a_fell | (no subject)

"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.

Aziraphael hums again, a sound that has some translation in actual speech like 'Quite all right, my dear' or some such. Crowley's fingers in his hair are even more encouraging, so he concentrates on trying to keep a steady pace despite Crowley's slipping sibilants.

Abruptly, he pauses, lifting his head and unable to suppress a somewhat wicked grin.

"You know, this is so comfortable... I am getting rather sleepy."

"Hgk," Crowley imparts to the ceiling, before pushing himself up on one elbow. His gaze is mildly unfocused, which rather blunts the effect of his raised eyebrow - but that's no great matter. It lasts only a moment before an answering grin unfolds itself across his face, bright in the early sun.

He takes a moment to flick Aziraphael's ear, feeling it more than deserved under the circumstances, but then trails his hand down under the angel's chin and tugs.

"Anyone'd - "

Looking down at Aziraphael in the light (looking back up at him), Crowley discovers that his mouth, and his lips, are very dry. He pauses; wets them; continues, amused.

"Anyone'd think you were making a point, angel."

"Perhaps a small one," he says after a moment; it takes that long to collect himself, looking up. Crowley's hand on his chin finally registers and he crawls up the bed with a little reluctance. He was just getting halfway good at that, he thinks.

On the other hand, an entire, sprawled out, slightly dazed Crowley grinning at him is quite an incentive to move. He follows Crowley's hand and its gentle tug all the way up and leans in for a kiss.

Crowley keeps his hand where it is - slides it down a little, to rest his fingertips above Aziraphael's pulse, to grin again beneath Aziraphael's lips when he feels it quicken.

"Suppose," he murmurs indistinctly, "suppose I can give you that one."

His other hand spiders down Aziraphael's side, sneaking fingertips beneath his waistband at the hip - then around, to the small of the angel's back, and then back up, along the curve of his spine.

Tracing memories there, just barely touching the skin above Aziraphael's shoulderblades, he says (smirks, comfortably), "Suppose I could make it up to you, too."

He lets out a shaky sigh, then closes his eyes at the ticklish path Crowley's fingers are tracing across his back.

"That's not-- really not necessary," he manages, though the treacherous pulse Crowley can feel at his neck is not slowing in the least. His elbows are planted at Crowley's sides, his arms beneath shoulders, leaving his hands free (if not exactly mobile) to edge fingers underneath the back of Crowley's neck. He does try to keep his kisses light, but it's difficult when Crowley's lips are right there. And the demon is so very willing.

"No?" Crowley says, between kisses. A pause; he nips at Aziraphael's lip, and then drags one, solitary fingernail down over the coiled muscles of the angel's shoulder. "I'll go back to my book then, will I?"

"Ngk," Aziraphael chokes. "Don't you dare."

Perhaps feeling that this is a little harsh, he adds in a more gentle mutter, "I mean. I'd much rather you didn't."

Satisfactorily revenged, Crowley settles back - back to soft kisses (not at all repentant), and mapping out the lightest of possibilities with his fingertips.

"I see," he continues, grin returned - white and angular, close.

(I'd rather not, either, says the shift of his hips underneath Aziraphael's, a slight, gentle press - up.)

"What would you - hn, what would you rather?"

He swallows a whimper at the press of Crowley's hips.

"I'd rather this," he says, not quite coherent. "I'd rather - mm - that you. That you didn't. That you."

Pay attention to me instead, is the implied end of that sentence, but Aziraphael's words are lost between yet another kiss and a shifting of his own hips - down, this time.

Crowley makes an appreciative sound into the kiss, before following it up with, "Helpfully ssspecific, that."

Of course, to look at it differently, it's enticingly unspecific. The coda, the actual, unspoken end of Aziraphael's request, is clear enough, and Crowley finds himself most intrigued by the prospect of taking the idea in all its silent vagueness and - as it were - running with it.

Slowly-warm, his hand slides from Aziraphael's pulse around to his shoulderblade, mirroring the other, fingers and palms splaying in a primitive outline of wings.

(The sun is higher and hotter than when they started, streaming into the room from a steeper angle. It picks out motes of golden dust in the air, and turns the ends of Aziraphael's hair into spun light.

Crowley takes a moment just to look, to close his eyes and print the image on the inside, and breathe it in with the good sea air until his lungs are so filled with it he thinks they might levitate off the bed.)

"Say," the demon says, as though something mildly interesting has just occurred to him. "You getting a sense of déja-vu, at all?"

There's a whole sea of potential in Aziraphael's rather open request - but there's no sense in fixing something that isn't broken.

He looks momentarily even more confused before a light flush makes itself known (impressive, given his already rather pink state).

"Ah," he says, but the word is drawn out so that it's nearly a sigh. "Yes, I do seem to remember ," he says, with a crooked half smile. "The only disadvantage was that I was not in a position to, er, reciprocate." He leans down to Crowley's ear so that his breath whispers across the side of the demon's neck.

"And, er. I would rather like to, today."