Now that the idea has taken root, Aziraphale thinks a holiday by the sea would be wonderful. The only work that he and Crowley have now is technically freelance, anyway. The casual shoulder shrug is unconvincing, especially with Crowley sprawled on top of him, but he keeps a light air about it as well. No need to get ahead of themselves, even if he's already imagining a small cottage tucked away somewhere with a breakfast nook and a canopy bed.
"I can have a look at a listing later... nothing too far from civilization, we aren't barbarians, after all." He chuckles at his own joke before Crowley's neck kisses cause him to sigh and slide his hand further into Crowley's hair and grip it gently in encouragement. If napping means waking up like this every time, he's keen to try it more often, his own body warm and relaxed beneath his precious demon.
It's nearly impossible to see Crowley's face from this angle, anyway, but Aziraphale gets the impression that he's hiding. He turns just enough to press a reassuring kiss to the top of Crowley's head. "I liked it, too.," he murmurs. "Very much so." He still needs a moment to think if he wants Crowley to transform right now. He's currently enjoying the kisses and the hair petting, but he would love another chance to stroke those smooth, sleek scales...
It's an embarrassment of riches, he thinks, nearly laughing at his indecision. All the wonderful, varied ways that they can cuddle together. "Yes, can you do it again, love? I want a longer look at you this time. All the better to admire you."
Aziraphale's hand in his hair is so gentle, persuasive, gripping in between the long strands--Crowley loves the sense of security it gives him, that nothing he does is wrong or unwanted or even anything less than loved. He'd be happy to go on investigating Aziraphale's throat with kisses, explore as much sensitive skin as he can and perhaps soon undress him to have at more, but the angel asks him to transform so he can have a better look, and that's all right, then. He's not had many chances to do this around Aziraphale, and he's curious, too.
It takes only a moment and the barest concentration to shift his form, for all that Crowley's gotten out of the habit over the millennia. It used to feel like a punishment, being made to crawl on his belly, all apiece with being banished from Heaven and seeing his wings turn black, but he isn't as sensitive about it as he might have once been. Aziraphale, after all, loves the shade of his wings--he's told Crowley--and seems to love every other part of him, even when Crowley thinks he ought to be...better in some way, more worthy of the love of an angel.
He ends up longer than before, the thickest parts of his middle wrapped a couple of times around Aziraphale's chest and shoulders, strong and sleek with gleaming blue-black scales and a fire-tinged belly. Crowley looks at Aziraphale with gleaming yellow eyes, the only part of him that hasn't changed, scenting the air.
It's an inherently interesting transformation to witness; Aziraphale lays still until Crowley is settled, then lowers his hands, stroking along his coils as tenderly as he touches any part of him. He can feel that strength beneath the sleekness, but there is no concern over the way Crowley has possessively wrapped around him. It's not that different, really, than how Crowley holds him any other time, and he feels that love and desire from the demon all the same, like an ever-burning flame.
He takes a better look now, as he requested. He was a touch too sleepy to fully appreciate the beauty of Crowley's snake form before, and now he drinks it all in, like he would a work of art. The gleaming scales remind him of Crowley's wings, both in color and the way they seem to shimmer in the light. The red belly reminds him of Crowley's hair, or the crimson flare that the demon incorporates so often into his fashion.
And his eyes... they're the most beautiful of all, because they're the same eyes he looks into when he tells Crowley that he loves him. The same eyes that hold so much love and passion for this soft, simple angel. They lose none of their intelligence or emotion in this form, of which he's most pleased. "You're so lovely," he says, running a finger along Crowley's head, between those yellow eyes. "The colors suit you, my dear."
Crowley holds still to let Aziraphale look his fill, tongue flicking out, the very tip of his tail twitching just a little. It isn't always easy to let Aziraphale gaze at him like this even when he's his ordinary self--to be able to bear so much love, such warmth and affection surrounding him, a kind of gentle persuasion that's as irresistible as any temptation Crowley's ever come up with, wanting to believe that all that love is for him, that he somehow--deserves it. He wondered from time to time if Aziraphale would like him in this form, if he could love every form Crowley takes, though he never tested it up until now. But Aziraphale held Crowley to him just a little while ago, and stroked him so tenderly, his hand smoothing over his scales as though they were as familiar and beloved as his skin or feathers. And he looks at him now with unmistakable appreciation in his gaze, while Crowley looks back through unblinking, slit-pupiled eyes that are the same in any form he wears.
A finger strokes over his head between those eyes, and Aziraphale tells him he's lovely, the words resonating somewhere within the depths of his soul. His coils wind just a little tighter, but the end of his tail stops twitching, his head nudges against Aziraphale's hand, and if it were possible for a snake's face to show an expression of pure pleasure, that's what the angel would be seeing right now.
Crowley shifts back, slowly, unwinding himself from Aziraphale as he changes form again and sits back against the couch, unaware of the affectionate smile he wears as he gazes at his angel. "You're just saying that."
That tongue flick is a dash of adorableness to Crowley's snake form, but Aziraphale keeps that thought to himself, not wanting to completely overwhelm his beloved. He knows that there are only so many compliments that Crowley can take, especially ones that border on the realm of sweet, before he starts avidly denying them. He lets Aziraphale praise him far more than he used to, but sometimes it's not enough for the angel, who wants to shower him with all the love and affection he's been denied over the millennia.
He must have said the right thing, however, because even as a snake, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley is very, very happy. Something about the way he nudges Aziraphale's hand. The angel strokes the delicate scales along Crowley's jaw, that pleasure reflected in his own smile.
It is a little disappointing when Crowley shifts back so soon. He would have enjoyed a long stretch of snake cuddles, Crowley wrapped around him in a limbless hug. The look on the demon's face is worth it, though. Aziraphale sits up with a little stretch, his hair a bit mussed from his nap, but doesn't bother to un-muss himself, instead scooting into Crowley's space like an affectionate cat.
"What's it like?" he asks curiously. "Being a snake?" He has nothing to compare it to, his angelic body being not all that different from his corporeal vessel.
Aziraphale looks adorable himself with his hair all ruffled up from his nap, and Crowley looks at him with a purely possessive enjoyment, unaware of how much of it is showing in his face. He'd like to spend more time with him as a snake too, coiled several times around him, holding him in a snug embrace--maybe the next time Aziraphale takes a nap. It's only that Crowley loves their conversations, too, loves snaking an arm over Aziraphale's shoulders like he's doing now and pulling him against his side, wordlessly welcoming the affection and care Aziraphale gives him in a way he wouldn't have been able to even a few months ago.
Crowley shrugs at the question. "Not so different from this, I suppose." Aside from the obvious physical differences, not having arms and legs and whatnot, his demonic senses or ability to perform miracles aren't very much changed when he's a snake. Cold-blooded, perhaps, but not a real snake: still very much a demon. "I can taste things in the air," he adds, then waves a hand around, saying, "I mean, you know--just things like if someone smells good or evil, or what they had to eat yesterday." He doesn't say that Aziraphale smells like pure radiance, a kind of loving goodness that Crowley longs to be near all the time. "You had cocoa while you were reading last night. With those little marshmallows, the wiggly floaty ones."
He curls up easily in that side embrace, tucking his legs up underneath him absently, a comfortable ball of angel next to Crowley. He's awake now, but the effect of that nap lingers in his soft frame. He's never been so content to do absolutely nothing for an entire afternoon. Not a single book calls to him, only Crowley's unguarded smile.
Crowley's explanation is accepted with a small, thoughtful nod. He doesn't need to elaborate for Aziraphale to infer that Crowley keeps his powers even while in snake form. The ability to taste things in the air, though, that is a surprise. He nearly asks what he smells like, if it's the same as he smells when Crowley is in human form, but then Crowley brings up the cocoa and the marshmallows and he smiles brightly, as if the demon pulled off a clever magic trick.
"Yes, I did! It was long after you had fallen asleep, I felt a bit peckish -- I hope you don't mind, dear, that I slipped out of bed to go make it." Crowley hadn't stirred an iota during the time it took to make the cocoa and return to bed, but Aziraphale hated leaving him, anyway. "While you're a snake, ah... is there anything special that you need?" He gently fingers one of Crowley's stray curls before tucking it behind the demon's ear. "I want you to be comfortable in whatever form you're in, when you're around me."
Aziraphale tucked up against his side in a loosely-curled up ball makes a contrast to the way Crowley takes up space, with the one arm around the angel and the other slung over the back of the couch, his knees spread out and one leg sticking straight out in front of him--not that there are any customers around to trip over him at the moment. They always contrast in some way, he and Aziraphale, yet they seem to fit together so well in spite of it. He often wonders what he's done to be so lucky, that he and Aziraphale share so much of their lives now, even the same bed most nights.
He listens with a faint smile to Aziraphale telling him he'd gotten up to make the cocoa last night while he was sleeping, which was what he'd figured on anyway. It's sweet of the angel to ask if he minds, as if Crowley would miss him even when he was asleep if he wasn't there. (He does, but he doesn't have to admit it.) "Must get boring, just sitting around while I'm asleep." He traces Aziraphale's ear with an idle fingertip, runs it slowly down the side of his throat. "I don't mind you finding some way to occupy yourself."
Crowley thinks about the question for a moment, tipping his head to Aziraphale's touch. "Catch some rats to feed me?" he suggests innocently, and then grins. "I don't need anything, angel. Just you," he adds teasingly, turning his head to nose at Aziraphale's hair, "to warm my cold blood."
"Oh, it's never boring," Aziraphale replies, mildly distracted by that finger Crowley is running down his throat. There's no bowtie to catch it on, only an unbuttoned collar tugged slightly askew by the way he was lying earlier. "I always have a book to read." His smile turns mischievous. "And then there's you to look at, my dear. Like Endymion, caught in eternal respite. I could watch you for hours."
He's exaggerating, but only a little. Crowley's features soften in his sleep, his restlessness replaced with an endearing torpor. Aziraphale can watch him unabashedly, and he takes full advantage of it.
His lips purse at the mention of catching rats. Yes, he knows Crowley is joking, although if that were necessary, the angel would do it, but it's a rather unpleasant idea. "Mmm, well. Keeping you warm I can do," he replies, mollified by the nuzzling. He threads his fingers into Crowley's hair and gives a gentle, playful tug. "Although I can always order you a heat lamp, if necessary."
Aziraphale reading books while he's asleep--Crowley is shocked to hear it. Look how shocked he is. But his inquisitive fingertip pauses for a brief moment when Aziraphale says he's got him to look at, before resuming its tender exploration over the contours of Aziraphale's neck, edging down beneath the open collar of his shirt. "Really?" A lazy little smile plays around his lips, his voice taking on a little bit of a purr. "Like what you see, do you?" He's not sure why this information delights him. It's not even all that unexpected--he spends enough of his time watching Aziraphale when he has his attention on something else, like a good meal or a book he's fallen into, so he can imagine the angel might have the same desire to watch him. But Crowley finds it oddly charming, a little bit intriguing as well. "Could wake me, you know, if you ever got lonely."
He smiles as he ducks his head down to nuzzle at Aziraphale's temple, leaving the imprint of a brief kiss. He likes that tug in his hair, the bit of playfulness from his angel. "Heat lamp's unnecessary. You'll do."
Crowley's reaction is better than he could have hoped. It sends a small frisson of pleasure through him that the demon enjoys the attention, and that the next time he falls asleep in Aziraphale's arms, it will be with the knowledge that the angel plans to watch him. "Always," he confirms, his voice low and smooth, although there's a soft blush that quickly follows. Crowley's exploratory finger has added a salacious edge to his offer. "Oh, but... you look so peaceful when you're asleep. I'd hate to disturb you. How, ah... lonely would I need to be, exactly?"
It's been a process, learning what Crowley likes when it comes to physical affection, but Aziraphale has always been a quick study. He gives another gentle tug at the kiss to his temple, then turns his head so he can return it properly, on Crowley's lips. "Are you cold now?" he murmurs with affected concern, lightly scratching at the demon's scalp with his blunt, manicured nails. "Shall I warm you up?"
"How lonely?" Crowley pretends to consider the question, his fingertips gentle and inquisitive at Aziraphale's clavicle. The light pink flush in his skin makes him want to touch his cheek with his lips, feel the heat of it beneath his soft kisses. "When you feel even the slightest drop of loneliness, that's when you should wake me," he tells him in a voice pitched low and tender. "And I'll make sure you feel better."
There's a playfulness in him as well, but he means it--Aziraphale should never have to go without his demon's attentions.
He makes a soft sound of longing and pleasure when Aziraphale turns his head to capture his mouth, when his fingers give another light tug in his hair. Always gentle, his angel, always concerned with Crowley's well-being, but he encourages him in those little gestures of physical demand, liking it very much when Aziraphale loses himself and grips at him harder than he means to. The scrape of blunt nails over his scalp makes him shiver as it always does, Crowley's eyes briefly closing in pure bliss. "Mm. Getting a bit cold in here."
Aziraphale's blush blossoms on his cheeks, he gaze ducking shyly, deeply affected by Crowley's tender words. Ever since that afternoon on this very same couch in which he and Crowley finally spoke of their love for one another, the angel vowed to not let another moment pass by in which Crowley felt unloved or that his affection was unwelcome. What he hadn't anticipated was how good it felt to have that kind of attention returned. To be cherished and cared for and indulged. Like Crowley does now, giving him permission to wake him rather than ever feel the slightest bit lonely.
"I'll keep that in mind tonight," he replies, gooseflesh rising underneath the gentle touch of Crowley's fingertips. So maddeningly soft. Who knew a demon could be so soft? He brushes his fingers against Crowley's cheek. "And what's the best way to wake you, love? You're such a deep sleeper."
He'll never tire of the sounds Crowley makes when he's being kissed, as if it's the first one between them, every time. He is always concerned about Crowley's well-being, always has been, in fact, but he also knows what Crowley likes, too. His fingers wind into those curls after another good scratch, his other arm wrapping about Crowley so that he is less of a ball and more like a blanket draped onto Crowley's side. "Better?" he asks, after another kiss.
He leans into the fingers that brush his cheek, eyes gone heavy-lidded, the slit pupils widening. Crowley so enjoys Aziraphale's blushes, teasing them out of him with a few words, a pointed gesture--his own touch still lingers on Aziraphale's collar, stroking his skin beneath his opened shirt in a way that seems idle, almost unconscious--but he also loves having the chance to indulge him. Always has, the evidence there if you look back on their history. All those little miracles, the times he's gotten Aziraphale out of scrapes. Or agreed to multi-course dinners at the Ritz, just to watch Aziraphale enjoy himself.
"Oh, I'm sure you could think of something," he answers, his smile and tone of voice innocently encouraging. It wouldn't be so hard, really, considering how he responds to being kissed--how it lights him up inside, how the shivering delight of it resonates through his entire body and leaves him aching for more. Crowley isn't soft, thank you, but he is perhaps, secretly (maybe not so secretly anymore) a romantic. The way Aziraphale drapes himself against his side, the fingers that tangle themselves in his hair again and the kisses he gives Crowley make him sigh, deeply, almost boneless with contentment. "Almost," he murmurs when Aziraphale asks him if it's better, a hand falling to his hip. "A little closer."
Those indulgences were treasured by Aziraphale, but unfortunately misinterpreted as a sign of friendship at best. Not until Crowley saved his books from the bombed-out church did he realize what those affectionate gestures truly meant. And even then, he felt compelled to keep such a revelation to himself, worried he'd ruin it somehow, making a promise to Crowley that he couldn't keep.
But now he can keep all his promises, even the ones he makes silently to himself when he looks upon Crowley and falls in love all over again. "I imagine I could," he murmurs, his touch against Crowley's cheek matching the idle brushing of fingertips beneath his shirt. Crowley may not consider himself soft, but his skin is, as is the way he melts underneath Aziraphale's touch.
"Almost?" he echoes with a raised eyebrow. He sighs, purely for show, and shifts himself so that he's straddling Crowley, an arm wrapped loosely around the demon's shoulders, his other still buried in all that beautiful hair. "Well, needs must." He smiles, still blushing, and gently rubs his nose against Crowley's. "I can't have you anything less than perfectly warm on my watch."
As Aziraphale strokes his cheek with tender fingertips and shifts over him so that he's straddling Crowley's lap, a languid smile curls the corners of his lips and deepens the blissful look in his eyes, his head tilting back a little in deference to the hand still gripping his hair. Crowley always enjoys Aziraphale teasing him in his turn, pretending to sigh or grumble while giving him exactly what he wants. Almost as much as he enjoys having Aziraphale this close to him, rubbing his nose against his adorably and still blushing in that way that makes him look almost devastatingly pretty.
"That's better," Crowley whispers, gaze dropping to his mouth. Oh, he aches for him and it's not at all feigned, this burgeoning need. It comes and goes and strengthens when he has Aziraphale in his arms, but there's always a low undercurrent. His hand moves from the angel's hip to the small of his back, and from there moves inquisitively up his spine, lingering at the center of his back between the places where his wings would emerge.
It is all too easy to give Crowley what he wants, especially when the demon telegraphs those needs so nicely. He knows that whenever they are close like this, sparks are sure to follow, but he's content to draw out that need between them for a little while longer, soft touches and gentle teasing making for a decadent, leisurely afternoon.
Tilting his head just so, he ghosts a kiss over Crowley's lips. "Better still isn't perfect," he tuts softly, arching a little into Crowley's touch. "Perhaps a feathery blanket would seal the deal?" He tends not to manifest his wings so often in his bookshop, cluttered as it is, but the way the demon caresses the spot between where they manifest is too alluring to resist.
Only Aziraphale would want to go so slowly, Crowley would say, though at the moment he's doing very little to try to hurry him along. All these gentle, teasing touches, lingering over him like he's something to savor, lips brushing his so softly it makes him ache; all too tender for a demon, surely. But he can be patient too, even him, if it's for Aziraphale--of course, Crowley wouldn't admit that he likes it this way too. Leisurely, gentle.
"It might." Crowley's hand is still there between Aziraphale's shoulderblades, stroking softly and encouragingly. Oh yes, a pair of wings wrapped around him just might be enough. He's just cold-blooded enough to like the thought of them settled over him like a blanket, lending him their warmth and radiance. Crowley smiles faintly, his head tilted back against the back of the couch as if not to miss the moment when they unfurl into existence--as though to offer himself to more of those teasingly light kisses, to any touch Aziraphale will give him.
This is a bit slow, even for Aziraphale, whose desire burns as brightly as Crowley's, but he knows that Crowley is enjoying himself, too, even if he tucks it behind a veneer of coy patience. He is a demon who is worthy of soft kisses and tender moments stretched out like taffy. Aziraphale will take any opportunity to demonstrate, hoping that someday Crowley will believe it, too.
Without any further delay, Aziraphale unfurls his wings, careful not to extend them so far that they knock anything over. They arch over Crowley, white and pure as they always are, proof that loving a demon is not a punishable offense, at least in the eyes of God. (Heaven would likely have a few words, but Aziraphale no longer gives a fig about what Heaven thinks.) He wraps them about Crowley before he dips his head to leave a featherlight trail of kisses along his neck and jaw.
"Sometimes I wish I could keep you like this," he murmurs against Crowley's skin. "Wrapped up in my wings. Sheltered."
The bright wings unfolding, arching carefully into the cluttered space of the bookshop--he never tires of seeing them, never misses an opportunity if he can. Sometimes Crowley offers to groom Aziraphale's wings just to have them in his hands, not because they particularly need the attention: just to stroke them and feel their feathered softness, their strength beneath his hands, the warm divine light that is as close to holiness as he'll ever feel again. Sometimes he just wants to see that they are still as pure and angelic as they ever were, not blackened like his. It's a reassurance that whatever they do now, whatever kind of life they make together, Aziraphale is still Aziraphale.
Those wings wrap around him and they are indeed warm, emitting not just heat but a feeling as though all is well, all is right and good in the world and Crowley is exactly where he belongs. It isn't a feeling he's used to, but lately it comes to him more and more with Aziraphale.
"You should. You should do that." His voice is faintly wistful, head tilted to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. Of course it wouldn't work, but it's something he may dream about tonight--ages passing, the time for him spent in pure bliss wrapped in Aziraphale's arms and wings.
Any time Crowley requests it, Aziraphale is eager to comply. Any opportunity to bestow his personal grace upon Crowley, to shine that divine light upon him and remind him that he is loved. So loved, by everything that Aziraphale is. Not to mention how exquisite it feels to have Crowley run his hands over Aziraphale's wings, the delightful shivering sensation it gives him, as if Crowley is touching his very essence. And he returns the favor as often as he can, too, running his hands reverently over those beautiful black wings that glimmer in the light as if they hold the very stars that Crowley made when the universe was new.
He hears that tug of wistfulness in Crowley's voice and answers it with another kiss, this one a bit harder, a heated seal of pressure on his neck. A reminder of how deeply he loves Crowley, in so many ways. "Tonight, maybe?" he asks softly, tilting his mouth towards Crowley's ear, his fingers toying with the satiny curls of Crowley's hair. So, so soft. His heart aches, overflowing with love. He could keep his wings wrapped about Crowley all night, if he wants, glowing just enough to illuminate the demon's face in repose without waking him. (And maybe read a book that he can tuck into that little space, like an owl hiding its treasures from other thieving birds.)
Another kiss, this time to the shell of Crowley's ear. "And whenever else you'd like, my dearest. I'm at your service."
He knows how lucky he is, that he can groom Aziraphale's wings whenever he takes a mind to--if lying in bed for a decadent length of time with his palm stroking over the smooth white feathers until they're both nearly boneless with pleasure counts as grooming--and that Aziraphale will return the favor for him anytime, often without him needing to ask. Personal grace, divine light--he feels surrounded by both those things, as beguiled by them as any creature he's ever tempted into sin. If anyone could seduce Crowley back to the light, Aziraphale could.
The pressure of a hot kiss to his throat makes him shiver, his hands grasping at Aziraphale's hips beneath the cover of those glorious wings. "Tonight," he agrees a little shakily, always amazed by how well Aziraphale reads him. How he knows just what will appease the longing in Crowley's mercenary heart. Offering himself so generously, all the little gestures, the stroke of his fingers in Crowley's hair and the kiss at his ear having him closing his eyes briefly, letting the pleasure of it sweep over him.
"Yeah. Me too." At Aziraphale's service, Crowley means: anything he likes, there is never enough that he can do for his angel. His hands pet Aziraphale's hips softly. "What d'you want to do today?"
It certainly counts as grooming; Aziraphale's wings have never looked better with all the loving attention that they've received. They glow from Crowley's tender care as much as from his own divinity. He does not need to draw Crowley into the light, not when there's always been that light within him, setting him apart from all other demons.
Just as Crowley does not need to try very hard (or at all, really) to tempt Aziraphale into pleasures of the flesh. He wiggles those hips shamelessly when they are grasped, pressing another hot kiss against Crowley's throat. "Looking forward to it," he says in faux innocence, his breath sweet on Crowley's ear. There will be plenty of time to wrap Crowley up in his wings, among other things.
A softer kiss follows to match that gentle petting of his hips. Sitting back a little while still keeping Crowley wrapped up in his wings, he reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out his pocket watch. There is only an hour or so left of the afternoon, and then evening will have arrived in London. He's surprised he managed to nap as long as he did. "It's nearly dinner. We could put in a reservation somewhere, if you feel like braving the cold." Technically speaking, celestial beings weren't beholden to the hours of a day, but Aziraphale had very comfortably fallen into the rhythm of humanity, and unless he has more important plans, it isn't like him to miss an opportunity to have dinner.
That murmur in his ear, Aziraphale's pretended innocence--it gets his pulse racing, Crowley's hands still carefully light on the angel's hips. He might be able to tempt Aziraphale into pleasures of the flesh right now: or be tempted himself, with that enticing wriggle of his hips where they're pressed together, a perfect torment for a lovesick demon. Crowley has to close his eyes briefly, hands tightening on Aziraphale's hips to hold him still. "Keep doing that, angel, I won't wait 'til tonight," he tells him, half-playful and half in earnest, his voice taking on a slight growl.
But then, Aziraphale's become fond of following the rhythms of the day like humans do, and Crowley, though he's never cared as much about mealtimes or whether or not they miss dinner, finds himself charmed by it. By familiar routine, living as though they're any ordinary couple, falling into mutual habit. "I can handle the cold," he says lazily as though it's nothing much to him, though he actually quite dislikes London at its iciest in the dead of winter and enjoys complaining heartily about it when they're out and about. "You pick a place, Aziraphale. Somewhere with good scotch." That'll warm him up.
That growl sends a delighted shiver up Aziraphale's spine. He is very tempted, without Crowley needing to do much of anything except hold him there and warn him teasingly about angels who can't sit still, but there is a pleasure in anticipation, too. Besides, he much prefers Crowley's bed if they're to have their wings out. "Mmm. Suppose I'll have to be on my best behavior until then. I've been told that patience is a virtue."
He leans and kisses Crowley's forehead, a silent thanks for indulging him. He does not bother to replicate all of humanity's routines, but the ones that couples share, he is especially fond of. Even before he acknowledged his love for Crowley, he enjoyed their meals together. Dishes were that much more scrumptious when in the company of his demon. That they can do this every day now, openly, is something that he looks forward to, whether it's dining at the Ritz or a hidden gem without any frills.
"I know, dear." He smiles, amused by the remark considering that he has Crowley bundled up in his wings currently. At the request for a place with good scotch, he only needs a moment to consider. "I'll get us a spot at The Connaught, then." He brushes his hand through Crowley's hair, gently draping it over his shoulder. "Best scotch in Mayfair."
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"I can have a look at a listing later... nothing too far from civilization, we aren't barbarians, after all." He chuckles at his own joke before Crowley's neck kisses cause him to sigh and slide his hand further into Crowley's hair and grip it gently in encouragement. If napping means waking up like this every time, he's keen to try it more often, his own body warm and relaxed beneath his precious demon.
It's nearly impossible to see Crowley's face from this angle, anyway, but Aziraphale gets the impression that he's hiding. He turns just enough to press a reassuring kiss to the top of Crowley's head. "I liked it, too.," he murmurs. "Very much so." He still needs a moment to think if he wants Crowley to transform right now. He's currently enjoying the kisses and the hair petting, but he would love another chance to stroke those smooth, sleek scales...
It's an embarrassment of riches, he thinks, nearly laughing at his indecision. All the wonderful, varied ways that they can cuddle together. "Yes, can you do it again, love? I want a longer look at you this time. All the better to admire you."
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It takes only a moment and the barest concentration to shift his form, for all that Crowley's gotten out of the habit over the millennia. It used to feel like a punishment, being made to crawl on his belly, all apiece with being banished from Heaven and seeing his wings turn black, but he isn't as sensitive about it as he might have once been. Aziraphale, after all, loves the shade of his wings--he's told Crowley--and seems to love every other part of him, even when Crowley thinks he ought to be...better in some way, more worthy of the love of an angel.
He ends up longer than before, the thickest parts of his middle wrapped a couple of times around Aziraphale's chest and shoulders, strong and sleek with gleaming blue-black scales and a fire-tinged belly. Crowley looks at Aziraphale with gleaming yellow eyes, the only part of him that hasn't changed, scenting the air.
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He takes a better look now, as he requested. He was a touch too sleepy to fully appreciate the beauty of Crowley's snake form before, and now he drinks it all in, like he would a work of art. The gleaming scales remind him of Crowley's wings, both in color and the way they seem to shimmer in the light. The red belly reminds him of Crowley's hair, or the crimson flare that the demon incorporates so often into his fashion.
And his eyes... they're the most beautiful of all, because they're the same eyes he looks into when he tells Crowley that he loves him. The same eyes that hold so much love and passion for this soft, simple angel. They lose none of their intelligence or emotion in this form, of which he's most pleased. "You're so lovely," he says, running a finger along Crowley's head, between those yellow eyes. "The colors suit you, my dear."
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A finger strokes over his head between those eyes, and Aziraphale tells him he's lovely, the words resonating somewhere within the depths of his soul. His coils wind just a little tighter, but the end of his tail stops twitching, his head nudges against Aziraphale's hand, and if it were possible for a snake's face to show an expression of pure pleasure, that's what the angel would be seeing right now.
Crowley shifts back, slowly, unwinding himself from Aziraphale as he changes form again and sits back against the couch, unaware of the affectionate smile he wears as he gazes at his angel. "You're just saying that."
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He must have said the right thing, however, because even as a snake, Aziraphale can tell that Crowley is very, very happy. Something about the way he nudges Aziraphale's hand. The angel strokes the delicate scales along Crowley's jaw, that pleasure reflected in his own smile.
It is a little disappointing when Crowley shifts back so soon. He would have enjoyed a long stretch of snake cuddles, Crowley wrapped around him in a limbless hug. The look on the demon's face is worth it, though. Aziraphale sits up with a little stretch, his hair a bit mussed from his nap, but doesn't bother to un-muss himself, instead scooting into Crowley's space like an affectionate cat.
"What's it like?" he asks curiously. "Being a snake?" He has nothing to compare it to, his angelic body being not all that different from his corporeal vessel.
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Crowley shrugs at the question. "Not so different from this, I suppose." Aside from the obvious physical differences, not having arms and legs and whatnot, his demonic senses or ability to perform miracles aren't very much changed when he's a snake. Cold-blooded, perhaps, but not a real snake: still very much a demon. "I can taste things in the air," he adds, then waves a hand around, saying, "I mean, you know--just things like if someone smells good or evil, or what they had to eat yesterday." He doesn't say that Aziraphale smells like pure radiance, a kind of loving goodness that Crowley longs to be near all the time. "You had cocoa while you were reading last night. With those little marshmallows, the wiggly floaty ones."
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Crowley's explanation is accepted with a small, thoughtful nod. He doesn't need to elaborate for Aziraphale to infer that Crowley keeps his powers even while in snake form. The ability to taste things in the air, though, that is a surprise. He nearly asks what he smells like, if it's the same as he smells when Crowley is in human form, but then Crowley brings up the cocoa and the marshmallows and he smiles brightly, as if the demon pulled off a clever magic trick.
"Yes, I did! It was long after you had fallen asleep, I felt a bit peckish -- I hope you don't mind, dear, that I slipped out of bed to go make it." Crowley hadn't stirred an iota during the time it took to make the cocoa and return to bed, but Aziraphale hated leaving him, anyway. "While you're a snake, ah... is there anything special that you need?" He gently fingers one of Crowley's stray curls before tucking it behind the demon's ear. "I want you to be comfortable in whatever form you're in, when you're around me."
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He listens with a faint smile to Aziraphale telling him he'd gotten up to make the cocoa last night while he was sleeping, which was what he'd figured on anyway. It's sweet of the angel to ask if he minds, as if Crowley would miss him even when he was asleep if he wasn't there. (He does, but he doesn't have to admit it.) "Must get boring, just sitting around while I'm asleep." He traces Aziraphale's ear with an idle fingertip, runs it slowly down the side of his throat. "I don't mind you finding some way to occupy yourself."
Crowley thinks about the question for a moment, tipping his head to Aziraphale's touch. "Catch some rats to feed me?" he suggests innocently, and then grins. "I don't need anything, angel. Just you," he adds teasingly, turning his head to nose at Aziraphale's hair, "to warm my cold blood."
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He's exaggerating, but only a little. Crowley's features soften in his sleep, his restlessness replaced with an endearing torpor. Aziraphale can watch him unabashedly, and he takes full advantage of it.
His lips purse at the mention of catching rats. Yes, he knows Crowley is joking, although if that were necessary, the angel would do it, but it's a rather unpleasant idea. "Mmm, well. Keeping you warm I can do," he replies, mollified by the nuzzling. He threads his fingers into Crowley's hair and gives a gentle, playful tug. "Although I can always order you a heat lamp, if necessary."
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He smiles as he ducks his head down to nuzzle at Aziraphale's temple, leaving the imprint of a brief kiss. He likes that tug in his hair, the bit of playfulness from his angel. "Heat lamp's unnecessary. You'll do."
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It's been a process, learning what Crowley likes when it comes to physical affection, but Aziraphale has always been a quick study. He gives another gentle tug at the kiss to his temple, then turns his head so he can return it properly, on Crowley's lips. "Are you cold now?" he murmurs with affected concern, lightly scratching at the demon's scalp with his blunt, manicured nails. "Shall I warm you up?"
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There's a playfulness in him as well, but he means it--Aziraphale should never have to go without his demon's attentions.
He makes a soft sound of longing and pleasure when Aziraphale turns his head to capture his mouth, when his fingers give another light tug in his hair. Always gentle, his angel, always concerned with Crowley's well-being, but he encourages him in those little gestures of physical demand, liking it very much when Aziraphale loses himself and grips at him harder than he means to. The scrape of blunt nails over his scalp makes him shiver as it always does, Crowley's eyes briefly closing in pure bliss. "Mm. Getting a bit cold in here."
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"I'll keep that in mind tonight," he replies, gooseflesh rising underneath the gentle touch of Crowley's fingertips. So maddeningly soft. Who knew a demon could be so soft? He brushes his fingers against Crowley's cheek. "And what's the best way to wake you, love? You're such a deep sleeper."
He'll never tire of the sounds Crowley makes when he's being kissed, as if it's the first one between them, every time. He is always concerned about Crowley's well-being, always has been, in fact, but he also knows what Crowley likes, too. His fingers wind into those curls after another good scratch, his other arm wrapping about Crowley so that he is less of a ball and more like a blanket draped onto Crowley's side. "Better?" he asks, after another kiss.
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"Oh, I'm sure you could think of something," he answers, his smile and tone of voice innocently encouraging. It wouldn't be so hard, really, considering how he responds to being kissed--how it lights him up inside, how the shivering delight of it resonates through his entire body and leaves him aching for more. Crowley isn't soft, thank you, but he is perhaps, secretly (maybe not so secretly anymore) a romantic. The way Aziraphale drapes himself against his side, the fingers that tangle themselves in his hair again and the kisses he gives Crowley make him sigh, deeply, almost boneless with contentment. "Almost," he murmurs when Aziraphale asks him if it's better, a hand falling to his hip. "A little closer."
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But now he can keep all his promises, even the ones he makes silently to himself when he looks upon Crowley and falls in love all over again. "I imagine I could," he murmurs, his touch against Crowley's cheek matching the idle brushing of fingertips beneath his shirt. Crowley may not consider himself soft, but his skin is, as is the way he melts underneath Aziraphale's touch.
"Almost?" he echoes with a raised eyebrow. He sighs, purely for show, and shifts himself so that he's straddling Crowley, an arm wrapped loosely around the demon's shoulders, his other still buried in all that beautiful hair. "Well, needs must." He smiles, still blushing, and gently rubs his nose against Crowley's. "I can't have you anything less than perfectly warm on my watch."
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"That's better," Crowley whispers, gaze dropping to his mouth. Oh, he aches for him and it's not at all feigned, this burgeoning need. It comes and goes and strengthens when he has Aziraphale in his arms, but there's always a low undercurrent. His hand moves from the angel's hip to the small of his back, and from there moves inquisitively up his spine, lingering at the center of his back between the places where his wings would emerge.
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Tilting his head just so, he ghosts a kiss over Crowley's lips. "Better still isn't perfect," he tuts softly, arching a little into Crowley's touch. "Perhaps a feathery blanket would seal the deal?" He tends not to manifest his wings so often in his bookshop, cluttered as it is, but the way the demon caresses the spot between where they manifest is too alluring to resist.
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"It might." Crowley's hand is still there between Aziraphale's shoulderblades, stroking softly and encouragingly. Oh yes, a pair of wings wrapped around him just might be enough. He's just cold-blooded enough to like the thought of them settled over him like a blanket, lending him their warmth and radiance. Crowley smiles faintly, his head tilted back against the back of the couch as if not to miss the moment when they unfurl into existence--as though to offer himself to more of those teasingly light kisses, to any touch Aziraphale will give him.
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Without any further delay, Aziraphale unfurls his wings, careful not to extend them so far that they knock anything over. They arch over Crowley, white and pure as they always are, proof that loving a demon is not a punishable offense, at least in the eyes of God. (Heaven would likely have a few words, but Aziraphale no longer gives a fig about what Heaven thinks.) He wraps them about Crowley before he dips his head to leave a featherlight trail of kisses along his neck and jaw.
"Sometimes I wish I could keep you like this," he murmurs against Crowley's skin. "Wrapped up in my wings. Sheltered."
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Those wings wrap around him and they are indeed warm, emitting not just heat but a feeling as though all is well, all is right and good in the world and Crowley is exactly where he belongs. It isn't a feeling he's used to, but lately it comes to him more and more with Aziraphale.
"You should. You should do that." His voice is faintly wistful, head tilted to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. Of course it wouldn't work, but it's something he may dream about tonight--ages passing, the time for him spent in pure bliss wrapped in Aziraphale's arms and wings.
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He hears that tug of wistfulness in Crowley's voice and answers it with another kiss, this one a bit harder, a heated seal of pressure on his neck. A reminder of how deeply he loves Crowley, in so many ways. "Tonight, maybe?" he asks softly, tilting his mouth towards Crowley's ear, his fingers toying with the satiny curls of Crowley's hair. So, so soft. His heart aches, overflowing with love. He could keep his wings wrapped about Crowley all night, if he wants, glowing just enough to illuminate the demon's face in repose without waking him. (And maybe read a book that he can tuck into that little space, like an owl hiding its treasures from other thieving birds.)
Another kiss, this time to the shell of Crowley's ear. "And whenever else you'd like, my dearest. I'm at your service."
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The pressure of a hot kiss to his throat makes him shiver, his hands grasping at Aziraphale's hips beneath the cover of those glorious wings. "Tonight," he agrees a little shakily, always amazed by how well Aziraphale reads him. How he knows just what will appease the longing in Crowley's mercenary heart. Offering himself so generously, all the little gestures, the stroke of his fingers in Crowley's hair and the kiss at his ear having him closing his eyes briefly, letting the pleasure of it sweep over him.
"Yeah. Me too." At Aziraphale's service, Crowley means: anything he likes, there is never enough that he can do for his angel. His hands pet Aziraphale's hips softly. "What d'you want to do today?"
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Just as Crowley does not need to try very hard (or at all, really) to tempt Aziraphale into pleasures of the flesh. He wiggles those hips shamelessly when they are grasped, pressing another hot kiss against Crowley's throat. "Looking forward to it," he says in faux innocence, his breath sweet on Crowley's ear. There will be plenty of time to wrap Crowley up in his wings, among other things.
A softer kiss follows to match that gentle petting of his hips. Sitting back a little while still keeping Crowley wrapped up in his wings, he reaches into his waistcoat and pulls out his pocket watch. There is only an hour or so left of the afternoon, and then evening will have arrived in London. He's surprised he managed to nap as long as he did. "It's nearly dinner. We could put in a reservation somewhere, if you feel like braving the cold." Technically speaking, celestial beings weren't beholden to the hours of a day, but Aziraphale had very comfortably fallen into the rhythm of humanity, and unless he has more important plans, it isn't like him to miss an opportunity to have dinner.
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But then, Aziraphale's become fond of following the rhythms of the day like humans do, and Crowley, though he's never cared as much about mealtimes or whether or not they miss dinner, finds himself charmed by it. By familiar routine, living as though they're any ordinary couple, falling into mutual habit. "I can handle the cold," he says lazily as though it's nothing much to him, though he actually quite dislikes London at its iciest in the dead of winter and enjoys complaining heartily about it when they're out and about. "You pick a place, Aziraphale. Somewhere with good scotch." That'll warm him up.
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He leans and kisses Crowley's forehead, a silent thanks for indulging him. He does not bother to replicate all of humanity's routines, but the ones that couples share, he is especially fond of. Even before he acknowledged his love for Crowley, he enjoyed their meals together. Dishes were that much more scrumptious when in the company of his demon. That they can do this every day now, openly, is something that he looks forward to, whether it's dining at the Ritz or a hidden gem without any frills.
"I know, dear." He smiles, amused by the remark considering that he has Crowley bundled up in his wings currently. At the request for a place with good scotch, he only needs a moment to consider. "I'll get us a spot at The Connaught, then." He brushes his hand through Crowley's hair, gently draping it over his shoulder. "Best scotch in Mayfair."
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