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This time will be different, Crowley decides as he stands outside his nemesis’ office.
He’ll finally put his foot down and inform Fell that this is the last time.
Crowley promises himself with steely resolve, crossing his heart and hoping to die as he curls a hand around the doorknob, fingerprints tainting polished brass. Damning evidence of his need, incapable of being wiped entirely clean.
He opens the door, Fell’s unspoken permission to do so given by way of an unbolted lock week after week.
“Crowley,” his surname, uttered with barely veiled contempt edged with heat, has him swallowing a whimper.
“Fell,” he tersely replies for what’s surely the last time.
He steps inside; the door clicks closed.
Crowley’s already sinking to his knees.
Savors the sensation as if it’ll be the last— since it will be the last time.
Committing to the bit.
Fell fucks his mouth deeply and without preamble, feeding him every inch of his cock till he’s fully buried in Crowley’s throat. Throbbing heavy and slick and searing on his tongue, flexing against the insides of his hollowed cheeks. Bruising his soft palate with every driving surge of authoritative hips.
Crowley’s leaking, so hard he fears he might combust, but that worry vanishes in seconds as his mind goes blissfully blank. Quiet at last after another exhausting week filled with stress and general fuckery.
It all goes away when he’s here, when he’s on his knees. Just a hole for the bane of his fucking existence— no thinking required. His sniping tongue tamed by the cock of whom he’d be bickering with were his mouth unoccupied.
Fell comes with a stuttered growl, hands fisting in Crowley’s hair, holding him in place as he floods his mouth and throat. Denying him any would-be respite obtained from pulling off Fell’s relentless cock to gasp for much needed oxygen. A thumb drops to trace Crowley’s wet lashes, almost gentle as it gathers the tears there and smears them all over his sore cheeks.
Then Fell withdraws, the loss of him devastating even though Crowley’s jaw aches from the welcomed abuse.
Undignified panting peppered with coughing pitches into pathetic whining when the familiar leather ridge of a supple balmoral slides between his legs to slot along the hard line of his cock. Offering.
Of course he takes it.
Crowley’s eyes remain downcast as he grinds against Fell’s boot, shame spreading hot and high on his cheekbones, need sparking brighter and more urgent than or because of that shame. Lower back cracking from the practiced movement of humping a shoe like a dog till he comes, undulating hips desperately snapping.
Above him, Fell is mostly quiet, his laboured breathing slowly mellowing. He takes a step backwards and then another, dragging his boot across floorboards. Forcing Crowley to chase it.
He goes willingly, scooting forward on knees spread wide, bucking helplessly like a fish out of water. Wriggling and writhing even though it’s useless, even though he’s hooked.
Crowley stifles a strangled moan against the sturdy warmth of Fell’s thigh, slumping forward and burying his face in fine wool. Shuddering as he spills inside his jeans. Fell only pulls away once Crowley stops shaking so violently, the scant brush of fingers petting over a sweaty brow an imitation of affection that’s as good as his disdain.
This is the last time, Crowley tries to say as he gets to his feet.
“Same time next week?” Fell asks in that infuriatingly serene tone of his, one that doesn’t quite match the feverish glint in his eye or mussed halo of ivory curls.
No, Crowley nearly manages, but then their eyes meet. An October morning devoid of frost, chill softened by a rare autumnal heatwave.
Burning Crowley from the inside out.
“Yeah,” he croaks, turning to leave before he says something even more stupid, more revealing.
Next time— next time will be the last.
He’ll overcome his weakness of will; Crowley swears it.
Crosses his heart, and hopes to die.