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Summary
He’s kneeling on his bed, hemp rope wrapped around his thighs, then looped around his calves, keeping them tight together. This shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is, trussed up like a Christmas goose. He runs his fingers along the rope, taking in the texture of it. The coarse grain under his fingers is soft, softer than he thought it would be. The pad of his finger bumps over the braiding, tight and secure, holding him here.
Aziraphale stands back, no doubt admiring his handiwork. Crowley takes in the sight of himself, the knots and loops that are almost black against his pale skin, monochrome in the low light. They aren’t black, though, but a very deep purple, a match for the silk shirt currently lying discarded next to his trousers in the other corner of the room.
Series
- Part 9 of 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020