[He'd laugh if he thought he could get away with it, but Aziraphale would take it the wrong way, and he can't stop now, not for anything, he might just discorporate if he stops. Instead: he grins fiercely, giddily excited in the precise same way Aziraphale is, and leans in to kiss him once more.]

As if I haven't imagined this.

[He'll get Aziraphale to speak properly filthily someday. Weeks or months or years, it doesn't matter, it'll happen. But for now, Crowley wants to overwhelm them both, which means that he'll be doing the talking, thanks, because he has figured it out, again and again, over centuries of pining.]

Figure it out-- I've figured it out. Every single time I let some human in my bed, I thought about you. If it was you. If I could have you like that, against a wall or in some alley, how you'd look, how you'd sound--

[Ah, wait, that's a bit more emotional than he means to be, but he's on a roll now, breathing out confessions against Aziraphale's lips like the world's worst penitent, jerking them both off before he grows too impatient even for that. It takes only a moment to shift forward, to spread his legs wider, to just fuck himself on him like he was built to take him, (and he is, thanks, who needs oil when you've demonic miracles).]

Begging me to keep going, telling me you missed me, needed me, how you thought about this-- how badly you wanted it, all those filthy things your lot are supposedly too pure for-- fucking you anywhere, everywhere, in the bloody Bentley, just to watch you go all scandalized like it actually bloody matters who sees--