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Mercy (More)

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A little blasphemy never hurt anyone. At least, not for the past hundred years or so. As for the past decade, well, it’s only ever hurt Crowley, but in the best kind of way.

Aziraphale had his wrists in a tight grip, their bodies only inches apart, foreheads touching in a tender moment, the starting point of their night.

Crowley was breathing heavier, and he could feel himself slipping into that warm and empty head-space where higher functioning could sit back and let him be a pretty little thing for a while. The roles had been reversed lately, so the change was welcome, and it felt like the comfort of a warm blanket over his shoulders.

He would be taken care of.

When Aziraphale let go of his wrists, he kept them together, waiting and willing to be bound.

“You must hold perfectly still my dear.” Aziraphale said, tone low and dangerously sweet. “No matter what happens.”

Crowley’s teeth clicked shut and he nodded, unable to voice how utterly thrown he felt from the implications of that statement. He kept his feet firmly planted on the floor, chest tight with anticipation.

Aziraphale reached into his pocket and with little fanfare pulled out a long loop of obsidian rosary beads, and they were wrapped around his wrists in a quick efficient knot and they burned. The pain was light, the threat of the holy object more powerful than the object itself, and Crowley hissed but he didn’t move his hands, even though his arms were now considerably shakier, and his pants considerably tighter.

Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over the silver crucifix. “On your knees,” he said quietly, firmly, and Crowley dropped into subspace so hard he saw stars.

He all but collapsed, the thud of the floor on his knees rocking up his spine to his rosary-bound wrists, the carefully spun glass seeping into his very being, and Crowley could tell that they were very old, very familiar, and very, painfully, authentic.

Venice, his mind helpfully supplied. You had it commissioned for him in Venice.

“Such a beautiful thing,” Aziraphale said lovingly, bringing him back to the moment as he tilted Crowley’s chin up to admire him, appraise him. “Ornate even, an embellished piece of art, made to be on display.”

“Flashy‘s the whole point of the look,” he muttered, wrists pointed to the floor, still fully clothed all the way down to his shiny snakeskin boots— But he might as well have been stripped bare for the way Aziraphale was looking at him, gaze burning in the same aching way the beads were.

“And what about this look?” Aziraphale asked, the hand tightening it's grip on his jaw. “What does it say about you, when I think you look your best when you’re on your knees?”

“That you have poor taste?”

“Try again.”

Crowley worried his lower lip between his teeth as he looked at the floor, begrudging. They’d done this performance so many times Crowley had started to memorize Aziraphale’s lines as well as his own. He feared that that was the point. “That I’m beautiful when I’m yours.”

“You are,” Aziraphale said softly. “Both beautiful and mine. And I’m going to take my time admiring you.”

There was a wave of a hand, and the weight of a pillow appeared between Crowley’s legs, snug against his crotch, desperately pressed between thighs, and Crowley’s mouth fell open, shaking with the effort of not grinding down without permission.

There was one raised eyebrow.

Crowley tried to remember how to speak. “Like this?”

“Like that,” Aziraphale confirmed, voice strict despite the gentle way he smiled. “You’re free to grind against it all you like. I think we’re going to do a little bit of training today anyway.”

Crowley swallowed, already anticipating the weight around his neck, and it must’ve shown on his face, because there was an indulgent huff of laughter.

“Which collar would you like, my dea—“

“Black,” he said immediately, eagerness overlapping their words, and Aziraphale’s fond smile became a little bit sharper, but Crowley couldn’t find it in himself to care as the thick black collar appeared, silver buckles clicking as it was fastened around his throat, and he preened under the touch.

The embroidered gold script on it advertised exactly who he belonged to. Property of A.Z. Fell, indeed.

“There,” Aziraphale said, idly tugging at the O-ring with a satisfied little smile. “But I think today’s lesson will be about patience.” And there was a click as he attached a leash, the leather soft and malleable from frequent use. “Interrupt me like that again and you won’t like the consequences. Am I clear?”

Crowley nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the weight of the collar move with him. “Yes Angel.”

A hand in his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp, a brief reward as the hand slid down to cup his jaw again, thumb pressing against his lips. Crowley trembled, hard cock trapped in his too-tight jeans, and his hips twitched to rut against the pillow as Aziraphale stretched the moment out until he finally, finally, pressed his thumb into his mouth.

“Open up now,” came the soft, redundant order as Aziraphale used his thumb to force his jaw wider, pressing down on his teeth. “There’s a good pet.”

The head of his cock was placed on his tongue, pressed into his open mouth, and Crowley closed his lips around it and sucked, savoring the feeling. It was only for a moment however, because Crowley was suddenly imaging, craving, anticipating, the ache in his jaw from having Aziraphale’s cock down his throat, gagging on it with tears in his eyes and hands in his hair and Crowley was struck so hard by the desire for it that he became a bit dizzy.

Crowley moaned, eyes sliding shut, and he slid all the way down to the base of Aziraphale’s cock in one eager movement, humming happily, and Aziraphale’s fingers tapped his cheek, pulling on the leash to make Crowley pull back a bit.

“You know how I prefer it darling. Let me make a mess of you.”

Aziraphale’s way meant slow, it meant sloppy, and Crowley shrugged off the order, so that the moment Aziraphale’s grip on the lead relaxed, Crowley was back around his cock, swallowing once, twice, and then moaning again, pleasure sparking behind his eyes because he was so full— and the collar tensed, pressing into his windpipe as Aziraphale yanked on the leash, dragging him off of his cock like a misbehaving dog.

Crowley whined, straining against the taut length of the leash, licking pitifully around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, heavy and needy with the desire to have it down his throat, stretching him out, desperate to feel the bulge of Aziraphale’s cock press against the collar.

“You’re forgetting yourself pet,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley let out a sharp sound, still straining forward, moaning around the little bit of him he had and drunk on the feeling of being a greedy thing at his angel’s feet, wanting more, more, more.

“Have patience. Do it slowly, or not at all.” And his tone implied that the alternative would not be very nice at all. Really anything at this point that didn’t involve Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth didn’t bear thinking about, and Crowley let out a soft grumbling sound.

He tilted up to stare with blown out eyes, trying to convey his agreement without words, and he rubbed slick lips against the head of his cock in the way he knew Aziraphale liked, drool smearing wet and sticky on his skin.

Aziraphale tugged once on the leash. “Sit politely then.”

With a pout and concentrated effort, Crowley leaned back, pulling himself away from the cock in front of him, the pressure of the collar and leash subsiding.

“Good boy,” came the praise, and it shuddered through him, sparks down his spine and warm cotton in his head, the space between them now giving Crowley a chance to recognize that he was squirming even as he sat in place, cramped knees tensing and shifting to rub against the pillow. His cock was leaking too, damp spot soaking his jeans, and he flexed against the rosary beads binding his wrists, sinking deeper into the feedback loop of submission.

It was Aziraphale that closed the distance, stepping a few precious inches closer, cock sliding against his cheek. “Take your time dear, You love being at my feet so much, I want you to cherish your time on your knees.”

Crowley’s entire body throbbed.

Otherwise, Aziraphale didn’t move to touch him, he just had the leash in one hand, letting Crowley explore with his mouth, trailing his tongue up and down the length of him. He fell into the rhythm of it, empty-headed and content, bobbing and sucking and mindlessly lapping with a flexible forked tongue, savoring the taste.

He had no idea how much time had passed, but it still felt too soon when the leash tugged again, Aziraphale’s gentle encouragements guiding him away, and a hand was on his cheek, urging his eyes up.

Crowley found that focusing his eyes was too much work at that very moment, so he left them unfocused, letting Aziraphale’s voice wash over him. “You get a choice dear. Do you want to hear your choices?”

Crowley made a distant sound of assent, floating.

The hand on his cheek rose to start petting his hair, gently combing through it, making his spine melt as Aziraphale spoke: “I can get you off now if you want, let you properly rut into that cushion like so you badly want to, and if you ask nicely I’ll come in your mouth instead of on your face.”

It was a plan, a very very good plan that had him rocking again, cock throbbing against his thigh.

“Or,” Aziraphale’s voice took on a lighter tone. “I can fuck your face until your pretty mouth is bruised and swollen, and you’ll come exactly when I tell you, or not at all.”

Aziraphale’s demeanor was one of confidence, so very assured of which one Crowley will pick. Aziraphale’s offer of a guaranteed climax was a tempting treat, one that should be the obvious choice, but it instead hammered home the fact that they both knew exactly which one he wanted.

“Still, just think of it this way darling,” and blunt, manicured nails raked through his scalp on the next pass of his hand. “You can ask for mercy, or for more.”

And because all of Crowley’s carefully hoarded instincts of self-preservation had gone out the window the moment he’d sunk to his knees, Crowley opened his pretty— but not sore, not yet— lips and said, “More.”

“Are you sure?” Came the careful sing-song voice. “Think carefully now.”

Crowley’s eyes snapped back into focus, because he’d made his choice and he wanted it now, he had been so patient for so long, and his expression was painfully open, earnest and eager. “More,” he begged, and tugged forward insistently on the leash, and it was only a little bit of a pout.

“Be still then, let me give you what you want.”

Aziraphale, of course, feed him his cock slowly, taking his time as he pushed past his lips, and Crowley, who did try and learn things from his training thank you, held as still as he could, patiently waiting for his treat.

“Good boy,” he said when Crowley’s nose brushed his belly, “I can see you holding yourself back, you’ve done so well for me.”

Crowley had a heartbeat to lap up the praise, warm and loose with it, but then Aziraphale jerked forward once, a half a thrust of testing the waters, before he drew his hips back and started fucking Crowley's face like a man possessed.

Aziraphale’s pace was relentless, the jackrabbit-thrusts steady and rough as Crowley’s lips turned numb, burning from the abuse, drool leaking down his chin, and Crowley was flying, small grinding movements of his hips against the pillow clumsy and needy, a mindless squirming rut to find his pleasure as his mouth was used.

Time stretched out again, alternating between a syrupy warm high and desperate electric desire, and a particularly good grind against the pillow under him made Crowley shudder, and he reflexively tried to swallow, sucking hard, and he felt Aziraphale’s composure start to crack.

He did it more, trying his best even as his throat was filled again and again, and Aziraphale’s grip on the leash suddenly tightened, voice heavy with silver-holy light. “What do you want dear?”

Crowley gave a wordless muffled sob, choking around his cock, blood thundering in his ears. He forced himself to keep his mouth open, his tongue moving, even as his jaw ached to the point of pain and heat pooled low in his gut.

Aziraphale’s voice was practically angelic, in the terrifyingly celestial way that meant he was close to the edge.“Would you like mercy or more?”

Crowley was close too, thighs rubbing in quick little motions, glassy eyes opening to look up to the Heavens, and when he pulled off he stayed close, worshiping Aziraphale’s skin.

“More,” he said it into the underside of his cock with a choked-off little sound, a prayer said right before one’s own undoing.

Aziraphale’s free hand came down to rest on the back of his head, and he pushed Crowley all the way down again, splitting his mouth open with a groan. “Come for me, do it now.”

Crowley, to his own surprise, did, the wave surging up and pushing him over the edge. His cock twitched in his pants, thighs and hips trembling with the effort of keeping still, unable to breathe as Aziraphale came down his throat with a low sigh. Tears flowed down Crowley’s face as he shivered his way through a friction-less, aborted, fucking fantastic climax, becoming even more lightheaded as he struggled to breathe.

Still, the pull of the leash to free him was a relief, the hand in his hair soothing again as he panted, and he rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s hip, world swaying around him as aftershocks sparked through his body, making him shudder and twitch.

“Did— did you really come from that?” He sounded surprised, which made Crowley’s stomach do a funny little flip, but then he just sounded proud. “Oh how lovely you are.”

Crowley felt warmth creep up his spine, even as he became more aware of the pressure on his joints from his position. Still, he couldn’t help himself, and he pressed bruised lips to a freckle on Aziraphale’s hip. “More?”

Aziraphale knelt down and kissed his sweaty forehead first, soothing as he undid the simple knot around his wrists. “No no dear, I think that’s enough of that.” He shushed Crowley’s whine. “You did so good for me, my pet. Let me spoil you now.”

By the time Crowley came back to himself, he was immersed in warm water, being gently bathed in a distracted sort of way as all his senses came back to him. His knees hurt.

He stretched a little, flexing cramped muscles and turned to search for Aziraphale’s face, hands coming up, seeking out a kiss that turned into three that turned into Aziraphale peppering his face with them, slow and soft.

His collar was still on, past experience telling them that it was too jarring to remove without Crowley’s permission, and it instead just kept him content and pliant in Aziraphale’s arms.

“Bed?” Aziraphale asked eventually, tucking a strand of wet hair back into place.

Crowley nodded, and let him up to get out of the tub. “Carry me?”

Aziraphale’s smile was knowing. “Of course.”

“Silk pajamas?”

“Once you’re dry.”

The gold embroidery on Crowley’s collar glimmered in the same way his eyes did. “Read to me?”

“Rotten you are,” Aziraphale replied, and he lifted him out of the water with ease, drying them both with a thought, and then sparing another miracle to dress them. “Spoiled looks good on you my dear.”

“Well-kept,” Crowley argued, as all of Aziraphale’s possessions were well-kept, and the collar stayed on for a little bit longer.