Crowley's encouragement comes to him more as waves of sound than actual words, the praise clear in the cadence of his lover's voice. Whatever shame or embarrassment he might have had for all his carnal sounds or the way he writhes atop the sheets, it's washed away, negated completely by that love, that tender blessed love.

His eyes, formerly squeezed shut at the onslaught of physical pleasure, open and focus as best they can on Crowley. All night, he said. Forever, he said. It's hard to think of the future when the world seems to be narrowing to one single moment, but it's what he needs to hear to let go. To fall apart in Crowley's arms.

So he does.

He cries out a broken facsimile of Crowley's name, arching into the demon's exquisite touch, letting that coiled spring snap, ecstasy running through him like wildfire. His mouth falls open, face a mask of ecstasy to rival the holy rapture of a saint, even as his cock obscenely paints Crowley's hand and his own flushed skin with come.

But that's not all that happens.

Overwhelmed by his very first orgasm, Aziraphale's wings manifest, and Crowley was right, it is too cramped a space for them. The tip of one wing knocks over a lamp, the other topples a precarious stack of old, dusty books. Maybe it's a loss of control, maybe there is simply too much love, too much pleasure, too much everything to be contained in his human form, but his wings extend fully, arch above them triumphantly as he rides out his climax.

He lies there in the aftermath, wings limp and trailing off the sides of the bed, a blissful smile on his face. His skin glows with sweat and joy, his body relaxed, all its tension drained away. He sluggishly grips Crowley's hair and draws him in for a lazy kiss.

"Take the edge off... that's how you phrased it, isn't it? I think it worked."