a_fell | (no subject)

There's a moment where the sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, refuse to peel off quite as they should. But Crowley wrestles free of them quickly enough, hands going back to Aziraphael's waist where they make good on their promise: sly, hot fingers snaking beneath the waistband of the angel's pyjamas.

This -

(really is meant to be all about you)

Yes. This is familiar ground.

"I hope," Crowley says, grin smug and voice breathless. "I hope you didn't have any plans for this morning."

"Hmm," Aziraphael hums through his smile. His breath catches when Crowley's fingers insinuate themselves beneath his waistband, but he's - there - got past the button, at least, on Crowley's trousers. This stretchy waistband affair on the pyjama bottoms isn't fair at all, he thinks vaguely. To even the odds, (or so he tells himself), he edges the two of them, gently but inexorably, in the direction of the bed.

"That depends entirely," he says, "upon what you mean by plans." and leans carefully forward until both of them topple onto the rumpled blankets.

The thing about literally falling into bed is that it isn't at all as romantic as it sounds - far too many opportunities for knocking foreheads or noses, or for landing elbows and knees in unfortunate places. This morning, however, they strike lucky; the only casualty of the springy mattress is Crowley's chin, which gets rather a bump from Aziraphael's shoulder.

(Or, to put it another way: Aziraphael's shoulder, which gets a rather sharp jab from Crowley's chin.)

"Other plans," he clarifies, rubbing his chin and grinning behind his hand.

"Terribly sorry," Aziraphael says, not sounding particularly sorry at all, but he does duck a little lower to drop kisses along Crowley's jaw. It's close to his chin, after all.

He braces his weight on one elbow, which means the other hand is free to roam. It does, slowly, lingering on Crowley's face, the underside of his chin, that ever-fascinating collarbone.

It might occur to him to move up the bed sooner or later.

Kissing along Crowley's jaw, Aziraphael probably feels it before he sees it: a deep breath, chest rising under the angel's fingers, and then - jaw cracking, breath warm - Crowley yawns.

"I do hope you aren't getting tired," the angel says, a warning note in his voice. His free hand abruptly detours from its lazy tracery to slide all the way down Crowley's chest, past the open button of his trousers, and makes short work of the zipper there.

"Joking," Crowley says, though there's a certain - hitch to his snigger, layered over the purr of his zipper. His fingers press gently around Aziraphael's arm.

"Won't do it again."

"I should certainly hope not," Aziraphael says, a playful note of warning in his voice. He doesn't move his arm, but doesn't lift his hand, either.

"Perhaps we should--" he begins, nodding in the direction of the headboard. Their legs are mostly on the bed, but falling onto it has ended with them in a haphazard sprawl.

Expression comically polite, Crowley makes an after you sort of gesture.

Aziraphael is lying on top of him, after all.

"Hmm," he says, and with a sigh, he backs carefully (gangly elbows have minds of their own) into a hunch at the end of the bed so that Crowley can move backward.

The shift in position doesn't pacify the hungry look in his eyes, however.

Crowley's well aware; it makes it hard to slither up the bed with quite as much grace as he'd have liked. He gets there, though, and even manages to avoid bumping his head against the headboard in his distraction.

The pillows are - had he noticed how downy they were, before falling asleep? They're so comfortable (he sinks back against them with a blissful grin), and he loves the feel of the cotton against his shoulders - cool and comfortably rumpled, and with a most obscenely high threadcount.

"Much better," he pronounces, crawling up to join Crowley with more-than-usual speed and less-than-usual grace, which means that he nearly succeeds in kicking over a table lamp.

"Where was I," he muses, but he stops moving up before he reaches quite the same position he was in previously. "Here, I believe," and he tucks the fingers of both hands beneath Crowley's waistband and gives his trousers a gentle tug.

Crowley lifts his hips obligingly, but, loath on principle to make anything so easy, he curves his hand around the back of Aziraphael's neck and pulls him down for a kiss: slow, and deep, and only a little more urgent than before.

He's taken somewhat by surprise; his concentration had been focused on getting the waistband past Crowley's hips (and off, if possible), but when he's so willing to be distracted this way, the grand plan is easily modified.

He takes his time; the kiss is relaxed and thorough and draws a tiny, pleased sound out of him. That furtive hand, in the meantime, is creeping downward again. And this time there's quite a bit less cloth between him and Crowley.

And - there, a much more distinct catch in the soft sounds Crowley's making into the kiss. Suddenly and abruptly reconciled to the idea of getting his trousers off, his hand (tightens and then) releases Aziraphael's neck, going down to push at his waistband.

And if he should have to lift his hips again, to shimmy out of them, then that's - well, that's a pleasant bonus.

Aziraphael's lips on Crowley's curve into a smile at his sudden willingness to cooperate. Lifting of hips will be required again, but he takes advantage of his new freedom of movement to pull everything off to gather in a rumpled pile at the foot of the bed. It's a terrible way to treat clothes, but confronted with a now naked Crowley on the dishevelled bed, he's not only forgotten them, but forgotten how to form complete words or swallow properly.

He puts one tentative (reverent) hand on Crowley's chest, allowing his fingers to trace formless patterns for a moment before he leans down to place an unchaste kiss on his belly button.

The fingers glide down to tease the sensitive skin just inside Crowley's thigh.

The muscles of his stomach jump slightly, and tighten - a tiny shiver at the touch of Aziraphael's mouth.

"Tickles," Crowley informs him breathlessly - though whether this too means Aziraphael's mouth, or instead the soft stroke of his hand, is apparently a mystery. Crowley threads his hand back through Aziraphael's hair, thumb circling the spot just behind the angel's ear.

"I don't doubt it," Aziraphael murmurs, lips still on Crowley's stomach so that the gentle hum of his voice vibrates there. He continues planting gentle kisses and stroking softly for the moment, and his eyes drift closed (again) at the demon's touch.

Eventually, his wandering hand moves a little more purposefully, and the soft fingers close around Crowley.

It's not a whine in Crowley's throat, because it's not high-pitched or urgent enough for that. But then, it's neither guttural nor loud enough to quite be a moan, either. It's just a sound - the purest sort of sound, the kind you get when there's no words to filter it through or even a name to call it by.

(Like a bowstring plucked to make it, Crowley's back arches gently up off the bed.)

Aziraphael raises his head slightly to accommodate, shifting his explorations to the incredibly soft skin of Crowley's hip. He already knows every inch of skin so well that it's all familiar territory, which might be why he so rarely takes his time lately. A shame, he thinks. The motion of his hand is still gentle, but steady.

The skin on Crowley's hip might be incredibly soft, but given what his other hand is up to, he has to be careful not to be jabbed in the face by a hipbone.

It's not so urgent that... well. It's not so urgent. But there are still tiny movements, subtle shifts of his hips that Crowley can't quite suppress, because it feels -

He feels so awake today.

So aware.

(Which isn't, however, the same as coherent. There's a cool, deliberate whisper of breath along the juncture of thigh and hip, impeccably timed; Crowley's voice starts out trying to say Aziraphael, goes through an impressive gargle of vowels and consonants, and ends up somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.)

It isn't as though they've been through a long period of forced separation recently. It's just winter, and all the greyness and constant, wet cold that Aziraphael allows himself to feel more often these days. It's nice, in some ways, to be able to turn to one another for warmth, but here it's abundant and there's a little freedom in not having to cling together as though for dear life.

Something here, perhaps the angle of the morning light in the room or the clean, blue boundary of the sea just outside, means there's a world of possibility in everything he touches. It feels like a fresh start.

Smiling a rather silly smile, Aziraphael replaces his hand with his mouth.

Crowley's gasp is rather more pronounced this go round; only a little louder, but much sharper on the inhale, and much shakier on the exhale. He doesn't get all the way through Aziraphael's name this time, either, but his back arches again as he tries, and his toes (against the angel's thigh) curl sharply in the fabric of his pyjama bottoms.

(It gets the message across.)

Aziraphael is a little slower to anchor Crowley's hips than he probably should be, and while he doesn't actually need air, it's something of a surprise when Crowley's back arches and for a moment he draws back. He manages to pick up where he left off with a minimum of sputtering, however.

His intended mild 'hmph' comes out as a pleased hum, partly because Crowley's reaction was obviously positive and he hasn't quite shaken the conviction, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he is forever doing this wrong.

"Sssorry," Crowley manages, tripping over his sibilants. "Sorry."

He's aware that - he can't quite get his voice to sound contrite, not when Aziraphael is doing that, that humming thing he does, that - yes, that. So when he's certain, after the first few moments, that his reflexes are (more or less) under control, he cards his fingers apologetically through Aziraphael's hair.

Deep breath, almost steady.

"Sorry," he says again.

This one's a lot closer to a sigh; low, contented, and warm, so warm. It's so warm.