Archive of Our Own ^beta

"You asked to see me, my Emperor," said Crowley, bowing slowly as he approached Aziraphale.

The two men were alone in the Emperor's private baths. Seated comfortably on a feather-padded chair, the man of power observed his gladiator kneeling in front of him, one hand placed on the pommel of his loyal sica and the other resting on his heart. His fiery hair fell along his lowered face as he waited for the order to rise. Part of Aziraphale wanted to watch him in this position a little longer, but aware of his protected one’s fragile knees, he nodded for him to get up. The gladiator stifled a groan as his legs brought him back to his feet. The Emperor gave him a quizzical look.

"Training with Sandalphon," Crowley said with a weak grin, as if that simple fact were the reason for all his troubles. "Sorry."

Aziraphale sighed. He hated when his handsome warrior apologised for things he was in no way responsible for. He would give Sandalphon a piece of his mind, but that wasn't the reason he was here. "I wanted to know how your time on the Palatine is going, Crowley. Does Muriel respond to all your requests? Are you treated with respect by my men?"

Crowley stamped his feet, clearly not expecting this kind of questioning. He muttered under his breath for a moment before replying, "Everything is beyond my expectations, my Emperor. I have all the food I need, I receive the best care, the best education, and the finest fabrics. I couldn't ask for anything more."

As he spoke, Aziraphale sensed the tension rising in Crowley's voice, as if he were holding back from confessing something. The Emperor made a mental note of this observation and continued, but not before picking a grape from a basket, "I am relieved to hear it, my dear. I require only the best for you, as you deserve it.’’

Crowley's body shivered, as it always did when the Emperor praised him.

"And if there is anything I can do for you, never be afraid to ask."

Another shiver, and the Celt turned his honey eyes away as he nodded.

A comfortable silence settled between the two men. One counted the colourful mosaics on the floor, while the other let his gaze wander over the other's sinuous silhouette. Aziraphale was dying to observe him in more detail, to remove the garments that obstructed this skin telling a thousand stories, to run his hands along every curve, every angle of this body sculpted by the brutality of the arena. But the Emperor did not want this figure to be shaped to absorb blows. It deserved to be cherished, caressed.

Suddenly, a wave of shyness and modesty overwhelmed Aziraphale. He couldn't ask such a thing of his protected one, could he? He was the Emperor, everything was owed to him, but he would never force Crowley to undress if he didn't want to. Besides, he had already seen him naked when they shared a bath, but that nudity had never aroused any carnal desire. So why would this be any different? Aziraphale could simply appreciate the sight of a body and praise it without any ulterior motive.

"Everything all right, my Emperor?" asked Crowley, who had noticed the blond’s embarrassment. "May I offer any assistance?"

Aziraphale swallowed. Of course, his dear Crowley had noticed the slightest change in his behaviour. He was so observant, so sensitive...

The Emperor cleared his throat before saying, "I would like to be sure that you are getting the care you need, Crowley. That your wounds are properly treated, that the hunger no longer gnaws at your stomach, that your body no longer causes you pain. Can you show me all of that, my dear?"

Crowley bit his lower lip and looked away, well aware of the Emperor's implication. His knuckles clenched the hilt of his weapon until they turned white, and his throat tightened. "I will only touch you if you allow me to," added Aziraphale, seeing clearly the terror gradually taking hold of his brave warrior. "I give you my word."

Crowley's shoulders relaxed slightly, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Good, thought Aziraphale. Relax, my darling. I'm looking after you.

Crowley opened his eyes again and, with a shy smile, replied in a voice that did little to hide his insecurity, "Your wishes are my commands, my Emperor."

With that, he slowly removed his belt holding the leather sheath of his sica, and placed it on the floor. Then, his hesitant hands untied the laces of his sandals and, with the same apprehension, he reached for his tunic. His slender fingers traced the fabric, trembling slightly, until they found the fold to remove. Crowley held his breath, and before he removed the last barrier from his body, Aziraphale whispered tenderly, "You don't have to keep going if you're not comfortable, Crowley. You're already giving me more than enough."

Crowley swallowed again and said in a weak voice, "It's just that... I'm not the most pleasant to look at. I'm too damaged, and I doubt I meet your standards. I'll try to take better care of myself and-"

"I have no such standards, my dear," Aziraphale interrupted gently, doing his best to give him the kindest, most understanding look he could muster. "Have I ever made any comments to you during our baths? Have I ever insinuated that your appearance was displeasing? If so, I sincerely apologise, as such a thought has never crossed my mind."

The Celt closed his eyes again and his shoulders relaxed as he murmured, "You are too good to me, my Emperor."

"I am just enough," he replied with a sincere smile.

Crowley smiled back and grabbed his tunic with more confidence. He slowly unwrapped each fold, revealing inch by inch his skin full of stories, like a parchment that the Emperor would never grow tired of reading. His amber eyes were fixed on Aziraphale's ice-blue pupils, attentive to his every reaction.

The blond, for his part, could feel nothing but reverence and awe at Crowley's godlike beauty. His chest was completely bare, and the Emperor had a full view of his warrior's ribcage rising and falling with each breath. His skin was tanned from training under the zenith, freckles dotted his shoulders, his long, slender arms concealed a strength and flexibility tailored for dodging, making Aziraphale's heart beat faster. His abdomen was flat and followed the movements of his steady breathing, and he could see a slight trail of dark hair leading to his pubis. But what caught Aziraphale's attention most were his hips and his slim waist, so slim that he dreams so lay both hands here. He longed to reach out, but that would undoubtedly exceed the boundaries of his beautiful gladiator.

Obsessed by this idyllic vision, he almost forgot the countless scars covering this beautiful canvas, which did not make him any less sublime. Some seemed recent, while others, paler and almost imperceptible, appeared to have been there for decades. The Emperor would give all his possessions to be able to remove these marks of suffering by his kisses, transforming them into an altar on which to lay his love and admiration.

With his mouth half open, Aziraphale was unable to find the right words to express his wonder at this beautiful creature. He felt a rush of heat when Crowley removed the rest of his clothe, the ebony fabric sliding slowly down his endless legs. He clutched his garment in his hand, waiting for the Emperor to regain his composure. But how could one be fully conscious when the most magnificent of men stood naked before one?

Aziraphale swallowed to moisten his throat and managed to articulate, "How can you doubt for a second that you are a sight to behold? You are... spectacular."

Crowley's breath faltered at the compliment and he lowered his eyes, looking at his scars. Just as he was about to open his lips to utter another self-deprecating monologue, the Emperor caught him off guard, "Please, can you come closer, my dear? I won't lay my hands on you.’’

Unless you say so. Please, allow me to cherish you.

Crowley took two steps towards Aziraphale, within reach of his hands. Seated, the Emperor's face was at chest height. "No Emperor should display any sign of power in the presence of such marvel," he murmured, removing his winged crown. "For then he becomes a balatro."

"My Emperor..." said Crowley in the same tone, his face flushing red.

"Aziraphale. I am nothing more than a man in your presence. A man dazzled and overwhelmed."

The Celt smiled and shook his head, "You're making a fool of yourself, Aziraphale."

"You don't realise what I see, Crowley. You are not a fallen warrior. Your status is just a word, and like all words, it evolves and blossoms into something else entirely. What I see, my dear, is the most wonderful of men. Of course, none of us is perfect, but your flaws only embellish this painting, making it more realistic and sincere. See how my hands tremble as I utter these words; they long to cherish this shell, to brush against the soul within and whisper all the praise that my words cannot express.’’

Crowley closed his eyes and pressed his lips together to stifle a moan. He took the time to breathe deeply, his chest rising and falling in a deep, steady rhythm before declaring in a voice as tremulous as Aziraphale's palms, "Then do it."

The Emperor startled, as if suddenly awakened from his fantasy, "Pardon?"

Crowley took a confident step towards him until his knees brushed against the blond's. "Show me how an Emperor loves. Please."

“Are you certain?”, asked Aziraphale, his voice betraying his surprise. “I don’t want to make you feel obligated in any way.”

Crowley chuckled at the Emperor’s precautions. He had always been alert to the slightest changes in the Celt's mood, and he had always made a point of putting him at ease, as was the case now.

“Of course,” he replied with a hint of excitement.

Please. I feel so comfortable in your company.

Aziraphale swallowed and pursed his pink lips as he shyly took the gladiator's hands. Crowley's long fingers were completely enveloped in the Emperor's thick palms, not trapped but protected in a cocoon of softness. His thumbs slowly caressed the damaged backs of his hands, making small, conscientious circles. All of the blond's attention was focused on his hands, and if he brought the same care, the same reverence to other parts of his body, Crowley's heart might give way.

“I've been thinking about holding these hands for weeks,” Aziraphale murmured, in awe.

A smile appeared on Crowley's lips. Others saw his palms as nothing more than instruments of violence and labour. Aziraphale had a knack for using the wrong adjectives to describe him. 

The Emperor pressed them gently before letting go to brush his wrists. He did not linger, the movement was so brief, so light that Crowley only let out a startled gasp. His wrists had seen too many horrors to be touched; they were synonymous with suffering for the Celt, and sometimes he could still feel the icy cold of the chains or the tight palms of Gabriel's legionnaires.

Aziraphale's hands now traced his arms up to his shoulders, running over his muscles several times to memorise their topology. With the tip of his index finger, the Emperor traced a thin scar on his right bicep. Then another. And another. The gesture was gentle, healing, and Aziraphale's eyes expressed both sorrow and curiosity.

“Where did they come from?” he asked without judgement.

“Whiplashes,” he replied calmly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to say.    

Aziraphale's face darkened, which worried the Celt. Please, my Emperor. Forgive me for staining your face with gloom. “How so? What were you held responsible for?”

“Oh, it wasn't just accusations. I was,” he said with a grimace. “I stole food.”    

Aziraphale touched his scars again. “How old were you?” he whispered, guessing them to be old.        

Crowley swallowed, “Twelve, I think.”

“Oh, Heavens," said Aziraphale, now looking at his old wound with horror. “How could anyone think of punishing a child like that? For so little?”

The Celt’s lips twisted into a grimace and he explained, his eyes downcast, “It was my fault, I’d had my share. And supplies were limited.”

“No being deserves to be whipped for being hungry, Crowley,” interrupted the Emperor. “Don't blame yourself. You don't deserve any of your wounds, dearest. None of them.”

Crowley clenched his jaw and kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Then why am I so bruised? Why, if I don't deserve it, do they continue to hurt me? Why was I born on the wrong side? Why did they burn my house to the ground? This quest for answers will remain eternal.

“Crowley? Are you with me?”

“Y-Yes,” he said, looking back at his Emperor. “Sorry.”

“Did you hear my question?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly.

“No,” he answered honestly, struggling not to lower his eyes again.

The Emperor paused to contemplate Crowley's face. No doubt he was trying to determine whether he was indeed with him. Once he had his answer, he breathed softly, “How can I make amends for what my people did to you?”

Crowley's breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened. What should he say to him? The Celt had no grievances against the Emperor himself, especially since Aziraphale was not in power at the time. Should he ask him to give him back his freedom? To stab himself in the heart for crimes he had never committed? No, he would never do that. He even wondered if, once free, he could continue to see his Emperor. Of course, removing his chains was his greatest desire, but could he accept it if it meant being separated from Aziraphale? The man had crept into his heart so subtly that he had never really realised he could sacrifice his dearest wish for him.

So Crowley finally found the answer to his Emperor's question. It was simple, yet terribly honest; “Can you continue to consider me a man?”

Can you take care of me? Can you keep me with you? Can you love me? 

The shadow that had obscured Aziraphale's gentle expression faded, and the Emperor gave him his most affectionate look. “I have never seen you as anything other than a man, my dear. You are not, and never will be, a slave to me. I promise you.”

Crowley closed his eyes to take in his words. They sounded so true. He only opened them again when he felt a slight, damp pressure on one of his scars, and a sumptuous landscape revealed itself to him: with his eyes closed, Aziraphale placed his lips on his old wound, as if to silently apologise for all the pain he had suffered. 

Never had the Celt seen his Emperor so sorry, so eager to show him how much he meant to him, how much his life could- has a meaning. Oh, Crowley could never do without such proof of respect and fondness. How he would love to press himself against him, to hold his round cheeks delicately and cover them with all the kisses his lips could offer, until they were sore from use. He too would like to reveal all the reverence he felt for him, for he knew full well that it could not be contained indefinitely.

Aziraphale moved his caresses to his collarbones, then his chest. His fingers encountered another wound, a more recent one. “And this one?” he asked.

“A gladius during a duel. I didn't dodge quickly enough.”

The Emperor nodded and kissed it again, as if to erase it. His warm palms continued to touch him carefully, as if his skin were the most delicate of pottery. The Celt's breath faltered when one of his fingers brushed against one of his nipples. It was almost too much to bear, but at the same time so intoxicating. He felt his legs grow weak, his body needing to kneel at the feet of his Emperor. 

A new scar lay in the path of his hands, this one located below his plexus. Crowley knew the question, “An old fight in the Ludus. I won.”

And the answer, another kiss.

And another, on his abdomen. “A sword, in the arena.”

A kiss.

On his stomach.

“Whips again.”

A kiss. 

This game went on for another ten times, along his arms, his chest, his torso. An arena wound, a rough training session, an undeserved punishment. Each of his marks was given special care, each of them adored by lips as soft and light as a feather. It was too much, far too much. 

Crowley felt his legs give way completely, ruined by this excess of attention, this excess of affection and consideration from Aziraphale. But he did not fall, his Emperor would never allow it. On the contrary, he held his gladiator firmly by the waist to prevent him from meeting the coolness of the ground. Crowley felt his heart racing, his blood boiling. The Emperor’s fingers pressed against his skin, holding him without any hint of aggression, something he did not know was possible. Why did this feel so good?

“I've got you, my dear.”

These simple words had an unexpected effect on Crowley. It was only when he felt his cheeks wet that he realised he was crying. Not out of sadness, but out of relief and also because he would never find the words to describe what he was feeling, because ‘good’ was an understatement. 

Still holding him, Aziraphale stood up to be at his height. Crowley didn't dare move; he didn't even have the strength to do so. "It's a lot, isn't it?" he said sympathetically. "I'm sorry, I tend to get greedy when I'm passionate.”

With a lump in his throat, the Celt was unable to answer, only letting out a pathetic squeak.

"Will you tell me if it's too much for you, Crowley? If I become too indulgent?”

You can never be too much, thought the gladiator.

Crowley only had the power to shake his head in agreement, too distracted by the hands around his waist. He forced his mind to reject any indecent visions, for that was the last thing he wanted to show the Emperor. The intellectual was probably more captivated by the sight of his body than actually using it. Oh, but how weak he was in the face of his desires! The shameless heat of his cheeks was already spreading throughout his frame.

His state did not improve when Aziraphale ran his fingertips along his spine, sending shivers of pleasure through him while whispering even more words verging on poetry, "I will make a statue of you. I will ask my best artists to immortalise you in marble, so that I will never forget your curves when you are away. For I cannot bear a day without my eyes seeing you, without my hands lingering on you." 

His hands pressed against his shoulder blades, where his deepest scars were. Crowley let out a sigh and closed his eyes, surrendering completely to his Emperor and letting his tears flow.

"I will order that you be sculpted as I see you right now; an unreal creature that turns the muses green with envy, yet as fragile as a scroll of parchment that must be treated with care. For I am aware that you can crumble at the touch of a hand that is too firm, that you can burn when held too close to the fire.”

The Celt could not suppress a groan when one of his hands slid over one of his hips to squeeze them temptingly. "Yet, isn't that what we are doing right now? Playing with fire? Stoking it, again and again, until it reduces us both to ashes?"

Crowley's breathing became more ragged when Aziraphale placed his free hand on the back of his neck, stabilising his head, which had begun to lower instinctively.

"Look at me, Crowley. Breathe." 

He obeyed. Their faces were close, so close! Crowley swallowed and finally managed to stem the flood of tears. Aziraphale's face was still blurred with them, but at least his throat was becoming less tight. He took a slow breath, following his Emperor's instructions. 

"Good," Aziraphale murmured, and that simple word sent a shock through his mind. "You're doing wonderfully, dear." 

"A-Aziraphale," he managed to articulate.

What should I say to him? Why do I need to say his name so badly? Why would I want to hear him say mine? Please, keep talking to me, keep praising me, please...

“I'm listening.”

"Please, I..." 

Crowley couldn't bring himself to say anything. Everything was spinning in his head, he didn't know how to react to this sudden intimacy and, although it was more than pleasant, the Celt still had that apprehension, that fear deep inside him. How long would it take for this pleasure to turn into pain? Because that was all he had ever known.

"What do you need, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked softly, holding his hands still, waiting for the gladiator's directions before continuing to touch him. 

He took one last breath before unveiling his vulnerability, "Please, I need your affection. Y-Your hands on me. I don't want to be beat up anymore, I-I..."

“Shhhh... oh, sweetheart. I'm here. I'll give you all the love I have to give. Just... how would you like it?”

"I don't think I understand..."

"Would you want my affection like this?"

To illustrate his point, Aziraphale chastely pressed his lips on the gladiator's, who couldn't help but gasp in surprise. But, he withdrew them immediately, much to the latter's despair. He noticed, however, that the Emperor's cheeks were as flushed as his own. 

"Or rather, like that?" he continued as if nothing had happened.

His hand on his hip slowly slid down to his buttocks, which he brushed lightly, causing Crowley to jump with delight. A mischievous sparkle lit up the blond's blue eyes. The Celt pursed his lips, well aware that the heat that had reached his chest was slowly moving towards his crotch, offering a response to the Emperor. 

"Could I have both?" he asked shyly. "Or is that too greedy of me?"

Aziraphale laughed lightheartedly, "Absolutely. You deserve it, my dear."

To conclude their exchange, the Emperor drew Crowley to him and pressed his lips to his once more, but this time with greater assurance. The gladiator could not suppress a moan as his body came into contact with Aziraphale's silky toga, and an equally soft tongue caressed the curve of his lips, begging for his mouth. Crowley slowly opened his jaw, allowing his Emperor to intensify the embrace and discover a new part of him that had remained unexplored thus far. His movements were slow and measured, as if he knew the Celtic man's needs perfectly, as if he knew how to make him lose control. The hand on his neck carefully positioned his head to allow him more freedom to move, while the one on his arse squeezed and massaged it. 

Crowley let himself be guided, but never ventured to lay his hands on his Emperor. Did he have the right, or could this love only be given in one way? Was it really love as the stories described it, or just a reward for his services in the Colosseum? He too wanted to run his fingers over his smooth chest, his round belly, and his thighs, which were just waiting to be grasped. His hands began to quiver with anticipation as the pressure of the palm on his arse faded and their mouths parted, causing him to let out a discontented grunt.

Crowley expected Aziraphale to shower him with more dizzying words, but it seemed that he too was unable to utter a single syllable. They both paused, looking into each other's eyes and processing what was happening. Was this right? 

It was Crowley who broke the silence. "I've never experienced this before," he admitted sheepishly. "I apologise if I don't know how to handle this." 

"I don't have much more experience, you know," he replied in the same tone. "So I suggest we take it at our own pace. And I believe you need a little gentleness. So let me guide you, if you allow me." 

Crowley nodded, and Aziraphale took his hands and led him to a corner of the room covered with rugs and floor cushions. They both sat down, and the Emperor began to stroke his hair, as he was so accustomed to doing. The Celt relaxed even more than he thought possible, and was rewarded with Aziraphale's lips on his once more.

"It's perfect, Crowley. You're perfect," he whispered between kisses. "Relax, my sweetheart, that's all I ask of you. Can you do this for me?”

"Yes," he said with a whisper, closing his eyes, free of all tension.

He felt the Emperor gently lay him down, careful to place a pillow behind his head. The attention made him giggle, which was quickly interrupted by full lips on his Adam's apple. His throat could only emit a small whimper of delight that echoed throughout the room.

"Such sweet music to my ears," purred Aziraphale. "What else can I do to keep you singing?"

More of those devastating compliments. Crowley sensed that, little by little, he was losing control of his body, reduced to a silhouette seeking only friction, yearning for pleasure. His arousal was already half-hard, and his state did not improve when the Emperor continued to devour his throat whilst placing his hands on his chest. A long chill ran down his spine when he bit his neck softly, and his chest twitched as his fingers gently traced small circles around his nipples. Fuck, since when had he become so sensitive? Was it normal to be in such a state over so little, or was the gladiator so desperate to be touched that anything would satisfy him?

Aziraphale was so slow, so patient in his movements that they were almost unbearable. But oh, how enjoyable that agony was! Crowley had never experienced such sensations, even alone with his most unspeakable fantasies. He finally understood what it meant to make love. Every gesture, with the specific aim of giving pleasure to the other, of making him moan with ecstasy, increasing the tension between the couple and bringing them closer and closer to their culmination. As heat spread through the gladiator's entire being, the Emperor's hands slid down his waist to grasp his hips, and his moist lips settled on his heaving chest.

Then Crowley decided to cautiously approach his hands to his Emperor with one request: "May I?"

"Of course, my dear."

He wrapped his arms around him. He could feel all his strength beneath his clothes, hidden by his plump curves, but also all his kindness conveyed by his gestures. Crowley pulled his Emperor's body closer to his own and wrapped his legs around him, craving even more contact. Aziraphale's toga was incredibly smooth, and the pressure of their intertwined bodies felt so comforting. The blond's stomach rose and fell slowly against his, silently guiding him to follow the same pace with his own breath. He could feel his hardness pressing against his, which made him smile. I can please my Emperor too. 

Aziraphale's breath was warm against him, and he soon received more kisses on his throat, followed by the grip of his trembling hands on his hips. "How do you feel, my dear?" Aziraphale whispered in his ear.

"G-Good. So good, please, I want- I need more..."

Aziraphale raised his head with an amused expression, "In Latin, please. Unfortunately, I don't know your dialect well enough yet, and I don’t think this is the right time for a linguistic lesson." 

Crowley blushed and, instead of answering with words, pressed his pelvis against his, causing the Emperor to groan with pleasure. "Gods," Aziraphale gasped, tightening his grasp on his hips, struggling not to rub against him. "It's so good to have you this close. To have you all for myself.”

Crowley's throat clenched, as did his hands and legs around him. He tried to push himself even closer, but Aziraphale's grip pinned him softly against the cushions. 

"Eager?” he teased, looking just as desperate and needy for his body. 

He planted another series of kisses on his neck and chest, and with his thumbs, slowly rubbed his groin, eliciting a long moan from Crowley. His wet cock was so hard he could come just from that pressure alone. 

"A-Aziraphale, please," he gasped, closing his eyes to prevent his body from betraying him. "I won't last long if you keep this up-"

The Emperor eased the squeeze slightly, without releasing it entirely. "I would love to see that. But, you know how I like to take my time sometimes, savouring every second of a delicious treat. So, can you hold on a bit longer for me, my darling? Just long enough to satisfy my hedonistic nature. I know you can do it." 

“I-I-”

What if I failed? What if I disappointed him? What if, because of that, he no longer wanted me?

A worried spark flashed across Aziraphale's eyes as he noticed Crowley beginning to spiral. “Crowley, it's okay if you can't go on. Truly. I'm already so proud of you. Nothing can tarnish the image I have of you.” 

The Celt's lips trembled and he felt his eyes sting with new tears, “I just want to be good for you, Angel.” 

Aziraphale's gaze softened and he placed a kiss on his forehead. "You already are. You're so good to me. Utter perfection."

This helped to calm the gladiator's anxieties slightly.

"What do you need, Crowley?" whispered the Emperor. "I can give you anything. Please, tell me what you want." 

"Touch me more," he breathed. "I want to feel your hands on me. Your body against mine. Please. Touch me. I-I can't wait any longer." 

"Anything you want, darling." 

Slowly, too slowly, the blond lifted the bottom of his toga and moved his hips closer to the Celt's, who shivered again when their cocks finally touched. Crowley felt sweat running down his neck as he desperately clung to his Emperor. Aziraphale guided the gladiator's hips in a devastating thrusting motion against him, and the gasps he let out only heightened Crowley's growing pleasure. It was slow, exhilarating, and each stroke made the Celt more and more craving, losing control of himself. 

Above him, Aziraphale's body was tense, fighting to keep up the unbearable pace. When he spoke of gentleness, he meant it, and it was undoubtedly far more devastating than giving free rein to his wildest urges. Each movement was greeted with ever-increasing avidity, Crowley's body screaming to go faster, harder.

The Celt managed to keep up the cadence for several long minutes, but soon his greed prevailed and he found himself accelerating the rhythm, moving his hips higher, further, seeking ever more friction, ever more connection, chasing his pleasure. Aziraphale continued to hold him steadily, guiding their gestures, whispering praise and sweet nothings.

"Oh, you're doing so well, my darling," Aziraphale said in a trembling voice tinged with wonder. "You're so good, so perfect... give me more, please, keep going for me."

All his life, Crowley had dreamed of this kind of attention. All his life, his battered body had dreamed of caresses and kisses. It had taken him a lifetime to meet this man, his soft Emperor. It had taken him a lifetime for someone to deign offering him love. And he couldn't have dreamed of anyone more perfect than Aziraphale. He held him with such adoration, such devotion, that Crowley could do nothing but let himself be carried away by all that love, until tears streamed down his cheeks once more, until all he could do was sobbing passionately and whimpering desperately. 

I love you.

No, he wasn't allowed to express that. He was the Emperor of Rome, for heaven's sake! 

I love you. 

I love you, I love you, I love you...

“A-Angel...", he managed to say, burying his head in the crook of his neck. “C-Close…”

“You're doing beautifully, my sweetheart, my brave warrior,” breathed Aziraphale, caressing his sides. “Carry on, darling. Indulge yourself, I've got you. You're in safe hands, my love.”

My love.

“F-Fuck…”

One of Aziraphale's hands slid down to his aching cock and wrapped around it completely. His warm palm applied just the right amount of pressure, neither too loose nor too tight, and his thumb massaged his wet tip.

Another shout echoed through the room, and the gladiator threw his head back onto the cushions, breathing erratically, his loins moving of their own accord, chasing the moment when his boiling body would release all its pressure.

"Just like that, Crowley," Aziraphale said, beginning to move back and forth, increasing his speed. "You're so beautiful. Keep going, you're almost there. Show me how your body unleashes itself, my sweet, sweet thing. Show me how you spread your magnificent wings. Show me how much you love your Emperor. How much you love me.” 

That was all it took for Crowley to reach the stars. In a final gasp tinged with love and gratitude, his body arched, finally reaching its climax. Aziraphale continued his movements despite his seed spilling onto his hand and toga, draining the gladiator's energy second by second. Then he gradually slowed his movements until Crowley was overcome by a spasm, overstimulated. 

Oh fuck...

It had never been so good. So intense and so deliciously sensual. He was well aware that they had only scratched the surface of the myriad possibilities that sex had to offer, but he was so grateful for this moment, this first time he could experience such pleasure, that if he could only relive this experience for the rest of his life, he would welcome it with gladness. The gladiator's heart was still pounding, overwhelmed by this powerful sensation that had drained all his strength.

It was only then the Celt realised he had closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was greeted by the tender gaze of his angel. Crowley's throat was dry, his hips sore and his eyes still moist. He sniffed. 

"Hello, Crowley," smiled his Emperor. 

"Hello, Aziraphale." 

A soothing silence fell between them as they gazed languidly at each other, still reeling from what had just happened. Then, only when Crowley had fully regained his composure a thought hit him. It wasn't over. His eyes fell on Aziraphale's lower body, which was also waiting for its turn to release. The Celt instinctively licked his lips, ready for what was to come, which did not fail to attract the Emperor's attention, who began to blush furiously. 

"I can..."

"No," Aziraphale cut him off calmly. "There's no need."

"B-But..."

"I did this for you, and only you, my dear. I expect nothing in return." 

How can I be good to you if I can't make you feel that way? If I can't offer you even a fraction of what I've experienced in your hands?

Aziraphale finally let go of the gladiator's battered hip and took his face in his hands. Then he placed a light kiss on his lips. "I can handle this, sweetheart. Really." 

Crowley pursed his lips and, deciding it was pointless to argue with the most powerful man in the world, nodded obediently. "Let me tempt you with a bath, then?" he said with a sly smile, his eyes betraying his genuine admiration.

"On condition I can wash your lovely hair," replied the Emperor, tucking a strand behind his ear. "And that I may once again devote myself to my magnificent warrior." 

"Anything you want, Angel.” 

Aziraphale dipped one of his feet in the water and, judging the temperature to be perfect, removed his toga to immerse himself. Slowly, the perfumed water rose to his waist and he sat down on one of the steps of the bath, tirelessly replaying the sight of his gladiator chasing his pleasure between his hands. He never would have imagined that they would go that far. For the Emperor, this kind of scene was just a sweet fantasy jealously kept between him and his sheets. And yet...

Aziraphale began to chuckle softly, as if released from a tension he had been carrying on his shoulders for too long. Truth be told, the Emperor had never really been interested in sex; he even believed himself to be insensitive to it after a few unsuccessful attempts with suitors. But when Crowley had entered his life months ago, he had begun to dream about him more and more often. At first, it was just timid hugs and hesitant caresses, but these quickly turned into languid kisses and sensual embraces, leaving the Emperor alone in a cold bed in the morning, with only his wandering hand for company. During these moments, he longed to have the Celt between his legs, his lithe spine arching in response to the ecstasy of his warm thighs. Desperately calling out his name with every thrust and...

"What are you thinking about?" asked Crowley, his eyes sparkling as he noticed him unconsciously caressing his chest.

"You, of course," Aziraphale whispered, sounding like it was the most natural thing to say. 

The Celt gave him one of his most magnificent muffled growls, which caught the Emperor's attention, not wanting to miss his flushed expression for anything in the world. But... his eyes were drawn to something other than his crimson face. Something that should not exist on his already abused skin.

"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, horrified by the red marks on his hips. "Forgive me!" How had he dared to hurt his beautiful gladiator in the heat of passion? It was simply unacceptable! He felt tears welling up in his eyes as the Celt lowered his gaze to look at the red marks, his face suddenly impassive. 

"I-I'm so sorry!" pleaded the Emperor. "I didn't mean to hurt you! I- I'm sorry, my dear. I-” He had sworn never to hurt him! To protect him! Never to mark his precious skin!

Crowley remained silent, his eyes fixed on his new bruises. Yet he did not seem upset. Just... contemplative. He gently ran his fingertips over his new wounds.

"I'll never do that to you again," Aziraphale uttered, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. "I... I won't touch you like that anymore. You have my promise." 

His attention still fixed on his hips, the Celt murmured in a completely lost tone, "Is it normal that... that I want to keep them?”

Aziraphale's stomach twisted. Oh... of course such a thing would make him doubtful, he who had only known blows. The Emperor swallowed, taking special care in his choice of words, while striving not to weep. "Every mark is a memory. And if... if the memory is sweet, it's perfectly natural to want it to remain.”

Crowley ran his hands along his hips again, examining them reverently. "They remind me that... that I belong to you. And I like that. If it is right to think so." 

The Celt finally raised his honey eyes to the Emperor and, seeing his tears, let out an 'Oh...' before suddenly stepping forward towards the bath and kneeling at its edge to be at Aziraphale's height. 

"You may think that way," confirmed the blond man after stifling a sob. "And... I also like the idea that you are mine. As much as I am yours."

"Oh, Aziraphale…”

Crowley shyly reached out his hand to caress his cheek. It certainly shouldn't be up to him to reassure him. And yet... Aziraphale needed it. 

"It's nothing. I'm fine, it's just that it's... unusual. But then again, everything we've just done is unusual for me. And I enjoyed every bit."

The Emperor placed his palm on his. "You mean so much to me. I would go mad at the thought of you suffering in my company, dearest." 

Crowley gave him a fond smile. "Even if you try, you won't succeed." 

He let go of his cheek and sat on the edge of the bath, his feet dangling in the water. Aziraphale absentmindedly massaged his knees. "Perhaps I should have communicated better," he muttered, half to himself. "I should have asked you more specifically what I could and couldn't do to you. I apologise for that." 

"Hey. You were perfect, Aziraphale. I loved every second of it. And you did communicate. You made me feel at ease and told me from the start that we could stop at any time. I love your strength and your gentleness. I love how you took me and the things you whispered in my ear. I loved everything about that."

Flattered and reassured, the Emperor let out a satisfied little ‘hmm’. He too had loved seeing him writhe between his hands, and he had savoured every breath, every little cry escaping from his throat.

"You deserve only the best, Crowley. I only hope I am worthy."

"You are." 

On that note, Crowley finally joined him in the bath and pressed himself against him, his long arms wrapping around his shoulders. "You are, Aziraphale." 

The Emperor carefully rested his arms around his waist. He wanted to kiss him again, but was that right? Wasn't this just a game, a way to tantalise his senses? He wanted there to be more, but he didn't yet know what his gladiator sought in his company. 

So he would wait. After all, there was no rush, and perhaps he would manage to crack his brave warrior's shell a little more and find his way into his chest?

I love you.

Oh, I love you so much, my love.