Aziraphale continues to map out the beauty of Crowley's torso until he's undone by those precious, reverent kisses to his chest. He shuts his eyes, holding back a sudden well of tears at how tender it is. This is love, it's all he feels with each bit of himself exposed, no longer shy, but humbled by the depth and breadth of it.

He's rolled over without complaint, although his shivering returns, and if his wings were out, they'd be quaking hard enough to shed feathers. It's nearly too much, the press of all that skin together, and, oh, it is perfect. He moans helplessly at Crowley's words, swept up in the pleasure of it.

"It feels so good," he whimpers, kissing back haphazardly, his hands sliding into Crowley's hair and holding fast. "I swear, Crowley, I never knew it could feel like this --"