Crowley's lips trace back up Aziraphale's throat. Aziraphale is hardly perfect, but Crowley holds him on a pedestal of goodness, one that no mistakes will ever knock him down from. Being with him like this, in his arms, under his lips, inside of him, is about as close to Heaven as Crowley will ever get again.

He'll take it.

He can feel that music between them, feel the shift as they pause together, before he moves his hips again. Hell talks a lot about carnal sins and lust and all that, but they've got nothing on the pleasure of making love to the person who matters most to you in the universe.

Crowley has officially beat Hell on pleasure.