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They pull away, and for the first time in thousands of years, Aziraphale feels starved. It’s the ox-ribs all over again, it’s looking at Crowley with a new desire he never realized could be so powerful. His breathing is ragged, and Crowley looks at him with desperation in his face. “I…” Aziraphale begins, tears brimming in his eyes as he struggles to regain some form of composure, some form of control. But he has none left.
“I…” he tries again, his corporeal form shaking as his wings urge to burst forth to this plane. Crowley looks away defeated, body slumped into himself, and Aziraphale looses what little resolve he has left within him. He rushes forward in a flurry of feathers and celestial wind, a hand wrapping around Crowley’s neck as his other hand caresses up his cheek, fingers tangling into the soft locks of hair he often fantasized about.
Crowley is frozen for only a moment, and Aziraphale is vaguely aware of the dark glasses he holds in his hand. He had not even remembered removing them in the first place in his rush to kiss the demon once again. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, lifting him higher into the air as he kisses him back. There is a hand on the subtle curve of his back, and the other drifts lower, fingers flexing against his rear in a way that only makes Aziraphale kiss him harder.
He never wants to let Crowley go, he wants to wrap his legs around the demon’s waist and keep him trapped against him for another 6000 years. He pulls the demon closer, their bodies pressed so firm against the other that Aziraphale is not sure where he ends and Crowley begins. And he finds that he does not quite mind at all.