Crowley only barely hangs on long enough. Aziraphale squeezes around him, and there's hot liquid striping his hand and oh Heaven yes, Aziraphale squeezing his hand and pulling his hair and his legs, those strong thighs gripping him, and all of it together pulls pleasure out of him until his head is thrown back in a silent shout and he slams in hard, again, spilling deep inside his lover, his angel, his everything. He hears the beating of mighty wings, countless numbers of them, and maybe he imagines it or maybe it's happening Somewhere Else.

Then he collapses on Aziraphale, drenched with sweat and utterly spent. Their hands are still locked together.