get tired of saying that—pulled Crowley into an embrace that would grind bones in a real human. Crowley melted into the safety and love radiating off his angel. Aziraphale was a supposed sinner, a greedy, wrathful glutton, yes, and that was wonderful, but he’s also the epitome of home, of safety, for Crowley. He had built himself up from the weapon of heaven he was designed to be, had purposefully blunted his harsh edges so he couldn’t be that weapon, at least not very effectively. After 6000 years, they were truly content. The fact that it got both of them hot and panting was just a happy coincidence.
Speaking of hot and panting, Aziraphale, after several minutes, finally pushed Crowley off and began the arduous process of unbuttoning himself. As stuffed as he was, the buttons of his waistcoat were almost impossible to undo, straining until there was zero give in the fabric. In the end he had to lean back and try to suck in; Crowley suspected a miracle or two were at play, maybe Aziraphale was planning something? Whether he’d risk Crowley discorporating or the possibility that the buttons wouldn't miracle back was another story, but he did store away the thought.
‘I could just miracle our clothes off, you know.’
‘Darling, don’t pretend you don’t like to watch me struggle.’ Crowley averted his gaze and stumbled over his next carefully-chosen words.
‘Precisely.’ A rare smirk passed over his features as he continued to make a show of his disrobing.
The moment Crowley saw skin he was on his knees, lips against soft flesh and hot breath condensing into goosebumps. His fingers raced to undo the remaining buttons of the blouse, the ones that had been selfishly hiding his partner’s deliciously squishy pecs. Crowley explored the pale expanse of exposed skin, a map of everything they had been through. There were the stretch marks, of course, that charted Aziraphale’s path as he strayed from heaven, greedy for every decadence humanity (and Crowley) had to offer. Pink and silver kintsugi, so human, so unlike the markings other angels sported. A small burn mark near his collarbone was the only evidence left of the church bombing, a second of forgetting to protect himself from falling ash because of a pretty demon and a bag of unburned books. Both of their breaths caught when an errant thumb grazed one of his pierced nipples, a relic from the dreaded 14th century. Not very modern in design, but it didn’t have to be.
‘You’re getting so… so...’
‘G— S— Fuck, yesss. so much of you, Zira’
Aziraphale ran his fingers through his long hair, grabbed lightly and pulled his face further into the plush flesh of his stomach. A forked tongue mindlessly traced over the fresh pink stretch marks within reach.
‘A lot of this is your fault, you know. Always tempting me to lunch at some restaurant, or bringing wine over to the shop...’
‘Didn’t make you eat, though. Temptation’s about choice. You chossssse thisss, Mon Ange.’ As he spoke, Crowley grabbed a handful of Aziraphale's abundant love handle (so aptly named) and jiggled. Aziraphale's hand in his hair tightened at the sensation.
‘What happened to Madame, sweet boy?’ Aziraphale asked, but before Crowley could respond a sharp tug on his hair buried his face fully in the warm skin of his belly, mouth and nose engulfed, and held him there until his lungs burned. This was a game they had played many times, and it never failed to get them back on track. When the grip loosened, Crowley jerked back to suck in a few deep, shuddering breaths. Demons, strictly speaking, don’t need to breathe, but that’s besides the point. Their eyes lock, Aziraphale's crinkling into a light smile when he sees watery gold filling Crowley’s entire eye. Almost angelic. Crowley really was enjoying it, maybe even as much as Aziraphale.
‘Sorry, Madame, won’t happen again.’
‘See that it doesn’t.’ A layer of harshness crept into Aziraphale's voice; at times like this it wasn’t difficult to see a shadow of the warrior he was moulded to be. Aziraphale and that sword… Probably shouldn’t dwell on it, but maybe one day.
Instead, he grounded himself by curling his hand around Aziraphale’s delicate ankle.
‘How scandalous...’ Aziraphale teased.
Crowley could barely hear past the thrum of his blood. He wondered if this was what sex felt like to humans, or if they were even capable of this level of pleasure.
It was silly, really: why, out of anything, should something so mundane be the thing that truly undid him? By all rights, sitting at someone's feet should be as squirming-at-your-feet-ish as a name, not something he did willingly with all the reverence he had ever wasted and more lust than would turn a monastery.
Crowley, now and always, lived to give his angel anything and everything he desired, craved the satisfaction of pleasing his lover. Crowley was very good at working out what Aziraphale desired.
He pressed his fingers into Aziraphale’s heavy gut and— yes, he felt a little give. Just a little more room. Unacceptable. He conjured up a 99, reminding them both briefly of their triumph in the park, and added some red sauce for good measure.
‘Madame, could I tempt you to another bite?’