Everything is so soppy lately that Crowley sometimes works a little harder at justifying it to himself in his head, even though he's no longer accountable to anyone but himself. This hedonism is easy to categorize, however: indulgence, pure and simple, both of them greedy as the ocean for as much as they can get. Sure, the kisses are sweet and loving, but they're also addictive, which makes them sinful enough.

They usually end up with at least a hint of pure unbridled lust in them too, which helps. He and Aziraphale have worn each other out already, sated themselves on one another, but he still arches his back with pleasure as palms stroke up his spine. "Mm," he agrees; despite the arch it's more sleepy than sparked with renewed interest. "But not without me around. To rescue you from the threat of flaming dish towels."