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Aziraphale was a lover, not a fighter. It was one of his most endearing qualities, if you asked Crowley. But no one did ask and he wouldn’t have admitted it even if they did. Because a demon would never, under any circumstances, admit that an angel was anything but sickening, disgustingly good. Definitely not endearing or adorable. Not even a demon as terrible at being a demon as Crowley talking about an angel as utterly perfect in his imperfections as Aziraphale would admit such a thing. Crowley would deny any such thoughts until his last breath.
One of the things Aziraphale loved most was food. He wasn’t a glutton, but he did eat more than he needed, simply by virtue of the fact that he didn’t need to eat anything at all.
And he did eat – a lot. Sweet things were his favourite, Crowley knew. The angel liked cakes and chocolate and juicy, fresh fruits – strawberries in particular. There had been many times when the two would be out and about and Aziraphale would polish off a plate of delectable sweets, moaning in appreciation, licking cream from his lips like a porn star.
Not that Crowley was complaining, exactly. It was just that he couldn’t do anything about the inevitable problem that arose in his trousers as a result. They didn’t discuss their relationship post-almost-apocalypse, but if they did, Crowley suspected the angel would say something like “Well, you’re awfully nice for a demon, my dear. I do rather like being your friend”. And Crowley couldn’t stand to hear them described as friends (and he definitely wasn’t nice), so he didn’t bother bringing it up.
But Aziraphale was the most tempting angel in existence. He was almost evil, the way he moaned and licked his lips, closing his eyes and throwing his head back in rapture after an especially delicious bite. He had to know what he was doing. He had to. Not even Aziraphale could be that oblivious. Could he?
Crowley sure wasn't.
On this beautiful summer day, they sat ensconced in the dark back room of the bookshop, talking, reading (in Aziraphale’s case) and staring shamelessly at their companion from behind their glasses (in Crowley’s case). Aziraphale had, out of nowhere, produced a banana and begun to eat it. Crowley had almost choked on air.
Even the way he peeled it was erotic. Grasping the tip and gently pulling, until the sweet flesh was revealed.
Then he began to devour it like a starving man.
Crowley had to fight to keep his jaw from falling open and drooling. Crowley didn’t even like bananas. He didn’t like that they were radioactive. He didn’t trust it. He wasn’t sure which demon had done that, but he grudgingly admired it.
Still, when the angel started eating, Crowley had never wanted (or wanted to be) a banana more.
Aziraphale finished it with an overly breathy sigh of satisfaction and Crowley groaned a strangled, pained noise.
“What’s wrong, my dear? Is it your back? You know you shouldn’t lounge like that,” He fussed, giving Crowley a disapproving and appraising look over his charmingly unnecessary reading glasses.
“You really have no idea, do you?” Crowley growled. He’d finally had enough of the teasing. Aziraphale needed to stop or Crowley would lose what was left of his sanity.
“I have plenty of ideas,” He huffed indignantly.
“You have no idea what you do to me when you eat like that.”
“Like what?” He asked. The angel’s big, blue eyes were sincere. He was so naïve for so old a being. He was too pure. It made Crowley want to tempt him to sin, even if Crowley was the one who felt constantly tempted.
The irony drove Crowley crazy.
“The way you just inhaled that banana like that.”
“I was hungry.” Great. Now he was pouting. That pout would make Crowley do anything Aziraphale wanted. It had led Crowley into all sorts of trouble.
“Are you sure you’re not thirsty?” He smirked, trying to brush off his discomfort with a joke. But as usual, the hip young slang passed Aziraphale by.
“I’m not, but I have plenty of wine, tea, coffee or hot cocoa if you want something?”
“What I want isn’t a drink. What I want is a snack – a thicc, juicy snack.” He hissed. He stood and stalked over to the chair Aziraphale occupied as fast as breaking the laws of physics would allow.
“What?” Aziraphale looked up at him with an adorably furrowed brow. Then he licked his lips and smiled a rather devilish little grin that should've looked out of place on the angel, but somehow didn't. All of Crowley's suspicions were suddenly, wonderfully confirmed.
Crowley struck, like a snake. In the barest instant he leant down and kissed Aziraphale, who tasted like banana and sunshine.
“Finally,” Aziraphale sighed when they pulled apart.
This time it was Crowley's turn to look confused.
“What?” He asked dumbly.
“I’ve been trying to tempt you for months. Moaning, sucking chocolate off my fingers,” Crowley remembered that moment. He’d almost spontaneously combusted in infernal flames, “Eating whipped cream. And this was the one that got you? A banana? How stereotypical,” He sighed, shaking his head disappointedly, but still looking extremely proud of himself.
“Shut up, angel, before I change my mind and walk out of here.”
Aziraphale’s indulgent grin told Crowley exactly how much he believed that particular threat. Crowley felt he really should be offended. But he didn’t have time before he was kissing Aziraphale again.