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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.

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[aj_crawley]

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.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.)

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

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.

[aj_crawley]

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.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Fortunately, Crowley's not quite regained strength enough for the wing to knock him across the room - or even off the bed - but it's a near thing.

"Oomph," he gasps as the air is knocked out of him, eyes comically wide with surprise. He rolls once and comes to a halt on his back with an arm and most of one leg dangling off the side of the bed, shocked and blinking.

[aj_crawley]

He's surprised enough that his arms nearly give out again, wasting all his hard effort. Luckily, some part of his brain is just alert enough to follow through - to pull Crowley's legs the rest of the way under him and topple him back into a seating position.

"Shit," he says, looking (a little) alarmed, and (very) apologetic. "Sorry."

Only, Crowley's throat is really very cracked, so it comes out sounding rather more like, "Sh  . S   y."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Aziraphael blinks at the ceiling a moment longer, then seems to focus on his surroundings and his face cracks back into that silly smile. He laughs quietly, pushing himself onto one elbow.

"Quite all right, my dear." He rolls onto his knees and holds out a hand.

[aj_crawley]

Nonplussed, but entirely unhesitating, Crowley reaches out and places his own hand in it.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It's presumably Aziraphael's hand that pulls them together, though the angel leaning forward and some trick of his roll has already brought him far enough to slide the other hand into dark hair, inky and dense as the feathers he's been teasing. The brush of his lips against Crowley's is gentle and light, but the angel, at least, feels it's been a long time coming.

[aj_crawley]

Though tingling still with the echoing residues of pleasure, in his current state of torpor Crowley's wings are little more than two massive dead weights at his back. Reluctant to winch them in - especially with the way the gentle breeze is ruffling his coverts - he takes the next most logical course of action, which is to spread his hands on Aziraphael's chest, and sort of twist a bit, and then simply lean insistently into the kiss until the angel sinks far enough back into the pillows that Crowley can drape himself across him.

There.

Much better.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

It would be difficult to imagine a more comfortable position, pillows on one side and a be-winged Crowley on the other, especially after so long spent propping most of his weight on one arm or the other when only one hand was at work.

Actually, he may have cheated a little, there. Completely without realising.

His arms go automatically around Crowley, resting (more or less) on his lower back, and he makes a pleased humming noise into Crowley's mouth. Comfortable as it is, this position isn't exactly conducive to his plans. But he can't bring himself to move just yet.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley's kisses are slow, and only barely unchaste, lips as dry as the hand that comes up to cup Aziraphael's jaw (to brush a thumb across his cheek, to feather the fine, soft hair at his temple, to trace the line above his eyebrow with unsteady fingertips).

And they're interrupted, more than once, when Crowley simply rests his forehead on the pillow, and breathes - mostly silent, mostly even - from the crook of Aziraphael's neck.

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

Each time they're 'interrupted,' Aziraphael tries (sometimes in vain) to trace Crowley's jaw with one hand or to plant a kiss on his ear. But whether he's successful or not isn't really the important thing; what's important is the breathing he can hear at his neck, and his own breath whispering close enough to ruffle a few strands of Crowley's hair.

His eyes are half closed again.

He can't run fingers as far up Crowley's back as he'd like, so he settles for tracing ten points of cool pressure on his lower back - spreading slowly outward, then lacing together, then back - and then one hand slides around Crowley's hip and carefully underneath to wrap around him.

And this way, he doesn't even have to move.

[aj_crawley]

Crowley makes a ridiculous vowel sound and says, "Oh

 

fuck

 

Aziraphael

 

if

 

you

 

do

 

that

 

now

 

I'm

 

going

 

to

 

pass

 

out

 

seriously

 

I

 

mean

 

it."

[a-fell.livejournal.com]

He smiles, biting his lip again.

"I thought that was at least half of the point."

[aj_crawley]

"No," he babbles, "yes, but. Look - stop, stop."

His hand closes feebly around Aziraphael's arm, just below the elbow. He looks... just a little wild-eyed.

"You can have too much'f a good thing."

There's a point where sensitive becomes hypersensitive becomes over-sensitive. Right now, Crowley's closer than not to point four: insensible.