Can I ask for azram/corvai, 96 “You look a bit tied up, want me to come back later?”
this got away from me,,, i’m fine, ao3 link soon.
cw for consensual but unhealthy power dynamics and bdsm
Every available surface of his front room is covered in sheaf upon sheaf of paper, stacked neatly and as organized as it can possibly be when his filing system involves the sofa cushions and some of the less-traveled parts of the floor. Crowley’s anger throbs behind his eyes, heat burning in his lungs. The only thing that keeps him from lighting the whole mess on fire is the faint glow emanating from the pages, some remnant of Heaven embedded into the texture and sealed in the ink. The lingering trace of divinity acts like a watermark, and Crowley could try for decades and never create a perfect counterfeit.
The most annoying part is that Heaven likely wouldn’t even notice, but Crowley’s not willing to hedge his bets so soon after having a decade’s worth of paperwork returned to him to ‘fix’ without telling him what’s wrong in the first place. It’s not worth indulging his temper. He’s almost worried that it’s the entire point. Gabriel’s never been subtle in his entire existence, and he really likes to hammer his points home with all the elegance of a jackhammer.
Obedience. Forgiveness. Crowley hasn’t forgotten. Smoke curls from between his lips, something tasting like stardust and ash on the back of his tongue. It’s not worth it. It’s really not, but the alternative is—
“Oh, dear. You look a bit tied up. Want me to come back later?”
Crowley’s fury shatters in an instant, something cold in its wake as he jerks his chin up to where Azram’s standing just inside the door to his flat. The corners of Azram’s eyes crinkle as a smile curves on his lips, smug and indulgent, like he knows how much Crowley would prefer to be left alone and seething. It’s probably the precise reason he’s here since they didn’t have plans for today. The bastard could probably tell how close Crowley was to swearing the whole thing off and popped over straight away.
Crowley has tried to swear off Heaven a dozen times in their extensive history, but Azram won’t let him. Crowley’s not waiting for permission, exactly, but Azram has this way of talking him down, both pragmatic and infuriatingly condescending. He reminds Crowley that Hell is hardly better to work for than Heaven, that Crowley would be miserable answering to the demons of the Court. On his less generous days, he reminds Crowley that he has been graciously given the option of turning his back on his Creator, while They discarded Azram entirely. The name Corvai is still his to take or leave which is more of a choice than Azram has been given in his entire existence.
Crowley has arguments for each and every one of Azram’s points, but there are things Azram doesn’t say, that Crowley processes in secrecy and silence because bringing them up will only make Azram close off. There’s something in Hell that terrifies him. It’s managed to crack through the careful mask Azram wears to hide his emotions, and it’s done it often enough that Crowley is keenly aware of it which is really saying something. Azram is trying, in his own morally superior and self-righteous way, to protect him; Crowley’s not cruel enough to throw it back in his face. He’ll let himself be maneuvered and manipulated, but he’s not going to be happy about it.
“Nah,” he drawls. “Not dealing with this right now, anyway. They wanna hand a decade of my work back to me, they can wait a bit to get it back.”
“These are yours?” Azram steps towards the end table near him. It’s sleek and sharp-cornered, chrome, black metal, and glass hidden beneath the blinding pages which light up as Azram nears, glowing as if to punish him for trying to read them. The light catches in his pale irises, making them seem as mercilessly bright and cold as frozen wastes under a midnight sun.
Here’s the part where any decent angel would step in, keeping the enemy from laying a hand on Heaven’s paperwork. It’s telling that Crowley doesn’t move until Azram tuts softly. “So careless. Why, anything could happen to these.”
It’s probably an idle threat, but there’s that tiny bit of Crowley that can never be quite sure. Azram’s provoking him, even reaching a finger out to brush lovingly across the gleaming ink of Crowley’s sigil.
Crowley had been leaning his hip against his desk, but he shoves himself off, crossing the room in a matter of two extraordinarily long strides. His fingers fasten around Azram’s wrist, pulling it away from the paper. Azram steps closer, eyes gleaming like the sharp edge of broken glass. Crowley’s hardly even moving him when he turns, pushing Azram against the wall, wrist pinned above his head.
Azram still has a hand free, but instead of trying to free himself or pull Crowley closer, he simply offers it, raising it on his own to rest naturally over his head next to its twin as if Crowley moved it there himself. Crowley loves him in such a mad and overwhelming rush that it would have knocked him off his feet if he hadn’t gotten used to carrying the weight thousands of years ago. Ridiculous, selfish things that they both are, he rests his other hand over Azram’s exposed pulse, thumb settling into the groove of his wrist as if it had been made to be there.
“So,” Crowley ventures. “Was ‘tied up’ an invitation or a request?”
Azram shrugs with a practiced affectation of nonchalance betrayed by the hunger burning in his eyes. “Does it matter? It seems you’ve made up your mind already.” The tip of Azram’s shoe moves, sliding just inside one of Crowley’s own, inviting.
Crowley angles their bodies almost together without touching Azram more than he already is. The heat is palpable between them, heavier than what had been building in Crowley alone. Azram slowly lifts his chin, exposing his pale throat, and Crowley’s teeth itch to mark him. But he’s being given a choice, and Crowley needs to weigh his options.
Would overpowering Azram make him feel powerful or monstrous? Would he feel grounded or distant after? Those are the roles they play most often; they know their lines and limits well. But so much of it depends on how Azram comes to life in his hands, how hard he pushes to be broken, how much energy Crowley needs to put him back together.
Crowley feels angry, still. Weak in the face of Gabriel throwing his weight around. The least-loved angel, Heaven’s special little fuck-up. But if Azram loves him — and he does, Crowley knows he does, but isn’t it nice to be shown? to be given to instead of expecting to give and give without taking anything for himself? — then maybe the rest is bearable.
Even knowing what he wants, it’s in his nature to let the final decision rest with Azram. For a moment, his traitorous tongue struggles under the weight of confessing his desires, with putting himself first. He doesn’t want to pressure Azram, but he offered. Crowley wants to give him a real answer. Finally, Crowley says, “I’d let you win, love.” It’s not half as seductive as he’d like it to be, too raw and real and truthful. Even using the pet name feels like exposing some tender part of himself for Azram’s perusal.
But Azram smiles, killingly soft and gentle, and Crowley’s heart almost stops in his chest at the sight of it. He has never collected words of love, but thousands rise to his perfect memory unbidden. Something, particularly, about seeing the face of God, though he knows saying it aloud would ruin the chances of anything more happening in this moment. “Oh, my clever darling,” Azram says, as near as he’ll get to speaking forbidden words of gratitude where some stray ear might hear. Crowley warms, easing up just a touch on Azram’s wrists. “Perhaps we should take this somewhere less… problematic?” He tilts his head towards the piles of paperwork, and Crowley nods hesitantly.
Bodily fluids might be easy to get rid of, but he’d rather spare himself the trouble of cleaning these pages with such a meticulous and steady hand that no one would notice the excessive tampering. He barely manages to think about how thoughtful it is before he steps back and Azram gives him one last look, something ravenous lurking just behind the kind smile and the warmth of his eyes.
“Your bedroom, I should think,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a suggestion. Gooseflesh prickles along Crowley’s arms, a tingle crawling up from his spine and over his scalp. Something innate and visceral inside him bares its teeth in anticipation, but he swallows it down.
Heaven demands obedience and expects him to give it without thought or question. When Azram demands obedience, he expects Crowley to fight tooth and nail. Crowley needs it, not to be brought forcibly back into line, but to rail against the universe at large. Some days, it feels like the only way to stay sane.
“Right,” he says with an attempt at a careless shrug, turning his back on Azram to walk away despite every animal instinct ingrained in his frail human corporation telling him that he mustn’t, that he can’t.
Crowley’s flat is larger than it should be according to the laws of physics and the layout of the building, but it feels like no time at all that he slips into the door to his bedroom. His bed, predictably, dominates the space, though it’s little more than slab of a mattress wrapped up in the most expensive sheets Crowley could find and covers that are equally costly though the whole thing looks rather dark and plain. There’s a buzz in the back of his head, pressure settling in on his chest and constricting at his ribs, but Crowley ignores it, debating with himself about removing the bedding entirely or if that will make him seem eager.
The walls are definitely closing in around him, centimeter by centimeter of freedom vanishing against a swell of malicious intent. It draws him subconsciously closer to the bed. Crowley’s skin feels tight, dread and want coiling together in his stomach until they’re indistinguishable from one another. A single touch sets his nerves alight, a hand at his nape, and Crowley hisses, throwing his head back and wrenching himself away from where Azram had soundlessly slid in behind him.
Azram smiles with a pleasant sort of menace that chills Crowley to the bone. His eyes have abandoned all semblance of humanity: his pale irises take up the entirety of his eyes, and his pupils have slanted into rectangles, always parallel to the ground even when he tips his head and steps nearer. Two horns sprout and spiral from his white curls, coiling around his silky ears which are perked towards Crowley, twitching when he moves, making him feel watched and trapped.
Crowley takes another step back, and Azram laughs, the sound so soft and sweet and completely at odds with the intent behind it. “Oh, angel. Are you going to make this fun for me?”
It riles him up more. Azram could say ‘angel’ with all the tenderness and love in the universe, and Crowley would still hear something unspoken beneath it, a sour reminder that he’s always been too cowardly, too weak, too obedient. It seethes through him as his hands curl into fists at his sides.
Azram disappears in a flash, and Crowley’s gone before he reforms. Azram’s head turns, gaze pinning Crowley before his atoms have started to realign, and Crowley swears under his breath, falling back in a shower of loosely-connected particles as Azram closes the distance between them. One of Crowley’s feet slides up the wall while the other finds the ceiling, and he shoves forward, blinking through Azram to the far side of the room.
It’s all flash, this. Little more than playing with their corporations and the laws of physics. It hardly qualifies as magic, really, though they’ve long-since agreed on the story should anyone start asking: they encountered the enemy, they fought, victory was uncertain, they slunk off to their respective shadows to wile and thwart appropriately rather than creating a big fuss out in the open. This is the closest Crowley’s ever come to play fighting, but his heart races as if it’s real, wings itching to unleash themselves.
He doesn’t. It’s a selfish decision, but Azram would undoubtedly follow his lead. He can’t deal with what he feels when he sees Azram’s black feathers, the injury that clings to him reminding Crowley as ever that unlike every other Seraphim, he is not able to heal.
Azram’s eyes narrow the barest touch, and Crowley grinds his teeth, forcing his eyes to stay on Azram’s. Looking away will only make it worse, and if Azram thinks Crowley pities him, this is going to turn into something else altogether.
Even though the end of this fight is pre-written, Crowley doesn’t intend to get caught so quickly. There’s a sudden swell of demonic power, and by the time Crowley realizes how much force is about to barrel into him, it’s too late to mitigate to a glancing blow. It knocks him clean off his feet, slamming him into the wall as if he’d taken Azram’s horns head on. His head cracks against the wall behind him, bright, sharp pain hammering behind his eyes as he slumps to the floor.
It soothes quickly, and Crowley blinks the dancing stars out of his vision to find Azram kneeling above where he fell, his soft, manicured hand slipping through Crowley’s hair. His face is impassive, but he shows his care in other ways. This tender pause gives Crowley a chance to back out if he no longer wants to play. The way he’s touching Crowley is familiar and comforting without making him feel fragile.
Crowley tips his head into Azram’s touch, breath quickening when Azram reaches for his shades. He lifts them off Crowley’s face, leaving him more bare and exposed than if Azram had taken his clothes. Azram folds the glasses up and tucks them into the pocket of his own cardigan, smiling warmly even as he removes one of Crowley’s few defenses.
Crowley could fight again. He almost wants to. His snake-like fangs are near enough to Azram’s hand. A little of Crowley’s manufactured venom would bring them right back to it. But there is something so precious about this moment that he can’t stand to lose it to the game they were playing, to the pretenses and mechanisms they both use to make the eternal, immortal future ahead of them feel bearable.
Crowley has to move carefully. If he steps wrong, Azram will assume that Crowley simply wants to subsume control from him as if every sexual encounter is a power play that must have a winner and a loser. They’re working on it. They’ve been working on it. They’ll be working on it forever, probably, or as near to forever as they’re allowed. ‘It’s rotten work,’ comes to mind, though Crowley’s never been able to stomach much tragedy. But, as always, answered with: ‘Not to me. Not if it’s you.’
“Please,” he breathes. Azram’s head tilts the slightest bit, and Crowley feels like he’s shaking apart at a molecular level. He turns his head into Azram’s palm, breathing the words into his skin: “Please, love. I want you, I want—” His breath hitches in his chest, a small, fragile truth entrusted to those soft, familiar hands. “Wanna be good.”
Not capital-letter Good, not the way Heaven wants him to be, not the way Azram thinks he is, not obedient and unquestioning but good enough to be loved despite his endless number of flaws. Good enough to be cherished, taken apart, and put back together by someone — by the only person — who cares.
“Of course you do,” Azram says, fond without a hint of bitterness or condescension. He sweeps Crowley up in his arms with effortless strength, long limbs tamed and pinned as Crowley is cradled close to his chest. “My dear Corvai.”
A shudder runs through him, loving and hating the name itself, the way it clings to Azram’s lips as he presses a searing kiss against his temple. It was the first gift he was ever given and the first thing in the entirety of Creation ever weaponized against him. For almost two-thousand years, he’s called himself Crowley, and it’s yet another thing Azram strips from him like his shades and his dignity, leaving him weak and vulnerable, yearning for more of whatever Azram will give him, however barbed and double-edged it might be.
Azram flicks a hand, shoving the covers to the floor so that he can spread Corvai out on the sheets. Azram climbs on top of him, thick hands pressed to Corvai’s thin, fragile wrists. He bends his head, foregoing Corvai’s mouth — already open, already gasping for breath — to bite under his ear. It’s a slow but firm application of teeth, just on the wrong side of painful so that Corvai writhes, yanking feebly at his hands and arching underneath Azram’s immovable weight. Azram hums to himself as if this is any number of other everyday tasks, as if Corvai’s resistance is as mundane as waiting for the kettle to boil.
When Azram lets go, he presses a soft kiss to the forming bruise, sending a throbbing ache down Corvai’s body. “I thought you wanted to be good.” Then, with a wicked bastard smile dripping from every word: “Aren’t you a good angel?”
Everything from before slams into him: the endless frustration with pointless bureaucracy, Gabriel’s condescension hidden behind a friendly but professional smile, the knowledge that he could spend eternity sucking up and playing by the rules and he would still be the odd one out, the angel no one can really trust, forever unworthy of Their Grace. Instead of trying, he’s here, pinned under a demon’s weight, hurting and wanting to hurt more, wanting to succumb because being loved by Azram tastes like wine after millennia with blood in his mouth, because loving Azram feels more holy, more Good than anything Heaven’s ever asked him to do.
He’s not a good angel. Honestly, he doesn’t want to be. But right here, right now, it feels like there’s nothing else in the universe he could be, that without it, he is less than nothing, less than nobody.
Shame and fury course through his body like electricity. He thrashes, feet kicking against the sheets as he twists his torso and bucks under Azram. Corvai was not built to be a soldier, but he’s far from weak. Azram comes off the bed, and it feels like a victory until he slams down again. Something warm and leaden wraps around Corvai’s ankles, pulling them apart until he’s lost all leverage, splayed out and panting. Azram leans back to look down at him, cold, annoyed even as he smiles.
He squeezes Corvai’s wrists, leaving that same heated, heavy feeling behind, the infernal miracle causing his skin to throb like a bruise. Azram brushes loose strands of hair off Corvai’s forehead while the other hand cups his neck, pressing deliberately against the bite mark he left behind until Corvai hisses. “I’m in quite a forgiving mood today, so I’ll let that go if you behave now.”
He moves on without waiting for a reply, simply expecting Corvai to obey. His soft hands slide over the sharp cut of Corvai’s ribs, down to the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up in his flailing around. It would feel less invasive, somehow, if he simply shredded it with his claws or burned it away with a miracle. Instead, Azram takes his time as if he’s unwrapping a present, pressing the shirt up with wandering hands, stopping to thumb and tease Corvai’s pierced nipples until his face feels like it’s on fire with arousal and humiliation. He plucks and twists at Corvai’s piercings before rucking up his shirt the rest of the way and simply pulling it up over Corvai’s head. Corvai lays there, still pinned and splayed by the miracle Azram’s using to bind him.
“Oh, you are lovely.” His smile ticks wider, insufferable. “And quiet. So well-behaved.”
Always goading, always pushing. Corvai snarls, “You are such a bastard.”
Azram trails a hand down the thin barrel of his chest, nearly petting. “I’m only giving you what you want.”
He is. Corvai knows that, but at the moment, it rankles. Azram’s hands trail lower, across Corvai’s abdomen and fitting into the jut of his hips, soothing before raking over them with his nails, leaving trails of heat in their wake. Corvai arches, but there’s nowhere to go; he’s barely able to move at all. The fact that he’s not been fully immobilized feels like another way Azram’s rubbing his nose in his own helplessness.
Azram undoes Corvai’s belt and flies before sliding further down the bed to dispense of Corvai’s clothing. His legs shake with tension as Azram picks the first up, working open the laces of Corvai’s boot before letting it fall with a heavy thump to the floor. Corvai wants to kick him, but the weight on his ankle is too heavy. He can wiggle his knees, spread or close his thighs, struggling without the ability to turn the tides.
Azram is gentler with Corvai’s clothes than Corvai’s ever been. He unrolls the sock with deft hands, fingers lingering on his calf, his ankle, the soft pattern of scales there before he sets the foot down and moves on to the second. The second boot and sock are gingerly removed then tossed aside, and then Azram’s climbing back on top of Corvai, taking hold of the waist of his fashionably-ripped jeans and starting to pull down.
He can do nothing to stop it, but Corvai struggles anyway. He pulls against the miracle binding him. He wiggles his hips backwards and presses them down into the bed to make his jeans harder to remove. Azram gives him one irritated look then simply ignores him as if he’s undressing a doll. It’s torture in a different way, deprived of intimacy and care. Sometimes, Azram will kiss his knee and soothe his hands over Corvai’s thighs, teasing until Corvai lets them part of his own volition. He’ll pet and kiss and suck on whatever Effort Corvai gives him to play with, drawing him closer, making him pliant and easy in his arms.
Right now, he’s ignoring Corvai’s throbbing cock, rocking back to his feet and teasing the buttons of his cardigan open almost absentmindedly, as if he’s got all the time in the world. Corvai misses the weight of him immediately, and whatever lingering frustration he has melts away when Azram turns, looking for somewhere to hang his clothes. He can’t stand to be alone, not with his thoughts and feelings — with Heaven and paperwork and eternity — when Azram is so close.
“M’sorry,” he says around the tight squeeze of his throat, and Azram turns his head slightly, a frown tugging on his lips in profile. The words twist inside Corvai, unpleasant and sharp, painful, a lock being forced open with a knife. “Don’t leave. Don’t— Pleassse—” and the hiss is what does it, the way his treacherous tongue writhes behind his teeth, thin, forked, decidedly inhuman, and most certainly unangelic.
Azram notices the change immediately, shrugs off his cardigan in an instant, flinging it into the air. He snaps, and it disappears along with his woolen bow tie before it hits the ground. His warm weight is soon pressing Corvai back to the sheets, clothes a little rough against his bare skin, but Corvai can hardly pay attention to it. He presses his face to Azram’s shoulder, swallowing around the small hitches in his own breathing, muffling the start of a sob into the weave of his shirt. Corvai can see something shining in Azram’s frail and failing seams, love so blindingly bright that it would put every star in the universe to shame if it were allowed to escape.
Azram’s fingers tangle in his hair, soothing over his scalp. His lips press to Corvai’s hairline, gentle, and Corvai shivers closer, whimpering soft promises. “I’ll be good. I’ll be— I will, I— I can.”
“Shh,” Azram murmurs.
“Ram,” Corvai gasps.
“I know, dearest.” He plucks one of Corvai’s wrists up, pulling it over his shoulders before doing the same with the other, allowing Corvai to cling to him. His hands slide down to Corvai’s thighs, manipulating his miracle to move Corvai’s legs, and with a little adjusting on both of their parts, Corvai is soon sitting in his lap, wrapped around him. His fingers dig into the material of his shirt, breath shuddering against his neck. “You are so good to me.” A broad hand slides down the line of Corvai’s back, resting for a moment in the small of it, pulling him ever closer, as if their corporations are one more barrier to overcome together. “For me.” His fingers splay wide, teasing lower, and Corvai arches his hips back, offering.
“Now, now,” he chides softly, familiar smile pressed to Corvai’s skin. “Patience, darling. I’m not going anywhere. No need to rush things.” Azram kisses his jaw with markedly less teeth, open-mouthed, wet, hot, humming a pleased little laugh when Corvai tips his head to expose himself for the taking. His cock throbs, and Corvai ruts forward without thinking, whining when the fabric of Azram’s button-up feels too coarse on his sensitive, overheated skin.
“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” Azram murmurs, utterly at odds with the way he sinks another painful bite into Corvai’s neck, centimeters below the last. Corvai throws his head back, baring his throat for Azram’s teeth, for the collar of bruises he gives him until Corvai’s entire body is thrumming, aching for more. Azram, satisfied, kisses the last one, sucks at it until the pain sweetly sharpens again, until Corvai can only moan where he’s melted against him, utterly unresistant.
“Lovely,” Azram murmurs, stroking down Corvai’s back, delicately counting the knobs of his spine. Two thick fingers push inside Corvai second later without preamble, slick and warm. There’s a sting to it, a bit too much, but Corvai’s arms only tighten as he tries to relax around them. Azram, for all his damned patience, can’t help himself. He’s more than capable of taking this slowly, opening Corvai with methodical intensity until Corvai is sopping with lube, loose enough to take Azram’s fist if he wanted it. But Azram’s a touch too greedy, too eager and selfish to deny himself Corvai writhing on his fingers, moaning his name, when the hurt is so temporary that Corvai hardly notices it anymore.
Corvai hitches his hips and grinds down, trying to take more but struggling with the angle. Azram chuckles, screwing his fingers deeper for just a moment before he removes them entirely, wiping them on the underside of Corvai’s thigh. Corvai twitches, tugging his arms only to find that he’s still held fast, unable to force Azram’s hands and certainly unable to touch himself.
Azram’s zip is loud. The metal is hot when it touches his skin, the folds of Azram’s flies bumping against Corvai’s cheeks. His cock is thick and hard, sliding against Corvai’s ass, nestled in the crack. He rolls his hips, a decadent, heavy sigh rushing over Corvai’s ear as his cock drags over Corvai’s skin. Corvai digs his nails into the fabric of Azram’s shirt, choking around a whine. He imagines being held close, sweet endearments trickling honey-sweet between the increasingly-frantic movement of Azram using him before painting his ass and back with his spend.
Corvai wants with such intensity that his head spins, the universe falling away around them until all that remains are their bodies, their burning souls, the omnipresence of their mutual Creator who must understand despite Their silence or Corvai would’ve Fallen with the Tower of Babel.
Azram reaches up to take Corvai’s hands in his as if unclasping a piece of jewelry. Corvai presses closer, but he is ultimately at Azram’s mercy, unable to stop him when Azram lays him back on the bed, Corvai’s wrists pinned to it again. There’s a pink flush to Azram’s round face, spreading down to the open collar of his shirt where wiry curls tease, promising more that Corvai is not allowed to see. It’s such a stark contrast that Corvai looks away, chewing his bottom lip and glaring at nothing. He feels so cheap and easy, denied the intimacy of their skin touching but unable to stop the way he’s about to be fucked. Azram’s thumbs part his cheeks, a nail grazing just so over his taint. Corvai’s legs are still forcibly held, spread open for the demon between them, situated nicely over his thick hips. Azram only has to adjust for a moment before he’s sliding his cock lewdly against Corvai’s hole, spreading lube that feels too much and too cold, as if this is a quick and dirty fumble.
One hand disappears to steady Azram’s dick, and then it’s pressing more solidly against the tightness of Corvai’s rim, testing the give with steady, unerring pressure. Corvai bears down, wanting to feel the aching stretch of Azram’s cock as it pushes inside him and fills him. “Corvai,” he rumbles like a storm, and Corvai closes his eyes. His heart thumps faster, knowing what Azram wants and purposefully denying him, making him use force to take it.
The love shining within Azram doesn’t falter or dim in the slightest. It’s comforting, that: knowing that he can be deliberately troublesome, and Azram will love him all the same. “My contrary darling,” Azram says, husky but firm. The miracle at Corvai’s ankles and wrists burns hotter, the collar of bruises at his neck aching as if the injuries are sinking deeper. Azram rolls his hips, pressing forward for just a moment before pulling away, all pressure and presence gone save for the grounding touch of his hand, fingers digging into the flesh of his ass, and the weight of his body between Corvai’s legs. “You can either open your eyes of your own volition, or I will remove your eyelids and hold your head in place.”
A shiver crawls down his body, curling heavy and warm in his gut. The texture of his skin starts to change in response, like a physical shimmer at his extremities and climbing inward as scales bloom.
“Or is that what you want?” Azram asks mildly. “For me to immobilize you entirely? I could control your body down to the heartbeat. You’d make such a lovely poppet for me to play with. And you’d hardly be responsible, would you, for whatever I made you do.” Azram squeezes the handful of Corvai’s ass until Corvai’s body is screaming for him to twist away.
He gasps. “Then what, eh? Open season for your mates down below?”
Azram’s free hand wrenches through Corvai’s hair, pulling him off the bed in a tight arch. His eyes fly open reflexively, pupils shaking to look around the room, to make sure he’s not in any actual danger, but there is something undeniably, terribly grave about the demon glaring down at him. His teeth are sharper than any sheep’s or any human’s. Between the ridges of his horns, embers smolder, burning blue-white with immense, unbearable heat. Azram’s fury presses in on him like like the pressure of the deep ocean or the inexorable pull of a black hole. “I’m afraid not, dear one.” His voice is discordant, shivering through the physical and immaterial makeup of Corvai’s flat. Several rooms over, he hears a rustling of leaves as every single plant in his nursery shrinks as much as it’s able, pulling their leaves in and closing their blooms before they can be noticed. “The only hands to touch you will be my own. The Kings may have their Kingdoms and do with them as they like. But I will have you.” He manages a smile, but the viciousness and possessive intent in his voice are very, very real. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Crystal,” Corvai says, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. Distantly, something starts to slide tentatively into place, and Corvai ignores it as best he can though new questions start to sprout in the wake of it. The closer he comes to understanding the things Azram won’t tell him, the more he needs to ask. He doesn’t have the time to unpack it right now, to ask himself if Azram’s desire to protect him from other demons stems from the love he has for Corvai or the fear Azram has of Hell. “M’yours,” he says, intending to sound defeated or cowed, but it’s unfortunately earnest, as clear a declaration of love as the words themselves.
Azram’s rage seethes out of him, the fire disappearing, the demonic pressure easing to something more manageable, something more like the constructed space they’re meant to be playing in. “You are,” Azram says, releasing Corvai’s hair and coaxing with his other hand, arching Corvai’s hips further off the bed. The head of his cock nestles against Corvai’s hole again, warmer now. “I want to see you. One way or another, I will get what I want. Is that clear?”
Azram’s smile has inspired songs and wars. Corvai’s blood sings in his veins, thrumming with the prestissimo tattoo of his heart. “Yes what, Corvai?” He presses in, not quite breaching but promising as he rocks his hips. Anticipation coils through Corvai, taut and ready. His excitement is only somewhat tempered by the expected surrender, by the prospect of giving himself up wholly.
If he was ever going to Fall, this would be it. It hasn’t happened yet, and Corvai knows deep down that it won’t, that his purpose in life, if he has one, is to love God and Azram both. “Yes, Master.”
The lingering dread melts away in an instant now that he’s placed his body and heart in Azram’s capable hands. He doesn’t have to worry, doesn’t have to think, just has to give Azram what he wants with the faith that Azram will take care of him. Azram knows how to handle him with tender efficacy, no longer teasing or posturing, only leading until Corvai’s body finally opens for him.
Corvai’s eyes slide out of focus, lips parted as his breath stutters in his lungs. Azram had been hasty with prep which means Corvai’s body aches, unbearably full as Azram seats himself deep and comfortable, as if Corvai has been molded to hold him. He arches off the bed, shallow breaths shaking through his chest, his bony ribs rising and falling with each. Azram splays one hand on top of his diaphragm, gently but firmly leading Corvai back to the bed. The other strokes one of Corvai’s slim thighs as they tremble, caging Azram in and unable to move much farther apart. “You needed that,” Azram says like it’s the truth, and Corvai nods hazily before rolling his head back, exposing the lean length of him for Azram’s appraisal.
There’s a rush of warm air over his chest, an indulgent huff before Azram’s teeth — still sharper than they should be, nicking the surface of his skin and threatening to break it — close around one of his pierced nipples. He catches the ring there, tongue slipping into the metal, flicking across Corvai’s sensitive skin until he’s shaking, unsure whether to lean into it or away.
Corvai rolls his hips, biting his lip when Azram ruts lazily into him, bringing their hips together and pushing deeper inside him. His own cock twitches, drooling precum on his stomach, but the idea of getting off is so far from his mind that when the hand on his thigh slides higher, Corvai makes a distressed noise in his throat, twitching away.
“None of that,” Azram warns against his chest though his hand stalls on the crease of Corvai’s hip, teasing the soft skin there until he’s lax against the bed again.
“S’rry,” he slurs, and Azram rewards him with a dull-toothed bite, sucking a bruise around Corvai’s other nipple, leaving it sore and swollen, the imprint of his teeth purpling his skin. Corvai twitches against it, not to pull away but to feel Azram’s jaw tighten for just a moment, holding him fast. When he lets up, the noise Corvai makes is equal parts disappointed and relieved.
The hand on his chest slides up to cup his face, pulling it back down to look at Azram. With great effort, Corvai brings his vision back into focus as best he can, but the edges of Azram are still fuzzy, glowing with the light behind him, almost angelic though Corvai would never dare tell him that. His eyes flutter when Azram gives a hasty thrust, but he forces them open again, almost drunk when they land on Azram’s face.
Azram’s voice is thick with desire, heavy. “Oh, look at you, Corvai. Decadently debauched, and I’ve not even started fucking you properly.”
Azram likes the sound of his own voice; the fact that he’s not saying anything more is a clear indication that he’s waiting for something from Corvai. He manages a noise in the back of his throat, rolling his hips to take more. A thick swallow catches in his throat when the hand on his hip tightens, holding him still. “I am going to ruin you, darling, in my own good time,” Azram promises lowly. A pleasant twitch zips through Corvai’s body, his dick pulsing weakly against his abdomen. “But first, I think you should do something to make it worth my while. I have been so kind to you today.”
“Aa-ah,” Corvai cries out weakly, tugging at his arms and trying to buck as Azram finally takes his wet, throbbing dick in hand.
“Then,” Azram continues, sickeningly sweet, “I’ll give you everything you want. Until you can’t remember your name or mine. Until all we are is this.” He gently sweeps his thumb through Corvai’s slit with such steady patience that Corvai can almost feel the whorls of his fingerprint, could draw it from memory.
“Anything,” Corvai promises, thighs sprawling as far apart as he can manage, and the worst, most embarrassing part is that he means it. There’s a decade’s worth of paperwork in his flat, full of cross references to other Heavenly projects and Corvai’s own ongoing ‘lessons’ with Gabriel. If Azram ordered him to turn them over, Corvai would teleport them to his stupid bookshop without a second thought. If he ordered them destroyed, Corvai’s not sure he wouldn’t set the entire flat on fire in eager haste to give Azram anything he wants. He’s not sure he won’t beg to be bent over and fucked on top of his desk before the evening’s over as it is, regardless of the paperwork in the way.
Azram smiles, eyes gleaming. “I am going to mark you. Lay claim to you. And you are going to wear it until those papers of yours have been safely delivered back to Gabriel’s hands in Heaven.” The mention of Gabriel starts to bring Corvai up, and he whines, writhing, wanting to sink back down where none of this matters. Azram is unrelenting. “You’ll carry my sigil into Heaven.”
“S’it gonna hurt?” Of course it will. His body is innately divine; it would reject Azram’s sigil as best it could. It will hurt when he steps into Heaven — Azram’s sigil was stricken from the Heavenly record; it should not exist there at any point. If he says yes — oh God, oh fuck, he’s going to say yes if Azram doesn’t stop moving his hand, his thumb rubbing slow circles just under his cockhead until Corvai’s hips shake with the dual effort of holding still and not cumming — how long will it be there? How long is fixing his reports going to take?
“Of course it will,” Azram says, answering every question and none at once, and Corvai—
He’ll let himself be maneuvered and manipulated because he is as selfish and as self-destructive as Azram is. Just thinking about talking to Gabriel while carrying Azram’s mark makes him feel alive. “Yesssss.”
The hand not holding his cock lands heavily on Corvai’s hip and turns blazingly, searingly hot in an instant. It lays there for long moments, pressing deeper, the smell of something sweet and charred crowding Corvai’s senses along with the steady, almost-gentle pulls on his cock. Azram keeps him from going soft and from surfacing too suddenly, twining the immense pain with the inevitability of his reward. Corvai trembles, innately knowing that moving will mess up the sigil, that the punishment will be worse than this pain. “Massster,” he breathes, uncertain of when, exactly, the heat disappears because of the brand remains, splitting his skin open, an unhealed wound.
“Good, Corvai. You are so good.” Corvai rolls his head up, eyes hooded as he looks up at Azram. His fingers trace the edges of his sigil, greedily taking it in before he glances up to Corvai. The words are like honey, sweet and thick, cloying, “Let me give you what you want. Let me have you. You deserve it, dear one.” He strokes along one of Corvai’s thighs and squeezes Corvai’s cock gently before letting it loll out of his hand. Without the stimulation, it’s easier to think, to process.
Finally, he nods, and Azram surges forward. His hands wrap around Corvai’s hips as he fucks into him, thick cock angling across Corvai’s prostate with every thrust. Corvai’s jaw is slack, noises wrung from his chest as his body soars on an endless wave of pleasure. He thrashes against the bindings holding him, burning up inside them. His entire body has been reduced to a single throb, his heart rushing in his ears as he bucks into Azram’s thrusts. His zip bites into Corvai’s cheeks with every wet slap of skin meeting skin.
He’s babbling nonsense in several different languages before it all breaks on a shattered moan. Everything builds into an almost-painful crescendo, and Corvai thrusts up, cumming untouched. His cock twitches, aching for friction even as it pulses weakly a few times, leaving pale streaks on Corvai’s skin.
Stars dance in his vision, and Azram grabs his thighs, pulling them up over his shoulders so he can bend him practically in half as he fucks him into the bed. Corvai’s arousal burns bright, undeterred by his release. It hurts, but oh, oh the pain is nothing compared to Azram worshipping him, as covetous of Corvai’s pleasure as he is his beloved books, determined to take more and more until he’s run out of room for it. Corvai’s shoulders dig into the bed, his neck bent at a truly terrible angle, but his cock slaps wetly against his stomach in a perfect counterbalance to Azram’s thrusts, pushing him over the edge again. He throws his head back, coming almost off the bed as he digs his heel between Azram’s shoulders, his body bowstring tight.
He could live here with Azram inside him, Azram’s love surrounding him, Azram dedicated to his divine rapture.
He’s gasping for air, drowning as Azram bears down into him, thrusts growing shallow and erratic. There’s something bright in the depths of his eyes, something Corvai can’t look away from after he’s noticed it. Like a spark of first Light, like the entirety of Creation, the frantic spin of an endless number of galaxies, stars colliding in the vacuum of space — it is too much, too powerful, unfathomable, something simply ineffable—
“Now, Corvai,” Azram breathes, and the next orgasm rolls over him like the Flood, sweeping away everything in its path, baptism, destruction. Corvai is plummeting, falling but not Falling, leagues under the sea and lightyears from the planet Earth, from his flimsy corporal form that can’t possibly contain the endlessness of him, all wings and scales and flames. He can feel his body lingering on the edge of orgasm again, flirting with pain and pleasure, only stepping just over the line before being brought back, but it feels so small in comparison, like a flea trying to get the attention of the sun.
The weight on his wrists disappears. Corvai’s fingers are wrapped around the twisting length of Azram’s horns, pulling himself back into his body, pushing himself into Azram, overwrought, overcome. He buries his face in Azram’s neck, every breath a suffocating weight in his lungs. Azram fucks up into him, a hand twisted into Corvai’s hair as he snarls, cumming in spasms while Corvai tries to pull his shattered pieces together.
He is crying. The real world is out there, large and complicated. There are choices to be made and things that need to be done, and it’s so much easier to be here, to be Azram’s, where everything has boiled down to what he can do for the demon he loves. He’s not ready to go back. He’s not done. He wants to be here.
“Shh,” Azram soothes, his voice rough but gentle as he cuts through Corvai’s sobbing babbles. “I’m here, dearest. I’m not going anywhere.” He bucks a little to emphasize his point, where he’s going soft inside Corvai. “I’m here.” Corvai, trembling, grasps for him, clinging with all of his long, unwieldy limbs while Azram pulls him down into the bed, wrapping him in a soft but sturdy embrace.
Corvai is still so hard it hurts, and he almost wails when Azram takes him in hand again, his fist warm and slick and tight, pumping him with brutal efficiency until Corvai has one final, painful spill over his fingers. He shivers and shakes in Azram’s arms, more exposed nerves and bleeding heart than person.
“My sweet, splendid angel,” Azram murmurs, and Corvai falls apart as if a wrecking ball ripped through a house of cards.
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