to steal light from dawn

Aziraphale put his manuscript aside, instruments perched daintily on a knock-off Charles and Diana commemorative dish by an artist who couldn’t seem to decide whether he was painting the Princess of Wales or a young Aled Jones. “I believe the general consensus is that the fun of sexual activity is to enjoy climax, not to be deprived of it,” he said.

“Well, you would think that, angel.” Crowley stood up, unfolding himself in a sinewy deployment that Aziraphale followed with his eyes. “A right little hedonist you are, if ever I saw one.”



(Or: Aziraphale and Crowley try something new. Crowley learns to ask for what he wants.)