a_fell | (no subject)

He makes a small sound - more impatience than anything - and does so. He looks back over his shoulder at Crowley, though, and one hand edges over to lie against his side, fingers tracing restlessly over soft skin.

Crowley presses closer again, fitting himself to Aziraphael, chest against the angel's back. He slides his foot beneath Aziraphael's foot, slides his knee between Aziraphael's knees, and slides his arm beneath Aziraphael's side, there where it's least uncomfortable, to wrap around his chest and lay a hand over his heartbeat.

Shortly, there's a kiss at the nape of Aziraphael's neck, and Crowley's other hand - slick - reaches over to close around Aziraphael again.

He's distracted already, but having Crowley spooned against him like this, contact nearly from head to toe, feels wonderful in itself. He takes a deep breath, one that's much more steady than any other he's taken recently.

One arm pillows his head, and the other hand flexes uselessly on top of the blankets. Once he feels Crowley's hand again, though, it clenches into a blanket-filled fist.

Crowley sets a pace that's slow and even, in time with his level breathing against Aziraphael's shoulder and the muted wash of the waves outside.

There's some variation, though not too much: when he pauses to tighten his fingers, to exert the slightest of pressures, or when he stops before the downstroke for a teasing swipe of his thumb.

But mostly, it's just like this: slow, and even.

Aziraphael's eyes are closed, harsh breathing broken by the tiny intermittent sounds he can't prevent. His own hand picks up the rhythm, clenched in the blanket and marking out a steady pattern: tighten, relax, repeat. He feels surrounded, secured, and Crowley's breath across his shoulder is warm; he feels warm everywhere. It's so warm.

Sometimes, Crowley scatters dry kisses along Aziraphael's shoulder; sometimes he rests his forehead against Aziraphael's neck, or the back of his head, where he can nose into the angel's hair.

And if, now and then, a troubled look steals across his face or furrows his brow, it's well out of Aziraphael's sight. Anyway, they're not so very hard to smooth away.

This is comfortable.

This is familiar.

(This really is meant to be all about you.)

And it's so blissfully warm.

When there's a change in Aziraphael's voice - tiny, even minute, something in the tone and pitch and other, far less quantifiable things - Crowley quickens his strokes, just a little. A tiny change; a tiny bit faster.

Aziraphael's free hand releases the blanket and flails around a little, looking for some part of Crowley he can hold onto. He can reach Crowley's hip, tucked up behind him, or brush though a little of his hair if he reaches over his shoulder, but the most accessible is the arm Crowley's wrapped around his chest to put a hand over his racing heart.

He clamps his own hand over it and arches his back a little, concentrating on trying to keep his hips steady.

"There - " Crowley says, pressed against the curve of Aziraphael's neck.

He moves his hand, the one under Aziraphael's, just half a fraction up - just enough that the angel's fingers slip between his own, so he can twine them together.

(Aziraphael's grasp is as much a request as anything. Crowley answers with a faster stroke again; with another nonsense murmur, echoing against the angel's skin; with a fluid twist of his wrist.)

It feels like this has been building up in him for days; Crowley's voice, the movements of his hand, that - that - motion in the wrist. It pulls pleasure out of some core within until it's rolling through him in waves, powerful as a hurricane. Aziraphael comes with an insensible cry, squeezing Crowley's hand as though it's the only thing anchoring him to the world.

"There," Crowley says again, low and quiet and between calming kisses. He tightens his arm a little, gathering Aziraphael that impossible inch closer.

His hand slows, but doesn't yet stop; touch gentler, he strokes Aziraphael through it, coaxing the last, drawn-out shudders from him - the last, trembling aftershocks.

His hand in Crowley's is trembling a little as his breathing slows. It's too soon for coherency, but his lips are moving gently and tiny sounds escape, none louder than a whisper.

Eventually he turns his head back toward Crowley, but it's not far enough to see him. Not much of him, anyway. He still hasn't released Crowley's hand.

Finally, when the last tremors have stilled, Crowley's hand uncurls from around Aziraphael - going instead to rub slow, careful circles on the angel's stomach.

With his other arm pinned beneath Aziraphael, he hasn't got the leverage to prop himself up for a kiss. He settles instead for the shift of Aziraphael's fingers between his own, and the steadying rhythm of his breath against the demon's chest.

Aziraphael curls into it contentedly, but only for as long as it takes for him to get the suggestion of motor control restored. After a minute or so, he straightens his knees and rolls carefully forward, away from Crowley. As soon as Aziraphael's back hits the sheets, he levers onto an elbow to scoot back over.

His free hand comes up to gently cup Crowley's jaw, and he leans in.

It's hard not to grin, seeing the look on Aziraphael's face, but the slight curve to Crowley's lips doesn't do much to help the languid clumsiness of the kiss.

When it occurs to him, he waves a hand to clear away the mess, before resting it idly on Aziraphael's hip.

"Better?" he enquires after a while.

"Yes," he says, his voice a little hoarse. "Thank you, love, much better. I was, er."

A handwave that Crowley can't see will have to suffice for the rest of that sentence. He's not sure he could accurately describe it, himself.

Aziraphael is still inclined to wrap himself as closely around Crowley as possible, but that's hardly unusual. His fingers linger in the sensitive area of Crowley's back, just below his neck.

"I gathered," Crowley replies dryly. And, then, somewhat smug: "Least I could do, considering it was my fault."

Well, perhaps not the least - but hardly the most he might have done (or might have hoped to do), either. But it's what Aziraphael had asked for. Eventually.

(And, if Crowley does say so himself, it does seem to have gone over rather well.)

"Yes, perhaps," he says. His eyes are half-closed again. "And you can make it up to me again later, if you like," he adds, with a touch of wickedness in his smile.

"Hm?"

He'd been lost a moment, in the space between replies, levelling a faraway gaze at some part of Aziraphael's shoulder and not seeing it at all.

"Well," he says, focus briskly returning. "I was planning to. My way, this time," he adds.

His laugh is weak (it will probably get stronger later), and his half-hearted swipe even more so.

"I was mostly joking there," he says, not at all repentant, "but your way sounds intriguing. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me about it."

He stretches languidly, and his thigh just brushes Crowley's lingering hardness accidentally-on-purpose. Aziraphael had made a promise earlier, of sorts.

Warm as he is, comfortable as he is, there's a sense of something having passed him by, some nuance that he might have picked up, given a few more decades.

But he is warm, and comfortable, and they have a few more decades. His fingers trace lazy patterns on Crowley's back.

Crowley huffs out a quick breath when Aziraphael's leg brushes against him, but - no.

No; if there's still a restless curling in his belly, it's only partly the edged remains of arousal. Mostly, it's simply that: restlessness. He doesn't think -

After a moment, he rolls onto his stomach, cheek pillowed on his arms as he faces Aziraphael. The slow rub of the angel's fingers feels... good. Easy, and reassuring.

"What I said earlier," he supplies belatedly.

"Ah," he says, thoughtful. "I believe I do remember."

He's reasonably quick when he wants to be. Pushing himself up on one arm, his fingers stay on Crowley's back, moving with a little more purpose this time.

"Something about-- this," he says, and make sure to duck as he pushes. Just in case, of course.

A good decision, as it turns out; there's an exclamation, bitten off, and Crowley (eyes wide with surprise) jerks against the mattress as - whoomph - black feathers unfold above them.

"Yes, well done," he manages, blinking. "You actually do have some powers of retention. No need to, no need to show off."

"I would never do such a thing," he says, running a teasing hand down one wing, fingers gentle over dark feathers. Then he drags it back up, slowly against the growth, and digs his fingers in, just at the join of the elbow.

"Really, my dear, you overestimate my powers of guile."

Crowley hisses, hands scraping down the bedclothes.

"I'm not sure I do." His words come a little fast. Not tumbling over one another, but - quick, and not entirely distinct. "You're clearly up to something."

"Slander," he says, matter-of-fact, and manoeuvres himself around until he can duck past the curtain of dark wings above them and plant a kiss on the back of Crowley's neck.

"And, mm. Libel. I'm just trying to improve my 'powers of retention,' as you said."

As he speaks - between words, in fact - he trails kisses and tiny nips of his teeth down Crowley's spine, long and straight and inviting.