Whatever sense Aziraphale might have of Crowley's bout of identity crisis is lost when Crowley meets his stuttered request, dragging around him with a force that is somehow both affectionate and ruthless. None of Aziraphale's horrible, terrible, sinful pride nor his general prissiness can keep him from moaning outright, desperate and wanton, oh how pitiful. Like a whore of Babylon. Crowley must be enjoying this. Aziraphale would be lying to himself (and he frequently does) if he tried to pretend he doesn't really, indecently enjoy debasing himself like this. It feels cumbersomely like a compromise with the demon, who, if memory serves, was just shy of gleeful when Aziraphale first allowed this kind of thing to happen. And it was so different then, too. So comparatively... domestic.

But here he is, beside himself, wrapped in the demon's lovely, sinuous coils and moaning. Heaven forgive him. Better yet, don't look. Heaven is not invited to this engagement.

The kiss stifles him a moment later, and Aziraphale meets it with startled, open-mouthed submission, helpless with his arms pinned and Crowley's tongue, what is it even doing; helpless to do anything apart from fall apart at its (the kiss's) proverbial feet. Crowley opens his trousers and he rolls forward, desperate, wanting, in spite of everything, wanting.