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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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.

"What," Crowley says, with a light groan as he takes him back in. "Do you want me to say I've been subconsciously craving this day ever since you ate the ox rib? That--" Here he has to pause for a second as his train of thought gets momentarily derailed. "--that every time you eat-- your mouth--"

Perhaps it's a little bit of justice that this makes it Aziraphale's turn to be stunned. He's still for a moment, looking back up at Crowley with wide eyes. The sound that rolls out of his throat is not remotely dignified, nor does it befit an angel. It's tempting¹, almost, to pause again and address these matters -- but he has a goal here. He shuts his eyes again and reapplies himself to that goal.

¹Ha?

They've taken their time over the past few days, not entirely by choice, but now Crowley can feel the pressure building and the want coiling in him like a spring. The surprised look - and the noise Aziraphale makes - it all brings him closer to that crest, and it doesn't take long.

"Aziraphale--" He says, both reflex and warning.

Aziraphale wouldn't move away in this moment, not for love or money or all the rare books in London. He grips Crowley's thigh tighter, nearly a reflex, then slides that hand to his hip to pull him in closer so that he can receive the rather miraculous reality of Crowley coming in his mouth, far better than any communion he could imagine.

Every single nerve in Crowley's body comes alive as he feels like he's shaking apart; it almost feels like a moment of religious ecstasy, like his body is floating away, like the purest bliss he can imagine -- and Aziraphale is there to anchor him through it all. Once it fades down into a pleasant background hum, he opens his eyes (which he hadn't realized he had closed) to meet Aziraphale's.

Aziraphale is already gazing up at him, letting Crowley soften in his mouth, but when their eyes meet, he sits back. He wipes at the corner of his mouth, a bit fussily, with his thumb, as if that'll do anything at all for his pink cheeks or his even pinker mouth. He smiles at Crowley. "Every time I eat?"

Crowley's eyes are slightly less snake-like when his pupils are wide like this -- and there are no sunglasses for him to hide his (quite mild) shame behind. "Do you really need to make those noises when you eat?" He manages to ask with a distinct combination of irritation at being called out and supreme fondness. He's obviously joking; Aziraphale can make those noises all day. After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out to gently touch one of those pink cheeks.

"Yes." Aziraphale's smile deepens, turning into one of those where his eyes crinkle at the corners and his cheeks become rounder. "I do, if they inspire you to such raptures." He leans his face into Crowley's hand.

That smile makes something in Crowley's stomach dip, pleasantly. He takes Aziraphale's hand and pulls him up off the floor into a kiss, tracing the line of Aziraphale's hip, down to where he's still regrettably far too clothed and temptingly unattended to. "Your turn now?" He asks, lowly. There's a hint of the serpent in the garden in his tone. "Or we could check something else off the spreadsheet."

Crowley has been putting far too much effort into his little pranks and temptations, Aziraphale has determined. He only ever needed to be naked and disheveled, his pupils dark and his expression worshipful, and the humans of the world would have fallen to their knees. He kisses Crowley again, shifting into his touch, and says, "Well, we have all night and then some, don't we? Dealer's choice."

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

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