And beat Heaven on bliss, by that matter, as far as Aziraphale's concerned.

Crowley moves again and the angel moans, hands gripping Crowley's tightly again, thighs squeezing against his sides. His wings press softly against the Crowley's back, under the demon's dark ones, the music building, body begging, soul clinging and threatening to not let go.

It's divine, is what it is, in a way he hadn't imagined, pleasure he hadn't entirely considered, and he knows he could never share with anyone else. Not that he does or will ever want to.