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This work could have adult content. If you continue, you have agreed that you are willing to see such content.
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Summary
Crowley returns to the shop earlier than he said he would and finds Aziraphale reading a collection of John Wilmot poetry. He thinks to mock the angel for his taste in “musty old porn”, but forgets just how much of a right bastard Aziraphale can be when he sets his mind to it.
Crowley dropped his voice curt, turning his chin sharply to try and see over his own shoulder. “Alright, angel, this is enough. I said I was sorry.”
“No, actually, you never did.” Aziraphale kicked at Crowley’s feet, knocking his legs wide. “But you will, I promise you that.”