No one's ever explained to Aziraphale the finer points of male anatomy, so he's completely unprepared for the pure unadulterated shock of pleasure that comes from Crowley's fingers stroking gently on his prostate. He cries out, his wings rustling and ruffling like a startled bird. It's a good thing Crowley has his wings wrapped solidly around them both or that bedside lamp would be toast.

"What -- oh, dear Lord --" he gasps, voice high and thready. It's a bit like Crowley sucking on the tip of his cock, except all of that intense pleasure is inside him. "Please, whatever you're doing, k-keep doing it..."