Chapter Text
The clock hasn't moved one bit.
Crowley chews his bottom lip and springs up from the bed, then falls down on it again, reaching for his phone. He's antsy, his scent one of apples bathed in hot chocolate, unbearably sweet in his opinion, though Aziraphale adores it, and his muscles keep tensing, tensing - up his thighs, his belly, a film of sweat dewing over his upper lip.
The evening blue is just chasing the edges of the swath of gold-grey that is the winter sky, and he's been feeling like this since two hours ago. Restless, hot all over. Needing an alpha, his alpha.
Aziraphale will be here soon. Any time, now.
He scrolls up the barrage of messages Aziraphale has sent him through the hours. Silly rows of emojis that have his heart beating like a booming wreck. Because Aziraphale is a disaster at being hip, and Crowley wouldn't want him any different.
From: My Angel 👼♥️
Okay yeah, he is pathetic, nothing to be done about it. Crowley knows he's stepping into cringe territory. The one you're immediately in when you have a partner you can't stop babbling about to all the poor people who didn't ask for it.
♥️🌹😘🌞😻💞 . Tell me to come to you right now, and I will.
No, it's fine. It hasn't fully set in yet, and if I smell you… god, i'm gonna be a horny ball of slick in half a second. It’ll ruin the stream. And I want everyone to see you. Us.
As you wish. Do you need anything, my love? 🌹
Love. Crowley breathes a little faster, thumbs the inch of glass where the word sits, as if he could absorb the hit of it through touch, that punch like sunlight that trails into his blood whenever Aziraphale says it. He laughs when he reads the message again, thinks how sad it is that his heart and his cock and his arse have all latched onto someone who seems to have learned all his turns of phrase from a maiden aunt.
He's fucking done for.
Just you, he'd typed, regardless.
Just him.
And then, I love you.
The answer had come instantly, And I you.
Six months together have changed so many things. There's a lot of b-roll scattered in his flat to prove it, each frame plucked from a moment, singular and unmatched, with Aziraphale, Crowley's heart arrested entirely. Down in a coffee shop with two moccacinos in hand, in Crowley's living room smiling wide for a selfie, one terrible, awful shot of Crowley in Aziraphale's kitchen with his face dusted flour-white and the tip of his nose red from cranberry jam.
On most days, he still can't believe that, after weeks of slipping yearning fingertips over the black square of the video after the calls ended, he's now so lucky he can slide his whole body close at night, next to Aziraphale's curved, generous shape. That he knows the scouring sting of Aziraphale's nails on his hips and the rasp of his beard between his thighs, that they share a life, a drive - that they have plans that reach tendrils into a future.
Being an omega isn't easy. And outside of work, Crowley's always kept a ten-foot pole of attitude, determined to shove off all approaching alphas after realising so many only wanted him for a hookup, not even granting him the grace of asking for his opinion. Fun and sex are Crowley's business, but he'd quickly binned the idea of dating in the long run, when any attempt he'd made in the field always ended up with the people he chose - betas, omegas - scurrying away after one-nighters. Because apparently Crowley gave out vibes of being not worth keeping. Of something fun that fizzles at sunrise. The ache of it had gusted inside his ribs like a cutting, frozen air one time too many.
A few hours, they could give him. A routine, a schedule? That was asking too much.
And then Aziraphale came along, and Crowley had never felt so desperate to be wanted. Really, truly wanted. Down to his mussed hair after waking up and his bad mood when the coffee shop ran out of frappuccinos, to the awful, raging disaster of his heart when he falls in love, messy enough to leave him a ruin when it happens.
He'd been scared shitless he’d drive Aziraphale away.
Making the leap had felt like losing a battle with himself, relief and terror layering up the seconds when he'd decided to show up at Aziraphale's door. Until Aziraphale had kissed him, had fucked him - made love to him, as garishly sweet as it sounds - had said the words first. And Crowley had been too stunned to say them back, to believe Aziraphale was his.
His.
Someone who has been fluent in reading the non-verbal language of his gestures, of his kisses, of his body, hot underneath his own, without pressing further. Aziraphale, who had never asked, had never pushed, had given Crowley a wide margin to choose to do and take on his own terms, always with the reassurance that this was something with roots. A steady, pinned bloom with sunken fingers into the flesh of them both.
Crowley loves him.
And fuck, he's horny.
He's already dressed in the fishnet suit he's chosen for the stream. That he's chosen for Aziraphale. Not the most practical of clothing for the occasion, but it's what sells. No sewn lines, neckline tight under his nipples, and strips that hold to his angled shoulders. Mind-bending. All in all, the suit makes his arse look amazing, so nicely curved, drives attention to the flatness of his chest, to his legs, the curls of his hair he's worked on for this moment. Yeah, he does look highly fuckable. That's never been a problem.
He knows what he'll reap through Sin Strip from the pack of alphas gathered to see him, not that the attention he gets there means shit to him anymore.
Because, if he is honest, since Aziraphale stepped onto the dais of his life, no other eyes hold the same foxfire attention. Nor do they cup within them the same starving intent. And Crowley wants to revel in the blown-open o of Aziraphale's lush lips and his wide eyes, that desire so clearly written across his gorgeous face whenever Crowley decides to show off. Because he knows he has assets to show off; he isn't stupid.
His body is beating hot with the Heat that he's allowed to set in, after years of suppressing it. Having decided to do it, finally, because streamed heats always generate an incredible amount of money. And because there's one more thing he wants everyone out there to know.
He watches the open banner on his screen for tonight, next to a count down:
Come see me in Heat…
Watch me get bred, wrecked, and claimed.
Fuck, that makes him pulse slick.
He's dancing on cloud nine, because Aziraphale had said yes. Agreed to be filmed fucking him, even adding suggestions to the ideas Crowley kept tossing out, preparing for the day.
Maybe it counts as deceitful publicity, because much as his body spasms with pleasure at the idea of being taken, he's still on birth control. Aziraphale is too. But hormones are hormones, and Crowley's given his body free reign to feel fully, to want what omegas want during heats.
His cock is already hard, hips pushing into the mattress to quench that empty space where he needs to be filled. That gap into which Aziraphale seems to fit so well.
He remembers three days ago, when he had worked himself up so much after a stream that he'd ended up rushing to Aziraphale's flat, not even waiting for the door to close before he’d pinned Aziraphale down to get that huge cock wet with his mouth, before sitting deeply on it, tightening, ravaging him against the poor carpet. Crowley remembers six months worth of X-rated memories. On his knees on Aziraphale's bed, clutching at the sheets. On his back on the floor of his own room, with Aziraphale moving between his legs. On his side, with Aziraphale's beautiful weight tucked in behind him, cock thick and hot pushed between his ruined, come-stained cleft. And a hundred more times that Crowley can pick out now, to lose his mind over.
He shudders, nipples tingling and thighs wet. Clenching. Abs pulling in with a shivering breath. Fuck, he's going to ruin his suit at this rate.
There's a knock on his door.
Crowley hurries to fix his lip gloss and toss his kimono on, just in case someone else is here, before answering.
But it’s good, Aziraphale's there.
The second he gets hit by the arcing wave of vanilla and leather, Crowley can't help but whine. He's in it. Shit, the Heat's slithering around him, making his body grow tight with the need to offer himself.
Aziraphale breathes in, and instantly boxes him against a wall, easing the door closed. Crowley's gotten well acquainted with walls and doors and floors, by Aziraphale's hands, and it's amazing.
" Oh ." Aziraphale dips eyes down to the line of Crowley's body, hooking a finger through a loop of the fishnet over the valley of Crowley's left hip bone. It makes Crowley shiver in aroused greediness. "This is so very lovely." Their lips meet, a kiss that comes easy and a little shaky, threaded with breathless giggles as Aziraphale rubs the pad of his finger over and over, until Crowley's so hot he feels like burning up.
"You smell delicious," Aziraphale says. His face is now sunk into the arch of Crowley's throat, free hand dipping under the kimono to grip his flexing waist. "I didn't know you were already so far under, or I would've come sooner."
Crowley whines again when Aziraphale kisses the play of skin over his scent gland. God, he wants to let go and let Aziraphale stretch him on the thick spread of his prick, right here, over the stack bond parquet. But he catches himself. "Careful, careful, don't - ah, don't be ruining my hard work. Doing my hair took me forever." He pushes Aziraphale by the shoulders, just barely, but it's enough to make Aziraphale draw back a whole foot. Crowley bites his lip, knowing it must be a challenge for Aziraphale to keep his distance while Crowley smells like slick and sex and pleasure. When he's sure Aziraphale knows how open he is. And for Crowley, that makes him even sexier.
Aziraphale's eyes look stormy, but he chuckles, though it’s a bit strained. His hands are fisted at his sides, and he's sweating over the dishevelled line of his powder-blue shirt, a bulge already evident on the front of his pressed khakis. "Darling, it isn't hard work to make you look beautiful."
Crowley clucks his tongue, but that soft core in his stomach hardens, then loosens, all warm. "Flatterer."
He drags Aziraphale by the hand into the room of the stream. The bed is ready, all black satin sheets with several throw pillows in burgundy. The lights are ready and aimed, as is the camera. All that is missing is the subject.
Them.
He can feel himself slipping further under the Heat when he feels one of Aziraphale's broad hands folding around his hip, tugging him back. Crowley's knees wobble, but his back arches when he touches Aziraphale's front.
"Alright. I'll- I'll restrain myself," Aziraphale says, faintly rough, giving only one tight, slow grind against Crowley's buttocks. His free hand splays wide over Crowley's belly and his breath is a warm wisp just on Crowley's nape. "Though I hope you know this is excessively cruel. You have no idea how much I want to bury myself inside you. Make you moan like you do when I get you pinned underneath me. To kiss you until you're moaning my name."
That banked hunger flares up in Crowley's blood, tightens in his lower belly. He rubs his arse against Aziraphale's clothed cock, knowing the promise it is, remembering how good it feels when it moves within him. Is he leaving wet patches on Aziraphale's trousers? He might be. Fuck, he's so wet.
"Just a few more minutes, angel," he manages, breathless, skidding high. The flush that flies down his body reaches the top of his thighs, where Aziraphale's hands are now set. Unmoving. Possessive. "And then you'll get to fuck me til I'm- I'm sated and full of you, and I hope you're ready, 'cause you know I'm a greedy bastard. I'll make you knot me up 'til you have nothing more to give, 'til I'm dripping your-"
The answering growl behind his ear makes Crowley grin, beneath the addling slowness of the Heat.
"Quiet." Just the suggestion of teeth on Crowley's shoulder. "If you don't want me to knot you before your stream, please be quiet."
This time, Crowley doesn't even glance back at the comments that sometimes make him lose his patience. He has Aziraphale naked on his bed, sitting against the upholstered headboard.
He knows there will be some arseholes that won't like it. But for each ten that have an absurd obsession with him, there's hundreds of horny tossers who are only there for the porn. And Crowley's nothing but an visionaire.
When the video pops alive, he's already on Aziraphale's lap, back facing the camera. He can feel the push of Aziraphale's blood-hot cock on his thigh, the grip of his hands tight on his buttocks.
"Hey- hey everyone." Crowley tips his face over his shoulder to gaze back at the lens of the camera. Shit, his numbers are off the charts. Even without tips, the subs for the session are worth a month of streaming. But he doesn't care about that now, because his hips are rocking already, his hole pulsing. Body hitching without meaning to. The Heat is here, fully, and he's so aroused, he doesn't know how long he can keep talking. "Been wanting to do this for a long time. And now? Now I can. Got myself an alpha I wanna keep, and you all get to watch. Lucky bastards."
Feels good to say it out loud. There's the sinking bite of Aziraphale's nails on his arse. His own thoughts go muzzy, wanting the first shaking push of that cock, stretching his rim, penetrating him where he's tight, where he's soft from want.
"Now, alpha," he begs, voice broken. He gives Aziraphale permission to do what they'd planned for weeks. "Fuck me, please. I need you."
It's a show, but it isn't an act. And when Crowley stares down, he sees Aziraphale's face sweetly shocked. Cheeks red and eyes blown open, surprised, as if even after hundreds of times fucking Crowley he’s still grateful, still awed. It's a good kick to the ego, and more. It's fucking glorious, and Crowley can't help but grab tufts of blond hair to tilt Aziraphale's lips up and kiss him.
"Will you let me in, omega?" The words are breathed on Crowley's panting mouth. Aziraphale's hands are skimming down the sides of him, until Crowley feels them hold and pull at the fishnet over the sides of his buttocks, until a tearing sound rips through the silence. "So wet for me." Those fingers he's held onto so many times rub and prod and push against the hot twitch of his rim, now bare. Sliding slick up and down. Crowley keens, shamelessly, feeling his cock crushed under the fishnet, hard against the little fold of his stomach, while Aziraphale sinks fingers into him, rasping, "Will you let me mould you to the shape of me?"
As if Crowley hadn't already.
"Only you… Please, angel."
His hands fist Aziraphale's shoulders, feeling himself open on knuckles, the dirty curl of those fingers making Crowley buck and whine and ask for more. It's filthy. He can hear the wet sound of the movement until wide palms open Crowley up, exposing him in a way that makes him blush. But he dips his spine, plays into it, hiding his face in Aziraphale's neck, while his arse stretches under the spread of those warm hands.
He sobs loud enough to be heard by the camera, wanting everyone to know what Aziraphale does to him. Crowley's fluttering, feeling the lick of cool air where he's squeezing on nothing.
"Isn't he beautiful like this?" Aziraphale asks. Fuck, fuck. Crowley can't help it, he's feverish. He clenches, gushes liquid. Everyone must've seen that. "So open, yet still tight enough to feel divine."
A thumb - because he'd know Aziraphale's thumbs by push alone - slips inside him, before popping back out with a bit of drag.
Crowley groans.
"See?"
The ringing of the tips comes, as expected.
Aziraphale's cock falls into the space between his buttocks. A buck of those strong hips up, to rub over where Crowley's so warm, so sensitive. He doesn't have to wait, because Aziraphale's hands curl around his waist, lifting him a bit, and yeah, that's Crowley's cue. With a trembling, unsure hand, he reaches back and guides Aziraphale's slippery, thick cock to fit against his rim.
"Careful, darling, don't rush," Aziraphale whispers to his ear, off script, just for Crowley. Gentle as always, just for them.
His cock feels huge . But this time, Crowley isn't in the mood for slow. His body begs to be filled, strained to the last sinew, nipples hard where they're rubbing against the hair on Aziraphale's chest.
The place smells like a fucking chocolaterie. He wonders how Aziraphale stands the whiffs of it, the sugary thickness that seems to stick to the inside of Crowley's mouth, or in his throat. But he knows Aziraphale isn't of the same opinion. That it's probably the reason why he's so hard too, smelling like whisky aged twelve years in a barrel, that slides across Crowley's tongue like a dash of smoke and petrichor.
Crowley inches his hips and breaches himself on that fat cockhead, rolling and rolling, until he feels the jostle of his arse when he pushes down, thighs against thighs. God, oh fuck, finally. Crowley's tiny moan becomes a deep groan as he's stretched open around that length, until he's scraping at Aziraphale's scalp, probably red-faced, and desperate for every inch of that cock he can get his arse stuffed with.
Aziraphale groans, the sting of his nails present on Crowley's bare arse where the fishnet is torn. He rocks up, just that bit deeper. "Such a needy, wanton omega," he says, crushed against the cut of Crowley's collarbone. And it's thrillingly humiliating to feel how easy he gets, how his thighs want to spread even wider, how they shake with the press of Aziraphale filling him up.
As if Crowley's true calling was this. Being here on Aziraphale's lap, being praised, and taken care of, full of cock and come, and needing more, out of his mind, short of spilling out, "knock me up, please, make me yours."
Shameless.
Instead, Crowley hitches out a high, shattered sound that is intended to be a moan, but it falls just left of a wail. "Only yours, please, give me, give me-"
"Too far gone in, aren't you?" Aziraphale says, but he skims a hand back up his spine, wrapping fingers in a fistful of hair, "Don't worry, darling, I'm all the way inside you. I'll give you what you need."
Aziraphale flexes up gently, and Crowley's body rings, fawned by electricity. He gasps, but Aziraphale's hands are known weights on his body, and his own knees are helping, moving him up the tugging stretch of that cock, to then feel it thrust in. It's easy to find a pace, a rhythm, with Aziraphale tensing his own thighs, probably for purchase, angling and then surging up into the hot space of Crowley's tight hole, until Crowley's whimpering with each smack of skin, his own cock stiff and throbbing.
"That's it, omega, that's it. Take all you want." The pace quickens, until Crowley's bouncing, his buttocks jolting once, twice, over and over when Aziraphale hits up deep. The hand in his hair shifts to his throat, palm open around the column of it. The most obnoxious thumb rests against his lip, while Crowley tries to bite it. To suck it in. "Let those lovely people hear your noises. Let them know how much you enjoy feeling me split you open, being stretched on my cock. Tell them how much you like it."
There's a spritz of firmness in Aziraphale's voice, even through the heavy and ragged tint. Only because he knows how it makes Crowley's stomach squeeze with lust, his spine bow back. Bit of an accidental discovery.
Crowley folds like a cheap suit.
"Fucking love it. Need more, gimme more, want your knot. Please ," Crowley pants. His eyes are becoming damp. Lashes sticky with the tears that gather on them, while the rocking becomes a wave of deep jerks.
Crowley's whole body is sweat-slick, his hips trying to push down into each pressing surge. But he's lost the rhythm, only needing, wanting to get there, so close. He's already shivering with the unerring stimulation of his prostate, toes curling and catching on the black satin because he can't control the pleasure that rises within, the ever-tightening lock of his muscles that must tell Aziraphale how close he is to his orgasm.
"So tight, so good, AJ -" A pause, short like a breath. They haven't used that name, that facet of him, in ages. Aziraphale means ‘Crowley,’ he knows he does. "You're going to make me come."
Aziraphale catches his open mouth, kisses him roughly. Crowley squirms on the fullness inside him that makes his own cock stripe his belly with precome. He can't help crying out, the wrenched sob of wanting to be tossed back on the bed and taken already, but he knows the camera is there to catch the moment Aziraphale knots him up. That he's doing this to show everyone on the other side the particular, explosive moment when he's finally tugged down on a stretch wide enough to make him drool. That everyone wants to see him full and plugged up.
Fuck, he wants that too.
"Angel!"
Aziraphale bites his neck, sinks teeth into his scent gland but not rough enough to break the skin. "I have you, I have you, darling mine."
Aziraphale must feel it - god, he does, he trembles with it. The spasming squeezes around his cock when the first pulse of orgasm hits Crowley across skin, hooks deep into his muscles. Crowley's tongue catches against his teeth on his cry, while he shakes and shivers, cheeks soaked, come spilling between their bellies. There's a kiss, awfully angled and too wet, too clumsy. But it's perfect. Crowley rides his orgasm with that massive cock working deep in his arse, hard and pulsing. A beautiful demand he's all too happy to let Aziraphale indulge. Not a moment longer, and he can feel the familiar spread of his hot, spasming rim under the swelling knot. That burn that lingers and lingers. Fuck, he loves this part.
"Yeah, like that, spread me," he whimpers, grinding while Aziraphale does as he's told, shows him off as his, shows Crowley sated. Because the Heat has Crowley easy, honest in a way that's frightening. A way in which each of Aziraphale's touches feels like a brand.
Aside from his first, unsuppressed Heat, Crowley has never gone through it again. He's never wanted to go through it with someone. Bare the staggering hunger tucked in his gut for any alpha to enjoy. Unjustly, maybe, but he'd always thought of it as being taken advantage of.
But with Aziraphale, this nuclear rise of chemicals feels like just another angle of their life. One with a different colour accent, with different lightning, but on the same grid.
There's nothing he won't trust Aziraphale with.
"Slow now, yes?" Aziraphale whispers to his ear, before catching his thighs and manhandling him until Crowley's spilled over the bed, locked on a knot, legs open. Aziraphale kneels, lifting him up from the bed just so, only by virtue of the position.
Crowley knows the high camera angle must be catching the indent between his buttocks where that knot is stretching him.
They've rehearsed this. The broad strokes of the show. What to do when he's knotted up and they have to wait because he can't force nature to hasten. He's glad for Aziraphale. Because he can't think of anything other than deeper and more, and other equally difficult words.
Harder maybe, too.
His hips are swaying, and his hands grasp his own thighs, hair most likely mussed from forcing his head back down onto the sheets.
Slow, spider-silky and thin, he feels the brush of a touch on his chest.
Crowley's spine curls off the bed. "Ah."
And then a sting. A bite on his left nipple, then a matching one sets on the right one.
Butterflies.
The damn nipple clamps. Fuck, it feels good.
"You spoiled creature," Aziraphale says, tearing the fishnet at his front, where Crowley's prick bobs free and hard again. "Look at you, you're dripping." One hand closes around Crowley's cock, strokes him quickly, with a thumb sliding over the slit and pressing, just like Crowley likes it. "And you want me to make you come once more, isn't that right? While you're there writhing on my knot, doing nothing, because that's how it is with you. A warm place for my cock, my knot, my come, you are my omega."
It's a bald-faced lie, because Crowley always goes all bratty when Aziraphale wants to take care of him. And maybe being a pillow princess is fun for a while, but Crowley likes to work for it, have Aziraphale beneath the strong clasp of his thighs, and make him beg, make him whine for him.
But this is a fantasy. And also, as far gone as Crowley is, he isn't working for shit. He wants to be pampered and thoroughly fucked.
"Yes, fuck yes!"
The rise of his nipples tingle with a warmth that spreads down his sternum. Coils in his stomach. And with Aziraphale pumping his cock and the pressure of his knot inside, Crowley spills in record time, seeing the long stretch of his body pulling up, butterflies shaking.
It isn't over yet, he has another twenty-four hours of embarrassing horniness left for Aziraphale to deal with. He can feel Aziraphale's cock slipping free, and then the dive down of that wide body for a slow, gentle kiss that adds the brushing rub of that beard across the sides of his mouth. It's a thing Crowley enjoys greatly.
"So good, you did so well." Quiet, so quiet, covering Crowley entirely, Aziraphale stays. Lets his hands trail up his sides. People must be pissed for being blocked from seeing him, but Crowley cinches his arms tight around Aziraphale's neck and detains him for five seconds. Five seconds free of camera. Before he pulls back.
And then Aziraphale flips him over.
Crowley sets himself, steady on his elbows and knees. His arse feels hot, hole loose enough the spasm is uncomfortable. He needs to have something inside him.
A moan skips in his mouth, and a hand gentles over the curve of his back, grips a buttock tightly to rub back up after.
"There, there. I'll tend to you soon." Soft fingers cup Crowley's jaw and lift his face to face the camera directly. "But I want everyone to see you. How beautifully you're panting, how ruined you are for me."
Bloody hell, is it still him running the show? Aziraphale has taken the lead entirely. It needed to happen. Crowley can hardly think.
He can't help the way his mouth looks like a burst-open bloom, the tears that have run down his cheeks. When his eyes focus on the image, his belly clenches in arousal. Butterflies hanging down his now-pink nipples, fishnet torn, a blush running across his face, his neck, Crowley looks like the poster star of a porno. And well. Fitting.
He's so empty.
There's pressure on the clutching furl of his rim once more. Wide, blunt, so hot. It jabs at the curve of a buttock, as if slipping, probably for how wet it is. Fuck, Crowley can feel his own thighs drenched with their pleasure. A hand finds the shape of his hip while a cock - Aziraphale's cock - drives inside yet again. Slick from arousal and sticky with come, the glide is easy, doesn't drag. It's a push that tears a moan from Crowley's chest, that comes and comes, until Aziraphale's strong thighs are flush with Crowley's buttocks.
"You're lovely like this, my darling," Aziraphale tells him, pressing in until Crowley knows he's lost all his words.
Yes, whatever it is that fuels the Heat across him likes to be held down like this. Pinned, ready to be used again. Cock hanging hard between his pelvis and the soft sheets, wet. A breathless moan tips past Crowley's lips when Aziraphale wraps fingers around a sheaf of his hair, pulls, angles him back against the steady pressure lodged in his arse.
"Mine, aren't you? All mine."
Nonsense. Absolute nonsense is what escapes Crowley.
His legs slip wider on the satin wanting to give out when Aziraphale releases his hair. But Aziraphale holds him in place by the hips, already pushing in, and Crowley's whole body tenses, knowing he's bound to end up face down on the mattress while he's had again. Expected, entirely known, he crashes on the sheets while he whines and whimpers without care, deaf to anything but the beat of his own blood that swirls like a storm in his ears. His hips jerk backwards, encouraging the jostling surges of that cock into his arse, each dirty, squelchy noise made by his body when Aziraphale pounds into him.
Crowley can't keep track of what's what. It's only movement, the wet friction of being fucked until his throat feels raw from groaning, until his abs are sore from holding the position. It's fucking primal, the satisfaction of being held face down, presenting, and he hates it - but no, he fucking loves it. Wants to be left a sopping mess, his hole a gaping, flushed clench that drips Aziraphale's spend all over the bed.
He wants to be taken over and over and over. He thinks he says as much.
"Fuck, fuck, fill me up, need your knot to come. Please, please!"
Aziraphale grunts, a light stutter to the rock of his body. Hips locked still. As if he was trying to reign himself in, staying pressed tight and buried. Not moving. But then he slips arms around Crowley's waist from behind, pulls him back on his lap.
It's mostly to show off, Crowley knows. But he also can tell Aziraphale likes this arrangement of bodies. Skin flush on skin, his mouth clamped on Crowley's neck. It's been his favourite since their first time, and Crowley isn't complaining. How could he? Like this, the heavy weight of Aziraphale's erection feels so thick, so deep, Crowley knows his rim must look swollen and overstretched.
Unlike the rut, this time Crowley doesn't get to grind down on him, but only be pushed upwards by smacking thrusts. The butterflies judder on his nipples, and his own hands reach back to grab a handful of disobedient, soft curls that always look too tempting not to cling onto.
Crowley's fucked open until he's crying, until the merciless rubs on his prostate have his eyes hot with tears, his own cock spilling without a single touch. And what a blessing that is.
Warm on his skin, Aziraphale breathes, "Gorgeous. You look gorgeous like this. Look at yourself." Crowley does. Dips his chin and tries to steady his gaze on the video. Aziraphale's hands have crept down to his thighs, to cup at his balls, and Crowley's whole torso is mottled pink, flushed, pierced lips bitten red and eyes bright. God, the twist of his body is obscene, the glisten-white of his own spend streaking his belly, the black fishnet. "Let them see me claim you."
Aziraphale pants in his ear. Quick, shivery, chest heaving behind Crowley. Those broad, rounded hips move up, sinking Aziraphale's prick inside Crowley until he can feel the familiar stretch of the knot once more. But his whole attention zeroes to the bright pain blooming at the side of his neck. The wet clamp of a mouth that doesn't let go.
Crowley sobs. Fuck, it hurts. There's teeth. Blunt, yet unyielding, digging, digging, until Crowley can feel the skin being punctured, the tendons giving way under the biting.
He's claimed. Made someone's.
Aziraphale's.
And for a split second Crowley can dive beyond the bruising mark forming, can see the gleam in Aziraphale's eyes cast off the screen, and knows that what binds them weaves like a lattice work, finely made, spreading from their hearts to their lungs, their hands, stretching impossibly.
It's disorienting, the rush of knowing how well he fits in those gentle arms.
Crowley's whole body loosens, arms flopping down. He isn't afraid to fall forward, knows that Aziraphale will always keep him safe.
"And that's all you get to watch," he hears Aziraphale saying as he adjusts Crowley's head to fall back on his shoulder, caressing the sore hotness of the bite with soft fingers. "Because he's mine, and I'm the one who'll give him what he needs. Only from me. Isn't he beautiful? And I get to keep him. Forever."
He knows Aziraphale must have used the remote on the nightstand to turn off the camera, because the next thing he knows he's being laid down on the bed with Aziraphale folded behind him. The clamps taken off while a thumb coats them with something cool.
Aziraphale's knot pulses inside Crowley.
He makes a ragged noise.
Aziraphale's hand soothes over the curve of his waist. "Hush, my love, it's over. Let's rest for a second and then we can go back to your bed."
Yeah, wait until they aren't locked together. He doesn't want to feel them part, though. The thought of Aziraphale leaving him right now has bile clotting in his throat. His body still feels needy, throbbing lushly around the anchor of Aziraphale's knot. And he squirms back through the fog of being tired.
And…
… and perhaps that's the point of having sex with someone you love. So that you might end up standing at the edge of a cliff, overwhelmed by a touch, and a word, and a smell, yet with the absolute, terrifying conviction of knowing you'll be dragged back to safety time and time again.
"Don't go." Crowley reaches up and pulls at Aziraphale's forearm that is laced around his chest. "I need- I need more. I need you."
Any other time and Crowley would've preferred to die than be caught begging, even in the privacy of real life. But he's just accepted that things are different with Aziraphale. That he's the slant in the past of Crowley's assumptions.
Their fingers fall interlocked one by one. Slip fitting like puzzle pieces. And Crowley feels finally like a romance novel omega, someone he has never wanted to be until Aziraphale arrived.
It's only the two of them now.
"I won't go, you silly thing." Aziraphale's thumb strokes over Crowley's belly. "There's still one more thing for you to do if… if you're still amenable."
Amenable. Maiden aunt was putting it mildly. He knows what Aziraphale's talking about. Crowley's own teeth ache with the need to set on the softness of Aziraphale's neck and leave an imprint that won't ever vanish.
He huffs a tired laugh. "'Course I wanna claim you. Get ready to be chewed on like a toy."
But first, sleep.
Aziraphale isn't going anywhere.
And how good the certainty feels in his bones.
Once the noise filters in, Aziraphale eyes blink open. He really needs to put his phone on silent mode for the next two days. Next three. Lord, he's exhausted.
As in everything he does, Crowley in Heat was as challenging as containing a typhoon.
Aziraphale is boneless, limp.
The white sheets underneath them are a mess of folds and bunches, but it smells like both of them, as does Crowley's whole nest. Aziraphale feels like the survivor of a wreck. And the damn noise won't stop.
Crowley stirs in his arms, and Aziraphale quickly answers so nothing will disturb him. He must be feeling worn out, too.
"Hello?" His tongue is thick in his mouth.
"Aziraphale, you sneaky little bastard!" Two soft blinks before Aziraphale can pinpoint Anathema in the wailing. "Was I supposed to find out you are the lucky alpha that claimed AJ through the stream?"
Oh. Oh, right. Six months is a lot of time to introduce your boyfriend to your best friend. But in all fairness, adults’ schedules are rarely compatible with each other. And Anathema has been constantly travelling for work. The only thing she knew was that Aziraphale was dating 'Crowley'.
Yes, this probably wasn't the best way to break it to her.
"Oh god."
But she laughs. "Dude, I saw your balls. I saw your fucking knot! You owe me compensation for psychic damage, don't act so surprised-" There’s a rustle at the other end of the line, "Yes, yes, baby, I'll tell him - Newt says you're a traitor and you need to bring AJ asap for dinner, we promise not to be weird."
Aziraphale doubts it. "Ah-"
"Holy shit, I'm so happy for you! I had no idea Crowley was AJ! That AJ was Crowley!" Another high-pitched yell that Aziraphale sort of deals with, aiming the phone away for two seconds. "And I had no idea you have such good dom vibes? You should quit your day job and open a stream. Newt was already all-"
A splutter escapes him. He knows he must be red up to the roots of his hair. He doesn't want to know how Anathema was going to end that sentence. "Anathema!"
"Jesus, you're so uptight for someone who just showed his whole cock to a bunch of strangers." She smiles, he can hear it in the words. "Crowley's such a lucky man."
"Yes, well." Aziraphale cuts in. He's not even fully awake yet, how is this even fair? "Anathema, you’re my friend and I love you. But it's too early and I'm wrung out."
"God, I imagine," she squeals. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just so excited, you lucky asshole."
Aziraphale chuckles into the phone, but the whole conversation must've woken Crowley because he groans, flops onto his back and looks over with wide, amber eyes.
Mussed from sleep, he's lovely, a line from a pillowcase under the line of his lashes. The phone slips from Aziraphale's ear.
"Angel? Who is it?"
Faint, like tiny rats in the walls, it comes, " Ohmygod, is that him?"
Aziraphale scrambles the phone back up. "Yes?" He turns to Crowley, kissing the top of his head. "It's my friend Anathema. The one I told you about."
"Oh, say hi." Crowley perks up immediately. Aims at the phone. "Thanks for guiding Aziraphale to me!"
"I heard that! Yes! You're welcome!"
Aziraphale admits he's utterly defeated. "Hold on, you're on speaker."
Crowley laughs, tips their mouths together. "Will you finally let me meet her?"
"Please, please, please! We're big fans!"
"Yes," Aziraphale says to Anathema, and is glad she can't see the way he can't seem to stop smiling, to bully him into a recording for posterity. "If you behave."
"Alpha scout promise."
"You were never a scout."
"Thought's what counts. Anyway. I demand best-alpha rights for the wedding, whenever it happens."
Crowley smiles, sinking into Aziraphale's neck, laving the pulsing warmth of the bite he gave Aziraphale the night before. Few people did both nowadays, but if Crowley agreed, Aziraphale was more than ready to carry the signs of the twining of their lives together in as many places as possible. Would Crowley agree to a tattoo for both of them?
He tips Crowley's head up to kiss him again. He can't seem to stop doing it. His thumb drags lightly over the whisper-thin skin below Crowley's ear where his mark is and his heart quickens. "Alright."
Anathema must sense the shift in his voice. How it goes a little breathless, because she laughs again, then says, "Okay, okay. Leave you two to your things. So good to know you, Crowley!"
Absently, Aziraphale hangs up, lets the phone fall to the chaos of sheets while he stretches on his side.
Crowley spins round to face him making the bed dip underneath. "She's nice."
"She's a menace and you're being gracious." A line of hair falls down Crowley's cheek, and Aziraphale thumbs it aside. "How are you feeling?"
"Good." A peck on Aziraphale's nose. On his eyelids. "Perfect. A tad hungry, though."
Aziraphale hums, and darts in for another kiss, before lifting off the bed. "I'll go make breakfast."
"Isn't it my turn?"
"I'll take all the turns. What do you want to eat?"
Crowley sits up, stares into the bundle of bedsheets on his lap, smiling. But he stays silent for a moment, as if held in vacuum, unmoving. Transported away from their bed, lost in his own thoughts.
Aziraphale's heard stories of people doubting their bond marks after the chemicals ran out. And for a beat, his heart thrashes in his throat wondering what's behind the focused intent of Crowley's gaze.
Quick as lightning, Crowley flicks his eyes back up to Aziraphale, soft-edged.
"Would you marry me, then?"
Aziraphale's whole body releases the tension that had gathered in the joints in the last three seconds. He falls back on his knees at the edge of the mattress, because it all seems unreal. That jolt of happiness that doesn't allow a single speck of resentment.
He's never known anything like this.
"Crowley," he says, a little airy, a little hoarse. "You didn't even need to ask."
"Good." Another kiss when Crowley crawls up on his knees, sets possessive fingers along Aziraphale's jaw. "Good. Marry me then."
Aziraphale smiles against Crowley's mouth. "For the taxes."
"Definitely for the taxes." Crowley grins. "I have the best alpha. Isn't it amazing?" His fingers stroke over where he's bitten Aziraphale. A circle of pressure that doesn't stop.
Even now, Aziraphale can't deal with the praise Crowley doles out so easily. His face is warm, and he has the need to squirm under Crowley's stare. "If you say so."
"I definitely say so." Crowley pulls back, seeming to take him in fully with his brandy-clear eyes. “Aw, you're blushing. After ruining my arse entirely, this is what makes you blush."
"Silence, you teasing thing."
"Nope, can't silence me. You bit me. Take responsibility, angel. You have to be nice to me. Forever."
The city is alive and awake in the streets, a hubbub of cars and people melting into the chilly wind of a winter that's kept outside the glass of their windows. But the door is closed, and here inside it's just the two of them.
As it will be for days, weeks, months. Years.
"Forever. Always," Aziraphale says into the seal of a kiss. "I'm yours."