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“H-hnnng— oh fffffuck, fuckkkk—”
Crowley’s molars grind together as his lower back bends as much as it can in this position, ankles twisting, cracking sharply as his toes point and flex and cramp. Even the arches of his feet are so tense and whipchord tight he wonders if they might splinter—
Aziraphale is relentless, fucking deep into Crowley’s ruined hole with these long, punishing strokes that punch the breath from his struggling lungs. His hands are hooked under Crowley’s knees and dig into the slick skin of his nearly overextended inner thighs, steely palms locked over straining tendons that slot perfectly within the webs of his thumbs. Pinning Crowley’s trembling legs apart, open, and down like a specimen he’s caught to spread for his use. Breaking him beyond his limit after four orgasms, three of which were courtesy of Aziraphale’s custom built fuck machine and the last from his cock:
It had been his first time trying out the device, and Crowley really had underestimated just how overwhelming it would be, to be constantly fucked at tireless speeds and varying depths for two whole hours as Aziraphale played with the settings and watched.
He’d leisurely observed as he walked around Crowley in a circle, occasionally making filthy observations and showering him with praise lavished with that masterful degradation they both adored, and it had been torture. Sublime torture, yes, but torture nonetheless, especially when Aziraphale denied Crowley’s plea to suck him off, instead choosing to touch himself just out of reach as he stood in front of the wooden, padded bench Crowley was draped over and strapped onto.
The first orgasm had been his usual sort, and Crowley had been so hard he’d pleaded for Aziraphale to touch him, to do anything to relieve the pressure that ultimately relieved itself, climaxing untouched, cock pulsing and flexing and emptying violently.
But the following two throughout the course of persistent, expertly aimed stimulation had been proper prostate orgasms, with Crowley staying mostly soft and sensitive and leaking, cock dribbling a translucent thread for the remainder of the time he was restrained, Aziraphale had informed him (and also showed him, running his fingers through what looked like precome before sliding them into his own mouth to luxuriously suck while Crowley cried from the lack of his own mouth being filled).
It wasn’t the first time Crowley experienced a prostate orgasm, but it had been the first instance of having multiple within such a short window. He didn’t think his body capable of it until today, and he’d been completely caught off guard by just how compounded the sensations were once the second climax began— almost as if it had latched onto the ebbing dregs of the first orgasm and pulled them back to the shore to join the current. It was impossible to coherently explain or describe, and by the third time his body peaked in this way, Crowley had been so delirious with golden, pain flecked pleasure he’d lost the ability to do anything but embrace the onslaught.
And to add to the sensory overwhelm of it all, the second dildo Aziraphale had attached after Crowley’s first orgasm of the day was one of the ejaculating variety, hollow through the middle and connected to a little pump system, and Crowley had been filled with so much lube— lube designed to mimic the texture and slip of come, and came damn close— that he was still dripping with it even now, hole still overflowing, inner thighs slippery, and he’s never felt or sounded so wet before while being fucked.
It’s too much; it's been too much, but the good sort, the sort that makes Crowley sob and shiver and beg for mercy without wanting to actually stop. And he’s fucking begged for mercy over and over since starting the scene till his jaw went slack from babbling, the cocks Aziraphale had chosen for Crowley splitting him to the point of his vision flooding with galaxies of gasping rapture as he weathered each prostate orgasm, wondering if he might burst.
But now too much starts to slip past the border of live wire ecstasy, flits between overstimulation and utter agony. Threatens to shatter Crowley beyond repair as he’s on his back in Aziraphale’s bed, arms unbound but thrown up above his head, hips pulled to the edge of the mattress where his dominant stands and holds him down as he carves into him.
Aziraphale had carried Crowley here after undoing the bench restraints and arranged him how he liked, and even though his hole has been thoroughly stretched open, is soft and slick and receptive, gaping, the rest of his body’s boneless bliss from those first three orgasms is a thing of the past once he came a fourth time, cock still soft and weakly spurting the tiniest bit of thin translucence onto his quivering stomach. It had only offered Crowley the briefest of reprieves, the sprawling, euphoric pleasure of a properly battered prostate tingling through his core and limbs cut again short by more of said concentrated battering and muscles that shriek from the treatment.
He’s already taut and trembling all over again, sweat beading and sliding over skin that’s so oversensitive even the slightest brush of fingers or draft of air has him writhing uselessly in Aziraphale’s grip. Crowley’s making sounds he’s never made before, now, so highly pitched with desperation he doesn’t recognise them, helplessly whimpering and whining and pleading between bitten off yelps. His arms gradually grow numb where they grapple with the sheets, blindly fisting into the cotton for dear life, for purchase that offers no support as Aziraphale uses him, ripping Crowley’s hips back and forth to meet his own like the ragdoll he is for him.
“P-please,” Crowley finally whimpers, barely able to breathe, ribs feeling like they’re cracking with each thrust, like they’re collapsing. But Aziraphale continues to fuck him, doesn’t break his rhythm in the slightest as he stares down at where they’re joined with almost obsessive intensity.
He’s still fully clothed, trousers unbuttoned so that he’s unhindered in his vicious pursuit, and Crowley can see, whining as he weakly cranes his neck to also look at where Aziraphale’s disappearing inside him, that the surrounded fawn wool is soaked with the lube, the fabric dark and blotchy. Like he’s got a cunt that gushes with every drag of Aziraphale’s cock—
“Fuck, angel— angel, please,” he’s keening over the wet slap of Aziraphale’s balls heavy against him, back throbbing, thighs screaming, cresting ever closer to the point of his upper limit as he starts to ache everywhere both inside and out, the cumulative orgasms coming together to decimate him, “I c-can’t t-take it—”
“Yes, you can,” Aziraphale croons as he meets Crowley’s gaze with eyes that burn, crucibles brimming with molten silver. His voice is a velvety, simmering thing, a soft and dizzying contrast to the vise of his hands and the drilling of his cock, “you can take it, pet— this is precisely what my cocksleeve is for, isn’t it? To be used and bred and ruined however I like, whenever I like—”
“Nnnghh— I can’t,” Crowley tries to shake his head as it flops back down onto the bed, choking on a sob as he feels his wrecked hole try to reflexively clench around Aziraphale at the degrading endearment and fail; fuck, he really is so fucked open. His chest heaves, and he’s been crying for he doesn’t even know how long, his eyes supplying endless tears, “s-sir, please, I— ‘s t-too much—”
This talk is part of their carefully negotiated arrangement: Aziraphale’s free and liberal use of him, the protesting that flirts with CNC. Crowley insisting he can’t take it any more while craving and welcoming that very thing. It’s a common component of their play, one they both plainly adore, but this time— this time Crowley doesn’t think he can take any more.
He’s never felt like this, like he’s been literally turned inside out. Like he’s being flayed open from head to toe and can’t find a way to dull or escape the piercing sensation of every raw, exposed nerve firing over and over and over. Like he’s going to black out from the overstimulation that’s about to take that final step across the line into all out, bone breaking anguish.
“But you are taking it so well; you should see how beautifully you’re taking me, my slutty doll,” Aziraphale whispers, and that’s it— Crowley’s body convulses as a thumbs drops to circle the hypersensitive rim of his abused hole, the touch delicate but so much, it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too fucking much, “how wet and pink and open you are—”
“Red!” Crowley wails, neck going stiff with the effort of crying out, screwing his eyes shut as he fractures and erupts into uncontrollable, erratic shaking, “f-fuck, ffffuck, red—”
Everything stops as soon as his teeth close around the ‘d’ of the first “red”: Aziraphale, the movement of the bed beneath Crowley, the unending fucking. The creaking of the brass bed frame and obscene slapping of colliding, slick skin all going quiet. Every facet freezing like time itself stopped as soon as Crowley willed it to except for the shuddering of his sternum and the tremulous sobs butting up against the crumbling levee of his limit.
Aziraphale is inside him still— maybe about halfway— but he’s completely and utterly motionless save for his hands, which immediately relinquish their bruising grip under Crowley’s knees. They start to gently guide his legs out of their spread position, bringing them closer to Aziraphale’s hips before carefully lowering them to rest on the edge of the bed. Through the sensory storm still fucking through him, Crowley vaguely feels the rumpled duvet brush the backs of his bare calves, soft and cool.
He’s finally able to take a thin, thready breath, withered but viable.
“My dearest boy,” Aziraphale’s eyes are all over him, checking in and taking stock of his quaking body in rapid, sweeping swaths before meeting Crowley’s gaze. He’s clearly searching for overt signs of distress or injury, but he’s not at all panicked or frightened. Instead, Aziraphale’s expression is alert, it’s open and warm and so steady that Crowley knows it’s entirely safe for himself to fall apart. “Are you alright, my love?”
He waits, waits for Crowley to tell him what’s wrong. Brow furrowed with that patiently focused attention as his hands tenderly cup Crowley’s trembling hips, his thumbs tracing over the edges of his hipbones.
It’s in these moments when Aziraphale’s professional expertise shines all the brighter, and already, Crowley feels himself begin to unwind ever so slightly in his capable hands. Aziraphale’s comforting stability is the perfect contrast to the chaos wracking Crowley’s body, and he exhales that breath he’d managed to wrangle into his throat.
“‘S-s t-too much,” Crowley eventually whispers, teeth chattering, hole faintly spasming; Aziraphale’s eyes flutter close for half a second in time with the squeezing, and Crowley wants to reach out to him, but his arms won’t move, still numb and prickly. “Jus’— j-jus’ c-can’t handle more.”
Aziraphale nods, his palms now trailing up and down the tops of Crowley’s shivering thighs, his touch grounding and reassuring. The pattern of his caress so hypnotic that Crowley’s respiration latches onto its cadence, breathing in, and out, and in, and out, and the squeezing, wheezing hunger for air he couldn’t get enough of, evaporates.
“It is so much,” Aziraphale murmurs with nothing but sincerity in his voice, and Crowley feels so seen, feels heard and held despite their current, too-far-away positions, “this has been a remarkably intense scene, and you’ve done so well— especially so in letting me know when it became too much for you. Thank you, dove,” Crowley bites his lower lip, blinking through the tears that just won’t fucking stop, “thank you so very much for telling me. I’m going to slowly and gently pull out, now, if that’s alright with you.”
Crowley dips his chin, feeling rather wobbly when Aziraphale, still hard, unhurriedly withdraws, and he’s so grateful to him in this moment for a thousand reasons, one of them being that if Aziraphale had rapidly pulled away as soon as Crowley called red, it might’ve been as devastating as much as it would’ve been relieving, the shocking loss after being so full for so fucking long. But Aziraphale must’ve known that, and he must have known that this incremental transition as he whispers “breathe, sweet thing— that’s it, good boy, so good for me,” when Crowley hisses from the drag, is the best option.
And then he’s empty— blissfully and painfully empty— but Crowley doesn’t have much time to dwell on it as moments later the bed ripples and the air behind him shifts. His fingers, sluggishly coming back to life and tips tingly with rushing blood, extend to find the slight scratch of wool trousers right as they’re gently gathered between warm palms that chase away the pins and needles.
“Starling,” Aziraphale's voice floats down from above, slipping soft and gauzy through the aching, “may I hold you? Or would you like to lie still for a little while. Take your time—”
But immediately Crowley tries to sit up, wriggling pitifully as he fights to scramble into Aziraphale’s arms, but his body flatly refuses to cooperate.
“Wanna come up there, but can’t move much,” he croaks, legs still vibrating, jerking intermittently despite their repose. “S-stiff—”
“That’s quite alright,” Aziraphale’s hands are already moving again, first rearranging Crowley’s arms so that they’re crossed down in front of his naked chest. His care is evident with every move, obviously cognisant of how Crowley’s shoulders must (and do) ache from having had his arms thrown up above his head for so long. “Allow me, my dear—”
Crowley is then maneuvered fully onto the bed, somehow pulled up by his torso and manipulated in a way that doesn’t add to the stress weighing on his body until he’s lying next to Aziraphale, head slumping against a partially bared collarbone right where the power blue shirt is unbuttoned just enough so that his nose can nuzzle against warm skin and silvery, feathery curls. The copious amounts of drying lube sticking his quivery thighs together barely noticeable amidst the feeling of being held.
Now he can really take a deep, centering breath, one that feels like life itself and one that Crowley feels in the lowest part of his stomach as it inflates with air and melds into the solid plush of Aziraphale’s body. And when he exhales, sniffling and not even bothering to wipe at the tears still clinging to his eyelashes, he melts into Aziraphale’s embrace as his lover curls an arm around his shoulders and draws Crowley even closer. Before he can even shiver from any chills instead of overwhelm, Aziraphale is already draping the throw that’s usually folded at the foot of the bed over his naked body; Crowley hadn’t even realised it had moved from its spot until it’s blanketing him in its fuzzy warmth.
Crowley’s not sure he’s ever felt so cosy and so snug and so safe— and so loved— in his whole life.
“My good boy,” Aziraphale murmurs into the crown of Crowley’s head like a psalm, a low and reverent circlet of prayerful words that uplift and praise and cradle, “my dearest, darling heart. I’m so very proud of you, Crowley.”
Crowley whimpers, newly nimble fingers walking up the button path of Aziraphale’s shirt until they hook under its open collar, tugging at the fabric and holding it in his fist. A tightly woven, cotton poplin lifeline he knows he can count on.
It’s not like he’s ever been consciously afraid or even nervous to safeword. Crowley knows that Aziraphale, of all people, truly wants him to do so whenever he might need to, even though he’s not needed to until tonight, Crowley never had any doubt that Aziraphale would react exactly as he’s doing so in this moment: with love, care, and abundant reassurance that leaves no room for guilt or regret or shame. And Crowley doesn’t feel badly about it at all, doesn’t feel like he’s done anything wrong. Quite the contrary, actually, as Aziraphale continues to thank him and praise him for safewording, and Crowley knows this is how it should be.
But still, as he reclines against Aziraphale now in the aftermath, his dominant slowly and skillfully beginning to gather information in a manner that isn’t prying or pressuring, but curious and inviting—
(is there anything right now that Crowley needs other than to be held and cherished (no, he tells Aziraphale honestly, this is exactly what he needs, now and always) what did Crowley like best about the scene (fucking everything except the part where his body decided it was done), when did Crowley begin to feel he was approaching his limit and what, if anything, had exacerbated said feeling: the position, the duration, the number of orgasms, etc, what he wished could have been different (honestly nothing he can really pinpoint right now, but Crowley promises to think it over, and he will))
— Crowley is leveled by the depths of consolation flowing through his veins. He’s moved by it. It’s a hand reaching inside of him to lovingly caress something he hadn’t known was there, let alone that it needed that comfort, that protective and adoring affirmation.
Maybe he had been unconsciously anxious about safewording with Aziraphale. Perhaps there’s still a wisp of fear lurking somewhere in the mostly healed corners of Crowley’s heart, corners that had been rubbed raw by the words of a man who had been so afraid to love again after having his own heart stomped on till it barely functioned. He supposes it’s possible there’s a tiny part of him that had worried about disappointing Aziraphale by failing to hold out until the scene naturally came to an end, the same part that had needed quite a lot of assurance once they got together properly.
The part of Crowley that had been terrified he might not ever measure up or would ever be enough.
It does haunt him still, every now and then— their break up. The tone of Aziraphale’s voice at the bandstand, the cutting edges of his words. How Crowley had been smashed into a thousand pieces Luca had helped hold together. It’s been two months since those Hellish two weeks, two months of rebuilding what miraculously hadn’t been irreparably destroyed but was badly bruised. Two months of trusting in each other and in them, taking the few harder moments with the abundantly easy ones and looking ahead instead of backward, and those moments when an unwanted memory barges into Crowley’s mind— they’re few and far between, growing fewer by the week.
And whatever might have been bothering him— if there had been anything at all— it’s soothed into purring, warmly sheltered contentment as Crowley recovers in Aziraphale’s sheltering arms.
“I love you, my darling,” Aziraphale’s balm of a whisper is accompanied by his arms gently squeezing, tightening his hold on Crowley all the more. “I love you with all of me, and I’m so sorry for pushing you past your limit.”
“Don’t be sorry, angel; ‘m okay, promise. And I love you, too,” Crowley mumbles into the down of Aziraphale’s chest, inhaling the scent of him until there’s nothing but the warm aroma of black tea and cream filling his nose, sweetly malty and rich, “so much.” Savoring the fragrance but also the ability to say it— to say I love you freely and without any traces of apprehension.
He’s pleasantly buzzy all over in addition to the soreness that’s now in the realm of bearable and even desired. Crowley will feel this tomorrow and possibly the next day, and he’ll be able to feel those cocks and Aziraphale inside him for perhaps as long, too.
And while his body (perhaps shockingly so, to the most discerning of size queens) proved that it does, in fact, have a limit when it comes to being filled and stretched and abused, has shown it can be broken in a way Crowley had sincerely doubted until tonight, it also gifted both him and Aziraphale the opportunity to strengthen their fortifying bond, the chance to reinforce their trust in one another.
His eyes are heavy as he muses on that, about the broken and the unbroken bits between them.
How Crowley’s broken heart is mending beautifully in Aziraphale’s healing hands, sleepily smiling at the irony of those hands being the same that transformed his body into the gooey, lovingly shattered thing it is in this moment.
How it really, truly feels that the two of them— what they have, and all they’ve weathered since Crowley sent that text message to the wrong number by mistake— might be the most unbreakable element there is.
And the last thing Crowley thinks before he succumbs to the sleep that’s tugging at his every sense, is that somehow, maybe and inexplicably, his thumbs mixing the order of numbers that night, hadn’t been mistaken at all.