a_fell | (no subject)

"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."

"I was pretty thorough," Crowley agrees, relishing the light shiver that prickles through him in the wake of Aziraphael's breath. "We could always modify that whole end bit; I'm sure we can come up with something a bit more - "

'Mutual' isn't really the word. After all, he'd certainly enjoyed it, too. Looking at Aziraphael's face, though, Crowley suspects the point is made regardless.

"Give and take," he finishes, because he just can't help himself. And then, in for a penny, in for a pound: "We might've had to anyway, since you practically broke my jaw, earlier."

"I see," he mutters, trying to keep the flush from rising any further than it has already. He allows one hand to slide out from beneath Crowley's neck and then pause, tracing lightly up the back of his ear.

"Perhaps I owe you something, then, after inflicting an injury like that. My shoulder is healing up well, by the way," he adds, wry.

It's not so much Pavlovian as it is directly causal: Aziraphael's fingers ghost over Crowley's ear, and Crowley pushes his hips up against Aziraphael's once more (hissing; eyes more closed than not).

"Oh, don't worry," he manages when it recedes. His tone is passably airy, but threaded through with promise nonetheless. "I'll be calling in the debt."

It's a chain reaction: Aziraphael brushes fingers over Crowley's ear, Crowley pushes his hips up, Aziraphael gasps and grazes Crowley's collarbone with his teeth.

"Oh," he manages. "I'll-- I'll be looking out for that, then."

He swallows hard. After a pause, he does the same thing to Crowley's other ear.

" - Afterwards," Crowley says (which anyone who didn't know any better might think sounded embarrassingly like 'Ahaaaafterwards'). His fingers dig into Aziraphael's shoulderblades. "I'll be calling in the debt afterwards, and I'll, I'll never get started if you keep on with that."

Aziraphael tries to stop the small, breathless laugh that bubbles up in response to this, but is only partially successful. It's only partially a laugh by the time it escapes, for that matter, what with Crowley's fingers digging into him.

"Get started?" he repeats, carefully (if belatedly) shifting his weight to the side.

"...With your wings," Crowley explains, wriggling out from underneath Aziraphael and turning to face him with a rather blank look. "Which we just had a conversation about. As in... literally, just now. Déja-vu; I do seem to remember; you'd like to reciprocate; I assure you you'll definitely have the chance? I know I'm scorchingly distracting and all that, but really, angel, you'd think you could hold a topic in your head for more than twenty seconds."

Aziraphael attempts to thwap him on the head, but as the angel's arms are still doing duty propping him up, it's ineffective at best (meaning he almost completely misses).

"I didn't realise we were still on that topic," he says with as much dignity as he can manage from this position. "And anyhow."

He leans even further to the side, holding Crowley close so that they roll over together.

"Perhaps you won't need to get started with wings after all," he says, grinning up at him.

"Cheek," Crowley says, looking vastly amused.

There's a fleeting disappointment in the slow kisses he tracks down Aziraphael's neck, but it's less with every one. They've plenty of time, after all, and Crowley can think of plenty of other things to atone for. And there again, there's something to be said for so nearly direct a - well, a hint, still, but close enough.

(It sends another subtle shiver through him, thinking about it, and his breath comes a little faster against the hollow of the angel's throat.)

"Wasn't it?" he asks, the silly grin returning. His hands drift to Crowley's back: one warm on the nape of his neck; one moving to trace lightly up his spine, then all the way down again.

He swallows against Crowley's lips on his neck. His own breathing is not quite steady, either.

There's a lot to occupy Crowley in the gentle curve of Aziraphael's collar-bones, but eventually he mouths his way further down - left, to the angel's nipple: lips, tongue, and (briefly) teeth, his fingers on the other.

Here and there, an idle pause. During the first, Crowley observes, "Probably my bad influence, that."

Aziraphael shivers at the touch of Crowley's mouth and fingers (and actually whimpers a little at the teeth).

"Probably," he agrees in a shaky voice. The fingers on Crowley's back flex gently with his movements, and Aziraphael's hips shift impatiently whenever a pause lasts just a little too long.

Crowley ignores him at first, just to have his turn at being contrary. Even when he relents, starts to move again, he doesn't continue down - not yet. Instead, he detours to the side again, teasing his breath and the very tips of his tongue along a very particular stretch of Aziraphael's side.

('Sensitive' is one word for it. 'Ticklish' is another. Turn and turn about.)

Aziraphael yelps, squirming, which dissolves almost immediately into self-conscious laughter. He makes a grab at the blankets on each side to steady himself.

"Now, was that... strictly necessary?" he asks between gulps of air.

"Yes," Crowley says, in a tone which means no, but I thought it'd be fun, and I was right, so there.

His mouth does finally make its way back towards the centre of Aziraphael's stomach, but (for now, at least) he refrains from dipping a tongue into the angel's navel, lest any more such hijinks earn him another swat upside the head.

His hands, meanwhile, start at Aziraphael's knees, thumbs neatly fitted to the dip between kneecap and muscle. Then, a slide (leisurely; unhurried) up the outside of the angel's thighs, the flannel pyjama bottoms rucking under his fingers, his palms hot through the fabric.

"Crowley," he says, low and unsteady. It sounds no more urgent than Crowley had himself when their positions had been reversed.

On the other hand, Aziraphael doesn't have as much reason for urgency that Crowley did, but his breath is already coming more quickly, and his pulse is already racing. Being unintentionally rejected twice in a row must have had a stronger effect on him than he'd anticipated.

There's a slight flutter in his stomach at the feel of Crowley's mouth; he's half-convinced that the demon can feel it.