Work Text:
As they had travelled north, the world seemed to loosen itself from the grip of clocks and timetables, each mile carrying them further from motorways and city streets and all the innumerable obligations that had governed so much of their lives, until at last the roads narrowed into rivers of grey winding between fields of ripening barley and drystone walls overtaken by moss. The landscape unfolded around them with the confidence of a place that had existed exactly as it was long before either of them had been born, and would continue long after they were gone.
The village Anthony had grown up in was made up of a handful of stone cottages gathered around a small green, with smoke-blue slate roofs and quaint window boxes spilling over with geraniums and trailing ivy. The church spire rose modestly above the rowan trees. Beyond the village, the road climbed gently through rolling countryside, past fields scattered with sheep, past ancient stone walls, and finally around a bend bordered by foxgloves that nodded in the breeze.
His childhood home was a sprawling stone farmhouse, its walls weathered to a warm honey-grey by generations of wind and rain, climbing roses scaling one side in a riot of cream and blush pink, lavender spilling untidily along the garden paths. The place wore age comfortably, he thought, not as a burden but as an honour.
The garden beyond it seemed less planted than persuaded into existence over decades of affection; winding borders overflowing with delphiniums and wild roses, old apple trees heavy with fruit, bees drifting lazily from bloom to bloom beneath the low hum of summer afternoon. And for today, strings of tiny lanterns had already been hung between branches, white chairs arranged upon the grass.
The ceremony was taking place beneath the largest of the apple trees, the undisputed monarch of the garden, the one marked lovingly with Anthony's parents’ initials when sixty years earlier they had stood in this exact spot and promised each other a lifetime. His father was a tall man just as he himself was, with sparkling eyes and a wicked sense of humour. His mother was smaller but by no means lesser, five foot one of concentrated personality; sharp tongued, quick witted, and unwilling to tolerate foolishness from anyone unfortunate enough to wander into her vicinity. They both swore a lot, but they also meant well. Anthony felt they were the kindest people on Earth, barring possibly his Asa.
Anthony stood beneath the apple tree with his hands firmly behind his back lest he began to play with his sporran in nervous agitation. His kilt was dark charcoal and wine-red woven together in a tartan designed specifically for the occasion. His jacket was tailored to perfection, and the silver of his sgian-dubh flashed briefly against the wool of his kilt hose.
He looked out towards the small gathering of his closest friends and family, grateful that they had made the journey up to Perthshire without too much of a grumble.
Derek was sitting with Anthony's parents in the front row, apparently deep in conversation. His father was gesturing animatedly, undoubtedly halfway through a story that had become significantly less truthful than when it had begun, whilst his mother interjected every few sentences with corrections. He thought of Asa, of the photographs that stood on shelves throughout the bookshop and his home, the way Asa still spoke about their parents—not with fresh grief anymore, but with enduring love. They had been gone for several years now, and Derek had stepped into some of that empty space. Seeing him there, laughing and at ease with his own parents, made his heart sing.
Muriel and Erik were dressed in matching outfits, the colours complementing one another perfectly. Muriel's expression suggested they were only moments away from tears, though to be fair, Muriel's expression had suggested that since breakfast. Erik sat beside them looking equally emotional, though he appeared determined to maintain some degree of composure.
Mrs Sandwich was wearing a hat that could easily have possessed its own atmosphere; it rose magnificently above her head, adorned with enough silk flowers, ribbons, feathers, and inexplicable decorative flourishes to constitute a small ecosystem. Anthony was reasonably certain several birds could have nested comfortably inside it.
Near the tree stood Mr Arnold. A keyboard had been set up beside him, along with a small speaker discreetly concealed amongst the flowerbeds. His fingers rested lightly above the keys, ready and waiting.
To Anthony's left stood Adam, their ringbearer, and the other his side, stood Joshua, who had, upon discovering that neither Anthony nor Asa particularly wanted a large ceremony, immediately announced that he would officiate it himself. Anthony had assumed this was a joke, until three weeks later when Joshua had presented documentation proving that he was, in fact, legally ordained, for the specific purpose of marrying them. The entire process had apparently taken less time than assembling flat-pack furniture.
There was something strangely comforting about being surrounded by people who loved you enough to travel halfway across the country, cry openly in public, obtain legal qualifications in your honour, and stand beside you while your entire life changed shape.
When the back door to the house finally opened, a hush fell over everyone. Heads turned, and Anthony's breath caught somewhere in his throat.
There was Asa, steadily walking towards the apple tree, in a suit that made them look as though they were stepping out of a memory, a dream, something Anthony could barely remember but impossibly knew he knew. It was beautifully tailored ivory wool, cut in a style more at home in Edwardian times, with a cream waistcoat beneath and a pale tartan bow tie sitting neatly at his throat. The jacket was structured but soft, elegant without being ostentatious, the sort of thing that suggested someone who valued craftsmanship over spectacle.
The gold chain of their pocket watch gleamed faintly against the waistcoat, disappearing into the pocket where the watch itself rested. Their hair had been carefully combed that morning, swooping into an elegant wave. Sunlight caught against it, turning the edges almost gold. They looked—
Anthony struggled to find a word sufficient for the occasion. Handsome felt inadequate. Beautiful felt too simple.
They looked like an angel.
Asa paused briefly at the top of the path, eyes taking in everything laid out before them, before their eyes found Anthony's. The entire world seemed to contract; Anthony became aware of absolutely nothing else. Not the guests, not the birdsong, not even his own pulse hammering somewhere near his ears. Only Asa.
Slowly, Asa made their way towards him, and Anthony, who had spent an entire lifetime studying the stars and galaxies and the incomprehensible vastness of the universe, found himself thinking that there was not a single celestial phenomenon in existence capable of competing with the sight of Asa Fell walking towards him through a Scottish garden in summer.
Joshua waited until Asa reached the shade of the apple tree before speaking. Anthony and Asa stood facing one another, close enough to touch, close enough for Anthony to see the wobbly smile threatening the corners of Asa's mouth. Joshua glanced between them, then began.
"Human beings spend a great deal of time searching for meaning. For purpose. For belonging. We look for people who make us feel understood, people who make us feel safe, people who make life richer simply by existing within it.” He gestured to the both of them with outstretched palms. "Every now and then, if we're very fortunate, we find them.”
The breeze stirred the apple leaves overhead and sunlight shifted across the grass. Joshua turned towards Asa. "Asa, if you'd like to speak your promises?”
Asa nodded, though the motion was small and visibly unsteady. Their fingers disappeared into the breast pocket of their ivory waistcoat and emerged with a folded piece of paper, softened at the creases from having been opened and closed countless times over the preceding weeks. Anthony had seen them carrying it everywhere. On the kitchen table, beside the bed once tucked into the pages of a novel, as though the vows themselves had become a treasured bookmark. For a moment, Asa simply held the paper. Their gaze dropped to it. Lifted to Anthony. Dropped again.
Then they drew a slow breath, and began.
“I've spent most of my life surrounded by books. Thousands of them, really." A few guests laughed knowingly. "As a bookseller, and before that a teacher, I've spent years encouraging people to read them. Recommending them. Discussing them. Arguing about them. And one thing I've learned is that every truly wonderful book changes the person reading it.”
Their eyes lifted and met his, and Anthony felt the breath leave his lungs. The sunlight filtering through the leaves above had caught in Asa's eyes, turning them into something vast and shifting, storm-grey threaded through with blue. Tears already shimmered there, gathering along their lower lashes like seawater beneath a darkening horizon.
Beautiful.
"You can finish the final page, place it back on the shelf, and continue living exactly as you did before.” They continued, voice audibly affected. “But somehow you don't. Sometime later you realise you've carried part of it with you; a phrase, an idea, a character, even a way of looking at the world. I think I believed, before I met you, that by fifty-three, one ought to have a reasonable understanding of how one's story is going. As it turns out, I was completely mistaken.”
Anthony swallowed hard; his throat felt impossibly tight. Across the front row, Muriel was already crying and Anthony's mother quietly handed them a handkerchief.
"I wasn't looking for a new chapter. I certainly wasn't expecting an entirely new book.” Asa’s voice caught on the last word and they had to take another steadying breath. "But then there you were. The thing about books is that they don't promise certainty; they promise adventure, companionship, the knowledge that you never have to move onto the next chapter alone.”
They reached behind Anthony now, threading their fingers between his and bringing their hands between them. "So that is what I promise you today. I promise to share every chapter that remains. I promise to be honest. I promise to listen. And I promise that however many pages we have left, however long or short the story may be, every single one of them will be better because you're in it. I love you, my comet.”
Anthony stared at them, at the tears on their cheeks, at the smile dappling their cheeks. At the person he was about to marry. The person he loved with every atom of his being.
Awestruck did not begin to cover it; words seemed hopelessly inadequate things. There was nothing he could possibly say that would measure up to what Asa had just given him. So instead, he lifted their joined hands, brought Asa's knuckles gently to his lips, and pressed a kiss there, closing his eyes.
A gentle clearing of a throat sounded nearby, then another—Anthony ignored both, but then a third, more pointed followed. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes to find Joshua was watching him, deeply amused.
"That was absolutely beautiful, Asa,” Joshua smiled warmly. “Now, Anthony, if you'd like to declare your promises?”
“Ngh, yeah, right…” he blinked several times, patting his own breast pocket in a sudden nervous burst of energy. Asa laughed gently.
“Whenever you're ready,” Joshua said.
"I..." The single syllable emerged fractured, breaking apart somewhere between his chest and his throat. A nervous laugh followed—not the smooth, self-assured sort he employed in lecture halls when students asked impossible questions, nor the dry, teasing laugh Asa knew so well, but something altogether more helpless.
With a hand that seemed no longer entirely under his command, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew the folded sheets of paper he had spent weeks revising, agonising over, rewriting, crossing out, rewriting again, only to discover that none of those preparations had accounted for the reality of standing here beneath the old apple tree with sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead and Asa Fell looking at him as though he had personally hung every star in the sky.
The pages trembled visibly, and he hated that everyone could probably see it. He hated even more that he couldn't stop it, that his heart seemed determined to escape through his ribcage. He cleared his throat.
It was reading, that was all. Reading words from a page. He had stood before hundreds of people before, thousands, perhaps. He had delivered lectures in packed auditoriums, presented research to rooms filled with distinguished academics who specialised in dismantling one another's arguments for sport. He had defended doctoral work, participated in debates, given interviews.
"I…” he tried again. Drawing a slow breath, he tried again. "Okay, so…I had intended to write something romantic." A smile flickered across his face despite himself. "The problem is that I'm an astrophysicist, which means that when confronted with overwhelming emotion, my first instinct is to explain it using a graph, or a theory, or several hundred years of peer-reviewed research.”
Laughter drifted through the garden, bolstering him a little.
"So, I'm afraid you're getting dark energy.” He flicked his eyes to Asa’s, seeing the amusement and fondness shining from them. It made him braver. "One of the strangest discoveries in modern astronomy is that the universe is expanding faster than it should be. Everything we thought we understood suggested one outcome, reality gave us another. And somewhere in the middle of all that confusion, scientists realised there must be something else at work; something invisible and powerful enough to change the future of the entire cosmos. We call it dark energy. Which, admittedly, sounds much cooler than 'we have absolutely no idea what's going on.'”
There was more laughter from their loved ones, whether because of his little joke or because he was so typically giving a lecture in place of wedding vows, he couldn't tell. All that mattered was the look on Asa's face, the soft wonder of it. The absolute, undivided attention—Anthony could have been standing before a room of thousands and he still would only have seen that.
"The truth is that we still don't fully understand it, we only know it's there because of what it does, because of the way it changes everything around it. And I keep coming back to that whenever I try to explain what these last two years have meant to me.”
Asa let out a soft noise at that, the hand in Anthony's squeezing lightly.
"I wasn't looking for this. I wasn't expecting this." The paper shook in his free hand. “At our age, most people think they've got a fairly good idea of how the rest of their lives are going to go. The shape of it, the limits of it, the possibilities.” He paused, and looked directly at Asa. "Then I walked into your bookshop and you completely derailed my predictions. Much like with dark energy, I find it remarkably difficult to explain exactly how you managed it."
The tears he'd been holding at bay gathered stubbornly at the corners of his eyes, blurring the edges of the page until the words seemed to float upon water.
"I only know that you did. You expanded everything. The shape of my life remained recognisably my own, but somehow it became wider, brighter, more full of things I hadn't thought to hope for."
Anthony's voice wavered, and Asa swiped a comforting, encouraging thumb against his.
"Dark energy is thought to make up nearly seventy percent of the universe, yet it remains invisible." A tear slipped down his cheek. "I think love can be rather like that.”
Anthony lowered the pages slightly. This part no longer required reading. He had memorised it weeks ago, but more than that, it felt carved somewhere deep inside him; less like prepared vows and more like truths he had been carrying for years without ever finding the language to express them.
"So today, Asa, I promise to keep loving you. I promise to keep making our universe larger. I promise to keep finding new things to discover with you.”
And now his voice had completely gone, vision blurred as he held back from sobbing openly. "I promise to remain curious about you, even when we're old and grey and arguing over whose turn it is to make tea. "I promise that whatever force governs the expansion of the cosmos, whatever mysteries remain hidden amongst the stars, nothing will ever be more extraordinary to me than the fact that, somehow, against impossible odds, I found you.”
For a moment, his voice caught on the lump in his throat and he wasn't entirely sure he could continue. Then Asa smiled. Not the smile he gave customers wandering into the bookshop. Not the smile he wore for friends, or former pupils, or strangers in need of kindness. His smile. The one Anthony had fallen in love with. The one that had somehow become synonymous with home. Suddenly the words were there again.
"My favourite mystery." His voice was barely more than a whisper, now. "My favourite discovery."
Tears slid silently down Asa's cheeks.
“My favourite part of the universe." Anthony felt his chest ache beneath the weight of loving someone this much. Then he smiled, the smile reserved entirely for Asa, and said the only words that truly mattered. "I love you, angel.”
For a few moments after Anthony finished speaking, nobody seemed entirely certain what to do. And then Asa sniffled and playfully swatted at his chest. “Not romantic? I beg to differ, you foul fiend.”
After that, the rings were exchanged and their promises sealed with watery smiles and tearful laughter. When Joshua pronounced them married, Anthony scarcely heard the words themselves, only the sound of cheering. Only felt the sensation of Asa's hands finding his face, the delicateness of the kiss that followed.
The kiss was soft at first, reverent, a promise rather than a performance. Their foreheads brushed, noses bumping gently together as laughter escaped both of them. Anthony cupped Asa's cheek, feeling the warmth of their skin beneath his palm, feeling the slight shake of their shoulders as emotion threatened to overwhelm them both.
The applause that erupted afterwards was thunderous.
By the time evening began settling softly across the Perthshire hills, the garden had transformed. The fairy lights blanketed the lawn like captured starlight, and the buffet tables had been moved aside to make space for dancing, their surfaces still scattered with abandoned wine glasses and crumbs from the wedding cake. The air smelled of roses, summer earth, and candle wax, and the sky overhead had begun its surrender to twilight.
Anthony was swaying side to side beneath the apple trees with his spouse in his arms. His spouse. Asa Fell-Crowley, dancing gently with Anthony J Crowley-Fell. It scarcely seemed real.
From Mr Arnold’s fingertips lilted a softer version of Time After Time; their song, the melody so stripped back it felt almost fragile. Asa's hand rested against his shoulder and Anthony's settled comfortably at their waist. Their wedding bands caught the lights whenever they moved, brief flashes of gold glimmering between them.
Eventually, the guests began drifting towards the makeshift dance floor. As the night wore on, the garden filled with laughter and music and the cheerful disorder that accompanies every truly successful celebration. Glasses were refilled before they were empty, stories grew steadily less accurate with every tipsy retelling, and Erik persuaded Mr Arnold to play requests. Joshua attempted dancing barefoot on the grass and immediately regretted it.
The fairy lights glowed brighter as darkness settled properly over the hills, turning the orchard into something almost enchanted, whilst above them the stars emerged in their thousands, scattered across the velvet sky like spilled salt.
Anthony danced with his mother, Asa danced with Derek. Muriel danced with practically everyone. At one point Anthony found himself dragged into a wildly enthusiastic circle involving Joshua, Erik, Mrs Sandwich and three bottles of wine, none of which ended with anyone retaining much dignity.
It was perfect. Messy and loud and utterly perfect.
The bed and breakfast was hardly glamorous. It sat on a quiet lane a short drive from the airport, tucked between rolling fields and a cluster of cottages. The carpets were patterned in a way that had probably been fashionable twenty years ago, the wallpaper featured an alarming quantity of flowers, and there was a small sign in the bathroom politely requesting that guests refrain from flushing anything ‘unusual’. Anthony somehow loved its charm.
Possibly because he was slightly drunk.
Possibly because Asa was his spouse.
Either way, the door had barely clicked shut behind them before they both dissolved into each other, tongues caressing tongues and hands exploring everywhere.
Even now, after two years together, after a house purchase and countless shared breakfasts and evenings spent tangled together on the sofa, after holidays and arguments and reconciliations and all the thousand tiny domestic moments that formed the architecture of a life, there remained something utterly miraculous about Asa. And now here they were, married. The person who had looked at every strange, complicated, uncertain corner of him and decided to stay. To love him, encourage him, give him the courage to become more fully himself than he had ever imagined possible.
"Mr Crowley-Fell,” Asa murmured against his mouth, shifting his thoughts back to the present.
“Mmm, Mx Fell-Crowley,” Anthony countered, suckling a generous mouthful of their throat until it flushed red, capillaries bursting like the first bloom of spring.
Asa moaned wantonly as they began unfastening their jacket. Soon they were helping one another out of wedding clothes; buttons almost popped, sleeves getting tangled—at one point, Anthony became trapped halfway out of his waistcoat and had to be rescued. By the time they were finished, discarded garments lay draped across chairs, hanging over bedposts and abandoned wherever they happened to fall, aside from the sgian-dubh, which was removed with a little more care.
Frantic, messy kisses and swallowed down groans progressed into cries of pure pleasure once Asa seated themselves atop Anthony's long cock, riding him with their head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut. Anthony groped at their breasts, tickling at chest hair and thumbing at sensitive nipples until Asa was screaming his name over and over, their own cock spurting thick ropes of come across his stomach.
Clumsily, Anthony flipped them over, smearing the sticky mess between their bodies and hiking one of Asa’s thighs up over his shoulder has he drove into them fiercely, chasing his own release, growling and biting down on their tendon when he finally did crest that wave of complete and utter bliss.
Too wine-soaked to care, they fell asleep exactly like that; fluids drying and a soft cock slipping from a tender hole as they drifted into dreams of more sex, more love, more of this beautiful thing they had made together.
Tomorrow would bring airports and passports and departures and the beginning of a honeymoon.
Tonight belonged only to them.
~*~*~*~*~
Their villa sat upon a hillside outside Chania, whitewashed walls dazzling beneath the Cretan sun, its terraces tumbling towards the sea in a cascade of stone, bougainvillea and fragrant herbs. Olive trees silvered in the breeze beyond the garden walls. Cicadas sang from dawn until dusk. The swimming pool shimmered endlessly, a sheet of liquid sapphire reflecting the cloudless sky.
Most mornings began slowly, as neither of them possessed the slightest desire to set alarms. They woke when they woke, tangled amongst cool linen sheets with sunlight spilling across the room and distant church bells drifting faintly through open windows. Anthony would lie there for a while, watching dust motes dance through shafts of gold and listening to Asa breathe beside him. His spouse.
Even now, the word retained the ability to make something absurdly joyful unfurl inside his chest.
Eventually one of them would become hungry enough to justify movement—usually Asa. Breakfasts stretched languidly across entire mornings; fresh figs, thick Greek yoghurt drizzled with honey, still-warm bread, olives, tomatoes so sweet they scarcely seemed real, and coffee consumed beneath a shaded pergola whilst swallows wheeled through the brilliant blue sky overhead.
Afterwards they would venture into Chania itself, and promptly disappear for hours. The old Venetian harbour became one of Asa's favourite places almost immediately; they wandered its winding streets in awe, drifting from one tiny bookshop to another with increasing delight whilst Anthony followed patiently behind, carrying an ever-growing collection of purchases.
"This is the last one." Asa would say this in every single store.
Anthony didn't care, he just loved watching them. Loved seeing their face illuminate when they discovered an unusual edition or some obscure local history text. Loved the way they held books like they were sacred, turning them over with gentle hands and the same expression Anthony imagined other people reserved for priceless works of art.
Occasionally Asa would glance up from a shelf to find Anthony simply watching, and smile. Every time, Anthony fell a little bit in love with them all over again.
The afternoons belonged largely to wandering around ancient ruins, museums and hidden churches. They found narrow alleyways spilling unexpectedly into sunlit squares fragrant with jasmine and citrus blossom.
The two of them had spent their entire careers teaching, explaining, encouraging curiosity in others, and now found themselves delightfully free to indulge their own. So, they read every plaque, every information board.
They would return to the villa sun-warmed and pleasantly exhausted, carrying fresh bread and local wine and ingredients purchased from tiny markets. Asa would disappear briefly to change, emerging in loose linen trousers and shirts that caught the sea breeze beautifully.
Anthony himself had, because of the loving encouragement of his spouse, begun to wear the things that made him feel the most himself—which oftentimes, made her feel more like herself. Nothing too drastic at first; painted nails, glittering rings, tiny hoops in his ears. Then, embroidered knee-length skirts and golden embellished wedged sandals, accentuating his smooth, shapely legs.
At night, they sat beside the pool beneath a sky crowded with stars. The heat lingered long after sunset, wrapping itself around the villa like silk. The scent of rosemary drifted on the breeze. Somewhere far below, the sea murmured against the shore. Anthony would lean back in his chair and point out constellations, Asa would listen attentively. They would then retire to their Queen-sized bed and make love; mostly involving Anthony driving tenderly into Asa, albeit one memorable folly on the balcony when Asa had the sudden urge to take, and had bent Anthony over the railing as they, well, railed him.
It was like living inside a dream of their own making.
On their last full day before the flight home, neither of them had felt particularly inclined to venture anywhere at all. For ten days they had wandered Chania's labyrinthine streets; today belonged to laziness. They had spent the morning drifting between the villa and the pool, reading intermittently and swimming whenever the heat became too persuasive to ignore. Lunch had stretched well into the afternoon, and afternoon had dissolved almost imperceptibly into evening.
Now the sun hung low above the horizon, gilding everything it touched. Asa occupied a sun lounger beneath the broad canvas shade of a parasol, one hand resting atop the book balanced against their chest. Having abandoned his own book entirely, Anthony sat on a towel on the floor at their side, still faintly damp from the pool, his ginger hair curling where water continued to cling stubbornly.
One of Asa's legs had found its way over his shoulder, and Anthony held it there possessively, arms looped around their calf as though somebody might attempt to steal it his cheek resting against warm skin. Occasionally, he pressed absent-minded kisses against the inside of their knee, and Asa's fingers drifted lazily through his damp hair. Nails scraped lightly against his scalp, and he couldn't help the tiny moan that slipped past his lips.
Asa knew what that did to him as surely as they knew what tugging on his strands would do, though they appeared not to have realised how quickly Anthony was melting into a puddle of lust by their side as they continued to read.
Heat was coiling low in his abdomen, spreading rapidly down his thighs as blood rushed southwards. It was incredible how virile he seemed to be around Asa—that, at fifty years old, he was able to produce an erection every twenty-four hours. They didn't have sex that frequently, they weren't quite so spritely, except for the past ten days when they had barely kept their hands off of each other.
By all biological logic, Anthony should not have been hard in his black swimming shorts right now. He ought to have exhausted himself days ago. And yet.
And yet, he found himself pressing more and more kisses to the leg on his shoulder, each more open-mouthed and wet than the last, teeth nibbling suggestively until finally, Asa put their book down and looked at him.
“What are you doing, darling?” They asked, voice a whisper.
Anthony didn't answer with words. He instead hauled himself up onto his knees, situating himself between their legs, mouthing now at the sinew of their thick, juicy thighs. Like him, they were only wearing a pair of swimming shorts, their voluptuous belly hanging over the waistband like a feast just waiting to be devoured. But Anthony had eyes for something else; something just as thick and delicious.
As his lips and teeth trailed upwards, Asa’s breathing became heavier, legs parting to give him space. Their hand found its way back into his hair and pulled, causing Anthony’s eyes to roll to the back of his head. He sucked in a breath, and then rewarded Asa with a kiss to their half-hard bulge.
“Dearest,” Asa breathed as Anthony put his lips over his clothed cock. “Oh, comet, I need you to tell me how to address you.”
He considered this as he gently bit at silvery stretch marks and tugged the waistband down. “Nghh…I don't mind. Dealer's choice.”
Asa’s cock bobbed a little as it was freed, though still not all the way ready. Anthony held out his tongue and let it rest heavily against it, groaning as he felt it fill rapidly.
“Ahh,” Asa bit his lip and used their other hand to cradle his jaw. “Good girl.”
Well, that did it. Anthony whimpered and closed his mouth around the flushed glans, lapping his tongue over the slit and frenulum as he suckled. He was planning to take his time with this, take his lover apart bit by bit until they were boneless and deeply satisfied. Only then would he consider his own aching length, already leaking beneath his shorts.
He adored the taste of Asa; clean, salt, fresh, musk. He adored, too, the feel of them stretching his lips as he slowly, oh-so slowly, swallowed them down to the root. Anthony had always possessed this uncanny ability to give head without gagging, almost as if he were a serpent opening its throat for prey thrice the size of his jaw.
As his nose huffed hot air into the light curls as the base of Asa’s cock, his spouse swore beneath their breath, the hand that had cradled his jaw this entire time squeezing lightly as though to feel themselves beneath the flesh of his cheeks. Then, that hand let go, and joined the other in Anthony's hair.
“You have a very special talent, my pretty wife,” Asa’s voice was deep and sultry, almost a growl. “Taking me so well.”
“Mmphf,” he applied suction before gliding back down the shaft, still at a languid pace, rubbing his tongue on the underside before swirling it around the tip once more. A fresh burst of Asa coated his taste buds, precome and saliva trickling down the back of his throat as he pressed forward once more.
“Stars,” Asa keened.
Anthony knew he had them now; he flattened his tongue on each glide downwards, sucked in his cheeks on every stroke back up, and made sure to groan indecently as the tip hit the very back of his throat. Never speeding up, never racing to the finish line, just a devastatingly thorough exploration of Asa’s cock. The pulsing vein on the left side, the lack of foreskin, removed for medical reasons, making each point of wet contact all the more sensitive. The way it jerked madly against his pallet when he took it in as deep as it could go and swallowed thickly.
It was this final trick that pushed Asa off the edge, his come filling Anthony’s mouth in decadently hot jets. He managed to swallow it down as he gently brought Asa down from the high, carefully slipping it from his aching jaw and kissing the softening tip gingerly.
“Anthony,” Asa huffed, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders and pulling him up onto the lounger as though terrified he might disappear. “Darling, oh, please let me give you something in return.”
They turned, presenting their wiggling rear, back arching. Anthony slithered behind them, yanking his own swimming shorts down just to the knees, just far enough to release his throbbing cock. He reached around Asa, into the bag of supplies, and clutched at a bottle of aftersun lotion. “M’gonna fuck those gorgeous thighs, angel.”
Any other time, he’d have plunged into Asa’s hole without a thought. But they’d been at this for days on end now, and he was vaguely aware of just how sore his poor spouse’s entrance must be, regardless of how loose it was. He couldn’t bear the thought of them struggling on the flight home, in pain and uncomfortable, reddened and lashed with tiny fissures.
“Oh, yes…” Asa lifted one leg, giving him access, still orgasm-drunk and high in a post-coital haze.
“Nnyeah,” Anthony slathered the lotion all over their inner thighs, then coated his length, practically hissing as his hand closed over the shaft. “I’ll mark you, make a complete mess of you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
When his spouse only answered with a firm grip of his arse cheek, pulling him closer still, Anthony chuckled and kissed the junction between their shoulder and neck, and slid his cock between their legs. Instantly, Asa clamped down, creating the perfect pressure, and Anthony couldn’t hold back from pounding relentlessly, chasing his pleasure animalistically. Every push forward, his glans pressed into the barrier of their ball sack, the base of their heavy cock; it was utterly divine. As he thrust vicariously, Asa encouraged with that hand on his arse, with filthy words from their tongue, by calling him their sweet boy, their perfect temptress. With an almighty roar, Anthony came, decorated Asa’s thighs and sun lounger in globs of his arousal.
Together, they groaned, older bodies voicing their collective objection to the chosen location with a chorus of protesting joints and stiff muscles. They stayed tangled together for a moment. Then, Anthony exhaled slowly, forehead resting briefly against Asa’s shoulder.
“Getting too old for poolside shags,” he observed, amusement thick in his voice.
Asa laughed, though the sound dissolved into a wince as they attempted to sit upright. “Oh, unquestionably.”
Anthony unfolded himself from the lounger with considerably less grace than he would have liked, every limb seeming to crack and complain as he stretched. “Listen to that—that's not a man standing up, that's a haunted ship settling in the harbour.”
As Asa snort-laughed, he bent to retrieve the towel from the floor, using it to clean himself up before passing it over to them. “Thank you, comet.”
“You’re welcome, angel,” Anthony replied as he lowered himself onto the edge of the sun lounger, the wicker creaking softly beneath his weight; his fingertips drifted across the sun-warmed, peach-soft skin of Asa’s exposed leg. “Are you…are you ready? To leave tomorrow, I mean.”
Asa did not answer immediately. Instead, they stared out across the villa’s infinity of blue and gold, where the pool’s glassy surface dissolved into the darker seam of the horizon beyond, and beyond that the sea itself stretched outward into night, inky black folding into deeper inky black, punctuated only by the tremulous starlight that broke and reformed upon the water in scattered constellations of silver.
“A part of me,” they said at last, their voice contemplative, “wants to barricade the gates and refuse.”
Anthony laughed.
"But," They clasped Anthony’s hand in theirs. “We get to go home. To our little cottage. To our friends in London. To Bentley!”
“Oh, can’t forget Bentley,” Anthony said at once, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I bet he’s absolutely seething at having been left behind for so long.”
“We’ll make it up to him with the juiciest, freshest mice the pet shop can supply,” Asa replied with solemn sincerity. “And… Anthony, my love,” they added, squeezing his hand firmly, gaze still lingering on the dark horizon where sea and sky blurred into one another, “we get to continue doing this. Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
“Every day,” he echoed back.
They stayed like that for a long while, hands entwined, the last warmth of the evening gently leaching away from the stones beneath them as night gathered itself more fully around the villa, unhurried and absolute. Above them, the stars burned on in their ancient, indifferent patterns, vast and untroubled in their distance; and yet, in spite of all that immeasurable expanse, Anthony found himself feeling neither small nor adrift, but instead impossibly anchored, as though every uncertain thread of his life had been drawn together and tied off here beneath the Cretan sky.