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The sensation and state of unraveling isn’t one that Crowley is explicitly used to— not like this, anyway.
He wakes up grinding into his bed in a repeat of last night, fishnets still around his thighs and much of their tension lost from sleeping in them, his body pliant and hungry and liquid, seeking the solid form of another to put it back together after being so thoroughly undone.
Throughout his morning routine, Crowley can’t quite tie himself back up into order. He’s stuck in the dream of last night and the prospect of Aziraphale, an unlikely herald of euphoria Crowley never could have anticipated, and he rereads the texts between them over his coffee, before he showers, and again after.
Crowley has the day off, and it’s a struggle not to reach out to Aziraphale to share that information as an invitation. The truth is, Crowley had already been dying to get fucked even before their sexting session, but now he’s deliriously in need of it, there’s hardly anything else he can think of but the prospect of being held down by those big hands and pounded with that Godly cock until he blacks out. He doesn’t just want to get fucked, even— Crowley wants to be used, he wants to be overtaken and wrecked and ruined, and he has an inkling that Aziraphale might have the capacity to do just that to the level he’s always craved.
He wishes Aziraphale would just burst into his flat, stride into his room and pin him to his bed in order to fuck him brutally, with little to no conversation at all. Just a primal, instinctually animal exchange full of dominance and aggression, maybe even woven with a hint of that posh elegance that makes Crowley’s stomach flutter and his throat ache. He wants to be made into that fleshlight he mentioned to Aziraphale, he wants the objectification of being just a hole for someone else he can trust enough not to do anything truly insane to him.
He wonders if that’s a possibility, actually, as he lazily drags his hips over his comforter after he showers, falling victim to the seductive lure of his bed on a day when he’s got nothing to do, if Aziraphale would be interested in an arrangement of sorts, or if he’s simply looking for a one time hookup. Just how kinky is this mysterious dom, how far do his desires go and how dark? Does he have a lot of experience?
If Crowley had to guess, he’d say yes; there is something inherently domineering in Aziraphale, the type of something that you can’t just decide to be, and it’s cultivated, it’s been nourished. He knew what to say, how to say it and when; it couldn’t have been his first time handling a submissive.
Crowley has little to zero interest in a committed romantic relationship at the moment, but he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t want a consistent sexual one. It would be a delight to enter into some sort of power exchange with someone he likes without the emotional pressure of long term, monogamous commitment. He doesn’t really go in for that sort of thing, and he’s too old for games, but he can admit the draw of having someone in his life that he trusts and can submit to safely, he sees the pros of having a (perfect, blessed) cock to service at any time and a firm hand to guide him wherever he’s wanted.
By the time he’s finished and revisited this train of thought several times, Crowley is unraveling even more, fucking himself open with one of his favorite (i.e. biggest) cocks and crying into his pillow from the burning, expanding pleasure of it. It’s not the same, but it soothes enough of the emptiness he’s been dealing with for him to form some partially rational thought, at least.
He can’t just proposition Aziraphale to be the man’s free use fucktoy literally 12 hours after ‘meeting’; Crowley knows this, he knows the etiquette of such things and this isn’t even close to the way to go about it, so why is he fantasizing about it so much? Why is he useless to do much of anything for hours except imagine the sound of Aziraphale unlocking his door and what would follow? Is his fucking sanity unraveling?
It’s definitely not sane or safe, the idea of it. Crowley’s never had anything close to that dynamic, something more solidly constant rather than scene based and one that opens him up to being at the sexual whims of another human, but he knows the trust involved with successful relationships of the like, he knows they’re complex and should be approached without anything resembling hurry or blind, manic lust, but God. His body doesn’t seem to care about the logistics of it, and his filthy mind is fast following in its footsteps.
He’s nursing his third or fourth cup of coffee after coming so hard he pulled a muscle in his calf when his phone vibrates on the counter by his mug.
Good afternoon, Crowley. I trust you slept well?
“Shit fuck”, Crowley mutters, his slightly scalded tongue stinging as he clutches his phone much harder than physically necessary while he punches out a response.
Extremely— you? And afternoon, hope your morning’s been good.
How long will the pleasantries last, Crowley wonders, absentmindedly running his fingers through his still damp hair, and which of them will be the one to break into what they’re really after from each other?
I am delighted to hear it, and I also slept rather nicely— thank you for that, darling. And my morning has been a blur of reminiscing and fantasizing; I can hardly remember what I’ve even been doing since I awoke besides imagining how you look on your knees.
Not long at all, is the answer to Crowley’s previous question regarding the niceties, and he’s as delighted as anything.
Would you like to find out?
he replies after a minute or two, deciding not to play coy. He knows what he wants, and Aziraphale seems to know what he wants, so Crowley is going after it. He smiles slowly at Aziraphale’s response,
I do believe you know the answer to that, pet. Do you not?
Crowley almost fires back a cheeky text, but instead, he slides down to the floor from the stool he’s been perching on. He settles himself on his knees with a wince, cursing his smarting calf muscle, checks the state of his hair in the camera of his phone, opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue before extending his arm high enough to take a photo of himself from above, making sure to hide all of his face but the lower half. After a quick inspection and liking the result, he sends it to Aziraphale, embracing being the slut he is and wondering what the reaction will be.
There’s a longer wait for a text from Aziraphale than what seems to be his norm, which has Crowley second guessing everything until his phone vibrates.
Fuck.
Crowley keys out a shaky huff of a laugh as he reads the single expletive, flushing furiously at its abruptness while typing out a reply.
Like what you see, sir?
Aziraphale doesn’t make a habit of making Crowley wait long for answers, and he’s grateful for that, especially in this instance when he’s being so wildly flirty and open. He doesn’t often let himself operate like this, and he’d forgotten how affirming it was to not have to beg for acknowledgement.
At the risk of being far too forward, which I think you do not mind in the least— may I inquire as to what your availability is today, lovely? Does that answer your question, my cheeky pet?
He shouldn’t dive headfirst into this, Crowley knows. He should be sensible and exercise some caution—
—but sod that.
I don’t have anything on today, as it happens.
He sends off the text as he realizes that he could do it now, if he wanted. Crowley could be completely insane and out of line and unhinged and propose that Aziraphale come over to do to him whatever he pleases, to tell him he’d leave the door to his flat unlocked so he could just meander in at his leisure.
He chooses insanity.
Actually, what do you say to meeting this afternoon? And I’ve got an idea, well— I have a specific want, really, if you’re open to hearing it.
Crowley waits, curious to see what will happen, and this time, the response is almost immediate:
I can assure you that I am on tenterhooks as I await your proposition, my devious little darling.
His smile is far too pleased, Crowley is sure, but this is going so according to plan it’s almost unbelievable. He only hopes his luck continues once he lays out his idea.
I don’t want to exchange pleasantries when you get here— I don’t even want to hear your voice before I feel your mouth on mine. Open my door, I’ll leave it unlocked for you, and take what you want from me.
It’s not as wildly unhinged as his 24/7 free use fantasy, but it will do— it will absolutely do, and Crowley is buzzing with the anticipation of it as Aziraphale replies a minute later,
You continue to surprise and delight, my dear, even if you are rather more demanding than I expected. If you’d be so kind as to give me your address, sweet thing, you will have me within a few hours, and I will certainly take all I want from you.
Crowley’s smile morphs into the wicked smirk of a man about to get exactly what he wants.
Excellent.
They send a few more texts back and forth detailing their hardest limits and such, and it’s not the most thorough negotiation of kink by a long shot, but it’s enough that Crowley feels he’s done a decent amount of due diligence to the point of feeling much more confident in the entire idea.
The last text he receives from Aziraphale is,
Tantalizing boy… not even the Serpent of Eden could tempt me so masterfully.
Crowley’s smirk gentles into a softer smile, his hand involuntarily creeping up to trace the snake tattoo on his temple, shaking his head in further disbelief. Not what he’d had in mind by any stretch when he’d gotten it, but the coincidence still has him flushed; he feels unbearably seen by Aziraphale, and it’s as thrilling as it is terrifying, but Crowley’s always liked a thrill, even the scarier ones.
He doesn’t know where Aziraphale lives, and therefore has even less of an idea as to a timeline of when he’ll arrive, so Crowley does his best to prepare for it without sitting on his sofa, frozen in place until he hears the click of a door opening. He whittles away the time by fucking around on his phone, trying not to touch himself again and by giving his flat another once over as far as tidying, fretting about how his pillows mismatch on the couch for the first time in his entire life— for some reason he’s got an inkling Aziraphale would be scandalized by differing pillows, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.
Crowley finally comes to a point where he has no more to do but figure out what to wear as he waits for Aziraphale. He lets his hair loose, falling around his shoulders in wild waves, and opts for a black t-shirt, knowing he won’t be wearing it for long, anyway. After a moment's consideration, Crowley pulls on the fishnets he’d worn last night before stepping into tight, stretchy black jeans. The tights aren’t as snug as they were last night, but they still look and feel good on his skin, and he secretly hopes Aziraphale has taken a shine to them as well from his photos.
As discussed, there is no knock announcing Aziraphale’s arrival— the only warning Crowley receives is the click of the lock sliding out of its place as his door handle is turned, but still, he jumps, heart taking up residence in his throat and fighting to swallow around its accelerated beat, which is quickly escalating to a breakneck speed.
He’d considered waiting for Aziraphale on his knees, but it’s too late to do so now as his door gradually opens, first just a crack and then all the way, and Crowley is met with the sight of the man that’s fast become his sole source of thought for the last 12 or so hours.
Crowley’s newly acquired faith is further reinforced as he takes in all of Aziraphale, who is, by all rights, gorgeous. He’s shorter than Crowley, but not by much, especially since he’s barefoot and Aziraphale is wearing low heeled boots. He’s wearing a sky blue button up under a beige blazer, and his shirt buttons are undone by his collar; Crowley can see a hint of curling chest hair there. His trousers look nearly identical to the ones in the photo he’d sent Crowley last night, and he wonders if they’re the same pair.
Aziraphale’s eyes remind Crowley of whatever gemstone it is that’s a clear, delicate blue (he can’t remember what it’s called), and his blonde curls are so pale they’re nearly the hue of pearls— it gives him a rather cherubic appearance overall, as do his round, flushed cheeks. There’s a hint of darker stubble framing his jaw, which sets noticeably as those lovely eyes flit all around Crowley’s body, lightning quick at first and then much more languidly, a glint of steel flashing behind blue, a rush of heated, metallic lust.
Crowley can hardly even comprehend that the man is here when Aziraphale steps into his flat, takes the three steps to close the distance between them, wraps an arm around his waist, strong and sure and possessive, closes the door with his other hand, and then they’re kissing.
He isn’t one for food, Crowley, most of the time. He loves his coffee and his scotch and the occasional sweet, but otherwise, he’s never really felt the hollow pang of hunger like others talk of; however, that changes within the millisecond of Aziraphale’s mouth latching onto his, and then Crowley really understands what it is to be hungry for something— what it means to be starving.
Aziraphale tastes like strong black tea and sensuality, he tastes as elegant and as sinful as his words, and his kissing technique is dizzying; hot and slick, but not too wet, refined in its passionate notes and with a tongue that’s clearly practiced in taking people apart, because holy fuck, Crowley is barely holding himself together right now.
He kisses back fervently, opening his mouth to that searching, imploring tongue and melting into big hands that rove all over him, caressing and groping in equal measure, and Crowley gasps as Aziraphale slides his fingers under his shirt to journey up his bare spine, already whimpering without restraint, not giving a care as to how needy he must be coming across. He’s already hard, and he can feel Aziraphale is too as their bodies crush together, he can feel that massive cock against his own, and it’s a terrible torment, not to have it inside of him in some way, no matter how incredible the kissing is. His mouth is getting fucked by Aziraphale’s tongue, though, and he’s also started making the most erotic noises that harmonize with Crowley’s— little, grunting groans, purring growls and appraising hums as he devours Crowley just as he’d declared he would in his text last night.
Crowley satisfies all of the curiosities swirling in his head with eager hands and an investigative mouth; yes, Aziraphale’s curls are as soft as they look as he slips his fingers through them, twirling them and lightly tugging, his neck tastes even better than it looks and the muffled gasp that follows after Crowley sucks a bruise onto the bit of exposed collarbone is even lovelier than the taste of Aziraphale’s smooth skin. His body is solid and sturdy and strong, and so very warm; his heart is flying as fast as Crowley’s, fluttering beneath his tongue just under his jaw, and God, Crowley’s just becoming more of a pathetic supplicant for this man by the second.
He can’t wait any longer to satisfy his most burning curiosity, though.
They’re still basically just inside the doorway, but Crowley drops to his knees in one quick movement, not at all minding the cold hard floor beneath him, vowing to soothe the loss of Aziraphale’s mouth on his by filling it with him; he unbuttons the fine wool trousers with mostly nimble fingers despite how they shake, he pulls down at the waistband of them and what feel like silky underwear just enough to reveal that cock that he’s been having nonstop revelations and epiphanies about since last night.
It’s even better in person— and it feels even better in his hand, hard and so thick it’s actually shocking, Christ— velvety and beautifully shaped, with a purpling head already teasing Crowley’s crumbling resolve with its weeping slit. He moans in time with Aziraphale as he experimentally pumps his fist over the length of it, long and slightly curved upward, and he’s just about to lean in to devour Aziraphale when the man’s fingers thread their way in Crowley’s hair and tighten, holding him still.
“Tongue,” is the first word Crowley hears Aziraphale utter in person, and he whimpers in response, the commanding, silky tone cloaked in burning want stroking his aching cock and filling him with need as he obeys, sticking his tongue out fully as he gazes up at Aziraphale, startled to see the morning hue of his eyes darkening into twilight shadow.
He shivers, watching Aziraphale take himself in hand as he keeps a grip on Crowley’s hair, and he whimpers again in the back of his throat as Aziraphale bends down towards him, opens his own mouth, and lets a thread of saliva drop down onto Crowley’s waiting tongue, who may as well die and go to Heaven; this is too fucking good, fuck, he lives for this flavor of depravity, but somehow Aziraphale makes even this lewd, filthy act elegant. He nearly swallows reflexively, but stops himself in time, waiting for instructions, and the second thing Aziraphale murmurs, low and smoldering, “hold it right there, darling; don’t swallow,” has Crowley whining petulantly, but he obeys, eager to please, always so desperate to please.
His whining turns into rather pitiful moaning as Aziraphale then starts slowly tapping the head of his cock on his wet tongue, as he slides it back and forth along its surface and groans deep in his chest, rocking his hips forward occasionally as he plays with Crowley’s mouth as if it’s no more than a sex toy as he purrs, “very good, that’s it; good boy,” and that makes Crowley’s cock twitch and his knees spread wider on the floor of their own accord.
“I thought I might’ve strayed into a dream, when I opened your door and found that the body I’ve been obsessing over belonged to someone with an even more beautiful face and with hair the shade of fire,” Aziraphale’s tone is conversational but simmering, and he’s doing just as Crowley had wanted last night and what Aziraphale had said he’d do if he’d been with him, slapping his cock on Crowley’s cheeks with varying force and smearing their mingling saliva and his own precome all over Crowley’s face and chin, making a mess of him like he’s been longing for; he’s even tempted to beg Aziraphale to slap him with his hands, too, but that’s perhaps a tad too extreme, so he resists, “and for you to be as ridiculously slutty and cock hungry in person as your texts had suggested?” slap, slap, slide, forced down his throat in one swift thrust before withdrawing again— sweetly agonized torture at its finest, and Crowley is fucking losing it, “I’m still rather unconvinced this is reality, and that such a delectable tart is in fact not a product of my most indulgent, depraved self.”
“Fuck,” Crowley swears just before his mouth and throat are filled again, and this time he grabs Aziraphale’s hips and starts sucking him furiously, bobbing his head up and down and following the slippery path of his mouth with a twisting, squeezing hand, and he smirks inwardly at the hissed curse and twitching hand letting go of his hair— that hand instead slams back onto the door, seemingly bracing Aziraphale as Crowley sucks him off with ravenous, primal enthusiasm, engulfing himself in the taste and sensation and act of sucking cock, one of his very favorite things. He loves this and he’s excellent at it, as evidenced by Aziraphale’s moans and occasional cursing as well as how he’s just pouring precome now, delicate and nearly sweet on Crowley’s tongue with every pump of his hand from base to head.
“Enough,” Aziraphale pants far too soon just as his legs begin to tremble, bending down to pull Crowley to his feet by his arms and spinning him round roughly, “you’ll make me come much too quickly from your perfect whore mouth, my beauty,” he pushes Crowley over into to his kitchen directly next to his front door, bends him over his counter and arranges his hands onto it, and isn’t that something, having his own hands placed where Aziraphale wants them, fuck, “and I’m not leaving here without taking everything I want.”
“Jesus fuck,” Crowley whines as Aziraphale reaches around his waist, unzipping his jeans after caressing his stomach under his shirt and pulling them down his legs, his hands just rough enough to feel good, but there’s care there, too— he bends at his knees and helps Crowley step out of them, kissing the backs of his thighs as his hands encircle his ankles, sinking his teeth into the swell of his ass as he stands.
“And thank you for wearing the fishnets, darling, despite their imminent and tragic demise,” Aziraphale murmurs before removing Crowley’s shirt, letting it drop to the floor as he hugs him from behind, the warm palms of his hands grabbing at his chest and stomach, marking their territory with short, manicured nails enough to leave behind pink trails but not nearly harsh enough to truly hurt or draw blood, “I even considered requesting that you do, but perhaps in my heart I knew a seasoned slut such as yourself would think to do so on your own.”
Crowley’s apparently been reduced to nothing but mewling, breathless whining, incapable of speech as basks in the dominance of another human who is obviously deeply gifted in such an area; he pushes back against Aziraphale, grinding against his still slick cock and panting, half out of his mind with need and adrenaline as Aziraphale’s hands finally settle over his ass, palming at him and plucking at the fishnets as he hums appreciatively.
“Lubricant?” Aziraphale asks gruffly, or rather demands, and for some reason the lack of shortening to the more crude ‘lube’ is really doing something for Crowley, who shakes his head as he pants, trembling as he somehow cobbles together a sentence, “don’t need any— fucked myself not long ago, used a lot.”
“But of course you did, my greedy slut,” Aziraphale purrs, and Crowley yelps in surprise as he rips the fishnets, pulling them apart right over the cleft of his ass, the tearing ring of it loud and the unraveling of them tickling his sensitive skin, “I’m also quite certain you can come just from being filled, am I right? Don't even need anyone to touch your pretty cock for you to spill all over your floor—”
“Fuck, please,” Crowley begs as hands spread him roughly and a thumb starts insistently stroking his entrance before easily and wetly slipping inside and back out, playing with him and making his back arch and tense. He parts his thighs wider, begging Aziraphale for more with his mouth and his body, trying to fuck himself back on the two sturdy fingers that replace the thumb.
“Let’s see if you can take cock half as well as you claim,” Aziraphale growls as he bites into Crowley’s bare shoulder from behind, pinching and predatory and delicious, and Crowley hears the sound of a condom being opened, the metallic crinkle of its wrapper being torn quick and barely audible over his whimpering. The fingers withdraw as Aziraphale observes, his words burning but noticeably thinner, breathier, “you really are so beautifully stretched, aren’t you? So wet and willing and pliant for me,” Crowley cries out as Aziraphale repeats his earlier act of slapping him with the head of his cock, but this time he does it right over his pulsing hole, the tease of it excruciating and the sound driving Crowley just as mad, and the balls of his feet tense, he goes up on tiptoe as Aziraphale slips his cock past what little resistance is left just so and then pulls right back out, reducing Crowley to tears and clumsy pleading. Aziraphale does this a few more times, clucking in mock sympathy that makes Crowley even more insane along with soft observations of what a poor little slut Crowley is, and how he must be so very empty.
It takes Crowley by surprise— or rather, Aziraphale takes him by surprise.
He’d expected some more teasing, and maybe even some thigh fucking— not Aziraphale sliding inside and burying himself completely in one swift, snapping movement, not him seizing Crowley’s hips in order to hold him there, his ass flush against his pelvis as Crowley wails, the electric, white hot pang of the instant stretch still a piercing shock despite his earlier preparation— he’s so fucking huge, Aziraphale is, and Crowley gasps for breath as his body is forced to adjust within the span of two seconds— he’s finally gained the knowledge of what being split open feels like.
It’s intense, it’s shattering, it’s on the precipice of unendurable.
It’s perfect.
“Too much?” Aziraphale whispers softly into Crowley’s sweaty neck, standing still as he kisses the bruised skin there and moves his hands to runs them soothingly up and down Crowley’s quivering sides, “I know it’s a lot, even for a cockslut like yourself; tell me to wait if you need to, sweet thing.”
“Don’t,” Crowley pushes through gritted teeth, forcing breath out through his nose and forcing himself to relax into it, “fuck, don’t wait— fuck me, please, I can take it, I need it—”
“That’s my boy,” Aziraphale growls, roughly kissing Crowley’s bare shoulder as he starts to move, the drag of him inside rendering Crowley unable to do much of anything but keen and moan and cry like the whore he is, the temporary discomfort and physical panic of being pushed to the brink of what a body can handle disappearing as a rush of tingling, jewel toned euphoria takes its place.
Aziraphale fucks exactly like Crowley had hoped he would, and his eyes roll back as his hands scramble for purchase on his smooth counter, the sharp edge of it digging painfully into his hipbones with every forceful, propelling drive forward from Aziraphale, and it's perfect, it is everything he’s been craving— rough, hard, domineering and brutal. He’ll be sore tomorrow and his body will be marked from those hands making a plaything of his waist and hips and thighs, and his back will scream for days from arching so violently, but he wants it no other way.
“Fuck, so good, fuck I fucking love your cock, sir,” Crowley slurs as Aziraphale adjusts his angle, filling him even more deeply and dragging over Crowley’s prostate with each pass of his cock, “f-fuck, you’re s-so fucking big—”
“And I love this sweet little hole, darling, good God,” Aziraphale pants as he withdraws nearly completely before slamming all the way back inside, making Crowley yelp and his legs shake uncontrollably, the pleasure of being stretched and impaled fast building into what will surely be an insane orgasm, “opening up so well for me, so warm and wet and wanton,” he bends down over Crowley’s back, the cotton of his shirt crisp against fevered naked skin as he kisses Crowley’s neck and curls a hand around his throat, “an even better cocksleeve than I suspected, the most perfect little fleshlight made to be used and ruined—”
Crowley cuts him off with a kiss, leaning back and turning his head to meet those swollen lips with abandon, the scratch of stubble on his cheek brightly burning and the tongue pillaging his mouth filthy and wild, and he can hardly take it, he’s going to come soon.
“‘M close,” Crowley whimpers between kisses and moans, Aziraphale’s pace quickening as Crowley brings a hand down to touch his own neglected cock, “f-fuck, getting close, sir, please—”
His hand is slapped away abruptly, and then Crowley’s vision spins as he’s grabbed at the waist and thrown to the floor onto his hands and knees, Aziraphale wasting no time as he kneels behind Crowley and slips right back inside him, resuming his pounding rhythm and ripping Crowley back by his hips to meet his own, iron hands delving and excavating into delicate skin and muscle with ease.
“No touching,” Aziraphale orders then, and Crowley sobs in frustrated overwhelm, loving the denial but also wanting, needing relief, his cock bobbing and leaking onto the floor, “come from my cock and nothing else, sweeting, I know you can do it— be a good boy, now—”
He starts fucks into Crowley with such tireless vigor that eventually his elbows give out and he crumples to the ground, crying out with each loud, hammering thrust, so close to coming he can scarcely breathe for fear of tipping over.
“Fuck, please, can I,” Crowley’s torso is now flush with his cold floor, his hands uselessly trying to dig into the concrete as his hole is wrecked, and he can’t even feel his legs anymore, his thighs are numb but he knows they must be vibrating, he must be shaking terribly all over, but all he can feel is his orgasm, searing and throbbing, begging to be released and threatening to do it anyway, permission granted or not, “f-fuck, p-please, s-sir, Aziraphale—”
“Come, pet,” Aziraphale mercifully murmurs then, growling as he uses Crowley like he truly is his pet and his alone, like he actually is a fleshlight made just for him, and it pushes Crowley over the edge along with a hand fisting in his hair and yanking it backward, lifting his chest back up off the ground and forcing him to bend backward as far as he physically can, “come on my cock, milk me, that’s it— arch your back and make it pretty for me, darling— fuck, I feel you getting tighter—”
Crowley comes hard, spilling onto the floor with a sobbing, strangled cry, the orgasm so powerful it’s right on the edge of painful, just like the size of Aziraphale’s cock nearly being too much to bear, but it’s all so good, his pleasure is an immense, sparkling thing as Aziraphale’s rhythm never falters once, and this is what he’s been needing, what he’s been made for but hardly ever gets, or maybe has never had to this degree— someone who can effortlessly take charge, who knows how to handle him, someone who knows how to degrade and objectify him without demeaning him and who knows how to fuck like a fucking animal.
“Oh, good boy, that’s it,” Aziraphale showers him with praise as he fucks and talks Crowley through it, his tone adoring as much as it is absolutely filthy, “taking it so well, taking it all, sucking me in and taking all of me—”
His arms encircle Crowley from behind and support him as he sobs into it all— the ecstasy, the feeling of being taken and used and owned, the total elation of being stretched wide and stuffed full…it’s all so much and all so fucking good, and he starts peppering his whimpering cries with thanking Aziraphale, who seems to enjoy that immensely. As soon as Crowley begins thanking him for his cock and for letting him come, the burst of softness from the other man disappears, replaced by renewed ferality and strength as he returns his hands to Crowley’s aching waist and pounds into him with such violence he actually can hardly take it, now.
“So close, fuck—” Aziraphale pants after a minute or two, the growl in his throat faltering, and Crowley can hear the desperation there, the delicious note of frantic need that he’d only just been keening moments ago, “I—”
“Come in my mouth,” Crowley gasps through his own orgasmic throes that flirt with overstimulation, his feet and legs brightly tingling and tensing intermittently as he spins around on his knees to face Aziraphale, gazing into those burnished pewter eyes to soothe the loss of him slipping from Crowley’s still convulsing body, “please, need to taste you, I—”
He’s interrupted by Aziraphale tearing off the condom with a snap and sliding a hand around the back of his neck as he pulls Crowley back onto his cock, and he cries in relief, he’s so fucking thankful to have his mouth filled with the divine once more. His own climax lingers as Aziraphale uses his throat with shaking hips and desperately uneven thrusts, and Crowley hollows his cheeks, sucking as he braces himself on his hands and knees, begging Aziraphale for his come with his mouth and his beseeching, muffled moans. Another hand threads back through Crowley’s hair again and buries itself into his locks, giving Aziraphale even more leverage to fuck Crowley’s face as he pleases.
The pained, hissed intake of breath followed by a series of pitching higher moans paired with those powerful, shivering thighs going taut is all the indication Crowley needs; he relaxes his throat as the fingers locked on the back of his neck tighten their vise grip and Aziraphale’s thrusts abruptly freeze. Crowley mewls encouragingly as Aziraphale starts to come, his eyes fluttering closed in renewed bliss as his tongue is blessed with the taste of Aziraphale for the first time, warm and lush and utterly lovely, the clean salinity of him pleasantly subtle and mouthwatering. He reflexively swallows with each pulse that fills his mouth, moaning into it, shamelessly enjoying one of his favorite acts and the sensation of being that cocksleeve he loves to be. He massages the front of Aziraphale’s thighs with both hands as he sucks him through his climax, easing up on the suction once he hears the hiss over overstimulation above him, and only then does he pull back.
He’s about to sit back on wobbly heels when Aziraphale murmurs, silky and searing but a tad wavering, too, “good comesluts don’t forget their own mess, darling.”
Crowley’s whimpering moan echoes around them at that; Aziraphale sounds destroyed, he looks completely undone there on the floor, on his knees and with disheveled hair and clothing, but still, his unshakable dominance shines through the rubble, and it’s only making Crowley hungrier for it, for him.
In a rare moment of industry, energy, and perhaps even premonition, Crowley had mopped his kitchen floor after work yesterday, so it’s with no hesitation that he bends down and does as he’s told, the heat of Aziraphale’s gaze burning into him as he licks up his come, and there’s not much since he’s already climaxed this morning— he’s rather sorry for that, actually, not being able to put on more of a show for Aziraphale in this moment. Still, he does his best and with genuine enthusiasm, languidly running his tongue over the grey concrete and silently thanking himself for not using too much soap in the water.
“Look at you, lovely,” Aziraphale’s breath has mostly come back to him now, his voice has returned to its previously honeyed state that intoxicates Crowley so thoroughly, “bending down to clean up after yourself without so much as a mite of hesitance— did anyone train you to be this blindly obedient, or is it just your inherently slutty nature, hm?”
Crowley shivers at that, moaning as he finishes polishing the floor with his tongue, looking up through his lashes at Aziraphale, who has tucked himself back into his trousers, done them up and is now running a hand through his corn silk curls (his wrist is unsteady still, Crowley notes with pleasure). He’s absurdly handsome, this one, and Crowley can’t believe his luck regarding this entire scenario as he murmurs between kitten licks to the floor, “no training needed when you’re a naturally submissive slut, sir,” he doesn’t blink as he presses his lips to the slick, warmed surface in a kiss, delighting in the sight of Aziraphale’s throat bobbing in what appears to be a struggled through swallow.
“Naturally submissive slut, indeed; good lord, but you are truly something, aren’t you, my dear,” he whispers as Crowley sits back up and straightens his back, his shins starting to ache pleasantly against the ground, “I must admit, I’m rather tempted to keep you.”
Crowley can’t contain his whimper as he inhales sharply, the sound embarrassing and much too revealing, “don’t threaten me with a good time, Aziraphale; I might just say yes.”
Truthfully, it’s uncanny, how Aziraphale’s implied desires match up with his. Maybe he wasn’t being completely insane, fantasizing about Aziraphale having a key to his place and making Crowley his free use slut for whenever he pleases despite them not knowing each other at all.
He couldn’t possibly be that lucky, but then again, he would’ve said the same thing regarding the last 24 hours, either, and he never would have expected to see those eyes bubbling over with something more inebriating than any alcohol Crowley’s ever had.
They’re only about a pace apart on the floor, but he decides to crawl the short distance to the other man in order to straddle him right there on the floor, eager to be closer, needing to be. There’s a glimmer of something sloshing in the pit of his stomach that could turn gloomy, if he’s not careful, and some physical contact is usually a good way to counteract such things in his experience.
It’s been a good long while since he’s been so overcome with endorphins that the natural ebbing away of them has left Crowley feeling shaky and even more unraveled that he’d already been, and thankfully, it seems Aziraphale is more than happy to welcome him into his arms; he opens them and pulls Crowley even closer to his torso, his hands gliding down the curve of his back to settle on his thighs as he captures Crowley’s mouth in a kiss completely opposite than their first they’d shared when he’d opened the door.
This kiss is as full of desire as its predecessor, but oh, it’s as sumptuously slow as thick, richly amber molasses slowly dripping from a maple tree and gradually sliding down its trunk in the dead of winter, it’s as luxuriously exploring as one trailing a fingertip over a richly lush textile that’s a joy to touch. It’s deep, too, it’s entirely devoid of hurry, and Crowley whines into it as Aziraphale’s tongue glides over his, even more pliant than earlier but still impeccably skilled, and his hands caress his legs, his fingers teasingly pluck at the ruined fishnets barely clinging to Crowley now. It’s such a pleasure, kissing someone this in love with the act, and Crowley had actually forgotten just how much he loves it, kissing another who enjoys it as its own separate act of intimacy. He could do this for hours, he could swim in the gently pushing and pulling tide of Aziraphale’s tongue and nipping teeth for days.
He’s not sure how long they kiss, but time simultaneously flies and stutters to a stop as they do, and Crowley’s more together by the time their mouths finally break apart, he’s certainly more solid. The bloom of hormones from their encounter gently hangs like a gradually receding mist around him, and he’s no longer in feeling the far off threat of dropping as he lays his forehead on Aziraphale’s neck, inhaling the warm, milky black tea scent of him and enjoying the proximity of a body under his own.
Crowley realizes that he’s deeply reluctant for this to end, and again, his desire for something a tad more permanent in the realm of sexual intimacy pops up and makes itself known once more, and he’s emboldened further when Aziraphale breaks the comfortable silence between them.
“What an impossibly decadent pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Mr Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers into his hair, holding his aching thighs with those sure hands in order to keep him soundly sat on his lap as Crowley clings to him like a particularly needy kitten.
Crowley snorts into Aziraphale’s neck, head reeling and heart pleasantly skipping along, “why thank you; the pleasure was all mine, as I’m sure you could tell. And Aziraphale— if you’re open to it,” he leans back enough to make eye contact with now much clearer blue eyes, and they’re so beautifully warm he’s briefly breathless; he searches for the words more easily found now that the tongue loosening effects of getting fucked into oblivion have sunken in, “I have a possibly— well, a positively inappropriate and indecently mad proposal for you— an arrangement, I s’pose you could call it…”