Aziraphale watches Crowley slither up his body trailing kisses and momentarily gets distracted pulling him downward for a long, messy kiss of lips and his own tongue, clumsy and artless but so very earnest.

He remembers, suddenly, that he was asked a question, and he stares Crowley in the eyes with a pleading and a wonderment, reaches for his wrist and guides it downward between his legs, past his cock, settling where he would like Crowley's touches to go.

"I want you," comes the answer, on the bated, sighing breath of a once-cherub.