Crowley, never one to deny himself, moans again at the sensation of Aziraphale's hand, of his lips on his neck. There is something so base, so human about sexual contact. It isn't about the cruel and debauch of the demons, and it isn't really about the heavenly and blissful of the angels----and yet it's about both. The stimulation of Aziraphale's hand is cruel in how far away it seems with the fabric between them, and debauch in how raunchy and downright naughty it all feels. And his lips against Crowley's neck is nothing short of blissful, better than any Heaven that Crowley ever experienced.

"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?" he gasps, as his hands deftly move to undo Aziraphale's trousers. Unlike his own, which he was so polite to have removed the night before, Aziraphale's are complicated and important to him, so Crowley isn't about to go about ripping them off of the angel, like he'd like to.