AN:
Hey friends! This chapter should basically be named Crowley Makes Bad Decisions, And They're All About Sex!

So, in addition to some non-explicit kinks introduced (pegging, orgasm denial, face-fucking), Crowley is putting some folks in very compromising positions. He is absolutely sure that there is consent from all parties, but the situations themselves can be manipulative at best and coercive at worst. He's also not taking good care of himself at this point in time (even veering dangerously close to self-destructive), so read with your own self-care in mind! This chapter can be skipped entirely if need be, and I'll sum up a little about what happened here in the ANs next time.

Also, he's also still a flippant little shit, and there is nothing I can do about it. I'm sorry.

Fucking, as it turned out, was fantastic.

Oh, he'd dabbled before, of course, but never so often, and never with such intent.

Nothing gets you over the last one like the next one, the humans said, and Crowley was willing to devour as many next ones as he needed to in order to scour the remnants of Aziraphale from his being. With nothing tying him to London, Crowley felt freer than he ever had—free to love, to hate, to fuck, to deny. The world had so much bloody temptation left in it that he almost couldn't remember why he had so piously kept his body to himself.

He didn't know the name of the village they were in when the truck rolled to a stop, or the names of anyone in the crowd. The gathered Nigeriens didn't know anything about the stranger who stepped out of the vehicle wearing snakeskin boots, too many layers, and a winning smile, only that he had brought water—and an arrangement.

"Yeah, only the married ones," Crowley said in a low voice to the older man directing several much younger people as they hauled jug after jug down to the dusty ground. Even here, he couldn't escape the way Aziraphale's absence scorched his tongue with every syllable of his perfectly-accented French.

Good thing he had a plan to wash the angelic burn right out.

One greying eyebrow arched. "An unusual request."

Folding his arms across his chest, Crowley hooked one ankle behind the other and leaned against the truck with a self-deprecating grin. "Even I don't want a cad like me near all your virgin daughters." He wasn't sure his host knew the word cad, even with his impeccable command of the local dialect, but it sparked a wry smile regardless. Tipping his head to look over his glasses, Crowley pinned the man with a hard stare. "And remember, only the ones who said yes. Even if that's none of them."

He might be a demon, one who could fervently stroke himself to the wash of angst from wives who were torn between wanton desire for an unknown man and loyalty to their husbands, but he wasn't that.

"Understood." A sharp nod to one of the younger fellows, and a motion for Crowley to follow.

The appointed room was nice—open and spacious, airy and light. As he prowled it, Crowley slowly stripped out of his jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. He wasn't expecting anyone before nightfall, and the sun had only just begun to touch the horizon. It gave him time to sink into the rather epicurean bed, to glut himself on the growing hunger and anxiety that ran through the streets like wine. The building he'd asked to borrow was set just off of the main thoroughfare; despite the cover of darkness, there would be no hiding, and the many-layered swirl of emotion as each slunk away when she was through was going to be delectable.

Best of all, if Heaven turned its eye this way, it would find only a good deed done, salvation of a people dying of thirst, all while Crowley sowed the seeds of discord with every sinuous roll of his hips.

"No, I think not," the man—a huge, hulking bear of a man—grunted as he swept Crowley's legs out from under him.

Perhaps an alleyway off the south end of Las Ramblas hadn't been the best place to drunkenly pick a fight, but fuck if it wasn't satisfying. Too many men looked at him as if he was made of spun glass, but this one had put a knee in his back and practically ground his face into the pavement in the course of their tussle. The Catalonian was as strong as he looked, and much, much faster. Crowley was delighted. When he'd ventured into this side of Barcelona, he'd come looking for a tumble with someone rough, who would make him take it. He wanted to feel it later, the way he so rarely could.

So far, things were going exactly as planned.

Grinning through his bruises, Crowley levered himself up just enough to rub his cheek against the bulge in his opponent's trousers. "Oh, no? What are you going to do with me, then?"

In answer, the man shoved him flat. Crowley's hands alighted on broad, square hips as a meaty pair of thighs pinned his shoulders. Were he a being that required breath, the sheer mass on his chest would have driven it from him. As it was, the only thing leaving was blood, from his head, in a dizzying rush to his cock.

"Now, I think it's time to show a brat his place."

Crowley wrenched his face aside as one large hand came down, only to have it yanked back with eye-watering force, and his clenched jaw pried open with sausage-like fingers. Keen, dark eyes lingered a moment on Crowley's, questioning. He snorted, but nodded his assent.

The man chuckled as he shoved his cock—stout and thick, like its owner—past Crowley's bloody lips. "Don't worry, brat. I'm good at this part."

He demonstrated his boast with vigour.

Crowley came like that, untouched, right there in his too-tight skinny jeans.

Election years in any country were an absolute shitshow, Crowley mused as he flung a few more papers out of the way, but none more so than in the States. Fucking insanity, every handful of years. No wonder the Americans were the way they were.

The Senator, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the completely mental process just as much as he enjoyed having Crowley's cock down his throat—and he wasn't even one of Hell's.

Maybe he was just ill.

At the moment, though, sprawled on his own desk, head hanging off the edge, mouth full and hand a blur, the man was nothing short of blissful.

"Oi, mate." Crowley's palm connected with an already-reddened cheek, and the resulting groan rumbled through his groin with a liquifying effect on his spine. "Teeth. If you keep getting sloppy, we're stopping." He knew the man couldn't exactly ask for Crowley to slap him until he cried, given their current circumstances, but really. When the uncomfortable sensation disappeared, folded back behind the Senator's lips, Crowley gently stroked his fingers over the mark left by his hand. "There we are. Much better."

Like the Americans, Crowley didn't especially enjoy meddling in religion or politics—it was cliché, gauche, even—but this particular incumbent annoyed him enough that Crowley didn't object to a quick fuck in the man's office a few days before reelection. Inciting a scandal that was sure to break over the evening news about the Southern Republican "family values" candidate was a rush comparable to the Senator's not-inconsiderable deepthroating skills.

The tongue pressed to the root of his cock did something, and Crowley swore in a language unheard by human ears for at least five millenia. Satan Below, what lucky bastard had taught him that?

He might need to buy a gift basket.

"Uh-uh," he growled, snatching the Senator's wrist and slamming it down by his monitor. The subsequent whine of needy frustration made Crowley's cock jump. "Not until I do. Now, get to work."

Someone was creeping down the hall, their footsteps dampened by carpet and barely audible over the Senator's obscene moans. Several someones, if Crowley heard correctly—difficult, given the wet, talented mouth that encouraged his smooth, easy thrusts to turn quick and dirty.

"Alright then, mate. If you're going to pop, you better do it now." He could have laughed at how quickly the man's hand jumped back to his cock.

The footsteps drew closer, making less effort to be quiet.

What the Senator hadn't considered when he'd led Crowley to his office was that it would have taken a miracle for the press not to notice, or for the looks he'd thrown at the man in the sunglasses to go unseen. Making sure the door didn't latch properly when he'd backed Crowley against it didn't require even a touch of demonic energy, distracted as the Senator was by his ardour.

Just as the first camera peeked through the crack, Crowley's release hit, hot and hard and gasping. A dozen flashes, all in quick succession, captured the same image: the Senator flushed and euphoric, covered in fluids and only half-aware of the disaster about to consume him.

"What's in this?" he wondered aloud.

At least he thought it was aloud. He couldn't quite tell. He was hearing colours just fine, but shouldn't he be hearing sounds too? That's what sounds were, weren't they? Something to be heard? Right now, though, his voice was dancing in the valley between his perch and the next rise, a mismatch of colour that was beautiful in the crisp Peruvian air. Maybe that's why he wasn't hearing it; sound was simply too lovely for his ears.

Leaning back on one elbow, Crowley looked skyward as he breathed out, the joint's dark smoke a gauze-like shadow against the blue and white. For the first time in… time, he felt light. Bubbly. It was magnificent, and the nature of sounds wasn't about to bring him down. He'd been lured up the mountain with the promise of a spectacular view, and dangling his feet off the edge of a cliff with an awe-filled companion took him right back to that time with Christ.

Poor guy. He'd been nice.

"Don't remember." The woman who'd given him the joint motioned for it back through a fit of giggles. She was beautiful too, with sun-kissed skin and honey-gold highlights in her hair, and her smile was nearly as bright as the ones he'd once gotten from Az–

From someone he used to know.

Remember what? he almost asked before Crowley realised that she'd been responding to him. He'd had a question. Hadn't he?

Before he could formulate an answer, her head lolled toward him in a motion that rippled all of time and space. It took a moment for Crowley to refocus, her words spinning slow pirouettes around them. "Me and my boyfriend like to fuck like this all the time, though."

"Do you?"

How? was what he really wanted to know, given how heavy and sluggish everything was. His body was merging with the earth, becoming one with the trees and the grass, and every other living thing that also had zero desire to move from its pre-ordained place in the universe.

"Mmm, yeah. Wanna try it?"

He took her from behind, their voices twining in a riotous, rainbow explosion as they gave into moans and sighs and outright cackles and a languid orgasm that rose and dissipated like the tide. His next was more potent; this time it was a pill, kissed into his mouth, the afternoon sun highlighting the woman's curls like a halo while her boyfriend milked Crowley's cock with his own pleasure.

Human technology was fascinating. For a species that had started out rubbing sticks together and hoping for fire, they were remarkably inventive.

The two CEOs sitting rigidly in front of him while he rolled a black chip across his knuckles didn't seem to appreciate the compliment.

"Look," Crowley said, gracing them with a smile that somehow made both men even more tense. "I told you my price. One volunteer from each of you, and poof! You'll never see me again."

"And that?" one of them finally asked, attention never moving from Crowley's fingers.

With a flourish plucked straight from a night he refused to think too hard about, the little black square vanished into the ether. "Gone as well."

Silence.

Finally, the man on the far side of the table stood. "I'll speak to my people."

Crowley shot him his most charming grin. "I've got a hotel just outside of Kyoto. I'll send you the address."

Two sets of eyes, one dark and one hidden, watched his stiff exit. Crowley turned back to his remaining companion and raised an eyebrow in tandem with his glass as he finished his sake.

"And once this is done you—"

"Will destroy that little drive and all of your precious company secrets, yes." Crowley's smile turned sharp. "For something that sensitive, you should really increase your security."

His responding glare could have bored through stone. "I will require that address as well."

Crowley gave a sarcastic salute at his retreating back.

The knock at Crowley's door the next evening was hardly surprising, but he hadn't expected to find the shyly-smiling offerings from both corporations on his welcome mat. Satan, they were so eager, and he gleefully showed the young woman how to prepare her lover for her cock. The young man opened for her so beautifully, thrusting back in sheer, frenzied need as she eased past his tight ring of muscle. The budding romance—and resultant family infighting, a West Side Story of their own making—was even more delicious than the moment Crowley had climbed in bed with the duo to claim the man's greedy, panting mouth.

"Gorgeous," said a steaming breath against his lips. "Almost as much as the heavens."

The man from Kirkenes didn't know—he couldn't have known—but the way Crowley whimpered and tensed around him was unmistakable.

He'd demanded sobriety when he took Crowley by the hand and led him into the snow. Alcohol would dull the effect, he claimed, deep baritone whispering degrading tidbits into Crowley's ear. The sultry curl of humiliation simmered next to the place in his stomach that sparked with every long drag of the stranger's cock against his prostate. He was completely taken apart with nothing more than words and shame, even though he was straddling the Norweigian's hips and the man was intermittently brushing against that place inside him.

Light from the aurora borealis illuminated the man's whiskered face as he thrust up again, one hand firm on Crowley's waist to keep him from taking more. His slender fingers wrapped around the base of Crowley's cock with the strength of steel, delaying what had to be his fourth orgasm. Crowley barely recognized his own voice as he gasped out something that might have been please.

"I don't like doing this to you," the man lied, waiting until Crowley's trembling—and climax—had subsided before he moved again, even and precise. "You know I'll let you come if you're good. Have you been good?"

Crowley had never been good in his life. He wasn't about to start now.

He shook his head.

Moonlight glinted off the teeth that were bared in a shark-like grin. "Oh, I was hoping you'd say that."

When he was finally pressed onto his back and pounded into with abandon, Crowley threw back his head and saw double the stars in the sky.

Loose and limp and pleasantly sore, Crowley crawled into the Bentley with a content groan. These Australians certainly knew how to welcome a bloke; not twenty minutes in the country before he got an invitation to flog a girl. In the dark of the club, no one noticed how her blood ran while she hung between a stranger's legs. After, he had to service them both until both his throat and his Pride makeup were ruined. Their combined juices were still drying tacky on his face when he pulled at the cuffs locking his arms behind his back and a gruff elder breached his entrance with a long, thick, well-formed specimen of silicone. Their grip on his side only just allowed the motion to carry him forward into their boy's waiting mouth.

The cocaine helped a little too, to distract him from thinking about how much time he and Aziraphale had spent in Sydney.

Usually, remembering his last moments with Aziraphale—how his fluttering hands had shifted to pull Crowley incrementally closer, how his pillow-soft lips returned the barest pressure—and knowing that his kiss was the loss of some great internal battle had only made Crowley's liaisons all the sweeter. A dark, bitter part of him even hoped that someone Upstairs had been assigned to watch, to report his activities to the new Supreme Archangel—and that they were fulfilling those duties with all due diligence.

Today, apparently, the wound ached as if Aziraphale had walked out of his life that morning.

Crowley glanced at himself in the rearview. His lipstick was smeared all the way to one ear, mascara streaming to his jaw in inky streaks. The winged eyeliner he'd so meticulously applied—without a miracle in sight—disappeared into his temples, rubbed up toward his hairline and blending with equally smudged eyeshadow. His dark, heavy blush had probably come off on someone's thighs, which was a shame; it quite enhanced his cheekbones.

With a regretful sigh, Crowley snapped away the mess.

On another plane, something tingled and flashed, and when it was gone, a presence lingered. In the passenger seat was a figure he could have happily gone the rest of his existence without seeing again.

"Hello, Crowley."

"Shax. To what do I owe the displeasure?"