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"Oh--" Aziraphale gasps, and he's going to say something else, Crowley can hear it, but he breaks off and buries his face in Crowley's shoulder, panting.
It's not that he didn't finish the sentence. He doesn't finish lots of sentences, when Crowley's on top of him, wrapped around him, buried inside him. That's only to be expected. But Crowley has been paying attention, and he's spotted the pattern, and he knows there's one thing in particular that Aziraphale isn't saying.
Sometimes he even makes it as far as the hard g before remembering and cutting himself off: oh G-- oh, oh Crowley--
It's insulting, frankly. Crowley has clever hands and clever fingers and a very clever tongue, and he knows exactly what he's doing to Aziraphale. It ought to make Aziraphale forget his own name, and here he is, still coherent enough to stop himself from blaspheming.
He'll just have to redouble his efforts.
It takes nearly a month, and really extensive experimentation. But Crowley, at least in this arena, is nothing if not dedicated.
What finally does it is three fingers, crooked just so, and the judicious application of a forked tongue-- he tries to keep that particular serpentine trait under wraps most of the time, a little worried that Aziraphale will find it creepy, but there's nothing that matches the effect of wrapping his tongue around Aziraphale. And he's richly rewarded for it-- Aziraphale shudders and gasps, and says, "Oh-- oh Crowley, oh God, oh God Crowley please--"
Crowley presses harder; Aziraphale bucks up against his mouth and makes a high, wordless noise and Crowley holds him through it, his free hand tight on Aziraphale's hip, easing up only when the angel collapses boneless and giggling back into the pillows.
"Hah," Crowley says; he probably shouldn't, but he's so pleased with himself, he can't resist. "Made you say it. Hah, made you say it twice."
"Say what?" Aziraphale laughs. And then abruptly stops laughing. "Oh. I-- oh dear."
"Oh shit," Crowley says, because the look on Aziraphale's face-- he'd been so afraid for so long, so terrified of Heaven's punishment, and now he looks positively stricken and coaxing a blasphemy from him doesn't seem nearly as funny as it did a minute ago. "Oh-- angel, I didn't--"
"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale blurts.
Crowley bites back the impulse to say no, that's my line. "Er," he says instead, trying to find his footing in the conversation. "For... what, exactly."
"I said-- I mean, I used the name of--" The angel blushes. "I mean, it's a sort of prayer, isn't it? I can't imagine it's what you want to hear."
"Angel," Crowley says, very patiently. "I have been trying to make you say that for weeks."
"Why on earth--"
"I mean, not that specifically, just... whatever it was you kept stopping yourself from saying." Crowley licks his lips. "I want to see you lose control. Make you lose control. And I knew you were trying not to, trying to hold something back. I wanted to make you forget yourself enough to say it."
Aziraphale's blush grows even deeper. "Well," he says. "You certainly managed that."
Crowley slides up the bed and lies down half on top of him, one hand trailing casually across Aziraphale's belly. "You didn't think I'd like hearing it?"
"I thought it would make you uncomfortable."
"Are you kidding?" Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale's collarbone, and is rewarded with a lovely shiver. "Leading an angel to lust and to blasphemy. In the old days I'd have got a commendation for that."
Aziraphale gives him a stern look, which is rather spoiled by the way he gasps when Crowley bites the side of his neck. "It's not blasphemy," he says, when he gets his breath back. "Honestly, Crowley. You're so lovely, you're so good to me--"
Crowley lets his hand dip back between Aziraphale's thighs and says mildly, "Am I?"
"You're trying to distract me from-- ah-- from saying nice things about you," Aziraphale says, perceptively. "It won't-- stop that-- it won't work. I love you so terribly much, Crowley, and She is love, how could anything I say about you be a blasphemy?"
"No?" Crowley withdraws his hand, as instructed, and turns his attention instead to nosing and nibbling his way up Aziraphale's throat to his jaw, leaving marks that he knows will get him scolded later, but oh, it's worth it. "What is it, then?"
He feels Aziraphale shift under him, and then a hand cupping his chin, lifting his face. Crowley makes a faint noise of protest at being pulled away from his work, but stills when Aziraphale brings them face-to-face, eye-to-eye. He feels the old urge to duck away, to make a joke of it, at least to find his sunglasses-- anything to escape that knowing gaze. He ignores it.
"Silly old serpent," Aziraphale says, soft and fond, and kisses the end of his nose. "I thought you knew. It's a prayer of thanksgiving."