Good Omens (Crowley/Aziraphale)
Jul. 6th, 2007 08:56 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Cherry Cake
Author: K M B
Word Count: 409 in your coffee maker.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: none.
Summary: On a Sunday afternoon, Crowley attempts to tempt.
Prompt/Author’s Note: - Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale: Corruption, role reversal - "I wouldn't have expected this from you"- This didn’t exactly follow the prompt, so apologies for that. Meet draft #342. Hope I did okay! –crosses fingers-
It was that darn cherry.
Crowley had been twirling it about his mouth for a whole five minutes by that time, his fingers oscillating the stem as he sucked it in and back out between his lips like some erotic circus performer. Every time he popped it back out with an almost-audible pop Aziraphale could feel his resolve weakening just that little bit more. Thoughts that shouldn’t have been entering his mind found a home anyway, and frolicked, naked, in the front yard.
The demon had come—
Er.
The demon arrived on a Sunday afternoon bearing gifts, not unusual for Crowley except for the time, for he knew that Sunday afternoons were holy times for the angel; it was when Aziraphale went through his weekly book audit, one of his most favorite things on earth to do. But after Aziraphale had taken one look at him, he had carefully put down his mint copy of The Chameleon (December, 1894) and let Crowley in with a, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have expected this from you.” The gift in question this Sabbath midday was a large, sinfully extravagant cake, topped with larger-than-Mother-Nature-intended cherries—which, incidentally, were all that was left, now, at just past five in the afternoon. One blasted cherry, actually, the stem between one bothersome demon’s fingertips, the plump red of it complementing the kewpie rose of a pair of infernal lips—and it was driving Aziraphale perfectly MAD.
“Are you—” His fingers itched.
“Yes, angel?”
“Going to—” An involuntary jerk of the hand.
“Of course I am. You ate half the damn cake; don’t tell me you want more?”
Crowley was answered with a whimper. His only response was to catch the cherry delicately between his teeth. “Anything you want to do, about now? Perhaps to me?”
“W-what?”
“Oh, Aziraphale, come on,” Crowley wheedled as he finally lowered his hand, the bulb of the cherry dropping heavily onto his plate. “Anything at all?”
The fruit was snatched out of his hand without warning, and gone in an instant inside a guilty-faced angel’s mouth. “It’s not nice to tease,” Aziraphale admonished, dabbing his mouth, the stem resting innocently on his own plate.
There was an audible thunk as Crowley’s head hit the table. “One day, angel…”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, nothing. Hey, haven’t you always wanted the walls of your shop painted?” Visions of Crowley bare-chested and paint-smeared entered more than one head quite vividly.
Aziraphale eyed Crowley warily.
Author: K M B
Word Count: 409 in your coffee maker.
Rating: PG.
Warnings: none.
Summary: On a Sunday afternoon, Crowley attempts to tempt.
Prompt/Author’s Note: - Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale: Corruption, role reversal - "I wouldn't have expected this from you"- This didn’t exactly follow the prompt, so apologies for that. Meet draft #342. Hope I did okay! –crosses fingers-
It was that darn cherry.
Crowley had been twirling it about his mouth for a whole five minutes by that time, his fingers oscillating the stem as he sucked it in and back out between his lips like some erotic circus performer. Every time he popped it back out with an almost-audible pop Aziraphale could feel his resolve weakening just that little bit more. Thoughts that shouldn’t have been entering his mind found a home anyway, and frolicked, naked, in the front yard.
The demon had come—
Er.
The demon arrived on a Sunday afternoon bearing gifts, not unusual for Crowley except for the time, for he knew that Sunday afternoons were holy times for the angel; it was when Aziraphale went through his weekly book audit, one of his most favorite things on earth to do. But after Aziraphale had taken one look at him, he had carefully put down his mint copy of The Chameleon (December, 1894) and let Crowley in with a, “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have expected this from you.” The gift in question this Sabbath midday was a large, sinfully extravagant cake, topped with larger-than-Mother-Nature-intended cherries—which, incidentally, were all that was left, now, at just past five in the afternoon. One blasted cherry, actually, the stem between one bothersome demon’s fingertips, the plump red of it complementing the kewpie rose of a pair of infernal lips—and it was driving Aziraphale perfectly MAD.
“Are you—” His fingers itched.
“Yes, angel?”
“Going to—” An involuntary jerk of the hand.
“Of course I am. You ate half the damn cake; don’t tell me you want more?”
Crowley was answered with a whimper. His only response was to catch the cherry delicately between his teeth. “Anything you want to do, about now? Perhaps to me?”
“W-what?”
“Oh, Aziraphale, come on,” Crowley wheedled as he finally lowered his hand, the bulb of the cherry dropping heavily onto his plate. “Anything at all?”
The fruit was snatched out of his hand without warning, and gone in an instant inside a guilty-faced angel’s mouth. “It’s not nice to tease,” Aziraphale admonished, dabbing his mouth, the stem resting innocently on his own plate.
There was an audible thunk as Crowley’s head hit the table. “One day, angel…”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, nothing. Hey, haven’t you always wanted the walls of your shop painted?” Visions of Crowley bare-chested and paint-smeared entered more than one head quite vividly.
Aziraphale eyed Crowley warily.
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