aflashbastard | [[Closed post: Hit me baby one more time]]

[[Closed post: Hit me baby one more time]]

Assuming that the Freaky Friday reverse engineering Crowley is currently going through with Claudius and the teenage clique in a separate time stream did not work¹, after Crowley had a delicious meal of coq au vin with Aziraphale, he went to sleep for a couple of hours in hopes that that would work. Surprisingly, it does. He wakes up on the wall of the room, upside-down. It's actually a little cold but he's never been so happy to open his eyes to see the legs of the bed before. He's back. He's back in this familiar, comfortable, well-worn, lanky body. He's been in multiple bodies over the centuries, but he's grown awfully fond of this one. Then, suddenly, with a start and a jolt-- Aziraphale. Their date.

It takes him so long to get ready and mentally prepare himself, you would think that he's a teenage girl again, but when he finally has a bottle of sake, his hair, his outfit, and his wits together², he heads to the library to look for Aziraphale.

¹We know, a very bold assumption. It's such a great plan.
²Citation needed.

[[NSFW later in the thread!]]

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Well. That's new. Aziraphale feels his traitorous human-shaped face heating up a bit, but he manages to mostly keep a delicately thoughtful expression in place. "Oh, do you?" he asks. He pins his gaze on Crowley's mouth, then lets it drag deliberately downward. "I'm all ears, my dear."

That isn't angelic at all. Crowley freezes in place, like an animal in a nature documentary, though right now he isn't sure if he's predator or prey. "I could show you," he offers casually¹, carefully reclaiming Aziraphale's hand in his own.

¹He hopes.

In public¹ and everything! Aziraphale drops the fork he had still been holding and keeps his attention on Crowley, letting his hand be recaptured without a fuss. "Be my guest."

¹Not, actually, in public.

There's something about Aziraphale's confidence and focus right now that makes him all the more attractive; it's almost unbearable. Crowley stands so he can take a few steps to properly close the gap, unlike the earlier kiss, and also unlike the earlier one, deepens this one into something slightly more bruising.

If Aziraphale hadn't also abruptly found his own mouth occupied by more important pursuits, he would be smiling. As it is, he angles up into that kiss, curling his hands into Crowley's jacket and tugging him in just to be absolutely certain he can't get away. Crowley tastes of mint and sake, and Aziraphale's more than happy to kiss him like this, open-mouthed and content, for as long as Crowley wants. Quite possibly longer.

As Crowley threads one hand through the soft hair at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, he thinks about how lucky it is that they have all the time in the world to do... well, this. Whatever they want. After a few seconds, a minute -- who knows, maybe an hour, he pulls back again.

"I think everyone's staring," he says jokingly, though he's looking at Aziraphale quite seriously. "We could ditch dessert. Get champagne somewhere more private."

There's that smile, out in full force nearly the very second Crowley breaks the kiss. Aziraphale's cheeks are a little pink yet again. This effect may wear off eventually -- or not. "Crowley," he says, mock-scandalized. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" He may as well have asked, Are you suggesting what I hope you're suggesting?

"What do you think I'm suggesting?" Crowley asks innocently, offering Aziraphale an arm. "That we dine and dash? No, I could never. Not even to this waiter. I took care of the bill while you were distracted. You can thank me later."

"A demon, dine and dashing? Heaven forfend." Aziraphale sneaks one more bite of the lamb -- how can he resist? But then he stands and accepts Crowley's arm, tucking up against his side quite a bit more closely than he once might have. The novelty hasn't worn off yet.¹ "Whether I thank you or not will surely depend on the specifics of whatever you are suggesting."

¹It will eventually, surely, but the good news on that front is that Aziraphale doesn't even particularly care for novelty. His favourite things are comfortable and familiar. He's already looking forward to this becoming comfortable and familiar just like everything else about Crowley.

Crowley turns to look at him quite solemnly. "Whatever you want."

"Crowley..." Aziraphale smiles. He's almost abashed. "That list is becoming quite lengthy indeed."

Crowley is fairly certain the blood in his body is betraying him and all rushing to his face -- though at least he doesn't flush as easily as Aziraphale does -- or elsewhere. How can Aziraphale smile at a time like this? There's a long pause¹. "You have a list?"

¹Though Aziraphale might note that through all of this, he's escorting them back in the direction of his room.

Aziraphale makes a valiant effort to suppress yet another smile. Unfortunately, the overall effect is more smug than penitent. "Well, dear, do you have a better suggestion for cataloguing everything I want with you? Would you prefer a spreadsheet?"

Crowley feels as though he's possibly in the process of discorporating. He swallows as right on cue, they reach the door to his bedroom. "Maybe a shared Google calendar," he offers weakly.

"I don't see what's wrong with a regular calendar," says Aziraphale in scolding tones. It's a genuine complaint, but also a little bit put-on, too. He happens to know that Crowley likes it when he's fussy and old-fashioned. Raising one evocative eyebrow, he reaches to open that door and lets it swing open. "Or shall we improvise?"

Right. Well. Even before they fully step into the room, Crowley is kissing him, with more fervor than the languid kisses they shared earlier. The momentum of it takes them in one direction until Aziraphale’s back hits a wall, a similar and yet very different tableau to the time Aziraphale called him nice.

Aziraphale would say something like Crowley, my dear, I didn't know you had it in you, but he's very much otherwise occupied. He lets Crowley steer them, the door clicking shut behind them, and lets himself be pressed against that rather convenient wall. It really is convenient, because it lets him focus all his attention on answering to the abrupt but entirely welcome heat of Crowley's kiss, and on slipping his arms around Crowley so that they're flush up against each other.

Edited 2024-02-15 15:36 (UTC)

Crowley deepens the kiss -- and Aziraphale should already know this about Crowley, but now is the time for him to truly know that Crowley can do some weird things with his tongue¹. He has both of his arms bracketed on either side of Aziraphale's head at this point but his touch is surprisingly gentle, one hand cradling the back of his head, as if to protect it from the wall.

¹It's canon!

Knowing about the tongue situation was one thing. Experiencing the tongue situation is another matter entirely, and Aziraphale's abruptly grateful to have his arms around Crowley and the anchor point of that wall as a distinctly un-angelic shiver works its way through him. He lets the kiss go on for quite a long time, reveling a bit in experiencing an entirely new kind of hunger, and in having Crowley so utterly all to himself. When their mouths do part, it's by a very little bit, and Aziraphale opens his eyes only to take in the sight of Crowley's eyes. "Are you planning for us to do everything right here, when you've a perfectly serviceable bed mere feet away?"

Yeah, there was a reason why over the years, Crowley poked and prodded at Aziraphale in order to provoke the fussier, bossier side of him-- he just finds it incredibly attractive. "In a hurry?" He asks, dryly amused tone at total odds with his now disheveled hair and clothes. He takes a step back, though Aziraphale's hand is in his own and he gives it a light tug.

"By celestial standards, I suppose I am," says Aziraphale, absently patting down his own clothes with his free hand as if he has a prayer¹ of actually righting them without using a literal miracle. He lets Crowley pull him, then steps in, crowding him up closer against the bed, as he says, "For instance, I'd like to get you out of those ridiculously tight trousers before they schedule a second Apocalypse."

¹Hm.

The back of Crowley's legs hit the bed and his eyes widen just slightly. Who is this angel, who was so confused just a few days ago? He does take a small step forward to try and regain¹ the upper hand² -- but all it serves to do is to press him even closer to Aziraphale. "Do you bless people with that same mouth?" He asks, low into Aziraphale's ear.

¹?
²Good luck.

It's not quite an entire upper hand, but Aziraphale does shiver again, his hand tightening around where his fingers are laced through Crowley's. He laughs, maybe a little bit giddy. "You know, dear, mostly I talk to you with it -- but every now and then, yes." He has a whole hand free. That hand ought to seek an occupation; as such, he reaches up and begins popping open the buttons on Crowley's shirt.

Crowley would once again go with the running theme of saying that he has better plans for Aziraphale's mouth but instead, he just captures it in another kiss. As Aziraphale easily unbuttons his shirt, he runs one hand inside his waistcoat and along the bottom of his vest. "Too many layers," he says, "'s unfair." -- and he punctuates that with another kiss, this one with a little bite to it.

Crowley's warm when his shirt falls open, warm like a human, warm like a snake that's been sunning itself, and Aziraphale presses his palm to that warmth, curling around his side, the ladder of his ribs and the jut of his hipbone. He opens to that kiss and its ferocity, sighing into Crowley's mouth, so distracted that he nearly doesn't answer. "Mmhmm," he manages in acknowledgement, and then he's kissing Crowley's jaw. "What are you going to do about that?"

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