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On the morning after they were wed in a wild garden overlooking the sea, Crowley woke with a tight-fisted cramp in his belly and the stickiness of wet crimson between his thighs. Timing had always been a bit of a cosmic running joke in the grand scheme of his existence, but getting your bloody period on the first full day of your honeymoon was another racket entirely.
“At least you weren’t the one wearing white,” Aziraphale said sheepishly, as he raised the blankets to pass Crowley a hot water bottle. They were staying in a furnished villa in the rolling Italian countryside, a far cry from the bookshop flat in Soho. Terracotta floors with arched windows, cold as a banshee’s fanny before the furnace kicked in, but with a big fluffy bed and a soaking tub in the ensuite that Crowley figured were the only necessities required for two old lovebirds, freshly married.
“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled, hardly more than two golden eyes and a shock of ginger hair poking over the duvet. “You must’ve gone and knocked something loose in my downstairs plumbing last night.”
“Are you lodging a formal complaint?” Aziraphale asked, arching a fine brow.
“No, I didn’t say that,” Crowley said, accepting the steaming cup of tea the angel next passed into his hands. Aziraphale was sitting nursemaid vigil on the edge of the bed in his dressing gown, a picturesque model of divinity in the morning light compared to Crowley’s malaised corporation. “Nghh, these sodding cramps are the real murderer.”
“What can I do to help, darling?” Aziraphale asked, petting one bony hip under the blankets. Crowley had already scuttled off to the loo for a quick wash and a change of knickers, but the idea of sitting around all day in a blessed maxi pad was drastically less appealing than the romantic getaway he’d originally envisioned. But if there was anything a retired demon was good at doing, it was making a damn fine limoncello with the world’s shittiest lemons, and he had all the sweetness he could ask for sitting at his fingertips.
Crowley took a sip of tea and blinked hopefully. “Well, we did promise to take care of each other through eternal sickness and health n’all that business,” he said. “You may have to soothe what ails me with the same approach. Stretch out the sore muscles to work through the pains, y’know.”
Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed a fraction as his lips twitched in amusement. “I wouldn’t want to go and irritate anything, dear—especially when you’re already in a state of discomfort.”
“Consider it your spousal duty, fulfilled by extra ssspecial request,” Crowley countered, tapping wily fingers on his teacup. Then a nervous lick of doubt ran down his spine when he realized what he was asking of the world’s oldest fussbucket. “But if all the blood makes you squeamish, I mean, of course I’d understand,” he rambled. “Not everybody is into that sort of thing when it makes a huge faffing mess—”
Aziraphale gently cut him off with a squeeze of his hand. “In what world do you think a bit of menstruation, from you of all people, would dissuade me from making love to my new husband?”
Crowley gulped down a scalding mouthful of tea and winced. “S’not exactly a sexy thing to have on a honeymoon, is it,” he croaked. Whenever Aziraphale went and said things like ‘making love’ something in his belly would somersault like Flipper the dolphin on steroids. “But if you’re offering, I mean…” he trailed off, doing an impressively suggestive flourish with his brows.
“You old rascal,” Aziraphale said, leaning over to press a kiss near the corner of Crowley’s mouth. He carefully took the demon’s tea and set it upon a crocheted doily on the nightstand. “You don’t have to tempt me into loving you, you know. I find it comes rather naturally.”
“You’re buttering me up like a crumpet, aren’t you,” Crowley growled, making sure to lower his lashes for effect. His ruddy uterus constricted enough to make his back ache and he might’ve whimpered a bit out loud, but if he did, it was only his angel who’d ever know. “Have me some more, then. Your brand new bride, blood and all.”
Aziraphale stood and peeled the duvet back to remove the hot water bottle with a tidy flourish. “I think I shall,” he said, promptly divesting himself of his robe and pyjamas to climb back into bed. A snap of his fingers arranged a plush layer of something fresh and absorbent under Crowley’s bottom and, despite the cramping, the demon felt his cunt give a tingly twinge of anticipation.
His blood was humanly hot at his core, and when Aziraphale peeled his knickers away it glistened like a trickle of dark ruby between Crowley’s thighs.
“Oh, you poor dear,” the angel tutted as he splayed one hand below Crowley’s navel and then tenderly thumbed at the lowest point of the demon’s vulva with the other. His new golden wedding ring rested just to one side of Crowley’s hip bone, burning like a benevolent brand. “Where does it hurt most?”
Crowley shivered despite the heat radiating off his corporation and drew his heels up in the bed, widening the spread of his thighs. “Inside,” he hissed, throat already working up and down. “Where you can’t see it.”
“I thought as much,” Aziraphale said, and then pressed two fingers into the place where Crowley was bleeding, crooking them just right to sweetly stroke against the spongy spot behind the demon’s pubic bone. “Better?”
“Y-yeah,” Crowley managed, trying not to die of mortification and relief as a dribble of blood leaked out around his husband’s lovely fingers. “Needs to be deeper, angel. Please. And m’getting cold.”
Aziraphale nodded solemnly and withdrew his hand before crawling over to situate himself between Crowley’s thighs, loosely drawing up the duvet. “There now, dove, I think I have just the thing,” he murmured, coaxing another long hiss out of Crowley as he took his cock in hand and nudged the head against the demon’s hole. “Is this the remedy you requested?”
“Yes, you smarmy bast—” Crowley began to say, and then Aziraphale was hilted inside him in one smooth thrust, perfectly shaped and shockingly warm. The immediate relief of balmy heat nearly eclipsed the cramping in his uterus, and Crowley collapsed back further into the pillows, not realizing how rigid his vessel had been held before.
“Blimey,” he sighed, snuggling into the soft bed as Aziraphale feathered sweet kisses along his jaw and smoothed his hair as that benevolent heat radiated through his pelvis. “Wow. That’s perfect, yeah.”
“Do you need me to move at all?” Aziraphale asked, getting quite comfortable himself in Crowley’s arms as their chests and bellies married flush. “Just say when.”
Crowley shook his head as his eyelids began to droop. “Nothin’ fancy yet,” he mumbled, lazily petting between Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Maybe—mmm, be nice to rub myself off a bit.”
“Let me, love,” Aziraphale said, snaking a hand between their hips to brush a thumb over Crowley’s prick. “Here?”
“Yeah,” Crowley said, groaning as he felt Aziraphale thumb through some of the crimson wetness to start circling his clit. A low sound punched out of his lungs, feeling the solid heat soothe his achy core while his husband did frankly magical things with his fingers. The cramping began to subside, slowly but surely, and within just a minute or two Crowley was shuddering through an orgasm that had his belly and cunt clenching in tandem.
Aziraphale withdrew for only a moment, letting some of the heavier blood pass between them as Crowley’s body unfurled and let it trickle free. In spite of the small mess there was a cathartic niceness to it all, that cleansing release of pressure in his womb. Eager for more of the same, Crowley reached to pull Aziraphale back to where he belonged, balls-deep in the welcoming hull of his sore cunt.
“How are you faring, sweetheart,” Aziraphale asked, nuzzling Crowley’s cheek as he lazily rocked in the cradle of the demon’s hips. “A bit better, I hope?”
It felt wonderful to bask in the tender morning, and even better with each ardent press of the angel’s lips at Crowley’s brow, the bridge of his nose, the edge of his hairline. To be so loved and adored, as wretched as he felt. Despite the bleeding his body made him endure in this form and the evidence of that timeworn strike against humanity freely flowing between them.
Cramps be damned, Crowley could only grin. “Pretty bloody brilliant, all things considered,” he said, hooking an ankle over Aziraphale’s thigh as he stroked his cheek. “No pun intended. Thanks for the bedside service, angel.”
“Anything for my husband,” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley captured that final word from his mouth with a kiss before it could take wing, savoring its sweetness under his tongue in their world of endless delights. The finest of limoncellos, indeed.