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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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.