[The slow, meticulous path that Crowley takes down Aziraphale's body turns the angel into a flushed, disheveled mess. He keeps his grip on Crowley's shoulders, then up into his hair, holding on for dear life as Crowley seems determined to utterly undo him. Oh, the anticipation is marvelous. Any doubts or worries are miles away; he knows that Crowley will take care of him. He's in good hands.
(And mouth. Oh Lord, that mouth...)
It turns out, that thigh pat is necessary, because Aziraphale is slightly past verbal instruction, lost in his own pleasure. With a soft groan, he raises one leg at a time, resting them securely on Crowley's shoulders. His hands remain in Crowley's hair, petting the soft strands restlessly as he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to be overwhelmed by the sight of Crowley between his legs, mouth lower than it's ever been.]
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(And mouth. Oh Lord, that mouth...)
It turns out, that thigh pat is necessary, because Aziraphale is slightly past verbal instruction, lost in his own pleasure. With a soft groan, he raises one leg at a time, resting them securely on Crowley's shoulders. His hands remain in Crowley's hair, petting the soft strands restlessly as he keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to be overwhelmed by the sight of Crowley between his legs, mouth lower than it's ever been.]