"You've missed me, then, angel?" Delight curls into Crowley's stomach like the rush of warmth from a particularly good vintage of scotch. He means to tease Aziraphale but has a feeling like he's getting caught in a web of his own making. "Might as well admit it. You've certainly gone to a lot of trouble to get my attention." His fingers trace over Aziraphale's rouged cheek and petal-soft lips. Serpent's eyes don't miss a single detail of all the pleasures of Aziraphale in this shape. Crowley would never claim he regretted anything: he's missed Aziraphale too, certainly there is a bit of rueing to be done about that, but on the other hand he very much likes the way Aziraphale went about making sure they ran into each other again.
"Oh yes, they do that." He hides a grin when Aziraphale mentions his bookshop opening and Gabriel's precipitous about-face on recalling him to Heaven. "Bit odd of him, yeah. Wonder what made him change his mind." But he's happy to let the subject of other angels drop--it's more than enough to have to listen to other demons moaning about them all day when he visits Hell--and stifle a sound of amusement when Aziraphale tugs at his trousers determinedly, catching his hands. "Wait a moment, now. Let's do this in a proper way."
He sits up and draws Aziraphale with him, folding back his wings. "That is...if you're planning to stay the night."
Aziraphale looks at Crowley as if he'd grown two heads because of course he'd missed him. He even glosses over Crowley's response about Gabriel in order to tell him so. "I missed you so terribly," he says, holding onto him sweetly, wet dress now dampening and sticking to Crowley's skin as well. He looks up into Crowley's eyes, however, when he suggests staying the night.
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't, that if Hell or Heaven come calling on one of them, they would be in trouble. But he looks at Crowley with such a yearning, such a sweetness. He wants to stay. He wants to stay forever, in fact, and forget about the fact that they're on opposite sides or that they're hereditary enemies. Says who, anyway? God? She was the one who made demonkind, who told them that they should hate each other.
Aziraphale doesn't have it in him to hate, much less this demon in front of him, sweetly asking him to stay a little longer. "I... if you wish," he settles on, lamely.
"--And are you hoping to have another go already? Goodness, you're insatiable. I just wanted to feel your skin on mine." This is much easier to talk about than any sort of true feelings he may have, like how much he regrets that they can't just be open about this, that he'd love to love Crowley endlessly and affectionately. Six thousand years they've known each other, and Aziraphale knows that no one knows him better, has any hope of doing so. If it were any other way, they would have done this long ago, they would be soul mates.
Crowley catches Aziraphale's gaze, arrested by it, the pleasant warmth under his skin becoming something more of a smolder. He's never seen Aziraphale look at him like that before this night, with such a yearning, so sweet and wistful it's as though the angel too has longed for Crowley for all the ages they've met and parted and met again, always drawing close again. Are these his true feelings, now being revealed? The demon almost holds his breath as Aziraphale accepts. At least they can have this one night together. Maybe it'll be long enough to learn the secrets they've been holding back from one another all these years.
"No--that's not--" Crowley looks away, telling himself very firmly that he's not blushing. Of course he wants to feel Aziraphale's skin on his, too, but he's not insatiable, he has some self control. "I meant--we could go to bed. If you want." He's dreamt of nights with Aziraphale, lying in his angel's arms, all sorts of very embarrassing fantasies where Aziraphale does ridiculous things like hold him and stroke his hair. Maybe they can make love again, too, if the desire arises--he's sure it could, at least on his part.
It's hard to conceal how he truly feels about Crowley when they've just made love, or at least, whatever Crowley wants to call it. He doesn't want to look at him any differently, now that he doesn't have to pretend that they're staunchly on opposite sides of a spectrum, that he would never dare to meet Crowley in the middle. And yet, that's all he wants to do, reach over where their allegiances part them, take Crowley's hand, and pull it back over the other side.
"A bed," he says, amused, since Crowley had been so against it not a handful of minutes prior. "Yes," he answers, finally. "Yes, I think I'd like that, my dear." He does enjoy the ridiculous fantasy of holding Crowley and stroking his hair and telling him how beloved he is, how precious. Aziraphale and Crowley might have had the same dreams - Crowley's while sleeping, edging in on Aziraphale's conscious as he works through the night on some draft or another. And-- yes, he had dreamed of other things too, of welcoming Crowley between his legs, of getting long, winding limbs around his shoulders and his waist, of laying kisses all over, so holy they might sting at Crowley's skin.
He disentangles himself and makes his way towards the bedroom, stumbling a bit as he reaches for Crowley's hand to steady him.
Crowley at once reaches back to grasp the hand that Aziraphale holds towards him. He's at his side, ready to catch him if he stumbles, or to scoop him up in his frilly damp skirt and carry him the rest of the way, all the better to make sure he makes it safely. It isn't far to the bedroom, at least, and the huge, ornately carved bed Crowley calls his own. He's fond of sleep, or a good long, sulking nap from time to time, and always insists on having a comfortable surface available on which to do it.
"Come here." Tugging at Aziraphale's hand, Crowley drags him close and kisses him again, wings sweeping forward around them both. "Been meaning to ask--" he mutters between kisses, hands dragging up the length of Aziraphale's gossamer dress, "why in Hell's name is your dress all wet? Catch bloody pneumonia, you will." Or at least, he would if he was human. Better to drag the whole thing off, which he's set on doing right now.
Aziraphale needs to lean on Crowley, because he hasn't taken this form in a long time and he knows he's going to feel the effort of their physical activities in the morning. He rather loves it, but it is making him feel rather drunk, though he has Crowley to cling onto as tightly as his dress clings onto himself.
"Oh, have you been asleep so long? It's what's in fashion right now, my dear boy," he answers. "Women everywhere are finding the sheerest of muslins and dousing themselves in water. I think it's to show off that they aren't wearing anything underneath. Quite scandalous, and yes, several of them have acquired illness from it, but certainly not more than say, the corset, or lead face powders. Can you believe it? I saw in the shops today a powder claiming it had safe lead in!"
Not the most romantic conversation, but he lets Crowley tug off the dress and then sets about trying to undo the rest of his top, having been so rudely interrupted of it before. "Have I told you lately, darling, how beautiful you are?" he asks, exposing a little bit of Crowley's chest, wanting very much to bury his full face inside the crevice.
"That's--" Crowley stops, not sure how to finish that statement. It's baffling, is what it is, though he supposes women throughout history (and occasionally men) have had to go to stranger lengths in the name of fashion. In any case, it's not at all an unattractive look on Aziraphale, wet muslin clinging to his unfamiliar curves. He's just as glad to divest him of it, and take in the shape of him, hands shaping over the angel's waist and rounded hips. He's always been just that bit portly and plump, thick around the middle, with thighs that make Crowley's mouth water. Oh--he has no idea, his angel does, Crowley thinks as he drags him close, burying his face in his curls. Perhaps he'll get to explore the more familiar shape of him soon, though in the meantime he'll enjoy every inch of this feminine figure he can get his hands and mouth on.
He almost steps back, though, when Aziraphale tells him he's beautiful, pressed against him and tugging at his shirt again like the ravishing little minx he is. Crowley swallows and forces himself to be still, letting Aziraphale undress him as he pleases. "I'm not," he says entirely by habit, his voice catching slightly. Demons aren't meant to be beautiful, everyone knows. Oozy cold creatures, most of them, though Crowley's skin at the moment is hot, flushed, even, as though with fever, everywhere Aziraphale's fingers brush. Crowley's own fingers tangle in his hair: he can almost, almost sense the desire in Aziraphale to bury his face against his chest, and he longs so badly to feel Aziraphale's lips brushing his skin.
He does kiss Crowley's chest, and down a little further as he undoes more buttons. "But you are," he responds earnestly, in a voice that suggests that he's not taking no for an answer. He smiles against Crowley's skin, and he leans into the warmth as his dress and the sweat from their previous activities have made him quite cold. "So gorgeous, so impossible to overlook."
He gets to the rest of Crowley's shirt and places his arms around his waist, getting the whole of his cold front and pressing up against Crowley's. He pulls Crowley forward as he walks back, and lands into the bed with a whumph against the soft mattress. He feels his legs wrap thickly around Crowley's thin hips to accommodate for the two of them in the same space and his eyes roll back as they make contact, as the full weight of Crowley lands on him. "Dear," he breathes out. "You're so devastatingly beautiful that it's quite unfair."
He pulls the shirt and jacket off of Crowley in one go, and tosses it to the side, which is quite unusual for him, to care so little for clothes. But it's all worth it, getting his hands into Crowley's feathers, onto his back, finally getting him totally in the nude.
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sorry this is so late, travel killed my brain
"Oh yes, they do that." He hides a grin when Aziraphale mentions his bookshop opening and Gabriel's precipitous about-face on recalling him to Heaven. "Bit odd of him, yeah. Wonder what made him change his mind." But he's happy to let the subject of other angels drop--it's more than enough to have to listen to other demons moaning about them all day when he visits Hell--and stifle a sound of amusement when Aziraphale tugs at his trousers determinedly, catching his hands. "Wait a moment, now. Let's do this in a proper way."
He sits up and draws Aziraphale with him, folding back his wings. "That is...if you're planning to stay the night."
it's ok <3 hope you're all rested
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't, that if Hell or Heaven come calling on one of them, they would be in trouble. But he looks at Crowley with such a yearning, such a sweetness. He wants to stay. He wants to stay forever, in fact, and forget about the fact that they're on opposite sides or that they're hereditary enemies. Says who, anyway? God? She was the one who made demonkind, who told them that they should hate each other.
Aziraphale doesn't have it in him to hate, much less this demon in front of him, sweetly asking him to stay a little longer. "I... if you wish," he settles on, lamely.
"--And are you hoping to have another go already? Goodness, you're insatiable. I just wanted to feel your skin on mine." This is much easier to talk about than any sort of true feelings he may have, like how much he regrets that they can't just be open about this, that he'd love to love Crowley endlessly and affectionately. Six thousand years they've known each other, and Aziraphale knows that no one knows him better, has any hope of doing so. If it were any other way, they would have done this long ago, they would be soul mates.
yesss i finally got to sleep in
"No--that's not--" Crowley looks away, telling himself very firmly that he's not blushing. Of course he wants to feel Aziraphale's skin on his, too, but he's not insatiable, he has some self control. "I meant--we could go to bed. If you want." He's dreamt of nights with Aziraphale, lying in his angel's arms, all sorts of very embarrassing fantasies where Aziraphale does ridiculous things like hold him and stroke his hair. Maybe they can make love again, too, if the desire arises--he's sure it could, at least on his part.
oh yes congrats !!
"A bed," he says, amused, since Crowley had been so against it not a handful of minutes prior. "Yes," he answers, finally. "Yes, I think I'd like that, my dear." He does enjoy the ridiculous fantasy of holding Crowley and stroking his hair and telling him how beloved he is, how precious. Aziraphale and Crowley might have had the same dreams - Crowley's while sleeping, edging in on Aziraphale's conscious as he works through the night on some draft or another. And-- yes, he had dreamed of other things too, of welcoming Crowley between his legs, of getting long, winding limbs around his shoulders and his waist, of laying kisses all over, so holy they might sting at Crowley's skin.
He disentangles himself and makes his way towards the bedroom, stumbling a bit as he reaches for Crowley's hand to steady him.
why thank you :>
"Come here." Tugging at Aziraphale's hand, Crowley drags him close and kisses him again, wings sweeping forward around them both. "Been meaning to ask--" he mutters between kisses, hands dragging up the length of Aziraphale's gossamer dress, "why in Hell's name is your dress all wet? Catch bloody pneumonia, you will." Or at least, he would if he was human. Better to drag the whole thing off, which he's set on doing right now.
no subject
"Oh, have you been asleep so long? It's what's in fashion right now, my dear boy," he answers. "Women everywhere are finding the sheerest of muslins and dousing themselves in water. I think it's to show off that they aren't wearing anything underneath. Quite scandalous, and yes, several of them have acquired illness from it, but certainly not more than say, the corset, or lead face powders. Can you believe it? I saw in the shops today a powder claiming it had safe lead in!"
Not the most romantic conversation, but he lets Crowley tug off the dress and then sets about trying to undo the rest of his top, having been so rudely interrupted of it before. "Have I told you lately, darling, how beautiful you are?" he asks, exposing a little bit of Crowley's chest, wanting very much to bury his full face inside the crevice.
no subject
He almost steps back, though, when Aziraphale tells him he's beautiful, pressed against him and tugging at his shirt again like the ravishing little minx he is. Crowley swallows and forces himself to be still, letting Aziraphale undress him as he pleases. "I'm not," he says entirely by habit, his voice catching slightly. Demons aren't meant to be beautiful, everyone knows. Oozy cold creatures, most of them, though Crowley's skin at the moment is hot, flushed, even, as though with fever, everywhere Aziraphale's fingers brush. Crowley's own fingers tangle in his hair: he can almost, almost sense the desire in Aziraphale to bury his face against his chest, and he longs so badly to feel Aziraphale's lips brushing his skin.
no subject
He gets to the rest of Crowley's shirt and places his arms around his waist, getting the whole of his cold front and pressing up against Crowley's. He pulls Crowley forward as he walks back, and lands into the bed with a whumph against the soft mattress. He feels his legs wrap thickly around Crowley's thin hips to accommodate for the two of them in the same space and his eyes roll back as they make contact, as the full weight of Crowley lands on him. "Dear," he breathes out. "You're so devastatingly beautiful that it's quite unfair."
He pulls the shirt and jacket off of Crowley in one go, and tosses it to the side, which is quite unusual for him, to care so little for clothes. But it's all worth it, getting his hands into Crowley's feathers, onto his back, finally getting him totally in the nude.