a_fell | (no subject)

That -

The not-so-gentle scrape of Aziraphael's hands back - back through his feathers gets a one-two-three of short, sharp gasps into the bedclothes, but that -

(It feels like Aziraphael's breath, Aziraphael's warm and soft breath is curling down every fibre in his shoulder, and every short, delicate feather near the base of Crowley's wing stands up - )

That was loud.

I can't, Crowley thinks. It's a litany; I can't, I can't -

Paradoxically, it looks like Crowley is getting more tense, not less. He frowns slightly, turning his head to whisper nonsensical soothing noises into Crowley's ear.

He straightens slightly to lift the wing in order to reach the feathers on the sensitive underside. Right here is best, he remembers, just beneath the slight ridge of bone at the leading edge, and another breath of air.

Every, every crackling, electric nerve-ending in his wing and in his back is grounding in the skin and sinew and downy feathers around the join, and when Aziraphael's breath whispers across it again, something - something flashes, something s-shorts -

"Aziraphael," is all Crowley manages, before his hands clamp down on the baseboard, and everything

and everything

goes
(fiat lux)

Aziraphael presses his chest to Crowley's back even before the shudders have stopped, dragging his fingers lightly across feathers toward himself so that he can edge both his forearms just underneath Crowley's ribs, press his mouth to the back of his neck, and hold on tightly.

"Thank you, love," he says, but it's quiet enough that Crowley, close as he is, might not hear anything beyond a murmur.

He can't tell if Aziraphael is speaking quietly, or if it's just the ringing in his ears. He's not sure if that's bedsheets filling his view, or whether, when his vision went white, it just decided to stay that way. And he can't seem to lift his head to find out. But he can feel Aziraphael on top of him, and he can feel his own ragged breathing knocking them out of sync - inhales mismatched, exhales uneven - and he can feel the slow, irregular motion of Aziraphael's chest against him. Against -

Each time: a soft moan.

He can hear Crowley's voice, just barely, feel uneven breaths beneath him, through a soft cushion of feathers. He presses more kisses to Crowley's hairline, to the top of his ear and the place just behind it that always seems to drive him crazy. To drive them both crazy, in fact; the angel loves this part of Crowley's body, and rarely gets the opportunity to be this close.

Carefully, his left hand reaches out and brushes over the other wing.

It flexes gently under his hand - a movement that would have been a lot sharper, a lot more abrupt, but for the fact that every muscle in Crowley's body seems to have melted and come unstuck.

The demon makes a noise that sounds almost... surprised. At the fact that Aziraphael's carrying on, perhaps - or maybe simply that he didn't actually pass out when the angel kissed behind his ear.

The tiny twitches, the hints of an emotional map that he's been watching under the skin of Crowley's back are no longer a tight, solid mass of tension; Aziraphael smiles into his neck and tries to mirror his own actions on the left wing. Almost.

"All right, my dear?" he asks, a little more clearly. His right arm is still wrapped tightly around Crowley, but his left is dragging long, slow strokes down the feathers of Crowley's other wing.

There's a shake in Crowley's chest that might - might - be a laugh.

When he follows it up with something else, his voice is too raw, too still-breathless to make out much. There's one word, though, that sounded distinctly like 'braincells'.

Aziraphael seems to take that as a 'yes.' At any rate, he doesn't stop what he's doing.

"Mm," he says, intelligently, smiling even more widely. "Not required, I think."

His hand pulls out from under Crowley just a little in order to prop himself up on hands and knees. His left hand slips under the larger feathers in order to tug - gently - on the smaller ones beneath.

Crowley chokes out something that doesn't quite have enough consonants to be a curse, though it's not for lack of trying.

(The sudden jerk of his wing is rather more pronounced, this time.)

A pause; he sinks back against the mattress again. He's still flushed. His eyes, fever-bright, are wide. But most tellingly, perhaps, for its rarity: the hair at his temples is damp.

"You don't - " he breathes.

"I know I don't," he says, laughing into dark feathers. The laugh is easier to distinguish than Crowley's was, but not by much.

"I want to," he whispers into the soft juncture of his shoulder, just above the wing.

He drags his hand across the wing again, feather by feather, then reaches underneath just by the hidden, hard-to-find join.

He's caught between reactions; one reflex says down, tries to push onto Aziraphael's smooth, clever hand beneath his wing. But the angel's voice, vibrating so tantalisingly close to the top of the join, feels so - so, that Crowley nearly whines when he stops.

(It's no great loss that he doesn't; it wouldn't have been much of a whine anyway. Again, and of a sudden, Crowley's breath is all stuck in his throat.)

His memory of this bit from before is something of a blur. All circuits were already overloaded, as it were, so now he's forced to improvise a little. He keeps the hand below the join moving smoothly and buries the other back into the larger feathers where he can tug a little without fear of pulling too hard.

He's never seen Crowley quite like this, spread like an open book beneath his hands, fragile pages and delicate spine exposed and perfect. Every movement is so, so careful. The constant, soft roar of the surf outside makes for a surreal counterpoint to his voice as he whispers something inaudible into Crowley's back, and the breath of air just skims over the top of the join.

It's an awkward angle, but he watches closely what little he can see of the demon's face.

Crowley's mouth is open, but his eyes drift shut as another quiver surfaces beneath Aziraphael's lips and hands, rolling out beyond the angel's reach, beyond the edge of the bed, to the very tips of his longest primaries which twitch and flutter in the air above the floor.

One hand curls back around the bright, wrinkled bedsheets, but the other fists in his own dark hair. He looks like a colour study, half-done: pale skin, white sheets, and the two black inkstains seeping from his back, where Aziraphael keeps dipping and sifting and stroking his fingers - which he leans down to kiss, again and again, and comes away clean every time.

A little less gentle now, still working his hand deeper into the feathers, but he's watching more closely than ever and his own lips are parted in concentration. It's ridiculously clichéd, but Crowley looks so beautiful from here that he very nearly stops in order to stare.

He doesn't, of course.

He leans forward again instead, dropping another kiss behind Crowley's ear, warm breath on the curving pink shell, lips trailing down his neck until he can breathe more purposefully onto the sensitive join.

This is clear in his memory, teeth and tongue just near the centre of his back - Crowley's back - and so close, he remembers, to where he'd wanted them that he'd thought he might explode with need.

There are sounds escaping in Crowley's breath again, each time just a little bit louder, each time just a little bit more urgent.

It shouldn't be - possible. It shouldn't be possible to keep going, for Aziraphael to push him higher and higher and, every time Crowley thinks he's reached the limit because surely, surely there can be no more, to ratchet it up again (and again, and again) until the pleasure thrumming through him is nearly excruciating, because it shouldn't be possible to ssstill leave him aching for -

Crowley writhes under Aziraphael's mouth, shudders with each sharp nip; his back

his back twists and strains and finally (finally) arches in unashamed need.

If Aziraphael had been waiting for some kind of sign with all his careful, exacting observation, he's finally got one.

He contemplates Crowley's back for a moment, assessing, then all but dives for the most sensitive part he can see. He drags his mouth slowly up the line of the join of the wing, tongue flicking out here to touch flesh and here to touch down, his left hand still buried in inky black feathers.

At last, his questing mouth reaches the top of the join near the shoulder and bites down. He wraps himself around Crowley to hold on tightly with every available muscle, not letting go.

And this time, there is a limit. This time, Crowley's wings arc up, rigid, and this time, Crowley bucks and shudders so violently that he nearly knocks Aziraphael off - and this time

this
time

he

This time, the noise Crowley makes is loud, and raw, and guttural with release.

It's lucky he was prepared for this; the violence of Crowley's reaction is still enough to shake his balance. When he's fairly certain it's subsided, he drops gentle, soothing kisses over and over onto Crowley's neck, murmuring quietly. Arms go around him once again, pulling Aziraphael's smile against the damp skin just below the demon's hairline.

He keeps one eye on the wings that shot up on either side of him, waiting for them to relax.

I don't want to die. That's what he'd said to Raguel, years and years ago, after the light; the first person ever to survive it.

That's the last piece.

They'll come back, himself and Aziraphael, after the world is saved.

He's going to bring them back here, where his thoughts are sea-foam and sand.

(And to Vienna, when it's a good season for the Staatsoper.)

The cliché is 'seeing stars'. Inside his eyelids, all Crowley can see is light. Slowly, the cathedral of his wings sinks down against the sheets.

In the beginning, it was a nice day.

Come come commala.

The light from the windows filters over them in increments like a sunrise as the wings float down around them. Outside, the sun looks over a bright, clear world that still looks a little more than real.

Aziraphael will move in just a minute, he's sure, but for now it's critically important that he remain right here with his chin hooked over Crowley's shoulder, feeling his breathing calm. His eyes are closed, his expression remarkably peaceful. The slight smile remains.

Crowley's still shaking a little. He feels lightheaded. Dazed. Sort of... drifting.

But the bed's solid and there, and Aziraphael's heavy and warm and definitely there. Sandwiched between them, he won't go too far.

So that's good.

(It feels good.)

He's not sure how long they stay like that; it's at least a few minutes. He traces lazy circles and nonsense patterns on Crowley's other shoulder, drifting a little, himself.

At last he pushes himself reluctantly away - not far - and drags his fingers lightly down Crowley's spine.

"Turn over?" he suggests. The half-smile he's wearing hasn't faded at all.

There are two things that account for what happens next.

First: Crowley's arms feel like they're made of spaghetti, or perhaps a few lengths of wet string. He has to prop himself up in stages - erratically, and jerkily.

Second: amongst other reasons, he hasn't nearly the presence of mind to furl his wings away.

Thus, Aziraphael - who reluctantly pushed himself not far away enough - finds himself assaulted in very short order by a faceful of black feathers.