Crowley goes willingly, lets himself be pushed back, pushed down. Aziraphale's weight is always a welcome one and Crowley's hands make it clear, caressing sides and back and hips, coming to rest on his arse and pulling it in, squeezing. So much wonderful softness for him to bury himself in, in every sense...

(Feather-soft caresses, enfolding him until he's clothed in wings, and he's surrounded but it feels like freedom)

Crowley lifts his head and takes a lingering kiss. Aziraphale's taste is rich in his mouth, dizzying despite its familiarity, because of its familiarity.