After all this is said and done, Aziraphale doesn't know how he'll return to his old life, the one he'd left some thirty years ago to start this endeavor as the consul who turned into the prince. What a wild journey it had been from the start, sent on this assignment and not being told how long it would take. Ten, twenty years had passed and he asked his head offices what he was doing here. Wait and see, they said.
Wait and see, and now he was married to the love of his life. October 28th had, of course, always held a special place in his heart. The seventh day after the Earth was formed, the day he had met Crowley for the first time.
Fitting, he thinks, their anniversary should stay their anniversary.
Carefully, he shifts his wings under Crowley so they can more easily rest, and it seems so natural that they would do this nightly. He'll forget, later, that Crowley won't be there to sleep on his wing someday. But he'll play with his ring and remember, their marriage in Venice. In Florence. Memories that could fuel him for a lifetime after that.
He takes Crowley's hands and embraces him, but doesn't want to sleep. No, he recalls a canopy of stars and wishes they were underneath it at the moment, though he'll settle for the view from their window.
Crowley, of course, remembers too, has thought of that day so often across the years, the long passing of time never dulling the details that he still cherishes. The first time he saw Aziraphale, slithering straight to him as if he'd known him all his existence. The first time he saw these beautiful wings, arching overhead to shield him. He'll never forget this day, either, the day he was cleaved to Aziraphale's side as his wife, his beloved, joined to him in breathtaking intimacy.
Improbably, the demon doesn't want to sleep either, too alight with this unexpected and impossibly bright joy in his soul. It's so strange and unfamiliar, and he doesn't imagine he could bear to close his eyes and miss a moment they have together. His fingers curl around Azirphale's as he embraces him and Crowley rests against his chest, tucking his chin against him so that he can gaze at him in an unblinking, rather snake-like way. He's always loved to watch him, and the very concept of Aziraphale as his husband brings such unaccountable fascination.
At last his attention wanders; he takes in the room, the grand canopied bed that is theirs to share as husband and wife for a lifetime, the hangings on the walls and the decorations as though seeing them with new eyes. "Ah," he sits up as he speaks, his attention caught by the tray sitting on a nearby table, "look, they left us wine. They know you so well. Or maybe it's meant to calm your innocent bride?" Crowley smiles lazily and summons up a shift to drape over his lanky, naked form, the sort of thing the young princess might wear to bed, but almost falling off the shoulder, clinging around his sharp hips in a positively indecent way. About to hop off the bed to fetch the wine and glasses, he pauses, remembering his burned feet. "Oh, bless it...angel, would you?"
Aziraphale arcs an arm around the silk and pulls Crowley closer; it's so thin and sheer that he can see all the lines of Crowley's body through it; he imagines another man might be interested in the outline of his bride's chest but he licks his lips when he sees the swell of his bride's cock through the slip.
He kisses Crowley's cheek first before he gets up to go fetch the wine. "You'll have to just stay in bed for a few days, but hopefully they'll let me stay here with you so you don't get too bored," he says. They will wonder about her health - if one such event was so overwhelming, how could she be expected to serve in a political sense? But no, they'll have to find out it was just coincidence; after all, their princess will be in excellent health for the remainder of her life. Surprisingly spry in old age.
He also gets a stand for their tray, something to keep it in their bed, a little table. "Do you like it? Playing the innocent bride?" he asks. "You won't get to anymore, I'm sure all your ladies in waiting will be trying to find the nicest way to ask how tonight has gone." He hopes that Crowley will give him a modest review - no need to disappoint the girls later when their equally virgin husbands, who know very little about pleasing women, don't match up.
He's pleased when Aziraphale pulls him close again, hands on his body with only the gossamer shift between them; he'd hoped its silkiness might tempt him. Crowley decides he'll wear it to bed every night, and leave it up to Aziraphale to decide whether he wants to strip it off him. The attendants who help prepare the princess for bed most nights, bathing her, braiding her hair and buttoning her into a camica, will be scandalized by such a revealing garment, but also fascinated. Smiling at Aziraphale's kiss to his cheek, he reclines against the bed, watching him bring the wine. "What a shame that will be," Crowley drawls in reply. Staying in bed for days, in fact, sounds like a splendid prospect, if Aziraphale will be there with him. Why, contrary to thinking the princess in ill health, the courtiers might decide the newlywed couple has an excess of energy that clearly needs to be worked off.
"Might miss it a little," Crowley concedes, "but I think it'll be far more fun being married to you." It's been an amusing game, playing an innocent, so modest and sweet and devoted to her future husband's happiness. But of course, she'll be an equally devoted wife. "As for the ladies...what do you think I should tell them?" He takes up the decanter of wine to pour it into a glass, offering it to Aziraphale. "Allow me, husband."
Aziraphale is plenty prepared to take a little vacation and stay in bed with his wife, and let the court think that he's pleasing her night and day for several days straight. If Crowley would wish it, he could make it a distinct reality, even. He could make love to Crowley until they were both exhausted and spent, surrounded by a hazy cloud of their love. That doesn't sound like such a bad prospect at all.
But yes, first. "Thank you, dear," he says, and waits for Crowley to pour them both glasses and set the decanter back down, so they can make a toast and he can taste the sweet, deep dessert of the wine. It's heavy on his tongue, but altogether rich and fruity. It would be a perfect juice for a lovely young couple, to work through their nerves, perhaps to both confess an excitement but also a trepidation, to kiss and laugh and kiss again, and let innocent feelings slide away from them and reveal something new.
It was just as well for a very old couple, sitting around planning their future together. "Tell them I was shy, they all think I'm so shy. And that I'm... I'm alright, but the more important thing is that I'm willing to listen to you. And I care for you." None of which is false, of course, but he's certainly not describing the fireworks he did see prickling the back of his eyelids, or sparking up in his entire body. And he absolutely won't be telling anyone about how wonderful and sinful his beloved's tongue is, snaking into his body.
It's a charming vintage, the wine, and so tempting to think of kissing it away from Aziraphale's lips, tasting it on his tongue. Crowley drinks a good bit of it straight off, enjoying its sweetness, and tips some more into his glass. "Mm, poor maidens, suppose they can only hope for a husband who will listen to them. But do you really want me to undersell your qualities, angel?"
He's not sure it would be possible to conceal how much he wants his beloved husband, even playing the role of a newly-married girl shy about sharing too many of the details. And of course there are many details that mustn't come to light..he won't be sharing, for example, what an unholy pleasure it was to fuck his sweet angel on his knees, how he blushed scarlet, how he sounded so obscene moaning aloud or trying to gasp Crowley's name as he opened him with his tongue. Or for that matter, how indecently wonderful it felt to be nestled between his thighs, swallowing his cock into his throat. No, Crowley will keep all of that to himself.
Reclining on his elbow, he smooths his fingers over Aziraphale's collar, tracing aimless patterns across his skin. "What'll you say about me, hm? When they ask how your bride was."
"Well. Perhaps if you'd like to tell them that I care about all your desires and keeping you extremely satisfied, that wouldn't go amiss.
"And I hope they won't ask. Very impolite. But of course, I will tell them the truth." Not that much truth, not how he bent over and wiggled his hips to entice his bride, expecting to be filled with her cock but instead she found a detour with her tongue, and goodness she had been talented with it. "That you were wonderful. That they should all be as lucky to have a bride like yourself." He won't go into detail about how lovely she sounds when she comes, how he wishes to stay all day in bed just to please her over and over again.
Though, surely, by the end of the next few days, they won't have any doubt to the truth of the latter. And he does anticipate that he will, in fact, give Crowley enough orgasms to have a nice working catalogue to review, but he certainly will not be sharing it with anyone but Crowley. He runs a hand along the slip and then on Crowley's thigh, sliding slightly up it. "I don't want them prying. I want the whole world to know of my love for you, but I want this to remain between just us two."
"Extremely satisfied, is it?" Crowley traces the line of Aziraphale's clavicle with a fingertip, yellow eyes vividly alight with passion, nearly glowing. "That's a fair assessment, that is. Even more so after a few more times, I'd bet." After all, what are Aziraphale and his bride to do if they are confined to their bed for several days? There is still so much to know and discover. "Poor angel, of course they'll ask." People are rarely polite about matters of the bedroom, even when they pretend to be. He's sure Aziraphale will have it worse than him, with the men around him wanting detail, eager to experience his lovely bride vicariously for themselves. "But I know you're a gentleman," he goes on, smiling, "so I won't worry about the details."
He wouldn't mind very much if Aziraphale were to, say, embellish a little for his interested audience, perhaps spend some time expanding on their knowledge of the princess's assets...as far as sin goes, coveting thy neighbor's wife is one of the big ones. But Crowley knows better than to suggest Aziraphale lead humans into sin for him, outside of the little temptations that are a part of their Arrangement. That wouldn't be fair, and he's never had any desire to ask Aziraphale to do something truly wrong.
That hand on his leg, slipping up under the silk...Crowley stays still while want steals into him again, watching Aziraphale with a catch of his teeth against his lower lip and a gaze that invites more. "Anything you want," he says softly. "All of this is just for us."
"Oh, I do plan on keeping you very satisfied," Aziraphale responds, looking Crowley up and down and licking his lips. He's more beautiful to Aziraphale than he probably thinks he is, though Aziraphale has no doubts that Crowley knows he's good-looking. Gorgeous, even. But after so many years of friendship, societal changes, of love-- he's still the one who draws Aziraphale in like a moth to flame.
He approaches, almost shyly, eyes flickering between Crowley's mouth and his eyes, and pauses right before they kiss. In this split second of a wait, he considers how lucky they both are, to be in love with each other, the only other person who will be around as long as they are, who is confined to this Earth. He thinks about how much of a gift Crowley is, to him, that he should be so charming and funny and yes, caring and good. Deep down under all the layers he builds for himself, he's good. How perfect, he thinks, that Crowley should love him in return, and then presses their mouths together at last.
His kiss is slow and sensual in nature, press of his lips and prod of his tongue passionate but patient, as they have all night, and Aziraphale does like to savor. And he rolls over on top of Crowley, lying himself between his thighs, holding them up against his hips.
No, he doesn't think of himself as Aziraphale does. Beautiful, or caring, or good, all those qualities that demons aren't and ought not to be, aspects that an angel might love. He isn't modest, either--he knows he has looks, he's made a career of temptation, but he remembers that once he walked among the stars and had wings as white and pure as Aziraphale's are...those days are gone, and since then Crowley has never felt truly loved or cherished until now. It's a marvel, the way Aziraphale looks at him as though he'd like to devour him, up and down before he moves closer and then seeming torn between whether he'd most like to gaze into his eyes or look at his mouth. It's a kind of warmth and slow unfurling delight that he wants to bask in, all this loving desire.
At last Aziraphale kisses him, after inching towards him in what seems like agonizingly infinitesimal degrees. Crowley makes a sound that is pure longing, pushing into the kiss, but Aziraphale is so patient, lips soft and sensual against his, that Crowley subsides and allows himself to be pushed to his back while his angel moves over him and settles between his thighs. The weight of him there feels so lovely, so wanted, his thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips and one of his legs catching around his waist, the silk gown rucked up between them.
"Aziraphale." Crowley breathes out his name like a sigh of pleasure, arms winding around his neck, drunk on his kisses more than any wine.
The feeling of Crowley nestled underneath of his body is a glorious one, their hips slotted together like two pieces of a puzzle, aligned like stars in the night sky, and Aziraphale gasps at the contact. He caresses Crowley's cheek and pulls him into another kiss, this one just as slow as the last, just as unhurried. A hand slips up Crowley's sheer gown and lifts it just the slightest. He means to get more of the cloth but is easily distracted by Crowley's arse and hips and sides, slender as is fashionable but with tantalizing curves exactly where Aziraphale wants them.
He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
Kisses as soft and slow and heady as a long summer rain, Aziraphale's hand rucking up the silk along his side, exploring his thin waist and the sharp jut of his hip and the curve of his arse, making Crowley shiver and ache for more. The languid press of their hips, the way Aziraphale rocks leisurely against him as if they have all of eternity for pleasure, is so different to Crowley from the ways he's fucked in the past, almost perfunctorily as though it was something to get over and done with. With Aziraphale he doesn't want anything to be over with, anxious to take and give as much pleasure as there is to be had, to glut on it like the angel enjoying a sumptuous meal, but Aziraphale kisses him so slowly and sweetly that he finds himself clutching at him with fingers that tremble slightly, unsure of what to do other than follow his lead at the pace he's set.
His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
Aziraphale looks up at him as fingers rake through his hair, his tongue flat on Crowley's nipple before he closes his mouth around it and sucks while he pinches the other between two fingers, hand all the way up Crowley's nightgown. In fact, it's barely a nightshirt anymore, pushed all the way upward, exposing him entirely. Yes, laid out as Aziraphale is meant to please and to take pleasure from him, this gorgeous body of his.
His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
It feels so indecent to be spread beneath an angel in such a state of dishabille, mouth and fingers attending to his exposed chest, silk riding all the way up to expose him. Even if Crowley was fucking into that angel not long ago...but then Aziraphale has always had a wicked way about him, capable of being teased out. Tormented pleasure sparks along his nerves, his fingers fitfully raking through Aziraphale's hair as one of the angel's hands seeks out his cock and touches it so finely at first, making him gasp and arch up in demand for more. Aziraphale's passionate kisses making their way down his body have Crowley tense with anticipation when he reaches the juncture of his legs, glancing down and licking his lips briefly before his head falls back as he delicately licks the head of his cock. Oh, it should be sinful, an angel's mouth taking him in, seeming so eager for the taste of him.
"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
Aziraphale, in fact, does have a little streak of bad in him, as if perhaps Crowley had rubbed his sin off just a tad, and so he does enjoy hearing Crowley tell him what a naughty angel he's being. It serves to make his mouth more urgent on Crowley, to try and take more and more of him in with each pull of his lips and hollow of his cheek. He does, of course, have to hold Crowley's hips gently still to keep himself from overexerting his limits for now, but all he really needs and all he really wants is a little more practice.
Crowley underneath him is delectable, a decadence he wouldn't mind consuming nightly, with straining hips dashed with gasps and drizzled honey moans adorning his bed and driving him mad with lust. He hums a satisfied noise against Crowley's cock as he sucks, and with both his hands he lifts Crowley's legs and folds his knees to his chest. He attempts to get Crowley to take one of them as he needs a free hand, first just to rap against one exposed cheek with an open hand, but then he meanders a finger lower, circling Crowley's entrance before pressing into him, digit miraculously slick.
Aziraphale gasps with Crowley still buried in his mouth; he's tight and hot and Aziraphale has to pause and catch his breath before resuming.
His groans spill into the darkened bedroom even after he loses the thread of his words, his fingers clutching urgently as Aziraphale's lovely mouth sinks down around him, tormenting him with wet sucking and heat. "Sorry, sorry," Crowley whispers in penitence when Aziraphale pins his hips with gentle hands, keeping him from thrusting up too far or demanding more than the angel can comfortably give. He’s anxious not to lose himself too far, like he did before—fucking Aziraphale so deep and urgently, losing himself in pleasure and need and want. Though it seems it had been welcome, judging by the Aziraphale's reactions.
And this is welcome to him, too, anything his angel wants to do with him, any way he wants to manipulate his body--Crowley obediently grips the leg Aziraphale guides him to, and then the other one as well for good measure, holding himself decadently spread. His head falls back as that slick finger slides into him, a shocked, urgent groan coming from his throat. "Oh please angel," he begs with his eyes shut tight, please give him more, suck his cock, fuck him on his fingers--anything, he'll take any pleasure he can get. Even knowing they have all night together, and countless other nights spilling out before them like stars across the sky, doesn't dim the need in him.
Crowley need not be sorry because Aziraphale takes it in stride as a high compliment, lips sweetly around his cock, Crowley poised and ready for him to practically devour. When he seems ready, Aziraphale slips a second finger into him, fucking Crowley on them and watching him come unfurled. It's a beautiful sight to behold, his demon in pleasure under the soft velvet of night with candlelight and sex to warm his skin, red hair spilled like vines around the pillow.
By the time he adds a third, he crooks them forward as he pulls them back, trying to locate where it is in Crowley a bundle of nerves that might really make his body sing. He licks several more stripes up the underside of Crowley's cock before his hand takes its place, and relocates his mouth to suck kisses at Crowley's perineum, sharp tongue drawing along the edge of where his fingers continually drive into Crowley.
When Aziraphale withdraws his fingers at last, he means to move from this spot and back to settle his weight over Crowley again, so nice a thought the little hairs on the back of his neck stand to rise, but he's caught entranced by the view of how dark and endless Crowley looks once dilated; he can't help but to take a taste.
Ripples of pleasure move through his body as Aziraphale's fingers stretch him open so tenderly and sweetly, fucking into him with all the patience one could imagine from him while he sucks his cock as though he could stay like this for an eternity. Crowley is the offering laid out for him to feast on, the current through which pleasure sparks, its intensity spiking once Aziraphale has fit three of his fingers into him and is crooking them in him, pressing to that spot that makes his hips jerk and a shocked moan spill from his throat. The angel's mouth draws off his cock but his hand takes its place as he presses kisses beneath his balls, and every part of Crowley feels awakened, intoxicated by the intimacy between them and the exquisite sensations driven into him by Aziraphale's fingers and mouth.
"Angel, fuck," he moans aloud when Aziraphale tastes him, dipping into him with his tongue. It's so hot and good, making him breathless, wanton, his hips writhing to Aziraphale's hands and mouth.
Aziraphale's tongue prods into Crowley, tries to fill him where his fingers once were, though he doesn't quite have the abilities with it that one might if he were a snake. Though through dogged breaths and exploratory tongue, he tries his best, delving into Crowley against sensitive skin which really has no other purpose but to be a channel for Aziraphale to try and place parts of himself in to see which of them Crowley finds most pleasurable. And, fully equipped with all the answers, he would still try it again and again. To make sure.
Eventually, he trails off to suck quick kisses on the inside of Crowley's thigh and momentarily lets go of his cock to hold his legs in place. He places himself over Crowley, rests the full of his body on top of those slender hips, and looks him in the eyes. Aziraphale breathes his name, and peppers hot kisses on his neck as he aligns himself and reaches in between them to guide himself to where his tongue and fingers have opened Crowley up. "Let me," he whispers, as if there might be a slim chance Crowley might decide not to allow him this.
If it could be more perfect than this, Crowley imagines he might discorporate from it: his cock flushed and heavy and wet from Aziraphale's attentions, his angel so wickedly trying to open him with his tongue, lathing him where he aches to be filled. Oh yes, he'd take any part of Aziraphale he could get. Let him experiment again and again until they were both replete with satisfaction, barely able to move in the aftermath of their efforts. He hisses out a harsh breath as Aziraphale moves to suck biting little kisses at the inside of his thigh, as his legs fall wantonly apart and his hands reach for Aziraphale instead as he moves up over him, settling intimately against his hips.
"Please, yes," he groans the words in an impassioned voice, an urgency to feel Aziraphale inside him making him wrap his long slim legs around Aziraphale's waist and arch into the press of his cock as it eases into him. He feels an aching pleasure as he's filled, the sense of joining again that is so brilliant and so very wanted. Nearly overwhelming, in fact--to be one with an angel, his grace and light a part of him.
He wouldn't, of course, dare dream to let his body hurt Crowley's, either from physicality or from the sheer fact that he is blessed. But as he moves into Crowley, with quick and shallow thrusts, he has to really fight back the urge to slide all the way in at once; his jaw falls slack and his breath hitches with lust. Eventually, when he is connected to Crowley as far as his body will physically allow, he has to take a moment of pause and look Crowley's face over once, twice, scanning him as if trying to solve a puzzle.
"How are you so perfect?" he asks, hands on Crowley's hips and just taking a moment to enjoy the static coursing down his spine, flooding all his senses with a rush that is somehow neither and both cold and hot. His head is braced against Crowley's neck and his kiss turns into a bite that will definitely leave a mark over the neckline of Crowley's dresses in the morning. He will have to wear a white powder for perhaps the next week or so as it heals, though Aziraphale can't find it in him to be very sorry at the moment.
He murmurs to Crowley, asking him if it's good, if he's alright, if he knows how incredible he is. And only once he's attained affirmation, he starts to move in earnest, draw of his hips measured like a bowstring but slide as quick as a loosed arrow; he works up a rhythm this way, hands on either side of Crowley's legs and pressing them still, locking them into place.
The shallow thrusts of Aziraphale's cock light every nerve, a sensation as brilliant as anything Crowley has ever felt, and he aches to feel it deeper, tormented and wracked with need: for his angel to be within him, not only their bodies joined but to be woven in him in his most essential self. It feels as though this is possible now, since their union and the way it felt to be one with Aziraphale before, as though he might never need to feel fallen and alone again. Eventually he's buried in him as far as he can be, every moment of connection more perfect than the last, but it feels as though he's so much deeper than this. That he is a part of Crowley now in such a way that can never be undone.
"I'm--" His voice comes shakily; I'm not is what he means to say, not perfect, he can't be perfect, he is by definition the opposite, but it gets lost in the absolute love he feels from Aziraphale, not to mention the sweet stinging bite at his throat that has him arching up with a hiss. Won't it be scandalous, the young bride marked by the tender greedy attentions of her husband, though at the moment Crowley can only think it will be Aziraphale's mark he sees every time he looks in a mirror, proof on an angel's desire--such an amazing, rare, precious thing. He nods frantically when Aziraphale asks him if he's all right, if it's good, if he knows he's incredible--so much more tolerable, somehow, to be complimented when the angel is inside of him--and urges him on with a hissed, "Please, Aziraphale," until he starts to fuck him in earnest at last. Words become moans and other, obscene sounds at the snap of Aziraphale's hips, his cock driving into him as he holds Crowley still as though to make him take what he is given.
His breaths push out with each thrust, with honey-heavy steam against Crowley's neck, sinking into him as one might into a dream, fully entranced in their haze. They are as one as they ever might hope to be, with Aziraphale's love and lust up against Crowley's-- their bodies and their spirits may be impermeable, but if they are, he doesn't feel it at the moment. He could feel the edge of his soul bleed into Crowley's and take some of it back.
Crowley may not believe himself to be perfect, but Aziraphale had a certain way of living: he liked things slow, he liked precious objects that would keep until they were well-worn. And to anyone else, his things might seem like junk - save for his books, maybe some other historic knickknacks that he kept with him and would hopefully continue doing so until the end of times - but it didn't matter because that's the way he loved them. He took very careful consideration in acquiring just about anything, and his collection was rare and, believe it or not, pared down.
He loves Crowley, with all his heart, and he is just as perfect as an first-edition manuscript of prophecies, as a rare and singular-existing translation of the Bible. He is just as perfect as when they called his eyes gold instead of yellow, when God had bathed him in Her love. Too long he'd been starved of love, and Aziraphale would lavish it upon him as he would restore lacquer to an aged box, or polish an intricate plate armor.
The draw of his hips is quick and precise, and once he has a rhythm going, he reaches in between the two of them to take ahold of Crowley's cock and give it some much-needed attention. Lifting to give themselves more space, his forehead nonetheless practically rests on Crowley's as he fills the room with the sound of skin meeting skin.
Crowley has always held, in his deepest and most secret fantasies, that having Aziraphale in this way would be the thing that completed him, though he knows his fall can never be taken back and nothing will ever restore the luminous pale radiance that his own wings once had--but he wouldn't need that if he had Aziraphale. He wouldn't need holiness or perfection. He would need only him. He has him now, and Aziraphale touches him as though he is a lovely, rare, precious thing, as no one ever has before. Not since he can remember, not since before he was a demon. He fills him until it seems as though they are in some sense one, irrevocably so, and perhaps Crowley will never be an angel again, but he can still love—fully and without reservation, so deeply, exquisitely in love with Aziraphale that it seems as though his heart might burst.
“Fuck—“ He curses as though they are words of praise and pleading, hands moving restlessly over every part of Aziraphale he can touch: hips and waist, around to the small of his back, trailing lovingly up his spine. He can’t get enough, wanting to memorize every inch of Aziraphale’s bare skin. “Please, angel, please fuck me, so good—“
It’s amazing, almost unbearable, the feeling of Aziraphale inside him weaving intricate new patterns into his very soul. Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, eyes closed, gasping as their foreheads rest together. He arches up his hips in the sinuous, obscene manner he is known for, all to bring them closer, bring Aziraphale’s cock deeper into him, and with Aziraphale’s hand around his own cock he cries out, amazed and shattered at the pleasure that breaks glittering over him when he comes.
Aziraphale has never heard Crowley beg for anything in his life, but the way he does it is like music, a sweet melody that Aziraphale will want to listen to on repeat, even if he can never get it out of his head. His hips slam against Crowley's and oh, when Crowley moves his own back against him the feeling is luxurious and wondrous all at once.
He focuses on Crowley's orgasm when he comes, hands and hips steadily pumping away, gaze locked on Crowley's face as he murmurs, "come for me, Crowley." And when he does, when his body shakes with it all around Aziraphale, he follows not long thereafter with his own orgasm, a shout, a half-aborted attempt to call Crowley's name. His mouth is wide on Crowley's neck, hand in his hair pulling him back, for a moment completely covering him as a blanket might.
Aziraphale's hips, overtaken by pleasure and clumsy with lust, accidentally let him slip out of Crowley as he finishes, last stripes of milky white streaked across his skin. And Aziraphale, short of breath, kisses Crowley as if to suck some air from his lungs. One hand still around a leg to keep it bracketed on his side, he lowers the other and draws his fingers through the fluid, lightly pushing it back in through where he's raw and rubbed pink. There's something deeper in this kiss, more perverse than it had been just ten, fifteen minute ago.
He at last withdraws his fingers, his tongue, and drapes himself entirely on Crowley. "Mm," he remarks in his low-pitched voice. "You have no idea how good you feel."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fudging the dates a bit
Wait and see, and now he was married to the love of his life. October 28th had, of course, always held a special place in his heart. The seventh day after the Earth was formed, the day he had met Crowley for the first time.
Fitting, he thinks, their anniversary should stay their anniversary.
Carefully, he shifts his wings under Crowley so they can more easily rest, and it seems so natural that they would do this nightly. He'll forget, later, that Crowley won't be there to sleep on his wing someday. But he'll play with his ring and remember, their marriage in Venice. In Florence. Memories that could fuel him for a lifetime after that.
He takes Crowley's hands and embraces him, but doesn't want to sleep. No, he recalls a canopy of stars and wishes they were underneath it at the moment, though he'll settle for the view from their window.
works for me!
Improbably, the demon doesn't want to sleep either, too alight with this unexpected and impossibly bright joy in his soul. It's so strange and unfamiliar, and he doesn't imagine he could bear to close his eyes and miss a moment they have together. His fingers curl around Azirphale's as he embraces him and Crowley rests against his chest, tucking his chin against him so that he can gaze at him in an unblinking, rather snake-like way. He's always loved to watch him, and the very concept of Aziraphale as his husband brings such unaccountable fascination.
At last his attention wanders; he takes in the room, the grand canopied bed that is theirs to share as husband and wife for a lifetime, the hangings on the walls and the decorations as though seeing them with new eyes. "Ah," he sits up as he speaks, his attention caught by the tray sitting on a nearby table, "look, they left us wine. They know you so well. Or maybe it's meant to calm your innocent bride?" Crowley smiles lazily and summons up a shift to drape over his lanky, naked form, the sort of thing the young princess might wear to bed, but almost falling off the shoulder, clinging around his sharp hips in a positively indecent way. About to hop off the bed to fetch the wine and glasses, he pauses, remembering his burned feet. "Oh, bless it...angel, would you?"
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He kisses Crowley's cheek first before he gets up to go fetch the wine. "You'll have to just stay in bed for a few days, but hopefully they'll let me stay here with you so you don't get too bored," he says. They will wonder about her health - if one such event was so overwhelming, how could she be expected to serve in a political sense? But no, they'll have to find out it was just coincidence; after all, their princess will be in excellent health for the remainder of her life. Surprisingly spry in old age.
He also gets a stand for their tray, something to keep it in their bed, a little table. "Do you like it? Playing the innocent bride?" he asks. "You won't get to anymore, I'm sure all your ladies in waiting will be trying to find the nicest way to ask how tonight has gone." He hopes that Crowley will give him a modest review - no need to disappoint the girls later when their equally virgin husbands, who know very little about pleasing women, don't match up.
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"Might miss it a little," Crowley concedes, "but I think it'll be far more fun being married to you." It's been an amusing game, playing an innocent, so modest and sweet and devoted to her future husband's happiness. But of course, she'll be an equally devoted wife. "As for the ladies...what do you think I should tell them?" He takes up the decanter of wine to pour it into a glass, offering it to Aziraphale. "Allow me, husband."
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But yes, first. "Thank you, dear," he says, and waits for Crowley to pour them both glasses and set the decanter back down, so they can make a toast and he can taste the sweet, deep dessert of the wine. It's heavy on his tongue, but altogether rich and fruity. It would be a perfect juice for a lovely young couple, to work through their nerves, perhaps to both confess an excitement but also a trepidation, to kiss and laugh and kiss again, and let innocent feelings slide away from them and reveal something new.
It was just as well for a very old couple, sitting around planning their future together. "Tell them I was shy, they all think I'm so shy. And that I'm... I'm alright, but the more important thing is that I'm willing to listen to you. And I care for you." None of which is false, of course, but he's certainly not describing the fireworks he did see prickling the back of his eyelids, or sparking up in his entire body. And he absolutely won't be telling anyone about how wonderful and sinful his beloved's tongue is, snaking into his body.
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He's not sure it would be possible to conceal how much he wants his beloved husband, even playing the role of a newly-married girl shy about sharing too many of the details. And of course there are many details that mustn't come to light..he won't be sharing, for example, what an unholy pleasure it was to fuck his sweet angel on his knees, how he blushed scarlet, how he sounded so obscene moaning aloud or trying to gasp Crowley's name as he opened him with his tongue. Or for that matter, how indecently wonderful it felt to be nestled between his thighs, swallowing his cock into his throat. No, Crowley will keep all of that to himself.
Reclining on his elbow, he smooths his fingers over Aziraphale's collar, tracing aimless patterns across his skin. "What'll you say about me, hm? When they ask how your bride was."
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"And I hope they won't ask. Very impolite. But of course, I will tell them the truth." Not that much truth, not how he bent over and wiggled his hips to entice his bride, expecting to be filled with her cock but instead she found a detour with her tongue, and goodness she had been talented with it. "That you were wonderful. That they should all be as lucky to have a bride like yourself." He won't go into detail about how lovely she sounds when she comes, how he wishes to stay all day in bed just to please her over and over again.
Though, surely, by the end of the next few days, they won't have any doubt to the truth of the latter. And he does anticipate that he will, in fact, give Crowley enough orgasms to have a nice working catalogue to review, but he certainly will not be sharing it with anyone but Crowley. He runs a hand along the slip and then on Crowley's thigh, sliding slightly up it. "I don't want them prying. I want the whole world to know of my love for you, but I want this to remain between just us two."
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He wouldn't mind very much if Aziraphale were to, say, embellish a little for his interested audience, perhaps spend some time expanding on their knowledge of the princess's assets...as far as sin goes, coveting thy neighbor's wife is one of the big ones. But Crowley knows better than to suggest Aziraphale lead humans into sin for him, outside of the little temptations that are a part of their Arrangement. That wouldn't be fair, and he's never had any desire to ask Aziraphale to do something truly wrong.
That hand on his leg, slipping up under the silk...Crowley stays still while want steals into him again, watching Aziraphale with a catch of his teeth against his lower lip and a gaze that invites more. "Anything you want," he says softly. "All of this is just for us."
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He approaches, almost shyly, eyes flickering between Crowley's mouth and his eyes, and pauses right before they kiss. In this split second of a wait, he considers how lucky they both are, to be in love with each other, the only other person who will be around as long as they are, who is confined to this Earth. He thinks about how much of a gift Crowley is, to him, that he should be so charming and funny and yes, caring and good. Deep down under all the layers he builds for himself, he's good. How perfect, he thinks, that Crowley should love him in return, and then presses their mouths together at last.
His kiss is slow and sensual in nature, press of his lips and prod of his tongue passionate but patient, as they have all night, and Aziraphale does like to savor. And he rolls over on top of Crowley, lying himself between his thighs, holding them up against his hips.
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At last Aziraphale kisses him, after inching towards him in what seems like agonizingly infinitesimal degrees. Crowley makes a sound that is pure longing, pushing into the kiss, but Aziraphale is so patient, lips soft and sensual against his, that Crowley subsides and allows himself to be pushed to his back while his angel moves over him and settles between his thighs. The weight of him there feels so lovely, so wanted, his thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips and one of his legs catching around his waist, the silk gown rucked up between them.
"Aziraphale." Crowley breathes out his name like a sigh of pleasure, arms winding around his neck, drunk on his kisses more than any wine.
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He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
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His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
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His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
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"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
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Crowley underneath him is delectable, a decadence he wouldn't mind consuming nightly, with straining hips dashed with gasps and drizzled honey moans adorning his bed and driving him mad with lust. He hums a satisfied noise against Crowley's cock as he sucks, and with both his hands he lifts Crowley's legs and folds his knees to his chest. He attempts to get Crowley to take one of them as he needs a free hand, first just to rap against one exposed cheek with an open hand, but then he meanders a finger lower, circling Crowley's entrance before pressing into him, digit miraculously slick.
Aziraphale gasps with Crowley still buried in his mouth; he's tight and hot and Aziraphale has to pause and catch his breath before resuming.
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And this is welcome to him, too, anything his angel wants to do with him, any way he wants to manipulate his body--Crowley obediently grips the leg Aziraphale guides him to, and then the other one as well for good measure, holding himself decadently spread. His head falls back as that slick finger slides into him, a shocked, urgent groan coming from his throat. "Oh please angel," he begs with his eyes shut tight, please give him more, suck his cock, fuck him on his fingers--anything, he'll take any pleasure he can get. Even knowing they have all night together, and countless other nights spilling out before them like stars across the sky, doesn't dim the need in him.
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By the time he adds a third, he crooks them forward as he pulls them back, trying to locate where it is in Crowley a bundle of nerves that might really make his body sing. He licks several more stripes up the underside of Crowley's cock before his hand takes its place, and relocates his mouth to suck kisses at Crowley's perineum, sharp tongue drawing along the edge of where his fingers continually drive into Crowley.
When Aziraphale withdraws his fingers at last, he means to move from this spot and back to settle his weight over Crowley again, so nice a thought the little hairs on the back of his neck stand to rise, but he's caught entranced by the view of how dark and endless Crowley looks once dilated; he can't help but to take a taste.
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"Angel, fuck," he moans aloud when Aziraphale tastes him, dipping into him with his tongue. It's so hot and good, making him breathless, wanton, his hips writhing to Aziraphale's hands and mouth.
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Eventually, he trails off to suck quick kisses on the inside of Crowley's thigh and momentarily lets go of his cock to hold his legs in place. He places himself over Crowley, rests the full of his body on top of those slender hips, and looks him in the eyes. Aziraphale breathes his name, and peppers hot kisses on his neck as he aligns himself and reaches in between them to guide himself to where his tongue and fingers have opened Crowley up. "Let me," he whispers, as if there might be a slim chance Crowley might decide not to allow him this.
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"Please, yes," he groans the words in an impassioned voice, an urgency to feel Aziraphale inside him making him wrap his long slim legs around Aziraphale's waist and arch into the press of his cock as it eases into him. He feels an aching pleasure as he's filled, the sense of joining again that is so brilliant and so very wanted. Nearly overwhelming, in fact--to be one with an angel, his grace and light a part of him.
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"How are you so perfect?" he asks, hands on Crowley's hips and just taking a moment to enjoy the static coursing down his spine, flooding all his senses with a rush that is somehow neither and both cold and hot. His head is braced against Crowley's neck and his kiss turns into a bite that will definitely leave a mark over the neckline of Crowley's dresses in the morning. He will have to wear a white powder for perhaps the next week or so as it heals, though Aziraphale can't find it in him to be very sorry at the moment.
He murmurs to Crowley, asking him if it's good, if he's alright, if he knows how incredible he is. And only once he's attained affirmation, he starts to move in earnest, draw of his hips measured like a bowstring but slide as quick as a loosed arrow; he works up a rhythm this way, hands on either side of Crowley's legs and pressing them still, locking them into place.
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"I'm--" His voice comes shakily; I'm not is what he means to say, not perfect, he can't be perfect, he is by definition the opposite, but it gets lost in the absolute love he feels from Aziraphale, not to mention the sweet stinging bite at his throat that has him arching up with a hiss. Won't it be scandalous, the young bride marked by the tender greedy attentions of her husband, though at the moment Crowley can only think it will be Aziraphale's mark he sees every time he looks in a mirror, proof on an angel's desire--such an amazing, rare, precious thing. He nods frantically when Aziraphale asks him if he's all right, if it's good, if he knows he's incredible--so much more tolerable, somehow, to be complimented when the angel is inside of him--and urges him on with a hissed, "Please, Aziraphale," until he starts to fuck him in earnest at last. Words become moans and other, obscene sounds at the snap of Aziraphale's hips, his cock driving into him as he holds Crowley still as though to make him take what he is given.
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Crowley may not believe himself to be perfect, but Aziraphale had a certain way of living: he liked things slow, he liked precious objects that would keep until they were well-worn. And to anyone else, his things might seem like junk - save for his books, maybe some other historic knickknacks that he kept with him and would hopefully continue doing so until the end of times - but it didn't matter because that's the way he loved them. He took very careful consideration in acquiring just about anything, and his collection was rare and, believe it or not, pared down.
He loves Crowley, with all his heart, and he is just as perfect as an first-edition manuscript of prophecies, as a rare and singular-existing translation of the Bible. He is just as perfect as when they called his eyes gold instead of yellow, when God had bathed him in Her love. Too long he'd been starved of love, and Aziraphale would lavish it upon him as he would restore lacquer to an aged box, or polish an intricate plate armor.
The draw of his hips is quick and precise, and once he has a rhythm going, he reaches in between the two of them to take ahold of Crowley's cock and give it some much-needed attention. Lifting to give themselves more space, his forehead nonetheless practically rests on Crowley's as he fills the room with the sound of skin meeting skin.
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“Fuck—“ He curses as though they are words of praise and pleading, hands moving restlessly over every part of Aziraphale he can touch: hips and waist, around to the small of his back, trailing lovingly up his spine. He can’t get enough, wanting to memorize every inch of Aziraphale’s bare skin. “Please, angel, please fuck me, so good—“
It’s amazing, almost unbearable, the feeling of Aziraphale inside him weaving intricate new patterns into his very soul. Crowley winds his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, eyes closed, gasping as their foreheads rest together. He arches up his hips in the sinuous, obscene manner he is known for, all to bring them closer, bring Aziraphale’s cock deeper into him, and with Aziraphale’s hand around his own cock he cries out, amazed and shattered at the pleasure that breaks glittering over him when he comes.
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He focuses on Crowley's orgasm when he comes, hands and hips steadily pumping away, gaze locked on Crowley's face as he murmurs, "come for me, Crowley." And when he does, when his body shakes with it all around Aziraphale, he follows not long thereafter with his own orgasm, a shout, a half-aborted attempt to call Crowley's name. His mouth is wide on Crowley's neck, hand in his hair pulling him back, for a moment completely covering him as a blanket might.
Aziraphale's hips, overtaken by pleasure and clumsy with lust, accidentally let him slip out of Crowley as he finishes, last stripes of milky white streaked across his skin. And Aziraphale, short of breath, kisses Crowley as if to suck some air from his lungs. One hand still around a leg to keep it bracketed on his side, he lowers the other and draws his fingers through the fluid, lightly pushing it back in through where he's raw and rubbed pink. There's something deeper in this kiss, more perverse than it had been just ten, fifteen minute ago.
He at last withdraws his fingers, his tongue, and drapes himself entirely on Crowley. "Mm," he remarks in his low-pitched voice. "You have no idea how good you feel."
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