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[a_fell]

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.

Comments

[aj_crawley]

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."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

"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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"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.

[aj_crawley]

Turn and turn about.

Finally, Crowley's hands reach their destination, fingers hooking into the waistband of Aziraphael's pyjama bottoms. Hideous, of course, but these elasticated affairs have their advantages.




Pull, SNAP.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's rather more than a yelp this time; Aziraphael lets out something perilously close to a shriek (a little exaggerated, truth be told) and sits bolt upright.

He eyes the culprit, hair and eyes wild and an extremely disapproving (but priceless) expression on his face. It's fortunate that the bed is so large, because he lunges forward with something between a laugh and a growl, and half-pushes, half-tackles Crowley to the mattress once again.

Turn and turn about, indeed.

[aj_crawley]

It's. Very sudden. It's very - unexpected.

Crowley looks - he looks shocked, rather, but there's a sudden high colour to his face.

It's agonisingly and not-quite level: "I wish you'd make up your mind."



(Or perhaps, just perhaps: there's a sudden high colour to Crowley's face. He looks shocked. It's very - unexpected.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Perhaps I'm just trying to keep you on your toes," he says. He's gone abruptly still, and his eyes are searching.

"And I've had quite enough of these," he adds, and with a gesture, the hideous pyjama bottoms vanish.

"Now," he says, leaning down to whisper, very businesslike, into Crowley's ear. "I think that's much better." He traces his fingers carefully around the shell of Crowley's ear once again, following the line of his jaw down to his chin.

[aj_crawley]

He doesn't make a sound. Not a sound, except for a harsh exhale at Aziraphael's touch.

(His pulse: a rapid, thudding uncertainty under the angel's fingers.)

Crowley swallows.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's convenient, being this close; it means he doesn't have far to go to nip at Crowley's earlobe, to let his teeth carefully follow the path his fingers just took. When they can be seen, his eyes are dark and dilated.

He wastes no time, but lets his wandering fingers trace a path down between them and scratch lightly at Crowley's stomach.

[aj_crawley]

He makes a deep sound, almost a groan, when Aziraphael's teeth tug at his earlobe, but after that -







But after a few long moments, his hands come up to rest lightly against Aziraphael's sides, where they - where they twitch, restlessly, but then settle again.

It was nothing. It was just. It was nothing.

His hands move again, this time rubbing long, slow strokes along the angel's sides - an oddly soothing gesture. He breathes in (deep), and out (long).

Paradoxically, Crowley seems to be relaxing.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He's intent on the sharp jut of Crowley's collarbone (again) when something of the oddness of Crowley's reaction clicks into focus, and he frowns, trying to calm his elevated breathing.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?"

[aj_crawley]

"Yes?"

There's something... unsettled, still, in Crowley's expression, but it's fading, even as he tries to brush it off.

A grin, lopsided and joking.

"Caught me off-guard, there."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Ah," he says, and again that strange, searching look.

"One doesn't want to become too predictable. Still." He leans down and delivers a long, careful kiss.

"I suppose I shall always be predictable to some extent."

[aj_crawley]

"Probably," Crowley replies vaguely, hands still sketching restlessly up and down Aziraphael's sides.

"No sense in fixing something that isn't broken."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"No," he concedes, "but it doesn't have to be broken to be improved." He fits the palm of his own free hand carefully against the hollow just underneath Crowley's shoulder, fingers curling over the top.



"Did I interrupt you, earlier? Despite your unprovoked and deeply unfair actions, of course," he adds, smiling faintly.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley makes a dismissive sound at the first, but then looks... relieved, sort of, at the change in topic.

"Yes," he says.

His hands still on Aziraphael's hips, before one (the right) insinuates its way between them.

"But I'm not doing a bloody thing more until you do make up your mind."

(This seems like a blatant lie, considering what Crowley's hand is up to - right up until it closes around Aziraphael and then stops. Completely.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael looks like he's formulating a clever reply, right up until Crowley's fingers wrap around him and he freezes, blinking nonsensically at nothing.

"Yes," he says, almost too low to be heard. A shudder runs through him, but he doesn't move.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley can wait.

(Though he might prefer not to.)

He occupies himself with further tracings against Aziraphael's side - this time as far up as his arm, and as far down as the skin of his thigh.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

"Yes," he repeats, then swallows.

"This. Please." His hips press forward, then abruptly stop; he's clearly trying to keep control of himself, and it's a near thing.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's lips quirk back into that crooked grin.

"Here," he says.

He scoots to the side - as much as he can, with Aziraphael atop him - and pats the sheets beside him.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael rolls off obediently onto the sheets, though with some obviously nagging reluctance. He doesn't go far; one hand drags across Crowley's ribs as he moves.

[aj_crawley]

"Other side," he says, which is admittedly somewhat cryptic - until a hand on Aziraphael's shoulder and a gentle nudge make clear his meaning: roll over.

(His other hand is already lifting to his mouth.)