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    Summary

    He’s coaxed back to the present by Aziraphale opening his bluebird feather eyes, and they pierce into the demon’s candlelight irises like the coruscation of a lighthouse gleaming through hazy twilight.

    A thousand unspoken poems written in the dead of night throughout countless decades pass between their gazes and dance along the luminosity.

    The angel smiles, and Crowley’s knees suddenly itch— no, they burn with the intense desire to kneel.

    *

    Every year, Aziraphale takes on the role as bishop during Advent; he's taken this time to perfect a Christmas Eve ritual dedicated to the deity he reveres most in his heart.

    Christmas Eve sacrilege/blasphemy fic featuring reverent, worshipful language and sex, as well as some kinky Blessed wax play.

    Language:
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