Crowley growls a little. "Shut it. 'm not either of those." Sweet or a boy, he means. Though he is flushing a bit more from that kiss on the cheek, the warmth of hands stroking at his back.

He looks down at the waistcoat, watches himself undo the buttons, black fingernails pushing cloth-covered circles through buttonholes. Aziraphale will never understand just how significant that is for him, he's sure, never. Second only to removing the tartan bowtie. Stuffy buttoned-up angel, finally letting himself be loosened and vulnerable and approachable and oh Christ, now every button's undone and Crowley can slide the waistcoat off entirely and he makes a small mewling sort of noise as he steals another kiss, lapping at Aziraphale's mouth with his tongue.