Aziraphale files that groan away for later, a reaction that he intends to exploit at the next earliest opportunity. For now, he's drawn back into the feel of Crowley's hands as they wander and pluck at his clothes, at the many layers between them. His wings flutter erratically, as if uncertain where to land, the echo of Crowley's touch still shivering through them.

"You have me," he breathes, his grip on Crowley's hip tightening as if needing to anchor himself against the tempest of passion within him. "And I don't intend to share you, either. You're all I've ever wanted, Crowley. There's never been anyone else."