Chapter Text
It doesn’t take long, in the end, for the wedding to be arranged. They don’t need a large church, and the small chapel near Crowley’s house in Mayfair is available only a month after their engagement is announced. Aziraphale cheerfully reserves the venue, then happily attends to the rest of the planning—everything save for the flowers, which Crowley insists on doing himself.
“I’ll not have any wilting chrysanthemums on your wedding day, angel,” he grumbles.
“It’s your wedding day too, my dear,” Aziraphale replies.
“Exactly!” And with that pronouncement, Crowley begins making lists of florists and requirements to be presented to each.
Aziraphale, meanwhile, arranges the menu, contacts the cake baker, and starts on the guest list. Rather than badgering Crowley for a list of names, he takes the liberty of making a list of Crowley’s friends and relatives himself, then hands it to him with instructions to cross off anyone he doesn’t want to be there and add any Aziraphale may have overlooked. He draws up a list of his own guests as well, although he has little hope of many attending—Lord Fell will certainly hold such an action against them. Invitations are made up on delicate ivory paper sealed with crimson wax and sent out.
Aziraphale also drags Crowley to the tailor’s for a fitting—Crowley tried to insist he didn’t need a new suit, but Aziraphale wouldn’t hear of it. But once Crowley is in the tailor’s shop, he spends a rather long time comparing fabrics, choosing a silhouette, and deciding on embellishment.
The day of the wedding finally arrives. A powerful fluttering starts up in Aziraphale’s stomach, despite his certainty that he’s finally doing the right thing. He dresses in his own quarters, eying his reflection. His clothes are fantastic—the finest he’s ever owned, probably—but he can’t help but feel stodgy and bland. How can he possibly be worthy of Crowley, who is not only beautiful and glamorous, but kind and brilliant as well?
He can, at least, present himself as well as possible. His morning coat and trousers are cream-colored wool with gold trim, his waistcoat is gold silk with brocade flowers, and his silk cravat is eggshell white. The gold cufflinks shine at his wrists—it no longer clenches his heart to wear them.
He smooths his coat and tugs his waistcoat straight, then leaves his quarters to meet Crowley and head to the chapel.
Crowley is waiting at the bottom of the main stairs, and when Aziraphale lays eyes on him, his breath catches in his throat.
“Oh, my darling.” Aziraphale hurries down the steps, the better to take in the gorgeous sight of his soon-to-be husband. Husband!
Crowley’s morning coat and trousers are both black, the trousers wool with a satin stripe along the outside, the coat velvet with satin lapels. His waistcoat is black silk with a deep crimson brocade, the color of which matches his cravat, setting off his fiery hair. His cravat is held with a large pin of sparkling white and black diamonds. His dark glasses hide his eyes but not his anxious smile. “I look alright?”
“You’re breathtaking,” Aziraphale replies.
Crowley’s smile pulls into a lopsided grin. “Really?”
“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
Crowley’s eyes rake down Aziraphale’s body. “Then we’ll need to replace your mirror, because clearly you’re not seeing yourself.”
Aziraphale feels a flush creep up his neck. “Oh, stop.”
“I’m serious, angel.” Crowley steps close, and the space between them feels electrically charged. “You’re bloody gorgeous.”
Aziraphale’s breath comes a little too fast. Before he can give in to the temptation to pull Crowley to him, he makes an attempt at a smile and takes a step back. “Shall we go to the chapel, then?”
Crowley makes a little growl in the back of his throat, nods, and gestures to the door. Outside, the carriage is waiting, festooned with ribbons and flowers—which Crowley peers at and tuts over—and supplied with a small box of snacks on the seat when they climb in, per Aziraphale’s request. He knows opportunities for nibbles will be scant today.
Naturally, Crowley opens the box and pops a handful of nuts in his mouth before offering it to Aziraphale. Aziraphale waves him off with a thanks—his stomach hasn’t stopped its anxious fluttering, and salted nuts are hardly appealing. For once, he’s glad Crowley isn’t picky about food.
The ride to the chapel is short, and in no time at all the carriage is stopping and both of them are clambering out. Crowley offers his hand, and Aziraphale sets his in it. They walk into the chapel together.
Once inside, Aziraphale has to suppress a chuckle—Crowley certainly has seen to the flowers. There are flowers adorning every possible surface—tied in bunches to the ends of the pews, in garlands along the walls, in pots all over the altar, and in stands all up and down the aisles, which are themselves strewn with loose petals.
Aziraphale is a bit surprised at the turnout—far more people than Aziraphale expected have risked Lord Fell’s wrath by turning up. But Gabriel is here, so perhaps they’re banking on getting in good with the next generation.
Then the organ begins to play, and all their guests’ heads turn toward them, and Aziraphale’s heart leaps right into his throat, but Crowley’s hand is warm in his, and as they begin to walk down the aisle, everything falls away except for the man at his side.
The ceremony passes in a haze—Aziraphale is dimly aware of repeating vows, sliding gold bands onto each other’s fingers, and giving each other a chaste peck on the lips—then their guests are all applauding and it’s done and they’re married.
Aziraphale is married. To Crowley.
He shoots Crowley a thrilled look and is delighted to find Crowley beaming back at him, his cheeks lightly pink.
They make their way to the hall attached to the chapel for the reception, where just as many flowers burst on just as many surfaces—it’s truly almost obscene, and Aziraphale has to hide a grin behind his hand.
Crowley glances at him. “What?”
“Nothing at all, my dear.” Aziraphale lets his smile show. “I feel perhaps I should have given you another task besides the flowers, so you’d have a chance to spread your efforts out a bit.”
Crowley’s lip curls as he looks around the room. “Bit gaudy, now that I look at it, isn’t it?”
“Not gaudy,” Aziraphale corrects him. “Just… abundantly resplendent.”
Crowley snorts. “That’s just a fancy way of saying gaudy.”
But he’s grinning too now, so Aziraphale chuckles, then Crowley laughs out loud, so that by the time their guests begin filing in, they’re both properly chortling.
They’re not having a meal at the reception—it’s still only midafternoon, and Crowley grumbled over the prospect of buying dinner for a bunch of people he doesn’t even much like, so they’d elected to stick with just light refreshments—so the musicians begin playing a sweet tune as the newlyweds greet their guests.
“Well, I must say, little brother,” Gabriel booms loudly enough to be heard by every person in attendance as he approaches them, “I didn’t really think you’d do it.”
“Get married?” Aziraphale asks.
“To a man,” Gabriel supplies. “And throw away your inheritance.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not that you’d ever get Father’s title, obviously. But now you don’t have any money.”
Aziraphale glances anxiously around—isn’t it just like Gabriel to be discussing money at a time like this.
But Crowley slips his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him close. “He doesn’t need to worry about money.”
Gabriel turns. “And you must be Mr. Crowley.”
“Mr. Crowley-Fell now, actually,” Crowley corrects him.
Gabriel looks Crowley up and down, his lip curled judgmentally, then shakes his head, turning back to Aziraphale. “Well, little brother, at least he’s rich.”
“Good Lord, Gabriel.” Desperate to steer the conversation out of such mortifying waters, Aziraphale turns to his sister-in-law, whom Gabriel has been entirely neglecting. “Ellie, allow me to introduce—” his heart gives a thrilling little lurch— “my husband, Anthony Crowley-Fell. Crowley, this is Gabriel’s wife, Ellie.”
“Charmed,” Crowley says with a nod of his head.
“And don’t forget our future little one,” Gabriel says, placing a hand on his wife’s belly, which is already a small round bump beneath her gown. “Another link in the chain between you and the inheritance you’re—” Gabriel laughs— “well, you’re definitely not getting now.”
Aziraphale only just resists rolling his eyes. “Yes, congratulations, Gabriel. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we need to greet our other guests.”
He steers Crowley away from his brother at the fastest pace he can reasonably manage.
“He seems nice,” Crowley drawls.
Aziraphale does let himself roll his eyes now. “You don’t know the half of it. Best hope we never have to see him again, now that I’m excommunicated.”
Crowley’s brows rise. “Didn’t realize the Church had it out for you too, angel.”
“I meant from the family, although I wouldn’t put it past Father, if he thinks he can manage it. Anathema!” This last is said to the woman herself, who is dressed not at all appropriately for an afternoon wedding—more for a funeral, in black and charcoal gray silk damask with a deep purple bodice. On her arm is Mr. Pulsifer, looking dreamily gobsmacked to be escorting her.
Anathema startles Aziraphale by grabbing him into a hug, but he quickly recovers and embraces her back. “Congratulations,” she says. “To both of you.”
Crowley is grinning, shaking Pulsifer’s hand. “And when can we congratulate the two of you in return?”
“Oh, not soon, I should think.” Pulsifer flaps a hand dismissively. “Weddings are bloody expensive things, you know.”
“Can be, yeah.” Crowley tilts his head. “Why don’t I make you a gift of it then? Pay for your shindig so you can get married whenever you like.”
Anathema’s brows rise, and Pulsifer gapes like a fish. “Oh— you— oh, we couldn’t.” He shoots a panicked glance at Anathema. “That’s far too generous, really.”
“Mm.” Crowley frowns. “Let us at least take care of the flowers, then. And maybe get you some clothes. Aziraphale knows a wonderful tailor.”
“No, really, you truly don’t have to—”
“But I want to.” Crowley shares a look with Aziraphale. “We want to. Don’t we, angel?”
“It’s the least we can do,” Aziraphale says, wholeheartedly agreeing with Crowley. “After all, it’s our fault you two don’t have the means to take care of it all yourselves, really.”
“It’s your fault we’re all going to be truly happy rather than stuck in loveless marriages,” Anathema replies. “No offense.” At Aziraphale’s pleading look, she adds, “But we’ll think about it.”
“Please do,” Aziraphale says. As the young couple turn and walk away, Aziraphale mutters to Crowley, “Think they will?”
“I’ll fix it, angel,” Crowley replies. “Don’t you worry.” He loops his arm through Aziraphale’s. “Now are you going to dance with me, or aren’t you?”
Aziraphale smiles up at him as he leads him onto the dancefloor. He pulls Crowley close, their bodies touching from chest to hip as they begin to move through the steps. Everyone else in the room fades away to nothing as Aziraphale looks up at his husband—the word still sets his stomach to fluttering. Crowley’s eyes are still hidden behind his dark glasses, but his smile is radiant, his crimson lips delightfully inviting. Aziraphale’s ribs feel too small to contain everything going on beneath them. All he’s lost to get to this moment seems entirely worth it. He’d pay it all again a thousand times over just to hold Crowley in his arms like this.
“I’ve never been so happy as I am right now,” he says softly.
Crowley’s grin stretches impossibly wider. “Good.” He leans toward Aziraphale almost conspiratorially. “But I intend to make you even happier tonight.”
“Is that so?” Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow at him.
Crowley leans down to set his lips next to Aziraphale’s ear. “I promise, once we’re away from all these people, you won’t be able to keep me off you.”
Aziraphale holds him tighter. “Then let’s say our goodbyes and head back to the house.”
Crowley begins making good on his promise the moment they’re in the carriage. He draws the curtains shut, then all but crawls into Aziraphale’s lap, his mouth descending on his, tongue pushing insistently between Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale kisses him back deeply, but when Crowley’s hands begin tugging at the buttons of Aziraphale’s trousers, he grabs his wrists.
“We’re still in the carriage, for Heaven’s sake.”
“Exactly,” Crowley mutters, leaning back in. “Nobody can see us here.”
“Now Crowley.” Aziraphale firmly pushes Crowley back into his seat. “We’ll be home in a few moments. There’s no need to rush.”
“Every bloody need to rush,” Crowley grumbles, the bulge in his trousers offering support to the statement.
“I’ve no intention of our wedding night being a hasty fumble on the seat of your carriage,” Aziraphale replies. “We’ll do it properly.”
Crowley mimics him in a singsong voice, wagging his head back and forth, but he keeps his hands to himself, at least.
Yet the moment they cross the threshold into the house, Crowley is backing him up against the wall, heedless of the staff discreetly trying to avoid looking at them.
“My dear,” Aziraphale says between rough kisses, “we haven’t had dinner.”
“You’re more than delicious enough for me, angel.” Crowley’s wicked smirk is belied by the loud rumble his stomach makes.
Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
Growling, Crowley pushes away from him. “Fine. Dinner. But quickly. And then I want you upstairs and naked and I won’t hear another word about it.”
Aziraphale knows Crowley is hungry and that it’s making him irritable, so he brushes this aside for the moment. He heads for the stairs, but Crowley grabs his arm.
“Where are you going?” Crowley asks.
“Upstairs to dress for dinner.”
“You are dressed, angel,” Crowley replies. Under his breath, he mutters, “And that’s the bloody problem.”
Aziraphale sighs, relenting. “Alright, darling, but do take care with your suit. I’d hate for it to be ruined just because you were in a hurry.”
Aziraphale allows Crowley to drag him to the dining room, where the staff are already waiting with their dinner. Crowley sits and tucks in quickly, shoveling food into his mouth, but Aziraphale is not only determined to enjoy the meal—he arranged the menu himself, knowing it would be the first they’d share as husbands—but beginning to feel a need to turn Crowley’s irritation at waiting into something far more enjoyable.
So as Crowley wolfs his food, Aziraphale carefully cuts bites of his lamb, dipping each one delicately in the mint jelly before putting it in his mouth. The blend of sweet, savory, and cool flavors is perfect on his tongue. There’s also roasted asparagus and potatoes, which Aziraphale also cuts into perfect portions, ensuring each forkful has a bit of each vegetable.
He’s finished hardly half his dinner when he becomes aware of a rhythmic noise—Crowley’s leg bouncing beneath the table, making his heel tap against the floor.
“Angel, can’t you eat any faster?” he groans.
“I certainly could,” Aziraphale replies, taking a bite, chewing thoroughly, and swallowing before continuing. “But I don’t wish to rush my meal. It’s bad for digestion.”
“Bad for—” Crowley’s brows rise over the tops of his dark glasses. “You know what’s bad for digestion? You making me wait all night to get things started!”
“My dear.” Aziraphale levels a heated gaze at him. “You’ve waited weeks now. Surely you can manage a bit longer?”
“Surely the fact that it’s been weeks ought to give you some clue that I can’t,” Crowley spits back.
“But you haven’t even finished your dinner.” Aziraphale gestures at Crowley’s still half-filled plate.
“Fuck my dinner!” Crowley shouts.
Aziraphale tuts. “I don’t think that would be very enjoyable, honestly.”
“That’s not what I meant and you—”
“Come here.” Aziraphale cuts Crowley off as he pushes his chair back a bit from the table, turning it at an angle.
Crowley leaps to his feet, knocking his chair backward onto the floor in his haste, and zips to Aziraphale’s side.
“My dear, you knocked your chair over,” he says.
“Don’t give a toss about the bloody chair—”
“And so,” Aziraphale cuts him off again, “we shall make do otherwise. Kneel.”
Crowley’s brows rise, and Aziraphale catches the barest hint of his eyes widening beneath his dark glasses. Crowley sinks to his knees on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet, his head tilted back as he looks up at him.
Heavens, but his ready obedience is thrilling. Aziraphale’s skin flushes hot with the knowledge that he can command Crowley so easily, can so readily direct his pleasure.
Yet it’s hard to gauge Crowley’s reactions with his eyes hidden as they are. The lights in the dining room aren’t bright. Aziraphale carefully reaches for his dark glasses. “May I?”
Crowley nods his head just a bit, so Aziraphale grasps the earpieces, his fingers brushing Crowley’s temple in the process, which makes Crowley shiver. Aziraphale carefully draws the glasses off of Crowley’s face, revealing his beautiful, unusual eyes.
Holding Crowley’s gaze, Aziraphale speaks to the servants. “Leave us. Leave the food here.”
There’s a vague rustling as the footmen depart, and then Aziraphale and Crowley are alone in the dining room.
Crowley grins wickedly, moving closer and sliding his hands up Aziraphale’s thighs. But that isn’t what Aziraphale wants for him—not yet—so he catches Crowley’s wrists. “If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I’m afraid I’ll have to tie you up.”
Crowley’s slitted pupils blow wide, and his breath comes fast and short.
“Oh,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Would you like me to tie you up?”
“Ngk,” says Crowley.
“I’m going to need you to be clear,” Aziraphale replies. “Do you want me to tie you up? Yes or no.”
“Yessssss,” Crowley hisses through clenched teeth.
“Much better.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss the shudder Crowley makes at this pronouncement. Aziraphale unties the cravat at his throat, then pulls it away, gauging its length. It ought to work. “Turn around.”
Crowley shuffles around until his back faces Aziraphale. Aziraphale pulls each of Crowley’s arms behind him, crossing them at the wrists, then wraps the cravat around them, wrapping it once between them to keep it from slipping off. He ties it snugly but not so tightly it will cut off Crowley’s circulation.
He leans forward, setting his lips against Crowley’s ear. “Does that feel alright?”
Crowley nods quickly.
“Please tell me if it gets too tight, or if you need me to take it off.”
Crowley makes a strangled noise of assent. Good enough—it wasn’t a question.
“Now face me again,” Aziraphale commands.
Crowley shuffles back around, more awkwardly this time, with his arms bound behind his back.
“Now darling,” Aziraphale says softly, “I do want you to have a pleasant night. You’ve been doing such a good job waiting for me all these weeks. Can’t you wait a bit longer?”
Crowley’s brows draw together. “Angel, please.”
“I know you can do it,” Aziraphale says. He reaches across the table and pulls Crowley’s plate toward himself. “You’re strong.”
Crowley makes a tiny whimper. Aziraphale begins to cut the meat on Crowley’s plate into small bites.
“You’re determined.”
Crowley’s breath rasps between his lips. Aziraphale sets aside the knife and fork.
“You’re capable.”
Crowley stops breathing for a moment. Aziraphale picks up a bite of meat in his fingers and holds it out to him.
“Now, open your mouth.”
Obedient, his eyes wide, Crowley does so. Aziraphale slowly places the bite on Crowley’s tongue, letting his fingers brush against Crowley’s lips. The tip of Crowley’s tongue flicks up to brush Aziraphale’s finger as he pulls his hand away, but then Crowley dutifully closes his mouth, chews, and swallows.
“Oh, good boy.”
Crowley whines, a high sound that he immediately cuts off. It doesn’t seem to have been intentional.
With his clean hand, Aziraphale reaches up to Crowley’s temple, carding fingers through his hair. Crowley’s eyes flutter closed, and he leans into the touch.
“That’s right, darling,” Aziraphale says softly. “So good for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Crowley breathes.
Aziraphale picks up another piece of meat and sets it against Crowley’s lips. His eyes still closed, Crowley opens his mouth to let Aziraphale set it on his tongue, then nuzzles into Aziraphale’s other hand, still carding through his hair, as he chews.
“Excellent,” Aziraphale says. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
Crowley merely whimpers in response.
Aziraphale continues like this, one hand stroking Crowley’s hair while the other feeds him the rest of his dinner, until the plate is empty.
“Well done,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley all but purrs. “Now, I’m afraid my fingers are rather covered in juices. I’ll need you to clean them for me.”
Crowley’s eyes fly open as Aziraphale sets his fingers against his lips. Crowley opens his mouth, and Aziraphale slides his index and middle finger in, pressing gently against Crowley’s tongue. Crowley licks and sucks at them, moaning, his eyes closing once more.
“Very nice,” Aziraphale says. When Crowley’s moan gets a bit louder, Aziraphale pushes his fingers deeper, nearly up to the last knuckle. Crowley chokes a bit, then recovers, tipping his head back and opening his throat.
And if Aziraphale had been enjoying mastering Crowley’s pleasure before, it’s nothing to what is happening to him now—his cock throbs, stiffening in his trousers, as a shudder travels down his spine and coils in a tight ball of tension between his hips. A large part of him wants to yank all of their clothing off and bend Crowley over the table—but this is their first night as husbands, and Aziraphale has years of practice at holding himself back from temptation. He takes a deep breath, then pulls his fingers out of Crowley’s mouth, which shines wetly with spit.
“Oh dear,” he says. “I seem to have made a bit of a mess of you.”
And he leans down and runs his tongue over Crowley’s bottom lip, then slides it into his mouth. Crowley responds eagerly, rising up toward Aziraphale and opening his mouth, sucking in his tongue. He tastes divine—a lingering hint of the mint sauce on his tongue—but the angle is awkward, Aziraphale bent nearly in half. He pulls away, and Crowley whimpers, chasing his mouth.
“Come up here.” Aziraphale pats his lap with one hand while quickly wiping the other clean on a napkin.
Crowley scrambles to his feet, nearly toppling over with his hands still tied, before sitting astride Aziraphale, who adjusts the chair a bit more so that neither of them are bumping the table.
Crowley leans down toward him, and Aziraphale pulls him back into a deep kiss, threading the fingers of one hand up into his hair. Crowley licks deeply into his mouth, rocking in his lap, the hard length of his cock rubbing against Aziraphale’s stomach through their clothing. Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s hip, steadying and slowing him, and finally breaks the kiss.
Crowley whimpers, but he stops when Aziraphale begins unbuttoning his waistcoat, instead hissing, “Yes, yes, yes,” over and over and over.
But Aziraphale takes his time, slowly and deliberately slipping each button through its hole, then removing Crowley’s brooch and untying his cravat before gently pulling it from his neck.
Yet now he faces a dilemma, because he cannot rid Crowley of his clothing while his hands are bound.
“Stand up and turn around,” he says, and Crowley stumbles to his feet and nearly falls to the floor in his haste to obey.
When Aziraphale begins pulling at the knots of the cravat binding Crowley’s wrists, he turns his head. “Angel?”
“I can’t take your shirt off with your hands tied,” Aziraphale explains.
Crowley mutters a noise of understanding as the cravat slips free. Without turning him around, Aziraphale reaches up to Crowley’s shoulders and tugs his jacket off, pulling it off his arms, followed by his waistcoat.
“Arms up,” he commands.
Crowley raises his arms, and Aziraphale sets his hands against Crowley’s skin, feeling him shudder beneath them. He slowly slides his hands up Crowley’s sides, palms to skin, letting the shirt gather at his wrists, before finally grasping it to pull it up over Crowley’s head.
He carefully sets jacket, waistcoat, and shirt aside over the back of a chair, then turns back to Crowley. Crowley hasn’t moved, simply stands with his back to Aziraphale.
“Do you want me to tie you up again?” Aziraphale asks.
Crowley nods emphatically. “Y-yesss.”
But with Crowley patient and obedient like this, there’s no need to rush. Aziraphale sets his fingertips on Crowley’s shoulders, then traces lightly down each arm, bending his head to place wet kisses against his shoulderblades. He pulls Crowley’s wrists back together and gently wraps them in the cravat before knotting it again. Then he traces his fingertips back up Crowley’s arms, over his shoulders, and down to his chest, stepping close behind him and pulling Crowley’s body flush with his own, as much as possible with his wrists bound between them. He presses his lips to Crowley’s spine, just between his shoulders.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against Crowley’s skin.
He feels the shaky breath Crowley lets out as his chest falls beneath his hands. Aziraphale continues tracing his hands over Crowley’s skin—now traveling down his torso, feeling the ribs beneath his muscles, finally ending at the waistband of his trousers. As before, Aziraphale slowly and deliberately slips each button free, and when the front of Crowley’s trousers falls open, he hooks his fingers beneath them and the drawers beneath them and tugs them down over Crowley’s hips.
He lets his hands splay across Crowley’s hips as he kneels behind him, then slides them down his legs, dragging the clothing with them until it pools at Crowley’s feet.
“Step forward carefully,” Aziraphale says, then gathers up the trousers and drawers when Crowley does so. He folds them and sets them aside with the rest of Crowley’s clothing.
And now Crowley stands naked before him, docile and obedient, hands bound, and Aziraphale thinks he may never see anything more perfect.
“Just look at you,” he breathes. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
He steps in front of Crowley, taking in the smattering of freckles across his shoulders, the shape of his chest, and the V of his torso as it narrows toward his cock, which is flushed purple and beading a glistening drop of moisture at its tip. Aziraphale runs fingertips over Crowley’s chest, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. Crowley’s golden eyes track every movement. When Aziraphale’s hands near Crowley’s cock, he lets his fingers trail away.
Crowley keens, leaning after his touch. “Angel, please!”
“Please what, darling?” Aziraphale says placidly.
“Touch me!”
“I did touch you,” Aziraphale points out.
“Touch my fucking cock Jesus fucking Christ—”
Aziraphale tuts, frowning. “Come now. Is that how you want to speak to your new husband?”
Crowley shudders, his pupils widening. His chest rises and falls rapidly with his breath. “Please, Aziraphale. Please touch my cock.”
Aziraphale gives him a small smile. “Better.”
Crowley gives him a shaky smile in return. But when Aziraphale lightly runs a single fingertip up the underside of Crowley’s shaft, he screams.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly. “Master yourself.” Heaven only knows what the servants must be thinking.
Crowley gives himself a little shake, licks his lips, and swallows hard several times. “Please. You know what I need. Please, angel. Please.”
It’s telling that, despite the begging and screaming, Crowley hasn’t asked Aziraphale to untie him. So Aziraphale decides to reward him. He smiles. “Well done.”
He wraps his hand around Crowley’s cock, then strokes it firmly from base to tip. Crowley’s eyes close, and he utters a string of nonsense—vague sounds that are mostly hissing consonants—before leaning forward and pressing his mouth to Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale kisses him deeply, stroking back down his cock, pulling the foreskin back from the head. Crowley’s tongue plunges into his mouth, insistent, and Aziraphale relishes the ferocity of it as he gives Crowley’s cock one more stroke. He lets go of Crowley’s cock to tend to his own trousers, but Crowley whimpers into his mouth and stumbles into him.
Aziraphale catches him with a hand on his shoulder, breaking the kiss and pushing him back upright.
“My dear,” he says, “I need you to let me get myself ready for you. Can you do that? Can you wait for me?”
Crowley nods vigorously. “Yes, yes, yes. Yesssss.”
“Good boy.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss the hitch in Crowley’s breath, the flutter of his eyelids.
Once more, Crowley’s eyes track his every move, and his breathing becomes audible when Aziraphale unbuttons his trousers. He pulls his cock out, careful not to stroke it, denying himself pleasure in his own touch so that he can let Crowley give it to him instead. He steps toward Crowley, holding his legs apart so his trousers won’t pool at his feet.
“Touch me,” he commands.
Crowley’s brows draw together. “Do— am I— are you going to untie me?”
“No. Don’t use your hands. Touch me some other way.”
Crowley’s eyes go wide. He steps forward, then kisses Aziraphale on the mouth—deep and quick—then begins working a trail of kisses over his jaw and down his neck.
Aziraphale tilts his head back to make it easier for Crowley to reach, cradling the back of his head. “Perfect,” he breathes. “You’re brilliant.”
“Not brilliant.” Crowley kisses the bit of skin peeking out of Aziraphale’s collar. “Horny.”
“You can be both.” Aziraphale sucks in a breath as Crowley drops heavily to his knees. He hits the floor with a loud thud.
“My dear,” Aziraphale says, startled, “are you alright?”
“Never better in my life,” Crowley says. He grins up at Aziraphale, then takes his entire cock into his mouth.
Aziraphale cries out, unprepared to be swallowed down with such speed. He grabs for the back of Crowley’s head, trying desperately not to yank too hard on his hair. Crowley, sensing Aziraphale’s needs, stops moving—his lips wrapped around the base of Aziraphale’s cock, his nose pressed into his torso. Aziraphale can feel the cords of muscle in Crowley’s throat work as he holds himself open for him.
Aziraphale takes a deep, steadying breath. “Heavens, you’re good at that.”
Crowley hums, the vibration of it traveling straight into Aziraphale’s cock, and he tightens his grip on Crowley’s hair reflexively. Crowley hums again and makes the smallest nod of his head.
Interesting. Aziraphale tightens his grip more firmly while pressing deeper into Crowley’s throat, holding him in place. Crowley makes a strangled hum and goes slightly boneless, melting against Aziraphale’s legs.
“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes. “Oh, good boy.”
A high, thin whine issues from Crowley’s throat, gargling and strangled. Aziraphale pulls out a bit to let Crowley get his breath, then presses back in again. Crowley curls his tongue around Aziraphale’s shaft, stroking him with the tip, and Aziraphale has to fight his own desire to hold him there until he goes limp. Instead, he pulls out again, then thrusts in hard, and Crowley makes a wet choking sound and sags a little more against his legs.
“That’s right, love,” Aziraphale mutters, gripping Crowley’s hair tightly. “Such a good boy, letting me use your mouth like this.”
Crowley moans, low and garbled, which is cut off as Aziraphale begins to fuck his throat in earnest. Aziraphale tilts Crowley’s head slightly, opening his throat a bit more, allowing him to push his cock into Crowley’s mouth all the way to the base. Tears stream from the corners of Crowley’s eyes and spit dribbles down his chin. He looks utterly debauched and utterly blissful.
The sight of Crowley’s red lips around Aziraphale’s cock, the wet heat of his mouth, and the boneless compliance of his obedience coil the tension in Aziraphale’s hips even tighter.
“I want to come in your mouth,” Aziraphale pants, his breath rasping. “Would you like that?”
A thin whine and a slight upturn of Crowley’s lips are the closest he can come to answering, but it’s all the assent Aziraphale needs. He fucks hard and fast into Crowley’s throat, one fist gripping his hair tightly, racing toward release. He fights to keep his eyes open, to come with the sight of Crowley, tear-streaked and wrecked, taking his cock to the root as he fills his throat, but his eyes close of their own volition as his orgasm crests over him and he spurts into Crowley’s throat.
Crowley swallows around him, and Aziraphale’s knees nearly give out, the sensation shooting up his spine and turning all his limbs to jelly. But he keeps control, stays present enough to pull back a bit, to give Crowley some relief from the punishing pounding Aziraphale has been giving his throat.
With his throat unblocked, Crowley moans, and the tip of his tongue flicks against the underside of Aziraphale’s now-oversensitive cock. Aziraphale hisses in a breath and pulls back, dragging his cock out of Crowley’s mouth, trailing a string of spit to his lips.
In fact, there’s spit all down Crowley’s chin and tears streaking down both cheeks.
“You’re rather a mess, my dear.” Aziraphale is almost surprised at how wrecked his own voice is. He pulls himself together a bit as he reaches to the table and gets a napkin, which he folds over his fingers. He wipes away Crowley’s tears first, then the spit on his chin. He sets the napkin back on the table, then tucks himself back into his trousers and buttons them up.
“Now,” Aziraphale says, pleased that his voice is now steadier, “I believe I’ll finish my meal.”
Crowley’s brows draw together, and he sputters a series of incoherent noises. But Aziraphale grasps him beneath his arms and hauls him to his feet—on which he’s only moderately steady—then grabs him by the hips and lifts him entirely into the air before setting him down on the edge of the table.
“Angel!” Crowley gasps, his lips stretching in a wide grin.
Aziraphale pulls his chair up to the table once more, sitting in it and pushing apart Crowley’s thighs so he can sit between them. Hands on Crowley’s hips, he maneuvers him until he’s sitting right at the edge of the table, his feet on the edges of Aziraphale’s chair. Just in front of Aziraphale’s face, Crowley’s cock—deeply purple, glistening moisture running freely down the shaft, pointing at the ceiling—twitches.
Aziraphale flicks his gaze up to meet Crowley’s.
“Delicious,” he murmurs.
Then he opens his mouth and slides it down Crowley’s cock.
Crowley swears aloud as he writhes and wriggles, but Aziraphale’s grip remains firm, hands sliding around to his back to help keep him in place as his mouth slides down his cock. Crowley’s bound wrists bump against the backs of Aziraphale’s hands, and he feels him flex his fingers, as though trying to touch him. But there will be plenty of time for that later.
Right now, Aziraphale curls his tongue around Crowley’s shaft as he pushes him as deeply as he can take him. At this angle, he can’t get all the way to the base, but it doesn’t seem to be a problem—Crowley is swearing and squirming and seeping a thick fluid onto Aziraphale’s tongue as it is. So Aziraphale begins to suck him with a steady rhythm, moving his tongue along Crowley’s cock, keeping his arms firmly around him to hold him in place as he writhes against him.
Soon enough, Crowley’s movements shift so that he’s rolling his hips, meeting Aziraphale’s strokes with his own thrusts. Aziraphale moans and pushes just a tiny bit deeper, letting the pressure of it sting his eyes and tighten his stomach.
“Angel!” Crowley gasps, the smooth rolling of his hips beginning to stutter into sharp bucking. “Oh fuck, angel, that’s— oh fuck, oh fuck.”
Aziraphale spreads his fingers on Crowley’s back, massaging him gently, mouth still working his cock. Crowley thrusts up hard a few more times, then, with a strangled cry, floods Aziraphale’s mouth.
Aziraphale moans, swallowing it down, the bitter taste of it better than any finely prepared meal. Crowley jerks and wriggles beneath him, but Aziraphale keeps his hold firm and his mouth steady, stroking Crowley’s cock with his tongue until the last spurts end.
He pulls his mouth off slowly then, careful not to let any wayward drops out, and raises his eyes to Crowley’s. He swallows the last of Crowley’s taste and smiles. “That was beautifully well done. Good boy.”
Crowley lets out a high sob and sways in Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale pulls him close, and Crowley collapses against him, head lolling on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale turns his head to kiss Crowley’s temple as he begins untying the cravat that binds his wrists, and when Crowley’s arms are finally free, they immediately wrap around Aziraphale’s back.
“How are your arms?” Aziraphale asks.
“Perfec’,” Crowley mumbles against his skin. “F’ckin’ ’credible.”
Aziraphale grins, though Crowley can’t see it. “Alright, darling. Can you sit for me for a moment so I can get your clothes?”
“Mmf,” Crowley replies, which Aziraphale has to take as an affirmative. He slips out of the circle of Crowley’s arms, leaving him slumped in a heap, still sitting on the edge of the table, and gathers his trousers and shirt. The rest can wait—Aziraphale just needs to get Crowley upstairs and into bed.
He maneuvers Crowley into his shirt and trousers—like dressing a rag doll, the way Crowley slumps boneless against him as Aziraphale slides his arms into sleeves and his legs into trousers. When he’s finally minimally dressed—enough for modesty’s sake, at least—Aziraphale scoops Crowley into his arms. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and buries his face in his shoulder.
The servants posted outside the doors of the dining room resolutely stare straight ahead as Aziraphale carries Crowley out. He feels himself flush—the servants’ tongues will certainly all be wagging about this soon enough, if they’re not doing so already.
And yet the thought isn’t an entirely unpleasant one. How many people will now know that Aziraphale loves Crowley desperately and can bring him to heights of pleasure that make him scream and wail?
As he climbs the stairs, Crowley nuzzles against him.
“Love you,” he murmurs sleepily.
Aziraphale kisses his hair. “I love you too, my dear.”