Each kiss, each press of Crowley's lips draws gasps and moans from the angel, clutching haplessly at Crowley's waist and his shoulders and that pretty red hair of his. He might, if they should survive all this, ask if he wouldn't mind growing it out again.

"Crowley--" he interjects as Crowley goes lower, surprised as if he really supposed that Crowley wasn't totally aware of what he was doing to him at this exact second. His legs, meanwhile, fall open as if there had been some secret passcode for which even Aziraphale was unaware.