[Aziraphale somehow understands without Crowley having to say a word, this new language between them delivered in kisses and trembling hips. He softens his grip on Crowley's hair, fingers rubbing soothing circles on his scalp.]

It's all right, love. Take your time.

[It's a lot for him to process, too, all the new and sublime ways his nerves are lighting up from wherever he and Crowley are connected. He has experienced many things with his body -- food and drink and other human pleasures -- but none so intimate as this. He shuts his eyes and takes a moment to breathe it all in, waiting for Crowley to move.

And then Crowley does, slow enough that his arousal builds and builds without spilling over. He moans and tilts his hips to match the rhythm, hands sliding from Crowley's hair to cling to his shoulders. It's love he feels in every slow, slick thrust, in every kiss that Crowley places on his skin. He has never felt so utterly cared for and adored.]

This is... oh, it's perfection, Crowley... just like this, for a little while longer. Please?