“Tu es tellement merveilleux,” Aziraphale whispers in the night, trying not to thrust his hips too hard, not to be too rough, to be gentle instead. “Davvero bellissimo.”
Out of the window the moon listens in silence, hanging over the sea. It looks like she’s smiling.
“M-mh?" Crowley pulls back from him, replacing those clever lips, that masterful tongue with his hand, and gazes at Aziraphale’s face. He smiles, that devil – a Pre-Raphaelite picture of debauchery. Aziraphale whimpers and throws his head back onto the pillows; Crowley doesn’t say anything else. He just watches on without even needing to blink.
“M-mh.” Aziraphale cards his fingers through Crowley's long hair, as slowly as he can. He plays with those tongues of copper fire while Crowley's own tongue resumes speaking words of its own onto him, all around him, on his thighs and belly. “Tan hermoso… Crowley…"
It's a small and recurring challenge between the two of them – trying to make the other come undone, loving and cherishing him so much that all the languages he knows start spilling out in a babbling mess. And then switching roles.
Aziraphale gives in pretty quickly every time. It never takes long. He likes losing when it comes to this, when it comes to Crowley. It’s beautiful, seeing the fondness and adoration sprinkled with triumph on Crowley's face when he surrenders to his love and his walls crumble to pieces.
“Ah, ty… ty takoj prekrasnyj…”
After all, it’s the truth. Crowley is simply beautiful. So why not say it out loud? Why not let the moon and the sea know?
Crowley laughs softly between his kisses, his hand relentless in his movements. He doesn’t need words. His mouth engulfs Aziraphale again; his fingers move to touch and caress and explore further down, and Aziraphale could burst.
Time draws on, so slow that it feels like a new Great Vowel Shift could take place; and yet so fast that it takes only a few strokes and a few flicks more of that maddening tongue for Aziraphale to be done for.
“Tu pulcherrimus," Aziraphale breathes out instinctively, meaning every letter of it, arching his back on the bed. He tightens his grip in Crowley’s hair and something bright and perfect explodes behind his closed eyes. Crowley welcomes him, whole and raw, all of him.
Later, there’s only silence, and quiet breaths, and the shy sounds of fingers drawing lazy circles on sticky skins that are slowly cooling down.
Aziraphale’s eyes become misty at the happy thought that he can and will reciprocate everything in a matter of minutes. He knows Crowley: he will pretend to resist Aziraphale’s charms just to salvage his dignity as a demon; Aziraphale will happily indulge him, and all will be ever so lovely and sweet.
But Aziraphale also knows he doesn’t need foreign tongues to be told he’s loved. Just Crowley’s; just Crowley is enough. Crowley will always love and understand Aziraphale through sounds and silence.