Laced
Sightkeeper posted a bit of fanart in their Patre0n this morning, and of course I have the busiest day I'll have this week, but I had to do this.
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“You can – nngg – go a little tighter, angel.”
“I don’t want to cut off your air supply.”
“Don’t need it.”
“Ah, but you might want it. You make… the prettiest sounds when you’re in the article.”
“That… that’s good. Ngk. Feels… hot, bein’ laced up like that.” Every tug of the laces, every pressure of the stays, had said Aziraphale is doing this, his hands are confining me this way, he’s making me his own.
The parallel track of fingertips down the quilt-stitched satin panels at his flanks, the prickle of scalloped lace where the flesh of his chest was forced upward. “You cut a… fine figure. The boning doesn’t… poke?”
“Like to get poked.”
“Nothing so crude, my dear. Oh, I never get enough of looking at these freckles, it’s like the speckling on a white orchid there below your shoulders.” The ghosting of lips over the bony base of Crowley’s neck. “We must… choose a frock that shows them. I want people to see how lovely. And know only I get to touch.”
“Hnh, where’re they going to see?”
“The Palm Court, I fancy.” A soft fingersnap. “Someone has canceled their reservation for the afternoon tea service. And Mr. Fell shall appear with his stunning companion – lovely russet curls done up with wisps escaping to trail over their neck, lead the eye to those constellations… Mm, yes, red, I think.”
The dress wouldn’t have fit even Crowley’s spare frame before the corset was tightened: a wrap of heavy shantung silk, crimson shading almost to black where a belt gathered the fabric around a middle that Aziraphale could almost have spanned with two hands. “It brings out the serpent in you, dear. Perhaps a hat? And those red-soled shoes that you like so much. Turn round. Oh, yes.” Aziraphale let out a long, shivering breath.
“We shall have champagne, lashings of it, and you shall sit there looking… so elegant. Feeling the pressure, like my hands on you. The confinement. And I’ll say… things to you, very quietly. It’ll make you wet, won’t it? Or hard? I’m not choosy.”
“Ssst. Already.”
“Patience. We shall remain for the whole sitting, and enjoy ourselves, and know that no one is watching any more. Except the humans who’ll envy me. While you think of what I’ll do later. While you’re holding still. Like this.”
A slow, soft kiss on suddenly rouged lips.
“Worship you. Stand you there in your heels while I kneel and do reverence.”
“Fucking – blasphemy, angel.”
“I should hope so.” The slightest track of a fingernail over a bodice that sheltered small nipples, down past the constricted waist. “We’re free now. And if I bind you, it’s only for pleasure.”
He offered his arm; Crowley, swaying on the stiletto heels, took it.
“Let’s be off, my dear. Our table is waiting.”
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