|Outtake Ficlet for The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse
||[Jul. 16th, 2012|07:44 pm]
Title: Outtake #1 (missing scene from The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse)
Rating: NC-17 (unavoidable, given the part on which this elaborates)
Notes: Henceforth, Outtakes are a different class of ficlet from Extras in Crown of Thorns 'Verse, as it's possible I'll do more Outtakes in future that fit within the framework of the sequence's existing longer pieces. To tell you the truth, I'm glad those of you who natter at and with me on Twitter thought this sounded like a good idea, because it's something I've questioned myself on at numerous points in the past. The first-time scene in WW&TM is Aziraphale's viewpoint on only part of that evening's proceedings, and although the morning-after scene is from Crowley's POV and gives us a bit of how he feels about all of this, well, there's a gaping hole where the rest of that crucial first night should be. I felt on first writing the story that including everything I envisioned as happening there would have been gratuitous and/or set the story off-balance. Hopefully, I've come far enough now on this 'verse that sticking my nose in wherever and whenever I please is justifiable.
Summary: For best results, read WW&TM up through the section ending Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing a burst of amazed laughter, holding him closer still, calming him. Safe. (and then read this piece, and then onward as normal).
It took forever for the shaking to stop, it seemed, like Crowley's body couldn't bear to let go of such stunning new information: Right, so, that annoying thing you have to do every once in a while to get an unbidden hard-on to go away? SO MUCH BETTER WHEN SOMEBODY YOU WANT MORE THAN BREATHING IS DOING IT FOR YOU. To you? With you? Whatever. Okay, in summary: solitary orgasms are messy and not always much fun, but orgasms and kissing and touching Aziraphale? Spot on.
"Oh," said Aziraphale, finally, between breath-hitching kisses, easing him down. He rubbed Crowley's back and picked fretfully at his trousers. They melted to nothing beneath the angel's careful fingertips, and, with a sigh, his own disappeared so that there was nothing left between them, no more hope of hiding. "Just look at you."
"At myself? Bit awkward," Crowley panted against Aziraphale's earlobe. "Also a bit weird." He shivered, oversensitive by now, and more than a bit overwhelmed at the sensation of Aziraphale's prick crushed up against his belly. He bit curiously at the patch of skin beneath Aziraphale's ear, and the angel's hands clenched on his thighs.
"You don't give yourself enough credit, dear boy," said Aziraphale, his voice patient and fond in spite of how much discomfort he was probably in. "Not nearly enough."
It was the wonder of what he'd become with the Fall, Crowley supposed, a curse millennia-old turned blessing: instinctive shock at the simple pleasure of loving.
"You taste good," murmured Crowley, at a loss, and licked the spot he'd just bit.
Aziraphale turned his head and tilted Crowley's chin up for a questioning kiss.
"My dear, mmm, I want..."
Crowley wanted to ask What? in response, but Aziraphale's hand was on him just like earlier, was on both of them, so attentively insistent, and, oh, for the sake of anything holy, he was turned on again. Aziraphale made a disappointed sound when Crowley disengaged himself awkwardly from the kiss and shifted back to sit on the duvet.
The angel's body was as pale as Crowley's own, flushed with inconvenient splotches and bite-marks where Crowley had left them in a frenzy up and down Aziraphale's neck and shoulder. Unthinking, Crowley reached out and touched the marks, both the ones he'd left and that rosy blush beneath the fair, sparse hairs covering Aziraphale's chest. He crawled forward, stretched flat on the duvet, and curled an arm around Aziraphale's waist. Buried his face in the angel's soft belly, breathing in his own scent mingled with Aziraphale's arousal. He let his tongue dart out; Aziraphale shuddered.
Bloody miracle, this, Crowley thought. Nothing less.
"If this is what you want," he said as clearly as he could manage, given that he was licking his way towards Aziraphale's hip bone, which was rather in the wrong direction, "now would be a good time to tell me, or I'll just keep going till I've tasted everything else. Save the best for last, if you know what I mean. Take the scenic route."
Aziraphale sagged back on his elbows, stretching his legs out on either side so that Crowley could settle in closer between them. He watched with hungry fascination as Crowley offered him an assenting glance that he hoped wasn't shy and abandoned the course he'd set himself on in favor of nuzzling what he'd so far purposefully neglected.
The angel's trembling hands tangled roughly in Crowley's hair.
"Easy," Crowley said, not nearly as calm as he sounded, and took hold of Aziraphale's wrist while he carefully licked at the crease of Aziraphale's thigh. After a few seconds, Aziraphale's grasp let up slightly, so Crowley let go of his wrist, took hold of his erection, and guided the sensitive head to his scarcely parted lips. Aha.
Even if he never heard Aziraphale make that sound again, this once would have been worth it. Crowley settled in for however long it was going to take and sucked hard.
Once again, there was far too much information to process. Aziraphale still tasted good, a sentiment he couldn't quite quantify, only here, it was different, darker and stranger and slightly surprising. Crowley hated that he couldn't see the angel's expression, but he could hear everything that he needed to hear, and then some. He'd have a crick in his neck by the end of it, letting Aziraphale move his hips like that, but whatever the angel needed for this to work, whatever Crowley could possibly do...
"Stop," Aziraphale was gasping, voice low and wrecked. "Crowley, stop, it's too—"
"It's the point," said Crowley, instantly regretting the fact that he'd pulled off in order to speak, because now Aziraphale was hauling him up by the shoulders with fearsome strength and it was all Crowley could do not to fold over, fall on him, clamp down with limbs and teeth and suddenly unfurled, unsteady wings and never let go.
Which was more or less what happened.
Crowley snaked his arms around Aziraphale's neck and tried to get said urgent point across with lots of kissing, which hadn't really stopped, but it was no use. He could only make helpless whimpering sounds to which Aziraphale responded with breathy half-sobs and oh God, oh Heaven and Earth and Everything, he never wanted to be anywhere else ever again but in this bed. Or in the very least wanted the guarantee of a bed, no matter where he happened to be, and Aziraphale always in it with him.
When it all finally became too much again and their bodies demanded completion, Aziraphale rolled Crowley onto his back, wings badly askew even as his own tore free, and drew Crowley's knees up snug against his ribs and then pressed both hands against the small of Crowley's back, rocking them together in tight little thrusts that made Crowley squeeze his eyes shut and stifle an embarrassingly desperate wail.
Was discorporation by sensory overload possible?
Look what you've done, Crowley thought feverishly, his second climax already building, too fast and too fierce and too soon. Angel, just look what you've done. I'm ruined for anything else: good food, better wine, a sunny afternoon with ducks, forget it. Crowley twisted under him and dug his fingers in just beneath where Aziraphale's wings joined with his back, moaning in response to Aziraphale's coaxing tongue.
"No one can hear you, not here," Aziraphale whispered, pressing their damp foreheads together, waves and wisps of hair plastered every which way. "No one but me, and I should very much like...Crowley, look at me, oh, if you'd just look at me..."
Crowley's groans turned to brief, hysterical laughter.
"So I've got to keep my eyes on you, never mind that all I can see is feathers—"
"Oh—oh—Crowley, don't move, oh my dear stay right where you are—"
Crowley bit his lip and touched Aziraphale's cheek with hazy disbelief. This was really happening. He wanted to speak those same words just as much, just as badly.
"Let go," he panted, bracing himself, eyes squeezed shut as his resolve shattered. "That's what I did, anyway, and oh fuck I can't I don't even oh please Aziraphale!"
They were covered in each other: come and stray feathers, sweat and startled tears.
Aziraphale collected himself and rolled gently to one side, tugging Crowley along.
Everything was dry and clean again, but the tremors hadn't stopped, and Crowley noticed with quiet astonishment that Aziraphale's pulse-point was triphammering away just beneath his overworked jaw. It wasn't supposed to do that, they weren't...
"I'll say it before I can't," he whispered. "Don't leave me here, angel. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Don't get tired of this wretched, rainy stretch of shore like you got tired of Herculaneum and Beirut and Melbourne and Caracas and London—"
Never tired of London, Aziraphale cut in, snuggling him senseless. Never tired of you.
Oh, Crowley replied, curling in tighter against him. Then that's all right.
"Are you?" Aziraphale asked at length, drowsily stroking Crowley's side.
Crowley nodded and closed his eyes, content enough to follow his own advice.
—Continue: Outtake #2—