a gum, spice, or other substance that is burned for the sweet smell it produces.
make (someone) very angry.
Not you.
I know what You smell like.
Fandom: Good Omens
Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale
Rating: Explicit
Length: 15,860 words
Status: Complete
Crowley darted out his tongue for a better whiff. He tasted waxy greenery on a soap-fresh breeze. Smooth minerals like wet virgin soil after the rain. Delicate purple blooms, so pale they were almost white. He suppressed an urge to hiss while he filed through his internal encyclopedia.
Couldn’t be natural, not with that sillage. Not strong enough for the standard aldehydes either. No back-end hints of iso-E or Romandolide or even Tetrahydrolinalol—
“Not genuine lilac. Can’t be. S’impossible.”
Aziraphale blinked dazedly, turning his attention to Crowley.
Challenged by such soft scrutiny, Crowley felt his face heating. He tried to hide behind his coffee, but clumsily huffed a noseful of whole-fat instead. With a jolt, he looked down at the traitorous beverage and realized he was inexplicably holding a flat white… with micro-foam.
“Our orders got flipped,” mumbled Crowley, wiping his tortured nose with the back of his hand.
“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale. He sampled the bitterness in his own cup with a savvy not-quite-grin. “I think you got exactly what you wanted.”
Well then. Crowley inhaled another surprise dose of crema, feeling sticky all over.
Primly, Aziraphale set down his cup. The squared-off ceramic clinked with a flat, modern chord that sounded through Crowley’s head like a gong.
“You know my dear, I’ve thought it over. I think I would like to take you up on that offer.”
Crowley hnnnged; a huge milky bubble popped behind his teeth. Clearing his throat, he said, oh-so-casually,* “What offer was that?”
“The tour of the shops.” Aziraphale flattened his hand across his vest, finger catching on his watch chain. “You’re quite right. It’s well past time for a new suit.”