He thrusts his hips upward into Crowley's touch and his hand trembles against him, so sweet and distracting is his hand. He can't think of Shakespeare any more in this moment as he shifts closer with every arc of his hips, jaw slack and eyes boring holes into Crowley's with an intense wonder, only to be shuttered closed when Crowley comes to claim his lips.

He lies back and pulls Crowley over top of him, hips falling open to accommodate him, legs curling and lazily draped, hands more active and seeking, exploring. There is very much left for Aziraphale to find and he's spoiled for choice on where to begin.