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Summary
When Crowley had snaked himself across the bar top, half purring, half snarling for Aziraphale to live a little, this wasn’t exactly what he meant by it. Not exclusively, anyway. If there was a list of possibilities, it may have been on there somewhere; scrawled as a hasty afterthought, perhaps under a subheading of Things That Would Surely Never Actually Happen.
But the sight of Aziraphale lying naked and debauched in the middle of his black satin sheets was not something he was about to hesitate over.
(If there was a second list, one surreptitiously scribbled on a napkin in the dark corner of a crowded bar, it would be titled Things Crowley Had No Right To Crave As Much As He Did, and it would start and end with this single bullet point)