Work Text:
“Dearest, are you sure I’m not hurting you?” Aziraphale murmurs into the demon’s ear as he kisses his temple. His voice is shaky but deep, wavering as he slides his cock into Crowley’s slick cunt, and it feels so, so good, but it isn’t enough. It’s never enough.
Crowley nearly laughs at the angel’s concern. If only Aziraphale knew how just badly he wanted it to hurt.
The demon and the angel have been exploring their dynamic for some time, now, and Aziraphale is naturally dominant; he handles Crowley with an inherent sense of power and ownership that drives him wild. He aches for it, he needs it, and he’s putty in Aziraphale's hands whenever he shoots a bitchily-raised eyebrow at him with a sizzling glare, whenever he speaks to Crowley in that low, rumbling voice that makes his knees twitch and wobble with the desire to drop to the ground.
But there’s been a limit to it all— the dominance Crowley craves seems to falter in the bedroom. They have discussed safe words and precautions at length, but Crowley has never come close to even thinking of needing them. Aziraphale is so gentle with him, so impossibly worried about his pleasure, and Crowley has tried so very hard to tell him:
“Angel, you won’t break me— I can take it,” he begs while the angel fucks him from behind with a measured pace that’s delicious but not enough—
“Please, Aziraphale, harder— please—” he whimpers as Aziraphale holds him down by the throat (gently, fuck, he is always so fucking gentle) as he takes his ass and ignores his dripping cunt—
“I need it, angel, fuck— please, I need you to break me, I need it, why won’t you break me—”
“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, and there's a hint of a warning in his tone. “I need you to tell me, please; I’m not being too rough, am I?”
And Crowley is so frustrated in that moment he grabs onto the front of Aziraphale's vintage, beige herringbone tweed waistcoat and pulls, purposefully tearing the fabric as he does, relishing in the flash that flits through the angel’s eyes at such rough treatment of his garment.
Oh, I’ve got him now, Crowley thinks to himself gleefully.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds, slowing his thrusts down even more as he goes on, “you absolute brute, look what you’ve done! Are you really so desperate for me you think it appropriate to savage my vintage Harris tweed like this?!”
And oh, that fiery tone, the dangerous one— it’s so good and it makes Crowley’s cunt gush and ache and throb, and he can't help himself from grabbing a button and effortlessly plucking it free, letting it drop from his fingers to clatter onto the floor. Aziraphale splutters as Crowley reaches up to push the ruined waistcoat from his shoulders and immediately begins to tear at the cotton of his shirt, letting his claws come forth a bit as he rips into the fabric and tears it off and oh, Aziraphale is growling now.
Crowley can barely hide his smirk.
I’ve got him.
“What's got into you, you absolute brat?! You’ll pay for this, Crowley, I simply cannot believe you right now—” he’s cut off by Crowley grabbing onto his trousers with each hand and splitting them in half; he lets them fall to the ground as Aziraphale grabs his neck, his enormous wings bursting forth from the aether in a glorious whoosh of golden, gleaming light.
“Just who the fuck,” Aziraphale snarls, and oh, Crowley’s clit flexes at hearing the angel say fuck, and he feels himself get even wetter, his thighs are drenched, “do you think you are, you foul fiend? Just what is your intention here, my dear?”
“This,” Crowley breathes as he digs his hands into the base of each of Aziraphale’s wings and presses his fingertips into the impossibly sensitive feathers and muscles.
Aziraphale roars, an impossibly deep and guttural, feral sound, and Crowley almost comes just from that alone. At last Aziraphale starts fucking into him with a brutality he's never even come close to before, and oh, oh, it’s fucking perfect, fuck, Crowley needed this, fuck yes—
He cries out from the ferocity of Aziraphale’s cock spearing him, he's hammering into him so hard it nearly hurts, but it hurts beautifully, it’s incredible and Crowley doesn’t realize he’s babbling all these thoughts out loud until Aziraphale growls into his ear, “I’ve had enough of your foolish behavior, dear boy,” and he bites the snake sigil so hard Crowley whines, “see where your recklessness gets you? You say you needed this? You’ll be lucky to survive the night, my devious little temptress.”
Crowley has never heard or seen Aziraphale like this before. His voice is threatening yet velvety and warm, his eyes are blazing molten gold that's too piercing and too hot, their gaze burning him in holiness tinged with wrath, but the demon welcomes it, he needs more, and he realizes he's begun to sob from euphoria as Aziraphale grabs onto his hips hard enough to bruise, pins him where he wants him, and fucks him with a vicious intensity that takes Crowley back to the stars he created.
Those beautifully glittering eyes briefly hold a question, a hint of worry among feral lust, and Crowley gasps out just as Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, “green— green, angel, don’t stop, please, please, take what you want, ruin me—” which pulls a gravelly purr from Aziraphale as he doubles down in his savagery.
“Is this what you wanted?” he hisses, his nails cutting into Crowley’s hips, fingertips digging and bruising delicate flesh, “is this why you decided to be such an impossible brat? You were just goading me? You will be dearly dearly sorry by the time I am through with you.”
And fuck, if that doesn’t almost rip an orgasm from the demon right there and then; Crowley keens as finally, fucking finally, Aziraphale starts slamming into him even harder with a force previously unknown to the him, one Crowley had no idea existed. Aziraphale pounds into him without mercy, and Crowley can barely catch his breath between sobs and moans, and oh, fuck, it’s everything, he’s completely enveloped by clawing, iron hands that forcibly grab and grope all over him and those huge wings that shimmer with flecks of gilt and shadows of hundreds of eyes as they force cascades of wind down onto him with every thrust. Crowley desperately grabs at Aziraphale’s back, his sharp nails digging into angelic skin, scratching and clawing.
Crowley tries to move in Aziraphale's grasp— just a bit of an experiment— and he can’t, not at all. He’s effectively pinned like a specimen between glass and cannot budge. He throws his head back as the angel leans down to suck on his neck, and for the first time, he’s marking the demon. Crowley moans approvingly; he's begged Aziraphale to bruise him before, to leave reminders of his ownership, but he'd always hesitated, always held back.
And now, as crushing teeth nearly tear into him, Crowley thinks he might understand why Aziraphale hasbeen holding himself back.
It’s almost like Aziraphale can read his thoughts (can he? Crowley wouldn’t be surprised at this point) because he chuckles darkly into Crowley’s neck before whispering, “don’t you think there might have been a reason I never allowed myself to fully let go with you, my sinful seductress? Can you get it through your pretty little head,” his thrusts punctuate every other word with a deep and punishing snap of his hips, drawing agonized wails from Crowley each time, “that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from devouring you, from destroying you?”
Crowley screams as he comes harder than he ever has before, but Aziraphale doesn’t slow down. He just keeps going, and going, and going, Crowley gushing and dripping and soaking wet and begging, “angel, please, don’t stop, more— yes, angel, harder, fuck, fuck me—” and Aziraphale listens. Against the laws of physics and man and God Herself, he’s fucking Crowley even harder, with even more angelic strength and power, and another orgasm is wrenched from his flexing cunt in rapid succession, then another, and another. Amidst Crowley's orgasmic pleasure, Aziraphale lifts and spins him as if he were weightless before forcing him onto his hands and knees. Aziraphale melds that steely grip to Crowleys waist as he fucks him from behind so roughly that the mahogany bed frame succumbs and cracks.
Crowley hisses uncontrollably amidst his keening wails, and Aziraphale leans down to bite him all over— his back, his shoulders, down his spine. Crowley yelping with every tearing, digging press of his teeth, the sharpness tempered by the unbelievable pleasure rejoicing in every cell, and wildly he prays Aziraphale is bites hard enough so the marks will remain all over his skin for days to come.
He feels like hours go by as the angel uses him, and Crowley has lost count of the amount of times he’s come, he can barely remember his own name as Aziraphale takes what he wants, takes and takes and takes and takes—
When Aziraphale slows his thrusts and lets go of the bruising hold he’s kept on Crowley's hips, he falls onto the bed, shaking and wet and utterly spent. His legs won’t stop trembling as the throes of his latest orgasm flows through him, and Crowley tries to get up on his hands and knees, tries to crawl a bit in order to sit up, but thunder rumbles behind him.
“And just where do you think you’re going,” Aziraphale growls, and Crowley wails as thick fingers curl into his aching, sopping wet cunt that lift and pull him backward, and then he's being speared back onto that massive cock and fucked into oblivion once more.
His eyes fill with tears at the too bright, too blazing ecstasy flowing through him. It’s so much, fuck, it’s too much, and Crowley sobs when Aziraphale snarls, “I’m not fucking done with you yet, you wicked snake. You asked for this, and now you are going to take it.”
Crowley thinks he may pass out as Aziraphale continues to annihilate him, but there’s already another orgasm being ripped from him as Aziraphale slides three slick fingers into his ass; he feels so perfectly full and so perfectly split open as he comes screaming, thanking Aziraphale for it, begging him for Crowley doesn’t even know what at this point, but it’s what he’s meant to do; it feels right to beg and plead and thank and beseech the holy being so completely decimating him. It’s all he’s ever wanted and he finally has it, and he’s so fucking grateful he cries and cries and comes and cries and fuck, he is so totally overwhelmed he can barely register that Aziraphale is now playing with his oversensitive, swollen clit, he's slapping Crowley's abused cunt lightly and repeatedly and tutting mockingly at the demon’s high pitched, mewling whines, and Crowley's desperate for a reprieve (or desperate for this to never, ever stop) as he starts to plead for mercy at the hands of his divine master.
“Pleassse, angel, Aziraphale— ffffuck, pleasssse—” Crowley's cut off by his own broken cry as he comes yet again, and he’s lost count, this time— was it 7 or 8, he isn’t sure— but he collapses as the ragged, searing pleasure tears through his exhausted, fucked out body, and he can feel Aziraphale coming inside of him with a roar, and Crowley has never heard that before, it's different from the earlier sound: it’s booming and powerful, nearly malevolent, and it only makes Crowley's pain kissed orgasm all the sweeter in its aching torrent. He can feel his own come mixing with Aziraphale’s as it pours down his thighs to his knees into an actual puddle on the bed beneath them. Aziraphale slides out of him with an obscenely slick squelch, and Crowley breathes a shaky, tearful sigh of relief—
—which tears into a scream as two strong hands grab his thighs, yank them back and up until Crowley is positioned on his knees with his chest still flat on the bed as Aziraphale starts eating him out with a rapacious and violent greed, an insatiable hunger.
“FUCK! F-fuck, oh fuck, a-angel, pleassssse, I— I can’t, I c-can’t, oh my ffffucking—” Crowley devolves into hysterical hissing and crying as Aziraphale holds him in place and tongue fucks him, devouring his own spend along with Crowley's. Moaning deeply and with gluttony, growling and kissing and licking and sucking and chuckling as Crowley shakes and sobs and begs.
“You’re going to come again for me, my insatiable, bratty whore,” Aziraphale groans, “one more time with my tongue deep inside you.”
He bites Crowley's inner thigh so hard he shrieks while Aziraphale thrusts his tongue back inside him. The pain from the teeth bruising his sensitive skin sends Crowley over the edge, and he’s obeying Aziraphale’s order as he climaxes so hard that he screams himself hoarse. He’s wailing and hissing and begging and thanking and pleading, crying angel angel angel until he can’t anymore and everything feels pleasantly fuzzy alongside white hot pleasure and scintillating, lovely pain.
Crowley thinks he may be floating in space, he sees flashes of his stars and nebulae as he vaguely feels his hips being tenderly settled onto the bed, his legs arranged with care and a pillow slid under his head. He shivers, but immediately he’s being cradled by something very warm and soft and comforting. Crowley snuggles into the warmth and very slowly begins to descend back to Earth.
When he opens bleary eyes, he sees Aziraphale smiling down at him, his once again cornflower blue eyes impossibly fond. He’s holding Crowley in his arms, and his massive wings are also wrapped around the two of them, so lovely and silky and warm and faintly glowing. Crowley has never felt so safe and so held and so cherished.
He tries to speak, but his throat is sore from screaming, only a tiny hiss escaping his lips as he feels himself being pulled into a sleepy stupor, he’s groggily aware that Aziraphale is talking. He tries to listen, and he catches the following words:
“Make no mistake, my darling demon— we will be discussing this tomorrow at length, and you will be mending my destroyed vintage pieces you defiled by hand; no miracles,” Crowley whines in protest, which only makes the angel chuckle fondly, “and then perhaps you will admit that you were wrong, and I was right: I had my reasons for not giving into your childish ministrations before tonight. But I must say, you handled all of this beautifully... I suppose I could be persuaded to lose control more often.”
Crowley tries to scowl, but ends up only scrunching his nose as he murmurs, “you’re talking too much, angel,” which earns him a light tug on his hair that results in a sleepy snort.
“My foul fiend,” Aziraphale dreamily sighs as he pets through Crowley's sweat-damp curls, “sleep, my sweetest slut; you’ll need your rest for the next time you decide to provoke me.”