Crowley makes an acknowledging sound, pushing his face against Aziraphale's shoulder. He wants to luxuriate in this too, in the addictive warmth of Aziraphale's body and the scent of his skin, the love and contentment surrounding him in the aftermath of pleasure. How strange, how wonderful that a demon could give this to him. No other angel, not even a human has seen him so replete with love, relaxed and indulging in it, his kisses and caresses returning it to Crowley until he feels as though he's glutted for a long time and is finally sated, having enough to believe that this will not be taken from him or denied again. His hand toys gently at the unfastened collar of Aziraphale's shirt, slipping beneath it as his fingertips trace the line of his collarbone, more reverently than a demon has a right to be, and he shivers when Aziraphale tells him again that he loves him, as though he hears all those hidden meanings behind the words. Or maybe it's just the words themselves that have that effect on him. So sweet as to be nearly painful, giving him more joy than his heart seems capable of holding.

"Love you, angel." Crowley presses the words against his throat, in a ragged voice. Yes, he will, he'll accept as much as he can, hear it as often as he can bear without simply combusting on the spot from the sheer pleasure of it. Which he doesn't intend to do, so Aziraphale can just go on saying it as often as he likes.

He nods in understanding, turning his head to kiss the fingertip that teases along the edge of his jaw. "You make me ache," Crowley tells him, not as an accusation, more as a simple statement of fact that he's come to accept long ago. Need consumes him in Aziraphale's presence; that it was his lot to yearn for him for so long, perhaps to yearn for him until the end of time, was something he'd accepted as well. Being able to indulge it, to find relief in Aziraphale's arms is still so new and wonderful he doesn't know what to do with it.