i like to imagine that bentley just fuckin BLASTS romantic music whenever they ride together
“Come on, angel, it’s a gorgeous day,” said Crowley expansively, propping his legs up on the window ledge and gesturing through the slightly-grotty window at the Soho passersby. “Look at that sun. Look at those trees. Let’s go outside. Do something fun.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, sat primly at his desk, spectacles at the end of his nose, peering over his taxes.
Crowley drummed his ankles on the window sill, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, he swung around on his stool and pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re getting boring as hell.”
Aziraphale looked at him over his lenses. “Is hell boring?”
Crowley shrugged with his mouth. “Can be. Can be. Depends what’s called for, look, the actual issue here is that you need to go do something fun with me.”
“During tax season?” said Aziraphale. “Really? I suppose I’ll simply drop all my responsibilities, then.”
“That’s it, yeah,” said Crowley, nodding encouragingly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Aziraphale, peering down the street outside the bookshop as if he didn’t want much to do with it. He scuffed his shoe back and forth across the pavement. “I’ve really so much to do. Perhaps one quick thing, all right?”
Crowley stood, looking at him, hands sort-of-but-not-really-in-pockets (women’s jeans were definitely one of Hell’s ‘better ideas’). He pursed his lips. “I don’t get it. I really don’t. Crepes and Shakespeare and wine and now you just want to do your taxes.”
Aziraphale didn’t look at him. “I am dutiful. I have always been dutiful.”
The raspberry Crowley blew caused small dogs to bark all over the neighbourhood.
“Come on, angel, it’s a gorgeous day,” said Crowley expansively, propping his legs up on the window ledge and gesturing through the slightly-grotty window at the Soho passersby. “Look at that sun. Look at those trees. Let’s go outside. Do something fun.”
“Mmm,” said Aziraphale, sat primly at his desk, spectacles at the end of his nose, peering over his taxes.
Crowley drummed his ankles on the window sill, waiting for more. When it didn’t come, he swung around on his stool and pointed an accusatory finger. “You’re getting boring as hell.”
Aziraphale looked at him over his lenses. “Is hell boring?”
Crowley shrugged with his mouth. “Can be. Can be. Depends what’s called for, look, the actual issue here is that you need to go do something fun with me.”
“During tax season?” said Aziraphale. “Really? I suppose I’ll simply drop all my responsibilities, then.”
“That’s it, yeah,” said Crowley, nodding encouragingly.
Aziraphale constantly makes the effort of having genitals because he used to wear robes with no underwear thousands of years ago when that was how people dressed, and humans would completely freak out whenever a sudden burst of wind would reveal his smooth sexless crotch, which was really annoying. So now he does it out of habit.
Crowley changes his/her/their mind every three day about what he/she/they want between their legs. Taking off Crowley’s pants is like opening a Kinder Surprise. The only rule Crowley seems to follow is that it has to feel like it goes well with whatever clothes he/she/they are wearing that day.
A kinder surprise, oh my goodness.
Penis! Vulva! Small plastic truck!
The best thing is that Aziraphale would be pleased no matter what.
“Oh, my, look at this…”
“D'you… d'you like it?”
“The little doors open and close! And there’s a little man who’s driving! Hello, little fellow!”
“All for you, angel.”
“It’s lovely, my dear. I’m sure it’s very sexy.”
Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)
Additional Tags: butter tarts, nanaimo bars, rather inexpert seduction, crowley is an idiot, Aziraphale is also an idiot, Lemony Narrator, Demons who Love, Work In Progress, so little things may shift and change!, I think this is mostly the TV boys, Angels who Want, post-armageddidn’t
Summary:
Crowley’s in love with one of the Good Guys.
And the Good Guy in question adores butter tarts with an unseemly passion. Enough to speak wistfully of them when they aren’t around. Enough to ask Crowley to drive at ridiculous speeds across miles of English countryside to storm a bake sale, taking no prisoners. Enough to devour the butter tarts on the way home, leaving crumbs on the seat of Crowley’s car (the car hadn’t minded terribly, which was unusual in itself). And enough to leave one for Crowley, saying archly, “Perhaps after you actually try it, you’ll understand.”
Crowley is now glumly staring at this butter tart, letting its flavour spread across his forked tongue, and thinking: How do I become a butter tart?
***
New chapter: butter tarts are sweet, rare, ‘Too Much’, and addictive. This time around, Crowley will try rare.
chequerootlurks
