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Summary
Crowley groaned and wished he had popcorn to throw at his television. God, he hated vampire movies. He wasn’t sure why he even watched them, some morbid mix of professional curiosity and hope that maybe this time the vampire wouldn’t be some gross, blood drenched sex demon. Vampires were always such messy eaters in these films. Had they never heard of table manners? Simply drinking a goblet of blood inevitably ended up with blood running down over the vampire’s chin. As if to prove his point to himself, he lifted his own glass of Cabernet Sauvignon mixed with O-negative and took a drink, not spilling a drop.
Still, he’d take the messy eating trope over ‘this human smells so appetizing I must have sex with them.’ Like a human wanting to give their cheeseburger a shag. Bloody ridiculous.
Well. Mostly. Crowley had seen Aziraphale eat, after all. And there had been more than one occasion he’d been jealous of the way Aziraphale moaned around a bite of rare Wagyu tenderloin or steak tartare, wondering if Aziraphale would moan like that with his mouth pressed open to the taste of Crowley’s skin.
Of course, he didn’t have to wonder anymore, he knew. And Aziraphale found Crowley delicious.