There's a moment where the sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, refuse to peel off quite as they should. But Crowley wrestles free of them quickly enough, hands going back to Aziraphael's waist where they make good on their promise: sly, hot fingers snaking beneath the waistband of the angel's pyjamas.

This -

(really is meant to be all about you)

Yes. This is familiar ground.

"I hope," Crowley says, grin smug and voice breathless. "I hope you didn't have any plans for this morning."