Work Text:
Crowley has an immaculately set up Grindr profile. Starting with the picture. Frontal. A relaxed pose in tight jeans, shirtless, and the artistic pressure of a thumb on his bottom lip. He’s noted that he’s looking for hookups, not averse to a relationship, but more than anything he has one criteria that's well stated:
He’s only looking for tops.
Messaging with Christian has been going well, easy, and without those embarrassing texting silences when you don't know exactly what to reply to an unpleasant innuendo. After a few disastrous one-night stands that still make him wince, Crowley is trying to do more in depth screenings (namely, message a bit before inviting anyone to bed). Christian is flirty without being overbearing, and his pictures are cute. As the conversation devolves into things a bit sexier in nature, he sends a very tasteful nude that lets Crowley know he won’t be disappointed in the bedroom department. Crowley sends one back, sprawled in his king size bed, to be polite and show his interest.
It turns out to be a bad idea when the immediate response to his hard dick is: I know your profile says you prefer bottoming, but do you ever switch?
**
He's still seething the next day.
It's unfair. A joke of the universe, Crowley thinks, to make him the biggest bottom in the London area with a huge dollop of size queen to boot and then to turn around and give him eight inches of useless dick between his legs.
“It happened again,” Crowley groans as he throws open the door to Aziraphale’s apartment and collapses on his couch without waiting for a greeting. It's their scheduled weekly dinner date after all.
“Hello to you as well,” Aziraphale says, already handing him wine.
It doesn't need an explanation. This conversation is standard fare at their weekly gatherings because Crowley doesn't have anyone else to unload his frustrations on.
True, Aziraphale seems eternally annoyed by the string of stories Crowley has to share; not a single commiserating smile, not one fond word of understanding for the huge nuisance in his trousers. But at least he seems to listen. Long ago, stupidly, naively, he'd entertained the possibility that Aziraphale's usual frost-touched words whenever Crowley shared the disaster of his love life, could be born out of a rush of jealousy. He knows now it’s not possible. He tries not to think too hard about it. It’s just another burden he must bear; though he doesn’t know which is heavier, his unrequited love or his huge cock.
So, without a care in the world for being proper, Crowley hands off his phone to Aziraphale, knowing he won't be affected by the lewd display of Crowley's bare body, legs spread open, in sharp 12 megapixels of color. Absolute waste of technology.
Aziraphale scrolls through the text chain with Christian until his lips purse, in apparent disdain. “Why do you insist on sending these nude photographs?”
“It’s about showing interest.”
Crowley had hoped once that nude photographs would show his obvious interest to Aziraphale, but his dick pic sent to Aziraphale’s phone in a fit of drunken courage had been summarily ignored and never discussed. Which is probably for the best. Whenever he thinks about the fact that he had drunkenly sent a picture of his erect penis to Aziraphale in a bid to confess his feelings, the sheer shame that follows the thought is enough to convince him to never bring it up again. It isn’t that he just wants to have sex with Aziraphale. Though that would be nice too, more than nice. Crowley likes him. Full heart eyes, butterflies and rainbows, and confessions at dawn. The whole Pride and Prejudice experience with Aziraphale as the reluctant Darcy and Crowley as a new version of Elizabeth Bennett. More gay friendly. Though Crowley's pretty sure Elizabeth pegs. She seems like a top.
Crowley's tastes, on the other hand, run toward being a bit of a pillow princess. And a size queen at that (he owns several bad dragon dildos to prove it). But he thinks he wouldn't mind at all if Aziraphale wasn't up to his usual standards. He wouldn't mind the insufficient inches or the potential lack of girth, or if the blessed pressure on his sinfully sensitive prostate wasn't enough, because it would be Aziraphale. The wet rub of his mouth on Crowley's skin, the warm slide of those hands parting his thighs. It would be Aziraphale, and the whole world would fall away in washed out colors.
Except they are best friends.
And Aziraphale never mentioned the dick pic.
So the confessions at dawn and the Aziraphalean dick nailing his prostate are purely theoretical. Aka never going to happen.
They’ve known each other for over a decade and Crowley’s been half-in love (maybe fully in love but he really tries not to label it) for more than half of that time. It’s not a miserable existence, the pining. Mostly because time with Aziraphale is fun. And also because Crowley’s not wasting away, putting himself on the shelf and waiting for him to come around like some victorian maiden. He’s not a fool.
“You know what happens when men see your penis, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes, drinking his own wine, absolutely unfazed at the blunt way of stating things. Because he's a bastard and Crowley is especially fond of it.
Crowley groans loudly and tips sideways on the couch. “It’s not supposed to. They’re tops! They’re not supposed to be size queens. I’m the size queen.” He taps his chest with some sort of angry intention. "I'm the offended party here! Tops, my whole arse." He rolls his eyes. "Which is still terribly unfucked."
Aziraphale levels that same gaze Crowley knows rather well. The one that lets Crowley know how positively ridiculous Aziraphale thinks he is. At this moment, Crowley doesn't really care.
“You’re being reductive.” Aziraphale sniffs and takes a haughty sip of his wine before handing back the phone. “If you must cavort about with these Grindr-folk, advocate for yourself. You don’t have to agree to top if you don’t like it.”
Crowley grimaces. “But then I won’t have sex at all! That’s terrible advice."
“Some people have standards, my dear. Perhaps you should try it," Aziraphale says with a tone that Crowley would call chastising but holds too much bastardry to be ignored.
“Are you calling me a slut?”
“Lovingly.”
Crowley throws a pillow at him. "Dunno why I'm even asking you for advice. When was the last time you got laid anyway?"
There's a part of Crowley's brain that really doesn't want to know, a thrashing, snapping snake of a feeling. But he pushes it aside because he's curious. Has always been. They're friends. He talks to Aziraphale about his love life. Fair’s fair.
"Let's just say I handle abstinence better than yourself," Aziraphale says primly.
Crowley leers. "With emphasis on handle, am I right?"
"Now you're just being obscene." Aziraphale pauses, before adding, "Perhaps you should try a bit more self love? What do these individuals have to offer you anyway?"
Their cocks. Not that they are, in all honesty doing any cock-offering. And Crowley won't admit for anything in the world that while he's looking to get bent over and fucked because he likes it, because it feels good, there's also a writhing need to wake up holding someone close.
But mostly, what he wants is to be held down and fucked, to be split open on pleasure and cared for, tended to, like the shameless pillow princess he is.
The TV flickers on a new show in front of them and Crowley shoves his glass out. “More wine. We’re supposed to get drunk and watch naff telly. Stop talking about my love life.”
Aziraphale makes a horribly offended noise. “You brought it up, you daft man.”
“Don’t know what you mean.”
**
Dante seems promising if the way he's grinding on Crowley's arse is anything to go by. Crowley doesn't want to assume but the rather handsy grasp on his hips and the type of rutting pressure is giving him serious top energy.
Maybe. Finally. They're all second best to his own never-quenched desire for Aziraphale, but something is better than nothing.
He sends Aziraphale a look with a waggle of eyebrows, where he's perched at the bar and tries to imbue the look with as much I’m going to go home with this bloke nonverbal communication as he can. Aziraphale raises his glass in a silent toast, mouth thinned into nothing. Crowley only feels vaguely guilty. He shouldn't have dragged Aziraphale to a club in the first place. Hopes of finally attracting his attention or no, it's a useless endeavor. Clubs aren't his scene.
He turns to the side and whispers to Dante, "Hey, give me a sec, okay?"
The bloke nods and Crowley ambles to where Aziraphale is sitting at the bar. Crowley feels slightly woozy, with that slow daze of alcohol in his blood.
"I'm gonna get dicked down tonight," he says with a grin that's supposed to be joyful but probably comes out as incredibly stupid.
Aziraphale downs his whisky in one gulp. He toasts once more with his empty glass. "Good for you."
There’s a little hot flip in Crowley’s stomach at Aziraphale’s empty words. He would do anything for him to get jealous, just a moment of it. A flash. And yet here he is, unbothered and easy, drinking whisky because that’s his idea of a good time. There’s a harsh yearning in Crowley’s chest like the twist of a knife and Crowley realizes he’s being horribly maudlin. This isn’t what he does. He doesn’t sit around and pine after his best friend. He gets fucked because Aziraphale isn’t interested.
He glances back at Dante and then back at Aziraphale. There’s something so beautiful about him in the flashing red light and maybe that’s all it is but Crowley's knees seem to roll under him, which must be the alcohol- he wishes it were, and he can't stop himself from leaning forward, from breathing in Aziraphale's space.
"Wish me luck, angel," Crowley says, and sinks down, slanting a warm, slow kiss to Aziraphale's cheek, terrorizingly close to his mouth.
A hand wraps with a gripping curl around Crowley's wrist. When Crowley pulls back, he realizes it's Aziraphale. His hand is so hot on his skin. Crowley's heart thrums as loud as the music. He thinks he might die if he doesn’t close that final inch between them and actually kiss him because Aziraphale is just right there.
But Aziraphale flicks his eyes up to meet his and he draws back. "Be careful."
Right. The moment shifts to the always easy camaraderie of friendship and Crowley doesn't even know if he's imagined the last minutes or if the vodka martinis come with a side of desperate longing.
"Ciao." He waves and turns around, unable to keep looking at Aziraphale a moment longer and hoping Aziraphale hasn't realized how close to crush their mouths together Crowley has been. There's only so much embarrassment he can take on a night.
He wends his way through the fray of bodies and slips close to Dante. "Want to go back to mine?"
"Thought you'd never ask,'' Dante says with an attractive smirk.
Back at his flat, it's a messy tearing off of clothes before they're even through the door. They trail to the bedroom leaving a trail of sartorial breadcrumbs until Crowley's shoved down on the bed which is so fucking promising he wants to cry. He hasn't had a good dicking since his last boyfriend who was in fact such a wanker that Crowley gave him the unceremonious boot not three months ago.
Dante's eyes slant back to the shelf at the side of Crowley's bed where he has placed the silicon replicas of monster cocks. They should be warning enough.
"You weren't lying when you said you were a size queen," Dante says, sliding hot lips down Crowley's throat.
"Nah. Big fan of mammoth cocks, me."
Dante tears down Crowley's jeans, eyes hungry, but when Crowley's pants come off, Dante pauses. Crowley's stupid huge cock bobs against his stomach, red and shiny with precome. Before Dante can say a thing, Crowley sees the gears shifting in Dante's head, thoughts Crowley's so damn familiar with. His heart sinks. This is the fucking albatross around his neck.
Dante leans back. "Y'know, I don't usually bottom but…"
**
Crowley drops his head down on the cafe table and accepts the conciliatory pat to his hair.
"There, there, my dear. I'm sorry that the stranger you tried to bed wasn't the tried-and-true top you hoped." Aziraphale removes the blessed contact of his hand and takes a sip of his coffee.
Crowley tips his head to the side so he can scowl at him. If he didn't know better, he'd think Aziraphale looked smug. Pleased with his suffering.
"You're a cruel man."
Aziraphale blinks, imbued with annoying innocence. "My, what happened to angel?"
"That's a nickname for when I like you. Right now, it's bastard."
He has to sit properly a few minutes later when his tiramisu arrives. Crowley has never been one to enjoy desserts, but he feels so crushed, he thinks maybe sugar would give him a kick of dopamine.
"Honestly, Crowley, why don't you take some time to yourself?" Aziraphale asks. “If it will stop this incessant drive you have.”
Crowley's attacking his tiramisu with angered need. He scoops a spoonful and chews it. "I've tried to have time to myself. It doesn't fucking work."
"What do you mean-"
"Look. Fine." He lets his spoon clatter on the little plate. "It's not the same, okay? The angle is always weird and it's not as satisfying." He fills his spoon again with a dollop of tiramisu and licks the metal clean. "You know? That really good stretch on a massive dick when it first pushes in, and you're so full that for a moment you think you won't be able to take it," Crowley says, with a moan interspersed there in the words, almost tasting the reality of the memory. "I haven’t been able to get that with any of my dildos. Not like before."
Aziraphale's mouth shifts in surprise, breath shuddering out like he can't believe such an awful thing could happen to anyone, least of all Crowley. His cheeks are washed pink, a flush that trails down to his neck.
"What-" Aziraphale clears his throat, eyes closing before he blinks them open again. "What do you mean?"
There's a strange pressure to the question. Like Aziraphale wants to bite it in half before it can escape.
"Like this morning," Crowley says. He lowers his voice because this is still a coffee shop. "I was trying to have my morning wank. Thought it best to do it in the shower, 'cause it's easier with the suction cup because I really wanted to go to town after yesterday's disappointment and everything-"
Aziraphale makes a half spluttery sound around a gulp of coffee but nods as if encouraging Crowley to continue.
"So I just leaned forward, hands on the tiles, didn't even need any prep because I was still so fucking wet and open from the night before-"
"But you said Dante didn't …" Aziraphale cuts in, trailing into silence. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Crowley scoffs. "After he left, I fucked myself on my biggest dildo for like an hour. Not that it mattered. When you're expecting the real thing, having to do the work yourself is miserable." He pauses to drink a sip of water. "But today, in the shower, I thought, you know, maybe more of a riding technique would be better. More satisfying. So I sat back on that dildo I like so much-"
"The, er…" Aziraphale gives an odd tilt of head as if trying to remember something, only to swallow after his words trail off. "The ridged, black one?"
Crowley had spent a whole evening showing Aziraphale the long list of his collection, pictures and everything. The fact that Aziraphale remembers what Crowley had said is satisfying. This is why Aziraphale is his best friend.
"Yeah. That one." Crowley lets himself really remember the edge of frustration he rode all morning. Literally. "And I pushed it deep, so deep, Aziraphale," he says, voice shaking with anger and thwarted desire, "until I was so fucking full my thighs were shaking, and I was moaning like a bitch in heat-"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale hisses. His cheeks are bright red, and Crowley realizes maybe he's gotten too loud again so he lowers his voice. He's not done complaining, Aziraphale's chastisements or no.
"I mean there were good things, right? Like the drag inside was phenomenal, all slicked and tight and that dildo has those massive ridges. But a dick isn't the only thing I like about bottoming, y'know? I want hands on my hips so tight I'm worried it'll bruise. Someone's mouth on my neck. That feeling of being chucked around. Tried to ignore how much I wanted it but it's hard to forget a craving like that." Crowley drops his chin into his hand with a massive sigh. "At a certain point you gotta take what you can get though. So I tried to stay in the moment. I always have liked shower sex so enjoying the sensation of the water on my body, dripping into my mouth while I was panting and gasping as I shoved myself down on that huge cock over and over and over again. The usual." Another wave of indignation hits him, and he adds, "I couldn't even come untouched! An absolute tragedy. I had to masturbate while riding the damned thing." He drops his hand to Aziraphale's to make sure he's still paying attention, only to see him looking at Crowley with his eyes wide as fucking twin moons. "After I was done, the worst part was realizing how much I missed that warm rush of someone else coming inside me."
Aziraphale's coffee cup explodes then, lukewarm latte drenching his sleeves and pouring onto the table. Crowley has no idea what the hell happened as he pulls back and shakes his hands off.
"I'm- I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, trying to clean the mess with insufficient napkins. "I must have tilted the cup without realizing."
Except the cup is crushed at the middle, as if strong fingers had dipped into the soft material of it, pressing it to its destruction.
Crowley is about to say something, but an employee arrives then to politely clean the table and ask if any of them needs anything.
Once the table is clean, and Aziraphale is offered a complementary muffin for his trouble, they both walk out of the shop and the incident has left Crowley's mind completely.
**
Two more weeks into his ordeal, the situation turns almost unbearable.
It keeps happening. Crowley is cursed. He wonders if he should have even tried to get back out there. Wonders if there are any tops left in London. Wonders if he should go on holiday and see if there are any in Bristol or Glasgow.
He's tired. Is it too much to ask to be held down on a bed and be thoroughly railed?
He can't even bring himself to go through with it anymore when his failures ask to switch. At first, he'd fuck the blokes who asked but now it's not even worth it, so he stops from fucking altogether.
Wine nights with Aziraphale are the only reprieve from his sour mood, while his thoughts spiral out of control in the haze of intoxication.
"Look at my arse," he says to Aziraphale who is sitting on the armchair across from him.
Aziraphale sighs. "What of it?"
"It's a nice arse, isn't it?" Crowley kneels on the edge of the sofa, bending slightly over Aziraphale's indignant yelp. "I mean I don't have a huge arse, but it's nicely padded!" He grabs a handful of it through the rough material of his jeans, too drunk to care if he looks like a desperate slut. "It'd feel nice for whoever wanted to bend me over and fuck me! S’worthy of appreciation! I’m more than just a cock, y’know? I have an arsehole too.”
Aziraphale is looking at him with the eternal glare he sports when Crowley starts rambling about his lack of dicking. His cheeks are red and his lips damp from the wine, but his hazel eyes seem stormy.
"Yes, I'm sure it would be quite satisfying to whoever filled the space," Aziraphale grates out, frowning.
Crowley collapses back on his arse. "Luke always said I was very tight, that I had a good arse for fucking," he mutters. And with the simplicity of pure need thrumming under the haze of alcohol, an idea forms in Crowley's mind. "Maybe I should just text Luke."
"What?" The question is sharp and cutting like a whip. It startles Crowley enough to make him sober up.
Aziraphale doesn't get angry. Has never got angry at Crowley no matter the amount of nonsense that has spilled from Crowley's mouth.
"Not to get back together," Crowley assures him. "Just to…fuck."
"He was awful to you! He threw out your plants," Aziraphale says. "And he gave you chlamydia!'
Crowley winces. Aziraphale is technically correct, but Crowley is desperate. "It's alright! I got tested just last week and everything is fine. He's the only guy who ever managed to put up with my massive dick and still want to fuck me. He's a sure thing and besides, I wouldn't let him finish inside me. Cream pies are sacred. A raw prick filling me up until I’m leaking? That’s for relationships. For long term things. Which Luke absolutely would not be. I’m telling you, this itch has to be scratched or I’ll implode like one of those stars and then I’ll be a black hole, angel. A black hole."
Aziraphale stares at him with a twist to his mouth and creases around his eyes. His nostrils flare. "So you're just looking for anything at this point?"
"Well, not anything," Crowley says sullenly. "There's a certain degree of trust I'd like to have. Assurance that it will go how I'd expect."
The silence stretches while Aziraphale pins him down with an unusual attention. The whole moment strikes Crowley as strange. They're almost never quiet together. Not because they can't be but because it seems they always have so much to say.
"Do you trust me?" Aziraphale finally asks. His voice sounds lower, rougher from the ever-composed lilt Crowley's used to.
Crowley sucks in a breath, his heart thumping violently. He chokes on a possible answer. It certainly can't mean what he thinks– that Aziraphale is offering to give him his cock and to finally fuck Crowley the way he’s been fantasizing about for longer than he’d like to admit – but then Aziraphale is getting out of his armchair with a face so serious that Crowley can't think he means anything else.
His arse clenches greedily, stomach roiling with heat.
"Yeah, course I do, but…but…" His thoughts are definitely breaking apart as Aziraphale drops to his knees in front of the couch, hands curving around the swell of Crowley's thighs. They are so unbelievably warm. Crowley has done his level best not to stare at those hands over coffee, as they cup a wine glass, but the blunt fingers are perfect, manicured; they look like they'd feel good shoved in his mouth.
"You have fucked a litany of terrible strangers who have not appreciated you the way you deserve," Aziraphale says, gaze burning through Crowley as he slides a hand up and begins to push up the hem of Crowley's black shirt until the pads of his fingers brush the curve of Crowley's stomach. His skin is blazing. "Do you think I'll let you go back to him just so you can get what you need when I'm perfectly capable of giving it to you myself?" Aziraphale shuts his eyes closed and pushes closer. When he opens them, the pupils have swallowed the hazel in black, and Crowley can't remember how to fucking breathe. "When it's all I've thought about, desperately, every time you sit on this couch lamenting another failed conquest."
Crowley gapes, the hand on his inner thigh is making it difficult to think with the way its pressure seems like a silent demand. "But you didn't reply to my dick pic."
It sounds tremendously stupid, lacking and poorly articulated but Crowley can't in all honesty string together his thoughts in any better capacity.
Aziraphale pulls his hand back and levels him with an unimpressed look. "Do you mean the blurry picture you sent me when you were drunk of your half erect penis with the caption what do you think?"
Crowley blinks, hopeful. “Yes?”
“I wasn’t interested in being another in your string of conquests, Crowley," Aziraphale says, flatly, which manages to make Crowley's stomach twist, but he pushes it aside because he isn't going to throw this opportunity into the bin just because of his misconstrued feelings.
“And-" He swallows, hears the wet click of it. "And now?”
“I will not see you go back to that cad. Not when there's someone here who can treat you better."
Aziraphale rises up on his knees and cups the back of Crowley's neck with curling fingers that dig tight into the skin. Crowley can't help it, he moans high when Aziraphale pulls him down into a searing kiss. It ignites Crowley, his lips wet and warm, the slide of their mouths together making his knees shake, all of him dizzy in the buzzing pressure of this bruising kiss until he's gasping for air. He's so often pushed aside the possibility of ever kissing Aziraphale that his heart jumps wildly, not really knowing what to do with Aziraphale's mouth on him like this. As if Crowley was something he wanted to devour, with wide-open lust in each push of those huge hands on him, of those teeth nipping on his lips until Crowley feels them swell. When Aziraphale pulls back to stand up, it's only to draw Crowley up with him, bunching his shirt up and off with messy tugs.
His hands go to the softness of Crowley's waist, gripping tight and hard, with a possessive edge that burns into Crowley with each slow drag, unstoppable in its greedy intention.
"I've been wanting to do this for so long," Aziraphale says, pushing his open mouth just to Crowley's neck, to where his pulse is thudding. Crowley can feel teeth on his throat, the rake of nails on his sides and he realizes Aziraphale wants to do to him all the things Crowley has fantasized about in his presence. Break him open, stretch him wide, leave him trembling and raw under him, a sensitive wreck of pleasure.
Fuck, Crowley's thighs shake just thinking about it.
"Aziraphale."
Aziraphale's hands slide back and down, cupping Crowley's arse through his jeans. He jerks Crowley forward, pulling him flush against his body, a slow grind of hips on hips as he says, "You have the cutest arse. Do you know how often I've thought about fucking it? About filling you up until you're writhing and crying out on my cock, coming without a hand on you, beautifully sprawled on my bed, your legs open for me?"
Crowley's knees quite literally go weak. "You never-" He makes a noise between a hiss and a groan when Aziraphale noses below his ear. "You didn't say-"
“I can say so much more. I imagine you're quite tight, with how poorly you've been treated,” Aziraphale says in a low voice. “And oh, how I have imagined it, how much I adore the idea of it.”
"Tell me," Crowley begs, without a care in the world, holding to the strong line of Aziraphale's shoulders.
"I imagined you opening up for me, first to my fingers, slow to not hurt you, then to my tongue, to slow licks, tasting you, and finally," he breathes in Crowley's mouth, "get to feel how exquisitely you would yield to the push of my cock inside you. This –what do you complain about? -- unfucked arse of yours all for my pleasure," he says, holding firm handfuls of Crowley's arse. "Full of me."
Crowley is whining already, frustrated and beyond aroused.
Just then, Aziraphale releases Crowley’s arse and Crowley thinks he might faint as Aziraphale undoes his belt buckle. He reaches inside with a careful hand and strokes Crowley through his briefs where he's sure there's a wet spot already. “And this is the cock that brought so many men to their knees.”
Crowley whimpers, that emptiness inside him aching where it's begging to be stuffed full.
“Don’t worry darling. I’m made of sterner stuff.”
Still stroking him, Aziraphale draws Crowley back into a kiss. Crowley clutches at the front of his jumper, having difficulty believing he finally has his hands dug into that argyle, knuckles pressed into the swell of that gorgeous belly he's admired for so long. Soon that jumper will be off. Soon they’ll be skin to skin, a line of sweat and warmth and scorching want. He moans and Aziraphale slides their tongues together, a move that makes Crowley’s stomach go molten.
When they separate, it's for Aziraphale to press his mouth to Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale is always impeccably shaved and yet it's so late in the evening that Crowley can feel a hint of stubble scraping over his skin. He can smell his shampoo wafting up from his soft curls as Crowley digs his fingers into his hair.
“You’re going to destroy me, aren’t you?” Crowley breathes and he can't wish for anything better.
Aziraphale chuckles, kisses and sucks on his neck. “And put you back together.”
He releases Crowley for a moment, stepping away. His cheeks are pinked from arousal, lips swollen. He looks more like an angel than ever even in khakis and argyle, even with those eyes speaking of nothing but lust. “I’m going to get lube and you are going to take off your trousers and stay here."
It's a statement, not for discussion. Crowley shudders in anticipation.
“Don’t you want to go to the bedroom?” Crowley asks, the question shakes a bit at the end. He doesn’t care where they go as long as he gets what he wants.
“We can,” Aziraphale says. He reaches out and trails his fingers over the sharp blade of Crowley’s hip, eyes heavy-lidded. “But I know for a fact that you like to be bent over and taken, and the couch is a better height than the bed.”
The noise Crowley makes defies definition and Aziraphale smiles sweetly before departing. Bastard of the worst order. Destroying Crowley's brain cells before he can destroy Crowley's arse.
He hurries out of his jeans, considering at the last moment if he should take off his briefs too or if it would be weird to stand around nude. Aziraphale returns before he has to decide, holding a bottle of lube and a box of condoms. He's also only in his undershirt and boxers and Crowley wants to appreciate that because fuck he has nice calves, a delicious chest. And his forearms are delectable with their scattering of blond hair and freckles.
There's an emotion under his skin that burns deep, wide, that feels uncontrollable.
But it's the condoms that give Crowley pause. Even as Aziraphale tosses them on the couch cushions and wraps his hands around Crowley's waist, swinging him around to face him, Crowley's mind is hung up on the bloody condoms.
"Wait," he says and he's afraid he sounds so awfully needy. "Don't you want to come inside me?"
Aziraphale drops his hands. His expression is almost comically shocked. "But this is- you said you only do that in relationships.”
Crowley's stomach tightens, an uncomfortable wiggle replacing all the heat inside him. He's glad he didn't take off his underpants because it's at least one layer of protection against the brunt of embarrassment. But he pushes through.
"If we do this, I don't want it to be a one-time thing." He doesn't think he could do casual with Aziraphale. It would be detrimental to his heart. His gaze sweeps up to Aziraphale's face only to see that gorgeous mouth fall open. "I sent you that dick pic so you'd date me."
"That was your idea of a romantic overture?" Aziraphale asks in disbelief.
"Yes?"
"Foolish man. This is a romantic overture."
Aziraphale kisses him roughly, fingers digging into the spill of Crowley's hair tugging his head down until he can taste him, until Crowley's opening his mouth so easily for the push of Aziraphale's tongue. The tension fades from Crowley's muscles until he's relaxed in the careful grip of Aziraphale's warm hands, being fucking devoured, lips tingling, and Crowley thinks maybe red from Aziraphale's hunger.
"I'll come inside you," Aziraphale says, and it's a promise of intention that has need yawning inside Crowley's stomach. “I will leave you wet and marked and absolutely fucked open. Is that what you want?"
Aziraphale guides him until Crowley's kneeling on the sofa, the length of his arms bent on the back of it. Those sure, broad hands roll Crowley's underwear off, a nip of teeth on a buttock and a kiss on the warmth of his inner thigh, making Crowley whimper. It’s been so long since he’s had a mouth on his arse. A good proper seeing to. He’s drooling at the thought of it.
Aziraphale kneels behind him, sliding a hand along the curve of his spine and down, curling around the round of a buttock kneading at it, gorgeous weight draped on Crowley's back, mouth sliding over the side of his neck.
“Christ, is this really happening?” Crowley's voice comes out almost strangled at the idea of it, because some part of him feels like he’s dissociating, while pushing into the relentless, heavy shape of Aziraphale's body.
Aziraphale hums a groan, dragging teeth over Crowley's nape. “I assure you my dear. This is very real.”
The hands on Crowley's back set on his buttocks with a firm grasp, warm fingers gently brushing against the vulnerable, furled pinch of his hole. His back rolls forward like a cat in heat, desperate and shameless. The sensation of it, of another person touching him after so long, even with this little pressure, is going to kill him.
"Spread your legs," Aziraphale says, all air. "Let me look at you properly."
Crowley eases his thighs open as far as he can without reservations, and he knows Aziraphale must see him entirely. The sexual display of the greedy clutch of his pink rim, slightly open from the desperation of fucking himself on mammoth, silicone pricks often enough to feel the emptiness that sets in when Aziraphale thumbs him open for his lustful eyes.
"Ah, Aziraphale, please." Crowley keens when he feels the kiss of air on his taint, on his sensitive hole.
"Look at you, greedy little thing," Aziraphale says, pressing a thumb to the rim. "I don't think you're ready for me."
There's the digging pressure of Aziraphale's strong fingers on the curve of his arse, and Crowley's groaning when he feels the slide of Aziraphale’s tongue, hot, wet, thick against him, pushing just so over that vulnerable furl of muscle. Aziraphale’s hands tighten on Crowley's arse as he’s unforgivingly held open, obscenely, and he can only imagine the picture he makes like this, eaten out with a sort of desperation that has Crowley's thighs shaking.
“S’good,” he moans, face sinking into his own arm, thinking there's a heavy layer of intimacy in being exposed so thoroughly. Not that he cares, because it's Aziraphale. He shivers out a breath that pitches high. “Fuck. S’so good.”
Aziraphale says nothing, just starts fucking him with his tongue in rhythmic rolling licks that go all the way down to the hang of his balls. It’s messy too. None of that prim proper angel who wipes his mouth after every bite of dessert. Crowley can feel the spit dripping down his taint with each laving line of tongue, each time Aziraphale sucks on his fluttering arsehole with hungry enthusiasm, pushing where Crowley knows he's hot and desperate. His hands fold to clutch the padding of the sofa, tearing at it, while he sobs and chokes and realizes he's never really wanted anything quite so much as this. The wetness of spit is going to make a mess on the upholstery, splash up onto his knees. He couldn’t give less of a fuck. Not when Aziraphale sinks his tongue all the way in and Crowley's pushing back on his face, making noises that are high and needy, feeling the barely-there stubble of Aziraphale's cheeks rasp the tender skin of his buttocks. His skin feels like it’s on fire and it burns to the very marrow of him.
Aziraphale’s tongue slides warm down to the flat of his perineum and gives him two flat strokes before he retreats, leaving him shuddering. His whole arse tensing for the promise of a fill that's taking too long to arrive. Crowley tries to breathe. He feels like a wet paper bag. His cock is so hard he thinks he might come if he so much as brushes it with his arm.
"Fuck, I love your tongue," Crowley says, dazed. "Please, please give me your cock already."
"Not quite yet," Aziraphale answers like the absolute bastard he is.
Crowley hears the lube open, and he turns to watch Aziraphale slick his fingers. Crowley was right. He is a mess. Face red, lips swollen and wet with spit, his chin sloppy. It's a beautiful, exquisite sight Crowley can't believe he can appreciate in its debauched reality. Aziraphale meets his eyes and slides a hand up his back only to run it through his hair like he’s petting him. Like he owns him. Crowley pushes into it like a fucking touch starved animal.
“You are so beautiful,” Aziraphale says, voice ragged and Crowley’s stomach cartwheels. Because oh, right, this isn’t a random fuck. This is Aziraphale.
The brunt of the realization chokes all sense out of him.
“I fucking love you,” Crowley croaks out and Aziraphale fumbles the lube onto the couch.
Aziraphale fists his hand in Crowley’s hair, pulling him back onto his knees, twisting him until his spine is bent in a deep curve, just so he can kiss him. It’s a messy thing, a mix of tenderness and desperate breaths, graceless and shameless with the way Aziraphale licks into his mouth with a sense of propriety. “I love you, you desperate thing. And I’m going to wreck you.”
Crowley whimpers as he’s released to fall to his knees. He braces himself on the back of the couch, his throat closing around a sound that is frankly undignified. He wonders briefly if he can convince Aziraphale to go in without fingering him. Really smash him open, but before he can say anything, Aziraphale is circling his hole with a damp finger and pressing the tip inside and it feels really fucking good, so Crowley decides he doesn’t mind. He can suffer some light fingering.
The wet, slight breach punches a sigh out of Crowley. His hips move, chasing the push of Aziraphale's thick finger inside him, wanting more. Everything. Aziraphale's free hand flattens on his chest, sliding between the roll of his ribs, finding his nipples and pinching them with uncontrolled twists. Crowley is making filthy, lewd sounds at every brush of those hands on his body, at the way Aziraphale shoves three slick fingers inside him, makes them four in quick, wet pushes that spread Crowley nicely, his stomach pulling with every shaky exhale.
Crowley feels his body stretching easily, with an enthusiasm that he can't fucking regret at the moment. Not with that familiar, delicious sting of fullness ramping up his spine.
"That's enough," Aziraphale says softly, kissing the ball of Crowley's shoulder and slipping his fingers from his sensitive arse and away from his hard nipples. Crowley whines, trying to chase the touch, hips rolling back but it's pointless.
He's put himself into Aziraphale's hands for him to give Crowley what he wants.
Aziraphale wipes a wet trail over Crowley's arse with his hand before retreating.
There's silence for a moment. A beat too long where his skin feels bereft of the heat of Aziraphale's proximity. So Crowley turns to see what's happened, a nagging worry in his stomach.
"Holy shit."
He realizes belatedly that Aziraphale had needed to finish undressing. And also that he hasn't seen Aziraphale's cock until this very moment. That he hasn't known anything about it which seems like an oversight at this point.
Crowley's lips fall open.
"But you're- you never-"
Aziraphale looks at him and smirks. "Not all of us brag about the size of our cocks, darling."
"I was complaining. S'different."
Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, but Crowley ignores his face entirely. He's really got to take in the cock in front of him. It's big. Bigger than his own. Fuck, that thing is massive enough it needs its own postal code. Crowley's stomach does a hot flip as he thinks about his favorite monster dildo. Eleven inches of unyielding silicone that makes him drool on his pillow in each push. It looks almost exactly like Aziraphale's dick. With some additional ridges. And it's black and red.
"Do you like it?" Aziraphale asks, a dripping sort of sarcasm in the question. He's gripping the thick shaft at the base, pumping it idly, which is an appealing and unbearably sexual picture.
Crowley nods dumbly.
"Why don't you get it wet for me?"
Crowley scrambles off the couch onto the ground, eager to feel the stretch of that huge cock in his mouth, relish the ache of his jaw. He barely even opens his lips before Aziraphale is sliding his cock in, hot along Crowley's tongue, a hand in his hair.
Fuck, Crowley loves sucking big cocks, and he's never had one as big as Aziraphale's. He fills his mouth with it, and rolls his eyes up to look at Aziraphale, to show him how good he is, choking and drooling all over him because he asked.
"Gorgeous thing," Aziraphale groans, guiding the lazy bobs of Crowley's head on his cock by a pull of hair. "Not everyone wants to take me. I'm too big for them. But you- I've seen your collection. I know what that magnificent arse of yours can take."
Crowley moans and sucks down Aziraphale deeper, curls his tongue around it, licks at the flushed shaft. His hands curl at the base where he can't swallow, working that massive shape with his own spit.
Aziraphale's hand tightens in his hair. "Perfect," he moans. "Get it nice and wet so I can fuck you."
Crowley makes an absolute mess. He opens his mouth and forgoes swallowing, letting the spit slick his hand as he moves his head up and down, pulling Aziraphale in until his prick bumps the back of his throat. Precome spills inside his mouth and Crowley can taste the bitter-salt of it, can roll it around his tongue so greedily. It's glorious, and he can imagine doing it until Aziraphale breaks, splashing come all over Crowley's lips.
Tonight, however he wants to get railed.
He pulls off with a slurping, loud sound and rises to his feet. "Fuck me, angel. Now."
His lips burn, pulse from use, and Aziraphale kisses him fully and folds his hands around Crowley's hips. He turns Crowley around, manhandling him in a way that's annoyingly satisfactory, bending him back over the couch.
There's the quick sound of the lube opening but then Crowley feels the blunt pressure of a cock against his hole, and he closes his eyes in breathless desire. It teases at the curl of muscle of his rim that clenches desperately, lube-wet and empty. This is perfect. Everything is about to be-
Then Aziraphale pulls back.
"What the fuck?" Crowley's demand comes out as a whine that holds too much frustration to be threatening.
"Don't worry, my dear. We'll get there," Aziraphale says. He pets across Crowley's lower back with the slide of a warm, broad hand and once more Crowley feels the hot press of that fat cockhead against his entrance, just testing it. "Look at you, so hungry for it, aren't you?" Aziraphale rubs at the rim with the tip of his cock, keeping a thumb on an arsecheek to expose Crowley better. "You're such a slut for it, darling."
Crowley tips his hips back, up, like he wants to be mounted, not caring if he looks desperate, filthy or obscene. He's losing his fucking mind. "Put it in me, put it in me, put it in me," he chants, feeling the slick flush of his cock bob against the back of the couch.
He tries all his best tricks, spine bending in a way that Crowley knows is devastating, pulling a thigh up as if to give more of him for Aziraphale to use. To fuck. To ruin.
"Tempter," Aziraphale says, leaning down and kissing the warm stretch of Crowley's neck. "Stay still. I'm going to give you what you need. And you will stay still and appreciate it.”
Aziraphale palms Crowley's arse with one hand, opening him up wide and then slaps the flat of his cockhead against Crowley's little hole, leaking on it. Once, twice. It's wet and lewd, the noise overtly sexual, and Crowley squirms at the sensation. Aziraphale pushes against him, finally, and Crowley gasps when the wide nudge of the tip slips inside.
Aziraphale groans. "Ah, darling, you're deliciously tight." He traces Crowley's overstretched rim with a thumb and Crowley huffs a sigh imagining how he must look. Arse split open on that monster length, arsehole fluttering trying to accommodate that thickness inside. "But there is so much more you can take, can't you?"
Crowley whimpers at the stretch of it, at the brilliant sting of the breach. It's so much better than any dildo. Crowley shuts his eyes and tries to memorize the sweet feeling, the drag and slick pressure. He moves his hips, rolls them slowly, easing into the wide spread. He’s so ready to be fucked.
But then Aziraphale pulls back again.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Crowley hisses.
“Are you?” Aziraphale says. His tone is still cool, collected and yet there’s a thread underneath it, unbearably tight as he fucks back into Crowley, just the tip. “Or are you going to beg for it? Like the gorgeous slut you are?”
Crowley groans at the slow, interminable stretch of his arse on the head of Aziraphale’s cock as it pops back inside his rim. It's unbearable, the mixed feeling of being full and yet empty enough his thighs shake in want of it. Aziraphale fucks him lazily, using the flare of his cock to stimulate the tight clench of his entrance. He can hear Aziraphale start to breathe hard behind him, start to lose his restraint in the heat of Crowley's body. It must feel good, the tight sink into his arse. It feels pretty fucking good to him.
Crowley tries to sit back on that thick stretch, to take that cock to the root into his arse, but Aziraphale catches on quickly and grabs his waist, holding him tight. Crowley loves it. The bruising grasp on his skin.
Dropping his forehead onto the back of the couch, Crowley gives in. “Fuck me. Please. Give me it. All of it.” He moves, sways his hips, delirious and intoxicated on the stretch. "Please, fuck me with it, fuck me with it."
Aziraphale adjusts his grip on Crowley's waist and pulls him back onto his cock with a breathy moan, a move that knocks the wind from Crowley. His whole body has to adjust to the stretch, and he cries out as he’s absolutely impaled on Aziraphale’s prick.
"Beautiful thing, can you take it?" Aziraphale pants against the skin of his back. His thighs are flush to the round of Crowley's arse, cock so deep inside Crowley he can feel his whole body tensing to accommodate that girth. "There's nothing like being inside you," Aziraphale says, between hot kisses press to his back. "Absolutely nothing at all."
Crowley's never had it so good. He feels the warm press of Aziraphale’s belly against his arse, the tight pressure of a huge, hot cock buried in his arsehole. He wants to have his brains absolutely blown from his body.
"Please, please."
He reaches down and palms his half-hard cock. His erection has flagged slightly but he gathers the precome on the tip and begins to jerk himself off. Soon enough, he’ll be forgetting his own name and touching himself won’t be something he’ll be able to do.
"Show me how you like it," Aziraphale says. He doesn't move, except for some rolling thrusts that rip whimpers out of Crowley. "Work for it. Move this gorgeous arse of yours and take what you need."
Crowley can't do anything else than fuck himself open, grinding his hips, until there's not an inch of Aziraphale out of him amidst moans and throaty whines. He pushes back onto Aziraphale with hungry delight, forcing his body to swallow the wet slides of cock that press again and again on his extremely sensitive prostate, until he's drooling on the sofa.
"Just like that," Crowley moans. "Fuck, just like that. More, more, more."
He isn't even sure how he's moving, the sensation of being overfull, guiding the way he thrusts back. How he ruts his arse against Aziraphale's pelvis as if he couldn't get enough.
There's a groan coming from Aziraphale, along with a bruising curl of hands around Crowley's hips and then he's moving, pushing inside Crowley, rocking his hips to drive himself deeper, burying himself tight and slick. He pins Crowley's body to the sofa, pulling out and shoving himself back inside him, making him cry out.
Aziraphale presses his chest to Crowley's back, skin sweat-slick and hot.
"I'm going to fuck you until I’m the only cock you want. Until those toys of yours mean nothing to you and all you want is to be my tight little hole." Aziraphale makes a point of it, spreading Crowley open and thrusting in rhythm.
Crowley moans, dazed and lost, shivering at the fullness in each push. "Yours, just yours."
His cock is a hard, hot line against his stomach, and he can feel his orgasm bristling golden in the dip of his spine. He hasn't come untouched in ages and the perfect reality of it being possible makes him shudder.
"I'm gonna- I'm gonna-"
Aziraphale draws both his hands back, holding them at the base of his spine. Crowley's cheek rests on the back of the sofa, and like this, he thinks he's nothing but a hole to use, to fuck and to fill with spend. To be stuffed full over and over. He wants nothing else.
"Show me how much you like it," Aziraphale groans, pounding into him with slick-hot sounds, sinking inside Crowley with intention. "Come on my cock, darling, like the perfect cockslut you are."
Crowley shouts his release, effectively ruining Aziraphale's sofa, his cock twitching way, uselessly. He's almost gone in the high of it, when he feels the delicious, hard shoves of Aziraphale's cock cramming himself tight inside him and then the warm spill of come with slow, grinding movements. Crowley's arse tenses, tries to milk Aziraphale for everything he's worth. He wants more. All of it. To feel the filthy flow of come down his thighs.
"Minx," Aziraphale says when Crowley pushes back, but he grasps his hips and grinds against his arse. "Feel that? Is that what you wanted?"
Crowley moans, rubbing his cheek on the drool-wet patch of the sofa. "Fuck, angel, I think you broke my brain."
When Aziraphale finally pulls out, Crowley whimpers, feeling the thick, messy drip of spend on his skin and he swears he must be fucking destroyed. Hole gaping, red and streaked with semen.
"You should see yourself," Aziraphale says, thumbing at his fucked open rim. "Ruined. You're absolutely ruined for anyone else, aren't you?"
Crowley lets out a little moan of surprise when Aziraphale sinks a finger inside him to scoop come out of him. He isn't expecting the cool touch of spill on his lower lip, but he swallows greedily. "Told you," he breathes, exhausted, rolling his tongue around Aziraphale's finger. "No one but you."
"It's such a shame people are missing out on your arse," Aziraphale says, now leaning down and kissing him, fondling a buttock. "Exquisite, is what it is."
"Too bad they'll keep missing out, 'cause my arse is yours now," Crowley answers, feeling Aziraphale's smile pressing warm and beloved against his lips.