Though he's enjoyed wearing his beautiful wedding gown, there's an urgency building in him to be rid of it: the tight laces and voluminous ruffles, the jewel-encrusted bodice and heavily embroidered skirts. He's impatient with anything between his skin and Aziraphale's hands. None of this is feigned, the love blazing between them or the sheer wanting that courses through his veins, the feeling that he has been waiting for this night for a long, long time--far longer than their short engagement or the time that's passed since the night they realized their love for one another. No, some part of Crowley feels as though he's been waiting to give himself to Aziraphale all of his life.
"It is absolutely too far," Crowley disagrees, words breathed hotly at Aziraphale's cheek as he explores the line of his jaw with nuzzles and kisses. "Too many stairs--bloody long hallways--" He breaks away when Aziraphale offers to carry him, meeting his gaze, flooded with sudden relief and gratitude. "Oh, would you?"
It's not as though he can't walk on his own, his feet aren't that badly burned. But they are feeling awfully tender, especially after the dancing, nothing that a day or two of lazing around in bed couldn't fix.
Without another word, Aziraphale lifts Crowley, dress and shoes and all, into his arms as his bride. Anyone who happened to see this would only see a husband carrying his new bride, tired on her feet from a night of dancing. Aziraphale's step is quick, his footing sure, as he makes his way to the staircases. There are little windows which let in the light as the torches haven't been lit here, no one having been expected to leave the festivities until tomorrow morning. The moon and the reflection of the moon and her stars stream in little by little through every open window, once in awhile just casting over Crowley's face.
Eventually, they make it to his bed chambers -- their bed chambers, and he practically kicks the door open to deposit him on the nearest couch, carefully, before going to fuss with the lock and the lights. Blast it, forget the lights, he lets his halo show up to illuminate the room instead, and he digs in his drawers for a little jar that he takes out and brings with him when he kneels at Crowley's feet.
"My darling, my love," he says into the open air as he is sat between his legs. He lifts the skirt to take one, slips it out of the heel and undoes the tie on the stocking, rolling it gently down Crowley's foot. He uncaps the jar to reveal a salve for burns, which he generously spreads on his fingers and smooths over Crowley's sole. "I never want you to be harmed on my behalf, do you understand?"
It's so pleasant to be carried, the weight off his sore tender feet giving him a buoyant sensation of a much larger weight lifted from his shoulders, his anxieties lifted as though this moment of happiness is one that might last. And though Crowley's usual tendency is to mistrust any good feeling that comes his way, at the moment he simply wants to bask in it and in Aziraphale's presence, making himself nearly feather-light in his arms like the young princess he is meant to be. She loves her new husband with all her heart, and Crowley loves him to the depths of his soul which he thought was ruined long ago, too wounded to ever be offered to another. Yet here he is, here they are. He watches Aziraphale move around the chamber after he sets him down on a couch, locks the door and summons up his halo to bring light into the room, bathing it in a pure angelic radiance. Crowley takes off his shades and lays them aside, the light bringing out all the shades of gold in his eyes. More and more he goes without them when he and Aziraphale are alone, finding that there's nothing he needs to hide from him, nothing to fear revealing.
Though he has to close his eyes briefly when Aziraphale calls him those names, they're like a fire blazing in him, drawing all the yearning from his heart. His head tilts back to the cushion, a little moan comes from his throat as Aziraphale begins to spread the salve on the sole of one foot. "That's--ahh, that's good, angel."
Crowley thinks, he would walk through a thousand cathedrals for Aziraphale, over a thousand miles of consecrated ground. For his love, for his happiness, he's beginning to think there is very little he wouldn't do. "It's only a little bit of burns. Had to be done, you know that."
He makes sure to massage the ointment all over Crowley's foot, getting him between his toes, smoothing it up his skin all the way to his ankles and letting it calm his burns and take away some of the pain. He then goes about repeating the process on the other foot. "I know, they wouldn't have let us marry anywhere else, but your poor feet." He would have too, if he needed, walked on hot coals to marry Crowley, to profess love to him, to whisk him away from all the terrors that was Hell.
"Better?" he asks, pressing a kiss to Crowley's shin before returning his foot to him. He considers getting back on the couch so he can properly kiss Crowley, but as long as he's here and Crowley's skirts are all rucked up, he thinks he'll stay and lift them a little bit more, trailing kisses up to his knee. Any further would be a little scandalous, he thinks, even for a wedding night where he hadn't unlaced his bride's gown and even seen her in her camicia first, nor took down her hair.
Indecent, he is, because he'd rather just disappear up Crowley's skirts.
No one needed to know that Aziraphale had already imagined some very indecent things for them to be doing as husband and wife, but didn't think that he had nearly as many fantasies as his innocent 'virgin' bride. It's not like he consulted with Crowley, but he supposes now is as good a time as any, even if he's not feeling up to it due to his poor feet. He could always stow the information away for a little later. "Crowley," he asks, kissing the inside of his knee, which he has to move to the side a little bit in order to fit his face in. "What would you like?"
He makes some indecent sounds of his own while Aziraphale massages the ointment into his red and raw soles, up his feet to his ankles, even in between his toes; beneath his touch the blisters that have begun to swell smooth down again, the burns ease somewhat and the pain gentles until it's more a throb than a searing constant torment. "Be all right--oh--after a day or so." His eyes are still closed, his head tilted back, but he lifts it up to look down at Aziraphale and nod when the angel asks him if it's better, watching him with a tender greed and wanting as he pushes up the masses of Crowley's skirts a little more, kisses dragged from his shin to his knee. "Aziraphale," Crowley whispers, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers through the angel's soft curls.
Yes, he's had fantasies, had plenty of time, it feels to him--however short their engagement--to think and dream of and ache for this night and the others that will follow it, to imagine making love to Aziraphale in every way possible. But he hesitates when Aziraphale asks what he'd like--as much as he aches for him, as many things as he wants, and despite the fact that he is indeed no virgin, Crowley is perhaps a little, tiny bit afraid, too: what if he taints Aziraphale in some way? What if he makes him Fall?
Even so, he moves his knees apart invitingly, his palm settling against Aziraphale's cheek when he kisses the inside of his knee. It can't be that great a risk, can it? Not now when they're already married, bound in blessed union. Why, it can't even properly be called fornication anymore. "Angel--is it all right if I'm me, right now?" Crowley's teeth drag across his lower lip. He could be the sweet, innocent princess to be spoiled and indulged, he'd quite enjoy being her in their bed sometime, actually, but not now. Not when it's their first night together.
Of all the things that he thought Crowley might say, that wasn't one of them. But he says, "of course, Crowley," and gets up. "Then we'd better get you out of this dress." He circles behind Crowley to take out some of the hairpins holding up his curls, letting them cascade down around them. And then he sets about to gently unlace Crowley from all the things that put him in this costume, into this image of la Principessa. All the layers and lace and jewels, finely made, worth more than some people might see their entire lives, resting on the shoulders of one beautiful girl who the lucky prince has had enough fortune to marry.
But Aziraphale married Crowley, the demon, the long-limbed serpent of Eden with gleaming golden eyes that he always hid behind dark glasses, with sharp tongue and recalcitrant spirit. That is who Aziraphale married
He lays kisses on Crowley's neck as he slips the sleeves off and then helps him undo his giornea, moving to lay them properly flat on a table somewhere before returning to do something about his gamurra. Really, there were just so many pieces involved in women's clothing. He imagines Crowley, so excited to be laced into his skirts this morning, ready to meet him at the church, and his heart swells in his chest with pride.
With nimble and eager fingers undoing the strings of his gamurra, it's properly loose in no time at all, and Aziraphale arcs an arm around his waist to hold Crowley against him for a second before going around again to thread the dress off of his arms.
There are so many exquisite layers to be undone: the pins and jeweled netting in his hair, rubies around his throat, gold at his wrists and fingers. The heavy gown, its threads sown with tiny precious gems so that he glittered as he walked, embroidered with scarlet and gold. He's enjoyed every moment of wearing them, even the small pointed shoes with their heels to lift him from the floor, to shape his gait in intriguing ways that all the court had murmured about; gazing at himself in the mirror after he was dressed, Crowley saw what a lovely creature he made as a bride, worthy of being wed to an angel and a prince. Yet there's a sense of relief at Aziraphale's ready agreement and feeling those layers undone, peeled away from his skin to make himself again: demon, tempter, sinful and avaricious and hopelessly in love with an angel.
An angel who is now tenderly undressing him, with kisses at his neck and an arm embracing him from behind once he has his gamurra unlaced, the bodice of the garment sliding down his arms as Crowley briefly lays his hand over Aziraphale's and turns his head to brush his jaw with his mouth. With Aziraphale's help he slides his arms from the sleeves, and then Crowley simply can't be still anymore, turning around on the couch and cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands and kissing his mouth fervently, as though Aziraphale is the sweetest wine he's tasted all night. He's so wonderful that Crowley hardly knows what to do, the blaze of contentment within him still an unfamiliar feeling, underscored by urgent wants.
Aziraphale kisses Crowley as any groom would do on his wedding night, urgent with wait and full to bursting of love. He cradles Crowley with his arms and then draws him to come sit across his lap, this demon he loves.
In nothing but a light camicia, made of linen and embroidered with the finest imported silk and gold threads, Crowley is just himself. And though his undergarments are finely made, clearly having been done so with the intention that Aziraphale the groom would be the only one to lay eyes on them, to tantalize him with such a great effort to be made on his part, he doesn't care. No, he would've loved Crowley just as much had he been presented as in those light Mesopotamian robes barely held together by stitches, or in his mourning clothes. With or without the ridiculous gold circlet laurel he wore trying to impress Caligula the one time.
And yet, he hesitates to take off the rest - he hasn't seen the rest, yet, not in this context, anyway. And it had been several thousand years he thinks, since the last time, and he had hardly had any lewd intentions. No, this was not a first for either of them, but for both of them together it made for something special. And Aziraphale wants every moment to be right, if not forever then at least for the first time he might make love to Crowley.
He slides a hand up his leg, slowly, the cloth moving to reveal more and more skin as his hand gets further. Yet, he isn't even looking: eyes locked with Crowley's, his gaze is full of love, of fascination.
His mouth offers long, lingering kisses, sweet as a demon could manage, his body languid across Aziraphale's lap and in his embrace, arms wound around him and legs sprawled unselfconsciously, his sore feet a half-forgotten throb somewhere in the background of his awareness. It's everything Crowley hoped for and somehow more than he let himself expect. To be caressed so gently, held and kissed with such love surrounding him, soothing any lingering anxiety that somehow his demonic nature could bring Aziraphale to ruin--how could he possibly ruin this, what wrong could there be in it? They are husband and wife. They are an angel and demon who love one another as deeply as any conscious being ever could, and Crowley aches to love Aziraphale as fiercely with his body as he does with his heart.
He looks back at Aziraphale with vivid, impassioned eyes, his slit pupils gone wide with wanting, seeing all that love and fascination reflected back at him. Licks his lower lip again, swollen now from their kisses, as Aziraphale's hand rucks up the hem of his camica, revealing the long and slender, wiry contours of his thighs, gaze falling between them to where Aziraphale's cock will be beneath the layers of his own clothing. Crowley's is aching already, the brush of the fine linen almost chafing, but his eyes meet Aziraphale's again, unable to tear away for long from the love he can see in their depths.
Traditionally this is done in a bed, but of course there's little about their union which could be called traditional, even if it was all done quite by the book. And it's not far, should they wish to move there, but for the moment Crowley kisses Aziraphale again, drags at him with strong fingers buried in his fine clothes, pulls the angel down over his body as he sprawls back against the couch cushions with his bare thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips. He lifts up a little, arching into the press of Aziraphale's hips against his, and his breath catches at the jolt of pleasure it gives him.
Crowley is a sight to behold, thighs smooth like a thick cream and possibly just as sweet, eyes an unbroken halo of gold, cascades of hair the color burnished copper, slender and angled as if just drawn in graphite by a master artist. He gasps when Crowley presses their hips together, hand on the back of his head and looking into his eyes with a kind of raw and unbridled awe, of epiphany. And it's true, that it's been a very long time since he'd last shared a bed with anyone, but that wasn't it, either; nothing could have prepared him for the kind of love he could share with Crowley: one run so deep that it had been with them when they were still stardust, would be there, he knew, when they returned to it.
He was a fool for believing he could've ever just tried to fall out of love, to think that the worst thing in the world was to love and not be loved in return; in fact, it would have been much worse not to let Crowley know how deeply loved he was, how adored. It was humbling just knowing that Crowley felt the same, and felt like a gift and honor laureled onto his crown and sitting atop his halo.
Aziraphale does wrap his arms around Crowley's waist, and makes to stand up, drawing Crowley's legs over his own middle, and carrying him into the next chamber this way, clumsily stumbling around his furniture and nipping little kisses at his jaw and his neck and whatever bit of flesh happened to be where his mouth landed. Eventually, he does get them to the bed, taking a seat at the edge to return them to how they were a second ago. He did say he'd carry Crowley around due to his feet; he wouldn't begrudge being his personal chariot for the next few days.
Having the weight of Aziraphale's body over his is like a dream, his angel's mouth so sweet and soft that Crowley could devour it for hours. But that gasp when he presses their hips together draws him back to meet Aziraphale's gaze, the love and revelation he sees there in the beloved blue-gray eyes, a kind of awe close to reverence, making Crowley hot and flushed and almost dizzied, almost overwhelmed. The light in Aziraphale's gaze is like something holy, nearly too bright and beautiful to bear, but Crowley would bear anything for Aziraphale even if it pained him, just as he would walk again across a consecrated floor in God's holy church with pride and love in his heart, all to give himself to his angel in body and spirit and be one with him. Knowing that love is returned in such depth keeps him breathless with joy and longing, soft laughter against Aziraphale's mouth as the angel lifts him and stumbles with him into the bedroom, peppering kisses along his jaw and throat; he clings to Aziraphale as he sits them down on the edge of the mattress with Crowley in his lap again, red hair tumbling down as Crowley leans into another hot, sweet, lingering kiss.
His fingers find laces and fastenings, deftly undoing Aziraphale's own wedding garments at last and stripping them from his person as they kiss. A miracle or two along the way helps speed the work; Crowley wants to taste, touch, to learn the contours of Aziraphale's body as he knows his own. His creamy skin, his chest with its dusting of pale hair, his comfortably soft middle, the thick thighs which Crowley now straddles--all of him fascinating, a contrast of shape to his own lean form, so beautiful and wanted.
He makes a strangled sound that is pure lust, head dropping to Aziraphale's shoulder, mouth and teeth dragging frantically across his collar. And now Crowley is pushing against him to have Aziraphale lie back, crawling over him instead, ravenous for him. "Let me--angel, let me touch you."
Aziraphale lets all the illusions die away with his clothes being stripped off his person, happy to let Crowley do the honors. He's pale and soft all over like a particularly fluffy cloud; even the curls on his chest match. And underneath all the colognes, close to his skin, he smells of cream and just a tiny bit of burnt sugar. Crowley, on the other hand, is wearing way too many clothes in comparison, so Aziraphale lifts the camicia over his head before he sucks in a gasp as Crowley bites his collar.
Gladly, he lies back, giving himself a better view of Crowley and his gorgeous long lines like rivers that stretch on past the horizon. He looks absolutely perfect, statuesque in every way. Paint him alabaster and put him in the courtyard at Florence and he would be among the others; no one would be any the wiser. "Touch me," he breathes out, wanting nothing more than to touch and be touched in return. He runs his hands over biceps as if smoothing them out from clay, curling up his back, pulling him down towards him for a kiss.
Somehow, it's more heated than before, because there's no cloth in between them, just skin on skin. It's so intimate, like no intimacy that Aziraphale has known prior to this; he feels as vulnerable as he would if he were cut open, but somehow he feels safe. One of his hands has migrated to Crowley's chest, and he places a palm and fingers fanned over his beating heart. "I love you," he whispers, though it mostly gets swallowed up by Crowley's mouth. "I love you," he tries a second time.
Without the illusion of the prince changing his form, Aziraphale is so comfortably soft to lie against that Crowley would like to do it for hours, exchanging kisses and caresses, joining with him again and again until they are both too sated and spent for more. Aziraphale's hands run along the corded muscle of his arms to his back, Aziraphale looks at as devouringly as Crowley is gazing back and invites his touch, and Crowley breathes out shakily and ducks back down to kiss him with a hot eager mouth, his own hands beginning cupped around Aziraphale's head, clutching at his hair too urgently to pay any mind to whether he's yanking at the roots. And then Aziraphale lays his hand against his heart--Crowley pulls back a little to look at him, made breathless by the kiss and the touch and his own desperation to feel as much of Aziraphale as he can--and says that he loves him, words so beloved, so overwhelming every time he hears them.
With a strangled groan, Crowley takes again to Aziraphale's collar with his mouth, his teeth nipping little bruises and his tongue soothing them, moving down his chest with dragging kisses and caresses of his fingers that want to possess and learn every inch of his angel. His hands stroke along Aziraphale's sides to his waist and his mouth explores his chest wantonly, Crowley nuzzling into the soft curls that are almost gold. Slithers down his stomach, kissing along the way, his fingers reaching Aziraphale's cock before his mouth does. His palm smooths gently up the hot shaft, bringing it up against his belly, and Crowley leans down to taste the fluid pearled at the tip, taking the head of his cock into his mouth to softly suck. His hand lifts and cradles his balls, too, kneading them tenderly as he acquaints himself with the taste of Aziraphale's cock with a mouth that's delicate and teasing, a tongue that plays clever patterns as he moans around him, soft and savoring.
With the lead-up to the wedding being short and filled to the brim with everyone tailing him doggedly and asking him questions, and with his evenings given entirely to Crowley, there was little time to himself. That was just as well, because the closer they got to the wedding itself, the more nervous that Aziraphale became about this night. The vows he could say from the depth of his heart, the scarpetta he could order to be made higher, the endless people coming by to congratulate them he could name by portrait, though some had been more accurate than the rest. But this part. What if Crowley didn't find him appealing, he wondered, and what if he had a more discerning palate for this sort of thing?
But as eager as Crowley is and as naturally as Aziraphale's own body responds, he can't think now why he was feeling at all jittery. He moans as Crowley takes the grand tour down his front ending at his cock, but gasps and claps a hand over his mouth when Crowley takes him between his lips, the other one flying into Crowley's hair. He strains to keep himself from bucking upwards; the sensation is so strong, soft tongue and pliant lips on the most sensitive of skin being almost too much, and yet all he can think of is wanting more, wanting all of him. He fights to keep steady and his body shakes and shudders with the effort; he can hardly believe this is real and not one of the hundred dreams he'd had leading up to this. But even in a hundred dreams, Crowley could never match up to himself, could never be half as sweet as he is here. Aziraphale calls for him, the name slipping past his gated fingers, sounding like a prayer in their now-shared chamber.
Nestled between Aziraphale’s thighs, his mouth slow and testing on the angel’s cock, Crowley imagines hazily that he’s stolen a little piece of paradise for himself right here, and he’ll keep it all for himself, as greedy for it as a demon can be. He’ll take everything else he can, too, all of Aziraphale’s body and heart, because now that he’s tasted this much he can’t possibly settle for anything less. Desire courses through his veins, heavy and sweet as honey, and he takes more and more of Aziraphale’s cock without reservation or hesitation, swallowing him to the root and sucking slow and thoroughly with his nose buried in pale blond curls, as captive by his own lust as he’s ever captivated anyone else. Crowley has tempted too many humans into this to count—usually pushing them towards one another, playing off hidden attractions and long-buried yearning to drive a pair of innocents into one another’s arms; from time to time he’s partaken for himself, but usually prefers to let the humans get on with things and leave them to it with the satisfaction of a job well done. Never has he even imagined being so captivated by lust, so deeply fascinated by a lover that he would forgo everything else to stay in this bed for him as long as he could, until the stars fell if it were possible. Never until he let himself imagine making love with Aziraphale.
Drawing off him with an indecently wet sound, Crowley lets his mouth drag down to his balls and his tongue curl around them, kisses the insides of his thighs, nips at soft skin and catches it in his mouth to suck tender little bruises. Laying his head on one of Aziraphale’s thighs, he looks up at him with eyes gone hazy with lust. “I want to devour you. Every bit of you.” How could he want anything less, when Aziraphale offers so much? His husband, Crowley thinks again and again, savoring the sound of it, the weight of it in his heart. He says it aloud, murmurs, “Husband,” with all the aching love inside him. “Turn to your knees,” he adds softly, nuzzling again at the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh. “Please?”
Aziraphale can practically feel the desire sluicing off of Crowley in waves, so tangible, so heavy. His own would lace up against Crowley's, fill up any crevices, let it melt into him and overflow; lest it suffocate them both, Aziraphale's whine cuts through like a sharp knife, a beam of light in a hazy cloud of lust. Crowley's tongue is as talented here as it is around words, and Aziraphale feels his thighs twitch and tremble with Crowley's nose tickling his stomach, oh. He's gone too fast, and Aziraphale opens his mouth to make a different sort of whine, but doesn't get the chance as Crowley keeps moving downward on his skin. His hand at the back of Crowley's neck is useless as a guide, but his grip is sure and tight.
"Wife, dear," he says, voice riding on breathlessness, before he shifts and finds himself on his hands and knees, round of his arse facing Crowley. He possesses, of course, a perfectly milky complexion, and nearly invisible white-blond hairs, looking now more like one of the angels found in all of those paintings found decorating churches. He looks quite the picture of the ones that surrounded their nuptials earlier in the day, lounging around on the grand ceiling and giving their blessings. "You know, I feel like this is usually done the other way around, but that's not a complaint." He spreads his knees and anticipates that Crowley should stand up and slot himself behind and split him on his cock. Licking his lips and biting back a mischievous grin that, with his blushing red cheeks, makes him look indeed the part of a cherub, he wiggles his hips in a manner he hopes is enticing.
"S'all right," Crowley breathes, so overcome with need and lust he can barely speak. He reaches for Aziraphale, catching him around the waist and dragging him towards him, mouthing at the soft tender skin where his thighs meet the round swell of his ass, hands moving to grip his buttocks tightly enough to indent the creamy skin with his fingertips. If he manages to think beyond this present, perfect moment, beyond his aching hunger for any part of Aziraphale he is offered, he knows there are hours ahead and many nights beyond this one where they can make love again and again, in every possible way. He wants all of it, wants to take and be taken, but right now he wants this most: hands gripping Aziraphale to stop him from wriggling his hips anymore in that way that seems designed to discorporate Crowley on the spot, pressing kisses on either cheek of his sweetly rounded arse and then in between, mouthing from behind his balls up to the hole that is waiting for his cock.
He lathes it with his tongue, with lingering, sucking kisses, softly coaxing Aziraphale's body to open for him until he can push his tongue inside, and if there was any doubt that Crowley's tongue can do obscenely talented things there soon won't be. He kisses Aziraphale as though he meant what he said before, that he wants to devour every bit of him, thumbs dipping down to the inward curves of his cheeks to help spread him open.
There were a host of things that Aziraphale was expecting to happen, but what did happen was not a single one. He could say with extreme certainty that he had entertained this thought with zero of his lovers, Crowley having been one of their company until a second ago. Yet, he can't imagine why, as he feels his eyes flutter shut and a groan that he hardly realizes is his own voice. Crowley with his pretty tongue and his pretty mouth seem to be made for this, and Aziraphale drops to his elbows for the extra support, head in the crook of his arm and arse lifted high for Crowley, though an errant thought crosses his mind that if he's like this with Crowley's mouth, how could he possibly last for his cock?
As his tongue laps and prods at Aziraphale, he can hardly form a coherent thought; if there was one, it would definitely be astonishment at how in the world Crowley manages to do that, but he's sure the point gets across somewhere between his strangled moans and gasps of broken syllables meant to be Crowley's name. This is-- obscene, and sinful, and yet he craves it, aches for it, blushes deep red just at the idea of Crowley having thought of it. While they were laying together at night? While he was getting dressed in the morning putting on those tight, fashionable breeches? When?
He wonders what other things are in store for him, his own fantasies seeming boring and vanilla in comparison. He had, of course, imagined many variations of taking Crowley's hips and slotting his own in between; Crowley was usually on his back in various states of dress, body always contorted with pleasure, love on his face. They could get to that last, if that's what Crowley wanted. They could exhaust through all of Crowley's hidden desires first, Aziraphale decides.
If he’s made for anything, surely it’s for this—to bring Aziraphale pleasure, to lathe him with kisses and caresses and offer up any part of himself that would please him, as though it was the very reason he was created. Since their engagement, since they confessed their love to one another, this is what Crowley has been thinking in the deepest recesses of his soul, imagining himself not as a demon or a tempter but as Aziraphale’s wife, so beloved and desired that he needs no other role. It’s a fantasy in itself, it can’t last longer than the few decades their mortal characters will be expected to live, but surely there’s no harm in imagining it—living it, however temporarily, unreserved and wholehearted. His mouth communicates his love for Aziraphale in the most ardent, obscene ways, with long lingering sucks and his tongue pushing deep inside him, nose flush with his skin and his hands gripping him tightly, possessively, keeping him spread apart. The sounds Aziraphale makes go straight into him, into his aching cock which wants to be buried inside him, the throb of pure raw lust in his veins. Gasps muted against the crook of his elbow, obscene moans and broken-off attempts at Crowley’s name—all so lovely he can hardly stand it, yet he doesn’t stop, taking him voraciously with his mouth and hungry for every reaction he can provoke.
At last he draws off when the urgent need to be inside Aziraphale feels as though it will drown him. Crowley rises up on his knees, feverishly gripping Aziraphale’s waist and leaning down over him to drag his mouth up his spine, hips slotting against him from behind. “Please—please, angel,” he whispers between his own gasps, asking him—pleading for him—as he lines up his cock, miracling ample slickness for them though he’s made Aziraphale so wet already with his mouth.
Flush against Aziraphale’s back, bent down so that he can kiss the nape of his neck while he pushes himself inside him, Crowley snakes an arm around his waist and guides his cock in and doesn’t stop until his sharp hips are pressed against the sweet rounded curve of Aziraphale’s backside, his cock buried in him to the hilt. “Oh—Aziraphale—“ Crowley gasps his name as though awestruck, helplessly urging himself forward, thrusting into him with shallow jerks of his hips. It’s so good, he’s so wonderfully tight and hot, so perfect to fuck into.
Being worked open on Crowley's tongue, Aziraphale thinks, will surely kill him, albeit slowly and with his last moments on earth delirious with pleasure. With Crowley's nose and his hands all pressed on his skin like he wishes to become one with him; it's such a delicious thought: letting Crowley devour him whole, experiencing as their bodies meld into one. And when his warmth leaves Aziraphale even for a second, he looks back in complaint, in part anguish, until Crowley's hands are again rested on his waist and his kisses like tickles up his spine, follows the path where his wings might do the same. "Yes," he answers, feeling Crowley behind him. "Yes," he hisses.
His mouth falls open as Crowley first breaches him, lighting up all the synapses in his body, feeling like it might be too much too fast. His hand contracts into the sheets and he holds in gasped breath as he feels every single inch push into him, dilating him as his eyes are: an edge-thin ring of blue around black, a pale sliver of aching flesh around where Crowley fills him body and spirit. He cries out in shock at the sensation, and that gives way to babbles of gasps and moans as Crowley begins to move.
"Crowley--" he moans, head to the side as if trying to witness this but seeing only the sight of his thighs being pushed forward again and again, his own cock slapping against him, Crowley's arm supportively around his waist and hand to hold him steady. He lifts one of his hands from the bed, resting his weight on one shoulder, and covers Crowley's hand with it, lacing their fingers together over the round of his tummy. He grasps it tight and pushes his hips back in rhythm, making each thrust feel deeper, feel harder. "Fuck," he whines, and tries to find his words. "Me. Fuck me."
Inarticulate sounds push from his throat, moans and gasps smothered against Aziraphale's back where Crowley buries his face, just between the places where his feathers would join to flesh if his wings were out. His need for Aziraphale is incomprehensibly vast, wound into every part of his being until he can hardly separate himself from it; he didn't know, all these years, all these millennia, how his soul was incomplete, how it needed Aziraphale's love to fill the cracks and splinters, he couldn't let himself know it or the longing for him would have been too much to bear. He couldn't admit it to himself before now, stunned by the perfection of being within Aziraphale, feeling the tender boundaries of flesh and spirit and aching so badly for more. He fucks into Aziraphale as if it's the last thing he'll ever do, pushing into him over and over with Aziraphale's hand clasping Crowley's where he holds him around the waist, and he moves both of their hands so that it presses over the racing thunder of the angel's heart.
"Aziraphale, fuck." He gasps the words, desperation and raw desire laced into every utterance of the angel's name. Crowley fucks him the way he wants, the way he asks for--deeper, faster, hips snapping against his arse, mouth trailing biting kisses up to the nape of his neck. It feels imperative to drive himself as deep as he can, to indulge in all this dizzying pleasure--the tight heat around his cock, the taste of Aziraphale's skin and sweat beneath his tongue--as though it will be the only time, though Crowley knows it won't be. In his heart and soul he defies God or Satan or anyone else to come between them, to try to take this love from him. Never, they never will, no love as searing as this could ever fade; it's scorched him and he'll bear the marks of it happily for the rest of his long existence.
Aziraphale feels like all the answers in the universe are in his reach when Crowley fucks into him, hard and fast like a tempest, and his hips falter out of rhythm until he can only be held down and ride this out and let Crowley take them both exactly where he knows. His back is bowed over in worship, Crowley's name and moans on his tongue in alternating lashes, eyes clamped shut, body tight and begging for release. He has never, with another lover, felt so full or so enveloped, as if he might split in two with every thrust Crowley takes, as if Crowley's wings are, in spirit, curled around him protectively with his hand over his heart. He has never felt a love like this and he is lucky to know it, to possess it, to let it wash over him like sunlight after a long night.
And he loves, in return, endlessly, wholeheartedly and then some. He would take a loan, beg and borrow, from the world or God Herself to be able to give something to Crowley, a modicum of what Aziraphale wishes he could offer him. A life so complete, so full, that he would never have to opine again to God, to wonder why She had abandoned him. No, Aziraphale wishes to bestow on Crowley a life where his love was all-encompassing, to let Crowley sate his every need on it. And Aziraphale would provide him anything he needed to be happy, to be fulfilled. Let that be enough.
Nothing that he moans could be possibly mistaken for English, guttural in nature, muffled into the silken bed sheets in front of them now stained with the sweat of their union. And entirely not of his doing but in his moment of torrential emotion, his wings tumble out of his back like they could no longer be contained, springing forth, unfurling. Heavy in boughs they hang over the sides of the mattress, the longest of his primaries drawn back and brushing against Crowley's legs.
With an urgency coursing through his body Crowley ruts into Aziraphale, choking out sounds at the nape of his neck, gasps and utterances of the angel's name that are something close to reverence; or he falls silent to listen to Aziraphale say his name in return, heart and soul filled by it, rubbing his face at his shoulder or leaving tender bites and kisses scattered across his skin. He's captivated utterly, never was there a demon like him who promised himself to an angel body and soul, who promises it over and over again with every thrust of his cock and every press of his mouth, fucking Aziraphale as though it is an act of worship. No one else has ever given him such pleasure, no intimacy was ever this longed-for: giving into lust before now was pleasant at best, nothing like the searing imprint this act leaves on his heart and soul.
Crowley draws back when Aziraphale's wings burst into physical being, wide-eyed as he looks at them tumbling from his naked back, vast and beautiful. The smoothness of the feathers against one another, their soft radiance is partly his own work, grooming these wings nearly every evening since their engagement. At the moment, though, Crowley's thoughts are not on putting them in order; he reaches for them, fingers delving into the feathers, bends down to bury his face in their radiance and leave urgent kisses.
Then he straightens up on his knees behind Aziraphale, one hand holding a wing and the other gripping his hip, thrusting deep into his tight arse, moaning out his pleasure in guttural sounds. He's so close, yearning to fill his angel with every essential part of him, gasping out, "Aziraphale, angel, please--let me--"
He buries himself to the hilt when he comes, crying out in a raw, stunned voice. The pleasure is so immense it could drown him, and he loosens his grasp and sags down over Aziraphale again, reaching for his cock to work his fingers over him, aching to feel him come with Crowley still inside him.
Aziraphale can feel the promise in Crowley's kiss, in his movements, giving himself over not to good and not to godliness but only to him, and he responds in kind yes and again yes, and he will leave Crowley wanting for nothing. They will have paradise here, for a scant many years against the length of their lifespan but enough for a human and enough for the two of them, he thinks. One human lifespan amongst a thousand of them, perfect and happy in every way, the rest of them after spent longing for that brief time they were allowed to live freely. Let them steal as much time as possible while they have it, Aziraphale thinks, as he spends a miracle to extend Crowley's pleasure as he comes: five seconds become ten, ten to fifteen before Aziraphale lets him be spent of it. Let Gabriel read that on his transcript.
And then all the attention is on his own orgasm as they both give it chase. He doesn't last long, not with Crowley still buried deeply within him, not with all his love laid out bare, and with a great cry and shuddering that wracks through his entire body he comes, wave of pleasure crashing over his cliffs, spilling hot all over their marriage bed.
When all that is done, he reaches behind him to carefully withdraw Crowley, and to pull him down into an embrace, eyes filled with awe and wonder before he buries his face into Crowley's chest and he plants kisses there, many and reverent.
The peak of his pleasure draws out exquisitely, Crowley trembling against Aziraphale's back when at last he comes down from it, close to giving out. Not yet, though, not without Aziraphale, his release in Crowley's very own hands, and he feels a wave of tenderness and unabashed love that floods him when Aziraphale comes, shivering and crying out beneath him. It's as though the angel's pleasure, too, echoes within him, the intensity of it so sharp and vivid as to be almost torturous, and Crowley kisses Aziraphale's shoulder and buries his face against him, working him through it with inexhaustively clever fingers until at last Aziraphale reaches back to him to draw him out and pull him down into his arms.
Crowley goes easily, pliant and aching for Aziraphale's touch, for his nearness and the reassurance that all is well between them. He exhales shakily as Aziraphale buries his face against his chest, kisses pressed over his heart to make him shiver; he kisses Aziraphale's sweat-dampened hair, tucks his chin against the fluffy pale locks. He can't speak, his heart and soul too full, his eyes closed as he struggles to assimilate it all--the intimacy of marriage, of making love to his husband, all of it so much more than he had known to expect. Several thousand years of watching humans, their various alliances and engagements and affairs, could not have prepared him for this: for how it would feel like joining their very souls together, filling an emptiness he had not let himself know was there.
At last Crowley manages words, his voice catching as he speaks. "Are you--are you all right, Aziraphale? I didn't hurt you?" he adds, a sudden twist of anxiety in his chest.
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"It is absolutely too far," Crowley disagrees, words breathed hotly at Aziraphale's cheek as he explores the line of his jaw with nuzzles and kisses. "Too many stairs--bloody long hallways--" He breaks away when Aziraphale offers to carry him, meeting his gaze, flooded with sudden relief and gratitude. "Oh, would you?"
It's not as though he can't walk on his own, his feet aren't that badly burned. But they are feeling awfully tender, especially after the dancing, nothing that a day or two of lazing around in bed couldn't fix.
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Eventually, they make it to his bed chambers -- their bed chambers, and he practically kicks the door open to deposit him on the nearest couch, carefully, before going to fuss with the lock and the lights. Blast it, forget the lights, he lets his halo show up to illuminate the room instead, and he digs in his drawers for a little jar that he takes out and brings with him when he kneels at Crowley's feet.
"My darling, my love," he says into the open air as he is sat between his legs. He lifts the skirt to take one, slips it out of the heel and undoes the tie on the stocking, rolling it gently down Crowley's foot. He uncaps the jar to reveal a salve for burns, which he generously spreads on his fingers and smooths over Crowley's sole. "I never want you to be harmed on my behalf, do you understand?"
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Though he has to close his eyes briefly when Aziraphale calls him those names, they're like a fire blazing in him, drawing all the yearning from his heart. His head tilts back to the cushion, a little moan comes from his throat as Aziraphale begins to spread the salve on the sole of one foot. "That's--ahh, that's good, angel."
Crowley thinks, he would walk through a thousand cathedrals for Aziraphale, over a thousand miles of consecrated ground. For his love, for his happiness, he's beginning to think there is very little he wouldn't do. "It's only a little bit of burns. Had to be done, you know that."
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"Better?" he asks, pressing a kiss to Crowley's shin before returning his foot to him. He considers getting back on the couch so he can properly kiss Crowley, but as long as he's here and Crowley's skirts are all rucked up, he thinks he'll stay and lift them a little bit more, trailing kisses up to his knee. Any further would be a little scandalous, he thinks, even for a wedding night where he hadn't unlaced his bride's gown and even seen her in her camicia first, nor took down her hair.
Indecent, he is, because he'd rather just disappear up Crowley's skirts.
No one needed to know that Aziraphale had already imagined some very indecent things for them to be doing as husband and wife, but didn't think that he had nearly as many fantasies as his innocent 'virgin' bride. It's not like he consulted with Crowley, but he supposes now is as good a time as any, even if he's not feeling up to it due to his poor feet. He could always stow the information away for a little later. "Crowley," he asks, kissing the inside of his knee, which he has to move to the side a little bit in order to fit his face in. "What would you like?"
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Yes, he's had fantasies, had plenty of time, it feels to him--however short their engagement--to think and dream of and ache for this night and the others that will follow it, to imagine making love to Aziraphale in every way possible. But he hesitates when Aziraphale asks what he'd like--as much as he aches for him, as many things as he wants, and despite the fact that he is indeed no virgin, Crowley is perhaps a little, tiny bit afraid, too: what if he taints Aziraphale in some way? What if he makes him Fall?
Even so, he moves his knees apart invitingly, his palm settling against Aziraphale's cheek when he kisses the inside of his knee. It can't be that great a risk, can it? Not now when they're already married, bound in blessed union. Why, it can't even properly be called fornication anymore. "Angel--is it all right if I'm me, right now?" Crowley's teeth drag across his lower lip. He could be the sweet, innocent princess to be spoiled and indulged, he'd quite enjoy being her in their bed sometime, actually, but not now. Not when it's their first night together.
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But Aziraphale married Crowley, the demon, the long-limbed serpent of Eden with gleaming golden eyes that he always hid behind dark glasses, with sharp tongue and recalcitrant spirit. That is who Aziraphale married
He lays kisses on Crowley's neck as he slips the sleeves off and then helps him undo his giornea, moving to lay them properly flat on a table somewhere before returning to do something about his gamurra. Really, there were just so many pieces involved in women's clothing. He imagines Crowley, so excited to be laced into his skirts this morning, ready to meet him at the church, and his heart swells in his chest with pride.
With nimble and eager fingers undoing the strings of his gamurra, it's properly loose in no time at all, and Aziraphale arcs an arm around his waist to hold Crowley against him for a second before going around again to thread the dress off of his arms.
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An angel who is now tenderly undressing him, with kisses at his neck and an arm embracing him from behind once he has his gamurra unlaced, the bodice of the garment sliding down his arms as Crowley briefly lays his hand over Aziraphale's and turns his head to brush his jaw with his mouth. With Aziraphale's help he slides his arms from the sleeves, and then Crowley simply can't be still anymore, turning around on the couch and cupping Aziraphale's face in his hands and kissing his mouth fervently, as though Aziraphale is the sweetest wine he's tasted all night. He's so wonderful that Crowley hardly knows what to do, the blaze of contentment within him still an unfamiliar feeling, underscored by urgent wants.
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In nothing but a light camicia, made of linen and embroidered with the finest imported silk and gold threads, Crowley is just himself. And though his undergarments are finely made, clearly having been done so with the intention that Aziraphale the groom would be the only one to lay eyes on them, to tantalize him with such a great effort to be made on his part, he doesn't care. No, he would've loved Crowley just as much had he been presented as in those light Mesopotamian robes barely held together by stitches, or in his mourning clothes. With or without the ridiculous gold circlet laurel he wore trying to impress Caligula the one time.
And yet, he hesitates to take off the rest - he hasn't seen the rest, yet, not in this context, anyway. And it had been several thousand years he thinks, since the last time, and he had hardly had any lewd intentions. No, this was not a first for either of them, but for both of them together it made for something special. And Aziraphale wants every moment to be right, if not forever then at least for the first time he might make love to Crowley.
He slides a hand up his leg, slowly, the cloth moving to reveal more and more skin as his hand gets further. Yet, he isn't even looking: eyes locked with Crowley's, his gaze is full of love, of fascination.
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He looks back at Aziraphale with vivid, impassioned eyes, his slit pupils gone wide with wanting, seeing all that love and fascination reflected back at him. Licks his lower lip again, swollen now from their kisses, as Aziraphale's hand rucks up the hem of his camica, revealing the long and slender, wiry contours of his thighs, gaze falling between them to where Aziraphale's cock will be beneath the layers of his own clothing. Crowley's is aching already, the brush of the fine linen almost chafing, but his eyes meet Aziraphale's again, unable to tear away for long from the love he can see in their depths.
Traditionally this is done in a bed, but of course there's little about their union which could be called traditional, even if it was all done quite by the book. And it's not far, should they wish to move there, but for the moment Crowley kisses Aziraphale again, drags at him with strong fingers buried in his fine clothes, pulls the angel down over his body as he sprawls back against the couch cushions with his bare thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips. He lifts up a little, arching into the press of Aziraphale's hips against his, and his breath catches at the jolt of pleasure it gives him.
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He was a fool for believing he could've ever just tried to fall out of love, to think that the worst thing in the world was to love and not be loved in return; in fact, it would have been much worse not to let Crowley know how deeply loved he was, how adored. It was humbling just knowing that Crowley felt the same, and felt like a gift and honor laureled onto his crown and sitting atop his halo.
Aziraphale does wrap his arms around Crowley's waist, and makes to stand up, drawing Crowley's legs over his own middle, and carrying him into the next chamber this way, clumsily stumbling around his furniture and nipping little kisses at his jaw and his neck and whatever bit of flesh happened to be where his mouth landed. Eventually, he does get them to the bed, taking a seat at the edge to return them to how they were a second ago. He did say he'd carry Crowley around due to his feet; he wouldn't begrudge being his personal chariot for the next few days.
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His fingers find laces and fastenings, deftly undoing Aziraphale's own wedding garments at last and stripping them from his person as they kiss. A miracle or two along the way helps speed the work; Crowley wants to taste, touch, to learn the contours of Aziraphale's body as he knows his own. His creamy skin, his chest with its dusting of pale hair, his comfortably soft middle, the thick thighs which Crowley now straddles--all of him fascinating, a contrast of shape to his own lean form, so beautiful and wanted.
He makes a strangled sound that is pure lust, head dropping to Aziraphale's shoulder, mouth and teeth dragging frantically across his collar. And now Crowley is pushing against him to have Aziraphale lie back, crawling over him instead, ravenous for him. "Let me--angel, let me touch you."
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Gladly, he lies back, giving himself a better view of Crowley and his gorgeous long lines like rivers that stretch on past the horizon. He looks absolutely perfect, statuesque in every way. Paint him alabaster and put him in the courtyard at Florence and he would be among the others; no one would be any the wiser. "Touch me," he breathes out, wanting nothing more than to touch and be touched in return. He runs his hands over biceps as if smoothing them out from clay, curling up his back, pulling him down towards him for a kiss.
Somehow, it's more heated than before, because there's no cloth in between them, just skin on skin. It's so intimate, like no intimacy that Aziraphale has known prior to this; he feels as vulnerable as he would if he were cut open, but somehow he feels safe. One of his hands has migrated to Crowley's chest, and he places a palm and fingers fanned over his beating heart. "I love you," he whispers, though it mostly gets swallowed up by Crowley's mouth. "I love you," he tries a second time.
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With a strangled groan, Crowley takes again to Aziraphale's collar with his mouth, his teeth nipping little bruises and his tongue soothing them, moving down his chest with dragging kisses and caresses of his fingers that want to possess and learn every inch of his angel. His hands stroke along Aziraphale's sides to his waist and his mouth explores his chest wantonly, Crowley nuzzling into the soft curls that are almost gold. Slithers down his stomach, kissing along the way, his fingers reaching Aziraphale's cock before his mouth does. His palm smooths gently up the hot shaft, bringing it up against his belly, and Crowley leans down to taste the fluid pearled at the tip, taking the head of his cock into his mouth to softly suck. His hand lifts and cradles his balls, too, kneading them tenderly as he acquaints himself with the taste of Aziraphale's cock with a mouth that's delicate and teasing, a tongue that plays clever patterns as he moans around him, soft and savoring.
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But as eager as Crowley is and as naturally as Aziraphale's own body responds, he can't think now why he was feeling at all jittery. He moans as Crowley takes the grand tour down his front ending at his cock, but gasps and claps a hand over his mouth when Crowley takes him between his lips, the other one flying into Crowley's hair. He strains to keep himself from bucking upwards; the sensation is so strong, soft tongue and pliant lips on the most sensitive of skin being almost too much, and yet all he can think of is wanting more, wanting all of him. He fights to keep steady and his body shakes and shudders with the effort; he can hardly believe this is real and not one of the hundred dreams he'd had leading up to this. But even in a hundred dreams, Crowley could never match up to himself, could never be half as sweet as he is here. Aziraphale calls for him, the name slipping past his gated fingers, sounding like a prayer in their now-shared chamber.
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Drawing off him with an indecently wet sound, Crowley lets his mouth drag down to his balls and his tongue curl around them, kisses the insides of his thighs, nips at soft skin and catches it in his mouth to suck tender little bruises. Laying his head on one of Aziraphale’s thighs, he looks up at him with eyes gone hazy with lust. “I want to devour you. Every bit of you.” How could he want anything less, when Aziraphale offers so much? His husband, Crowley thinks again and again, savoring the sound of it, the weight of it in his heart. He says it aloud, murmurs, “Husband,” with all the aching love inside him. “Turn to your knees,” he adds softly, nuzzling again at the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh. “Please?”
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"Wife, dear," he says, voice riding on breathlessness, before he shifts and finds himself on his hands and knees, round of his arse facing Crowley. He possesses, of course, a perfectly milky complexion, and nearly invisible white-blond hairs, looking now more like one of the angels found in all of those paintings found decorating churches. He looks quite the picture of the ones that surrounded their nuptials earlier in the day, lounging around on the grand ceiling and giving their blessings. "You know, I feel like this is usually done the other way around, but that's not a complaint." He spreads his knees and anticipates that Crowley should stand up and slot himself behind and split him on his cock. Licking his lips and biting back a mischievous grin that, with his blushing red cheeks, makes him look indeed the part of a cherub, he wiggles his hips in a manner he hopes is enticing.
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He lathes it with his tongue, with lingering, sucking kisses, softly coaxing Aziraphale's body to open for him until he can push his tongue inside, and if there was any doubt that Crowley's tongue can do obscenely talented things there soon won't be. He kisses Aziraphale as though he meant what he said before, that he wants to devour every bit of him, thumbs dipping down to the inward curves of his cheeks to help spread him open.
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As his tongue laps and prods at Aziraphale, he can hardly form a coherent thought; if there was one, it would definitely be astonishment at how in the world Crowley manages to do that, but he's sure the point gets across somewhere between his strangled moans and gasps of broken syllables meant to be Crowley's name. This is-- obscene, and sinful, and yet he craves it, aches for it, blushes deep red just at the idea of Crowley having thought of it. While they were laying together at night? While he was getting dressed in the morning putting on those tight, fashionable breeches? When?
He wonders what other things are in store for him, his own fantasies seeming boring and vanilla in comparison. He had, of course, imagined many variations of taking Crowley's hips and slotting his own in between; Crowley was usually on his back in various states of dress, body always contorted with pleasure, love on his face. They could get to that last, if that's what Crowley wanted. They could exhaust through all of Crowley's hidden desires first, Aziraphale decides.
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At last he draws off when the urgent need to be inside Aziraphale feels as though it will drown him. Crowley rises up on his knees, feverishly gripping Aziraphale’s waist and leaning down over him to drag his mouth up his spine, hips slotting against him from behind. “Please—please, angel,” he whispers between his own gasps, asking him—pleading for him—as he lines up his cock, miracling ample slickness for them though he’s made Aziraphale so wet already with his mouth.
Flush against Aziraphale’s back, bent down so that he can kiss the nape of his neck while he pushes himself inside him, Crowley snakes an arm around his waist and guides his cock in and doesn’t stop until his sharp hips are pressed against the sweet rounded curve of Aziraphale’s backside, his cock buried in him to the hilt. “Oh—Aziraphale—“ Crowley gasps his name as though awestruck, helplessly urging himself forward, thrusting into him with shallow jerks of his hips. It’s so good, he’s so wonderfully tight and hot, so perfect to fuck into.
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His mouth falls open as Crowley first breaches him, lighting up all the synapses in his body, feeling like it might be too much too fast. His hand contracts into the sheets and he holds in gasped breath as he feels every single inch push into him, dilating him as his eyes are: an edge-thin ring of blue around black, a pale sliver of aching flesh around where Crowley fills him body and spirit. He cries out in shock at the sensation, and that gives way to babbles of gasps and moans as Crowley begins to move.
"Crowley--" he moans, head to the side as if trying to witness this but seeing only the sight of his thighs being pushed forward again and again, his own cock slapping against him, Crowley's arm supportively around his waist and hand to hold him steady. He lifts one of his hands from the bed, resting his weight on one shoulder, and covers Crowley's hand with it, lacing their fingers together over the round of his tummy. He grasps it tight and pushes his hips back in rhythm, making each thrust feel deeper, feel harder. "Fuck," he whines, and tries to find his words. "Me. Fuck me."
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"Aziraphale, fuck." He gasps the words, desperation and raw desire laced into every utterance of the angel's name. Crowley fucks him the way he wants, the way he asks for--deeper, faster, hips snapping against his arse, mouth trailing biting kisses up to the nape of his neck. It feels imperative to drive himself as deep as he can, to indulge in all this dizzying pleasure--the tight heat around his cock, the taste of Aziraphale's skin and sweat beneath his tongue--as though it will be the only time, though Crowley knows it won't be. In his heart and soul he defies God or Satan or anyone else to come between them, to try to take this love from him. Never, they never will, no love as searing as this could ever fade; it's scorched him and he'll bear the marks of it happily for the rest of his long existence.
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And he loves, in return, endlessly, wholeheartedly and then some. He would take a loan, beg and borrow, from the world or God Herself to be able to give something to Crowley, a modicum of what Aziraphale wishes he could offer him. A life so complete, so full, that he would never have to opine again to God, to wonder why She had abandoned him. No, Aziraphale wishes to bestow on Crowley a life where his love was all-encompassing, to let Crowley sate his every need on it. And Aziraphale would provide him anything he needed to be happy, to be fulfilled. Let that be enough.
Nothing that he moans could be possibly mistaken for English, guttural in nature, muffled into the silken bed sheets in front of them now stained with the sweat of their union. And entirely not of his doing but in his moment of torrential emotion, his wings tumble out of his back like they could no longer be contained, springing forth, unfurling. Heavy in boughs they hang over the sides of the mattress, the longest of his primaries drawn back and brushing against Crowley's legs.
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Crowley draws back when Aziraphale's wings burst into physical being, wide-eyed as he looks at them tumbling from his naked back, vast and beautiful. The smoothness of the feathers against one another, their soft radiance is partly his own work, grooming these wings nearly every evening since their engagement. At the moment, though, Crowley's thoughts are not on putting them in order; he reaches for them, fingers delving into the feathers, bends down to bury his face in their radiance and leave urgent kisses.
Then he straightens up on his knees behind Aziraphale, one hand holding a wing and the other gripping his hip, thrusting deep into his tight arse, moaning out his pleasure in guttural sounds. He's so close, yearning to fill his angel with every essential part of him, gasping out, "Aziraphale, angel, please--let me--"
He buries himself to the hilt when he comes, crying out in a raw, stunned voice. The pleasure is so immense it could drown him, and he loosens his grasp and sags down over Aziraphale again, reaching for his cock to work his fingers over him, aching to feel him come with Crowley still inside him.
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And then all the attention is on his own orgasm as they both give it chase. He doesn't last long, not with Crowley still buried deeply within him, not with all his love laid out bare, and with a great cry and shuddering that wracks through his entire body he comes, wave of pleasure crashing over his cliffs, spilling hot all over their marriage bed.
When all that is done, he reaches behind him to carefully withdraw Crowley, and to pull him down into an embrace, eyes filled with awe and wonder before he buries his face into Crowley's chest and he plants kisses there, many and reverent.
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Crowley goes easily, pliant and aching for Aziraphale's touch, for his nearness and the reassurance that all is well between them. He exhales shakily as Aziraphale buries his face against his chest, kisses pressed over his heart to make him shiver; he kisses Aziraphale's sweat-dampened hair, tucks his chin against the fluffy pale locks. He can't speak, his heart and soul too full, his eyes closed as he struggles to assimilate it all--the intimacy of marriage, of making love to his husband, all of it so much more than he had known to expect. Several thousand years of watching humans, their various alliances and engagements and affairs, could not have prepared him for this: for how it would feel like joining their very souls together, filling an emptiness he had not let himself know was there.
At last Crowley manages words, his voice catching as he speaks. "Are you--are you all right, Aziraphale? I didn't hurt you?" he adds, a sudden twist of anxiety in his chest.
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fudging the dates a bit
works for me!
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