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.
It's a charming vintage, the wine, and so tempting to think of kissing it away from Aziraphale's lips, tasting it on his tongue. Crowley drinks a good bit of it straight off, enjoying its sweetness, and tips some more into his glass. "Mm, poor maidens, suppose they can only hope for a husband who will listen to them. But do you really want me to undersell your qualities, angel?"Â
He's not sure it would be possible to conceal how much he wants his beloved husband, even playing the role of a newly-married girl shy about sharing too many of the details. And of course there are many details that mustn't come to light..he won't be sharing, for example, what an unholy pleasure it was to fuck his sweet angel on his knees, how he blushed scarlet, how he sounded so obscene moaning aloud or trying to gasp Crowley's name as he opened him with his tongue. Or for that matter, how indecently wonderful it felt to be nestled between his thighs, swallowing his cock into his throat. No, Crowley will keep all of that to himself.
Reclining on his elbow, he smooths his fingers over Aziraphale's collar, tracing aimless patterns across his skin. "What'll you say about me, hm? When they ask how your bride was."
"Well. Perhaps if you'd like to tell them that I care about all your desires and keeping you extremely satisfied, that wouldn't go amiss.
"And I hope they won't ask. Very impolite. But of course, I will tell them the truth." Not that much truth, not how he bent over and wiggled his hips to entice his bride, expecting to be filled with her cock but instead she found a detour with her tongue, and goodness she had been talented with it. "That you were wonderful. That they should all be as lucky to have a bride like yourself." He won't go into detail about how lovely she sounds when she comes, how he wishes to stay all day in bed just to please her over and over again.
Though, surely, by the end of the next few days, they won't have any doubt to the truth of the latter. And he does anticipate that he will, in fact, give Crowley enough orgasms to have a nice working catalogue to review, but he certainly will not be sharing it with anyone but Crowley. He runs a hand along the slip and then on Crowley's thigh, sliding slightly up it. "I don't want them prying. I want the whole world to know of my love for you, but I want this to remain between just us two."
"Extremely satisfied, is it?" Crowley traces the line of Aziraphale's clavicle with a fingertip, yellow eyes vividly alight with passion, nearly glowing. "That's a fair assessment, that is. Even more so after a few more times, I'd bet." After all, what are Aziraphale and his bride to do if they are confined to their bed for several days? There is still so much to know and discover. "Poor angel, of course they'll ask." People are rarely polite about matters of the bedroom, even when they pretend to be. He's sure Aziraphale will have it worse than him, with the men around him wanting detail, eager to experience his lovely bride vicariously for themselves. "But I know you're a gentleman," he goes on, smiling, "so I won't worry about the details."
He wouldn't mind very much if Aziraphale were to, say, embellish a little for his interested audience, perhaps spend some time expanding on their knowledge of the princess's assets...as far as sin goes, coveting thy neighbor's wife is one of the big ones. But Crowley knows better than to suggest Aziraphale lead humans into sin for him, outside of the little temptations that are a part of their Arrangement. That wouldn't be fair, and he's never had any desire to ask Aziraphale to do something truly wrong.
That hand on his leg, slipping up under the silk...Crowley stays still while want steals into him again, watching Aziraphale with a catch of his teeth against his lower lip and a gaze that invites more. "Anything you want," he says softly. "All of this is just for us."
"Oh, I do plan on keeping you very satisfied," Aziraphale responds, looking Crowley up and down and licking his lips. He's more beautiful to Aziraphale than he probably thinks he is, though Aziraphale has no doubts that Crowley knows he's good-looking. Gorgeous, even. But after so many years of friendship, societal changes, of love-- he's still the one who draws Aziraphale in like a moth to flame.
He approaches, almost shyly, eyes flickering between Crowley's mouth and his eyes, and pauses right before they kiss. In this split second of a wait, he considers how lucky they both are, to be in love with each other, the only other person who will be around as long as they are, who is confined to this Earth. He thinks about how much of a gift Crowley is, to him, that he should be so charming and funny and yes, caring and good. Deep down under all the layers he builds for himself, he's good. How perfect, he thinks, that Crowley should love him in return, and then presses their mouths together at last.
His kiss is slow and sensual in nature, press of his lips and prod of his tongue passionate but patient, as they have all night, and Aziraphale does like to savor. And he rolls over on top of Crowley, lying himself between his thighs, holding them up against his hips.
No, he doesn't think of himself as Aziraphale does. Beautiful, or caring, or good, all those qualities that demons aren't and ought not to be, aspects that an angel might love. He isn't modest, either--he knows he has looks, he's made a career of temptation, but he remembers that once he walked among the stars and had wings as white and pure as Aziraphale's are...those days are gone, and since then Crowley has never felt truly loved or cherished until now. It's a marvel, the way Aziraphale looks at him as though he'd like to devour him, up and down before he moves closer and then seeming torn between whether he'd most like to gaze into his eyes or look at his mouth. It's a kind of warmth and slow unfurling delight that he wants to bask in, all this loving desire.
At last Aziraphale kisses him, after inching towards him in what seems like agonizingly infinitesimal degrees. Crowley makes a sound that is pure longing, pushing into the kiss, but Aziraphale is so patient, lips soft and sensual against his, that Crowley subsides and allows himself to be pushed to his back while his angel moves over him and settles between his thighs. The weight of him there feels so lovely, so wanted, his thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips and one of his legs catching around his waist, the silk gown rucked up between them.
"Aziraphale." Crowley breathes out his name like a sigh of pleasure, arms winding around his neck, drunk on his kisses more than any wine.
The feeling of Crowley nestled underneath of his body is a glorious one, their hips slotted together like two pieces of a puzzle, aligned like stars in the night sky, and Aziraphale gasps at the contact. He caresses Crowley's cheek and pulls him into another kiss, this one just as slow as the last, just as unhurried. A hand slips up Crowley's sheer gown and lifts it just the slightest. He means to get more of the cloth but is easily distracted by Crowley's arse and hips and sides, slender as is fashionable but with tantalizing curves exactly where Aziraphale wants them.
He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
Kisses as soft and slow and heady as a long summer rain, Aziraphale's hand rucking up the silk along his side, exploring his thin waist and the sharp jut of his hip and the curve of his arse, making Crowley shiver and ache for more. The languid press of their hips, the way Aziraphale rocks leisurely against him as if they have all of eternity for pleasure, is so different to Crowley from the ways he's fucked in the past, almost perfunctorily as though it was something to get over and done with. With Aziraphale he doesn't want anything to be over with, anxious to take and give as much pleasure as there is to be had, to glut on it like the angel enjoying a sumptuous meal, but Aziraphale kisses him so slowly and sweetly that he finds himself clutching at him with fingers that tremble slightly, unsure of what to do other than follow his lead at the pace he's set.
His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
Aziraphale looks up at him as fingers rake through his hair, his tongue flat on Crowley's nipple before he closes his mouth around it and sucks while he pinches the other between two fingers, hand all the way up Crowley's nightgown. In fact, it's barely a nightshirt anymore, pushed all the way upward, exposing him entirely. Yes, laid out as Aziraphale is meant to please and to take pleasure from him, this gorgeous body of his.
His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
It feels so indecent to be spread beneath an angel in such a state of dishabille, mouth and fingers attending to his exposed chest, silk riding all the way up to expose him. Even if Crowley was fucking into that angel not long ago...but then Aziraphale has always had a wicked way about him, capable of being teased out. Tormented pleasure sparks along his nerves, his fingers fitfully raking through Aziraphale's hair as one of the angel's hands seeks out his cock and touches it so finely at first, making him gasp and arch up in demand for more. Aziraphale's passionate kisses making their way down his body have Crowley tense with anticipation when he reaches the juncture of his legs, glancing down and licking his lips briefly before his head falls back as he delicately licks the head of his cock. Oh, it should be sinful, an angel's mouth taking him in, seeming so eager for the taste of him.
"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
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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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He's not sure it would be possible to conceal how much he wants his beloved husband, even playing the role of a newly-married girl shy about sharing too many of the details. And of course there are many details that mustn't come to light..he won't be sharing, for example, what an unholy pleasure it was to fuck his sweet angel on his knees, how he blushed scarlet, how he sounded so obscene moaning aloud or trying to gasp Crowley's name as he opened him with his tongue. Or for that matter, how indecently wonderful it felt to be nestled between his thighs, swallowing his cock into his throat. No, Crowley will keep all of that to himself.
Reclining on his elbow, he smooths his fingers over Aziraphale's collar, tracing aimless patterns across his skin. "What'll you say about me, hm? When they ask how your bride was."
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"And I hope they won't ask. Very impolite. But of course, I will tell them the truth." Not that much truth, not how he bent over and wiggled his hips to entice his bride, expecting to be filled with her cock but instead she found a detour with her tongue, and goodness she had been talented with it. "That you were wonderful. That they should all be as lucky to have a bride like yourself." He won't go into detail about how lovely she sounds when she comes, how he wishes to stay all day in bed just to please her over and over again.
Though, surely, by the end of the next few days, they won't have any doubt to the truth of the latter. And he does anticipate that he will, in fact, give Crowley enough orgasms to have a nice working catalogue to review, but he certainly will not be sharing it with anyone but Crowley. He runs a hand along the slip and then on Crowley's thigh, sliding slightly up it. "I don't want them prying. I want the whole world to know of my love for you, but I want this to remain between just us two."
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He wouldn't mind very much if Aziraphale were to, say, embellish a little for his interested audience, perhaps spend some time expanding on their knowledge of the princess's assets...as far as sin goes, coveting thy neighbor's wife is one of the big ones. But Crowley knows better than to suggest Aziraphale lead humans into sin for him, outside of the little temptations that are a part of their Arrangement. That wouldn't be fair, and he's never had any desire to ask Aziraphale to do something truly wrong.
That hand on his leg, slipping up under the silk...Crowley stays still while want steals into him again, watching Aziraphale with a catch of his teeth against his lower lip and a gaze that invites more. "Anything you want," he says softly. "All of this is just for us."
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He approaches, almost shyly, eyes flickering between Crowley's mouth and his eyes, and pauses right before they kiss. In this split second of a wait, he considers how lucky they both are, to be in love with each other, the only other person who will be around as long as they are, who is confined to this Earth. He thinks about how much of a gift Crowley is, to him, that he should be so charming and funny and yes, caring and good. Deep down under all the layers he builds for himself, he's good. How perfect, he thinks, that Crowley should love him in return, and then presses their mouths together at last.
His kiss is slow and sensual in nature, press of his lips and prod of his tongue passionate but patient, as they have all night, and Aziraphale does like to savor. And he rolls over on top of Crowley, lying himself between his thighs, holding them up against his hips.
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At last Aziraphale kisses him, after inching towards him in what seems like agonizingly infinitesimal degrees. Crowley makes a sound that is pure longing, pushing into the kiss, but Aziraphale is so patient, lips soft and sensual against his, that Crowley subsides and allows himself to be pushed to his back while his angel moves over him and settles between his thighs. The weight of him there feels so lovely, so wanted, his thighs caught around Aziraphale's hips and one of his legs catching around his waist, the silk gown rucked up between them.
"Aziraphale." Crowley breathes out his name like a sigh of pleasure, arms winding around his neck, drunk on his kisses more than any wine.
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He arcs his hips, a relaxed grind, every little bit of friction seeming to spark something in him. He lights up like a match but his body is a smolder, less flickering flame and more tendrils of smoke with leisurely wend. This is how he decides to kiss Crowley, with the idea that they have forever in between them, with lips like sun warming an early spring field, tongue a sweep of thunderclouds rolling across the sky. Something about it just feels so deep, so connected. He wants to kiss Crowley like this everywhere, and so he sets about doing so: he starts at the pulse in his neck, and the lovely bob of his throat, pushing the gown aside to bare his chest and kissing him there too, arced over as if he had cupped water in his hands and was drinking water from a spring.
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His lips feel swollen, feel well-kissed by the time Aziraphale moves to his throat and Crowley feels drunk from his tongue, sprawled beneath him like something laid out and offered up for pleasure. "Oh...Aziraphale..." He groans deeply when the angel works his way down his throat and pushes aside the indecent gown to expose a great deal of his chest to his mouth. "Angel," he sighs, his body roused again, arching up beneath Azirphale's, hungry for contact. Fingers run anxiously through Aziraphale's soft pale hair, catching in his curls.
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His free hand ghosts down Crowley's front, touch so light it wouldn't disturb a mouse; he then takes Crowley's cock into his hand and touches it like gossamer at first, but building up in speed and pressure. A thumb swipes over the top of his cock and he whines with pleasure directly onto Crowley's heart, agape as he mouths his way excitedly to between Crowley's legs. He licks the tip at first, and having not done this for several hundred years, he isn't sure what to expect. But this, like Crowley's everything else, is wondrous, with his tip sitting so heavy on his tongue, intoxicating musk announcing his, quite frankly, rather imposing sex. He invites himself to a taste, and fills his mouth with it, again, and again.
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"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sounding shocked even to his own ears. "F-ffuck, your mouth--" He wonders hazily, would he like it if Crowley told him just obscene he was, and then he gasps again and arches his hips up helplessly. "Oh angel, your mouth on my cock, it's a fucking sin--suck me, yesss..."
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