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The ridiculous hours that Aziraphale has posted outside the bookshop has made it easy for Crowley to know when he will be home and when he will be away. Which has, in turn, made it easy for Crowley to be a bit of a bastard.
There's a small window on weekdays in which the shop is closed while Aziraphale makes a short-run errand for his weekly restock of empress grey tea. (Not for customers, of course, just for his own indulgence.) And in that small window, Crowley has just enough time to place an order at the local delicatessen, drop it off at the bookshop, and make it back to his loft before Aziraphale returns to discover the neatly-packaged variety box on his doorstep.
Crowley may have fucked up a little when he tempted Aziraphale to eat that ox rib all those centuries ago.[?] What started out as a simple attempt to corrupt the angel in a very small way very quickly backfired. Crowley may have awakened something in Aziraphale from that first taste of human-prepared cuisine; but the animalistic rapture on his face, the carnal sounds he made as he devoured the meat, his completely barbaric appetite... well, Aziraphale awakened something quite wicked in Crowley in return.
And he has no idea
.
For centuries, Crowley watched in silent agony as the angel moaned his way around every new pasta, pastry and pudding he came across, forcing the demon to mask the hunger coiling in the pit of his stomach. It’s a mask that Crowley has adapted over the centuries to fit every new age and culture. In the early days, keeping his naughtiness hidden was a cakewalk, intending no pun of course; loose-fit clothing like tunics and robes made it very easy to conceal virtually anything one wished to hide below the belt. In more recent history, British comportment made it so that all Crowley had to do was simply drape a napkin across his lap for the majority of a meal until he could excuse himself, unseen, to make himself more respectable in public. And because British comportment made it rude to ask, Crowley never had to explain. But a few of those decades in between were true torture. Customary attire in 14th century England made a right bastard out of men's trousers, making it nearly impossible for Crowley to keep up appearances with Aziraphale at mealtime. It was like playing Russian roulette with your best friend, except the gun is actually a loaded erection. Dark ages, indeed.
But never was it more impossible than when Aziraphale turned up in a French prison in full regency regalia and chains all because he wanted "something to nibble."
Humans are very clever, always inventing new dishes, new ways to enjoy food. And Crowley has capitalized on this cleverness—the large and lavish banquets of the rich and celebrity, enormous city-wide food festivals, myriad farmers markets across the world, Crowley dragged Aziraphale to each and every one, sparing no expense for a new opportunity to tempt the angel. Of course, humanity's cleverness may have been helped along in this respect; in fact, some demons may tell you that Crowley pioneered the invention of the food truck—all in the name of quick, easy, mobile "Gluttony," of course. You can be sure that Crowley took Aziraphale to the grand opening of the very first food truck in the early 1970s. Once Aziraphale had been introduced to soft-shell tacos and the exquisite blend of Mexican spices, it took eight small miracles for Crowley to get out of the crowded Los Angeles street without causing a scene. (If anyone from Head Office ever asks, those miracles were definitely for the Gluttony thing.)
Crowley dedicated himself to committing every moment of his meals with Aziraphale to memory. While the angel was busy with a cake or a canapé, Crowley was relishing every sight, every sound he made, filing them away with methodical precision. He suffocated every instinct to react in the moment, keeping himself cool and composed during dinner, only to let all his inhibitions barreling out once they parted ways for the evening. Crowley was a prisoner to the encumbrance of time—he would get so tightly wound up over watching Aziraphale suck up an oyster or swallow down a braised rib that the slightest tilt of the earth's axis could send him spinning out into another timeline... and then he would have to wait, sometimes hours, for the privacy of his own home to recall every detail and... unwind. That agonizing gap of time was just a necessary evil that Crowley has become accustomed to.
But human advances in technology are a many splendored thing. Crowley might even go so far as to call them blessings if he hadn't already maxed out his credit limit on Sin. Ever since the invention of the telephone, Crowley hasn’t had to wait between the wind up and the wind down. He doesn't have to hide under a napkin or a miracle or a countess's parasol one time. He can enjoy Aziraphale's symphony of vulgar eating sounds while having the privacy to let his body respond freely. And knowing that he no longer has to restrain his wanton predilections in person has made it easier for Crowley to keep his desires hidden. The fact that Aziraphale doesn’t even know that he’s doing this to Crowley makes it better somehow. It's Crowley's dirty little secret. And he wants to keep it a secret. And dirty. Because it’s absolutely filthy how Aziraphale responds to food, and Crowley loves every bit of it.
He almost feels guilty that he feels no guilt about it at all.
By the time his phone rings, with a less-than-flattering photo of Aziraphale (which the angel has repeatedly asked to have erased from cyberspace) flashing across the screen, Crowley is home and settled neatly atop his duvet.
"You fiend," comes Aziraphale's flustered voice through the phone before Crowley even has a chance to offer a hello. "You know it's too early for dessert!"
"Demon, remember?" Crowley says innocently as he puts the phone on speaker and sets it down on his chest. "Temptations department?"
"Yes," Aziraphale relents with a nearly audible eye-roll, "you are the master."
Crowley squeezes the back of his throat, willing it not to make the sound it wants to. “Come on, have some.” There’s a seductive lilt in his voice; it’s one of the first things you learn in the Temptations training program, and Crowley has had a lifetime to perfect it. And he’s quite good at it, as evidenced by the sound of Aziraphale opening the box without another protest, shifting the layers of parchment paper that swaddle the sweets. Crowley leans back against his headboard. "I hope you're hungry," he says, unfastening his belt to snake it out from the loops and toss it onto the floor.
"Starving."
Crowley unbuttons and unzips his trousers. "Good." He dispenses a healthy pump of lotion into his hands, rubs them together, and slips one beneath the waistband of his shorts. "Go on, then."
"Let's see here..." Aziraphale hums something nebulous while he sifts through the selection. "Oh, you devil," he gasps. "You got the toffee."
Crowley's breath hitches as he takes himself into his hand. Nerves electrify his body, as though he might somehow get caught in the act. He can see it now—Aziraphale's disapproving face as he shakes a finger at Crowley, tutting, calling him a scoundrel, et cetera. If the angel knew what those sounds did to him... well, surely he would rein them in. And Crowley doesn’t want that. This only works because Aziraphale has no idea what he’s doing to him, and so long as it stays that way, Crowley can have this.
"Would you've wanted the soft ones?" he leads, like a total bastard, terrified by the absolutely thrilling possibility that Aziraphale will take the bait.
"No, harder is much better," he replies. Crowley's hips involuntarily buck up, spreading moisture along the palm of his hand. No, Aziraphale can’t ever know. The worst outcome would be for him to take this away from Crowley.
"'S'what I thought," he murmurs. "What do you fancy first?"
"Hmm, this White Chocolate Raspberry looks like a good place to start," he says.
Crowley closes his eyes, reaching into the reserves of his memory to conjure up all the details that are missing from not being right across the table—the wild look in Aziraphale's pupil-blown eyes as he takes in the sight of the food for the first time, the quirk of his mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his pink lips as he unfolds the sweet. Crowley wraps his fingers tightly around himself, the way he imagines he might curl them in Aziraphale's hair—tugging gently at first, then gradually with more force. He revels in Aziraphale's sharp intake of breath as he first takes a piece of chocolate into his mouth, the ecstasy in his voice as he swallows.
"Oh, yes," he sighs. "That was the right choice."
Crowley flicks his wrist, twisting around himself. "You like that?" he asks, stroking slowly.
"Mm," Aziraphale says. "Very much."
"Keep going."
Crowley's mind disassociates from the awareness of his own hand, instead reliving every time Aziraphale had ever touched him, recalling as many of the details as he can—the unique print of his fingertips, the warmth of them against Crowley’s cold-blooded veins. He concentrates on the minutiae, convincing his mind that it’s experiencing Aziraphale’s hands—soft to the touch, but firm in their grip, his fingers inquisitive but confident, commanding even. Crowley's hold on himself tightens when Aziraphale moans into the receiver.
"Ohh, that's so good," he says, the words muffled as they mix with the chocolate. Crowley keeps a steady rhythm on his ministrations as he's flooded with images of Aziraphale, mouth full, working the chocolate over in his mouth, exploring the intoxicating mix of flavors, delighting in the sensations as he breaks through one layer to get to the next.
"Which one is that?" Crowley asks, hoping Aziraphale is too distracted by the indulgence to notice the husky tone that mires his voice.
"Mandarin Orange Creamsicle," he replies, and Crowley makes a note to order two of those next time. He imagines Aziraphale’s tongue, stirring the flavors inside his mouth, his eyes glossing over when he swallows. He needs more details.
"Describe it to me," he all but begs.
"Mmmph." Aziraphale audibly swallows the last bit of it. "Well, there’s this nice citrus flavor from the orange, of course. But then there are these creamy notes, really mellows out. It’s tart at the beginning, but it’s got a sweet finish."
Crowley holds onto every word, compelling his mind to taste each one as though he were chasing the flavor on the angel's tongue with his own, gathering up the remnants of the ingredients mixed with the unique taste of Aziraphale, just Aziraphale. "You could be a sommelier of chocolate," he says.
"I think I'll stick to books."
"Shame."
In the moment of silence between chocolates, Crowley strokes himself, experimenting with different speeds, different methods. How would Aziraphale do it? How would he like it done to him? He bites his lip imagining the infinite possibilities, every inch of him burning to touch Aziraphale, to be touched. He varies his pressure from loose to firm and back again as Aziraphale hums over the next bite, sending thrills reverberating back through Crowley's body.
"Oh, thank you, that was delicious," Aziraphale sighs with a tone of some finality. Crowley's hands begin to still, disappointment falling over him like a dark cloud.
"You can’t be done already?" he asks, disguising his panic to sound more like passive curiosity.
"I'm being good," Aziraphale hums proudly.
"Where’s the fun in that?" Crowley asks. "Sometimes being a little bad can... feel good."
"Well, you’d know all about that—"
"Try another."
"Oh," Aziraphale frets, but Crowley can tell from the tone of his voice that he's about to cave. "I really shouldn't."
"Go on, Angel," Crowley purrs, circling his thumb around the tip of his cock, urging it to stay focused, stay attentive. "You deserve it."
Aziraphale hesitates for a beat. Crowley knows him well enough to recognize when he's simply pretending to put up a fight because he knows he ought to—even if he doesn’t really want to. "Oh, all right," he finally relents. "Gosh, you really know how to push all my buttons."
"Nice to finally hear you say it."
Aziraphale mutters some sort of comeback, and it's probably a pretty clever one, but Crowley doesn't register it because the blood is draining away from his brain again. The important thing is that Aziraphale is picking out a new chocolate, and that's really all that matters right now.
"Wild Berry Port Wine?" Aziraphale reads, wrappers crinkling as he fumbles through the box. Crowley rocks his hips up to meet his hand, intensifying the friction as he waits impatiently for the response. His heart pounds with anticipation, wishing he could watch the angel take the chocolate between his teeth, gently splitting it open to savor its contents. "Ohhh, Lord," he finally groans. "Oh, that is sinful."
In the last six thousand some odd years, Crowley has grown accustomed to the prim and proper public version of Aziraphale; the one who sits with a perfectly straight spine and dabs his already perfectly clean mouth with the delicate press of a white linen napkin. But he far prefers this Aziraphale—the completely feral, unhinged, private version; the one who craves and inhales and yearns with wild abandon. Crowley aches to be the subject of that craving. “See how good being a little bad feels?” he asks.
Aziraphale tuts softly but is certainly not deterred. Crowley quickens the movements of his hand, gripping harder as he listens to Aziraphale try one sweet after another, moaning more and more desperately with each bite. Aziraphale loves to taste new things. And there are quite a few things he’s never tried (at least Crowley hopes he hasn’t—he would kill the bastard that ever touched his angel). He works his cock harder, his hand wet with the heat of himself, wondering what Aziraphale would think of the flavor of him, the texture, the feeling of it sliding down his throat. Would he consume Crowley as ravenously as he does his sweets, would he moan the same? Would he take his time, treat him like a rare delicacy? Would he beg for more?
As he listens to Aziraphale mmm and ohh his way through the selection, Crowley can almost trick his mind into feeling the lubricious heat of the angel’s tongue roving over every inch of him, savoring him, committing his taste to memory, absolutely ruining him, taking him apart piece by piece like a box of chocolate toffee. Crowley often imagines serving himself up on a silver platter for him—breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, a midnight snack, anything to be under the angel's desperate, hungry eyes. He wants Aziraphale to taste every inch of him, take him like communion, write a food critic’s review and publish it in The Gazette. Forget angel delight—this demonic delicacy is a must for the connoisseur of discerning taste. Ten out of ten, would recommend.
"Mmm, I can't stop," Aziraphale whines, pulling Crowley out of his trance.
"Then don't," Crowley says, barely more than a whisper. "Don't stop."
"Oh, aren't you naughty today?" Aziraphale remarks.
"Jesus Christ," Crowley hisses under his breath, his back arching off the bed, consumed by a fevered shockwave. He thanks God, Satan, Freddie Mercury, anyone, that Aziraphale can’t see him right now.
"Sorry?"
"Nothing," Crowley huffs, and Aziraphale is too preoccupied by his gift to ask any follow-up questions.
"I didn’t even realize how much I was craving this," he marvels with a guilty air, whispering like it's something taboo. Forbidden. Crowley wishes he had offered him the apple in the garden; he could have learned about this weakness centuries earlier. "Oh, Crowley, you know exactly what I like."
"Yeah?"
"Oh, yes."
The crackling of the wrappers slows, then stops. Crowley’s heart sinks, thinking that it’s all over, that his imagination will have to take it from here. Then he hears a faint sucking sound.
"Are you..." He swallows, trying his evil best to keep the rasp out of his voice. "Are you licking your fingers?"
"Oh, come now, don't tease me," Aziraphale pouts. "It's very sticky, and I don't want it to harden."
Crowley grabs himself at the base, warding off the spasm he feels coming on. Looks like his imagination will need very little help. "I would never tease you," he gasps.
"Oh, you love to tease me," Aziraphale argues.
Instead of saying what he really wants to say, Crowley keeps his mouth shut and returns to the safety of his reverie, living in the visceral impact that food has on Aziraphale. He wonders if the impression of a first taste ever stays with him, if the angel ever thinks about it later, when he’s alone. Does he crave the taste, does it distract him when he’s at work, does he dream about it? Does his desire burn him up the way Crowley’s does?
Aziraphale heaves a dramatic sigh. "Oh I know I shouldn’t but... I want more."
"I can give you more," Crowley pants. “Get you more,” he quickly corrects, as blood pumps hard through his veins, straining against his fingertips. "Have as much as you want, Angel."
"But I'm so full," Aziraphale whimpers.
Crowley sucks in his bottom lip to keep from making a sound, substituting his own context for Aziraphale’s words. "You can take it." He buries himself in the tunnel of his fist, squeezing and flexing the muscles in his hand, desperate to get as close as possible to the feeling of being deep inside Aziraphale instead of his own fingers. "Come on," he breathes, "just one more."
"You are so bad," Aziraphale says.
"Don't you forget it," he snickers, dangerously close to growling. "One more, and make it a good one." He presses the mute button with his free hand, then follows it up with, "You there?" He waits a beat for Aziraphale to respond, but all he hears is the sound of the wrappers.
"Oh," Aziraphale finally says, "Champagne Cherry Cordial? My goodness. Could it be we've found the best of the bunch?"
I certainly hope so.
Crowley finally releases his tightly-held composure, unraveling into a besotted mess, prattling absolute nonsense at the ceiling. He picks up his pace, eager for the angel’s reaction, hungry for it. Aziraphale starts to moan again, louder than before. Crowley tugs faster and faster, a needy groan building in the back of his throat, his breaths labored and heavy, barely taking space in his lungs before rushing back out. He fantasizes an erotic choreography between his body and Aziraphale’s, the sensual give and take of touch and taste, the dance of lovers so familiar, so synchronous. The way Aziraphale would kiss him so passionately, so deeply, with more urgency than he’s ever consumed any food or drink in his immortal life.
“Oh, good lord, that tastes amazing,” Aziraphale sighs.
“Nnngghh,” Crowley grunts, his head lolling back and side to side with utter delirium as he pumps his fist harder and harder, feeling a deep throbbing building inside him. “Come on.”
"Ohhh," Aziraphale cries. "Oh, yes, that's it!"
"Fuck," Crowley chokes out, bucking wildly into his hand like an untamed horse. "Aziraphale."
Crowley's entire body seizes up as he careens over the edge of his ecstasy, his blackened vision erupting into colorful static behind his eyelids. He continues to stroke with a tight grip on the shaft, holding his climax like a tenuto melody for as long as his human body will allow, until the euphoria recedes. “Holy shit,” he huffs as his limbs go slack, slumping down the headboard, fire-red hair matted to his forehead. He sucks short breaths through his teeth, lungs burning. “Fuck.”
Forgive me, Angel, for I have sinned.
"That was delectable," he hears Aziraphale sigh through the phone.
"You're telling me," Crowley wheezes, chest heaving, breath rolling in and out like the incessant tide of an unforgiving storm.
"Crowley, are you there?" Aziraphale asks. "You're being uncharacteristically quiet."
Crowley fumbles blindly for the phone with his free hand, stabbing at it for the mute button. "Yeah," he gasps. "I'm here, Angel."
"Are you all right?" comes the concerned voice. "You sound spent."
Crowley wants to bark out a laugh, but he keeps his reaction in check. "Sorry, had to fetch something from the attic. Must've lost signal for a second."
"You have an attic?"
Crowley sits up, an impressive effort to compose himself. "You liked the chocolates, then?" he asks, pointedly avoiding the question.
"Quite," Aziraphale sighs. “That last one was definitely it—the best of the bunch! Certainly slaked a craving or two."
Crowley breaks out in a dopey smile. "Good."
He lays in a boneless, satisfied silence, distantly aware of the mess he's made of himself. He could wave it away with a miracle, but somehow he can’t bear the thought. Aziraphale might find that a waste of a perfectly good nightcap. Just the thought of it makes Crowley's heart skip; Aziraphale, crawling towards him on hands and knees between his legs, hooded eyes dark with hunger as he dips down, devouring every last trace.
He recalls that train of thought immediately back to the station before he’s compelled to order an emergency delivery of more chocolate toffees.
"I can't imagine what I've done to deserve this," Aziraphale wonders aloud. "This is, what, the third time this week you've bestowed such blessings upon me?"
"Not blessings," Crowley grumbles.
"Right, sorry," Aziraphale says. "Temptations."
"Exactly," Crowley says. "No, honestly, I'm looking for a caterer for a... thing. Had to know if these were any good.”
“They’re wonderful,” Aziraphale says. “Although I might need to try a few more from this place,” he suggests innocently, fooling absolutely no one. “You know, just so I can be sure it’s up to my standards.”
“Sorted.”
“But next time,” he protests, “you really should join me. It’s not fair that I get all the gratification.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Crowley laughs lightly. “I’m plenty gratified. Well, it makes my job easier, doesn’t it? You know, using your stuffy palette for my purposes."
"Well, use me anytime you like," Aziraphale says, and Crowley nearly discorporates.
"Thanks, Angel," he sighs. "I will."