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!]]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Flatterer," says Aziraphale, lower. He steps back into Crowley's space, pressing a hand flat to his bare stomach. Skin to skin, a very human thing, a thing that should mean little to him. It means much, much more than that.

Crowley is surprisingly gentle as he reaches out to pull Aziraphale into another kiss, this time lowering himself until he's sitting on the edge of his bed and tugging Aziraphale down to his level; gentle not because he's uncertain in any way¹ but because he's still in slight disbelief that he's here, at this point, with Aziraphale.

¹He's never been more certain in his existence.

Aziraphale follows, tugged inexorably into that kiss. It's sweet, so sweet, that Crowley is being gentle, and Aziraphale loves him for it, but there's a rising tide of desire in him, and he angles it deeper, cupping Crowley's jaw in his hand as he leans down over him. There's something sharply inviting in the sprawl of Crowley's limbs just now, the way his shirt hangs open. It spurs Aziraphale to crowd closer, to slide his hand down between Crowley's legs and press his palm to the weight there. He smiles, which interrupts the urgency of the kiss they'd been sharing, but who can possibly blame him?

Crowley makes a soft sound in the back of his throat at this. He has a hand on Aziraphale's hip that instinctively tightens, digging his fingertips into the softness there and pulling him closer so that he's almost on top of him, nearly in his lap.

Again, Aziraphale goes, following the almost magnetic pull of Crowley's hands on him. It's like the first time he tried food, again, but more, because Crowley is so responsive beneath him and before him, all of his sounds and warmth and flirtations -- and far be it from Aziraphale to forget to mention, again, that tongue. He curls his fingers deliberately where his hand still rests, hoping for a repeat of that last sound in specific.

Crowley does make another encouraging noise, this time into Aziraphale’s mouth while they’re kissing; he just can’t help it. Aziraphale is warm — and his skin. He breaks away from the kiss, but before there can be any protest, slowly kisses down the line of Aziraphale’s neck instead.

Aziraphale smiles, bordering on beatific, not that Crowley will see this precise smile. For a moment, he does nothing but let this happen, tipping his head for Crowley and stroking his fingertips over that growing, promising heaviness in Crowley's trousers. They have, theoretically, all the time in the world. His impatience isn't necessarily warranted.

Crowley rewards him with a bite or two on the most sensitive part of the neck and then pulls back to look at him. He already feels half-wrecked, nerves on fire, and he's still mostly clothed. It's just-- Aziraphale. "What do you want?" He asks, lowly.

That's a big, big question for this comparatively small room. It's a big question for this comparatively small world. Aziraphale licks his lips. Maybe they do need a spreadsheet.

Instead of answering aloud, he determines that they may as well take advantage of the way they're already positioned, Crowley at the edge of the bed with his legs sprawled open. Aziraphale smiles at him and kneels carefully¹, then reaches for Crowley's belt buckle.

¹Note to self: discuss upgrading the carpeting situation in Crowley's bedroom. Later.

The sight of an angel -- in particular, this angel -- kneeling in front of him, a demon, is so sacrilegious and perfect that it makes Crowley's breath catch in this throat and a pulse of pure want rush through his body. "Aziraphale," is all he can say in this moment, hastening to help him with the belt buckle.

"Hello, dear," says Aziraphale in answer, tilting up his chin to point his smile at Crowley's face. He slides Crowley's belt out of the loops of his trousers, then coils it up and sets it aside atop his own folded shirt. "Speak now or forever hold your peace. Or, better yet, take these ridiculous trousers off."

That breaks him from his reverie, at least. "They're not ridiculous," is his only protest. "They're designer." He unzips his (ridiculously tight) pants, letting out the smallest breath at the immediate relief he feels. He isn't wearing anything underneath, of course, and in contrast to a certain angel there's absolutely no care in how he slips them off, letting them pool on the floor before he steps out of them. While he's at it, he takes off his shirt as well, until he's completely unclothed and brazenly making eye contact with Aziraphale. Whatever he wants.

Aziraphale's smile stays in place, curling up at one side into something that is, arguably, just a little bit closer to a smirk. Of course Crowley has no shame, for all that he tempted Eve into the knowledge of her own shame. Aziraphale, still kneeling, unclasps his hands and sets them at Crowley's thighs to gently but firmly push him back down onto the edge of the bed. "Hold still, would you?"

"Wouldn't dream of moving," Crowley says, easily obeying the push at his thighs. He can't tear his eyes from Aziraphale, kneeling in front of him with that expression on his face.

It might be possible to slip in one more casual quip about putting his mouth to better use, but here, like this, Crowley's eyes on him, Aziraphale's no longer in a joking mood. He's fond, desperately so, incandescent with thousands of years of love. With his palms still flat to Crowley's thighs, he leans in to meet the weight and warmth of Crowley's erection, brushing his cheek against that heat before he relaxes his jaw and slides it into his mouth.

That's an image that will be seared in Crowley's mind for all eternity; Aziraphale on his knees in front of him, expression radiant with love, taking him into his mouth. "Fuck," he says quietly, more of a hiss than anything. It feels incredible.

If Aziraphale could, he would smile at that curse. He hums a little acknowledgement at the back of his throat instead. It's good, the tangible heft of Crowley on his tongue, something solid and real that's much, much better than any celestial abstraction, and it's easy, too, to take him in deeper, to shut his eyes and to curl his fingers around what his mouth can't take.

Crowley's trying his best to listen to what was said at the start and not move much, to not jerk his hips up -- but that's much easier said than done. The one hand remaining on his thigh is a warm, centering pressure, though. What he can't help is to reach out and thread an encouraging hand through Aziraphale's hair.

Aziraphale can feel the restrained tension in Crowley, in the trembling of his muscles and the crook of the fingers in his hair; that, too, is gratifying. There's a rhythm to this, one that's not so difficult to find. He's aware of the physicality of his own arousal, now, like something in him answers to Crowley's shuddering breath as he moves.

Crowley feels as though he could stay in this moment forever, with how amazing the heat and the friction of Aziraphale's mouth feels. Then Aziraphale does something with his tongue and he's unable to stifle a soft moan, fingers tightening in reaction.

Aziraphale may not have quite the arsenal of weird tongue things that Crowley has, but he's certainly no slouch. He pets at the inside of Crowley's thigh, encouraging, and the deliberate muffled prompting noise he makes in his throat is encouragement, too. The spreadsheet may be a joke, but there's very little he doesn't want with Crowley -- in fact, perhaps the only thing he doesn't want is for Crowley to hold back.

Aziraphale is being so good to him; that thought alone makes Crowley feel like he might fall apart at the seams. There's a growing, coiling tension in the pit of his stomach. If Aziraphale wants him to be vocal...

"Don't stop," he manages to breathe out. "That feels amazing."

Oh, that's--

Something lightning-hot spreads through Aziraphale, like the spark of Creation narrowed down to one moment here, to his vivid awareness of Crowley's hand cradling his head and the tactility of the carpet beneath his knees and the drawn-tight stretch of Crowley in his mouth. If this next little sound functions as further positive reinforcement, then very well, but it's much less intentional. He renews every last one of his efforts, throwing any thought of precision to the wind. He's realizing that he's wanted to do this for a very, very long time.

Ironically, Crowley's first thought is holy fuck, as Aziraphale goes from encouraging to enthusiastic. He can't help the way his hips jerk up or the less than gentle tug of Aziraphale's hair when it happens, though he does try to give the blonde curls an apologetic caress.

"Fuck," he says again, quite eloquently, tilting his head back slightly. His vocabulary is reduced to smithereens, much like his awareness, narrowed down to just the two of them in that room.

Aziraphale comes close to ruining it all with a laugh. He lets Crowley slip free for a moment in order to look up at him, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the underside of his cock as if to console him in the temporary absence. "Don't mince words on my account," he tells him, fondly -- and then he leans in, swallowing him back down neatly and easily.

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

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