[ That sounds so clinical, so very official. It reminds him of those big white halls of Heaven, with their dress code patternless and devoid of color, airy and light and highly exalted as beautiful. Meanwhile, Aziraphale filled every nook and cranny of his living space with the creations of man, books stacked high filled with their knowledge. He consumes their cuisines, so lovingly crafted. He loves to tend their gardens, to ponder the brushstrokes of their paintings, to let their notes and their declarations move him to emotion. Aziraphale loves to see beauty in the imperfection, uninspired by perfection. Bored by it.
Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
no subject
Here he was before Crowley, who was both the most imperfect and yet, because of it, the most beautiful thing in all of Creation: tempter of man, quite possibly the only demon who could make an angel sin. He, the angel, captivated in his attention, enraptured with his every word, even if they're not remotely the kind of things either of them want to hear. ]
Do you really think that will work, Crowley?
[ Aziraphale doubts it, because even now as his eyes rake over Crowley in consideration, there's no greater desire he has than to push him back from his perch, to slot himself between long, limber legs and make love to him again and again until Crowley asks him to stop. Or, perhaps, he could ask Crowley to teach him how to take the full of him into his mouth, ask for a demonstration, and practice until he gets it just so.
He clears his throat and decides to pointedly look at something else. Anything else. Definitely not how Crowley's throat bobs as he swallows. No, not his fingers, absolutely not those ridiculously tight trousers and good God what in Heaven is the new fashion of the 1960s? ]
--They don't know, but they're not idiots. We can't meet with any more frequency than we had before.
Yes?