Only in Aziraphale's deepest, heavily inebriated thoughts has he ever dared to imagine something like this, and for a second or two he can't even properly enjoy himself, too busy de-tangling his wings and fretting over Crowley, hands cradling the back of his head in case the demon bonked himself, but it appears that Crowley is all right. More than all right, with a leg twined around his, the arm around his waist holding him even closer than his own soft body weight does naturally. So with a soft sigh, he sinks into Crowley's kiss, letting himself relax.

At least until Crowley caresses his wings. No one has ever touched his wings before, save himself, and the sensation is so intimate that it sends a great shiver down them, feathers rustling like a rainstorm. "Crowley," he whimpers against his lips. He turns his head and presses a kiss against the soft skin underneath Crowley's jaw. "Oh, my love. I think I rather do."