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Just inside the door to the Mayfair flat, Aziraphale blinked, setting down the bottle of wine he held and following the muttered swearing to the back.
Crowley’s flat obeyed the laws of physics no better than his own bookshop did, and at the end of a hallway longer than it should be, Aziraphale found an open door somewhat older than the flat itself and one very irritable demon at the center of of a maelstrom of clothing, all black, all extravagant, all scattered as if he had seized up a great armful and thrown it into the air.
“Er, is everything well?”
Crowley turned towards him, black garments in either fist, hissing an exasperated breath through his teeth.
“No. Tell me, angel, why on earth did I decide that I needed a damned bustle?”
“Now Crowley, you know very well that no one ever really needed a bustle. Come here.”
With another angry hiss, Crowley came to rest against Aziraphale’s bulk, dropping the clothes to let his arms dangle at his sides.
“Bleagh.”
“Poor thing. I assume this is all in preparation for The Move?”
It had acquired capital letters in Aziraphale’s mind, his and Crowley’s journey from London to the South Downs. Despite the fact that they were maintaining several residences across the world and that the cottage could be equipped with doors that opened to the bookshop or the Mayfair flat with the same ease with which they opened the rear garden or the pantry, there was still something to it, their first shared residence, the official sign of their retirement from active duty. Aziraphale himself had been having some issues with deciding which books he would like to have in residence with him, and it made sense that Crowley might have something similar troubling him.
“No. Yes. I guess. Sort of?”
Aziraphale stroked the back of Crowley’s neck, making him sag until Aziraphale was supporting most of his weight. He waited.
“I know I don’t need to get rid of this stuff. I could just leave the door closed, put the whole mess in storage if I wanted. But. You know. Fresh starts and all? Our kind don’t much get them, and I thought. Oh, I don’t know what I thought.”
“That you might wish to be a bit lighter? Very natural, my dear. Perhaps I can help.”
Crowley laughed hopelessly.
“You couldn’t do worse than I’m doing, that’s for sure. All right. Here. Help me figure out what I want to keep. I’m having no luck beyond knowing I want to get rid of the winklepickers.”
“Oh, but they were so fashionable,” Aziraphale said automatically, and then he blushed when Crowley raised an eyebrow.
“Well, they were. I thought you looked rather dashing in them. Properly a terror.”
That at least won laugh from Crowley, as if he remembered yes, he was properly a terror, and he set the pointy-toed boots aside with a flourish.
“All right, message received. But don’t go trying to keep everything, all right? Even if I don’t have to move the lot, I wouldn’t mind getting some breathing room in here.”
Aziraphale resolved to be ruthless, and he was. After all, there was no reason to keep the 14th century hood with the ridiculous long liripipe or the chiton, which was, after all, just a big rectangle of linen. The same went for the bustle (terrible idea, and Aziraphale couldn’t think of one person who had been happy in them) and the monk’s robes (“Really?” “Needs must in the tenth century, angel.”).
Then Crowley lifted a slinky length of fabric from another chest, biting his lip.
“Oh, I don’t know about this one,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made Aziraphale set down his glass of wine.
“No?”
“No. Well. It’s. I don’t know.”
“Crowley?”
“I like it, but. You know.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
Aziraphale started to make a request for Crowley to explain further, but then he caught the way the demon, his demon, was sneaking a quick sly glance at him, his gaze darting between the garment and Aziraphale himself, and something shifted in the air between them.
“So you don’t know… but perhaps there is a chance I might?”
A quick nod, and Aziraphale nodded briskly.
“Well, then, on with it, and I shall see.”
Crowley snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale had a moment of amusement over how this particular game had never involved putting clothes on before, and then he stared.
They had missed the twenties, he remembered. It was one of those decades where he had resolved to avoid thinking of Crowley after their fight, and also one where he couldn’t seem to stop thinking of him at all. How could he, when the fashion was for skinny things draped in shimmering fabric that recalled snakeskin, when everyone had cultivated a clever little smirk and if there wasn’t actual gin in the drinking water, everyone acted as if there was.
The dress was made of something light and filmy weighed down with hundreds of jet beads and sequins. It was modestly cut in front, dipping down nearly to the small of Crowley’s back in the rear, and along with the pearly beads, the feathered band around his head and the neat low heels, Crowley had donned some slight curves to fill the outfit out as well as a shining, perfectly curled red bob. His face was largely the same, perhaps a little softer, but he had added a touch of color to his mouth, red to match his hair.
“Well, angel?” he asked, doing a slow spin, and Aziraphale let out a long breath.
“Oh well, it is quite something. Striking. Very fascinating.”
“Only fascinating?” Crowley asked, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and Aziraphale hurried to reassure him.
“Oh, but I haven’t investigated thoroughly yet. Come here, love, let me see.”
There was something almost bashful about Crowley as he made his way over where Aziraphale was seated on one of his trunks, practically shy, a little nervy.
I must be very gentle with him, Aziraphale thought, and then, when he heard Crowley’s slightly quickened breath, though perhaps not so gentle as all that.
Out loud, he only said, “Wherever did you get this dress, my dear?”
“Oh, it’s an original Lanvin. She liked the bigger skirts, but—oh!”
Aziraphale looked up with an interested expression, his hand still on Crowley’s silk-covered calf. He slid it up to the ticklish bit behind Crowley’s knee, lingering there for a moment.
“You were saying, Lanvin?”
“Ah. You know. Bigger skirts. More pastels. But I—I just. I wanted.”
“Oh, yes, what did my darling want?” Aziraphale purred, sliding his hand up the back of Crowley’s leg. “What did my perfect lovely darling want?”
Crowley bit down on a whimper, squirming like anything in every direction except the one that would actually remove him from Aziraphale’s reach.
“Black,” he said, his voice strained. “Black. And sleeker. Knew she could do it, went all the way to Paris to convince her…”
“Tell me, darling. Did you know how very spectacular you would look in Mme. Lanvin’s creation? Did you know how irresistible you would be?”
“I. I thought it would be good for work,” Crowley said unconvincingly. “You know. Extravagant. Opulent. Kind of slutty.”
Aziraphale made a soft amused sound, now sliding both hands under Crowley’s dress, curling them around Crowley’s lean thighs.
“You are certainly all of those things, dearest, but you’re not mentioning now gorgeous you are, and how very perfect you look. Utterly lovely, completely delicious.”
Crowley started to protest, but then Aziraphale’s hands crept up over the tops of his stockings, caressing that swathe of skin below his slip where he was so terribly sensitive.
“That. That rather wouldn’t have made it past the accountants.”
“Oh no? Well. Hell’s loss, my gain, then, to have something so very beautiful stood in front of me like this.”
“I’m not—”
Aziraphale did not care to hear what Crowley wasn’t. Quicker even than a demon’s tongue, he plucked at one of Crowley’s suspenders, delivering a light sting to his thigh.
“Oh!”
“You asked me for my opinion,” he said sternly. “I should rather think you would like to hear me give it.”
“Oh yes. Yes, please, angel!”
“That is decidedly more like it. Now, I was tasked with helping you decide on whether this outfit should remain in your wardrobe, and to make that estimation, I think I should like to see it displayed more effectively. Perhaps with you leaned against the door there? Ah yes, perfect, exactly right, my dear, with your legs braced, and—yes, spread just a little wider, lovely. Well done, darling.”
Crowley made a soft longing sound when Aziraphale stood and leaned in to kiss him, taking his time and trailing one indolent hand from his ribs down to his hips.
“You have no idea how gorgeous you are—”
“In this dress, right?”
“Especially in this dress. But gorgeous. I cannot take my eyes off of you, I never have been able to do so, not such a shining wicked thing as you. Not when you take my breath away with every gesture, every word.”
“Sounds like you have plenty of breath right now, angel,” Crowley managed, even as Aziraphale nibbled the side of his neck. Aziraphale purred, nuzzling sharp teeth against Crowley’s throat.
“Well, I suppose I should put some of that to good use, shouldn’t I?”
And he did, kneeling down in front of Crowley and sliding the weight of his skirt up his body (“Do be a dear and hold that for me, won’t you?”). He took in the lovely picture Crowley made, his long legs made even longer in black silk stockings held up by the suspenders clipped to his slip. Underneath, why, there was nothing at all beyond the thicket of hair somewhat darker than that on Crowley’s head, and Aziraphale cooed as he stroked it down and leaned in to nuzzle it.
“So gorgeous. Every bit of you. What you put on for me, and what you put on for yourself, so perfect.”
He ran the tip of his tongue along the creases of Crowley’s thighs, one after the other until Crowley’s soft whimpers turned into one long, uninterrupted whine. Only then did he slide his thumbs along Crowley’s dampening slit, spreading the wetness he found there up to his clit and parting hair and flesh so he could lean in and kiss.
“Oh, I think you are right, sweetheart. I do not think I shall need this breath for much else.”
At some point, he would have to come up with a form that allowed him to praise Crowley while he did this, that might sing for how good he tasted and how perfect a thing he was. Aziraphale’s side had a rather lot to say about worship being best done on one’s knees, and Aziraphale had felt that it was certainly a superior way to praise someone and to love them as well, and he lapped the flat of his tongue over Crowley’s clit over and over again.
Too soon, Crowley started to shake, and then his moans turned to curses when Aziraphale fell back to mouth his thighs again, lightly scraping his nails down Crowley’s pale freckled skin. He might have protested more, but he stuttered to a stop as Aziraphale murmured how good he was, how utterly clever and beautiful and wonderful and all those words he had stored up for Crowley’ over 6000 years of denial. Now there was no more need for denial or fear, there was only how Crowley tasted when he nearly shook himself to crisis, how he wailed when Aziraphale pulled back a second time and then a third.
The fourth time Crowley started to shake, he had his hands fisted in Aziraphale’s hair, was lightly thudding his head back against the door, and he was crying out such threats and curses, perfect little terror he was, that Aziraphale pressed closer instead of pulling away. He pressed his face tight to Crowley’s body, his hands hard on Crowley’s hips, and he was rewarded with a gush of wetness and Crowley’s body jackknifing hard against the door.
He shook for several long moments, the broken sounds falling from his lips mixing perfectly with Aziraphale’s own words, love, love you, perfect, so good, so mine, utterly gorgeous, sensual, darling, so wonderful and so clever, my perfect demon, my own—
Crowley stayed upright for another moment, and then he slithered down to the floor to coil himself against Aziraphale’s chest, nuzzling at the wetness that spilled down Aziraphale’s shirt, clinging to him with a kind of shaky need that Aziraphale adored.
“Well—” Crowley cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, that’s a yes on the Lanvin, then?”
Aziraphale chuckled, sweeping his perfect demon even closer.
“Very much so, my dear. It’s almost as lovely as you are.”