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“— and it’s possible that there are infinite universes, Crowley, each based on the tiniest variation from the next! And there could be infinite versions of us! Just think of the possibilities!”
“And he said he was your alternate self, huh? What else did he say?”
“Well, he was really quite — ah — quite cordial, and he said he would share some of his books with me, things we don’t have in this universe —”
“Yeah, that’d be the way to your heart, I guess.” A jingle of car keys. “Sounds like you’ll have a great time. You and all the other demons.”
“Crowley, what on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’ll have to excuse me.”
“Crowley —!”
A door slams.
“You should’ve seen him, Doe, he was worse off than you used to be.”
“And still functional? I find that hard to believe.”
“At least you weren’t a virgin.”
“Good God. The poor thing.” A clink of metal. “Are you going to tell me what you did together?”
“Dunno. Are you gonna unhook me if I do?”
“Of course not, you dingbat.”
“Great. So first off —”
“Hey, hey now, slow down. What is it?”
“I don’t know, he just stormed out! I think he must have gotten the wrong idea — or perhaps the right idea, but I never thought he would be unfair. It’s not as if he hasn’t had his little dalliances.”
“Hold up, lemme get Doe on speaker. DOE!”
“Yes, thanks, they can hear you in Stepney. Hi there. Aziraphale, was it?”
“Yes. I would say it’s a pleasure, but —” a cough, sounding suspiciously like a stifled sob — “I’m afraid I’m not at my best, just at the moment.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have this straightened out in no time. I think I know how, too.”
“Yeah. I go over there and I teach him some fucking manners.”
“If you lay so much as a finger on him, you demon, I’ll —”
“Azmodeus, put that chalk down, you are not picking fights with any alternate versions of me and that’s final.”
The indefinable sound of a demon pouting.
“Stay on the line just a mo’, Aziraphale, we’re going to get this taken care of.”
“So he wasn’t lying,” the red-haired demon says to the red-haired angel.
“Who, your friend?” Doeley says, as gently as he can while still being heard over the club’s music, because this version of himself is very drunk. “Not at all.”
“No, I meant wossname.” Crowley has another swig of whatever’s in his glass. Something brown, and too much of it. “Y’know. His evil twin.”
“Azmodeus,” Doeley says, a little coldly.
“Oh, right, Azmodeus,” Crowley says in a childish, mocking tone, which Doeley doesn’t enjoy one bit, but he counsels himself patience; there’s some anger in that voice, but there’s a lot more pain. “I thought maybe it was some kind of scam he was running. Aziraphale’s not naive, exactly, but. Well.” He gestures at himself with the hand not holding his drink. “He’s way too ready to assume the best of people.”
“We thought it might help if you met me.” Doeley reaches for Crowley’s drink, and the demon relinquishes it with the regretful air of one who knows it’s probably for the best. “It sounds barking until you actually run into one of your alternate selves, and then —”
“Yeah.” Crowley pushes himself up out of his back-breaking slouch and sways on his feet. “Can’t argue, you’re definitely a me. Some kinda weird sixties me, ‘cept I didn’t even dress like that in the sixties. So is this an intervention, or what?”
“Just a conversation,” Doeley says. “But not here, this place is grossing me out. My feet are sticking to the floor.”
“Why are angels like this,” Crowley grumbles, but he’s already leading Doeley out, cutting a (swerving) path through the crowd, holding tight to the angel’s hand. It’s not at all necessary, but it gives Doeley a good idea of how he’s used to taking care of his own angel. It also reminds him a little of Azmodeus, oddly enough, the care he takes to be sure Doeley is satisfied.
“You should sober up,” Doeley says when they make it outside.
“I don’t want to sober up,” Crowley says. “I’m going to be really embarrassed about this if I’m sober.”
“Oh, probably,” Doeley says, “but you’ll get over it,” and they keep up a desultory argument along those lines until they make it to Crowley’s flat, which is a fucking tomb, has this ridiculous man ever met a colour? But Crowley relaxes the moment the door latches behind him, and then he shudders as the alcohol drains from his system, and then he lets out a long, low groan.
“Embarrassed?” Doeley asks, a little cruelly perhaps, but he has no patience for fits of jealousy.
“Aziraphale called in a fuckin — ringer to talk some sense into me,” Crowley says, “how do you think I feel, of course I’m embarrassed.”
“Well, you should be.” Doeley takes off his tinted shades to better fix the demon with a disapproving eye. “You had no right to judge him on who he —”
“I’m not judging him, you overgrown peacock —”
“You ran out on him, what am I supposed to think?”
“What do you want me to do, get him a fucking gift basket?” Crowley shouts, and the pain in his voice hits Doeley hard enough to shut him up. “I mean, yeah, I wish it was me instead, but he’s made it extremely clear that’s not on the table. Because I’m a demon. Fair cop, right? Only then he goes and — after all this fucking like… drama about it — he goes and fucks some demon he just met and I don’t understand, I don’t.”
“I do,” Doeley says. “There was next to no danger for Azmodeus, since he’s not from this world, but for you? If Hell or Heaven ever found you?” He shakes his head. “I remember what it was like, that fear. I’m still afraid, every day of my life.”
“But you’re with — him, now,” Crowley says.
“Yes,” Doeley says. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, it hurt too much to be apart. I had to take the chance of being with him.”
“You loved him that much.”
“I did. I do.”
Crowley nods gently, taking this in. Then he says: “And Aziraphale doesn’t.”
“What,” Doeley says, horrified, because that’s not what he meant at all.
Crowley just shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like he isn’t even surprised. And then he crumples in on himself with a terrible wail, and Doeley has to catch him before he takes out both knees on the concrete floor. He wraps Crowley up in his arms and goes to the floor with him, gathers all those gangly limbs into his lap, lets him soak the shoulder of his jacket with tears.
“I don’t know what I can do,” Crowley sobs, fists clenched up against his chest, the words half-caught in his throat. “I tried — I’m not enough — I’m not enough —”
“No, no, baby, no,” Doeley says, his heart breaking for Crowley, and for Azmodeus too, who must have suffered just like this all those long, aching years. “You are enough, you are. It’s not your fault, baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
They’re nearly the same height but Crowley has a much slighter build, narrow at the shoulders where Doeley is broad, and he feels almost fragile in Doeley’s arms as his sobbing slowly eases into deep, ragged breathing. Azmodeus had said he felt a near-immediate urge to protect and care for Aziraphale when they met, and Doeley’s starting to find out what that’s like. If anyone so much as looks at this demon, there will be Consequences.
“I’ve lied to myself so much,” Crowley says miserably. “You know. ‘I don’t care. I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt.’ But I can’t keep it up with you here.”
“It’s very difficult to hide things from another self,” Doeley says. “I suspect that’s why your Aziraphale was more, uh…”
“I don’t think I like any of the words you’re considering,” Crowley says, his face still hidden against Doeley’s chest but his ears turning red.
“Open-minded?” Doeley ventures.
“Heh.” Crowley wipes his eyes a little, under his sunglasses, still preserving that shield. “Yeah, let’s go with that. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t, um… interested.”
“I’ve tried not to think about what it did to Azmodeus,” Doeley says, because it really is a night for honesty, “when I rejected him. He told me he loved me and I disappeared for two hundred years.”
“Jesus,” Crowley says, pulling back to look up at him, “I wouldn’t want to think about that either, that’s… that’s fucking cruel.”
“I felt I had to,” Doeley says, though it’s not much of a defense and he knows it. “I couldn’t bear to be loved so deeply, so recklessly. He saw everything about me that I didn’t want to admit to, and he loved me because of it, and he would have pulled the stars from the sky if it meant keeping me. It was terrifying.”
Crowley makes a pained little noise and Doeley strokes his hair. Is it always the demon of the pair who has to shoulder this horrible weight? “But you have to understand something. It wasn’t because he had done anything wrong in loving me, or because he didn’t deserve to be loved in return. It was because I wasn’t strong enough to accept it. I let my fear make me selfish, and I ran away. Do you see?”
“He’s not even wrong, is the thing,” Crowley complains. “I can’t even argue with him. Heaven probably wouldn’t give him the chance to fall for it, they’d just — poof.”
“I think he’s more frightened for you,” Doeley says, and Crowley gives a sad little laugh. “No, really. What do you think Hell would do with a demon who’s learned to love?”
“Aahh, they’re too stupid to figure that out,” Crowley says. “Literally incapable of conceiving it. Probably give me a raise for corrupting an angel.”
“Oh, now there’s a thought,” Doeley says, because, well, he might not be designed for lust like Azmodeus, but he’s not made of stone, either, and the demon makes for a very appealing lapful, all long limbs and soft skin. Not to mention how much the poor thing clearly needs someone to get him out of his own head, which is doing all kinds of things to Doeley’s dominant instincts.
“I don’t follow — wait, really?” Crowley says, having just noticed what’s happening in Doeley’s trousers.
“Hmm,” Doeley says, and kisses his forehead right at the hairline. “Part of the connection, you know?” He kisses Crowley between his eyebrows. “It’s easy for anyone to see how pretty you are —”
Crowley makes a noise like a garbage disposal with a bad personality.
“— though probably easier without these. May I?” Doeley touches the arm of his sunglasses with a delicate fingertip.
Crowley grumbles, but he takes them off himself. His eyes are bright daylily yellow, and Doeley can’t breathe for a moment, lost in their shine. “Thank you,” he breathes, and kisses Crowley’s eyelids one after the other, tasting where the tears still cling to his lashes.
Crowley is trembling now, breath coming quick and shallow, as Doeley licks his lips and then presses them, wet and warm, to the tattooed sigil on Crowley’s temple. “Anyone can see how pretty you are, but I can appreciate it,” he sighs in Crowley’s ear. “I can feel how good we would be together, baby.” He touches their foreheads together, rubs noses, lets Crowley feel warm breath on his lips. “Can you?”
“You son of a bitch,” Crowley hisses, and brings their mouths together. It’s not the bruising kiss Doeley half-expected; Crowley’s lips are gentle, but his tongue seeks the heat of Doeley’s mouth immediately and plunges deep. It’s a masterful, demanding kiss, and if Aziraphale ever gets his act together he’ll enjoy this approach immensely, but Doeley is not at all in the mood to be mastered. He takes Crowley’s face in his hands and bites his tongue, hard. Crowley moans in unmistakable pleasure and Doeley chases the sound with his own tongue, fucking into Crowley’s mouth slow and hard, raking sharp fingernails through his coppery hair.
Crowley tries to shift to straddle his lap, possibly to get a better height advantage or possibly just to grind on him, but his knee comes down hard on the concrete floor and he curses. “Dunno about you,” he says, pulling back, “but I think I’m too old to fuck on the floor.”
“Absolutely, bed, lead the way,” Doeley says, accepting the demon’s hand up.
“Oh, so now I get to be in charge?” Crowley grins over his shoulder.
“Savor it,” Doeley says, and grabs that cute little butt just to hear Crowley squeak. “It won’t last.”
It only occurs to Crowley once he’s led the strange angelic version of himself into his bedroom that he’s never actually had anyone else in there — why would he? He prefers to tempt and run, and the only person he’s ever thought about admitting to that level of intimacy was Aziraphale, who would hate his flat so much.
“So,” he says, trying to sound brave. “This enough bed for you?”
“Hmm,” says Doeley, with that contemplative look in his bright brass eyes that makes Crowley feel very small and very naked. “I suppose it’ll have to do.”
He takes Crowley’s face in his hands again, holding his head perfectly still, and bends down to kiss him. His mouth is hot, hotter than a human’s, and his teeth are sharp enough to sting when they dig into Crowley’s lower lip and tug. Fire spirals through Crowley’s body from that point of pain and he shudders, making some horribly humiliating noise, feeling like the angel’s hands on his cheeks are the only thing holding him up.
“There, that’s right. Just like that,” Doeley croons, and Crowley shudders again. He wants to tear Doeley’s clothes off and knock him on the bed — but he also wants to stay very still, and let Doeley do exactly as he likes. “Tell me something, baby. When was the last time you did it for fun?”
“Er.” Crowley knows he’s flushing and he hates it. “Couple centuries? And it wasn’t much fun either. I was… in a bad place.”
“No wonder you two are a mess,” Doeley says, but it’s fond. He runs his hand up through the hair at the back of Crowley’s head and clenches his fist, pulling the demon’s head back to expose his throat. All of Crowley’s self-preservation instincts howl in outrage, but there’s some deeper need that keeps him from fighting as Doeley dips his ginger head and nips up and down the straining tendon in Crowley’s neck, breathing hot over his skin and then biting down hard in the soft spot just under his jaw.
Crowley can’t stop making little whining noises and Doeley takes pity, wraps his free arm around Crowley’s waist and pulls their bodies up tight together, letting Crowley rut against his hip as he continues with his sharp little bites, exquisitely painful. “Yeah,” Doeley whispers, “take what you need, baby, come on,” and Crowley dares to chase his mouth, kissing him desperately. Doeley chuckles and backs him up against the bed, and then he’s flat on his back and Doeley has his hands pinned, pressing his weight down on him with slow, firm rolls of his hips, kissing him open-mouthed and teasing, laughing as Crowley strains up toward him with a desperate whimper, then driving him back down with a deep, insistent kiss that steals his breath.
Crowley arches his back and drives his hips up, the squeeze of his tight jeans frankly painful but he can’t stop, he can feel Doeley’s cock hard against his and he’s so close but he can’t get there, and Doeley’s still got him pinned, still making him struggle with that infuriating grin on his face, like he’s holding back, like he’s —
— oh, fuck, like he’s waiting for something.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he gasps, forcing himself to lie flat — it might be the hardest thing he’s ever done but he’s so clearly not going to get anything but chafing otherwise.
Doeley looks at his hands, pinning Crowley’s down, and at the bites he’s left on Crowley’s neck. “Well, I should hope so,” he says.
“What is it you want,” Crowley says, breathing harshly.
“Mm,” says Doeley, and touches their foreheads together again. “It’s more what you want, baby, because we can just go ahead and fuck — and that’s fine — or…” He smiles, slow and bloodthirsty. “Or I can take you apart the way you need.”
“Shit,” Crowley says, twisting up inside from lust and fear. “I’m not — used to doing it that way.”
“Of course not, why would you be,” Doeley says. “There’s no possible way it’s safe for you to lose control, is it?”
“Except with you,” Crowley says, and his voice is very soft.
Doeley nods, solemn now. “Except with me.” He kisses Crowley’s mouth, a kiss that would be chaste except for the way it lingers, the way they breathe into each other’s mouths.
Crowley thinks about six thousand years spent carrying the emotional baggage of a love that could kill him and his beloved both, of never being able to relax and enjoy Aziraphale’s company without constantly watching for threats, of how he only sleeps in serpent form because he can keep both eyes open, and he decides.
“My safeword is Eden,” he says. Deep breath. All in. “Do what you want.”
Doeley smiles like a fucking sunrise, that pure angelic joy, and if you look straight into the sun it’ll burn your eyes out. He snaps his fingers and Crowley’s clothes go off somewhere — doesn’t matter, they weren’t exactly real in the first place, but Crowley can’t help a startled squawk, and Doeley laughs merrily. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, which is a bald-faced lie, “I just don’t like the faff. And I’ve been wanting a better look at you all night.” He traces the sharpest edges on Crowley’s body with two feather-light fingertips: collarbones, hipbones, knees. “Oh, gorgeous.”
Crowley stomps hard on the usual urge to throw out something self-deprecating. God only knows what the punishment for that would be — angels have a lot of ideas about retribution and atonement that he’d rather not get into on his first attempt at submission. Instead he curls his toes and clenches his fists and tries not to shiver as Doeley spreads thin, hot hands up his ribcage, then rakes his fingernails down sharply, leaving raised red lines between the ribs.
“I could miracle up some accessories,” Doeley says conversationally, as if he’s talking about getting ready for a night on the town, “but I don’t really want to mark you — well, any more than I already have — and I think I’d rather not have to tie you up.”
“Then how —” Crowley starts, and Doeley shakes his head.
“Patience,” he says. “I want you to restrain yourself. I know you can. And I know it’s much, much harder than letting me tie you up.”
“Hoo,” Crowley exhales. “Yeah. Um. I’m not calling you sir.”
“Somehow I will survive the disappointment,” Doeley says dryly. “Stay there and don’t move.” He undresses himself — angels do like their genuine vintage clothes, whether they’re Crowleys or Aziraphales, it seems — revealing more muscles than Crowley’s ever had in his entire life, freckles so thick on his broad shoulders they’re almost a solid cinnamon colour, then scattering down over his chest. A stunning coppery serpent winds up his leg, around his hips, the wedge-shaped viper’s head cradled on his sternum. His cock is, frankly, one of the biggest Crowley’s ever seen. He’d always thought his own was impressive — what’s the point of being a demon if you can’t indulge in the occasional vanity — but looking at Doeley inspires all kinds of flaming sword jokes that would probably also get Crowley punished if he were fool enough to make them.
“There we are,” Doeley says, pushing Crowley’s legs apart and kneeling between them. He slides his palms up Crowley’s thighs, making all the hair stand on end, and then he cups Crowley’s balls in one bony hand and squeezes. It’s quite gentle and it feels good but it’s also, well, one of the most vulnerable human body parts ever created — absurdly so, really — and Crowley knows the strength in those hands, still bears their imprint on his wrists. “Now. I want you to stay very still for me, all right? I want you to lie there and let me do what I want.”
“I will,” Crowley says, and damn if that “sir” doesn’t almost slip out after it — but he doesn’t have time to think about how fucking annoying that is because Doeley leans in and runs his tongue in a circle around the head of Crowley’s cock.
“Fuck!” Crowley shouts, and his hips buck up, and Doeley’s hand clamps down on his balls, hard, sending a deep, cramping pain through his pelvis. He lets out another yell, this one strangled, and pushes his arse back down against the bed as hard as he possibly can. The hand eases up and the pain recedes, leaving a breathless burn behind.
“Let’s try that again,” Doeley says, and lowers his head. This time he licks delicately at Crowley’s slit, and Crowley has to strain his thighs and stomach to keep himself flat on the bed. That slim, dexterous tongue tip toys with his foreskin where it’s still pulled up a little, traces the big vein down his shaft, and he feels like his heart’s about to stop. Doeley presses his wet, open mouth to the base of Crowley’s cock and sucks there, flicking with his tongue, then moves up and does it again, sloppy kisses up and down the shaft, wet lips and wet tongue moving with maddening unpredictability over that velvet skin. Crowley’s whole body goes rigid as he fights not to thrust up, not to bury his hands in that ridiculous ginger pageboy and take what he wants from that terrible, brilliant mouth, he’s in fucking agony and is Doeley laughing? He fucking is, his shoulders are shaking gently and there’s a rhythmic puff of air from his nose.
“What’s so fucking funny,” Crowley hisses.
“You, baby,” Doeley says, grinning. “You know this doesn’t have to be as hard as you’re making it, right?”
“Har dee har,” Crowley says, opting to ignore the obvious double entendre.
“I mean it,” Doeley says. “You’re fighting me. Just let it happen.”
“Yeah, okay, if I ‘let it happen’ you’re gonna fuckin rack me, no thanks.”
“And?” Doeley lifts an eyebrow. Does Crowley look that insufferable when he does it? He’s going to scream.
“And I don’t want you to! Obviously!”
“But it’s not about what you want, is it,” Doeley says. “It’s about taking what I give you.”
Crowley goes still — truly still, not struggling to keep his unruly muscles taut — because that’s fucking terrifying but, but, but isn’t that what he wanted? Isn’t that what he asked for? The pain and the pleasure both, and all he has to do is let it happen?
Doeley smiles that awful angelic smile again. “Just like that, baby,” he sighs, and then he bends his head and takes Crowley’s cock into his mouth.
Crowley gasps and arches his back, he can’t control it, but when Doeley’s hand grips his balls he lets the pain roll through him, lets it settle heavy in his stomach. Doeley takes him deeper and he groans at the unbelievable heat and slick pressure, but his limbs are so heavy and he’s sinking into the mattress, so utterly relaxed all of a sudden that he can’t even tense his muscles, much less push up into Doeley’s avid mouth. The hand that cradles him so gently now could hurt him again but it won’t, he won’t make Doeley hurt him, because… because…
Because I want to be good for him, Crowley realizes, and then suddenly there’s no time for a warning, he’s coming in a shocking rush and it feels like melting, like spilling out of himself. Doeley swallows again and again, throat muscles working his cock hard, lips and tongue drawing at him like he wants to consume him from the inside out. A weak tremor runs through Crowley as he tips over into hypersensitivity, helpless to do anything but endure as Doeley pushes him through it.
Finally, Doeley pulls off, purses his lips smugly, and pats Crowley’s hip. “I think you needed that,” he says, because he is a smug bastard who is also right, and Crowley hates him.
“Yeah,” Crowley says, once he’s caught his breath. “But be fair. I don’t think anyone could do that to me but you.”
“Oh my God, no, could you imagine,” Doeley laughs — no, he is definitely giggling, and Crowley wants to call him on it but he’s still way too floppy and he feels like. Well. Like he still wants to do whatever Doeley wants. They’re taking a break but this sure doesn’t feel over.
“Can we —” Crowley says, but then he stops, because it isn’t supposed to be about what he wants, or is it? Subbing is confusing.
“Oh, you’re allowed to ask,” Doeley says, reading him immediately, because of course he does. “There’s absolutely no guarantee I’ll give it to you, but you might get lucky.”
“I want you to fuck me,” Crowley blurts out.
“Well, that’s convenient,” Doeley says gleefully. “That is exactly what I want to do.”
Crowley lifts his head to sneak a peek, and yeah, that dick is actually as big as he thought it was. He tries to remember the last time he got fucked like that and draws a blank. It’s not never, and he’s taken some smaller things in the interval, but it’s been long enough that he can’t remember any of the specifics, except for the weird disconnected feeling. Someone he didn’t really know or trust had been up behind him doing things to him, in him, while his face was buried in a pillow and he couldn’t see —
“Please not — not from behind,” he says, and he feels like that tells more of the story than he wants to share, but Doeley doesn’t look surprised.
“Mm,” the angel says, nodding. “Usually easier that way, but I want to watch your face when you take my cock.”
“Christ,” Crowley hisses, his own cock announcing its return to full hardness with an embarrassing twitch. He scoots up the bed so he can get a pillow under his shoulders, and Doeley reaches for another, propping up his hips.
“Let’s see — oh, there we are, very pretty,” Doeley says, spreading Crowley’s legs and sliding a hand up the back of his thigh to his arse, spreading his cheeks.
“S’just an arse,” Crowley says, forgetting his earlier resolution about negative self-talk — really, “pretty” is not a word he’d use for that area on most people — and Doeley leans down and gives him a vicious little nip on the inner thigh that makes the big muscle there seize up. “Ow! You little shit!”
“Try to relax,” the angel says, grinning.
“I’m going to regret this,” Crowley says, but that strange, comforting heaviness is settling over him again and he lets his legs go limp, lets Doeley position him how he likes, splayed out and awkward and totally exposed. Doeley slicks his hand until it’s dripping and strokes the lube over his cock slowly, performing a little, showing off how his long, thin fingers barely wrap around its girth. He runs two of those fingers over Crowley’s opening, up and down, letting them catch a little on the rim but mainly just spreading the lube around. Then he shifts right up against Crowley’s body, pushes his cockhead against Crowley’s anus, and Crowley realizes that was it — that’s all the prep time he’s getting.
“Hey now —” he says.
“I said relax, baby.” Doeley holds his prick and teases Crowley’s tightly-furled rim with it, pushing the soft tip of the head in just until he starts to open up, and then drawing back, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “Feel that? Feel how much your body wants to let me in? You can take me like this, I know you can.”
Crowley’s breathing hard already, it’s going to hurt and he knows it, but he does want it, wants to be split open and hollowed out. Wants Doeley to break him open, to wreck him — and he looks up into those terrifying brazen eyes and nods.
It’s slow, it’s so slow. Doeley teases him a few more times until his cockhead slides in with a wet pop, Crowley’s rim sucking tight around it, and they both make a little surprised sound. After that the angel doesn’t pause or pull back out at all, there’s no time to adjust, just a searing endless stretch that speaks to his indomitable will — the same will that pins Crowley to the sheets without laying a hand on him. It hurts, his muscles forced inexorably to yield, but there’s nothing sharp or urgent that would speak of injury; this is a deep, rending ache that he feels all through his hips and belly. He gets up on his elbows, puts a little snake in his spine so he can get a really good viewing angle, and the sight of his anus stretched red and glistening around that wrist-thick shaft is almost intolerably arousing. And there’s so much more left to go. How is there more left to go? He’s so full already, he feels like Doeley’s in him right up to the diaphragm, where’s the rest of it supposed to fit?
“Easy, baby, you’re doing such a good job,” Doeley says, breathless, still pushing in, so, so slow. “I know it’s a lot —”
“Don’t — aanh — don’t flatter yourself,” Crowley manages.
“Simple as that, huh?” Doeley raises an eyebrow. “Good to hear it.” Then he digs his nails into Crowley’s hips and slides home in one merciless thrust.
Crowley shouts, his voice breaking, breathless and writhing like a speared fish. He spits out half a curse, digs his fingers into the bed, arches his back —
— and Doeley’s hand clamps down on his bollocks again. Everything is pain, a deep burning pain that rolls through him like a climax, luxurious and exhilarating. Something in Crowley’s mind gives way — that last white-knuckled hold on his self-control he’d refused to surrender — and his body finally yields its last resistance, opening so easily that Doeley sinks in even deeper, right to the root. “Yesss,” Doeley hisses, the serpent finally coming to the fore, “that’sss it, give it to me.”
He leans in over Crowley and their eyes meet, that strange sense of connection thrumming between them. For Crowley, it is the knowledge that he’s safer than he’s ever been — angelic sadism aside; that’s not real, it’s not the danger he’s spent his whole life on guard against. In the most important way, he’s safe, and it’s all right to just... let go. He thinks Doeley must be able to feel that from him, because he can feel Doeley’s equally liberating realization that Crowley needs to be controlled as much as Doeley needs to control him, that it isn’t too much or too scary, that everything Doeley yearns to give is welcomed and wanted.
Doeley pulls back, slow and careful, until his cockhead glances over Crowley’s prostate on the way out and Crowley’s overstimulated body twitches a little. The angel’s eyes narrow and Crowley has a distinct feeling of impending doom, because that is the face of a warrior who’s just found his opponent’s weak spot — and then Doeley just sort of folds him in half like a lightweight camp chair, and drives back into him, and the new angle makes everything light up with overwhelming pleasure the way he’d just been overwhelmed with pain.
“God,” Crowley gasps when he finally catches his breath, and Doeley bites his neck, hard enough to bleed.
“Not while I’m fucking you,” he snarls, and thrusts in again, again, relentless and huge and hot as molten brass. “My name, not Theirsss, not anyone else but me.”
“Doe, aah, Doeley, please, please,” and Crowley’s never been a screamer — never know who might be listening — but he can’t stop now, every thrust driving these ragged, gasping sobs out of him, scraping his throat raw. “Please, G— gah, Doeley, please, please —”
“Whatcha need, baby?” Doeley pants, eyes gleaming.
“Harder,” Crowley says, like a madman, and Doeley growls and slams into him so hard he really does scream, a full-throated howl as pleasure crashes through him, the pain only spurring it on. Doeley fucks him with raw power and ruthless control, a fearful union, and Crowley spares his last coherent thought to imagine the glory of breaking that perfection — but it’s all swept away when Doeley wraps his strong hand around Crowley’s prick and starts jerking him with the same quick brutal rhythm.
“Come on, give it to me,” Doeley gasps, his breath so hot against Crowley’s neck, “give it to me, I need you to —” and Crowley’s so close, they’re both so close, and then Doeley’s rhythm finally falters and he grinds his cock deep inside Crowley in short frantic thrusts that send them both over the edge, and everything is heat and ecstasy and pain.
Crowley’s heard a lot of people wax lyrical about subspace and the afterglow, and they always say it’s like flying or floating, but he still feels so heavy — like maybe he’s had a good deep-tissue massage, or a hot bath, or spent some time under a weighted blanket. Or maybe there’s an exhausted angel on top of him and his knees are still up by his shoulders, that could be part of it.
“Oi, mate,” Crowley says. Doeley blinks, shakes off the fog, and pushes himself up, easing Crowley’s legs back down carefully, like he couldn’t do that for himself — then again, all his muscles feel like they’ve been filled with lead shot, so maybe Doeley’s got a point.
“All right, then?” Doeley says gently. His hands pass over the bite marks on Crowley’s neck, pause a moment on the red fingerprints over his hips, then come down to spread his arse cheeks again. “Let me have a look at you here. That got pretty wild.”
“Yeah it did,” Crowley says, and it comes out all goofy and dreamy. He flushes and Doeley laughs, his fingers petting gently at Crowley’s loosened rim, spreading his own come around, then sliding just inside to rub and stroke the inner band of muscle. Crowley makes another blissed-out little sound — there’s no true discomfort at all, just a well-used soreness, and the massage feels good. He stretches his arms and legs out with a satisfied yawn and Doeley laughs again.
“Don’t conk out on me now,” he says, and Crowley grumbles and rolls over. “Come on, sit up, I want you to drink some water.”
“Nrr,” Crowley says into the pillow. “M’a demon. Don’t need aftercare.”
“I will smite you if you say that again, how dare you.” Doeley grabs him none too gently by the arm, hauls him into something like a seated position, and sticks a glass of water up in his face. “I can’t believe this is when you choose to be a brat.”
“Because I’m usually such a model citizen,” Crowley says, giving up and drinking.
“You were amazing for me,” Doeley says softly. His eyes are like the sun again, too bright, too sincere, and Crowley’s own eyes are burning — is it just because of that light? No, he’s crying again, just a few soft, weary tears, because he’s very tired, but he can do that if he wants. He doesn’t have to hide it, he can let Doeley hold him again and let the tears come, let himself relax and believe, for once, that he’s done well.