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“Aziraphale, what on Earth's name are you doing in there?”
“I'm nearly finished!”
“Aren’t you the one always fussing about being on-time?”
“Oh, but my bow-tie just won't sit right- mm, and I just can’t decide which cologne to put on.”
“Angel,” Crowley groaned. “We have miracles for that.”
Crowley stood outside the door of their restroom, waiting for Aziraphale to finish ‘freshening up’. He never cared for being on-time to reservations. With the speed in which he drove, they’d only arrive a minute or two late anyways; and if they didn't, well, nothing a quick miracle couldn’t fix.
Unfortunately, he also notoriously did not care for patience.
Aziraphale had told him he'd be busy with shelving at the bookshop for the entire day (as if he'd actually sell any of them) which meant Crowley had spent half the day walking around London and being a general nuisance to locals and tourists alike, and the other half yelling at his plants and rewatching Golden Girls with a glass of an already previously opened bottle of wine at his side.
By early evening, he was already choosing what to wear while slightly buzzed from all the alcohol he'd drunk in the afternoon. Of course, nothing a few rare glasses of water couldn't fix, and so he managed to continue digging around his overwhelmingly dark closet for half an hour.
Needless to say, waiting around doing nothing wasn’t exactly his favourite pastime.
It was 7:51, their reservation was at 8:00, and the drive to The Ritz was around 10 minutes. Aziraphale had been fussing about his hair and bow-tie and damn cologne for roughly the same amount of time. He supposed he’d just need to drive extra, extra fast this time.
When Aziraphale finally opened the door, looking just about the same—which meant: well-groomed and pretty and infuriatingly attractive—as he always did, Crowley sighed and rolled his eyes. But he couldn't help complimenting the angel on his choice of cologne, because he really did smell good. Though, he mostly said it to watch Aziraphale light up and preen.
“Right, come on, let's get going, Angel.”
Crowley didn’t give the bathroom a single glance.
In hindsight, drinking before their date night, the one he scheduled, might not have been the wisest decision he’s ever made.
Crowley watched Aziraphale's lips curl up in a satisfied smile as he tasted his sea bass. Crowley had tasted his own plate and proceeded to forget about it as he drank his wine, watching his angel happily sigh and savour his food. He offered a bite of his lamb, which eventually turned into practically giving up his entire plate to the angel, not even bothering to try the aubergine.
Crowley—though it was far from his favourite—had sipped his Sauvignon Blanc, feeling that familiar tingling in his gut whenever the angel let out a particularly pleased noise as he wrapped soft lips around his fork. Alongside that tingle however, came the less-enjoyable growing pressure in his lower abdomen and behind the base of his cock.
He could have chosen to excuse himself then, could have voided his bladder before it could get any worse.
But then Aziraphale had moaned so passionately it was practically indecent. He began to rave about how exquisitely crispy the skin of his fish was, how delicious the shrimp sauce and lemon purée were, and Crowley’s desire to watch, comfortably sitting front-row to Aziraphale’s pleasure, completely overrode his not-too-pressing need to empty himself.
Aziraphale’s cheeks were already considerably flushed when he'd requested a bottle of Bordeaux from their young server, no doubt from the glasses he'd had before. He looked properly adorable, as he always did, but especially now with his tinted cheeks reminding Crowley of apples. It always made the demon's heart melt whenever Aziraphale’s cheeks turned red; made him want to nibble on them, just to see if his flesh tasted anything like the fruit he'd tempted Eve with back in Eden.
So, it bothered Crowley that he just could not bring himself to focus on admiring his angel. It bothered him that his mind kept wandering.
It bothered him that the only thing he could really focus on was the heaviness of his bladder.
They were waiting on dessert, and with service as impeccable as The Ritz, it never took long. It certainly felt long though, especially now since Crowley’s need was teetering on the edge of urgency. It would be the perfect time to get up and use the restroom, but the thought of Aziraphale's first bite into a dessert was something the demon refused to miss.
The first bite always managed to burn itself into Crowley's memory, ever since Rome, when Aziraphale had invited him for a drink once he found out he was in the area, where he'd witnessed Aziraphale eating his first oyster of the night, tilting his head and excitedly slurping the oyster from its shell, his pink tongue licking the oyster liquor that coated his shiny, wet lips. Crowley’s breath hitched just at the thought of it, the bundling arousal in his stomach and the twitch of his cock a short-lived distraction from his need. He twiddled with the stem of his glass, watching the half-empty glass of white swirl around the sides.
Were it champagne, by now it would be threatening to go flat with how slow he was to drinking.
“Really, the man sells carpets. What need would he have to wait outside a very clearly Closed bookshop?” Aziraphale huffed, pouring himself his third glass of the night, and the last glass their current shared bottle of white had left. “Mm, I do hope he isn't interested in me hosting another meeting...”
“Ever considered he might just be interested in buying a book?” Crowley replied, trying his best to ignore the niggling tension around his pelvis. He rubbed a finger on the rim of his glass and jiggled a leg, trying blessedly hard to distract himself. “Or maybe he's interested. Hoping to visit you, perhaps?”
“Hmph, I'll just have to remind him I am very happily taken.”
Crowley chuckled before a sudden surge of discomfort called attention to his bladder. He grimaced and shifted his hips, crossing one leg over the other. He hoped Aziraphale hadn't noticed. He looked up to check, thanking his sunglasses for helping him hide his eyes through his current struggling. Aziraphale was trying, and failing, not to make it obvious that he was staring, pouting and furrowing his brows as if he were trying to solve a particularly difficult crossword.
Crowley readied himself to change the topic, but just as he was about to speak, their server came up to their table and distracted his angel for him, making small-talk with Aziraphale and successfully turning his attention to three separate plates that were placed in front of them.
The server had also kindly brought the Bordeaux that Aziraphale had requested, a Merlot. Crowley grimaced at the thought of drinking any more than he already had.
He looked at his own dessert, the one which he knew he'd end up giving to Aziraphale anyway, and took a bite. It was good. But Aziraphale would think it was delicious. So, he pushed his soufflé closer towards Aziraphale's raspberry mousse cake. “It’s good. Try it,” Crowley said, trying his best to sound as smooth as possible.
He hoped he could hold it until Aziraphale finished his dessert, because Crowley realised, perhaps a bit too late, the wine was hitting hard and quickly to boot.
“Oh, I couldn't possibly-”
“Just a taste.”
“If you're very sure….”
Crowley loved hearing Aziraphale’s low moan as the velvety feel of chocolate soufflé melted on his tongue. Crowley only wished he could fully enjoy Aziraphale's sounds, but his mind once again began to wander down towards the dull ache in abdomen. He clenched his jaw and pinched his member through his jeans. Crowley attempted to discreetly undo his belt under the table, desperate to relieve himself of the tightness caged between his hips. He assumed he was safe, considering Aziraphale was busy making love to his desserts.
“Crowley.” The demon stiffened, his hand gripping the snake-shaped buckle of his belt. He rubbed his thighs together as his bladder twinged. “Is something the matter?”
“No, no,” Crowley denied, his other hand coming down under the table to squeeze his thigh tight as he fumbled with his belt with the other. “Keep eating, ‘m fine.”
Aziraphale stared. Crowley began to worry he'd figured him out—he really did not feel like being lectured about ‘taking care of one’s corporation’, he wasn't a child. But despite his obvious suspicion, Aziraphale didn't say anything. He simply hummed and continued to eat, allowing Crowley time to relieve his middle from the confines of his snakeskin belt. Aziraphale sipped his wine, enjoying how it paired with the raspberry and chocolate.
After a fair bit of silence, he spoke. “My dear, you really should finish your wine.”
Crowley froze. He had forgotten about it. He eyed his Sauvignon Blanc, frowning slightly deeper as his bladder sent another warning twinge, forcing him to swallow down a groan.
“I know whites aren't exactly your favourite, but we've got a bottle of Merlot right here for us to share once you’ve finished that.” Aziraphale smiled up at him sweetly. “Even if you seldom eat, I'd like you to enjoy yourself too.”
On most days, Aziraphale’s honeyed voice and kind smile was enough to convince him of anything. But right now, with the few glasses of water, and what must have been a bottle's worth of wine, that had been slowly filling his bladder throughout the day, it was hard to be convinced.
Crowley shook his head and nervously cleared his throat.
“No, don't- don't worry about me, Angel.” Crowley looked away, and even behind his eyeglasses, he somehow felt as if Aziraphale could tell he was avoiding eye-contact. “Always enjoy dinner when it's with you, you know that.”
Crowley thought he'd get away with that, but then Aziraphale’s eyes began to droop. He had never been very good at hiding his emotions. Crowley's heart clenched, not wanting to upset his angel. The thought of disappointing him had him worrying.
“Oh, if you say so,” Aziraphale muttered, hanging his head lower.
Crowley was not very strong when it came to Aziraphale.
Crowley breathed in to steel himself before he gulped down the remaining bit of his wine, which had lost its crisp acidity as it warmed to room-temp. He let out a quiet whine as he set his glass down, crossing his legs and squeezing himself under the table.
“Right. Better be a bloody good bottle,” Crowley grumbled.
Aziraphale immediately perked up. The gleeful grin that spread across his face nearly made up for the discomfort Crowley was feeling. “Oh, do keep your standards reasonable. We’ve got better ones at the bookshop, you know that,” Aziraphale said, smirking smugly.
He knew what Crowley liked: a quality red. Crowley couldn't turn down the offer and change his opinion out of nowhere just because he needed a wee. He tried not to whimper as he watched the deep garnet liquid pour out the bottle, filling his glass half-way. He took a sip, and as much as he did like it, he couldn’t appreciate it one bit when he could feel the ache in his taut abdomen.
Aziraphale took another bite of the soufflé, happily shimmying in his seat. Crowley didn’t only like watching Aziraphale eating just for the noises he made - although it was certainly up there. He adored Aziraphale because he savoured every meal made with love; adored that he took the time to appreciate the flavours that somebody took the time to perfect, unlike any other angel Upstairs.
Watching his angel eat reminded him of where he was.
Something in his chest tightened as he looked left and right. Aziraphale might be too busy with his food, but would someone with a keener eye see him squirming? It was an embarrassing thought, and later on he'd have to figure out if anybody did, just to make sure the image of him wriggling around in his seat was permanently erased from their memory.
He jiggled both legs, trying to distract himself from the fact his piss was sloshing around his bladder, threatening to spill. A particularly strong urge to let go had him taking a sharp breath, a spurt of piss escaping his bladder. He bit his lip and rolled his hips, silently thankful that Aziraphale didn’t mind his restless nature - demon and whatnot. He couldn't feel the wet spot from outside, but he was beginning to doubt it would stay that way for much longer.
He needed to get up, immediately. He made a valiant effort to stand, but realised mid-way that if he attempted to walk, everybody would see him.
Fuck, he thought. FuckfuckfuckFUCK!
Even now, he could barely stand straight. He clenched his muscles and winced as gravity made his bladder feel even heavier. There was no way he would be able to hide his desperation, and all those humans dining together in their posh, swanky get-ups would see him in dire need of a wee.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale called. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” Crowley whispered, sounding wholly unconvincing. Another spurt and he whined, a slow but steady stream of piss dribbling from his cock. “Just… thought I saw someone we knew behind you… Um, ‘s nobody though.”
His pants were damp, and they were only going to get damper. A wet spot was forming right where his tip was nestled in his trousers.
Humiliation prickled at his skin, made his face burn with shame.
Slowly, Crowley sat back down, hoping to Someone that Aziraphale hadn't been looking anywhere below his torso. He tried to think of how to go about this, how he might last the rest of the night and end it with what little dignity he still had left intact, but he could barely think as his bladder continued to throb.
Aziraphale brushed a foot against his ankle under the table.
“Angel,” Crowley hissed. “We are in public.”
Aziraphale kept quiet as he toed up Crowley's leg.
Aziraphale's dismissiveness only fanned the flame of arousal in Crowley's gut. A shiver ran down Crowley's spine and a desperate sob tore through his throat as Aziraphale continued to rub him through his jeans, circling the toe of his shoe at Crowley's piss-wet tip. Crowley clamped his thighs down on Aziraphale's shoe, a jet of piss escaping his bladder, then another, and another.
Dammit. Aziraphale's foot was wedged between his thighs. He'd be furious if I pissed on these!
Aziraphale forced one of Crowley's legs open and the demon choked on nothing as a shoe slowly made its way to his cock, which had stiffened since the humiliating realisation of what he was dealing with so many people around. He whined, hips twitching as he tried not to grind on Aziraphale's insole. Aziraphale pressed down on his stiffening cock, his full bladder trying not to empty itself all over the beloved piece of footwear.
He looked up, frantically checking to see if any other patrons had heard or noticed them. But nobody had. Not a single soul was paying attention to their blatant display of indecency.
That's impossible.
“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale said, an octave lower than usual. “Nobody will notice.”
A terrible surge of desperation hit him, and he began to leak.
Not a jet, not a spurt. He was leaking.
Musicians were still playing, patrons were still dining, servers were still working, time was still moving. And he was leaking.
Aziraphale withdrew his shoe from the demon's erection. Crowley’s entire body burned—with shame, and anxiety, and above all else, desire. He hunched over the table, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt warmth pooling under his arse. He whimpered as a loud hissing echoed in his ear, the fist-sized wet spot near his crotch grew slightly larger.
“Crowley?”
The demon breathed in deeply, forcing himself to stem his flow. Cutting it off was difficult, but he managed for now. He side-eyed the table right next to them—a young couple, probably meant to be engaged soon—both of them were too caught up in their own world to notice what was going on just beside them. By miracle, everybody in the damn restaurant just so happened to be too caught up in their own world to notice them; the two were practically invisible.
It was dirty.
Crowley didn't know he could grow any harder.
“I’ll stop if you wish. I'll remove the cloak around us and we can continue the rest of the night as normal. It's up to you, dearest,” Aziraphale assured, his gentle voice sending a thrill down Crowley’s body. But he was smirking. That knowing smirk he always pulled whenever something he'd suspected turned out to be correct. Oh, bugger. “Unless, of course, there's something else bothering you?”
Crowley swallowed. “‘Course not,” he lied.
Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, observing him. Crowley held back the urge to squirm, both from Aziraphale’s gaze and his insistent bladder. The angel shrugged and went back to eating, talking about whatever. Crowley was finding it difficult to listen and reply with anything more clever than vague sounds of agreement, too distracted by his half-hard, dribbling cock.
Could always just… Crowley nibbled on his lower lip, debating whether or not he should do what he was thinking of. His bladder answered for him, forcing another spurt, and eventually a gentle stream, trying to release the most amount of pressure that he could without completely wetting himself.
Shit. The wet spot on his jeans had grown far larger; he could feel how it had spread—no longer only around his crotch, but in his inner thigh as well. Even if he gave up his pride and walked over to the restrooms, if someone looked hard enough, they’d see the darker wet spot on his already-dark jeans.
“Crowley, tell me what’s going on.”
Damn, damn, damn!
“Might… might need the toilet,” he mumbled, a drop of sweat rolling down his forehead. His bladder panged and he sucked in a breath. Crowley’s face burned hotter than it already was, the tips of his ears glowing bright red. He could barely believe what he’d been doing: allowing himself to leak, just to feel some sort of relief from his overfilled bladder. “Bless it, I'm desperate.”
Aziraphale tapped his lip with his fork as he gave a thoughtful hum, completely unsurprised.
Crowley blushed.
“And I trust you’ve been dealing with this—” Aziraphale gestured his fork to his squirming demon. “—by relieving yourself on your chair? Is that what’s been happening?”
Crowley blushed harder, the shame roiling throughout his entire body, making him hot all over—from his head to his toes.
“How come you didn't go earlier?”
“Didn’t wanna distract you from your meal,” Crowley mumbled. Aziraphale gave him a sickeningly fond look and giggled which only added to Crowley's embarrassment. He made it a point to look at anywhere but Aziraphale. “I can’t stand… ‘s too much on my- you know.”
“Surely you wouldn't waste good wine?” Even when Crowley knew that Aziraphale knew better, he managed to sound so genuine. “Just that glass, dear. Then you can go use their facilities. I'll make extra sure nobody notices you.”
Crowley groaned, leaning back to ease the pressure.
“Why can't I go now?” He sounded uncharacteristically meek, whiny. “Please, I’ll be quick.”
“You’ve held it longer before, I'm sure.” He was right, and Crowley hated that he was right. But it was during his multi-year naps, and there wasn't exactly a way to drink regularly when you're unconscious—it was unfair to compare the two. “So drink up, hop-hop!”
So much wine in such a short amount of time would have had any human slurring their words at this point, but Crowley felt far too sober—feverish and jumpy and, Someone, he was desperate!
Aziraphale was no longer eating, his soufflé still on the table only half-eaten. He took a sip of his own wine, eyeing Crowley's glass.
He didn't need to say it. Crowley listened. He always did.
As Crowley took generous sips, he was far too aware of how the denim of his trousers had soaked in his urine. He had leaked so much that it would no longer truly make a difference if he just let go. He squirmed, and whined, and groaned, all the while Aziraphale continued eating his food—far quieter than usual—as he watched, amusement and something else darker; more heated twinkling in his eyes. He swallowed his drink down, revelling in the burn of alcohol in his stomach being the one real distraction to his need.
Every few minutes, he purposely let out another spurt, trying to alleviate as much pressure as he could. He wanted to let go, needed to let go. He needed relief. He was nearly through with his glass, and couldn't wait to finish it. He sipped, he gulped, he kept on drinking.
Whenever he checked, however, it remained only nearly finished.
He looked into Aziraphale's eyes, despairing as he tried to ask why it seemed like his glass was refusing to be drained. His stomach sank as Aziraphale grinned up at him. Crowley realised how futile his attempt was at finishing his ‘final glass’ from the very beginning.
His bladder gave him one final warning. It cramped, and his hand flew down to squeeze himself between his legs, knitted right together like a pretzel. A strong burst of urine flowed through his fingers and he gasped.
He tried to cut it off, tried to stop himself from losing control.
It was a hopeless attempt.
“Oh God,” Crowley whimpered. Piss gushed out of his cock, flooding his jeans—the dam had burst and he was hopeless to stop it. His jeans glistened under the warm light of the restaurant lights. He was pissing himself in public, and even if nobody was paying any mind to it, he was still really there, defiling his own dining seat. “Oh, shit…”
It was filthy. It was beyond humiliating.
He was so hard.
“Dear me, couldn’t you have held on for just a few more minutes?”
Crowley sobbed, allowing the muscles of his overworked bladder to relax, panting as he listened to his noisy stream rushing out of him. Urine cascaded down his legs and thighs like a waterfall, his denim jeans soaking up what it could. He let out a loud, shaky, wanton moan, knowing nobody else but Aziraphale was currently physically capable of paying him any mind. He was mortified, knowing his angel could still see him; like he was putting on a private show.
Only, it wasn’t private was it? If Aziraphale wished to, he could lift whatever miracle he was holding up, and surely everyone would notice him immediately. They would see how his once-dry seat had formed a puddle under it; they’d hear all his pathetic sounds of relief, ones he couldn’t hold in. If Aziraphale wished.
Across the table, all Aziraphale wished was that the table weren't blocking his view.
“Angel,” Crowley whined. “I can’t- it’s too- fuck!”
"Oh, what a shame, you were nearly finished with your glass too…”
Aziraphale palmed himself through his trousers, an entirely different kind of wet spot where the head of his cock rested as he watched Crowley losing the fight for control over his body. He pulled his cock out, giving himself a few light strokes as Crowley kept going, and going, and going—it was never-ending. His prick twitched in his hand, a groan bubbling in his throat at the image right in front of him: of his sleek, confident demon debasing his seat with his piss. The angel could see how the massive puddle his lover was leaving under his chair grew.
Aziraphale's bladder twinged in sympathy.
Crowley pressed down on his lower abdomen, groaning as he felt his bladder deflating under his palm. He straightened slightly from his relaxed sprawl, his chest still rising with shallow breath, the loud hissing continuing, noticeably less intense; like it was finally slowing down. Crowley sighed shakily, removing his sunglasses and throwing them on the dining table. There, he sat, sweaty, red, in a pool of his own urine. The pounding of his very own heart echoed in his ears, drowned out the sound of pianos playing and people speaking.
When he’d finally finished after nearly a minute and a half, his head was so fuzzy he only barely caught a similar sound reappearing; a gentler trickling, the wet sloshing of fabric absorbing liquid. Crowley grunted, looking down at himself in confusion. He wasn’t still pissing right now, was he?
“Ah… It’s- it’s so warm…”
Crowley’s heart rate picked up, pounding faster than it already had been. The demon was still painfully hard, the outline of his erection straining under his drenched denim; it was starting to get uncomfortable, but if he touched himself now, he’d surely finish too soon. He wanted to last just a bit longer. Aziraphale was wetting himself. On purpose. In his favourite bloody restaurant.
“Mmmh, wine just goes right through you, doesn’t it. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”
Crowley was staring, his pupils blown and his eyes wide, his mouth parted in shock. He shook his head, spluttering out a choked ‘no’ which earned him a fond smile before the soft moan escaped Aziraphale’s chest.
Oh, Satan - Crowley’s hand came down to rub himself through his wet trousers. The pitter-patter of liquid—Aziraphale’s piss—hitting the floor had him groaning, painfully turned-on. He scooped up a bit of his own urine into his palm, pouring it down his painfully hard prick. Oh, God - he was no longer wet with just urine, leaking pre-coming. He used two fingers to stroke his shaft through the fabric, rubbing and massaging like a filthy voyeur as he watched Aziraphale finish emptying himself.
“Goodness. I hadn’t realised how much I was holding,” Aziraphale said through a breathy chuckle, far too casually for what he’d just done, drunk on lust. Crowley let out a shivery oh before he pulled his prick out, shivering at the cold air. He whimpered as his hard cock slapped his silky shirt. He was rock hard and red with want, leaking like a faucet - not all that different from his state just a minute or two ago.
Aziraphale was touching himself as well, his arm giving him away even if he was still under the table. Crowley was so, so wet—in multiple senses of the word. He miracled his hand slick before he jerked himself off with a ring formed by his thumb and index, twisting as he stroked up and down, his arousal blazing and melting his insides. It didn’t take long for his orgasm to catch up; quiet whimpers coming from his throat, listening to breathy moans falling from Aziraphale’s lips.
“I’m gonna come, ah, gonna come,” Crowley said, picking up speed. He spread his legs wider and formed a slick fist, bucking up into his warm palm. Warmth spread throughout his body, a tingling sensation needling his tight skin. His abdomen tensed and his groin tightened, and he knew he was done for. He gasped, thick white ropes painting under the table and over his shirt. “Angel…!”
It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to reach his own climax, moaning out his demon’s name as he came all over his fist.
They sat there for a few seconds, minds still processing what they’d just done. Aziraphale was first to react, though not verbally. He snapped and suddenly they were clean—their chairs, their table, their clothes—all of it gone, like nothing had ever happened. Slowly, Crowley’s sense of surroundings began to clear. He was still red and sweaty, fucked-out despite not having been touched by anyone but himself, but he could hear clearer, see everybody clearer.
He didn’t need to be told to act more in-line; he could tell others would be able to notice them now.
“Mr. Fell?” A professional sounding voice called. It was a server, the very one who’d given them their Merlot. Crowley jumped, rushing to stick his sunglasses back on his face before he scared their server away with his serpentine eyes. “Would you be interested in our Petits Fours?”
Aziraphale shook his head, preparing the bill.
“No need, my dear,” He said. He was out-of-breath, those apple-red cheeks that Crowley loved so much presently spread on his face. He turned to Crowley. “How about you, darling?”
Crowley, absolutely exhausted from an orgasm he had no proof of ever experiencing except for the fact his entire body felt like jelly, replied with a hoarse: “I’m good, Angel.”
“Lovely. Would you package our leftovers for us, please?”
Their server nodded and left to wrap up the rest of Aziraphale’s desserts and return the Bordeaux to its box to bring home, completely oblivious to what had gone on in the very same table The Ritz’s most loyal patrons had occupied.
On the drive back to the bookshop, Crowley made plans for Aziraphale, involving that very same bottle of Merlot.