Good Omens by T. Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. I don't own any of the characters here, nor anything to do with Terry Pratchett / Neil Gaiman.
Enjoy.
"Head down, Crowley."
The demon glanced up at his counterpart, standing above him. He pulled on the handcuffs testily and hissed.
"Head down." Aziraphale pushed the back of his neck down, strain sending pain up his neck. Crowley gritted his teeth and bit down on the remark.
"Come on, Crowley, punishment has to be taken willingly."
The sound of the whip hurts more than the sting, he thought. The angel sniffed behind him, the tool at his side again now.
"Confess."
Crowley didn't say anything, thinking hard.
"Every tape in my car turns into Best of Queen."
Aziraphale sighed slightly then muttered,
"Repentance."
And the whip sounded out on the plaster walls.
--
Crowley moaned aloud, hair curtaining his face from the world. Aziraphale's short gasps between breaths were the only sound in the room, besides the slight echo.
"Confess, Crowley." He said for the fifteenth time.
"...I can't, Aziraphale." He murmured through gritted teeth. This penance was far harder than he'd imagined and nothing he'd wanted to admit had come from his mouth. It was the sheer pleasure of chastisement that Aziraphale was inflicting upon the demon that made him avoid the matter of sin. There were more things to be thinking about at the moment.
"Yes you can, Crowley, come on." The blond boy's voice was clear but firm, like the whip. Deep welts were covering the most of his back, his aching torso shuddering with every breath, tired and bound limbs tender.
"I can't..." he shook his hair. Aziraphale's soft hand ran over his bare back and brushed the dark sores. The slightest touch from the angel made Crowley tremble.
"You want me to make you?"
"No." the demon whispered, Aziraphale pulled his head up and leaned to his eye-level. Pure blue eyes peered at him from under the tousled fawn hair, searching for his weak spot.
"I know what you should give reparation for. And so do you." He pulled the demon's head forwards into a kiss, slender fingers sliding into his hair. Crowley closed his eyes, savouring the sweet moment before it was ripped away, Aziraphale let go and walked around him like a vulture.
"Go on then."
"I can't."
The sting of the whip came unexpected now, Crowley cried out finally. Head tilted up, he breathed out shakily, chest juddering. The hairs on the back of his neck stood u, pressure from the tight jeans on his bulging crotch agonizing now.
"Az..." he moaned, lowering his head again and pressing his forehead against the hard wooden chair. The angel struck him again, and he yelled once again.
Aziraphale ran one cold hand over his shoulder and sat between Crowley and the chair, legs draped over his. Two hands snaked across his naked waist, mouth lowered to his shoulder now. He bit softly and dug his fingertips into Crowley's waist, savouring the shudder of his hard warm body. The demon curled his fingers around the cold metal handcuffs and opened his mouth. Aziraphale kissed his shoulder over and over again, working up towards his neck. Crowley let out a hiss and tilted his head up, pale neck exposed and unprotected. The angel fiercely took what was offered and bit hard, sending more enjoyable pain jolts up his spine.
"Aziraphale!"
--
Silk sheets curled under his fingers, the soft skin of his lower stomach meeting it. Pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure, pain, pleasure...
Then just pleasure. Softly curled hair brushing his back, the feel of warm angelic lips on his shoulder blades. More pleasure.
--
Harsh morning light on Crowley's eyes made him clench the silken sheets under his fingers. He shifted down and met something even softer and smoother; the demon opened his tainted orange eyes.
"Good morning, Crowley."
Crowley closed them again heavily. That voice...
"Aziraphale..."
It made him quiver...
Aziraphale sat up in bed and looked down on him, hair undone now. It fell around his face, framing it in soft taupe tresses. How he made him quiver...
"Did you sleep well?" He spoke softly with a soft sarcastic undertone. No... It wasn't sarcasm. It was something deeper, something far more sensual.
Something ineffable.