[ Crowley feels...he can feel Aziraphale’s need, his desperation which echoes his own as he kisses him deeply, hotly, with a wanton tongue: the angel tastes so lovely, it's an aching pleasure just to kiss him and feel his uncoordinated efforts to draw him deeper. He's a gorgeously disheveled mess beneath him, all rucked-up clothes and a wet, gasping mouth, Crowley's fingers tight around his cock, and he wants so badly to give him what he needs, the rhythm of his hips faltering but never stopping as he buries himself inside him over and over. In Crowley's voice, the angel's name becomes a plea and a prayer again and again, an echo of his heartbeat and the dearest thing he's ever uttered, more than any praise he spoke when he was still an angel himself.
Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
we can switch this one over to prose too if you'd like!
[ Aziraphale feels like his limbs might just believe their natural state is to be coiled around Crowley, his body not erroneously thinking he should always be close to him, filled by him, smothered under this hazy intoxication. His cries cut sharply through it, but he tries to kiss Crowley and let them be swallowed up instead; he should not want to wake the neighbors with the loud and very unmistakable sound of their lovemaking in what he currently forgets isn't eighteenth-century Paris.
And his body rebels against all rational thought as he finds is becoming a pattern in Crowley's presence: eyes rolling into the back of his head, hips falling out of rhythm, breath erratic, throat feeling strained and used but refusing to rest. ]
Crowley.
[ He says it once and again, interrupts Crowley calling him as if trying to answer him but not knowing what else to say but yes, drawn out and slipping into a hiss. Aziraphale wants to accept his offer, over and over again, taking every fiber of his being into his arms and under his wings and making him understand he is loved and wanted beyond Earthly or Celestial measure, letting him know that in this vast universe and in all of Creation, there is another soul which he can call his home.
The words don't quite make it out and any thoughts that try to form together fade into wisps as Aziraphale's entire body and mind are overrun, are consumed by this act. Pinpricks of pleasure rain upon his skin and he can barely whine out a warning, just closing his mouth over the word close. He chases his release, caught squarely between Crowley's hand and his cock, brows knit in fierce concentration as he musters up the words: ]
His breath shudders as Aziraphale says his name, the pleasure he takes in hearing it from his lips nearly as sharp as pain. He would wish only to be called by him, for all of the long existence of the universe, or as long as the stars hang in the heavens, at least--and only Aziraphale can capture his attention as fully as he does whenever he says his name. He imagines that he would find him anywhere he was, if the angel called out to him, as though there's some invisible tether between them that would resonate with the speaking of his name; it's only a little fancy, but he likes the thought, wrapped up in Aziraphale's arms as though there is nowhere else on earth or in Heaven or Hell he belongs, with Aziraphale beneath him, his whole body pleading for more, for all that Crowley can give...
He meets the angel's gaze when he asks, yellow eyes unconcealed and intensely vulnerable: this is something Crowley can't deny him either. Whatever Aziraphale might see in him, whatever Crowley is unable to hide, he'll let him look his fill whenever he wants, even now when he is raw and shuddering all over with the sensation of being so intimately joined. He looks at the angel and sees all the love and desire in his clear eyes reflected back at him, a love as vast as only an angel can give--and Crowley chokes out a cry, hips faltering as his own release takes hold of him, as he buries himself deep in Aziraphale and comes, the pleasure so intense that his entire body is wracked and trembling with it. He almost can't bear it, his head dropping as he mouths frantically at Aziraphale's throat, as his hips jerk in uncontrolled motions.
"Aziraphale--" Crowley gasps his name again, still shivering at the end of it, and with effort he lifts his head and meets his eyes again, his hand remembering to stroke Aziraphale's cock, keep giving him the pleasure and sensation that will bring him to release as well. "Please--"
Aziraphale asks Crowley to look at him because he can see, plain as anything, all the things where no one else gets the privilege: he beholds vulnerability, desire, and a love more infinite than all the stars in the sky. He doesn't wonder anymore how he had ever doubted, or how Crowley had ever sought to hide this from him, seeking instead just to look at him and regard him in the awe he reserves for all natural phenomenons.
And though he has only been treated to the sight of Crowley finishing only twice before, he welcomes it with his arms and his hips like an old friend. He is struck silent with how beautiful Crowley is in this moment, his body and face overcome by orgasm, and does all he can to extend this and eke out every last drop of pleasure from him.
It barely takes Crowley's plea for the telltale wave that surges through Aziraphale and floods him with release. He comes with the latter half of Crowley's name breathlessly caught on his tongue, eyes shuttered spilling hot over his stomach and leaving wet spots all over his shirt. It's strong and seems to him both endless and that it's over far too soon as thoughts start to form again and he's made to be cognizant of how loud and ragged his breathing is.
Soul settling in return to his body, he reaches for the back of Crowley's neck and pulls him forward to rest their foreheads together. After a long moment, he huffs out a laugh and in a deep voice he confesses, "I feel as if I should be thanking you again for that."
He ducks his head down to kiss Aziraphale fervently when he comes, stealing the taste of his name from his tongue, his tattered breathing, the lust hot sweetness of his mouth. The slick heat of his seed stains the fabric of his shirt between his cock and Crowley's fingers, and he rubs his thumb tenderly over the head and gives him long, soothing strokes to coax him along to the end of his release, trailing kisses along the hot skin of his cheek and then lifting his head to meet his eyes again, Crowley's a little wider and darker, as though the angel's pleasure resonates through him as well. He's such a disheveled, gorgeous sight, debauched in his lovely clothes, and Crowley can hardly stand it: all he wanted, all he dreamt of for years is his, here in this moment, almost too perfect to bear. At last his eyes close when Aziraphale pulls him down until their foreheads press to one another, giving himself a moment to recover. "No, you shouldn't," Crowley mutters hoarsely in reply. "You're so perfect, angel. You--you're everything, you're..."
Even his imagination fails, running out of adjectives to describe what Aziraphale must be to have made him feel this way. More whole, more content than he has known since the day he Fell. Belonging to no one but his angel, and Crowley sighs as he shifts over to the side a little so that when he collapses in a boneless sprawl he won't be entirely pinning Aziraphale down beneath him, though his head pillows against Aziraphale's shoulder and one of his legs is thrown haphazardly across him. He tucks his face against the join of shoulder and neck, nuzzling blissfully. "This," he mumbles, plucking a little at Aziraphale's shirt, "this was brilliant. Can't believe you saved it all." He kisses the angel's throat, feverish with gratitude and the brilliant echoes of lust. "Want me to take care of the mess?"
You're everything, Crowley says, and Aziraphale believes him. He lazily plays with Crowley's hair and runs a hand up his thigh, slightly cooling from the sweat. His smile turns into a bit of a pleased laugh as Crowley plays with his shirt, and he turns his cheek to kiss his sweet hair. "Yes, definitely, but maybe give it a minute," he answers, wanting to luxuriate a little in their mess and afterglow. It wasn't often they got to do it, and he wants to hold onto every last second. He knows it will, more often, and the thought brings the smile all the way up to his eyes.
"I love you," he says, three words that say so much and yet not enough, but where he can't find words stronger to mean the things he does mean. What he wants to say is that he is foolish, he's wrong for having denied them this inevitability, because love is stronger than he is, just a single soul out in the total of Creation, fragile and brittle in comparison. But it was the only thing that Aziraphale had to offer him, the whole of himself succumb to this feeling, and would he be so kind as to just accept it as best he could? Because he could give Crowley the world and it wouldn't be sufficient.
"I missed this," he says, instead, drawing a finger across Crowley's jawline. "I think of you all the time. I tried to will myself that it was enough." He runs the barest touch of fingertips along Crowley's shoulder and collarbone. "But it's not, now that you're here. Nothing could compare."
Crowley makes an acknowledging sound, pushing his face against Aziraphale's shoulder. He wants to luxuriate in this too, in the addictive warmth of Aziraphale's body and the scent of his skin, the love and contentment surrounding him in the aftermath of pleasure. How strange, how wonderful that a demon could give this to him. No other angel, not even a human has seen him so replete with love, relaxed and indulging in it, his kisses and caresses returning it to Crowley until he feels as though he's glutted for a long time and is finally sated, having enough to believe that this will not be taken from him or denied again. His hand toys gently at the unfastened collar of Aziraphale's shirt, slipping beneath it as his fingertips trace the line of his collarbone, more reverently than a demon has a right to be, and he shivers when Aziraphale tells him again that he loves him, as though he hears all those hidden meanings behind the words. Or maybe it's just the words themselves that have that effect on him. So sweet as to be nearly painful, giving him more joy than his heart seems capable of holding.
"Love you, angel." Crowley presses the words against his throat, in a ragged voice. Yes, he will, he'll accept as much as he can, hear it as often as he can bear without simply combusting on the spot from the sheer pleasure of it. Which he doesn't intend to do, so Aziraphale can just go on saying it as often as he likes.
He nods in understanding, turning his head to kiss the fingertip that teases along the edge of his jaw. "You make me ache," Crowley tells him, not as an accusation, more as a simple statement of fact that he's come to accept long ago. Need consumes him in Aziraphale's presence; that it was his lot to yearn for him for so long, perhaps to yearn for him until the end of time, was something he'd accepted as well. Being able to indulge it, to find relief in Aziraphale's arms is still so new and wonderful he doesn't know what to do with it.
Aziraphale doesn't think he's ever been quite so nosy with anyone's corporation as he is with Crowley's, especially if Crowley is to keep kissing him for his efforts, fondly rubbing the skin of his nape and tracing fingers down his arm. He really is a feast for the senses, doubly so that Aziraphale still feels the lingering sensation of Crowley over him and inside of him, subsided into a lightly pulsing glow but nonetheless a pleasant reminder.
His face fills with affection when Crowley tells him he aches, because it identifies whatever this feeling is, the one of sinking and drowning whenever Crowley is away from him; it's obsessive and unhealthy and Aziraphale has tried to push it away and sequester it somewhere it couldn't touch him. But they are tethered, bound to one another completely, and the harder he tries the stronger the feeling and the more he can sense something in him withering. So finally he rests his wandering hands to cradle Crowley and hold him steady and tight, as it was meant to be.
He wonders how long it will be before that menacing uncertainty goes away. Certainly they've kept it around too long, Aziraphale having used it as a shield for centuries, regretting the choice. But he also knows it's because this is so new that it's almost surreal, like it all might be a second dream he hasn't woken up from yet, layered so deeply under his first that he hopes to stay here awhile and make a home in this reality.
"I blessed it myself," he says, cutting through the moment with its suddenness. "It takes better if you really believe." That's really all it had taken, a true blessing, a little salt. Water could've come from the tap and salt could have come from the little blue canister that had the girl and her umbrella (it didn't; he'd imported both from where Eden had once stood.) "So don't you dare be careless." He doesn't know what he'll do if he's the ultimate reason for his end.
Aziraphale’s hands settle against him with, it seems to Crowley, an intent not to let go, never to let go again. That would suit him just fine. Held against him, Aziraphale’s hands feeling gentle and sure where they rest on his bare skin, he’s certain this is the most contentment he’ll ever know—to be here in the angel’s arms, with promises made to bind them to one another. He moves his hand in a drowsy gesture and in an instant Aziraphale’s shirt is once again clean and unstained, lying against his skin with the fabric smoothed and softened and holding barely a wrinkle, and all the rest of the signs of their lovemaking are gone too, aside from the way his heart still races and he breathes as unsteadily as any human plagued by love. Letting his eyes fall half-shut, coiling himself as much around Aziraphale as he can manage, Crowley listens to the silence between them as his pulse slows.
When Aziraphale breaks it he lifts up his head to look at him. He doesn’t need to say what he’s speaking of, Crowley knows at once. Quietly he answers, “You know I won’t be, angel.” Not before, not when he first asked for it and certainly not now. He’s got plenty to live for—more than he’d ever expected to have, in truth. And he intends to keep it, which means he’ll have to be prepared to use the holy water in the right moment, if it comes down to it—and do for the angels as well if necessary, Crowley thinks, watching Aziraphale with his eyes briefly narrowing. He ducks his head down to kiss him. “Stuck with me now, s’what you are,” he murmurs fondly after.
Stuck with him, as if that weren't the whole point. He'd already been resigned to this for the last four thousand of their six thousand years, and wishing he hadn't for the last... who even knows how long, pining, writing thousands upon thousands of lines of poetry and song and love letters all tucked neatly into his head where Heaven nor Hell nor, God forbid it, Crowley could ever find them.
He may have, in a particularly romanticized period of Crowley's absence in the nineteenth century, drunk and lonely despite finding himself in the company of some talented authors who only wrote of great loves, penned and published a very obscure and totally embarrassing novella. He is half sure that didn't actually happen, and he can't remember it very clearly, but sometimes he recalls snippets of a story he read once that he can't place, though he remembers that it featured a handsome and flame-haired demon who constantly shielded his eyes under the shade of a hat.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he replies, smiling into the kiss but eyebrows for a second knitted in recognition as he recalls the elusive story he hasn't thought of for a good sixty years.
Hm.
"This is the only place I truly belong," he whispers, confessing his truth into the crook of Crowley's jaw as he presses kisses into it. Too human to be an angel, too angelic to be a human; the only person who's ever really understood him, who's ever really accepted all he is, is right here in his arms promising himself to Aziraphale. This kind of gift he doesn't take lightly.
It's good of Aziraphale to keep reassuring him, so that any question or doubt that whispers itself into the back of Crowley's mind is chased away before it can really take hold. He can't help it: beneath the exterior he presents to the world is a foundation of unacknowledged anxieties and a great deal of nerve, which perhaps only Aziraphale is aware of--he's certainly the only being in all of Creation that has seen Crowley so raw and vulnerable as when they are intimately joined. It's enough that at the moment he knows hardly a care in the world, with Aziraphale smiling against his mouth and saying that there's nowhere else he'd rather be, his mouth moving on to kiss his jaw as his voice turns soft and confessional, and Crowley's eyes close, his fingers slip into Aziraphale's hair to hold him insistently. The words are like a gift offered to him, his entire being hungry for them.
"Yeah, it is," he agrees unsteadily, tipping his head to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. "Right here, angel." He'll always have a place with Crowley, whatever happens. Crowley would go with him anywhere, run away to the stars if need be or journey to the farthest corners of the earth: it wouldn't matter to him, anywhere they went would be good enough if they went together.
He knows nothing about Aziraphale's secret writing, though it would be a pure delight if he ever found out; and perhaps when they've gotten used to sharing their days and nights together Aziraphale will feel comfortable enough to tell him. Crowley looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, letting himself dwell just a little on the thought of sharing a flat--perhaps there's room for his plants here somewhere amidst all the clutter. "D'you mind if I sleep?" he asks, bringing one of Aziraphale's hands to his lips to kiss, in his gaze the real meaning of his question: will you be with me when I wake?
The night has stilled all around them in the lateness of the hour, no one and nothing awake outside save for some bugs zipping around by a street light. It's like this that Aziraphale feels that they are truly alone and not under someone's watchful gaze that might be lurking about. No, there is a safety here, a calming sensation. And truthfully his body is too boneless and sated to do anything else at the moment but rest, even if what he really wants is to stay up and stretch this night out as long as possible by any means. Should they run out of conversation, Aziraphale would be more than happy to just lie there in silence listening to the rhythm of their breathing fall in and out of sync.
Sleep, however, sounds like both a reasonable and desirable suggestion, now that Aziraphale is warm and clean and smelling of fresh linens left out to dry in sunlight. He nods his assurance into Crowley's chest and crawls in close, nuzzling his neck and generally invading his space. It will be hard to be there in the morning when sense starts to return to him and the dread creeps in with the daylight, but it will get better the next morning. Oh, how he hopes that Crowley will be here the next morning and the one after that.
This is what he last thinks before he drifts off to sleep again, and this time his dreams, intangible and amorphous as they are, only leave him with positive half-memories upon waking.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Pleasure becomes a tide rising so sharply he feels choked with it. His forehead presses to Aziraphale's when the angel pleads with him not to stop, eyes closing as his whole body shudders in reaction. ]
Never. [ Crowley's voice is hoarse and almost pleading in turn, promising, oh Hell, he’d swear his entire existence to Aziraphale over and over, until the stars fell from the sky. ] Never, angel, I—
[ He'll do this for as long as Aziraphale needs, until he can't bear any more. ]
we can switch this one over to prose too if you'd like!
And his body rebels against all rational thought as he finds is becoming a pattern in Crowley's presence: eyes rolling into the back of his head, hips falling out of rhythm, breath erratic, throat feeling strained and used but refusing to rest. ]
Crowley.
[ He says it once and again, interrupts Crowley calling him as if trying to answer him but not knowing what else to say but yes, drawn out and slipping into a hiss. Aziraphale wants to accept his offer, over and over again, taking every fiber of his being into his arms and under his wings and making him understand he is loved and wanted beyond Earthly or Celestial measure, letting him know that in this vast universe and in all of Creation, there is another soul which he can call his home.
The words don't quite make it out and any thoughts that try to form together fade into wisps as Aziraphale's entire body and mind are overrun, are consumed by this act. Pinpricks of pleasure rain upon his skin and he can barely whine out a warning, just closing his mouth over the word close. He chases his release, caught squarely between Crowley's hand and his cock, brows knit in fierce concentration as he musters up the words: ]
Look at me.
sounds good!
He meets the angel's gaze when he asks, yellow eyes unconcealed and intensely vulnerable: this is something Crowley can't deny him either. Whatever Aziraphale might see in him, whatever Crowley is unable to hide, he'll let him look his fill whenever he wants, even now when he is raw and shuddering all over with the sensation of being so intimately joined. He looks at the angel and sees all the love and desire in his clear eyes reflected back at him, a love as vast as only an angel can give--and Crowley chokes out a cry, hips faltering as his own release takes hold of him, as he buries himself deep in Aziraphale and comes, the pleasure so intense that his entire body is wracked and trembling with it. He almost can't bear it, his head dropping as he mouths frantically at Aziraphale's throat, as his hips jerk in uncontrolled motions.
"Aziraphale--" Crowley gasps his name again, still shivering at the end of it, and with effort he lifts his head and meets his eyes again, his hand remembering to stroke Aziraphale's cock, keep giving him the pleasure and sensation that will bring him to release as well. "Please--"
no subject
And though he has only been treated to the sight of Crowley finishing only twice before, he welcomes it with his arms and his hips like an old friend. He is struck silent with how beautiful Crowley is in this moment, his body and face overcome by orgasm, and does all he can to extend this and eke out every last drop of pleasure from him.
It barely takes Crowley's plea for the telltale wave that surges through Aziraphale and floods him with release. He comes with the latter half of Crowley's name breathlessly caught on his tongue, eyes shuttered spilling hot over his stomach and leaving wet spots all over his shirt. It's strong and seems to him both endless and that it's over far too soon as thoughts start to form again and he's made to be cognizant of how loud and ragged his breathing is.
Soul settling in return to his body, he reaches for the back of Crowley's neck and pulls him forward to rest their foreheads together. After a long moment, he huffs out a laugh and in a deep voice he confesses, "I feel as if I should be thanking you again for that."
no subject
Even his imagination fails, running out of adjectives to describe what Aziraphale must be to have made him feel this way. More whole, more content than he has known since the day he Fell. Belonging to no one but his angel, and Crowley sighs as he shifts over to the side a little so that when he collapses in a boneless sprawl he won't be entirely pinning Aziraphale down beneath him, though his head pillows against Aziraphale's shoulder and one of his legs is thrown haphazardly across him. He tucks his face against the join of shoulder and neck, nuzzling blissfully. "This," he mumbles, plucking a little at Aziraphale's shirt, "this was brilliant. Can't believe you saved it all." He kisses the angel's throat, feverish with gratitude and the brilliant echoes of lust. "Want me to take care of the mess?"
no subject
"I love you," he says, three words that say so much and yet not enough, but where he can't find words stronger to mean the things he does mean. What he wants to say is that he is foolish, he's wrong for having denied them this inevitability, because love is stronger than he is, just a single soul out in the total of Creation, fragile and brittle in comparison. But it was the only thing that Aziraphale had to offer him, the whole of himself succumb to this feeling, and would he be so kind as to just accept it as best he could? Because he could give Crowley the world and it wouldn't be sufficient.
"I missed this," he says, instead, drawing a finger across Crowley's jawline. "I think of you all the time. I tried to will myself that it was enough." He runs the barest touch of fingertips along Crowley's shoulder and collarbone. "But it's not, now that you're here. Nothing could compare."
no subject
"Love you, angel." Crowley presses the words against his throat, in a ragged voice. Yes, he will, he'll accept as much as he can, hear it as often as he can bear without simply combusting on the spot from the sheer pleasure of it. Which he doesn't intend to do, so Aziraphale can just go on saying it as often as he likes.
He nods in understanding, turning his head to kiss the fingertip that teases along the edge of his jaw. "You make me ache," Crowley tells him, not as an accusation, more as a simple statement of fact that he's come to accept long ago. Need consumes him in Aziraphale's presence; that it was his lot to yearn for him for so long, perhaps to yearn for him until the end of time, was something he'd accepted as well. Being able to indulge it, to find relief in Aziraphale's arms is still so new and wonderful he doesn't know what to do with it.
no subject
His face fills with affection when Crowley tells him he aches, because it identifies whatever this feeling is, the one of sinking and drowning whenever Crowley is away from him; it's obsessive and unhealthy and Aziraphale has tried to push it away and sequester it somewhere it couldn't touch him. But they are tethered, bound to one another completely, and the harder he tries the stronger the feeling and the more he can sense something in him withering. So finally he rests his wandering hands to cradle Crowley and hold him steady and tight, as it was meant to be.
He wonders how long it will be before that menacing uncertainty goes away. Certainly they've kept it around too long, Aziraphale having used it as a shield for centuries, regretting the choice. But he also knows it's because this is so new that it's almost surreal, like it all might be a second dream he hasn't woken up from yet, layered so deeply under his first that he hopes to stay here awhile and make a home in this reality.
"I blessed it myself," he says, cutting through the moment with its suddenness. "It takes better if you really believe." That's really all it had taken, a true blessing, a little salt. Water could've come from the tap and salt could have come from the little blue canister that had the girl and her umbrella (it didn't; he'd imported both from where Eden had once stood.) "So don't you dare be careless." He doesn't know what he'll do if he's the ultimate reason for his end.
no subject
When Aziraphale breaks it he lifts up his head to look at him. He doesn’t need to say what he’s speaking of, Crowley knows at once. Quietly he answers, “You know I won’t be, angel.” Not before, not when he first asked for it and certainly not now. He’s got plenty to live for—more than he’d ever expected to have, in truth. And he intends to keep it, which means he’ll have to be prepared to use the holy water in the right moment, if it comes down to it—and do for the angels as well if necessary, Crowley thinks, watching Aziraphale with his eyes briefly narrowing. He ducks his head down to kiss him. “Stuck with me now, s’what you are,” he murmurs fondly after.
no subject
He may have, in a particularly romanticized period of Crowley's absence in the nineteenth century, drunk and lonely despite finding himself in the company of some talented authors who only wrote of great loves, penned and published a very obscure and totally embarrassing novella. He is half sure that didn't actually happen, and he can't remember it very clearly, but sometimes he recalls snippets of a story he read once that he can't place, though he remembers that it featured a handsome and flame-haired demon who constantly shielded his eyes under the shade of a hat.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he replies, smiling into the kiss but eyebrows for a second knitted in recognition as he recalls the elusive story he hasn't thought of for a good sixty years.
Hm.
"This is the only place I truly belong," he whispers, confessing his truth into the crook of Crowley's jaw as he presses kisses into it. Too human to be an angel, too angelic to be a human; the only person who's ever really understood him, who's ever really accepted all he is, is right here in his arms promising himself to Aziraphale. This kind of gift he doesn't take lightly.
no subject
"Yeah, it is," he agrees unsteadily, tipping his head to offer more of himself to Aziraphale's mouth. "Right here, angel." He'll always have a place with Crowley, whatever happens. Crowley would go with him anywhere, run away to the stars if need be or journey to the farthest corners of the earth: it wouldn't matter to him, anywhere they went would be good enough if they went together.
He knows nothing about Aziraphale's secret writing, though it would be a pure delight if he ever found out; and perhaps when they've gotten used to sharing their days and nights together Aziraphale will feel comfortable enough to tell him. Crowley looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes, letting himself dwell just a little on the thought of sharing a flat--perhaps there's room for his plants here somewhere amidst all the clutter. "D'you mind if I sleep?" he asks, bringing one of Aziraphale's hands to his lips to kiss, in his gaze the real meaning of his question: will you be with me when I wake?
no subject
Sleep, however, sounds like both a reasonable and desirable suggestion, now that Aziraphale is warm and clean and smelling of fresh linens left out to dry in sunlight. He nods his assurance into Crowley's chest and crawls in close, nuzzling his neck and generally invading his space. It will be hard to be there in the morning when sense starts to return to him and the dread creeps in with the daylight, but it will get better the next morning. Oh, how he hopes that Crowley will be here the next morning and the one after that.
This is what he last thinks before he drifts off to sleep again, and this time his dreams, intangible and amorphous as they are, only leave him with positive half-memories upon waking.