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The gag is a tremendously complicated contraption. Crowley finds himself wondering if Aziraphale had specifically miracled it into existence for this purpose, or if there’s actually a market out there for such things. It’s a single piece of wrought iron, heavy and crude, tasting of metal in his mouth. The weight of it makes his jaw ache. The gag circles his entire head, with two thick bits between his back teeth that keep his mouth open. A thinner iron bar, connecting the two, holds his tongue down. Helpless, he can do nothing but drool. He feels stupid, exposed, vulnerable, and desperately aroused as Aziraphale finishes fitting it into place.
“Very good,” Aziraphale says, with that fond, distracted tone that sends Crowley plummeting into submission. “Remind me why you need this?”
Crowley tries to answer, since he knows that’s what Aziraphale wants—he never gives commands idly. It comes out as a garbled, animalistic grunt, and Aziraphale smiles down at him.
“Foolish of me. That’s all right, I’ll remind you. I had to gag you like this because you’re such a desperate slut you can’t stop yourself from sucking my cock, isn’t that right?”
Crowley nods. The iron makes his teeth throb as he does.
“Since you can’t be good on your own, I have to do this to you.”
And yes, that feels right. Divine punishment. Aziraphale’s righteous flame. All on Crowley.
“Crawl. Under the desk.”
He doesn’t have far to go, since he’s already kneeling, but he obediently falls onto his hands and moves. He can feel Aziraphale’s eyes on his bare back and arse as he settles himself back into position after his earlier failure.
Aziraphale sits down at the desk, pulling himself into place. His desk chair is as plush and comfortable as everything else he owns (with the possible exception of Crowley), and he spreads his legs apart, settling in peacefully. He takes his time about it, pulling his chair into the exact position he wants, completely ignoring the fact that his lover is kneeling underneath the desk, naked, with his mouth held open and dripping wet. He reminds himself of the lecture he’d been treated to after his earlier failure. His angel doesn’t care to use him right now. Just to have him here, at the ready, in his place. For Aziraphale to take, when he decides the time is right.
Eventually, Aziraphale decides that he’s comfortable in his seat. He reaches under the desk to undo his trousers, which have an old-fashioned button fly because of course they do. He could order Crowley to do it, but that might rather undo the point of ignoring him, here. Then Aziraphale’s hands are in Crowley’s hair, and Crowley is being tugged into place around Aziraphale’s soft cock. The lack of visible arousal—though logically Crowley knows it’s more likely angelic self-control than disinterest in the proceedings—sends a shiver of pleasant humiliation through Crowley.
At once, the instinct to suck rushes through him, but the gag in his mouth prevents him from lifting his tongue or hollowing his cheeks or doing anything but holding Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth. It’s a little difficult for Crowley to breathe, but he doesn’t care abut that. Doesn’t care about anything, in fact, except Aziraphale settling him into place.
Now that he has Crowley where he wants him, Aziraphale releases his hair and begins to work at his desk. He’s writing something—Crowley can hear it, the sound of the old-fashioned pen the angel prefers scraping against a sheet of paper. He’s very conscious of the sound, of every little shift in Aziraphale’s breathing, or minute motion of his body in the chair.
Some amount of time passes.
Time starts to become rather slippery for Crowley. It might have been two minutes, or two months, that he’s been on his knees for the angel, his mouth filled with Aziraphale’s cock, the gag forcing his mouth still and open, and the angel ignoring him entirely.
It isn’t exactly a comfortable position, to be clear. The gag is heavy and a little painful, a constant throb around his back teeth. It’s strange to have his tongue tied down. He can’t stop drooling on himself, a thin trickle constantly dripping from his mouth, which makes him feel humiliated and desperate all at once. Funnily enough, he supposes he could reach up and wipe it away, his hands being unbound, but he knows better. Aziraphale hasn’t given him permission to move.
So he stays where he was placed, open and wet. It feels like his entire being has dwindled down to his spread mouth, to the weight of Aziraphale’s cock on his bound tongue. He’s transformed into a tool, an object, to warm Aziraphale’s cock until the angel finds another use for him. Lost in the delight of that, he drifts happily, leaning into the discomfort, relishing the long expanse of time that spreads through his mind.
Something startles him back to reality, though, when the door to the bookshop opens.
“Ah, Gabriel,” Aziraphale says above him, and then the scratching of his pen resumes.
“Yes. Hello, Aziraphale.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up. I’m rather occupied at the moment.”
Gabriel’s voice has a tone in it that it’s never had before. Rather than haughty and self-assured, he sounds a little… almost meek. “Of course. Sorry to disturb you.”
Crowley’s known Gabriel since the beginning of time, and he’s pretty sure the archangel has never apologized before. For anything. Ever. “What can I do for you?” Aziraphale says, the words perfectly pleasant, but his voice is still… well, it’s the same voice he uses on Crowley when he needs to get him to submit. Not cruel, not domineering, just… self-assured. Vividly so.
“Uh, just stopping by for a status report. Wondering how… how things are going. If there’s anything you need, in your work.”
“All is quite well, thank you. No troubles here.” Aziraphale does not elaborate, though he’s told Crowley enough about his relationship with Heaven that Crowley knows some details are usually required. Today, that does not seem to be the case.
“Ah. Good. Good work as usual, I suppose. Commendation in order. Well, I’ll be going.”
“Enjoy your afternoon,” Aziraphale says pleasantly, as the sound of his pen scratching at his paper resumes. It continues until Gabriel has presumably taken himself out of the shop, leaving the sound of the door shutting behind him. Then, all at once, Aziraphale is getting to his feet.
He pushes his chair back from the desk and stands, reaching underneath to tug at Crowley’s hair so the demon has no choice but to follow. He gags a little as the movement forces Aziraphale’s cock into his throat, but he moves eagerly forward. At last, Aziraphale is getting hard in his mouth.
Aziraphale says nothing to Crowley, nothing at all, and that’s just perfect. It’s as if he doesn’t exist, as if he’s truly nothing more than the warm hole around Aziraphale’s thickening erection.
Besides, it’s not like there are any orders he could follow. He knows enough to stay on his knees, and that’s about it. He can’t even lick or suck with this gag in his mouth.
So he just waits as Aziraphale tugs him into place, holding his hair hard enough that his eyes start to water, and then starts to fuck his face. Crowley is already wet and drooling, his whole face smeared with spit from all the time he’d spent under Aziraphale’s desk warming his cock. That makes it easy for Aziraphale to slide in, all the way in to the root, forcing the head of his cock into Crowley’s gagging, tensing throat. He holds Crowley there as he hardens to fullness, and then begins to fuck him in earnest.
He holds Crowley still by the hair, and he uses him, the way Crowley begs him to on a regular basis, would beg him to right now if he weren’t gagged in several ways. His cock, perfectly long and thick, slides in and out of Crowley’s mouth, dripping with spit. He shoves into Crowley’s throat with enough force that Crowley gags every time, and Aziraphale, bless him, ignores it. He pays no apparent attention to Crowley’s gasps for air, to the cut-off desperate sound he makes as Aziraphale’s thrusts force their way into his abused, aching throat. He chases his own pleasure with a single-mindedness that Crowley adores in him in all contexts, but especially this one.
Crowley himself is lost in the sensations. He can’t breathe, and his jaw is absolutely aching, and the animalistic choked noises he makes every time Aziraphale hits the back of his throat are humiliating, and he doesn’t care about any of that. No, no, that’s not quite right. He wants that, wants every bit of it, wants to be used up for Aziraphale’s pleasure. It’s so good, when it’s like this, when he’s at his angel’s mercy and his angel gives him none.
It goes on for a long time, because Aziraphale has that angelic self-control, and he clearly isn’t done using Crowley yet. He fucks Crowley’s mouth until Crowley has stopped gagging, until his whole face is stained with spit and tears, and then, without a word, without warning, he comes down Crowley’s throat. His release burns, sacred fluid down Crowley’s abused and torn throat, and Crowley feels sanctified and claimed and perfect.
Crowley is so far gone that, when Aziraphale moves to pull out of his mouth, he lets out a small whimper of displeasure and shifts forward, burying his face in Aziraphale’s pelvis. Fortunately, that doesn’t seem to anger his angel. Instead, Aziraphale laughs, as if amused by the antics of a naughty pet. “Is that how it is, Crowley?”
He whimpers again.
“Not ready to be put away just yet, hmm?”
He loves when Aziraphale addresses him like that. Loves the reminder that he’s the angel’s toy. A thing to be used, as he just has been, and stored when he’s not needed. But, no, he doesn’t want Aziraphale to put him away yet. He wants to be allowed to continue serving his angel the way he had before, for a while longer, maybe, if he’s lucky, forever.
“You’re so greedy,” Aziraphale chides, just the lightest touch of genuine scolding in his voice. “Which I suppose is only to be expected from you, but still. It never fails to shock, how desperate you are for your own degradation.”
Crowley would moan at that, but he literally cannot.
“Shh,” Aziraphale murmurs, the hand in Crowley’s hair turning, momentarily, gentle. “That’s all right. I know exactly what you need. And I’m going to keep you in your place.”
Crowley could kiss Aziraphale’s boots for that. He could… well, he could kneel under his desk, warming his cock. Which is exactly what he’s going to get to do.
“Just while I finish my book, mind,” Aziraphale says, a note of sharpness in his voice. “I do have more important things to do than use your hole all day long.”
Right, of course. It doesn’t matter. Every second of this is perfect. Every moment that Aziraphale keeps him like this, kneeling and subservient, in use, is more than he could ever ask for. Though he does ask for it, of course.
Aziraphale manhandles him back under the desk, with a grip on his hair and a knee to his chest, and Crowley eagerly folds himself back into position. As Aziraphale settles down, so, too, does he, gradually beginning to relax as he gets himself accustomed to being in this place once again. It’s less active than having his face fucked by Aziraphale, a little more sustainable and comfortable, but it’s just as delightfully submissive. He can still taste the remnants of Aziraphale’s burning, brilliant seed on his tongue, can feel the tracks of tears and spit down his face. He knows how well used he is, and how lucky he is to be so.
This time, Aziraphale is reading, not working, at his desk. Crowley can hear the occasional delicate flutter of a page turning, can hear the even rhythm of Aziraphale’s breath, somewhere above him. Every once in a while, Aziraphale will hum a little bit to himself, a soothing, gentle sound. He doesn’t pay Crowley any mind in particular, just lets him settle there, around Aziraphale’s cock, keeping it warm in his mouth, staying in his place.
Soft and plaint and perfectly content, he kneels there at his angel’s feet.
After some amount of time—he couldn’t even pretend to know how much—Aziraphale moves to stand again. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale is going to use his mouth to get off again. He’s not sure he could stand it, with how bad the cramps around his jaw are getting, but he’d also love it.
Instead, Aziraphale pulls himself free of Crowley’s mouth, but replaces the loss with a gentle hand on top of his head.
“We have to stop now, my sweet boy.”
Crowley lets out a little moan of loss.
“I know, my love, but I’m afraid that you may hurt yourself if you stay there any longer. Will you let me bring you down?”
Crowley would much prefer his opinion not be asked on the matter, or indeed on any matter. Which he would tell Aziraphale, if he could speak. But he’s still gagged and even if he weren’t, his mouth is probably too dry to actually form words. Still, Aziraphale has a pretty solid understanding of what his body language can mean at this point.
So he sits on the ground, so his knees are barely touching Crowley’s, and removes the gag carefully. “You don’t need to try to speak yet,” he assures Crowley, who hums gratefully. “We can stay right here for a moment, all right?”
Aziraphale’s hands are so gentle on his face, as he strokes his fingers down Crowley’s cheek.
“Let me get you cleaned up, my dear.” He snaps his fingers, and there’s a warm, damp washcloth in his hand. He begins by wiping Crowley’s face clean of the fluids that have accumulated there. His touch is careful but thorough, particularly around the abused corners of Crowley’s lips where the gag had stretched them why. “Oh my. You’re bleeding a bit. Does it hurt? Nod or shake your head.”
Crowley gives the slightest nod. Yes, but not enough that he requires angelic intervention for it. It’ll heal in a matter of minutes.
“Good. Do you feel ready to stand?”
Crowley considers this question. He’s been on his knees for a long time now, and he’s not sure of that. Eventually, he shakes his head.
“That’s all right, love.” He snaps his fingers again, and they’re on their overstuffed sofa, Crowley seated between Aziraphale’s legs, leaning back against his chest. Aziraphale is handing Crowley a glass of cool water with a straw in it. “I want you to sip this for me, pet. Nice and slow, okay?”
The glass feels heavy in Crowley’s hands, like he barely has the strength to lift it, but he does as he was told, and is rewarded with the gentle press of Aziraphale’s lips in his hair.
“Such a sweet boy. Would you like me to let you come now?”
Crowley shakes his head, slightly. He’s still hard, painfully so, but it isn’t what he wants. This was about Aziraphale, not him. He’d say that, if his mouth was working, but it’s not. Aziraphale understands, though.
“All right, my dear one. That’s all right. I’ve got you.”
He holds Crowley while he drinks the water, occasionally whispering an endearment or encouragement at him.
“You did so well for me. You make me feel so good—such pleasure, such power, all from you. I’m so lucky.”
Between sips, Aziraphale massages his jaw, the throbbing muscles there exquisitely painful under his touch. He kisses Crowley’s neck, the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear. He tells him again and again how well he’s done, how good he’s been, how pleased his angel is, how lucky he is to have Crowley like this.
Crowley knows that soon, he’ll want to talk things over. The sweet haze of subspace won’t last forever, and he’ll be back with Aziraphale, back in his right mind, soon enough. Now, though, he can just be here, held safe, owned and treasured all at once.