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.
Aziraphale feels as if the whole world has just been shaking under his feet. He feels rocked, swayed, the sort of vertigo one feels from having spent a day in the ocean or riding roller coasters. He feels entirely taken by the sensation, and so he tilts his head to the side and knits his brow when Crowley asks him that question. "What? No, Crowley. Of course not. That was..." He gives Crowley a lopsided smile. "Amazing." And he's so genuinely happy, that it might bleed through on his aura.
He tucks his head against Crowley once more and places arms around him. "Simply amazing, and I daresay I wouldn't be opposed to doing this every night," he adds, linking his fingers into Crowley's fingers and smiling against his collar. It's a wicked and wiry thing, Aziraphale feeling bold in the wake of their lovemaking, strengthened by the love he can feel from Crowley. He thinks Crowley might be able to feel sin the way he feels pure emotions, and he replays the last several moments in his mind - if he wasn't before, he certainly is projecting lust now. He licks his lips and then Crowley's collarbone, taking a soft bit of flesh of his chest into his mouth and gently sucking on it for a turn.
"And you?" he asks, looking up at Crowley from this angle, getting not so much a grand view as a very heady, strong scent of him being so close to his core, wrapped around by him. "Did you enjoy yourself, dearest wife of mine?"
A long breath escapes him, with it a last bit of tension, leaving Crowley nearly boneless in his sprawl over their bed with Aziraphale in his arms. It's impossible not to believe him, not when he can sense such satisfaction and desire surrounding the angel--lust, indeed, is easy for Crowley to pick up on, but he's been attuned to Aziraphale's aura for a long time as well, able to sense his emotions when they are strong enough. Love, in particular, the love he'd always thought was for all the world, never just for him--Crowley would not have dared to think it was just for him, up until a month or so ago.
This Aziraphale who is bold and teasing and so very satisfied, who assures him that it was amazing, that he'd be pleased to do it again, is an intriguing side of the angel he hasn't seen before. Crowley's breath catches when he bites and sucks at his collarbone, his eyes close and his fingers stroke fervently into Aziraphale's hair, taking a grip in the soft curls. "I--yeah," he answers a little breathlessly, a jolt of pleasure going through him when Aziraphale calls him wife. "'Course I did. It was--"
Amazing is one word. Crowley hardly knows how to describe the way it feels as though it changed the alchemy of his soul--he doesn't try, instead tipping Aziraphale's chin up so that he can kiss him. To an angel, his own love will be as obvious and unmistakable as the dawn, surrounding them both like wings.
The kiss is wine-sweet and seems to have a similar effect, leaving Aziraphale feeling quite dizzy with a light flush on his cheek. He loves Crowley so much in this moment that, had he not been able to marry him just earlier today, it would have felt so unbearable right now. It's still a little unbelievable, that he should be so fortunate, that they should have found one another - well, no, that Crowley should have crawled up to him in the garden, and spoken to him; that they would have become friends against all odds; that they would both fall in love without telling the other; that they would be here on assignment and being forced to marry; and that both had desired this, had wanted a short engagement just to be able to borrow as much time as allowed them.
"I love you," he says, overcome by the need to do so. "And I want to do this, again, when all of this is over," he continues. "Marry you again, someday. Spend the whole rest of my life with you, if I could." In a way, they'd already begun doing so, seeing each other as often as possible for two would-be enemies placed at opposing sides of the Earth, defying the law set down by Heaven and Hell just for the sake of their friendship. But being on Earth has taught him greed, and hunger, and want. It's a good thing he doesn't need to sleep, because he doubts he will be able to do so without Crowley by his side. But there is very little he'd want to do alone, anymore, not when he knows the alternative.
"This will ruin us," he confesses, but he doesn't sound all that bothered by it. Come what may, this is what his heart desires. How could he tell it that it's wrong?
Crowley listens to all the things Aziraphale tells him he wants, and within him is his own amazement that they should have all they do now: a lifetime with one another, even if it's only within the too-short span of mortal years, shared in the most intimate way humans have ever invented. He doesn't know whether it's in defiance of God or thanks to Her; he doesn't know which way to feel. Outside of his love for Aziraphale, little else seems to matter at this moment. "Me too," he says low and passionately, kissing Aziraphale again. "I want that too." Will they be granted it, will God or Heaven or Hell give them that chance, to be wedded to one another for all eternity? Or will this be all, these few decades to live as husband and wife, in a happiness as complete as Crowley can imagine, only to have it taken from them at the end?
He doesn't want to think of it, not yet; there will be other times to imagine and envision and worry over the future. Crowley rolls on top of Aziraphale and kisses him with a wanton mouth, because the angel is like the sweetest wine he's ever tasted, he can't get enough. "I'm meant to be the ruined one," he murmurs at his lips. "Possessed by you. Good for no one else." He shifts to rest against him, a hand coming up to caress over Aziraphale's chest, fingertips following the line of his collarbone. "That please you? That I'm yours alone?"
It pleases him, thinking of it. Whatever lovers they've had in the past, they belong to one another now.
Aziraphale melts into their kisses, his hand finding Crowley's, their lips moving against each other in a perfect harmony; it moves him as all good music does, but his eyes search Crowley's face as he considers those words, the trajectory they're both on. It's heady and dangerous. Finally, he says, "Yes, yes it does." And with his voice soft, he confesses, "And I want you to always be happy." He runs a hand along Crowley's cheek, brushing his hair back. "I gave you vows I intend to keep for longer than I will be allowed; I will do all that I can to fulfill them to you, this I promise."
He takes up Crowley's hands in his and kisses his knuckles, trying to will those promises into reality like he wills everything else. He would bend Heaven and Hell if he could, if it meant they could be as this for eternity. He has felt this love and knows that it is true, truer than any he's ever felt. They will both live and die on its sword, he knows. They have both understood the real possibility.
Aziraphale will mourn them when the time comes, he thinks. But now is a joyous occasion, even if he fears they might've both signed away their lives to this. And yet, if Aziraphale can feel any hellfire licking at his feet, at the moment, it only feels as if Crowley's warmth is brushing up against it. And he might, as a result, jump headfirst into its waiting embrace.
"Mmm, good," he murmurs, low and sweet, stealing another kiss. Crowley aches to please him, to make Aziraphale happy in every way a wife can just as the angel desires his happiness in return, vowing always, vowing to love him far beyond the length of this marriage, his lips pressing to his knuckles as though to seal the promise. Crowley gently unfolds his hand and strokes Aziraphale's cheek and lips, touched by it, Aziraphale's resolution bringing into him an unfamiliar tenderness. Crowley's used to moments of happiness being short and sweet and fleeting--life has been like that, with its moments of ups and downs and the awareness that no state of being lasts forever. He adapts himself along with the changeable nature of the universe, navigating the rapid transformations each century brings with the knowledge that the one constant is that something new and interesting is always just around the corner.
He hasn't looked for forever before now. Though he vowed the same in the church: to love and cherish, to have and hold, until death parts them. The humans who witnessed their vows have no idea that discorporation is a far less permanent event for them, that true death is something an angel and a demon are unlikely to become acquainted with for long, a very long time, a length of time beyond any mortal imagination--barring any terrible accidents or murder, of course. So, then, have they not promised themselves to one another far beyond the span of years their human disguises would live? Has not God Herself witnessed it?
"After all this," Crowley says, caressing Aziraphale's lips, meaning the princess and the prince, this kingdom, their mortal lifespan, "when it's all done, angel, I'll still be your wife."
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.
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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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He tucks his head against Crowley once more and places arms around him. "Simply amazing, and I daresay I wouldn't be opposed to doing this every night," he adds, linking his fingers into Crowley's fingers and smiling against his collar. It's a wicked and wiry thing, Aziraphale feeling bold in the wake of their lovemaking, strengthened by the love he can feel from Crowley. He thinks Crowley might be able to feel sin the way he feels pure emotions, and he replays the last several moments in his mind - if he wasn't before, he certainly is projecting lust now. He licks his lips and then Crowley's collarbone, taking a soft bit of flesh of his chest into his mouth and gently sucking on it for a turn.
"And you?" he asks, looking up at Crowley from this angle, getting not so much a grand view as a very heady, strong scent of him being so close to his core, wrapped around by him. "Did you enjoy yourself, dearest wife of mine?"
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This Aziraphale who is bold and teasing and so very satisfied, who assures him that it was amazing, that he'd be pleased to do it again, is an intriguing side of the angel he hasn't seen before. Crowley's breath catches when he bites and sucks at his collarbone, his eyes close and his fingers stroke fervently into Aziraphale's hair, taking a grip in the soft curls. "I--yeah," he answers a little breathlessly, a jolt of pleasure going through him when Aziraphale calls him wife. "'Course I did. It was--"
Amazing is one word. Crowley hardly knows how to describe the way it feels as though it changed the alchemy of his soul--he doesn't try, instead tipping Aziraphale's chin up so that he can kiss him. To an angel, his own love will be as obvious and unmistakable as the dawn, surrounding them both like wings.
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"I love you," he says, overcome by the need to do so. "And I want to do this, again, when all of this is over," he continues. "Marry you again, someday. Spend the whole rest of my life with you, if I could." In a way, they'd already begun doing so, seeing each other as often as possible for two would-be enemies placed at opposing sides of the Earth, defying the law set down by Heaven and Hell just for the sake of their friendship. But being on Earth has taught him greed, and hunger, and want. It's a good thing he doesn't need to sleep, because he doubts he will be able to do so without Crowley by his side. But there is very little he'd want to do alone, anymore, not when he knows the alternative.
"This will ruin us," he confesses, but he doesn't sound all that bothered by it. Come what may, this is what his heart desires. How could he tell it that it's wrong?
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He doesn't want to think of it, not yet; there will be other times to imagine and envision and worry over the future. Crowley rolls on top of Aziraphale and kisses him with a wanton mouth, because the angel is like the sweetest wine he's ever tasted, he can't get enough. "I'm meant to be the ruined one," he murmurs at his lips. "Possessed by you. Good for no one else." He shifts to rest against him, a hand coming up to caress over Aziraphale's chest, fingertips following the line of his collarbone. "That please you? That I'm yours alone?"
It pleases him, thinking of it. Whatever lovers they've had in the past, they belong to one another now.
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He takes up Crowley's hands in his and kisses his knuckles, trying to will those promises into reality like he wills everything else. He would bend Heaven and Hell if he could, if it meant they could be as this for eternity. He has felt this love and knows that it is true, truer than any he's ever felt. They will both live and die on its sword, he knows. They have both understood the real possibility.
Aziraphale will mourn them when the time comes, he thinks. But now is a joyous occasion, even if he fears they might've both signed away their lives to this. And yet, if Aziraphale can feel any hellfire licking at his feet, at the moment, it only feels as if Crowley's warmth is brushing up against it. And he might, as a result, jump headfirst into its waiting embrace.
When the time comes.
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He hasn't looked for forever before now. Though he vowed the same in the church: to love and cherish, to have and hold, until death parts them. The humans who witnessed their vows have no idea that discorporation is a far less permanent event for them, that true death is something an angel and a demon are unlikely to become acquainted with for long, a very long time, a length of time beyond any mortal imagination--barring any terrible accidents or murder, of course. So, then, have they not promised themselves to one another far beyond the span of years their human disguises would live? Has not God Herself witnessed it?
"After all this," Crowley says, caressing Aziraphale's lips, meaning the princess and the prince, this kingdom, their mortal lifespan, "when it's all done, angel, I'll still be your wife."
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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