a_fell | (no subject)

(no subject)

I.II.III.

Consciousness descends on him by inches, and with the growing light that has been edging onto his pillow comes the growing awareness that the other side of the bed is empty.

There's a terrible crick in his neck, as well; he remembers waking with a start after drifting off over his book last night, Crowley still snoring blithely on beside him, and crawling under the covers rather than waiting any longer for the demon to wake. He's slept the night through, and while he can see that it's still early morning outside, daylight has fully broken across the water.

He sits up carefully, rubbing at his neck as the crick fades. The suitcase abandoned last night is nowhere to be seen, but Crowley's watch is on top of the dresser, and a few of his own handkerchiefs are folded in a neat pile nearby. Someone's unpacked, then. He looks again at the sky out the window, frowning; it can't be more than nine yet.

He stands carefully, considers making the bed, and just as quickly discards the idea. He'll do it when he's getting dressed, perhaps.

He wanders into the kitchen with a vague idea of making some tea, discovers a bowl of apples on the counter, and glances out the window for the culprit. There on the veranda, hair lifting gently in the breeze, is Crowley.

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"Good," Crowley says - but it's lost, or nearly so, in the sudden splash, as Crowley pushes himself upright and swings his leg over Aziraphael, planting himself with a casual sort of alacrity astride the angel's lap.

"Glad to hear it."

Aziraphael blinks at him - again - then leans forward, hands going automatically around Crowley's waist to clutch at his sides, and kisses him again; a little harder, this time.

"Why's that?" he asks against his mouth, a little muffled.

"A number of reasons," Crowley replies, hands fastening in Aziraphael's hair.

A little breathless:

"Well, not that many."

"Ah. Good," he murmurs, letting his own hands wander up Crowley's back and letting his eyes fall half-closed against the pull of fingers in his hair. "I wouldn't want you to-- too distracted with-- things," he finishes nonsensically.

It occurs to him to wonder where Crowley gets the energy, but it's becoming rapidly obvious that he doesn't care.

"No," Crowley murmurs, low as the surf as he bends his head to the curve of Aziraphael's neck. "I doubt there's any danger of that."

He feels so awake today. He feels so aware - aware of the sun beating down upon his back, and the lapping of the waves around their hips, and the hard, uneven rock beneath his knees.

But it's not distracting, not in the least.

Because it's all of a one.

"Mm," Aziraphael says, and it's probably meant to come out as another 'Good' but the word is so difficult to form just now, with Crowley's lips at his neck.

His hands trace their way down Crowley's back again until they dip beneath the water, past the waistband of his suit in order to pull him the impossible inch closer.

Despite what rumours may suggest, Crowley is in fact perfectly capable of taking a hint. When he lifts his head, it's the start of a long, fluid undulation; neck, shoulders, back, and finally hips, rolling them down against Aziraphael as he tips his head back, laughing low and delighted into the clear blue sky.

There was something, he thinks, about seagulls and modesty, and how one should be preserved for benefit of the other. The thought floats into his mind again briefly, then vanishes along with their swimsuits. Beneath the water, after all, certainly doesn't count. Or it might count, but--

He stifles a groan when Crowley moves against him, and digs unsteady fingers into his hip.

Crowley, for his part, makes a muffled sound of surprise, though he only pulls away far enough to mutter against Aziraphael's cheek.

"That really wasn't," (between kisses) "wasn't necessary. I mean, I hope you don't think I'm getting up to any more than this on a rock."

"Could put them back if you want," Aziraphael suggests (also between kisses). "If rock offends - mm - delicate sensibilities. Thought I should keep up."

He's smiling broadly now, kisses or no, and he'd have a corner of his lip between his teeth if it wasn't otherwise occupied.

Must be Crowley's influence.

"Doesn't so much offend my delicate sssensibilities as it does my knees - "

Crowley's not at all keen on relocating, though, to judge from his hiss as Aziraphael pulls their hips together.

"Oh. Suppose that would get uncomfortable," he says breathlessly, but he makes no move to dislodge Crowley. His hands trace back along Crowley's legs toward the knees, starting from his hips.

"Been worse," Crowley huffs, finding and settling into a steady rhythm as he rocks against Aziraphael. "Still a, an incentive to be - straightforward about things."

"Mngh," he says intelligently, which sounds a little like agreement.

"Could have -- leverage," he suggests through gritted teeth.

Or they could not, really, as Crowley seems to be doing the work for both of them.

Crowley seems to be of much the same opinion, shaking his head even as one hand twists further into Aziraphael's hair.

However, since he's in a giving sort of mood, he adds, "Just tell me what - "

The other hand drops to Aziraphael's; guides it back around to the small of Crowley's back.

Aziraphael makes a low, rumbling sort of noise at the hand in his hair, and his own back arches uselessly against the rock. At the same time, his hand against Crowley's back nudges him rather sharply up, a little left.

Indirect at times, yes, but no one could accuse him of being undemanding.

Crowley barks his shin against the rock, which makes him wince - but it's glancing, and temporary, and rather less urgent than the need to keep up the rhythm, just there, where it makes Aziraphael's voice go ragged around the edges.

He's grinning again, fit to outshine the sun, but when he tugs Aziraphael's head back, and leans down for another kiss, it's just a little less than gentle.

The volume of his voice - babbling nonsense, at this point - rises with each tug on his hair until it's more of a cross between a yelp and a moan. He doesn't seem to mind, though; the hand on the small of Crowley's back only tightens, the other is still clamped on his hip, and the look on the angel's face is perfectly blissful.

Crowley's other hand white-knuckles against the rock, because - moving faster now - it's so nearly perfect, except not yet.

Because:

Deliberate, almost triumphant, he grinds his hips down - hard (pressing Aziraphael down against the rock hard enough that it must surely hurt).

Perhaps it does, but Aziraphael hardly feels it - or he feels it in some removed part of his mind that interprets it entirely differently. His hips push upward - not that it's even possible to tell against Crowley's concentrated weight - and arching his back so far that he bangs the back of his head on the rock behind him, he cries out his release.

Well, thank Somebody for that, because (on this particular occasion, at least) it would be terrible for Crowley's pride to have been first - and as it is, he's barely even second, slamming a fist against the rock and muffling a final, cracked moan against Aziraphael's temple.

Panting, Crowley seems to be looking for words.

"Ow," he decides finally.

It's a few moments before he clears his throat in order to speak, at which point all the pains in the back of his head and every part of him touching the rock make themselves known.

"Ow," he agrees, and rests his head on Crowley's shoulder.

"Sorry," Crowley says, hand dropping to the back of Aziraphael's neck.

He doesn't really sound it.

"It's all right," he says, concentrating on ignoring it. "My own fault."

Well, perhaps not entirely. Even the bump on the head.

"'N you?" he asks blearily. "All right?"

"Nothing permanent," he replies.

His knees and shins are feeling rather abused - unnecessarily so, considering their owner is a demon - but it's not so bad that Crowley doesn't feel like holding onto the pain for a bit, in a smug sort of way.