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Summary
They’d shared oysters again, like in Rome. The afterimage of Crowley’s head tipped back, shell to his lips above the long line of his throat, shimmered behind Aziraphale’s eyelids. Even now the oysters' salty tang still lingered on Aziraphale's tongue. He imagined the same salt of his mouth inside Crowley's, the shared taste in that intimate warmth. A tremor quaked in his lungs.
“You mentioned wine, angel?”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said, heart rumbling in his chest.