When in Rome, eh, Scotland...

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Category: Humor, kilts, temptation, Aziraphale is all about authenticity
Rating: R
Summary: Crowley is going to invite Aziraphale out for their daily dance of 'will we won't we' but he gets sidetracked by Aziraphale deciding to try on an old gift.
Series: Welcome to my own personal end times (multifandom)
Notes: It's not the first time I'm writing kilt-porn/kilt-fic and it's not the first time I've gotten sidetracked by research, just because I couldn't remember quite when kilts came into regular use by Scots and then my brain went off on the battle of Culloden and well - the rest was a detour of about an hour XD
Thank you to Dee for once again doing a quick and dirty beta ;) (an not laughing too hard at me for getting sidetracked).
(See the end of the work for more notes.)
Word count: 1,093

"I thought we'd go have lunch," Crowley said, slipping through the door, less than two minutes after Azirphale had turned the sign from 'closed' to 'open'. He hadn't been waiting outside, nope, just knew the angel better than he knew himself some days.

Well, he'd thought he did, anyway. Perhaps he didn't, because he'd opened his mouth to carry on and then nearly swallowed his tongue. Not a thing he'd like to do again, mind. He'd very nearly done that while drunk in 1066 and it had not been a pleasant experience.

"Huh," he said, stepping forward and doing a full stalking circle around Aziraphale. "Why are you dressed like that?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, delighted as he twisted and turned to look at Crowley. "I realized I still had the whole getup and I felt a little nostalgic."

Crowley stopped, blinked a couple of times. "Getup?"

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale said enthusiastically. "See, remember back in 1601, when we met at the Globe?" He slid his hands down over his outfit, like he wanted Crowley to approve of it as well.

"Eh, yes, one of Shakespeare's gloomy ones, if I remember it right," Crowley said nonchalantly, trying desperately not to dig for more information. Then he just gave up. "What the heaven does Hamlet have to do with you wearing a great kilt?"

"Ah," Aziraphale said and Crowley just knew there was a long winded explanation on the way.

"Short version, angel - I'd like to take you out for lunch today - not next week." Crowley could have put more bite into the words, but as with most conversations involving the angel, he failed utterly.

"Well," Aziraphale took a deep breath, scrunched up his nose for a moment, then nodded. "Remember you asked me to do your tempting while I was in Edinburgh?"

"Ye-es?" Crowley wasn't entirely sure what he was about to hear. "I asked you to tempt a clan leader into stealing some cattle, not…" He stopped himself before he could dig himself too deep.

Aziraphale frowned. "Whatever are you - ah." He huffed and turned his eyes heavenward. "Really, Crowley, the good man was perhaps a little brass for my tastes, but seeing as I apparently offered some sage advice that did make his endeavour a little easier, I was made an honorary member of the clan - hence the clan tartan."

Crowley couldn't quite stop himself from moving forward, causing Aziraphale to slowly inch his way backwards. Until he was stopped by one of his desks. "The great kilt style you're wearing is more 1700s, angel," he pointed out.

"I kept in touch with the clan for a couple of centuries," Aziraphale said lightly, his usually guileless expression on his face. "I was given it as a parting gift in 1746. The year the clan leader died. Couldn't wear it for quite some years, you know."

Crowley, more familiar with human wars nodded. "So why now?"

"Well, I was going through some things and found it - wanted to know if it still fit as well as it did back then."

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "If Gabriel ever," he began. He still hadn't forgiven the bastard for what he'd said to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale tutted and put a finger on his lips. "Now, now, we've been over this before - you're the one who so fondly favours the saying: 'sticks and stones'."

"Yes, yes," Crowley agreed, rolling his eyes.

"And I am soft," Aziraphale said with a small smile. "Not physically, my dear, but I have a weak spot for you, as you are well aware."

Crowley wanted to grumble, but he stopped himself. It was a millennia old habit, wasn't it? One he didn't have to fall into anymore. Not like they hadn't been less careful around each other since the apocalypse.

He put his hands on Aziraphale's hips, silently marvelling at the craftsmanship of the kilt. Yes, definitely authentic. "You're - n-not wearing, anything under that, are you?" he managed to ask - not as suave and cool as he'd imagined, though.

"Oh, I'm all about authenticity, my dear," Aziraphale agreed readily, resting his hands on Crowley's shoulders. Well, not quite resting, perhaps. There was clenching involved - crushing the the fine texture of Crowley's jacket.

Crowley wasn't even entirely sure what kind of sound escaped him - he'd have liked to describe it as a growl, but in truth, it was probably closer to a whimper. He covered it quite nicely, he felt, by digging his fingers into Azirphale's hips and all but lifting him up onto the desk - suspiciously free of stacks of books, "If that's the case, did you make the effort, angel?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and did that damned little nose twitch that never failed to get to Crowley. "I am now - it's not like I knew you were coming over today."

Well they were apparently past dancing around the issue, weren't they?

"I would like to ask for an extra little bit of effort from you, my dear."

Crowley frowned. It was possible he was a little addled at the moment, because his human vessel was very busy redistributing blood. So inconvenient - and yet so much fun.

Aziraphale tutted and ran a finger along the frame of Crowley's sunglasses.

"Ah," Crowley managed, "yes, um. Yes! Of course."

The smile this earned him was almost incandescent. Aziraphale reached up and carefully lifted the glasses off Crowley's face and folded them equally careful to put them aside. It was almost endearing, if it wasn't slowing down proceedings.

"Now, where were we?" he muttered, leaning in, lips a hair's breadth from Aziraphale's.

"I believe you mentioned lunch?" Aziraphale said teasingly while he snapped his fingers and Crowley knew that the sign now read 'closed' and the blinds had rolled themselves back down.

"I think we'll do dessert first," Crowley muttered, pushing forward into the vee between Azirphale's thighs, while pushing the kilt up a little further.

"What a splendid idea," Aziraphale agreed, finally sounding about half as breathless as Crowley was feeling. And who needed breath when he could be kissing this terrible tease? Crowley didn't know, didn't care. All he could focus on was the most delightful friction and deep kiss Aziraphale drew him into.

"I think the Scots were onto something when they started wearing kilts," Azirphale muttered between kisses.

"Yes, now hush, busy," Crowley told him, secretly agreeing. The Scots had a lot of weird customs, but the kilts were definitely a keeper. And the knee-length socks - which Crowley was planning on removing very, very slowly.

End Notes:

  • I am not giving Aziraphale any clan allegiances (clan tartan description), because accusing a clan of rustling cattle would surely be rude ;) - even centuries later.
  • The reason Aziraphale couldn't wear the clan colours for quite some years may or may not lie in the bloody fields of Culloden and the massacre of 1746.
  • according to the book, angels do have genitalia, if they can be bothered to make the effort. I'm sure Aziraphale can - in the name of authenticity and all.
The End