Behind her glasses Crowley's eyes are full gold, no whites showing at all. From this close he may be able to tell, despite the dark lenses. Though he knows anyway. He knows what he does to her. What he's doing to her.

Crowley keens, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, nipping at the skin there with too-sharp teeth. She scrapes her nails down his arms, finds his hands at her waist. "Aziraphale." The way she says it is worshipful, despite the context. Because of the context. "Fucking touch me, please--you filthy obscene bastard--"