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Give me more, make me feel like I'm adored, put me in my place

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If there was something Crowley had lost after the botched apocalypse, it was subtlety. It was easier, now, for Aziraphale to understand when his darling wanted (needed, rather) a kiss, a cookie, a cuddle, to be pinned on the bed, or maybe it was that Aziraphale was finally free to understand him, to read Crowley as precisely as possible.

They had fallen into a nice routine: Aziraphale would ask, Crowley would comply, Aziraphale would thank and praise, Crowley would squirm under compliments he didn't think he deserved but still craved like a tree the sun. Submission was natural to Crowley and he loved that it now had a purpose, one so good and natural it had washed away all the stains and impurities there were before. Moreover, Crowley loved to spoil Aziraphale, to be of use for him, satisfy him, and Aziraphale, thrilled to see Crowley's collar tight around his neck just before breakfast, felt in his bones the priceless worth of spotless obedience, harmless power, required domination. It was proof that almost everything, in this world, could be beautiful, precious, in the right hands, with the right heart.




“Love, could you get me a glass of lemonade? There's a jug in the refrigerator,” Aziraphale asked one lazy afternoon, one of those days when even the humans couldn't find anything to do but rest on the grass, looking at clouds shaped like cows. He and Crowley had gone to the park to feed a new flock of ducks, the ducklings all quacking to Crowley in joy. Once home, Aziraphale had found breadcrumbs in his coat pockets, but Crowley had sworn he wasn't his doing. “Maybe Priscilla doesn't like you very much, angel,” he suggested, scrunching his nose up.

Crowley, sun-kissed skin and long curls brushing his cheekbones (they are so pretty when they're bruised, though Aziraphale absent-mindedly, something that would have been a clear indicator if he was paying attention) didn't look up from his smartphone when he said, “I believe you have functional legs, angel. Saw them working all right before.”

Crowley could be lazy and cheeky just because he wanted to, so Aziraphale thought to test him once again, just to make sure he was up to play. (silly of him, of course, because there was a giant sign over Crowley that screamed TOP ME TOP ME TOP ME.)

He didn't look up from his book either. “Darling, I'm rather parched. Fetch me a glass of lemonade, there's a good boy,” he said with calculated detachment as if it wasn't already affecting him. Good boy was usually the right button to push, both to ask for a pliant, darling little thing and to give Crowley explicit permission to be one.

Not today, it seemed. Crowley smacked his lips, shrugging. “I'm busy, angel,” which meant, I want to play and I want you to manhandle me into submission. As much as he loved to submit, no one said he would make it (always) easy for Aziraphale.

So, sighing, Aziraphale closed his book and placed him on the armrest; Crowley inhaled sharply. With the same tranquillity with which he would stroll through stalls in Portobello, he marched towards Crowley, hands folded behind his back, itching for Crowley's hair, Crowley's mouth. Pink pepper grains were sparkling in his mouth, thinking about the wildness he could tame, the tart sweetness of his darling's hot skin after a good beating.

“Someone forgot his manners, I see,” he smiled, charming, looking down to Crowley, who had a cocky grin on his face but a glittering gleam in his eyes, gold irises warm and soft.

“I knew you could walk if you wanted to, angel, I'm so proud of you,” he cooed in a mocking tone, playing with fire, hoping it would scorch him.

Aziraphale slapped his left cheek, hard, the blow echoing in the room with a delicious ricochet, then caught his chin with the same hand. “It seems my pet also forgot he has a master.”

Crowley bit down a moan that Aziraphale could see rippling all over his arms.“I am no bird, angel, I need no cage,” he defiantly spat, not tamed yet, a feisty air to him that went under Aziraphale's skin, buzzing.

“But you are a little beast and you need a leash. I can't have an unholy serpent bite me.”

Pupils blown wide, canines slightly sharper, Crowley's legs widened on their own accord. “Feeling strongly about biting, aren't we?”

All that Aziraphale needed was that last, flimsy shred of brazenness to jump onto him like the last predator on Earth. He kissed Crowley like a house on fire, need and hunger interlaced with the thorns their teeth were made of. Aziraphale's hands found home in Crowley's fiery mane, holding at the roots so hard Crowley moaned loudly as he was forced to show his throat, a meek lamb hoping for gentleness when his angel would swallow him whole. He would thank him at the end.

“Would you care to know how I actually feel about biting?” Aziraphale whispered, licking his pet's neck, scratching it with his nails.

“If Your Majesty would be so -”

Aziraphale bit him before he could say another annoying word, making him scream scarlet and rust. “No more disrespect from your mouth, is that clear? Nod if you understand.”

And Crowley, finally, blessedly, submitted to him. He nodded as he spread his legs impossibly wide. Aziraphale drank in the sight, in the molten gold of his eyes so warm he could lick it from the hollow of his collarbones.

“Tell me you're sorry about your atrocious behaviour.”

“I'm sorry for my atrocious behaviour, angel.” Oh, wasn't his voice honey and caramel.

He roughly pulled Crowley up, his long legs hooked around his waist, his heels pressed against the small of his back, and pinned him against the wall behind the armchair. Crowley hissed as he banged his head, but it only pushed him deeper in his fuzzy headspace.

Aziraphale could not be bothered to undress Crowley, so he just snapped his fingers; he could not find his voice, so he left a butter-soft kiss under Crowley's ear as a soundless question. His darling, as splendid as ever, smiled.

“Fuck me, master.”

And fuck him he did, sliding into him with obscene ease that made him gasp. “You like your beasties nice and ready for you, do you not, master?”

Aziraphale could do nothing but thrust harder to make him shut up before he exploded. Crowley's naked back scraped against the wall (welts he could kiss on their bed, afterwards) as he gasped and moaned. Aziraphale lifted him higher to penetrate him better, betting with himself he could make his precious husband's orgasm explode long before his own.

“I love you, darling, your submission is the greatest gift you could give me,” he kissed his neck, the salty curve of his shoulder, “my perfect pet, my beautiful demon, mine, mine -”

And the sweetness of being marked, owned, was the last push Crowley needed. He came, arching his back. As Aziraphale slowed his thrusts down to a languid rhythm and Crowley came down from the clouds, he managed to grin.

“D'you know,” he panted, “that your homemade lemonade sucks balls?”