Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Grow. Bettah!”

Aziraphale looked up from the croissant dough he was meticulously folding on the cool, kitchen countertop. Outside the window he spotted Crowley stalking through their herb garden, scowling at errant rosemary and spotted thyme. He brandished his gardening shears at the transgressive plants, pruning the offending leaves and pulling up stray offshoots.

Aziraphale frowned. Crowley was not wearing his comfortable gardening clothes—a loose, well-worn dark denim pants and soft, cropped vest. Instead he was dressed in his customary tight trousers and black henley. Odd.

Crowley marched over to the rose garden and began pinching off any bloom deemed imperfect. Aziraphale winced. He did truly love the excess of color, even if some of the blooms had wilted in the late summer sun. When Crowley made his way to the jasmine patch near the patio, however, Aziraphale hastily called out the window, “Crowley, wait! You know how I love the smell in the evening.”

Crowley gesticulated towards the offending vines. “They’re overgrown! They’re out of bounds! They are unruly, angel. And will be dealt. with. accordingly.” He punctuated each word with an angry jab of his shears.

Aziraphale tossed his towel into the kitchen sink and hurried out the door, making it to Crowley just as he began pruning the new shoots that had begun climbing up the brick exterior of their cottage.

Placing a hand on Crowley’s back, Aziraphale turned him towards the cottage. “I think you’ve done quite enough gardening for today, dear.” Crowley twisted around to protest, but Aziraphale now had a firm grip on both his shoulders. “Why don’t you go inside and get cleaned up. I’ve made some lovely Cornish Pasty for us tonight. Afterwards we can have some wine and you can tell me what’s got you so upset.”

“‘M not—”

“Off you go dear,” Aziraphale gave him a final push towards the kitchen door and Crowley sulked, rather than sauntered, back indoors.

Aziraphale finished consoling the plants—soothing the jasmine’s frayed nerves, reassuring the rosemary and thyme that they were doing splendidly, and coaxing the roses out of a well-merited mope—just as the evening sun began to gild the leaves and petals in its golden glow. He turned toward the sun, closing his eyes and letting the warm light shine red through his eyelids and enwreathe his hair in an earthly halo. He took in a deep breath and smiled. Home. Their home, just for the two of them. They were safe now and, having travelled from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, Aziraphale could say with assurance that there was no place more perfect than this small patch of the world, where small plants grew, hand-folded croissants proved for days, a fire warmed their sitting room, and his husband warmed his nights. And days, Aziraphale amended to himself with a smile.

He returned indoors with the evening light still warm in his chest to find Crowley storming throughout the kitchen. He was still in his dirty clothes. And … was still wearing his sunglasses. The tie holding his hair back had slipped, and strands of red hair swayed against his forehead as he scrubbed the counter. Every last trace of Aziraphale’s cooking had been cleaned away. The flour and butter stored. The mixing bowls washed, dried, and placed on the shelf. The leftover dough scraped from the counter, the spoons and scales and tea cups stowed. The scent of disinfectant hung in the air.

“Crowley—”

“Jus’ gonna finish cleaning up here, then I can join you.” He gestured towards the warming oven. “Go ahead, don’t wait for me.”

Aziraphale’s brows softened and he walked over, placing a warm hand over his demon’s furious one. “Crowley, dear, I think you are having a day.”

Crowley’s had stilled and he glowered at Aziraphale through dark lenses. “I’m not having a day—I just want the kitchen clean! Is that too much to ask?”

“No, of course not. But it doesn’t need to be sterilized.” Aziraphale paused. “Or punished.”

“I’m not— I’m just—” Crowley threw down the rag and growled in frustration before pointing a finger at Aziraphale. “I am not. having. a day.”

And with that, Crowley stalked out the front door.

Aziraphale found him, as he thought he would, standing under the large oak tree at the top of the hill in the park up the lane. He was not wearing his sunglasses.

“’Lo, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. Crowley held out his hand.

“’M having a day.”

Aziraphale walked over and took Crowley’s hand. Rested his head on his shoulder. Placed his other hand around Crowley’s upper arm and rubbed his thumb across his shirt in a soothing gesture, and spoke softly. “I know.”

“I just feel—” Crowley inhaled sharply. “Feel a bit— ah—” His voice caught, and he looked up at the stars. Took a deep breath. Another. “A bit… broken? today.”

Aziraphale inhaled deeply and let out a low sigh as he gathered his love in his arms, pulling them both gently to the ground. He settled his back against the tree and wrapped his arms around Crowley again, tucking the demon’s head against his chest. “It’s okay, dearest, we all have those days. I’m here.”

Crowley fisted his hands in the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt and seemed to hold his breath for a heartbeat. Two. Three. Until a small whimper escaped his lips, and he began to cry, softly at first, and then with the kind of full-body sobbing that comes from years and years of grief. They sat there until the night grew cool, until the crickets stopped chirping and the evening birdsong changed to the occasional dolorous hoot from an owl.

Crowley’s sobs quieted into an exhausted, low breathing. He turned his head so his ear rested against Aziraphale’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. He inhaled once, and again, and again, until his breath no longer shook. “’M sorry ‘m not… ‘m not good.”

“No, my dear, you are not good. You are something better. You’re you.”

Crowley let out a weak huff of laughter. “Not sure how that’s any better, angel.”

“No? I shall have to introduce you to my friend Mary Oliver one day, then.”

“Been reading poetry again?” Crowley settled further into the warmth of Aziraphale’s arms, relaxing into the comfort of being held now that the waves of grief had passed.

“Every morning. You know that.”

Aziraphale hummed tunelessly, rocking them both gently back and forth. He listened to the evening breeze in the tree above, vespers more divine than any sung in church or heaven. In the small, South Downs village below them a dog barked. A parent called after their child. A car drove past, playing muffled music with a heavy beat. He pulled Crowley tighter in his arms and rested his chin atop his head.

“I wrote you a poem. A sonnet, actually.”

“Really? A poem?” Aziraphale could hear the grin in Crowley’s voice. “And a sonnet! Ol’ Willy would be proud.”

“Hush you.” Aziraphale swatted playfully at Crowley’s back. “It’s actually… well, that is… I rewrote one of his sonnets. You rather inspired me.” Crowley gave a little serpentine squirm. “Shall I recite it?”

Silence. Another breeze ruffled Crowley’s red hair against Aziraphale’s chin.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Well then. Sonnet 130. Revisited.”

My demon’s eyes are nothing like the sun;

Fire burns more red than his flaming locks.

If heav’n be white why then his hands are dun;

If crows be black, then sooty be his frocks.

I have seen angels enthroned, white and gold,

But no such light see I ‘round him enwreath’d.

And in some prayers is more faith to behold

Than in the qualms that from my demon breathe.

I love to hear him grouse, yet well I know

That Mozart hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a serpent go;

My demon, when h’walks, saunters vaguely down.

And yet, by th’world, I think my love as true

As any one smitten in group of two.

Chapter Text

Crowley’s moan ended on what could have been a plea, if demons were capable of begging.

He really was quite lovely, Aziraphale mused as he walked around his husband. Crowley hung suspended from a sturdy, exposed beam in the living area of their cottage. The room was dark, and the moonlight through the window was luminescent in the sweat—and yes, the occasional tear, though Crowley would deny it—that dripped down his naked body. His eyes, wide and furious, reflected—or possibly contained, it was hard to way which—the stars they had been admiring just hours before.

Yes, Aziraphale concluded. His husband was beautiful. And helpless, tied in expert knots as he was. Silken red rope bound his arms above his head, his wrists and elbows secured tightly together so his head and chest arched forwards. Aziraphale would periodically lower Crowley’s hands to rub them and check for circulation, but he knew in moments such as these that he preferred the restricted vulnerability of an open chest and bound arms. The ropes continued down, crossing thrice over his torso and looping in a braid of knots down his back, tight enough that Crowley could feel the pressure with every gasp of breath, but distributed evenly so there would be no bruising later. They had learned that lesson the hard way, and Aziraphale had never forgiven himself (although Crowley had). The bulk of the ropes embraced Crowley’s hips in a crisscrossing pattern that kissed his abdomen and looped around his thighs and iliac crest. It was stunning work, that framed his lover’s gorgeous cock while securing him so he could thrash all he liked and go absolutely nowhere. His ankles, crossed, sat just below the swell of his arse, his knees bent and thighs pulled wide so he was utterly exposed to Aziraphale’s gaze. Perfectly balanced, the distribution of knots and silken red ropes all led to a harness in the back from which Crowley now hung.

“Perfect,” Aziraphale murmured, tracing a finger down Crowley’s chest and brushing against a hard nipple.

Crowley, again, did not whimper.

“What was that darling? I’m afraid I couldn’t hear you.”

“P- please, want to come, want to fucking come, ‘v made y’point, s’enough—” Crowley choked on a gasp as Aziraphale pinched his other nipple, hard, and watched with a satisfied smile as Crowley’s cock jumped, helplessly, between his open thighs.

Crowley has asked for this, Aziraphale remembered. Had asked to be tied up and put in his place and made to beg. They had sat under their tree, comforting each other after Crowley had had one of his bad days, until Crowley finally pulled away to apologize.

“I was awful. Rude. Out of line.”

“Nothing of the sort—”

“Thought you could teach me a lesson. Put me in my place. Jus’ … wanna be punished a bit, y’know?”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I think that can be arranged.”

And Aziraphale understood. He understood that need to submit, to be punished, to be cracked open and forced to supplicate your raw, screaming heart. Crowley had brought him to his knees many times, and taught him what it meant to be stitched back together afterwards. How it could heal the broken pieces inside him.

So yes, Aziraphale understood. And he could give that gift to Crowley, who so desperately needed it. And besides, he thought as he palmed his own heavy cock through his trousers, he did look so lovely all tied up like that.

“No, not yet.” Aziraphale finally answered, his lips brushing across Crowley’s as he cupped the demon’s face in one hand. “You’re not allowed to come until you’ve made full reparations. I’d like to hear more apology from you.” And with that, Aziraphale traced one finger, feather light, up Crowley’s hard cock.

Crowley shuddered and arched his back even further, a sob escaping his lips as a tear traced down his cheek. “M’ s- sorry, ple—oh f fffu—please…”

“Very nice,” Aziraphale murmured, molten heat dripping down his spine and pooling in his hips as Crowley unraveled before him. “Give you your sounds, darling. Let that be your penance.”

Crowley immediately complied, a low moan resonating in his chest as he craned his neck to the side. Aziraphale could almost hear the faint snapping of ribs as the soft, vulnerable underbelly of Crowley’s heart began to crack open.

“That’s right dearest,” Aziraphale praised softly as he pressed his lips to Crowley’s exposed neck, sucking a slow bruise into the divot just above the collarbone before tracing up the taut tendons of his neck, licking the sweat from his skin and groaning at the salty taste. He bit again, sharply, mid-neck, taking that tendon between his teeth and sucking hard enough to leave a deep purple bruise. Crowley bucked in his harness, gasping as his hands clawed at the air.

Aziraphale could feel it then, the way Crowley’s body was ready-not-ready, the way he was teetering on the edge of yielding, pliant but unable to fully let go.

And well. That wouldn’t do.

Crowley, Aziraphale knew, loved words. He loved to talk, to spin stories out of nothing, he loved the cadence of speech and the elasticity of language. If Aziraphale loved to consume poetry, to read books by the warm morning light, then Crowley loved to create it.

So. Aziraphale would simply have to unravel him with words.

He leaned down began to recite poetry as he traced his lips against the hot skin of Crowley’s chest, punctuating each pause with a kiss. “Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea—”

“Angel, what’er you—” Crowley cut off in a gasp as Aziraphale’s tongue flicked a nipple.

“Hush Crowley. Listen to my sonnet.” Aziraphale reached up to briefly tighten the ropes at Crowley’s wrist, reminding him who is in control, before continuing, “But sad mortality o’er-sways their power.” He thought of the humans, and their brief lives, lost so soon to the passing years. Even Shakespeare, with his immortal words, now suffered the same fate as ‘poor Yorick.’

Part of him wondered if living among the humans for so long had made them mortal too—not in any real sense, of course, but in the sense that they felt every year as a gift. Every kiss as a gift. Time and loss, he realized, make a thing precious. He kissed Crowley deeply, slowly, drinking in their years together, licking the taste of starlight and red wine and laughter and tears. Crowley leaned in as much as he could, moaning as Aziraphale reached up to cup his jaw, swaying him further into the kiss. They lingered there, kissing until Crowley’s breathing turned ragged and each lick of Aziraphale’s tongue was met with an agitated whimper.

Aziraphale pulled back, inches from Crowley’s lips, and drew the hand cupping his face along the stubble on his jawline until his index finger rested in the soft divot just under Crowley’s chin. He applied a slight pressure, just enough to lift Crowley’s face by a couple millimeters. Crowley’s eyes immediately widened, the yellow swallowed by slit-black pupils, as his gaze flicked helplessly from Aziraphale’s eyes to his lips and back again. A frustrated snarl rumbled in his throat and he thrashed in the harness, his torso and hips swaying even as his face was held still, unmoving, by Aziraphale’s single finger.

Aziraphale smiled sweetly and whispered, “How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea?” Crowley’s struggles increased and he snapped his teeth ineffectually, earning another push up on his chin from Aziraphale.

“Oh,” Aziraphale cooed. “Don’t you look beautiful all tied up for me? Can’t resist me at all, can you?”

Crowley breathed through his teeth, half growl and half desperation, as Aziraphale continued. “Precious thing, would you like it if I did absolutely filthy things to you like this? Enjoyed you how however I wanted, while you could do nothing to stop me?”

Crowley’s eyes rolled wild and his breath juddered and Aziraphale continued, his voice lowering “Would you enjoy it, darling, if I took your sweet cock in my mouth and sucked you off until you came down my throat? You’ve been so good, suspended for me here.” Crowley let out a jagged whimper in response, his breath coming in short gasps.

“You’ve taken everything I’ve given you, haven’t you?” And he had, truly. The scattered bite marks and bruises down Crowley’s neck and chest, and lining his inner thighs, even the drippings of warm wax and excess lube on the floor all attested to how much varied attention Aziraphale had given him in the past few hours. “Would you like that, pet? Would you like to feel my soft tongue on your cock? It looks so miserably hard, that would be such a relief, wouldn’t it?”

Crowley’s breath shuddered and a broken sound escaped his lips.

“Say please darling. Plea with your beauty, whose action is no stronger than a flower.”

“Plea—” Crowley’s hips twitched and he swayed in the ropes, his cock bobbing and dripping onto the floor. “F- ffuck please.”

Aziraphale had to close his eyes and take a steadying breath before continuing, “Hmm. No, I think not. But you plead very prettily, thank you dear.”

A strangled sob left Crowley’s throat and Aziraphale began to circle around him, running his hand down his chest and over his hip, tugging briefly on the thatch of red hair at the crease of his thigh and eliciting a yelp before continuing to the swell of his backside. Now standing behind Crowley, Aziraphale applied pressure to the arches of each of his feet and asking, “How’s that dear? Feel all right?”

Crowley’s toes flexed briefly before he responded. “Bassstard. Yesss.” He then took both sides of Crowley’s buttocks in hand, resting his thumbs in the divots at the top of his hip bone and massaging lightly. He gritted his teeth and resisted the temptation to press in, to sink his own cock into what he knew was the relaxed opening right in front of him and give them both the release they craved. Instead he leaned in and kissed the back of Crowley’s neck and asked, his own voice a little unsteady, “And your hips? Are they okay?”

“Oh f- fuck, Angel please, fuck me now, jus’ like that, I’ll moan so prettily f’you, please—”

Aziraphale cut off Crowley’s pleas with a sharp slap to his left butt cheek, squeezing his right hand as Crowley cried out to hold himself back from the now almost irresistible urge to grind his aching cock against the inviting swell before him. “Answer—hrmn—answer the question.”

“Yes—good, s’good,” Crowley babbled as he arched below him.

Oh heavens, Aziraphale thought as he took a steadying breath against the sight. “O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out,” he muttered and circled back around to Crowley’s front.

“How are you doing love? Still green?” He reached up to loosen the knots around Crowley’s elbows and lower his arms until he could rub his hands.

“Yes, Angel, fuck, green, yes, keep going.”

“Good,” Aziraphale breathed before looping Crowley’s still-tied hands around his own head and kissing him fiercely. He fisted the back of Crowley’s hair and in return felt the pressure of Crowley’s wrists against the back of his head as he held him close. Aziraphale recited, pressing words against Crowley’s lips, “against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,” He continued to kiss Crowley mercilessly, pushing his tongue into his mouth and sucking on his bottom lip, allowing them both to get lost in a hungry kiss that demanded more and more. Aziraphale stepped fully in between Crowley’s open thighs, so close that the linen of his shirt brushed against his bare chest and Crowley’s thighs rested on either side of his hips.

“When rocks impregnable are not so stout,” Aziraphale gasped between rough kisses. He reached around Crowley’s slender waist with his other hand to press firmly against the silicone plug nestled deep in Crowley’s arse, causing him to keen openly against his mouth. He repeated the motion, rocking the base and angling it so it pressed against that sensitive spot deep in Crowley. “Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?”

With that Crowley broke the kiss and threw his head back in a guttural wail. Aziraphale released Crowley’s hair and braced them both, angling Crowley so their chests pressed together but his cock continued to hang in the air between them, even as his thighs gripped him tightly. Aziraphale pushed the plug again and again, muttering sweet praises into Crowley’s ear, that’s right darling and you sing so prettily and so lovely while Crowley rapidly unraveled before him.

He set in a steady rhythm—push, push, push—that soon has Crowley broken, sobbing in desperation as his fingers clawed at the air and his cock leaked, red and swollen between them. Aziraphale was drunk on the sight, overwhelmed with the knowledge that he was the one causing Crowley to writhe in the air, and desperate to make him feel more, to inundate him with pleasure until he had burned through all the walls surrounding him, to push again and again and again until Crowley could no longer think, only feel—

Suddenly Crowley took in a deep breath, his eyes going wide, and went fully tense in Aziraphale’s arms. Immediately Aziraphale stopped and pulled the plug back until the flared bottom stretched the inside of his hole, changing the sensation just enough to cause Crowley to take in a stuttering breath and lose his momentum.

“Ang– hgnf, Angel I- I’m—” Crowley’s voice was thick with tears and jagged with the overwhelm of sensation, and Aziraphale heard it then, heard the moment Crowley cracked open and his ugly fears came tumbling out. Swiftly Aziraphale reached up to brush the sweaty hair out of Crowley’s eyes, running a soothing hand over his forehead and cheekbone.

“Angel, I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” Crowley gave a broken sob and inhaled sharply before continuing. “I shouldn’t— shouldnt’ve’ yelled ’t you, never want t’yell at- at you—” Crowley stopped, his throat working up and down on another choked-back sob. A quiet, high-pitched keen pressed through his gritted teeth. “I jus—” he took another gasping breath, “I just need, I need—”

“Shh, I know darling, I know.” Aziraphale began rubbing circles against Crowley’s chest. “O fearful meditation, where, alack, shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid? I’m here, Crowley. No matter what you say or do, I’m here.”

He put his hand on the center of Crowley’s chest and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Breathe with me. That’s right. In and out.” Aziraphale waited as Crowley’s breath steadied. A banked lust still burned in his eyes, keeping him in that place where he couldn’t hide honesty behind cleverness.

“Y’er so good, s’good, an’ I’m just, I’m—”

“You’re you.” Aziraphale interrupted. “You’re exactly you. And you deserve love.” He kissed Crowley then, keeping him present, keeping him in his body and preventing him from spiraling off and overthinking. “Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Will you let me show you, darling? Will you let me show you how I love you?”

Crowley held his gaze, tears in his eyes, and took in a sharp breath. And another. Aziraphale could feel it, the sharp edge in his breath: on the one side, the familiar security of denial, and on the other the terrifying hope of trusting someone. Of trusting Aziraphale.

Crowley blinked slowly and nodded, once.

Relief flooded Aziraphale and his heart swelled, causing him to tear up. “Very good, oh my precious jewel I’m so proud of you.”

He snapped his fingers, and an ornate, full-length mirror appeared behind him, directly in Crowley’s line of vision. Aziraphale pulled on the ropes again, securing Crowley’s hands just above his head. He then stepped so he was standing beside Crowley “Or who his spoils of beauty can forbid?” He gently turned Crowley’s face to the mirror. “Watch now, love.”

Aziraphale then returned to stand behind Crowley, caressing the swell of his arse in both hands. “You did so well for me earlier, but I think you are ready for more now, hm?”

“O- oh fuck yes, yes Angel—” Aziraphale watched in the mirror as Crowley’s eyes dilated once again, and a flush spread down his neck and chest.

“Hmm. Would you say you deserve more?” Aziraphale unbuttoned his trousers and stepped out of them, grabbing the bottle of lube from the nearby side table.

Crowley paused, mouth open as the words stuck in his throat. His head turned around to try and meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “What’r you—”

Aziraphale stepped just slightly to the side and once again turned Crowley’s face back to the mirror. “Eyes on the mirror, love.” He then began to coat his cock with the lube with slow, even strokes. He watched as Crowley’s eyes trailed down the mirror to watch his hand. “Would you say you deserve more?”

“Y- yes, yes please.”

“Say it. Say it love, say you deserve more.”

“I– ffuck– I deserve more,” Crowley acquiesced.

“Very good.” And with that, Aziraphale began to trace the pink muscle around the base of the plug, adding lube before slowly pulling it out so Crowley had time to adjust to the increased stretch. Crowley panted in front of him, eyes fixed on the mirror and eyebrows scrunched in a pained ecstasy.

“Well done, darling,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s shoulder blades. He felt dizzy with the need to care for Crowley, to make sure he felt good and felt nothing but pleasure. He coated two fingers in lube and began gently massaging his rim to relax him further, causing Crowley to keen and arch his back.

“Angel m’good already, don’t need—”

Aziraphale cut him off. “Oh no, that won’t do. You’ve endured so much, look at you. You deserve proper care.” His hand stilled, fingers just resting against his entrance. He met Crowley’s gaze in the mirror. “Look at yourself Crowley. Tell me you deserve care.”

Crowley’s breath hitched. “You– you’re–”

Aziraphale simply smiled, and ran his finger, featherlight, across Crowley’s entrance, causing his eyelids to flutter before he complied. Crowley looked at himself, slowly, deliberately, cataloguing every bite mark, every scratch and bruise, rope indents and stretched tendons, freckles and lean muscles and gardening tan lines, snake tattoo and lines under his eyes.

He answered in a small voice, almost a whisper. “I … I deserve care.”

“Good.” Aziraphale’s voice dropped low as he pressed his two middle fingers into Crowley, slicking him on the inside. He worked slowly past his knuckles, allowing Crowley to enjoy the additional stretch, before he slid all the way in. He curled his fingers slightly, putting a soft pressure against his tailbone so Crowley could feel completely full, all the while watching as Crowley melted in front of him, relaxing into the sensation of being properly tended to.

“You deserve everything, Crowley. You deserve to feel good, to feel pleasure, to feel precious and cared for.” And with that, Aziraphale turned his wrist so he could expertly press both fingers against that spot deep inside Crowley that never failed to make him see the stars he loved so much.

Oh, the plug was good, Aziraphale knew Crowley enjoyed the sensation of being stuffed full—he even had a vibrating one that he would wear all day while Aziraphale teased him with the remote control until he was out of his mind—but nothing compared to his practiced fingers. A vibrator could not walk its fingers along Crowley’s inner walls until he wept in pleasure, a plug could not apply just the right amount of steady, unrelenting pressure to make Crowley close his eyes and breath through clenched teeth, even the best of dildos could not move in tight circles until Crowley shouted and bucked in desperation.

No, his fingers were best. And he loved—oh he loved—to give this to Crowley. Heat gathered in his hips as he watched, enchanted, the sight of his fingers moving inside Crowley. He felt tethered, focused, like Crowley’s pleasure was his own, and nothing mattered more that eliciting more, making Crowley feel more, until he had drunk it all.

He removed his fingers and, before Crowley could protest the loss, pressed the blunt head of his cock against his entrance. He brought his clean hand around and placed it on Crowley’s chest to hold them close together so he could speak directly into his ear.

“Look at you. Look. You are loved, say it.”

“I– m’loved, I’m loved...”

“Yes, oh yes,” Aziraphale could have wept as he pushed slowly into Crowley, working his way in one iambic pulse at a time as he recited, “O, none, unless this miracle have might, that in black ink my love may still shine bright.”

When he was finally fully seated he let out a shuddering breath of relief and anticipation. His hand shook as he pressed against Crowley’s chest and rested his head between his shoulder blades.

“You deserve love,” Aziraphale whispered, half command, half plea. “Say it Crowley, say you deserve love.”

He looked up see Crowley gazing back at him in the mirror, brows scrunched and mouth agape with a cracked-open vulnerability splayed across his face. He hung there for a moment, exposed and known by Aziraphale from the inside out, tied up and flayed open until he could be nothing but utterly, terrifyingly honest.

“I deserve love.” A tear, and a brief flicker of wonder crossed Crowley’s face. “Please, I deserve love.”

“You do darling, oh, you do.” Aziraphale put all the conviction of over six thousands years of love into his voice. He pulled nearly all the way out and thrust back into Crowley, bracing him with his hand against his chest. “You do.” Crowley let out a moan of relief that shuddered through his whole body. His eyes fluttered momentarily shut, but then he opened them again, as if he could not stop watching himself receive so much love and care.

Aziraphale thrust again and again, angling himself so the hard length of his cock ran against that spot of white-hot pleasure his fingers had been indulging moments before. Crowley was now making a series of moans and short gasps that had Aziraphale dizzy with arousal; he wanted to consume those sounds; Crowley’s pleasure fizzed into his bones and burned him from the inside out until his own want was subsumed by the need to give Crowley everything.

He reached around with his other hand and began to stroke Crowley’s cock in time with his increasing thrusts. He was soon babbling, pouring his heart into Crowley, love you and deserve everything and perfect, so perfect. He was not going to last long, but neither was Crowley. He panted hot breaths against Crowley’s back, pushing them both to the edge until Crowley let out a garbled shout and seized up, pulsing once in Aziraphale’s hand and then pausing, heart stopped and breath choked-off until he pulsed again and again, streaks of spend shooting up his chest and dripping down Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale let out a shuddering cry and thrust once, twice more before spilling into Crowley.

Moments passed—minutes, hours, millennia. Aziraphale lost all sense of time as he held Crowley and breathed in the starlight-sweaty scent of him. Eventually he came back to himself, felt the ground beneath his feet, the tickle of red hair against his cheek, and the soft, content murmurs of his lover. He pressed a soft kiss, once again, in the dip between those beautiful shoulder blades before slowly pulling back. He chuckled quietly at the state of the both of them.

“Alright darling?” Crowley hummed drowsily. “I’m going to untie your feet and legs, but you’re not to put any weight on them yet.” Aziraphale set about the knots, pulling and releasing the trigger points to allow Crowley to gently slump into his arms. Once all the ancillary knots had been released he undid the harness, taking all of Crowley’s weight on his broad chest and lowering them both carefully to the ground.

He reached for the water nearby. “You were wonderful, darling. Now drink up.” Crowley opened a lazy eye and tilted his head back so Aziraphale could tilt the glass into his mouth. “Not so vicious now, are you? Would you like another?” Crowley nodded and Aziraphale reached for the second glass, holding it again while Crowley drank his fill.

“Very good. Here, just rest against me now.” And Crowley, the sweet thing, just hummed and rested his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He ran his hands over Crowley’s skin, checking for sore spots and gently massaging out any lingering tension in the wrists or other joints. Once he was satisfied Crowley was well-cared for he lowered him to the nest of pillows he had set aside when they began and kissed his forehead. “Be right back. Forgot the flannels in the washroom.”

Crowley pouted. “Tragic. Terrible. Don’t go.”

Aziraphale chucked as he stood up. “I dare say you’ll survive.”

“Won’t. Be all … dis- discorp- discombobulated.” Crowley garbled out.

“Well, yes, but that’s because I gave you exactly what you needed, isn’t it?” Aziraphale retorted primely as he stood.

“Basssstard.”

“I love you too.”

Once Aziraphale had washed himself off and drank two full glasses of water of his own, he returned and sat back down, placing Crowley’s head in his lap. He used the extra warm flannels to wipe Crowley’s body, cleaning off the sweat and fluids down his torso and legs.

Crowley, finally coming back to himself, looked up at him and gave a soft chuckle. “Shakespeare? Really? Sixty-five?”

“Well, it seemed to do the trick, didn’t it?” Aziraphale arched an eyebrow. “Not exactly the original meaning, but … I think Bill would appreciate its use here.”

Crowley snorted then stretched, his long limbs shaking a bit in satisfaction. “Fuuuuck, whatever you are paying that therapist of yours you need to double it. Triple it. Man’s a hero.”

“Oh I’m not sure this is what Davey had in mind but … well you have a point.” Aziraphale sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head. “Feel better?”

“Mmm perfect. Feel perfect.”

Aziraphale tightened his arms around Crowley and hummed softly. “Yes, you rather do.”

Sonnet 65:

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea

But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,

How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out

Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O fearful meditation! where, alack,

Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright.