Aziraphale feels hot all over, but underneath Crowley's touch he just blooms, each point of contact searing, branding Crowley's name everywhere on Aziraphale's skin. His body constricts with pleasure when Crowley stops teasing, moans so long and low that he turns his head to the side into a pillow to cover his embarrassment.

Oh, yes, he would have been a fool indeed not to have partaken in any of this pleasure before they went to meet their doom. Crowley's hands, warm and teasing, and his tongue, wicked and cunning, make his knees tremble and grow weak. He begs for morning's delay.