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    Summary

    “Honey,” he murmured as he pulled back, and Aziraphale blinked dreamily.

    “Yes?”

    “N-not you,” Crowley stuttered, embarrassed but amused, and then had an idea. He reached for the chocolates. Unwound the string, and took one out. It was pretty, delicate: a light brown with dark chocolate drizzle, a dash of gold dust, and a filling of creamy ganache. Marc de Champagne .

    The angel licked his hungry lips, again, and Crowley held the práline out to him. Aziraphale took it with his mouth, and bit off half of it, and, oh satan, held eye contact the entire time. He chewed, taking his time, and swallowed.

    “Scrumptious,” he said, and then pushed Crowley’s arm towards the demon’s own face. “Try it.”

    “Me?”

    (This is a universe in which they've been fucking for millennia, but never outright: always under the veneer of false pretense.)

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