O Blessed Bonds

Aziraphale starts by tying Crowley’s hands. He fastens Crowley’s arms behind his back, looping the smooth, silk rope around his narrow wrists and up his forearms, drawing his elbows together. Aziraphale tops it off with a flourish, looping the ends of the rope into a complicated knot that he once learned from a fisherman off the coast of what is now known as Morocco.[[1]](#fn1)

Somewhat surprisingly, Crowley holds still as Aziraphale works. He does have a propensity towards fidgeting, especially when he gets impatient with Aziraphale and the pace at which he works[[2]](#fn2). But here, at the foot of Aziraphale’s bed, underneath Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley is taking deep, even, unnecessary breaths and he is holding so very, very still.

Aziraphale takes the moment to admire him like this. His skin bare, his eyes closed, his head tilted back, his knees folded, his arse resting on his heels. His back is a long, sinuous line that reminds Aziraphale of Crowley’s snake form. Could he get Crowley to move like that now? Could he press Crowley’s chest against the carpet and convince him to writhe along the floor in his human body?[[3]](#fn3) He pushes the idea aside for another time. It wouldn’t do to become distracted just yet.

“You look so lovely like this, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. He runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair -- short, at the moment, though who knows what length it will be tomorrow -- and he luxuriates in the shiver that runs through Crowley’s body as the blunt edges of Aziraphale’s fingernails rake across the sensitive skin of Crowley’s scalp.

“Mghn,” Crowley says. He tilts his head back, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The sight of it induces a familiar hunger in Aziraphale, one that has gnawed at him for many, many years[[4]](#fn4). But no, any dish this delicious should be savored, and so Aziraphale pulls his hand away before he can consume Crowley whole.

Crowley makes a pained sound. His forearms tense against their bindings, his shoulders drawing backwards. It isn’t a real attempt to escape, more of an involuntary twitch at the loss of Aziraphale’s touch. Crowley could escape at any point, of course. A simple demonic miracle is all it would take. Barely more than a thought.

But he won’t. Aziraphale knows he won’t.

That may be the most intoxicating part of this whole endeavor, the knowledge that Crowley wants to take this just as much as Aziraphale wants to give it to him, that Crowley will allow himself to be bound, forced into stillness, simply because Aziraphale desires it of him[[5]](#fn5). “Shhh,” Aziraphale says. “I’ll take such good care of you, I promise.” He presses a hand to the planes of Crowley’s shoulder blades, where they’re pulled together by the positioning of his arms. The muscles jump at even the barest touch. Aziraphale licks his lips and resists the urge to taste.

There’s a dusting of freckles at the base of Crowley’s neck, usually hidden away by a collar or a scarf, a charming imperfection of his human corporation that he’s never quite been able to rid himself of. Aziraphale has hoarded away every glimpse he’s ever had of them over their long association with each other. And now that they’ve made it past the End of the World, now that Aziraphale is allowed to be as gluttonous as he’s always wanted to be, Aziraphale doesn’t quite manage to resist the temptation to have himself a nibble at the skin there.

Crowley has always smelled of Hell, has always been followed by the faintest hint of sulfur, of brimstone. On the other demons, the ones who spend more of their time Downstairs, it’s overwhelming and cloying, a thoroughly unpleasant experience. But on Crowley, it’s nothing less than delightful. Just a whiff of it can conjure up so many of the memories of him that Aziraphale has accumulated over the millennia -- late nights in dusty tavernas sharing a bottle of wine[[6]](#fn6), midday strolls through crowded marketplaces as Aziraphale sampled the offered wares, quiet afternoons in St. James Park.

Even with all of that, the skin of Crowley’s corporation tastes just the same as any human’s, a bit of salt, a dash of musk, the thin film of ambient particles that accumulates from existing inside the Earthly atmosphere. “Angel--” Crowley gasps as Aziraphale’s teeth scrape across his collarbones, arching his back. “Want--” Azriaphale can feel the vibration of the words in Crowley’s chest against his tongue.

“I know what you want,” Aziraphale murmurs. What Crowley wants is not much of a mystery, after all. Aziraphale lets himself have one last nibble before pulling away, standing up and straightening his waistcoat.

Crowley lets out a whine that transcends the spectrum of human hearing. If he’s not careful[[7]](#fn7), he’ll disrupt several local radio stations and confuse nearby bats.

Aziraphale tuts at him. “Patience,” he says. He thinks of those early few centuries, when Crowley was still a bit confusing, a bit mysterious. A strange demon who had wandered his way into Aziraphale’s existence and had never bothered to wander his way out of it. In those days, Aziraphale had thought that Crowley was something of a test, administered by the Almighty to ensure She had chosen the correct emissary on Earth. He twisted himself into knots trying to thwart every one of Crowley’s moves, only to realize around 1000 B.C. that Crowley seemed to welcome the interference, that he seemed to enjoy Aziraphale’s presence.

Now, another three millenia later, here is Aziraphale’s Adversary, bound and tamed at Aziraphale’s feet. It is a victory, of sorts, for all that there’s no winning and no losing in these games that they play. He presses a fleeting kiss to Crowley’s forehead and draws away again.

“You bassstard,” Crowley hisses.[[8]](#fn8) He’s found his tongue again, it seems.

“You’re enjoying yourself, my dear.” Aziraphale reminds him. The intensity of Crowley’s emotions fills the room: the sharp-edged tang of his desire, the softer, richer textures of his pleasure, the buttery sweetness of his love. It’s a feast for Aziraphale’s senses, finer than any Parisian crepe or Tuscan crostini that Aziraphale has ever sampled.

“Could be enjoying it more,” Crowley grumbles. He’s petulant now, yanking at his bonds in a way he knows to be ineffectual and doing it anyway.

Aziraphale gentles his efforts with a press of his hand to the back of Crowley’s head. Crowley stills at the touch. With his other hand, Aziraphale tilts Crowley’s chin upwards so that he can meet Crowley’s eyes. They glitter -- almost glowing as they catch and reflect the soft light of their bedroom. Aziraphale has always been fond of Crowley’s eyes, has always admired the sharpness of them. They see far more than they let on, hidden as they always are. In truth, seeing them always reminds Aziraphale of their first meeting, up on the wall of the Eastern Gate, this strange demon who arrived to give Aziraphale a bit of comfort after his first real act of disobedience and who accepted a bit of comfort in return. “It seems as though I need to keep you occupied, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “or else who knows what sorts of mischief you’ll get yourself into.”[[9]](#fn9)

“Please,” Crowley says. He doesn’t break Aziraphale’s gaze for even a moment. Crowley’s manners have always been excellent, but there’s still a hint of defiance in his tone that sparks the celestial soldier in Aziraphale, that makes Aziraphale want to grind the demon in front of him into the dirt, to force Crowley into submission with all the divine might he can muster.

He brushes a thumb against the snake tattoo seared into the side of Crowley’s neck and feels the way Crowley tilts his head into Aziraphale’s hand. That’s perhaps the most terrifying realization of all-- not the violence of his own desires, but the heavy knowledge that Crowley would let him. He could push Crowley right up to the edge of discorporation and maybe even a little bit beyond that, and Crowley wouldn’t even protest.

It’s humbling to feel the weight of that responsibility sitting on his shoulders, like being handed a flaming sword and given orders to guard God’s newest creation. Now, like then, Aziraphale isn’t certain if he’s capable -- if he’s worthy -- of that trust.[[10]](#fn10) But he would like to be, despite his past failures. Crowley is so much more vulnerable like this, so much more breakable, something so much more belonging to Aziraphale.

And Aziraphale does try to take care of his things.

With a wave of his hand, he miracles up an armchair behind himself. He settles into it, wiggling until he finds a comfortable position before spreading his legs.

Crowley takes it as an invitation and half-crawls, half-dives into the space between Aziraphale’s knees. With his arms bound as they are, it should look ridiculous -- and perhaps it does, a little -- but it’s also beautiful. His hair catches the light, blood red against the paler, duller colors of Aziraphale’s trousers. His nipples have hardened into peaks. His fingers clench and release behind him. His expression is filled with such unguarded, open hunger that it almost knocks all the air out of Aziraphale’s decorative lungs.

He gathers what remains of his wits and grabs hold of Crowley’s hair again, wrenching Crowley’s head back and stopping him short. Crowley lets out a hiss. His pupils narrow into the thinnest of slits. “I thought I asked you to be patient,” Aziraphale says with as mild a tone as he can manage under the circumstances.

Crowley lets out a string of consonants -- some of which may have been intended to be words[[11]](#fn11). He tenses against Aziraphale’s grip at first, but then he relaxes, going pliant and still. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“I know you can be so very good for me, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “You just need a bit of reminding, that’s all.” He undoes the flies of his trousers, parts it just enough to reach inside and draw out his cock. He hadn’t, until this moment, paid it much mind, but under Crowley’s focused attention, it stiffens and hardens in anticipation.

He watches as Crowley’s tongue flicks out, tastes the air before wetting his lips. “Angel,” Crowley says. His voice has taken on such a delicious rasp.

“Come, show me how good you can be,” Aziraphale says. He relaxes the grip he has on Crowley’s hair.

The invitation seems clear enough for Crowley, who settles himself between Aziraphale’s thighs more fully and gazes up at Aziraphale with naked longing. This is perhaps Aziraphale’s favorite part of this game, when Crowley has let go of all his masks, all his defenses fallen away. He is such a stubborn demon most of the time, so determined to be contrary and difficult as a way of hiding his true feelings. Aziraphale is fond of that, too, of course. He loves Crowley’s sharp tongue and impish sense of humor, all of his demonic wiles. But he loves this Crowley, too. It feels like a glimpse into the angel he once was, sweet and kind and brilliant and shining and golden in Her Grace.[[12]](#fn12)

Aziraphale leans over and cups Crowley’s face in his hands, drawing their lips together into a kiss. Crowley gives himself over to entirely, letting Aziraphale take his time with the act[[13]](#fn13), letting their kisses be deep and lush and unhurried. Crowley’s mouth opens and Aziraphale licks inside to taste him there. Crowley lets out a soft moan and presses more firmly into Aziraphale’s hands. His body a livewire of restrained tension, held back by Aziraphale’s desire and the ropes securing his arms. The thought of it is as heady as it’s ever been.

When Aziraphale breaks the kiss, Crowley’s breath has gone shallow and ragged, and his gaze has somehow become impossibly more adoring. Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale loves him in that overwhelming, messy, complex, ineffable way that has plagued Aziraphale for hundreds if not thousands of years. Aziraphale has spent so much of his existence resisting it, fighting it, and then eventually succumbing to it. Now that he can, he wants to give Crowley what he wants, what he needs. He wants to give Crowley everything.

He leans back against the soft, cushioned support of his armchair and spreads his legs wider and says, “I believe I promised you a reward.”

He guides Crowley’s head towards his lap, and Crowley goes eagerly. His tongue flicks out first, tasting the head with the gentlest of licks. His eyes slip closed.

“More,” Aziraphale says. He strains to keep his voice sounding calm and collected, despite the sizzle of heat that chases its way through his corporation’s nerves. “I know you’re capable of better than that.”

Crowley shudders. He groans, beautiful and breathless, airy and desperate, and then he opens his mouth[[14]](#fn14), swallowing Aziraphale down in one go. The sensation of it is as intense as it always is: the wet heat of Crowley’s mouth, the tight suction of Crowley’s throat, the flutter of Crowley’s tongue.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and this time he lets the pleasure leak into his words, “like that, dear. You’re doing wonderfully.” He runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, guiding Crowley with the gentlest of touches. Crowley moans, the vibration of it an exquisite stimulus amongst a plethora of already exquisite stimuli.

Crowley’s eyes are squeezed closed. His thin lips are stretched wide. Aziraphale shifts in his seat, tilting his hips to slide in just a bit deeper. Crowley bobs his head, adjusting to the new angle. Aziraphale can feel that familiar tightening of his own Earthly body, that swell of pleasure that will bring him right to the brink.

With the hand tangled in Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale draws Crowley back, as gentle as he can manage with Crowley resisting. Crowley lets out a frustrated whine. “You’ve been so good for me, darling,” Aziraphale says, “but I’d like to come down your throat now. Does that sound pleasing to you?”

Crowley nods, a jerky motion of his head. “Yeah,” he chokes out, voice hoarse. “Could do.”

Perhaps it is a bit cruel to make Crowley speak when he’s in this state, but Aziraphale does love hearing him when he gets like this, loves forcing him to say in plain words how much he enjoys the things Aziraphale does to him.

It is an act of mercy then, to weaken his hold on Crowley’s hair and allow him to swallow Aziraphale back down again, to indulge in Crowley’s pleased moan, to use his leverage on Crowley’s head to nudge Crowley down further. His orgasm sweeps through him, and Aziraphale lets the sensation take him, closing his eyes and letting out a heartfelt moan.

Crowley drinks down every drop of it, his throat working as he lets out a pleased noise of his own.

Afterwards, when Aziraphale is sated and spent, he draws Crowley up off his knees and into Azriaphale’s lap. Crowley collapses against him, gasping and shuddering in Aziraphale’s arms. His own erection is red and stiff, leaking from the tip[[15]](#fn15). His shoulders are tense underneath Aziraphale’s hands, both struggling and trying not to struggle against the bonds that are still wrapped around his arms

“You did so well for me,” Aziraphale says. He pets Crowley’s hair, the back of Crowley’s neck, the top of Crowley’s spine. Crowley arches into the touches and shivers, tucking his face close into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Perhaps it is an act of blasphemy, for an angel to crave, to covet this one thing above all others. But then again, Crowley is one of God’s many creatures, for all that he Fell all those eons ago. He was still shaped by Her hands, and for all of Aziraphale’s doubts, he cannot believe that there is any sin in loving him as he loves all of God’s creations[[16]](#fn16). “Would you like to come, my dear boy?”

“Please,” Crowley mumbles against the wool of Aziraphale’s jacket.

Aziraphale allows Crowley to catch his breath for a moment, as he reaches behind Crowley to undo the knot in the silken rope, releasing Crowley arms. Crowley makes a muffled noise against Aziraphale’s neck and squirms. His freed hands find purchase on the arms of the chair. “Sssssh,” Aziraphale murmurs, keeping a hand on Crowley’s back to calm him. “I’ve got you.”

It’s a testament to Crowley’s trust in him that Crowley stills at Aziraphale’s command. His breath deepens, and some of the tension drains from shoulders.

“Mmm, let me look at you, love,” Aziraphale says. He nudges Crowley back just far enough to see his face. Crowley blinks his eyes open. His gaze is a bit fuzzy and unfocused, his expression soft and content and distinctly undemonic. It’s breathtaking, how tender, how exposed he looks. How the sight of him like this belongs only to Aziraphale.

It would be a shame to let it go to waste. Aziraphale snaps the fingers of his free hand, conjuring up a frivolous miracle[[17]](#fn17). The orgasm that works its way through Crowley takes him by surprise. His lips part. His eyes slam shut. His head falls back, highlighting the long, beautiful curve of his neck. His fingers clench, nails digging into the leather of the chair. His cock spurts, leaving white streaks of jism across his chest. A low, agonized groan escapes from the back of his throat. More’s the pity that only Crowley has the ability to stop time, because this is a moment worth savoring.

Once it’s over and Crowley stops shivering through the aftershocks, Aziraphale cleans him with a flick of his fingers and then tucks an arm underneath Crowley’s legs to lift him, bridal-style, and carries him to the bed. Crowley sprawls all over the sheets the second Aziraphale lays him down, flopping over so that his face is smushed into the pillows. “Did you enjoy that?” Aziraphale asks. “I, for one, enjoyed myself thoroughly.”

“Was awful,” Crowley mumbles in that tone he gets when he thinks Aziraphale is being ridiculous. “Terrible. Hated every moment of it.”

Aziraphale has been dealing with Crowley’s moods for several millennia, and he is no stranger to this one. “Ah well. I guess we’ll have to write that one off as a failure. I suppose we can’t win them all,” Aziraphale says as he lifts a book[[18]](#fn18) off the nightstand and props up the pillows in his favored arrangement before he settles onto the bed at Crowley’s side. “Unfortunately, this means I’ll have to table that idea I had for strapping your wrists to the headboard and fucking you into the mattress.”

One of Crowley’s hands flails out, finds purchase on Aziraphale’s thighs. “No need to be hasty, angel,” he hisses.

“So the experience wasn’t as horrible as you may have led me to believe, then?” Aziraphale asks. He pets Crowley’s hair and allows himself to feel smug as Crowley curls in closer.

“You’re such a bastard,” Crowley says. “I hate you.” But he still presses a lazy kiss to Aziraphale’s hip, and he doesn’t let go of Aziraphale’s legs for the rest of the night.

FIN.

Footnotes

1. Aziraphale has an overall fondness for that period of time, but he would be hard-pressed to describe anything he did during that assignment besides sample the local seafood and learn how to tie interesting knots.↩

2. Aziraphale prefers to think of himself as deliberate. Crowley prefers to roll his eyes say that he’s seen glaciers that move faster.↩

3. The answer, of course, is yes -- as it is with any request Aziraphale could make of Crowley, especially at this juncture.↩

4. Unlike, it should be noted, the literal apple that Adam ate. At the time, Aziraphale had yet to sample food of any kind, and he was only, at best, mildly intrigued by the comestibles that God’s creatures had decided to shove into their mouth-holes as they wandered about Eden.↩

5. If Crowley could have heard Aziraphale’s inner monologue, he would object to such a characterization. He would very insistently point out that he was the one who had tempted humanity into making bondage a sex act in the first place, back when humans were first figuring out all sorts of interesting things about their genitals -- not that they needed much encouragement -- and he would reference a recent incident where he had raised the idea of Aziraphale tying him up with enchanted restraints that would prevent even the most powerful of demonic miracles from allowing him to escape. Aziraphale had nixed the idea almost immediately on the grounds that he was worried about Heaven taking notice, but Crowley suspects he’s still uncomfortable with the idea of Crowley being truly powerless.↩

6. Common topics of conversation were: cephalopods, since Crowley had an odd and confusing fascination with tentacles; the current Pope, because Aziraphale felt as though he should keep a hand in when it came to the Church, even though he was rubbish at it; and reminiscences of the Good Old Days -- that is to say, any time before the present.↩

7. He isn’t.↩

8. To the trained ear, it sounds more like “I love you."↩

9. This was mostly a rhetorical question because the only mischief that Crowley wanted to get into was the inside of Aziraphale’s pants.↩

10. It could be said that he definitely made a hash of it the first time. But it could also be said that, for Her own reasons, he was always meant to make a hash of it and therefore could not be held responsible for it.↩

11. In fact, some of them were curses in long dead languages that no human could remember.↩

12. Aziraphale isn’t entirely wrong in this assumption, but even as an angel, Crowley’s temperament was never the most obliging, with a tendency towards being surly and argumentative while even on his best behavior. It wasn’t punishable back then. The concept of punishment hadn’t even been developed yet.↩

13. Despite their mutual affection and their willingness to compromise, they still have a tendency to move at different speeds, both in the literal and the figurative senses of the word.↩

14. And unhooks his jaw, though Aziraphale doesn’t notice this.↩

15. Not a single drop lands on Aziraphale’s trousers or waistcoat because all of Crowley’s corporeal fluids know better than to stain any of Azirphale’s clothes.↩

16. Except for mosquitos. Aziraphale has never cared much for mosquitos.↩

17. More’s the pity for the accountant in Heaven who is later forced to audit it.↩

18. The title of this book is The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Windows 98. Aziraphale neither understands the pictures nor half the words in it, but a helpful patron had donated it to him almost two decades ago and he is determined to power through anyway.↩