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What an absolute disaster of a day.
It's Friday night and Crowley has just about had it.
He's freshly showered, slowly feeling like a human again, and not like a sweaty, rumpled shirt he just pulled out of the bottom of the hamper. He's donning some boxers and an old, oversized shirt that swings about loose around his body because he can't be arsed to wear anything else.
Perhaps he could go to a pub, pick someone up and be fucked until his brain falls out, but the idea of getting ready isn't appealing in the slightest and recently, the prospect doesn’t thrill him as it used to.
His stomach makes a loud, grumbling sound of protest, probably resenting the fact that it has had to process only caffeine and a meager, solitary scone for lunch and even for him, that's pushing it.
So, right. Pizza.
Crowley picks his mobile and dials the number of his best mate Anathema's pizza place and orders the greasiest, cheesiest pizza in stock from someone who sounds very tired, and very, very done for.
It won't take long. He knows the place isn't far, and twenty minutes later, his doorbell rings.
Crowley pads over the rug and makes a beeline for the door.
He pulls it open.
Now, this is far from the first time he's had a run-in with delivery services. Truth be told, he had been somewhat envisioning a bored, young person with a sour face waiting for the transaction to end asap . But not once, not in six thousand bloody eons he could've expected to find a white-blond-haired bloke in his mid-forties, a tartan bow tie over the line of the ludicrous company jacket holding a pizza box in his absurdly soft-looking hands.
Hands of a gentleman, Crowley thinks, with broad, thick fingers, and perfectly manicured nails.
The need to suck them into his mouth is almost overwhelming.
"H-hello," the man stutters, going a bit red around the cheeks.
Oh, but he's positively beautiful, with full lips and a button nose, almost… almost cherubic, a bloody angel. And yet he also looks incredibly strong, the jacket he's using pushing against the broad line of his shoulders, tensing around the thick flare of his biceps.
It makes Crowley go a little mad, makes heat writhe in his spine.
The angel is looking at him, almost rapt, taking in his disheveled hair, still damp and pressing at odd angles against his neck, against his jaw. Crowley can see, almost feel his gaze drift south to the shirt he's wearing, roaming over him as if he couldn't have his fill, couldn't have enough , a lopsided turn to the bare angle of his shoulder fully on display, and even down, down to where Crowley's showing miles of bare skin.
The angel swallows, and Crowley licks his lips.
Oh, this should be fun .
"Hey, sweetheart, my eyes are up here," Crowley teases, but shifts his arms in a way that makes the shirt hang even lower around his shoulder, showing some of the dusting of red hair on his chest.
"Ah, no- I was just- S-sorry." The angel adjusts that ridiculous bow tie of his, eyes very decidedly fastened to some spot on Crowley's left. "Your pizza."
Fuck , even his voice is hot.
Crowley's very much enjoying this. This undivided attention, this tentative, almost shy gaze that edges into something deeper, something properly unhinged with every sharp breath the angel is taking.
"So, are you gonna give it to me?" Crowley strains his double-entendre with a wink, crossing his arms around his chest making his shirt ruck up a few immodest inches. The angel is still clutching the box for dear life but his eyes have gone low, staring at the swell of Crowley's thighs, "or am I gonna have to wrestle it from you?"
"No! No, of course not." He extends the box in Crowley's direction with a shove, his forehead damp with sweat. " Please ."
Fuck . Now that word is going to be embedded in Crowley's brain in interchangeable scenarios. Would he beg for Crowley like that? For the tight clasp of Crowley's arse around his cock?
His own cock twitches in the confines of his boxers, heat pulsing and fanning out in his groin and the next thing he can imagine is asking the silent angel, so, uh, would you like to fuck me? Big fan of getting fucked, me. See that table over there? Sturdy as anything, bet I can bend over there for you.
Seconds trickle by slow as molasses, and when Crowley finally takes the pizza, he catches sight of a very big, very noticeable bulge ruining the front line of those khakis, shamelessly exposed by the bright lights of the foyer. The air leaves Crowley in a broken burst, a hot-stained rush, and it's as if suddenly he can't think about anything else but of the curve and angle, the possible heavy weight of the angel's cock. How would it feel splitting him open, pulsing and lodged deep inside of him.
Crowley's eyes flicker down, then up the angel's face, and down again. He can't help the wicked smile that flares alive in his lips and the rise of his eyebrow.
This time, the angel looks down as well.
"Oh, good Lord," the angel sort of rasps, and it comes out strained and breathless, just a tinge short of thready. His face, already pink, goes a furious red because it's impossible to deny he's rock-hard, unbearably aroused in his fitted trousers.
Crowley's about to invite him in, offer him some wine perhaps, but like an anticlimactic denouément, the angel swirls around and all about runs away, down the hallway without uttering a word of goodbye or leaving any receipt.
Crowley stays silent, looking at the now empty spot in front of him. The angel had wanted him, and for all Crowley cares, he could've had him if he'd dared to stay.
He shuts the door closed and sits at the counter to eat his pizza.
Well, then , Crowley thinks with a sly smile, there's always next time.
The angel refuses to leave Crowley's mind, a very stubborn tenant that has him grinding down against his black sheets at night, working his cock hard and slick, three fingers shoved up his arse. So four days after, he calls to order some pizza, talking directly to Anathema, asking her to send that white-haired bloke because last time he didn’t tip him as he should have. It's true enough to not make him feel bad about lying to Anathema’s face.
He wants for the angel to make a move, to say something. To show that somehow he wants this as much as Crowley. And perhaps because he is a bit of a slut, but a selective one.
The angel has to choose him.
So he does what he does best. By now, he's a dab hand at using his looks to his benefit.
He opens his drawer, and puts on a sheer black negligee that brushes the middle of his thigh, and balances on shifting feet to roll up a pair of lacy knickers. He gives himself a once over in the bedroom's mirror and yeah , he does look bloody good. He walks to his living room with all the confidence of knowing he looks absolutely devastating in his six-inch heels.
He sits on a stool, tapping his finger against the kitchen island, his heart racing almost out of his chest while he waits for the soft buzz of his doorbell.
Not five minutes later, it happens.
“It’s open!” Crowley calls.
The door swings on its hinges, although, perhaps, that's the wrong word. It gives more of a timid sway, a gentle nudge on dark mahogany by a pale, plump hand and the angel stands on the threshold.
Crowley can’t repress the smile that draws on his face, and he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. The angel looks, if possible, better than before, if perhaps a tad more flushed, his eyes shockingly wide, lovely and blue. Crowley spreads his legs, angling them in such a way he knows he’s giving the angel a prime view of his inner thighs, placing a hand delicately in front of his cock to tease at the possibility of revealing it in its entirety.
Crowley doesn't fail to notice how the angel closes the door with weighted consideration before turning to face him, with color high on his cheeks.
He beckons to the angel with a soft nod of his head. “Could you please leave it here on the counter?”
The angel’s throat rolls around a hard swallow, his lips slightly parted. “Y-yes, of course,” he says, his words cracking in short, airy bursts.
Crowley watches the way his eyes flicker with a hint of need in the depths of them, from Crowley's legs up to his chest, where he knows his nipples are visible and hard under the sheer lace. He can hardly keep himself from trembling. He takes his free hand from where it’s resting on the marble counter, and swipes his thumb over his bottom lip, dragging a black nail tantalizingly over it without breaking eye contact.
The angel looks as if every step is costing him a great deal of effort, drawing his breath sharply through his teeth. His white-knuckled grip around the cardboard box is crumpling the material in a frankly obvious display of fighting for some kind of self-control.
Crowley would very much like to see him lose it, to see him stride forward and pin Crowley against the counter. So proper, so restrained , but his eyes are traitorous, giving him away with the way that want is clearly written in every fleck of them, in the black of his pupils. It stokes the embers in Crowley's belly, the fire that runs in his spine. He feels daring, shamelessly brazen, letting his legs fall open even wider, his high heels clicking hard against the floor.
The angel misses a step, but recovers smoothly, not peeling that intense gaze off Crowley. He has reached the far end of the counter, practically hiding behind it, for reasons Crowley suspects he knows rather well.
"There's the tip," Crowley says, signaling to a spot near one of the angel's hands.
But the angel doesn't take it.
It's some sort of confirmation. Because he could take the tip and leave, rush out the door and stop this instead of finding excuses to drag this out. If he isn't interested, this is the moment when he leaves.
But the angel doesn't do it.
Crowley’s smile widens.
He tosses his head to the side to let his curls catch the soft light of the lamps, knowing full well how fetching they look like this, the metallic-bright color of copper, and angles his neck to show off its smooth, long expanse.
“What’s your name? I’m Crowley.”
He sees him work his jaw in abortive movements as if he’s trying to pop the words out, failing miserably. “I-I’m Aziraphale,” he says finally.
“Well, nice to meet you Aziraphale,” Crowley drawls, dragging his hand from his mouth down to his chest, circling a nipple with a lazy roll of his thumb and moaning. " So good to have you back."
Fuck , it feels good.
Aziraphale’s gaze is intent on him, following on every point, every slight shift. Crowley moves his other hand to rest on his thigh, revealing the hot, hard line of his cock straining the lace, ruining the fabric with how he's soaked himself with precome.
Aziraphale sinks his teeth in his bottom lip, and a muffled whine shoves out of his mouth. His gaze swivels up to Crowley, who is watching him keenly. There’s a dark sort of desperation etched in the lines of Aziraphale's face, in the clenched fists that rest still on the marble counter, next to the pizza box, as if he doesn’t dare move an inch more than necessary.
"Been working with Ana for long?" Crowley asks, words gutting out in keen little moans. He hasn't stopped toying with his pebbled nipples, one and then the other, his other hand now skating the hem of his negligee higher up.
"Not really, ah, only, uhm, only a couple of," Aziraphale clears his throat, "weeks." He's trying, Crowley can tell, but his politeness is spoiled by how breathless he is.
Aziraphale seems to consider something before giving a step to the side, now standing directly in front of Crowley with nothing to cover the massive erection tenting his trousers.
It makes Crowley's cock throb and leak at the far away promise. It makes his arse clench, his whole body alight with the need to fuck himself open on that cock, slow and sloppy and god, so good . There's a desperate, exquisite burn scraping along his spine, one that's making Crowley imagine the pull and shift of Aziraphale inside him. He wants to cross the scant few feet between them and sit on that cock with lax and lazy twists of his hips, to bounce on it until his arse is molded for it alone and no one else's.
The room is heavy with heat, and a quiet noise of want comes through Aziraphale's teeth, so very loud, so very lewd in the silence.
"Crowley," he chokes out. "You-"
But then Crowley skids his thumb over the ribbon that ties his negligee at the front of his chest, already in a loose knot, and pulls with a flicker of his wrist that manages to look casual as anything.
The thing falls to the sides, exposing the narrow planes of Crowley's chest, the concave curve of his stomach.
"Oops," he says, with a beguiling smile. "Very clumsy, me."
But Aziraphale seems not to have heard him. He makes one stumbling step forward and has to find his balance with a hand on the counter before squeezing his eyes shut. He turns around on his heels, dashing towards the door.
Before Crowley can say anything, he's gone.
Okay, then , he thinks, hard and extremely hot and bothered, time to up the ante .
The next time happens exactly four days after, on a Saturday. This time he tells Anathema she should send Aziraphale because the poor bloke forgot something in his flat last time.
Yeah, to fuck me stupid , he thinks.
He has a party to attend, a high-end, posh thing to celebrate his mate Beelz's birthday. Crowley's an optimist, he's always been, and if this turns out the way he wants, he will see himself free of the party for an honest reason and will still get to use the fabulous dress he's chosen. Maybe even wreck it a little, all bunched up around his waist by thick, broad hands while Aziraphale pushes inside him, filling him right. Roughly. Thrusting and inching deeper and pressing, pressing ...
Crowley’s little dress and arse finally splattered come-white.
He’s grinding down against the vanity's chair, his hips working, hitching back and forth, desperately seeking relief. Crowley can almost savour the salty tang of Aziraphale's cock in his tongue, the musky flavour of sweat mixed with the spill of precome. His heart rattles in his throat, barring the moan that edges to break out of him.
Fuck .
But if not, if that doesn’t happen, … then he still will have somewhere to escape to drink until the lights go out.
He applies his mascara and the maraschino cherry lipstick with a steady hand, his lips now red-sweet and glossy. His high heels are already on his feet when he slides inside the very short, very tight, leather black dress that hugs every spare curve of him like a glove.
His hand can’t reach the zipper to pull it up. He knows it even before he tries.
And then the doorbell rings.
Crowley’s lips curl in a smile that’s frankly predatory.
Perfect timing.
He strolls to the foyer with careful steps, careful, so very careful to not ruin the perfect tableau he's composed, and opens the door.
"Oh, hey, Aziraphale," he says, cocking his head to the side, taking in how bloody good the angel looks today. Like a tall glass of water when Crowley's feeling absolutely parched. “Glad to see you here.”
Aziraphale clears his throat, his eyes firing against Crowley with rapid-fire, hungry appraisal. "Hello, Crowley."
Crowley doesn't want to move, doesn't want to go anywhere that isn't forward and around that angel, perhaps also beneath , but he has a whole plan ahead of him.
"Come in." He turns on his spot, showing off the smooth, freckled play of his bare back in a naked V between the sides of the open dress, and makes his way inside his flat. "Please put the pizza on the counter, I'm running late."
Crowley sways his hips in that way he has about him that promises, beckons, an invitation to wreck him in each roll and flex. He hears the tap, tap, tap of Aziraphale's brogues against the floor behind him, feeling a bit lost at the lack of visual reference.
And then it comes. "Are you going somewhere?"
Oh , this is going to be easier than Crowley had thought.
It's the way Aziraphale says it, the way the question doesn't sound like a question. It's rough on the ears. Nearly a demand.
Possessive .
Crowley almost shivers - almost - over the wreck of arousal that is making his cock stir.
"Yeah, my mate's birthday," he answers, flexing his body as he pretends to snake his arm around to pull at the zipper. "Can't say I'm gonna make it on time with the way this fucking dress is fighting me."
There's a polite, proper cough behind him.
"Would you like some help, perhaps?" comes Aziraphale's voice, just a touch airy, just a touch hopeful.
Crowley's grin could've eaten his ears.
He shrugs, a roll of the delicate curve of his shoulder. "Oh, alright, I guess."
A short moment in darkness and then there's the heavy, blood-hot nearness that radiates from Aziraphale’s body while he stands behind Crowley, and the banked hunger in Crowley’s low belly squirms violently. Aziraphale isn’t touching him, not yet at least, but the way his breath gusts hot on Crowley’s skin is thoroughly distracting, enough to make him shiver. Sweat breaks on Crowley’s forehead, on the dip of his throat, between his legs. He realizes Aziraphale must see the rosy flush working its way up his neck, must see the gleaming sheen along his back. The pulse of his arousal is bright and fierce, simmering just beneath his skin, making Crowley try to push back, to seek some friction, some blessed contact.
“May I?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley can feel the warm wisp of his words against his back, can almost taste his desperation.
Crowley arches into him, recklessly wanton, and very much hard. “ Please .”
The movement is almost immediate and rather precise, much to Crowley’s chagrin. Aziraphale finds the line of the zipper, tugging it up, carefully away from every inch of Crowley’s skin. The sound rips against the silence, until it stops and there’s only quick, ragged breaths rising and swelling in the room that Crowley suspects must be a mix of them both.
And yet nothing is happening.
But Crowley doesn’t have time to chew on his disappointment because his whole body comes alive when one of Aziraphale’s hands curls tightly around his hip, each finger digging insistent in the leather, hard enough to leave the crease of fingernails in it. Crowley can’t help the beginning of the gasp that escapes him before it turns into a cracked moan when Aziraphale presses the weight of his body against him. Smoothly, like the roll of a tide, easing them tightly together, the muscles of his chest strong and yielding against Crowley's back.
" Crowley ," Aziraphale breathes against Crowley's neck, flaring goosebumps on Crowley's skin. It's rough, the way he says it, the word grinding out through a clenched throat. His erection feels big, deliciously big, nudging against Crowley's buttocks and Crowley already knows it will be a very tight fit.
Crowley gives a desperate, needy little whine when Aziraphale grinds tentatively against his arse, the hard line of his cock falling just along the crease. Everything feels hot, too hot, Aziraphale's breath burning where it bounces off the sensitive skin of Crowley's neck.
Crowley bucks his hips back instinctively, begging without words, tilting his head to the side to offer Aziraphale more space. An invitation of sorts for those plump lips to clamp there, for Aziraphale's teeth to sink in his flesh, deep . He's so hard, his whole body feels on fire, his rim clenching, anticipating the delicious stretch, the maddening burn he knows he's going to feel once Aziraphale fucks him open, hard and wet.
Aziraphale groans, a raw, living thing, nosing the lean angle of Crowley's neck, down to his shoulder.
"Oh, darling you smell positively divine. I don't know-" A drag of lips along Crowley's back, somewhere between his shoulder blades. "I just- Lord ."
Aziraphale's rutting with imprecise, small rolls of his hips, as if he couldn't decide to let himself go entirely, his other hand pressed flat against Crowley's stomach, pulling him closer.
There’s electricity running in Crowley's veins. " Fuck , Aziraphale, I'm really gonna be late for my party," he whimpers. Not that he gives a single fuck about that shit, but the pretense of this being shockingly new, makes a rush of arousal course through him.
Aziraphale stills, though, his hands leaving Crowley in a second, giving a step back and away as if Crowley was scalding.
"R-right," Aziraphale says, a bit rushed, a bit too loud. "I'm terribly sorry, I don't know what- came over me. I ought not to keep you. That was awfully pretentious of me."
"Preten- What?" Crowley swivels around, breathless and aching, but Aziraphale is already in the foyer. "Aziraphale-"
"Have fun, Crowley," Aziraphale says, without looking back, and turns on the doorknob, letting himself out.
Crowley blinks, his knees seeming to roll under him and feels like screaming.
What the absolute shit.
One last time. Just one . This time Crowley's going to make bloody sure Aziraphale gets the message spectacularly loud and clear.
He's bent over the kitchen counter having worked himself up thoroughly, giving his arsehole a long seeing to. He's already hard, shining with sweat and loose from his fingers. His russet-bright hair is far from being perfectly coiffed and falls in glorious disarray over his neck like bright strokes of fire.
Crowley's pulsing, every single inch of him wanting, thinking about Aziraphale and his big, broad hands, warm and steady against Crowley's slippery-sweat skin. It stirs the need to be held down and used.
"Oh, fuck ."
He bites his lip feeling a spurt of pre-come dribbling out of his cock at the idea. Crowley's strung tight, aflame with the urge to be filled up. Stuffed full.
Any minute now, he thinks, and then the doorbell rings.
Crowley's heart thunders, and he cranes his head, to look at the silent door.
He smirks. "It's open!"
One sway of the wood and Aziraphale steps inside.
" Fuck. "
Crowley squirms at the punched-out word that sounds loud over the clattering of the pizza box against the floor.
Aziraphale’s eyes are glazed, and he doesn't seem to register anything but the sight Crowley's making of himself next to the kitchen island. Shirtless, his back arched obscenely, the straps of a red g-string tightly around his waist, over the line of the tiniest booty shorts Crowley has in his wardrobe.
It's garish, he knows, but he's miles past caring, running only on the edge of the frustration that’s fueling him. Crowley shifts and curves his back in a deeper arch, moaning high in his throat, showing Aziraphale the round curves of his buttocks, tensing his muscles knowing full well the effect he's having, if the bulge at the front of Aziraphale's trousers is anything to go by.
"Hope you won't charge me for that pizza," he says, pulling his lower lip a bit down with his thumb, his voice catching on a whine. "Must be all ruined now."
The whole room shifts the moment a spark lights in Aziraphale's eyes, something hungry, almost feral, a growl pushing out of his throat. It makes Crowley's eyes go wide, his insides churn. Just a blink, a shocked fluttering of lids and Aziraphale is striding forward, pressing his body against Crowley. Chest to back, hard cock to arse. Hands splayed open over the marble at Crowley's sides.
Caging him in.
"You infuriatingly gorgeous creature," he groans, miles past restraint, voice strangled with need. He thrusts his hips forward with brunt force, making Crowley's breath stutter out of him. Aziraphale grips his waist roughly and turns him around. "You absolutely wicked tempter."
Crowley doesn't get to say a word before Aziraphale gives him a bruising kiss, open-mouthed and spit-wet. He tastes like peppermint, like soft wisps of Earl Grey and Crowley relents, his jaw going slack to let Aziraphale's tongue into his mouth. Aziraphale's hands are all over him, roaming and gripping, frantic on Crowley's flesh. Sides, thighs, hips, back. Crowley knows there'll be a litter of finger-shaped bruises in the morning.
“Finally,” Crowley whispers, feeling the press of Aziraphale’s erection blazing hot against his bare thigh. “Took you long enough.”
“Do you have any idea,” Aziraphale mouths at his jaw, at his throat, grabbing handfuls of his arse and pulling him closer to grind their cocks together, “how hard-”
“You are? ‘Cause it’s pretty fucking clear,” Crowley laughs.
“Menace.” Aziraphale cups his jaw and slides his tongue inside his mouth, shutting him up entirely. His free hand has moved up, finding Crowley’s nipples, his thumb working over them with steady rolls. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time I saw you, looking like sex with red hair.” A scrape of teeth over Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley spreads his legs to make a space for Aziraphale between them. It’s a needy, wanton demand that makes Aziraphale’s eyes burn bright. “You’ve been toying with me,” he groans, grabbing a fistful of Crowley’s hair. “Driving me absolutely mad with how much I want you.”
Crowley moans when Aziraphale kisses him again, hard and messy. “Ah! Just- You should’ve… I would’ve let you. Every time.”
Aziraphale noses the line of his ear, and whispers, “Let me what?”
“Fuck me,” Crowley whimpers. “Anywhere, however you want. Suck you down my throat, ah - take you deep in my arse.”
Aziraphale’s grip tightens vice-like around his hips, his chest rumbling with that rough growl from before. Crowley’s panting, whining while Aziraphale sucks a bruise on his throat, dragging the front line of his trousers against him.
“God, Aziraphale, please, fuck me already.” He tilts his head back. “ Please .”
Aziraphale chuckles. “Would you look at that.” He dips his fingers in the straps of the g-string and twists them, rolling them down along with the shorts. “So desperate." He kneels in front of Crowley pushing his ruined clothes out of the way, pressing feather-like kisses on his thighs, on the freckled tracks of his hip bones. "So wanton. Pretty little thing.”
“C'mon,” Crowley blurts out, writhing under Aziraphale's touch, pulling him up. “I prepped myself.”
"Awfully optimistic," Aziraphale grins, but he kisses Crowley hungrily, digging fingers into the muscles of his buttocks, inching towards the whorled ring of his arsehole, dipping two fingers in where traces of lube have Crowley wet and ready. “You saucy tease ," Aziraphale breathes, spreading him wide over Crowley's mewls. "You're still too tight."
Crowley’s heart stutters. “I can take you." He pushes his hips back to take Aziraphale’s fingers deeper, to properly sit on the width of them.
There’s the dark flicker of a smile on Aziraphale’s face before he speaks, “I rather think you can’t. Not yet, at least.”
Aziraphale reaches for his fly, unzipping his trousers and pulling his hard cock out. Crowley’s breath catches in his chest.
“Holy fucking shit .”
Christ , he’s huge, bigger than anything Crowley has ever taken. Uncut and flushed, impressively thick. Crowley’s heart pounds heavily, feeling feverish, dizzy almost, and his arsehole clenches, greedily.
“Turn around, beautiful," Aziraphale says, thumbing at his slit. "Hands on the counter.”
Crowley does as he’s told, but not before retrieving a bottle of lube and condoms from a drawer for Aziraphale. He bends his elbows over the counter and tries to relax, wiggling his hips invitingly. Not a second passes before those two fingers are back, pushing inside him, cool and wet.
"God, you're still too tight," Aziraphale exhales unsteadily, pressed against him, kissing his neck, the curve of his shoulder. His fingers are thick, breaching and opening Crowley more thoroughly than his own could ever have.
" Ah ! Please." Crowley arches, sinking back, trying to take him to the knuckles, begging for harder. Aziraphale is pushing slowly, but deep, careful, controlled movements of the wrist that have Crowley wailing every time he brushes his prostate. "I want to have you. Want your cock in me."
Aziraphale smirks, his eyes hungry and lust-hazed. "So eager."
He presses two fingers into Crowley's mouth, filling him in tandem, and Crowley suckles and swirls his tongue around them, licking the webbing between them, his eyes drifting shut. He's so hard, the ache spans down to his toes.
Fuck . He can feel Aziraphale in his arsehole, moving, pressing, now adding a third finger in a breach that burns slightly. It's impossible not to clench around them at the idea of what he's going to be taking up his arse, very soon. And he would have been embarrassed for the high noises he was making if it wasn't for the muffle of the fingers in his mouth.
His legs almost give up on him the moment he feels yet another finger inside him. Oh, fuck . Even then, it's not enough and he asks for more around a pool of his own saliva every time Aziraphale thrusts into him.
"Please," he manages, around Aziraphale's fingers in his mouth. "Just- put it in me. I can take it!"
"Crowley-"
" Please ."
Aziraphale gives a final, languorous thrust before withdrawing and kisses him soundly. "As you wish."
Crowley can hear the tear of the condom wrap, before seeing Aziraphale rolling it over himself, slathering lube on it. He manhandles Crowley to a nearby sofa, sitting with the glorious length of his cock, hard and latex-shiny between his legs.
Crowley doesn't lose time and turns around, bracing on Aziraphale's knees, feeling one of Aziraphale's hands tightly circle his waist, while steadying his erection for him to sit on.
"Slow," Aziraphale coos, softly but frayed at the edges. "Do it slowly."
Eyes closed, teeth set on his lower lip, Crowley sinks down, letting the fat, blunt head nudge against his slicked, clenching entrance. A sob tears from his throat the moment it pushes past his rim, the burn still painful even after all the prep.
" Fuck , you're big," Crowley whines, taking two more inches inside. His legs are shaking and he can feel his heart ramming in his throat.
Aziraphale moans, hands smoothing along Crowley's sides, a kiss on his back. "And you're so good. You're made for it, darling, made to take my cock."
Crowley whimpers and sinks further and further down, relishing the ache of being split open, stretched wide. Christ , he can feel every vein, every throb as it drags inside him. He stops halfway through, thinking there's no way he can take it all. It's too much. Too full. He'll spear himself through if he tries. But Aziraphale grabs him by the waist and eases him down until he bottoms out.
They both cry out, and Crowley falls against Aziraphale, back pressed to chest. His cock is leaking a mess on his pubes, and his arsehole can't even clench around the very tight fill.
"I knew you could take me," Aziraphale moans, "Lord, you're built for it, look at you, not an inch out."
"More," Crowley whimpers, the ache ebbing away into pleasure. " Please , more."
Aziraphale slips his arms under Crowley's legs, opening him wider, exposing his bollocks, his puffy rim, hands clasping his thighs. Like this, Aziraphale has all the control, and Crowley shivers at the idea there's not much he can do but take what he'll give him.
Aziraphale kisses his temple, licks along his jaw. "Oh, darling, so tight- you're so right I can feel you pulsing around me."
He pulls back slowly and then pushes back in, easing Crowley backwards and down on his cock. The movement knocks all the air out of Crowley's lungs, makes his body tremble, his head falling back on Aziraphale's shoulder. He doesn't register, doesn't feel anything else the brilliant, agonising stretch around Aziraphale's cock, impaling him. Soon, Aziraphale is thrusting up in earnest, circling the place where they're joined with a slick, thick finger. Crowley is being used, his body thoroughly mastered and the idea pushes him closer to his climax, knowing he will be ruined for anyone else after this. Every push, every tight drag rattles his heart, his throat, his stomach flexing with the small shifts he manages to impale himself further.
"My darling," Aziraphale kisses his face, his neck, among the steady rock of his hips, "you feel good, so good ."
Something about hearing Aziraphale so unraveled, voice thick with want, makes Crowley try to swivel his hips down, making them both moan. "Ah, fuck! Aziraphale ."
Crowley's cries seem to go on and on, tapering off to whines every time Aziraphale sinks to the root. His pace is hard, unrelenting, hitting Crowley's prostate at every turn and Crowley's almost there, his toes curling at the promise of his scratched climax. He tries to reach for his neglected, weeping cock, but Aziraphale bats his hand away.
"Tempter," he groans, his clasp on Crowley's thighs so hard, Crowley can tell he’ll be left with bruises, "you can come like this. Come now, show me how much you like it, make a mess of yourself with my cock up your arse."
Crowley whines, his whole body shuddering under a particularly hard thrust, his balls drawn up tight. "I can't ."
"You can." A punched-out moan. "Come on my cock, beautiful, I know you want to with how hard you're moaning."
Aziraphale rolls his hips, sinking his teeth in the hard muscle of Crowley's neck and it's as if Crowley's orgasm is wrung out of him, explosive and blinding. He bucks his hips desperately, and the pleasure crashes over him like waves against a cliff, wild and powerful. He spills in thick, long spurts over his stomach, feeling as if he was scorching, blazing red. A hand moves up to his face, turning it to the side and in the middle of the hard pounding, he feels a soft mouth on his, a kiss that tastes far more sweet than anything else Crowley's ever felt. He's adrift, almost lost to everything but the way Aziraphale rams his cock inside him, all pretenses lost, only brutal, hard pushes of Aziraphale's hips chasing his pleasure in Crowley's body until he stills, pelvis shifting minutely while he spills inside Crowley, calling his name.
The room swells with their panting breaths.
"Shit," Crowley rasps, feeling those thick, strong arms holding him tightly around the waist, lips kissing his neck. Even after all they just did, this feels too personal, somehow, and for the first time in weeks he finds himself nervous. Not knowing what to say, what to do about this. "That was a thing."
Aziraphale chuckles, but it's a shy, quiet sort of thing that makes something squirm in Crowley's chest. He realizes that, for all the hard fucking, he hadn't expected for his heart to feel raw the most.
"It was delightful," Aziraphale says. He eases Crowley out of his cock and places him at his side, a soft, almost tender caress along the sharp outline of his jaw. "Thank you, for this."
"Yeah." Crowley clears his throat, not knowing how to make this last. And the thought frightens him, bears on him clear and sharp. I want to make this last. "Wouldn't be opposed to uh, to have another go at it, you know."
Aziraphale drags an afghan to him and unfolds it over Crowley's legs, with a fond smile. He takes one of Crowley's hands in his and grazes his knuckles with bitten-red lips. "I'd very much like that," he says. "I rather think I've let myself be too carried away by how beautiful you are and perhaps, this time you'd let me court you, properly."
Something akin to gunpowder lights in Crowley's chest. "Court me?" He grins and it’s impossible to hide the joy frothing up inside him.
"Only if that's something you're interested in," Aziraphale says, brushing an errant lock of sweat-damp red hair out of his forehead. "I don't want to assume-"
"I am!" Crowley clasps Aziraphale hand in his, wincing internally at how desperate he sounds. Fuck. Not even there and already mucking it up. "Very interested, me. Yep."
But the smile Aziraphale flashes at him could have outshone the sun. He presses forward and brings their lips together, just a short moment of shared breaths. "Wonderful." Aziraphale rolls the condom off and ties it. He looks at his khakis and a crease forms between his brows. “Oh, no.”
“What?”
He scratches at some whitish dots on his trousers. “I think I’ve rather made a mess of myself.”
“So? Send it to the dry cleaner.”
Aziraphale makes a little moué that has no right looking as adorable as it does. “Oh but you know, I would always know the stain was there.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Crowley chuckles. Aziraphale’s lips slowly curl into a smile of his own, infinitely sweet, and Crowley realizes he’s going to have to get used to these blinding shows of tenderness that may wreck him more than any fucking. “So,” he says, pushing all thoughts aside for later, “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
Aziraphale throws his head back in a full belly laugh and Crowley’s breath seizes in his throat. God, he’s gorgeous .
“Oh my darling, let’s have lunch,” Aziraphale says. “After all, I brought food.”