Crowley might snort at the first two, not unamused by this retort, but his breath catches noticeably at dearest, and dearheart earns a slight whimper. Aziraphale undoing his bowtie earns another. Aziraphale's lips brushing along his face and earlobe causes a sound that can only be described as a moan.

Oh well. He knew as soon as he agreed to go out for karaoke that his dignity was going to be an inevitable sacrifice to the evening, and this is the best possible way for it to die. Buried under angelic kisses and endearments.

Crowley turns his head and this time the kiss he steals is openly needy, hungry, back to the way they were downstairs. He pushes Aziraphale back down on the bed and follows after, leaning over him, one hand cradling the angel's face as he takes kiss after kiss after kiss, or gives them, or both.