Whatever mark Crowley leaves on his body is cherished. Whatever way he holds it, touches it, moves with it, it never leaves the angel feeling anything but safe and wanted and loved. It's not just the pleasure of such acts, but, more importantly so, who they're shared with. No one else could ever make the angel feel like this. No one could love him as intensely and as perfectly as Crowley does.

Aziraphale's breath catches, moans and sounds escaping him freely, as he grips his demon tight, as he arches and moves along with him, pushes himself closer, body asking, begging for more, right there. More, for longer. More, and closer, faster, and there, right there, please.

"Crowley--" He feels that sting in the tender skin of his thigh, Crowley's breath hot against it. "I'm--oh-" Stuttered through, as his gentle but strong hand pulls on the fiery red hair with a mind of its own.