Bound: A/C R
Bound
It's late enough, dark enough, that Aziraphael can indulge himself with Crowley's pulse racing against his fingers, his skin like the remnants of the summery day against the cool of the night. Late night revelers and music thudding from overlarge bass speakers and car radios and still the only thing he can hear is Crowley's rapid breathing and it's all he can do not to press him up against the rough brick wall here-
Crowley stops, and he almost loses his grip on the demon's wrist; his fingers tighten automatically and white teeth flash under dark glasses in something almost too feral to be a smile. It's late enough, dark enough, that Aziraphael can pretend that no one can see them. He keeps his fingers wrapped around Crowley's wrist even as the demon steals his breath, forked tongue flickering against his, and his other hand slides into black hair and he can feel his grip tightening but he will keep his fingers wrapped around Crowley's wrist even as the demon bites down on his lip…
He doesn't even know what point he's proving, any more.
Long fingers, warm against his neck, running underneath the black ribbon he wears. They trail lightly to the top button of his shirt and he takes a step backwards. Crowley smirks.
"Sense of propriety?"
"In public? Yes." And he smiles the particular smile that's only ever for Crowley, and tugs lightly on his wrist.
The key clinks softly against the keyhole because Crowley's pressed entirely too close to his back, arm wrapped around his waist and cheek against his hair, warm breath on his ear. He breathes in slowly, stilling.
"You're not helping, Crowley."
A long fingered hand comes up to close around his, steadying it, helping him unlock the door.
"Sssatisfied?" A forked tongue touches his ear and he bites back a moan.
"Damn you."
"Too late, angel." His voice is darkly amused, and Aziraphael whirls around as soon as the door closes, blinds rattling down at a careless gesture, their hands pressed between their chests as he kisses Crowley hard, fingers still tight around the demon's wrist.
Pinpricks of pain on his scalp as a hand tightens in his hair and he presses forward, hips shifting against Crowley's. And oh, hell, it feels good, so good, and the noises he's making… it's longer than he meant to leave it before he pulls away, Crowley leaning forward to follow him.
"Patience."
Tendons move against his hand as Crowley flexes his fingers futilely, then bows his head slightly, acquiescing. And that, more than anything, makes Aziraphael catch his breath.
He leads him through the shop, the back room, up the stairs; not daring to stop for a moment because Crowley's twisted his hand (oh hell, so flexible) and is running fingers over the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist and they're not in public now and he must remember that the stairs wouldn't be comfortable for this kind of thing and-
"Stop it, Crowley."
"Why would I do that?"
He turns, and leans closer, and deliberately tightens his fingers.
"Because I told you to."
And he turns his head and presses his mouth to hot skin and can feel Crowley swallow hard against his lips.
"Okay."
It's barely breathed, but he smiles against the skin of the demon's throat.
"Good."
He moves again, because the slightest taste of the salt on Crowley's skin is damningly addictive and he has plans. He backs through the door of the bedroom, his free hand lifting to the top button of Crowley's shirt, fumbling at the buttons with fingers that refuse to remain steady. Eventually he gives in and leans forward, whispering against Crowley's lips.
"You know what I'll say."
The demon's voice is unsteady. "Don't move?"
"Don't move."
And that's a bitten off groan in Crowley's throat as he finally releases his wrist, both hands working faster on the buttons of his shirt. Finally it hangs open and Aziraphael leans forward and tastes the hollow between his collarbones as he pushes the fabric off his shoulders. It's a moment before the hands on his hips register, but as soon as he notices the thumb moving against the fabric of his shirt he pulls away and glares.
"I believe I told you not to move?" Crowley's smirk is entirely too smug for his liking, and he points imperiously. "Go and lie down and stop smirking like that or I shall have to put this entire evening on hold until I've invested in one of those gag ball things." The demon snorts, softly, but carefully turns it into a cough. Aziraphael glares for a moment longer, and then goes to the cupboard that he hadn't though Crowley had investigated- it had been locked, for Heaven's sake.
They're heavy in his hand, cold. He fingers them for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths- he's not entirely sure he likes the idea of leaving Crowley to his own devices while he's restrained except… oh, leaving Crowley to his own devices while he's restrained… He swallows hard, and turns.
And Crowley's smirk is still firmly in place, his legs crossed at the ankles. And as the angel watches he lifts his hands and wraps them around the iron bedstead and raises an eyebrow and Aziraphael's hands tighten on the metal, almost hard enough for it to cut into his fingers but he doesn't feel it. Oh hell… He doesn't even register walking across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed; just Crowley's yellow eyes oddly watchful when they meet his and that reassures him, somehow, as he folds the sunglasses and places them carefully on the bedside table.
There's no concealing that his hands are shaking as he carefully closes the manacles around Crowley's wrists, inserting the pins to lock them before leaning down to touch his mouth to the demon's, kissing him lightly… at first. Only at first. Because Crowley's mouth is sin and his tongue and the slight noises Aziraphael can hear he's trying to hold back and both his hands are tangled in the demon's hair. And it's so strange not having hands against his back, his side, but he can't deny the power he feels at the hoarse tone in Crowley's voice as he swears, stretching his neck, trying to recapture the angel's mouth.
But Aziraphael has plans.
His mouth moves along the line of Crowley's neck, along his shoulder, as his hand moves down the center of his chest and feels stomach muscles tighten slightly against his fingers. He smiles against Crowley's collarbone as it moves against his lips, a shakily drawn breath as his fingers come to rest on the button of his trousers, the heel of his hand pressing, kneading slightly, just below.
And the bitten off groans, the way Crowley arches his hips… somehow seems insignificant against the clatter of metal, the white-knuckled grip on the chains that bind him.
Aziraphael unfastens his trousers and then, remembering, crawls down the bed to remove Crowley's shoes- there's a muffled thump from behind him as Crowley's head falls onto the pillow.
"Bloody hell, angel, can't you remember just once to do that first?"
Aziraphael doesn't dignify that with an answer. He just slides back up Crowley's body, and kisses him, and pushes fabric aside and curls his fingers around him. The muscles in Crowley's shoulders tense as his hips thrust up against Aziraphael's hand and he pulls against the chains, moaning into the angel's mouth. Aziraphael slows his hand, slightly, and whispers against Crowley's mouth.
"Okay?"
"Oh ff- don't sstop…"
He doesn't stop. His hand moves faster as he tastes the skin of Crowley's neck, moans vibrating against his lips and he twists slightly and Crowley cries out, tensing against him before falling back, chest heaving. Heavy-lidded yellow eyes meet his and he leans in to kiss him, gentler now.
"Okay?"
Crowley's smile is slow, and satisfied. "Doesn't even begin to describe it."
Aziraphael smiles back, kissing him again before reaching up, raising his head to see…
"Crowley, where are the manacles?" The demon's hands are wrapped tightly around the bedstead, but of the chains there's no sign.
"Ah." He flexes his fingers, lets go. "Yeah, no idea."
"…how?"
Crowley has the grace to look abashed. "You distracted me?"
And then his hands are lifting to cup Aziraphael's face, to curl in the fabric of his shirt, and as the demon pulls him down into a kiss he can't bring himself to care overmuch. Crowley's lips curl into a smile against his.
"I'll replace them."
It's late enough, dark enough, that Aziraphael can indulge himself with Crowley's pulse racing against his fingers, his skin like the remnants of the summery day against the cool of the night. Late night revelers and music thudding from overlarge bass speakers and car radios and still the only thing he can hear is Crowley's rapid breathing and it's all he can do not to press him up against the rough brick wall here-
Crowley stops, and he almost loses his grip on the demon's wrist; his fingers tighten automatically and white teeth flash under dark glasses in something almost too feral to be a smile. It's late enough, dark enough, that Aziraphael can pretend that no one can see them. He keeps his fingers wrapped around Crowley's wrist even as the demon steals his breath, forked tongue flickering against his, and his other hand slides into black hair and he can feel his grip tightening but he will keep his fingers wrapped around Crowley's wrist even as the demon bites down on his lip…
He doesn't even know what point he's proving, any more.
Long fingers, warm against his neck, running underneath the black ribbon he wears. They trail lightly to the top button of his shirt and he takes a step backwards. Crowley smirks.
"Sense of propriety?"
"In public? Yes." And he smiles the particular smile that's only ever for Crowley, and tugs lightly on his wrist.
The key clinks softly against the keyhole because Crowley's pressed entirely too close to his back, arm wrapped around his waist and cheek against his hair, warm breath on his ear. He breathes in slowly, stilling.
"You're not helping, Crowley."
A long fingered hand comes up to close around his, steadying it, helping him unlock the door.
"Sssatisfied?" A forked tongue touches his ear and he bites back a moan.
"Damn you."
"Too late, angel." His voice is darkly amused, and Aziraphael whirls around as soon as the door closes, blinds rattling down at a careless gesture, their hands pressed between their chests as he kisses Crowley hard, fingers still tight around the demon's wrist.
Pinpricks of pain on his scalp as a hand tightens in his hair and he presses forward, hips shifting against Crowley's. And oh, hell, it feels good, so good, and the noises he's making… it's longer than he meant to leave it before he pulls away, Crowley leaning forward to follow him.
"Patience."
Tendons move against his hand as Crowley flexes his fingers futilely, then bows his head slightly, acquiescing. And that, more than anything, makes Aziraphael catch his breath.
He leads him through the shop, the back room, up the stairs; not daring to stop for a moment because Crowley's twisted his hand (oh hell, so flexible) and is running fingers over the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist and they're not in public now and he must remember that the stairs wouldn't be comfortable for this kind of thing and-
"Stop it, Crowley."
"Why would I do that?"
He turns, and leans closer, and deliberately tightens his fingers.
"Because I told you to."
And he turns his head and presses his mouth to hot skin and can feel Crowley swallow hard against his lips.
"Okay."
It's barely breathed, but he smiles against the skin of the demon's throat.
"Good."
He moves again, because the slightest taste of the salt on Crowley's skin is damningly addictive and he has plans. He backs through the door of the bedroom, his free hand lifting to the top button of Crowley's shirt, fumbling at the buttons with fingers that refuse to remain steady. Eventually he gives in and leans forward, whispering against Crowley's lips.
"You know what I'll say."
The demon's voice is unsteady. "Don't move?"
"Don't move."
And that's a bitten off groan in Crowley's throat as he finally releases his wrist, both hands working faster on the buttons of his shirt. Finally it hangs open and Aziraphael leans forward and tastes the hollow between his collarbones as he pushes the fabric off his shoulders. It's a moment before the hands on his hips register, but as soon as he notices the thumb moving against the fabric of his shirt he pulls away and glares.
"I believe I told you not to move?" Crowley's smirk is entirely too smug for his liking, and he points imperiously. "Go and lie down and stop smirking like that or I shall have to put this entire evening on hold until I've invested in one of those gag ball things." The demon snorts, softly, but carefully turns it into a cough. Aziraphael glares for a moment longer, and then goes to the cupboard that he hadn't though Crowley had investigated- it had been locked, for Heaven's sake.
They're heavy in his hand, cold. He fingers them for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths- he's not entirely sure he likes the idea of leaving Crowley to his own devices while he's restrained except… oh, leaving Crowley to his own devices while he's restrained… He swallows hard, and turns.
And Crowley's smirk is still firmly in place, his legs crossed at the ankles. And as the angel watches he lifts his hands and wraps them around the iron bedstead and raises an eyebrow and Aziraphael's hands tighten on the metal, almost hard enough for it to cut into his fingers but he doesn't feel it. Oh hell… He doesn't even register walking across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed; just Crowley's yellow eyes oddly watchful when they meet his and that reassures him, somehow, as he folds the sunglasses and places them carefully on the bedside table.
There's no concealing that his hands are shaking as he carefully closes the manacles around Crowley's wrists, inserting the pins to lock them before leaning down to touch his mouth to the demon's, kissing him lightly… at first. Only at first. Because Crowley's mouth is sin and his tongue and the slight noises Aziraphael can hear he's trying to hold back and both his hands are tangled in the demon's hair. And it's so strange not having hands against his back, his side, but he can't deny the power he feels at the hoarse tone in Crowley's voice as he swears, stretching his neck, trying to recapture the angel's mouth.
But Aziraphael has plans.
His mouth moves along the line of Crowley's neck, along his shoulder, as his hand moves down the center of his chest and feels stomach muscles tighten slightly against his fingers. He smiles against Crowley's collarbone as it moves against his lips, a shakily drawn breath as his fingers come to rest on the button of his trousers, the heel of his hand pressing, kneading slightly, just below.
And the bitten off groans, the way Crowley arches his hips… somehow seems insignificant against the clatter of metal, the white-knuckled grip on the chains that bind him.
Aziraphael unfastens his trousers and then, remembering, crawls down the bed to remove Crowley's shoes- there's a muffled thump from behind him as Crowley's head falls onto the pillow.
"Bloody hell, angel, can't you remember just once to do that first?"
Aziraphael doesn't dignify that with an answer. He just slides back up Crowley's body, and kisses him, and pushes fabric aside and curls his fingers around him. The muscles in Crowley's shoulders tense as his hips thrust up against Aziraphael's hand and he pulls against the chains, moaning into the angel's mouth. Aziraphael slows his hand, slightly, and whispers against Crowley's mouth.
"Okay?"
"Oh ff- don't sstop…"
He doesn't stop. His hand moves faster as he tastes the skin of Crowley's neck, moans vibrating against his lips and he twists slightly and Crowley cries out, tensing against him before falling back, chest heaving. Heavy-lidded yellow eyes meet his and he leans in to kiss him, gentler now.
"Okay?"
Crowley's smile is slow, and satisfied. "Doesn't even begin to describe it."
Aziraphael smiles back, kissing him again before reaching up, raising his head to see…
"Crowley, where are the manacles?" The demon's hands are wrapped tightly around the bedstead, but of the chains there's no sign.
"Ah." He flexes his fingers, lets go. "Yeah, no idea."
"…how?"
Crowley has the grace to look abashed. "You distracted me?"
And then his hands are lifting to cup Aziraphael's face, to curl in the fabric of his shirt, and as the demon pulls him down into a kiss he can't bring himself to care overmuch. Crowley's lips curl into a smile against his.
"I'll replace them."