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Aziraphale at Night

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Four in the morning, quiet and still in the bookshop.

All you want is for Crowley to come up behind you, breathe in your ear. “Let me tempt you,” he says. “My angel,” he says. “You are everything.”

And he kisses your neck, and it’s so easy, his hand flat on your heart, pulling you flush against him, and you can just lean back onto his shoulder, this is happening, let it happen.

And you feel warmth, wetness on your throat, and like magnets your mouths find each other, opening, his tongue sliding in. He tastes like rain in the desert, like lightning, and you can’t help but moan and now there is absolutely no turning back, you couldn’t stop this if you wanted to, and all your logic, all your objections, die in the face of his tongue caressing yours, his hand sliding down to cup where you ache to be touched -

Aziraphale stops, sits down, covers his face with his hands. Stays like that for several long moments.

Stands up. Pulls a book, any book, from the shelf, sits back down. Puts it on his lap. Reads.

The earth spins, inexorably, bringing London closer to the sun’s blast of light.