Crowley is in for a treat, then, because once their hips align, Aziraphale loses whatever shred of composure he had left and moans with abandon, a wanton song of praises for his beloved. There are darlings and dearests interspersed with yes and don't stop, and -- on one particularly splendid thrust -- a sharp, uncensored fuck! that leaves his mouth when all other words fail him.

White-hot pleasure pulses underneath his skin, quivers in every feather of his wings. It presses against him from the inside, rises and rises. He rides on the precipice of his climax, but is afraid of letting go of Crowley to touch himself, needing that anchor, that grounding to his live wire. "Crowley -- please --" he sobs. "I'm -- I'm so close --"