Crowley shifted, and Aziraphale made an embarassing noise almost as loud as the squeak of his wet skin against the white leather of Crowley's sofa. The buffed semicircles of his nails dug perfect Sanskrit halfmoons into Crowley's arched hipbones. Sweat crawled between the softness of his buttocks and the hot, sticky-slick leather.
"That," Crowley said in a strangled voice. His face was wet and bright with sweat, shining almost as feverishly as his eyes. That time the movement came from his spine, fluid and obscene and even more-- more--
Well, more. Just before Aziraphale clamped his eyes shut, toes curling against the leather, he caught a glimpse of Crowley's fingers dug clawlike into the back of the sofa, white-knuckled against the white. The leather squeaked faster beneath them, their bodies quickening together wordlessly. Fantastic things, bodies, the way they could take over like that.
"It's so messy," Aziraphale whispered in mortification.
Crowley made a funny gasping noise. Aziraphale managed to slit open an eye to look up at Crowley again. Open-mouthed, shut-eyed and gone slack in his rippling, frantic spine so that his face had tipped back towards the ceiling, Crowley was a picture of such bliss that Aziraphale could have easily had a blasphemous thought about it if not for the wet cling of hair to Crowley's cheeks and forehead. The sweat was unmistakable; there was only one thing that Crowley allowed his body to muss itself for.
"Crowley--" Aziraphale tried, interrupting himself to jerk his hips up harder, satisfied at the whimper he drew from Crowley but blushing at the resultant slick squeal of his buttocks against the leather-- "--did you--?"
"Messssy," Crowley gasped, even as he convulsed and jackknifed at the midsection to smash his lips against Aziraphale's, pulsing sticky and white between them, "but isssn't it fantasssstic?"