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Just a Taste

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Crowley leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. The lights of the restaurant made Aziraphale glow the way they always did, making him look more golden, more impossibly beautiful. It was the only reason Crowley preferred the Ritz to Aziraphale’s other favorite haunts. Sure the food was good, but Crowley didn’t care. He cared about being able to stare at Aziraphale behind the safety of his glasses while the perfect lighting made his cheeks pinker, his eyes bluer, his hair whiter. 

He also cared about watching the angel take delicate bites of each morsel of whatever he ordered, hum around each forkful, then look at Crowley with joy on his expressive face as he tasted each dish. Crowley would be satisfied spending the rest of eternity like this, just watching Aziraphale enjoy himself once a week while he looked on and drank from the sight like the oasis it was.

Aziraphale scraped his finger through the remaining caramel sauce on his plate. Crowley watched, transfixed, as Aziraphale sucked the sweet syrup from his finger, laving away the final drop before sighing in satisfaction and turning his attention back to Crowley. 

“What would you like to do now?”

Crowley wanted to do many things. Unfortunately, none of them were things Aziraphale would want to do. Adjusting subtly in his seat to relieve some of the pressure between his legs, Crowley leaned back and shrugged. “Your call, angel.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, chin dipping and giving Crowley a view of that delicious roll of fat that was hidden beneath his jaw. “You always say that.”

“Well, I always mean it,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him an unimpressed look but said, “If you must know, there’s a new exhibit at the National Gallery I was hoping to take in.”

To the National Gallery they went.

The first time Crowley realized he had a certain preoccupation with Aziraphale, they were eating oysters in Rome. Crowley had been in a foul mood.

Aziraphale hadn’t seemed to notice, chattering happily as he squeezed lemon atop his oysters and ordered more wine. He paused in his storytelling to wave down a server and revealed the tender underside of his bare arm where the silvery-gold stripes of stretch marks spread out like a web over his flesh.

Possessiveness burned through Crowley’s chest, white-hot and shocking as he stared at Aziraphale speaking to the serving man in low tones. He wanted to reach out and feel those marks under his hands, trail his fingers over them, trace them with his tongue.

His nostrils flared and he drank deeply because he was obviously not about to do any of those things.

Aziraphale’s hands came to rest on his belly as he looked up at the suit of armor on display. “This is in remarkably good condition,” he said absentmindedly but Crowley was too busy thinking about what his own hands would feel like on Aziraphale’s belly. The ample swell of it. It was probably warm and soft, webbed with those beautiful silver marks.

The exhibit Aziraphale had wanted to see turned out to be a medieval weapons exhibit. Not exactly thrilling stuff in Crowley’s opinion, but it was scads more entertaining than trying to figure out the best way to dip his toes into a romantic relationship with Aziraphale.

It had been three years since the apocalypse and at some point Crowley had given up on the idea that Aziraphale would do something about the fact that Crowley was terribly in love with him. Three years! But no. Aziraphale pottered along, always the same. And Crowley trotted after.

What do you say after a couple millennia in love with your best friend? Not an easy conversation to start. Every option Crowley had ever entertained was terribly embarrassing. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley expectantly and Crowley realized the angel had been talking to him.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I was...” He gestured vaguely with his hand.

“Wool gathering?” Aziraphale prompted with an indulgent smile. That was something new after the apocalypse. Aziraphale smiled at him indulgently now. 

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“That’s quite alright,” Aziraphale said, still indulgent. “It isn’t the most exciting of exhibits. Why don’t we go see the Van Gogh? You do so like the colors.”

Crowley swallowed thickly and followed after Aziraphale.

The first time Crowley realized watching Aziraphale eat did something for him was in France over crepes. Aziraphale had been eating a strawberry, pink lips around the tip of the lush fruit as he sunk his teeth into the tender flesh, closing his eyes with pleasure. 

Crowley had gotten hard in his very tight trousers. 

“Oh, my dear, you must try these strawberries. Perfectly ripe,” he said, pushing the bowl across the table and Crowley had stared at him. 

Aziraphale had cocked his head and frowned. “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly, yeah. Tip top,” Crowley said, slamming a strawberry into his mouth to keep from having to speak.

Aziraphale had given him a strange look but didn’t press.

“Thank you for the lovely afternoon, my dear,” Aziraphale said, tugging on his lapels as if to adjust his coat while they stepped into the cool autumn air.

Crowley grunted. How much longer was he going to do this? Three more years? Another century?

“Same time next week?” Aziraphale asked brightly, already taking a step in the direction of the bookshop.

“Same time next week,” Crowley replied, taking himself off in the opposite direction.

See, it wasn’t so much the eating. It was the noises. It was the indecent look on Aziraphale’s face. It was the way he licked his fingers and wiggled in his seat.

Every little action felt specially created to undo Crowley.

And Aziraphale had no idea.

To be fair, Crowley had spent a very long time cultivating a neutral appearance when Aziraphale ate. A mildly interested appearance.

There had been two times in history when he’d slipped.

And there was about to be one more.

“Angel, I’m here,” Crowley called out as he pushed open the door. It was Tuesday. Their day. He’d been feeling particularly good about himself that morning so he’d gone to the shop to buy Aziraphale some flowers, but the chrysanthemums had stared back at him judgmentally and he found he couldn’t.

Instead, he’d hauled himself to Aziraphale’s favorite chocolate shop and bought a dozen of his favorite bonbons with the mystery centers because Aziraphale said he liked how it was always a surprise. Chocolates were safer than flowers. He’d given Aziraphale chocolates before.

Aziraphale appeared in front of him, no coat on and his shirt sleeves rolled up. Crowley’s mouth went dry.  When was the last time Crowley had seen his forearms?

“I brought you...” Crowley said lamely, holding up the box which was unceremoniously taken from his hands with a cry of delight.

“Oh! My favorites! How wonderful,” Aziraphale said, already undoing the ribbon and opening up the lid to inhale the aroma. “Which should I try first?” he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

Crowley shrugged. He felt coiled tight, waiting for Aziraphale to take that first taste and declare how delicious the whole thing was before they left the shop for whatever outing was planned for the day.

He’d been an idiot. Of course chocolates were better than flowers. Because then he could watch Aziraphale eat them.

Aziraphale plucked a round ball from the center of the box. It was dusted in gold and as Aziraphale brought it to his lips, Crowley held his breath. Aziraphale bit down and white cream slowly trickled from the remaining chocolate. The angel licked his lips and sighed. “Oh, vanilla cream.”

Crowley was frozen to the spot as he watched Aziraphale lick into the chocolate shell, tongue seeking the thick drops of cream.

That was when Crowley made a noise.

An embarrassing noise.

A noise like Aziraphale—instead of licking into a bonbon—had reached out and stroked Crowley’s cock through his trousers.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and then shuttered as he popped the rest of the chocolate into his mouth, chewing methodically, soft cheeks turning pink and then red. 

Crowley passed a hand through his hair as if that would disguise the fact that he had just moaned pornographically while watching Aziraphale eat a chocolate truffle.

Aziraphale carefully replaced the lid on the box of chocolates and said, very polite, “Where to, then?”

The first time Crowley slipped Aziraphale didn’t notice. He’d been too caught up in the raspberry jam that Crowley had brought to their little rendezvous. 

Crowley was sitting on the couch in the back of the newly opened bookshop, watching as Aziraphale cut a slice of bread and dipped it into the jam. The angel had brought the bread to his mouth and sighed as the flavors burst over his tongue. Crowley had been unable to look away.

And when Aziraphale looked back up at him— my dear you have to try this —Crowley caught sight of a smidgen of jam on the corner of his mouth. Thoughtlessly—desperately—Crowley had reached out and wiped it away with his thumb, grazing the soft bow of Aziraphale’s mouth in the process.

Their eyes had locked and Crowley had scuttled away.

The second time Crowley had lost control was better forgotten about. It had been during the apocalypse. They had left the food fight at Warlock’s birthday and climbed into the Bentley. Crowley had been panicking about the absence of a hellhound. Aziraphale had scooped cake off of his coat and eaten it from his fingers.

Crowley—even as in love with Aziraphale as he was—couldn’t help but think it wasn’t the time to be enjoying cake. 

“Well, I’m not going to waste cake as good as this,” Aziraphale had replied primly before plucking off a bit more and holding it out for Crowley to take. “Try it. It’ll make you feel better. Cake does that, you know.”

Instead of taking the cake from Aziraphale’s hand as the angel had surely intended, Crowley had leaned forward and eaten it directly from his fingers, tongue swiping over skin that tasted like vanilla frosting. 

Aziraphale had turned pink and yanked his hand back.

They never mentioned it again.

But Crowley thought about it.

He thought about it all the time.

Lunch at the Ritz was tense and Crowley hated it. Aziraphale wasn’t enjoying himself the way he usually did and it was Crowley’s fault. His stupid fault for being in love.

He tried to work up to an apology the whole way through the meal. But where could he start? Sorry I almost came in my trousers watching you eat. It’s just a thing. Nothing to worry about.

No good, that.

Crowley paid and he fully expected to have to trudge back to his apartment in the cold autumn wind. The day had started out so good and now he was going to spend the rest of it sulking on his couch. And maybe a few more days for good measure.

But Aziraphale surprised him. He did that sometimes.

“How about you come back to mine?” the angel asked like they hadn’t just had the most awkward lunch this century. “I’ve got several new bottles Castello Bonfi that I’ve been dying to try.”

“Yeah, alright,” Crowley said with a shrug because if he knew anything, he knew that smoothing things over with the angel usually only took a bottle of wine and a good laugh about some idiotic thing one of them had done over the last dozen years. 

They settled into the back of the shop and Aziraphale produced two glasses of the promised wine. Crowley tried to drink at a sedate pace. A very difficult enterprise given how his nerves kept jumping about. 

Then Aziraphale produced the box of chocolates and the nerves froze, coiling tight at the base of his spine.

“These really are very delicious,” Aziraphale said lightly, coming to sit next to Crowley.

Aziraphale didn’t sit next to Crowley. Aziraphale sat in his desk chair. He always sat in his desk chair.

The angel opened the box and danced his fingers in the air above the chocolates as if trying to select one. He plucked out a small square chocolate. “Would you like to try one?” Aziraphale asked innocently.

Crowley’s mouth was dry and Aziraphale was holding out a chocolate to him. Was he supposed to…

He reached out to take the chocolate but Aziraphale shook his head. “No, let me.”

And then Aziraphale was holding a chocolate to his lips and Crowley was parting his lips, letting his teeth sink into the soft confection while Aziraphale stared at him. The chocolate began to dissolve in his mouth, sweet and bitter and dark. Crowley reached up to hold Aziraphale’s wrist in place so he could take the rest of the chocolate into his mouth, kiss the pads of Aziraphale’s fingers with his lips.

He heard a sharp inhalation of breath and when he looked up, Aziraphale face had gone slack, cheeks pink. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Aziraphale said, breathless, “And I’m fairly certain you want me to but if I’m wrong—”

Crowley didn’t even wait for him to finish the sentence. Knocking the chocolates from Aziraphale’s lap, Crowley launched himself across the couch, bearing down on Aziraphale as he crashed their mouths together.

It was a knocking of teeth and the taste of chocolate on both their tongues as Crowley held Aziraphale’s face between his hands and felt the give of the angel’s body beneath his own. 

Aziraphale’s hands came between them, tugging on Crowley’s buttons. That distracted Crowley enough to pull away, to shrug out of his coat as Aziraphale stared up at him.

Crowley may never have done this before, but he had about two thousand years of explicit fantasies to work with. But it all started with getting Aziraphale naked. 

It took Crowley far too long to divest Aziraphale of his shirt, but once he was bare, laid about beneath him, Crowley was certain it had been worth the wait because he had been right. Aziraphale’s stomach swelled up and over the waistband of his trousers, a perfect roll of flesh where the edges were kissed by those stretch marks that Crowley had thought about but never seen.

When he eventually—after several long, distracting kisses—removed Aziraphale’s trousers, he saw even more of those marks in the spread of his thighs against the fabric of the sofa. And when he coaxed Aziraphale up and onto his hands and knees so Crowley could thumb at the ample flesh of his backside, he saw even more painted over his hips and over the swell of his arse. Crowley wanted to taste each one. 

Instead he bit at the backs of Aziraphale’s thighs, licking the tender skin and moving up until he could lick into him, forcing Aziraphale to clutch at the arm of the sofa as his back arched.

Aziraphale moaned like he had when he first tried tiramisu so Crowley licked him again, twisting his tongue inside. Crowley’s cock pulsed in his trousers as he grasped Aziraphale’s backside and thrust even deeper.

Aziraphale continued to moan—exactly like the first time he’d tried pain au chocolat—until his moans turned to sobs and Crowley relented. He wanted to be inside Aziraphale but mostly he wanted to taste him.

“I want you to come in my mouth,” Crowley said as he grabbed Aziraphale’s hips and guided him onto his back. The angel looked wrecked, a pink-cheeked look, open mouthed and glassy eyed. He’d never looked like that over food.

Aziraphale stuttered out something that Crowley took as understanding so he nosed his way down the patch of hair under Aziraphale’s belly button and licked at the skin of his pelvis, tasting, tasting, tasting. Aziraphale shimmied and shifted under him even as Crowley tried to hold him down.

Just like the rest of him, Aziraphale’s cock was perfect. Pink and thick and straining up to kiss the swell of his stomach. 

Crowley’s whole body felt ready to crack open, his love ready to spill out.

He took Aziraphale into his mouth, finding the angel warm and heavy on his tongue. He tasted like nothing Crowley had ever experienced and he wanted to memorize that taste.

Crowley didn’t know what he was doing but Aziraphale was moaning that pain au chocolat moan and suddenly his mouth was filled with bitter liquid as he felt Aziraphale pulse under his tongue.

He swallowed it down because it was Aziraphale and, of course, he wanted every drop he could get.

When he looked up, Aziraphale’s chest was heaving like he was struggling for breath and he was looking down at Crowley with such open adoration that Crowley ached. 

“I love you,” Aziraphale gasped, surging up to push Crowley back against the cushions. 

Dizzy with that little revelation, Crowley didn’t have time to say anything before Aziraphale’s hand was on him, inside his clothes, rubbing over his aching cock. Clutching at Aziraphale’s broad, freckled shoulders, Crowley gasped and shuddered, coming before he even registered the sensations of Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale pulled back and looked at the come on his hand curiously before giving it a tentative lick.

“Oh, that’s quite different,” Aziraphale said quietly before licking up the rest. Crowley was certain he would have come again if his body would have allowed it.

Crowley dropped his head into his hands and tried to take several deep breaths. He felt like he might discorporate if he didn’t get his heart rate under control.

Comfortable as ever, even nude, Aziraphale leaned over the edge of the sofa and picked up the box of chocolates, miracling all the pieces back into their respective places. Plucking another truffle out, Aziraphale bit into it carefully, humming as a string of caramel stretched between his lips and the remaining chocolate.

It was obscene

Aziraphale made eye contact with him as he licked the caramel from his lips. 

“Fuck,” Crowley breathed. His cock stirred hopefully as Aziraphale held out the second half for him.

“Salted caramel,” he said and whatever coquettish thing had prompted him to start this postcoital game seemed to leave him, eyes wide as he looked at Crowley. He was nervous.

Crowley exhaled and did his best to pull together the words from the shattered remnants of his nerves. “I love you so bloody much.”

Aziraphale smiled. It was a smile Crowley had never seen before. Not the smile for the waiter bringing wine or the chef who made the delectable sushi. It wasn’t the smile after a perfect lunch at the Ritz or even after a long night of drinking champagne.

This smile was Crowley’s smile and Crowley savored it.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Aziraphale said and Crowley kissed him.

He tasted of caramel.