Bryn Terfel
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Summary
Aziraphale is peckish. Crowley goes shopping. Messy smut and sentimentality ensue. That’s it, that’s the fic.
Aziraphale blushes. It’s a blush that has nothing to do with prudishness (he’s learned that over the past week), it's more Aziraphale's way of flirting, you big bad demon, I have no choice but to allow you to ravish me. It’s fucking adorable.
Unfortunately for Crowley’s adoring needs, the bottom of the carrier chooses that moment to give way in a soundless pulpy disintegration, scattering jars of jam and marinated pears, deli containers and ribbon-tied boxes of liqueur sweets all over the already violated carpet. He’s left with the carton of melting sorbet balanced in his hand, drooling slowly between his fingers and into his cuff.
“It seems a terrible shame to waste that,” says Aziraphale.
Series
- Part 1 of The Epicure's Table