That mouth will be the death of him. Crowley's known it for years and now he's sure. One way or another it was always going to be his doom. It'll be this way, with plush lips sampling his skin, his abdomen, tasting him and lingering appreciatively, tongue dipping briefly into his navel, and then Aziraphale licks the slit of his cock, sucks him briefly, takes him in and all Crowley can do is keen and dig his hands into the sheets.

He tries not to claw holes in the fabric. He'll wreck the bed at this rate. He doesn't care. Fingers ask silent questions, request feedback, but all Crowley's words are gone, swallowed somewhere. There's just heat and wet suction and he's a God-blessed mess of desperate needy ecstacy and it's amazing and it's going to kill him and he does. not. care. Anything, so long as Aziraphale doesn't stop. Anything.

Somewhere along the line the high-pitched whimpers become words, a nonstop litany of praise, yesGodangelyespleasesogoodhardermoreplease. It'll have to be enough. He can't be more coherent than that. He's not even aware he's using words, all his being is reduced to more, please, yes, yes, yes...