Aziraphale would admonish Crowley if he knew he was considering his other lovers (which, yes, most of them had been 19th-century writers, who were very romantic and also had written some very devastating breakup letters, thank you). If Crowley mentioned it, then Aziraphale would be quick to say that none of them measured up to him, even if that wasn't the intended inquiry. Though, most of his lovers had been celebrated authors and great orators, ant naturally had been very clever with their tongues, none of them had ever rendered that particular sound from Aziraphale. That was Crowley's to keep.

He writhes under Crowley, feels his breath hang heavy like cobwebs as he exhales honey-sweet moans and curls his fingers wherever he can have contact with Crowley's skin. He feels, in this moment, so lucky that he could walk outside and take his chances again with Heaven. But he won't move from this spot so long as Crowley's mouth is so eager.