#partial wip

I promise, I'm working on the next chapter. Just...look at him. Look. Featuring tatt designs from the mod by @xbaebsae Also -

Garak felt his way through the narrow corridor. Too small, too small, his instincts screamed at him, but he deepened his breathing and continued. The thin fiberoptic strands Tain had left as a light source guided him to his work. He tried to focus on the light, on his work; he was too warm, for once, but he could breathe freely, and the only way to get out of this damned Dominion prison waited for him at the source of the light.

The other reason he needed out, of course, was waiting for him at the other end of the passage. Dr. Bashir, alive and waiting for him and real, real, real. His instincts were yelling quite a lot about that, as well, conflicting messages of elation at having found him at last and fear of having allowed him to observe the last words between himself and his father. But he had far more experience with reining in the push-and-pull of his feelings on this subject, and had only to stop and listen now and again to hear the voice of his dear friend coaxing him forward. He could do this - he WOULD do this. He would rescue the lot of them, federation and non-federation prisoners alike, would bring Bashir home and be lauded as a hero. Dear Julian would be so grateful that he would quite forget about all of those silly darts games with the Chief, and he would— he would—

Too small, too small, too small! He closed his eyes and focused on his work.

Later, he wasn’t sure how long, the cable lights began to flicker. He could taste his own fear hanging thick in the air, and feel his pulse quickening, toosmall toosmall toosmall! Trying his best to speak in a calm voice, he chided himself and the light. “I’m sorry, but that’s absolutely unacceptable,” he explained to it. “I’m under enough strain as it is, I can’t have you quitting on me!” he gave himself a small shake, and tried to bargain. “Get a hold of yourself, Garak. After all, you haven’t had one of these attacks in years. Yes, this is a tight, enclosed space. Yes, there’s not a lot of room to move. But a disciplined mind does not allow itself to be sidetracked by niggling psychological disorders like… claustrophobia.”

It could almost be his father’s voice admonishing him; it was painful and comforting and exasperating in turns to imagine it so. “Besides, this isn’t like Tzenketh: the walls won’t collapse in on you, your friends are nearby, there’s plenty of air, so there’s nothing to be concerned about. Focus on the job. You’re the only person who can contact the runabout. People are depending on you.” Julian is depending on you. Ah, but that wouldn’t do, would it? Not when trying to keep his poor heart from racing. “Ziyal is depending on you. You promised her you’d come back, and that young lady has had quite enough disappointments in her life without you adding to them,” the entire life history of her father, for one, “so control yourself. You’re stronger than this. A disciplined mind—”

The light vanished.

He could feel his spacial awareness shrinking, insisting to his otherwise rational mind that the walls were moving closer, would crush him; the space was too small, too small, he had to escape, he had to breathe, but he couldn’t find the exit any longer. Had he turned around? There wasn’t space enough to turn now, any way he moved he banged into the wall, the panel, shocking himself again and again, in the dark, close space that was small, small, small!

And then, he was there - his Doctor, his Julian, the sweet scent of him rolling over his tongue and his so’c, that unmistakable taste that he had missed for so long, that no changeling would ever be able to duplicate. He was babbling, he knew it, but all he could focus on was clinging to the dear man’s arm as he led him out of that terrible hole.

Light, and air, sweet and cool. The good Doctor laid him down on one of the cots, wrapped him in a blanket that carried his comforting scent, and a vague time passed where all he could manage was to keep his breath coming deep and even, and focus on the increased space available in the barracks.

For the rest of the day, he couldn’t quite manage to allow himself back into the passageway. Once, Bashir caught him staring guiltily at the panel that covered the entrance, and he came over and sat with him on the cot and wrapped his arms around Garak’s shoulders and held him until his trembling stopped. If he had had enough resolve left within him to protest, it would have been outrageously embarrassing, but as it was he only leaned into the touch and tried to ignore the presence of his fellow prisoners as they were politely trying to ignore his own.

When it was close to time for the evening meal, the Klingons shared a look between themselves, and the Romulan glanced his way before nodding. With the still-silent Breen, they filed out towards the cafeteria, leaving him alone with the good Doctor for the first time since before he’d been abducted. “My dear,” he said wryly, “I do believe we’ve been abandoned.”

“More like granted some privacy,” Bashir confirmed. “I thought it might be easier, tonight, if it was just the two of us for a while. Martok has some friends in another barracks, and with the other Cardassian prisoners gone there’s plenty of space to go ‘round.” He came and put his hands on Garak’s scalp and collarbone, checking his pulse where the scales were thinnest as he must have learned to do for Tain, and Garak allowed it for a moment before turning to rest his forehead against the other man’s chest. Bashir, in turn, pulled him closer and stroked his dark hair.

“I’ve missed you,” Garak said quietly. “I was certain you had died, or were so far beyond where I could ever get to you that you may as well have.”

Bashir stilled for a moment, then hugged him hard and sat down beside him. “You would be the one to see through my double, wouldn’t you? How… how did you know? That it wasn’t me? And why didn’t you tell the Captain?”

A bitter laugh. He leaned close to Bashir’s ear and made an exaggerated show of sipping the air around him. “My dear, I am ashamed that it took me several days before I could be sure. I’ve spent enough meals with you that your scent and taste is as familiar to me as my own, but living in your quarters allowed enough of it to stick to the changeling wearing your face that at first I wasn’t certain what I was perceiving.” A lie, of course; he had spent enough time in his quarters late at night, conjuring the memory of the good Doctor’s scent, that it was far more than merely familiar to him. “When I was all but sure, I simply asked if my favorite customer was ready for that new suit we had discussed before your trip.”

Bashir’s skin had flushed an attractive, deeper gold color at the mention of how he tasted, but now he laughed and shook his head. “And I’m guessing he didn’t bring Kukalaka down to your shop the next morning? That’s fantastic. Saved by a stuffed bear. Captain Sisko will love that.”

Garak turned slightly away. “I’m sure that he will.”

A hand on his shoulder. “But Garak, why didn’t you tell someone? Who knows what sort of damage the Changeling might have done already?”

“Do give me some credit, my dear - my computer skills aren’t limited to those in miniscule corridors. I kept a lookout for any anomalies I could find. I dare say Odo himself couldn’t have done a better job, though I’m sure he’ll claim otherwise on our return. And besides,” Garak sighed, “If I revealed the Changeling, who knows if they would have kept you alive? I couldn’t risk it. Much better to observe it, until I could find a way to bring you home.”

“Garak, that’s — the entire quadrant is in danger! How could you possibly justify risking that, all of that, for just one —” Bashir raked his hands through his already-disheveled hair, and Garak felt his pulse start to quicken again, his instincts speaking more clearly and more freely now than they had even in the tiny passageway.

“I’ve already told you!” he exclaimed, turning back and placing his hands brazenly on either side of the Doctor’s neck, thumbs moving to caress the short stubble that decorated his jawline. “Sentiment, my dear Doctor, my sweet and beautiful Julian, is the greatest weakness of all.”

And then he kissed him.

In all of the nights he had spent imagining, he had been wrong, wrong, wrong. Julian’s scent around him, the taste of him on his tongue, the feel of him under his lips, it was so much better than he had ever dared guess. He had started to pull back in surprise, and Garak felt his heart plummet, but then he was being kissed back with a ferocity that matched his own. Julian was warm beneath his hands and his mouth,

[WORDS GO HERE, THEY SIT ON BED]

The scrape of stubble against his cheek made him growl as Julian pressed a line of sharp bites along his aural ridge, until he felt soft lips brush against him, and the whisper of a beloved voice.

“Elim Garak, if you let yourself get captured just so you could kiss me—”

Now that was a delightful thought. “You'll what?”

“— I shall… well, I’m going to let you, clearly, but I’ll be very cross about it later!”

A pleased hiss escaped his throat. “As much as it pains me to admit, my dear, I’m afraid even I’m not quite that much of a romantic. As delicious as you are,” his hands slid over Julian’s sides and under the hem of his uniform top, “I much prefer scenarios with a greater chance of survival.”

“I have every faith in your abilities, Garak,” Julian said. “Especially with the promise of a proper bed at the end of it.”

He looked down at the plain cot they sat on. “What exactly qualifies this one as improper?”

“Only what I plan to do to you in it, I should think.” Julian gave him a predatory smile, and pulled his shirt up and off. His chest was starkly minimalist, decorated only by a few soft bits of fur and two small, round nipples. Garak felt a bit adrift without the familiar roadmap of scales and ridges, but the subtleties of hue more than made up for it - even with a month spent in such terrible conditions, the doctor’s skin glowed a lovely bronze, flushing red on his cheeks and chest. His body radiated heat like a furnace, and he’d known they were warm but this was wonderfully akin to a Cardassian sauna, and he could have lain in contentment against him for hours… were it not for a few other pressing concerns.

“My darling exhibitionist,” he said affectionately, then tilted his head coquettishly to the side. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you celebrating your victory with the battle yet unfought. Tell me, Doctor, are you this impatient in all your romantic encounters, or have you simply been too long without pleasant company?”

“Oh no you don’t,” His smile was radiant, his fingers were quick, and he’d undone half the latches on Garak’s tunic already. “Now you’re just trying to pick a fight. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how uncharacteristically honest you’ve been with me since you got here.”

He pressed a kiss to Garak’s chufa, and pressed his forehead against it before speaking softly. “Which means quite a lot to me, you know. Even without all this.” A few more heartbeats passed as they simply held each other close, before Julian’s lip twitched into a smile. “But also it has been a very lonely month. And don’t you ‘Doctor’ me, Elim.”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” Garak huffed “Your changeling friend might have looked the part, but I haven’t had a truly rousing debate in weeks!”

“I’ll show you a rousing debate…”

“... Really, my dear, it’s fortunate that you’re so lovely. I can see how you were made salutatorian of that fine federation school of yours with such compelling arguments.”

Warm human hands slipped his tunic and thermal shirt from his shoulders and teased the ridges just above his hips. “My sweet Elim, we’re currently prisoners of war bunking six to a room with no promise of tomorrow, the only real comfort I can offer you is physical, and you kissed me first. Now, may I please suck your cock?”

Well.

Ahem.

“I suppose if that sweet mouth of yours is going to be useless for arguing anyway…” Garak said, aiming for lofty but landing somewhat closer to breathy. Julian kissed him hard,

Crowley was being followed, and he didn’t care for it one bit. He could feel eyes boring into his back, and he took a quick turn down a side street that turned out to be a blind alley — blast! — then turned to meet his pursuer. He let his glasses slip down, exposing the acid yellow of his eyes, and relaxed into a fighting stance. The presence was getting closer, he could feel it approaching the mouth of the alley.

“Show yourself!” he demanded with a sneer.

His pursuer was … considerably shorter than he’d assumed, and quite a bit less bipedal to boot. It was a scraggly, thin thing with a long face and wiry hair and sad, soulful eyes. It nosed at the bags of trash next to the overflowing dumpster, watching him warily, but approaching. It raised its head and sniffed at the air once, twice, before the ratty tail tucked between its legs twitched in the tiniest of wags.

It was a dog, and for some ungodly reason, it seemed to like him.

Crowley gaped, hands falling to his sides, as the beast came closer. It was close enough that he could have reached out and pet it, if he wanted, then close enough to start sniffing at his jacket. Nosing at the left pocket.

Ah. Of course. It didn’t actually like him, it was just hungry, and could smell the snacks he’d stashed in there for emergencies. A packet of Aziraphale’s favorite biscuits, a couple satchels of his favorite teas, breadcrumbs for the ducks, and a few perpetually-frozen mice for when the mood struck him. Which of those would be best for dogs? The mice, probably, but honestly he wasn’t in the mood to watch some mutt crunch on bloody gobbets in an alley right now, so biscuits it would be. He had more at home, could stop by and top up his stores when he was done with his walk.

He slipped one to the dog, making sure it wasn’t one of the ones with chocolate, and was surprised at how delicately it took it from his fingers. The wagging resurfaced, still a tentative thing, but stronger now. It ate the biscuit in moments and looked at him with hope. Oh, fuck. He was such a fucking sucker, he was. If Hell could see him now, caving to a literal pair of puppy dog eyes. He held out another biscuit, this time following it with a gentle hand over the dog’s head and down his neck, looking for any sort of collar that might be hidden in his matted fur. Nothing.

“Well, what are we going to do with you, eh? Can’t just leave you wandering about, who knows what you might get up to. Playing in traffic. Helping old ladies across the street. Inspiring other suckers to charity. Can’t have that, now can we?” He miracled up a collar and lead, and looked up the nearest animal shelter on his phone. While he was so distracted, a quick tongue darted into his hand, and it was suddenly empty of biscuits.

“You little shit!” He found himself laughing, as the dog tried to fit as many biscuits in its mouth at once as it could manage, almost choking itself on how quickly it was trying to eat. “Hey, hey now, not so fast, eh? Nobody’s taking them from you. You can take your time.”

"This can't be all you want from me," Aziraphale said, feeling the slick heat of Crowley's cunt envelope him.

"Can." Crowley ground down from his seat astride Aziraphale's hips, eyes closed as he focused on his own pleasure.

"It wo-- won't work, you know. You can't make me fall with this." He let his head fall back, noting his corporation's instinctual urge to thrust and setting it aside. His wrists and ankles were bound in shining silver threads, stretching him into a taut line on Crowley's wine-dark sheets, and he gave a brief tug to demonstrate his thorough capture. "I didn't choose this. You've accomplished nothing."

"Never sssssssaid I want you to fall, angel." Crowley crouched over him, supporting himself with one arm on the bed, and with the other tilted Aziraphale's mouth up for a kiss. His thighs still rose and fell in a private rhythm, sinking him onto Aziraphale's cock over and over again. "Just want this. Touch you, feel you. Fuck, you feel so good. Does it feel good for you?"

(It did.)

(Aziraphale said nothing.)

Crowley sat up and leant back, bracing his hands on Aziraphale's thighs as he gave short, little bounces that ground the head of Aziraphale's cock against a particular spot inside him. The demon writhed, mouth open and making little "ah! ah! ah!" noises as he neared his peak, which seemed to strike through him like a bolt of lightning, leaving him shaking and shuddering and clenching tightly around where Aziraphale was buried in him.

The thing most people don't want to believe about magic is that it's simple.

It's true! I've given so many presentations over the years, and that's where the audience always pushes back. Magic is simple.

People are complicated.

Magic just wants your attention, your focus - all of it if possible, which is something usually reserved for intense pain or moments of great desperation, and something made more difficult by pesky little things like language. A human tries a relatively straightforward working - moving object X to location Y - and the very thoughts themselves of object and location spawn a thousand associations, each one nibbling away your attention until there's not enough left to entice the magic.

It's simple, like I said, not easy.

Most magi use things like circles, or sigils, or foreign languages to trick their brains - things they associate only with magic, which makes it easier for them to not get distracted by all the little background thoughts always going through one's mind.

(I know a guy with a knack for languages who keeps accidentally learning his magic languages, and having to switch to another. Last I checked he'd just moved on from finnish to yoruba, after going through several of the romance languages and something he called "slavic esperanto")

but really, all you need is the right state of mind - people have been doing magic since before they were human, after all, barely-upright hominids calling out to forces larger than themselves with that particular single-mindedness that makes the universe listen. If you can manage that, there's little you can't do, at least once.

See, that's the other thing - magic is jealous, like a spoiled pet. It wants your attention, and it doesn't much care how it gets it. Thou shalt have no other gods before me, and all that; Moses may have been the one to turn his staff into a snake, but it was Aaron who became a priest.

There's a story my mentor used to tell me, about a mage who could fly: the first time he tried it, he was falling off a roof, and reached out to the magic to save his own life. After that, he flew farther and higher, longer and more swiftly, as often as he could. It got to the point that he expected to fly, that he relied on it, and so he started noticing the irritation of the wind against his face, and the chill when he flew faster, and the beauty of the view.

And his focus slipped.

And he fell.

One of the smaller, but more insidiously terrible things about being a demon was the way that it make you think you deserved it, where ‘it’ meant each and every other terrible thing in your life.

As far as Crowley could tell, it started during the fall — when the ground dropped out beneath you, and the part of your being so central to your identity and sense of self that you didn’t even conceive of it as a part, the knowledge that you were Loved and that you deserved to be Loved, were worthy of it, was ripped out of you with a suddenness more abrupt and than anything you had experienced in your life. That was the central wound around which all demonic traits festered, really: that vast and empty space, the revelation of love and acceptance as things that could be conditional, and the knowledge that whatever those criteria were, you no longer measured up (if you ever had).

For the fallen angels that pulled themselves out of the lakes of boiling sulphur[1], the lessening of external pain only let the internal pain come to the forefront, and as pain as a concept was a relatively new thing, nobody had what you might call healthy coping mechanisms. Some of them lashed out, trying to turn their pain outward, as if by inflicting it onto others they could get rid of it. Some were angry, some were haughty, some curled in on themselves like a boneless ocean creature. Many wept and screamed and pled or demanded to know Why, Mother? Why? and were answered only with celestial silence. Some, more than Heaven would have guessed or that Hell would later admit, tried to help those around them, perhaps hoping that by so doing they could become worthy again, or because of a genuine dislike of suffering, or possibly just out of habit. Crowley had been one of the ones wrapped up in a ball in his own wings, before another demon whose name he never learned came and shook him out of it, healing what injuries they could with dregs of Grace that sparked and sputtered like a hair dryer about to catch fire. He had thanked them, had touched their hands and face in agonized gratitude, and had seen them destroyed at the hands (and teeth, and claws, and blades) of a pack of raging demons they had approached to help.

That had been enough of a lesson for Crowley; he ran, as he had during the actual War, wanting neither to hurt nor to be hurt. If he stayed to the edges of the crowd, he could avoid the more violent of the fallen, but not draw attention by standing alone and vulnerable. And if he found that, when he did eventually run afoul of the captains and lieutenants of the Rebellion and experienced his share of their Wrath, he could hear a voice in his head telling him he was stupid, and foolish, and useless; that he’d gotten too close or too far from where he needed to be, said or done the wrong thing, that the pain he felt now was his own fault, was what he deserved, well. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it, was there?

Over time, the demons settled. The hierarchy of Hell was established, the pain from the boiling sulphur eased, and the odds of being outright murdered significantly lessened. Interactions between demons became less volatile, but after every one the voice told Crowley what he had done wrong, and it was always more than he thought.

Sometimes he used the voice, listened to its advice. If he just said the right things at the right time, was standing in the right place, approached every interaction with the wary distrust of a dog that’s been kicked too many times but hid it so no one knew he was scared — if he listened to the voice telling him not to trust, not to hope, to tell his fellows (and, later, superiors) what he thought they would be willing to hear, he could get along in Hell well enough to survive with only minimal bouts of getting the shit kicked out of him.

[TIME PASSES, CROWLEY FAKES BEING SMART AND CONFIDENT AND ALL THE THINGS HIS VOICE TELLS HIM HE’S NOT]

[IT MEANS HE DOESN’T THINK AZIRAPHALE CAN LOVE HIM THO]

[HE IS A NATURAL OPTIMIST THO BUT SOMETIMES THE VOICE IS LOUD AND WHEN HIS HOPES ARE CRUSHED HE BEATS HIMSELF UP FOR IT A LOT]

[THAT SHOULD HAPPEN NEAR AZIRAPHALE?]

[something about Aziraphale offering comfort as if it doesn’t matter, as if it’s not dangerous]

[something about accepting that because even the veneer of care is so much at that point]

The smell of baking bread filled the kitchen, and the muted roar of rain gave a pleasant backdrop to the russian waltz coming through the little mobile speaker he’d set up for Crowley, after the demon had been disabused of the notion that sound systems worked just fine without them [1]. Wrapping the little round loaf in a red-and-black checkered cloth, Aziraphale added it to the small basket he’d assembled and made his way to the greenhouse.

Inside, it was no less humid than without, but the air was redolent with flowers and sharp green smells that Aziraphale couldn’t quantify as anything other than the smell of life. Vines crawled up every surface that would support them, leaves erupted from every nook and cranny, and even a few small fruit trees were sitting smugly in their pots, sure of their safety as Aziraphale had complained that he could taste it when Crowley terrified them into compliance [2]. Tucked away in a little corner, Crowley reclined in a long, clawfoot bathtub. The steam from the water condensed on the windows, so that they were dripping inside and out, and beaded oddly on Crowley’s unusually dull skin. Aziraphale coughed politely to announce his approach, and smiled as Crowley’s tongue flicked out to taste the air before his clouded yellow eyes opened vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Hey, angel.” Crowley tipped his face up for a kiss, and Aziraphale gladly complied. “What’d you bring?”

“Just some little things I hoped might entice you. I know you said you’re not usually hungry around your shed, but I picked out a few of your favorites just in case.” Aziraphale settled himself on the bench next to the tub, relaxed in his shirtsleeves and braces with his cuffs rolled up to his elbows. As he made ready his feast, Crowley reached out and twined their fingers together, his piano-player’s hands with their knobbly knuckles and gardening calluses fitting perfectly between Aziraphale’s own soft, square palms. Aziraphale smiled, bringing his husband’s hand to his lips before releasing it.

“I’ve got those olives you like, as well as a few kinds of cheese, honey, a bit of fruit, and…” He revealed the still-steaming loaf of bread with all the flair he’d once used to display Harry the Rabbit. “That dark seedbread you like! I finally convinced dear Tracy to give me the recipe.”

Aziraphale preened at Crowley’s impressed-sounding whistle. “How’d you manage that one? Thought she’d never give it up.”

“Well, I may have mentioned you were a bit under the weather…”

Crowley groaned, submerging himself in the bath until his complaints were little more than gurgling bubbles before he emerged with a dramatically hangdog expression. “Aziraphale, please tell me you didn’t tell her I was shedding, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“No, of course not, darling. I simply said it was that time of the century, and she was confused enough to let it go.”

“Ha! That’s my bastard.” Crowley settled himself onto the side of the tub, head laid on his folded arms.

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat, breaking the loaf in two and

Crowley was wearing white.

Crowley was wearing white, and gold, and a lovely tawny brown brocade coat that complemented his hair so nicely, really. His long hair was tied back in a queue with a white ribbon, and a white cravat poured lace down his throat like a waterfall.

Crowley was also wearing a pair of iron manacles, almost hidden in the lace dripping over his wrists, and they were connected to a large iron chain that was in turn connected to a ring set in the dirty stone floor.

“Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here,” said a slow voice behind him, and he turned to see Aziraphale leaning against the doorway, eyeing the captive Crowley appreciatively.

Aziraphale was in a deep blue coat, with a black shirt and waistcoat with shining silver buttons. The color matched his eyes, dark and wanting, and Crowley felt a little shiver go up his spine.

Aziraphale stalked closer, circling Crowley like a predator, and smiled. “Now what is my sweet little serpent doing locked up in a place like this?” he hummed, stopping behind where Crowley sat and nuzzling him softly behind the ear.

Crowley leaned back into his touch, feeling Aziraphale’s hands settle on his shoulders. “Oh, you’ll think it’s silly,” he protested, and let his head fall to the side, exposing more soft neck to Aziraphale’s lips. “I just, I had to come, you see - for the books!” A soft snort of laughter and a warning nip of teeth to his skin only encouraged him. “The books, and the operas, you know I had to come and see all the new shows, darling!”

He could feel Aziraphale’s body shaking softly with laughter behind him, and smiled broadly while his husband collected himself. A soft kiss was pressed to his hair, and then the hands on his shoulders traced up and down his arms, to hold his wrists just where the manacles did.

“So, my serpent, you just popped across the channel for a play, during a revolution, looking like this?” Aziraphale released his hands and came around to his front, eyes raking up and down his lovely, aristocratic ensemble and how well it fit his thin frame. “My dear, it’s a wonder no other demons got to you before I could, looking as delicious as all that.” He grabbed the chain binding Crowley’s wrists and pulled him to his feet, and Crowley let himself fall onto Aziraphale’s solid form with a theatrical gasp, earning another upward twitch of Aziraphale’s lips.

“Won’t you help me, darling? Won’t you get me out of these wicked, wicked chains?” Crowley fluttered his eyelashes, looking up at Aziraphale with the fully-serpentine eyes he allowed for scenes like this. “They’re too… full of human… evil? I can’t break them myself, I need someone just as wicked to release me.”

Aziraphale leaned in and ghosted his lips over Crowley’s jaw. “And what if I don’t? What if I want a release of my own? After all, it’s not every day one gets a captive angel to play with. I could spend ages devouring a tasty little morsel like you.” His voice dripped like honey into Crowley’s ear. “After all, gluttony was always my favorite sin.”

Oh god, he could feel his cock starting to strain against his breeches. “I - ah - I can’t, darling. I’m not supposed to--”

“Oh but you want to, don’t you, my dear?” A soft hand stroked up his thigh, cupping him. “You’ve even made me such a lovely little toy to play with.”

“S’not little,” Crowley muttered, earning a ‘hush’ and a gentle swat before Aziraphale drew back and gestured at the ceiling, the chain obediently shifting to draw Crowley’s arms up over his head.

“Now, my sweet one, why don’t you just let me indulge myself a little, and then I’ll let you go, hmm?” His hands were at the little golden buttons of Crowley’s waistcoat, slipping them open, and sliding over the pale shirt underneath. “You don’t have to do a thing. Surely Heaven couldn’t object to that?”

He had something - a laugh, a snarl, a snarky reply - but Aziraphale’s fingers found his nipples through his shirt and pinched, and it was gone. He gasped softly, arching his back to press into the angel’s touch, only to have it draw back. Aziraphale smiled archly at him before finally - finally! - closing in for a kiss.

His lips were soft and warm against Crowley’s, and he tasted like sunlight and vanilla and tingling ozone. His skin was so blessedly warm, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to melt into it.

So he did.

He let himself surrender, mouth opening at the gentle touch of Aziraphale’s tongue. Soft hands tugged his shirt free of his breeches and slid over his skin, one holding him against Aziraphale’s body as the other returned to pinch and roll at his nipple. Crowley whimpered and pressed himself closer, trying to tease Aziraphale’s tongue further into his mouth so he could suck on it properly. At that, Aziraphale chucked against him and nipped at his lower lip before pulling free, and Crowley didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he opened them to see heat and amusement glinting in his lover’s.

“Well, isn’t someone impatient? All in good time, my love.” He pressed another quick kiss to Crowley’s mouth, then sank to his knees. Crowley watched as Aziraphale thumbed the clocks of his ochre stockings and slid his hands up the backs of his calves, along the seam. “Such lovely clothes, my dear, I can see why you’d be loath to part with them.”

“Minx.”