Crowley grins against Aziraphale's skin, loving the sounds Aziraphale makes. "Thought you'd like that," he murmurs, kissing Aziraphale's shoulder again. He keeps his wings firmly cocooned, a steady cage around Aziraphale's, not trapping but offering support. His fingers stroke the prostate again, a third time, then press down a little harder. "Still good, angel?"