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    Summary

    Crowley inhaled deeply before she spoke again, making quick work of the remaining buttons on Aziraphale's shirt at the same time. "Aren't you going to... carry on eating?"

    His lips crooked in a small smile, Aziraphale took the fork in hand and manoeuvred more buttercream onto its leftmost tine. Peeling the neckline of her jumper back with one hand, he trailed the buttercream down Crowley's throat with the other, beginning directly beneath her chin and halting at the flushed patch of skin just shy of her collarbone.

    "But, of course, darling. I would never neglect anything you had so kindly brought me."

    Or: Armageddon has been averted, and Aziraphale and Crowley, who have never been physically intimate before, are free to do as they choose.

    What they choose to do is... well, food play. And it's not only the combination of cake on skin that Aziraphale wants to taste - it's Crowley's scales, too.

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