[ He scrunches his nose and pulls Crowley in for a kiss that lingers just the slightest bit longer than the one he'd just been given. He's greedy like that. ]
And you...
[ He pauses for a second, pointing a finger accusingly on Crowley's chest. ]
Are a menace! Do-I-swallow-snakes, could hardly keep a straight face!
[ With a hand on Crowley's shoulder and a leg around his waist, he gently shoves him over onto the bed and crawls over him on hands and knees. There aren't any angles he doesn't enjoy Crowley from, but he has a particular enjoyment of this one, in part because typically when Crowley is under him, he's moaning and writhing like his soul is too big to be caged in his body and rattles against it. His face contorted in pleasure could drive Aziraphale to ruin, he's exquisite.
There he is, looking down at Crowley as a starved lion does a fresh kill.
A thought passes through his mind, and his look snaps back to normal. ]
--Surely, people could have found a phallic symbol slightly more poetic than an aubergine. An eclair, perhaps!
[ Crowley chuckles into the warmth of Aziraphale's shoulder. ]
Only a bit. You do love your little plea-
[ Crowley finds himself quite suddenly flat on his back, and his breath leaves him at the sight of Aziraphale giving him the same look he has when they come around with the dessert tray at the Ritz. Crowley is all too happy to tempt him to a helping or two, letting his hands fall to the angel's hips.
And then they're back to their prior discussion, and scrunches up in a fit of silent laughter, pulling Aziraphale down into his arms. ]
An eclair! I never would of thought of it, but it's a better match; got the cream filling and doesn't taste like absolute rubbish.
[ Aziraphale was so lovely like that. Passionate and enthusiastic, and then sultry. And then so prim and fussy. There was so much he loved about him, he doesn't know where to start.
Well, he does, actually. He had interrupted his snack after all.
A snap, and the dessert appears on one of his lovely antique breakfast trays, along with a bowl of chips, and two smaller ones full of salsa and queso. ]
And if I recall, you had a dreadful day. Rather impertinent of them, thinking they could buy a book. From a bookshop. I did promise a good pampering.
[ He gives Crowley such a lovely look and then sits up to get his legs under the tray so he can tuck in. He thinks about what he wants first, and then--]
[ Crowley stretches and sits himself at Aziraphale's side, plucking the fork from the breakfast tray. This is both calming and familiar, and yet dazzlingly new. Their millennia-spanning friendship had involved many little dining excursions, where one or the other might offer up a forkful of something from their plate. The new bit is Aziraphale explicitly asking for this treatment from Crowley, and the demon couldn't be happier to oblige.
He uses the side of the fork to cut through the soft, rumsoaked sponge and layers of fruit, before offering up the morsel to Aziraphale. ]
Principality, indeed. All you need's a little crown.
[ At the suggestion, Aziraphale miracles a little crown onto his head. It's imperial style, bedecked in jewels, with cushy blue velvet in the center.
After that, he presses his hands together and delicately takes the offered bite. His lips come together in a cute little smile, and he practically bats his lashes the way that old cartoons with shiny eyelids do. ]
[ Crowley quickly stifles a laugh, and affects the demeanor of a prim and proper butler. Or at least, Crowley's idea of a prim and proper butler, as Crowley was absolutely none of the above. ]
My lovely liege - how may I serve you?
[ Crowley dissolves into a fit of snickering. That lasted all of, maybe, three seconds. ]
Stopped by the cottage to drop off cleaning supplies and decided to head into town to get a better feel for the area. Got themselves a charming Italian bakery; been in the family generations. 'Course I couldn't not pick you up a little treat.
[ Aziraphale cracks up too, half because of the words that he says, and half because of the way that he says it. Finally, when their laughter subsides, he says, in between little upstarts of giggles: ]
I do love a... a good Italian bakery.
And a... thoughtful lover.
[ He makes eyes at Crowley one more time before tearing his gaze away and then taking up the fork to continue dessert. He insists on his snack, of course. ]
[ Crowley puffs up with pride when the cake meets its mark. Of course it would - Crowley is almost as picky about baked goods as Aziraphale - mostly because he's usually buying them for Aziraphale.
When he takes the fork from Crowley's unresistant hand, the demon pours their wine, and settles behind Aziraphale to rub his shoulders.
It's not quite a compulsion, but Crowley takes a great deal of pleasure in making Aziraphale happy. He supposes one facet of his reasoning is that he's spent his whole life making others moderately miserable, it feels nice to brighten someone's day for a change. The other facet is that someone just so happens to be who he loves the very most. ]
I know - like getting to take care of you. Feels ... feels something. All warm, here.
[ He presses his chest against Aziraphale's back by way of explanation. ]
[ He leans back, careful not to get his crown up in Crowley's face, but pillows the back of his head onto a shoulder and draws Crowley's arm around his shoulder like a cape. The massage was nice, but cuddling might be nicer. ]
That's just love, dear. It makes you feel good when you make someone you love happy.
And you make me so very happy.
[ The crown disappears, all so he can turn his face to steal a quick peck. ]
[ And now he can say it. Just casually, all out in the open. Like he can rub Aziraphale's shoulders or feed him cake. ]
...And you do spoil me. You're very indulgent to my own little whims.
[ It's the little things; the way Aziraphale welcomes Crowley into his life, makes room for him in the sanctuary of his bookshop, how much he trusts him and lets him ask all his questions ranging from trying to suss out the deep moral quandaries of life to the utterly inane or pedantic queries that amble through his brain at any given moment. These things mean more to Crowley than Aziraphale may ever know. ]
[ It's much easier to spot with Aziraphale, who loves to be pampered in all ways, manners and forms. He likes to be touched, he likes to be fed, he likes expensive things and good shows and sweet kisses and wherever that leads. ]
Tomorrow. We'll do all the things you want to do. I'll draw you a bath. And then I'll weave you a dream. And we can go... look for more plants. And take a drive.
A picnic, and a bath. Oh, Crowley, what a perfect day.
[ But then again, so is this one. They're all perfect days, now that they're together, he thinks. ]
I'll read to you. What do you think? We've always followed humans on their adventures.
[ And they could do so without any chance of intervening, even. He extends his fingers all the way out so that Crowley's have to slip in between them, and then closes them, interlocking. ]
Or, perhaps... if you'd like, have you read those choose your own adventure books? What a novel idea!
[ Given what they've gotten up to, how utterly shameless they are in their affection, it's pretty astonishing what will make Crowley flush from head to toe. Here, in the privacy of their bed with no one else to see, he is positively blushing over the offer to be read to while they hold hands and Aziraphale eats cake. ]
[ Don't think that Aziraphale missed that, because he didn't. He moves the tray aside and busses Crowley on the cheek before getting up to go select a book to read. ]
Any requests?
[ Otherwise, he might be down there for a little too long, and come up with tomes upon tomes for Crowley to choose from. He might already have fallen asleep by then. ]
Anything you want.
[ Even though he's doing the work, he supposes this is like how Crowley always treats Aziraphale to things. He gets no less enjoyment by being the narrator, than being on the receiving end of a good book reading. ]
[ Crowley stretches himself out, watching Aziraphale bent over his books with interest. ]
Mm - something funny. Or saucy. Or so saucy it's funny.
[ Crowley may have been a great patron of the arts and sciences, but his taste in literature could be almost absurdly pedestrian.
He gets himself comfortable, exchanging out his day-to-day attire for his silk pajama bottoms and a t-shirt sporting the logo of some rock group he'd seen at a pub once and liked enough to pay actual money for their merchandise. ]
It's not often I keep that sort of pulp around the shop.
[ His romances were usually... heavy on the romance, light on the sauce. ]
But humor on the other hand... Ah, I've got just the thing. Lend me a jiffy.
[ He jumps out of bed and goes downstairs for a moment, coming back and tossing the book on Crowley. It appears to be slightly old, leather-bound from the 1800s. And there's no title or anything on the spine. The sheets are rather thick. In fact, if he opens it, he'll see that it's written in Aziraphale's handwriting.
Or, hm. A messy, drunken version of Aziraphale's handwriting. ]
[ Crowley complains loudly when Aziraphale scurries off. Something ridiculous about the air being too cold to go without his wonderful body heat and woe is him, abandoned and forgotten, all the while draping himself across the cushions like a forlorn Victorian maiden having a bout of hysteria and fainting. The theatrics stop almost as soon as Aziraphale returns, and he nearly fumbles the catch as the book lands in his arms.
He opens it curiously; a handwritten manuscript of some sort. He wasn't surprised; Aziraphale kept a number of pieces that had never seen a publishing house for one reason or another. But then, it dawns on him just who the writing belongs to, and he looks up at Aziraphale with both love and astonishment. ]
You wrote this...?
[ He beckons for Aziraphale to come back to bed, eager (for once) to read something. His heart is doing that strange thrumming as he skims the thick parchment. ]
Well, yes. It's the single most ridiculous, terribly soppy, pulp piece of writing that I own.
[ He smiles confidently to hide that he's actually rather nervous on the inside, as he climbs back into bed, and says: ]
I believe I mentioned in passing that I once wrote of you. Of us, while... very drunk and surrounded by other, more talented writers who were sick of my pining, in their words. They encouraged me - they dared me - to write, and so, I did.
And I never looked at it again.
[ He's not actually sure he could read it, with his handwriting getting noticeably worse as the book went on, and with his line of thought meandering and full to bursting of a loved shot through and scarred with denial. ]
[ Crowley says it emphatically, despite only skimming a sentence or two. He's clutching the manuscript protectively to his chest, as though Aziraphale had offered him something small, frail and delicate.
Crowley opens one arm invitingly, wanting to hold Aziraphale as they read together. ]
You're not ridiculous, Aziraphale. Not for writing this.
I am. It took several bottles of wine and some of my greatest friends at the time to pull it out of me. And then, ashamed, I chucked it in the back never to look at again, and certainly never to show you.
Oh, don't get all serious on me, Crowley, it'll be great fun.
[ In an embarrassing way, but maybe they could both laugh at how absolutely cheesy and purple Aziraphale's attempts at describing Crowley through his eyes in the 1800s after having missed him for part of the century. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ He scrunches his nose and pulls Crowley in for a kiss that lingers just the slightest bit longer than the one he'd just been given. He's greedy like that. ]
And you...
[ He pauses for a second, pointing a finger accusingly on Crowley's chest. ]
Are a menace! Do-I-swallow-snakes, could hardly keep a straight face!
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[ Crowley is promptly silenced by Aziraphale's kiss, and happily leans into it. His lips part to welcome him in, and his fingers slide into his hair.
When they break away, Crowley looks incredibly smug over the angel's faux outrage. ]
In my defense, I nearly discorporated when you mentioned your 'innocence'.
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[ With a hand on Crowley's shoulder and a leg around his waist, he gently shoves him over onto the bed and crawls over him on hands and knees. There aren't any angles he doesn't enjoy Crowley from, but he has a particular enjoyment of this one, in part because typically when Crowley is under him, he's moaning and writhing like his soul is too big to be caged in his body and rattles against it. His face contorted in pleasure could drive Aziraphale to ruin, he's exquisite.
There he is, looking down at Crowley as a starved lion does a fresh kill.
A thought passes through his mind, and his look snaps back to normal. ]
--Surely, people could have found a phallic symbol slightly more poetic than an aubergine. An eclair, perhaps!
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Only a bit. You do love your little plea-
[ Crowley finds himself quite suddenly flat on his back, and his breath leaves him at the sight of Aziraphale giving him the same look he has when they come around with the dessert tray at the Ritz. Crowley is all too happy to tempt him to a helping or two, letting his hands fall to the angel's hips.
And then they're back to their prior discussion, and scrunches up in a fit of silent laughter, pulling Aziraphale down into his arms. ]
An eclair! I never would of thought of it, but it's a better match; got the cream filling and doesn't taste like absolute rubbish.
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[ He looks up from where he is, and grins, doing his best impression of a constrictor as he wraps himself around Crowley once pulled forth. ]
I do like eclairs.
[ Then, with his voice lowered and his eyes half-lidded, he adds: ]
I do like your eclair...
And you have interrupted my snack. As I recall, we were about to have cake. And chips.
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Well, he does, actually. He had interrupted his snack after all.
A snap, and the dessert appears on one of his lovely antique breakfast trays, along with a bowl of chips, and two smaller ones full of salsa and queso. ]
And if I recall, you had a dreadful day. Rather impertinent of them, thinking they could buy a book. From a bookshop. I did promise a good pampering.
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[ He gives Crowley such a lovely look and then sits up to get his legs under the tray so he can tuck in. He thinks about what he wants first, and then--]
I think you ought to feed me.
I'd feel very pampered then, I think.
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[ Crowley stretches and sits himself at Aziraphale's side, plucking the fork from the breakfast tray. This is both calming and familiar, and yet dazzlingly new. Their millennia-spanning friendship had involved many little dining excursions, where one or the other might offer up a forkful of something from their plate. The new bit is Aziraphale explicitly asking for this treatment from Crowley, and the demon couldn't be happier to oblige.
He uses the side of the fork to cut through the soft, rumsoaked sponge and layers of fruit, before offering up the morsel to Aziraphale. ]
Principality, indeed. All you need's a little crown.
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After that, he presses his hands together and delicately takes the offered bite. His lips come together in a cute little smile, and he practically bats his lashes the way that old cartoons with shiny eyelids do. ]
Oh my dear, that's glorious.
Where did you get that?
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My lovely liege - how may I serve you?
[ Crowley dissolves into a fit of snickering. That lasted all of, maybe, three seconds. ]
Stopped by the cottage to drop off cleaning supplies and decided to head into town to get a better feel for the area. Got themselves a charming Italian bakery; been in the family generations. 'Course I couldn't not pick you up a little treat.
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I do love a... a good Italian bakery.
And a... thoughtful lover.
[ He makes eyes at Crowley one more time before tearing his gaze away and then taking up the fork to continue dessert. He insists on his snack, of course. ]
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When he takes the fork from Crowley's unresistant hand, the demon pours their wine, and settles behind Aziraphale to rub his shoulders.
It's not quite a compulsion, but Crowley takes a great deal of pleasure in making Aziraphale happy. He supposes one facet of his reasoning is that he's spent his whole life making others moderately miserable, it feels nice to brighten someone's day for a change. The other facet is that someone just so happens to be who he loves the very most. ]
I know - like getting to take care of you. Feels ... feels something. All warm, here.
[ He presses his chest against Aziraphale's back by way of explanation. ]
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[ He leans back, careful not to get his crown up in Crowley's face, but pillows the back of his head onto a shoulder and draws Crowley's arm around his shoulder like a cape. The massage was nice, but cuddling might be nicer. ]
That's just love, dear. It makes you feel good when you make someone you love happy.
And you make me so very happy.
[ The crown disappears, all so he can turn his face to steal a quick peck. ]
You know, I so rarely get to spoil you in return.
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[ And now he can say it. Just casually, all out in the open. Like he can rub Aziraphale's shoulders or feed him cake. ]
...And you do spoil me. You're very indulgent to my own little whims.
[ It's the little things; the way Aziraphale welcomes Crowley into his life, makes room for him in the sanctuary of his bookshop, how much he trusts him and lets him ask all his questions ranging from trying to suss out the deep moral quandaries of life to the utterly inane or pedantic queries that amble through his brain at any given moment. These things mean more to Crowley than Aziraphale may ever know. ]
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[ It's much easier to spot with Aziraphale, who loves to be pampered in all ways, manners and forms. He likes to be touched, he likes to be fed, he likes expensive things and good shows and sweet kisses and wherever that leads. ]
Tomorrow. We'll do all the things you want to do. I'll draw you a bath. And then I'll weave you a dream. And we can go... look for more plants. And take a drive.
What do you say?
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It is - I am very spoiled, rest assured.
[ He presses a few kisses to the nape of Aziraphale's neck. If only the angel knew how much he did for Crowley already. ]
Those do sound nice though. Grab a hamper and take a nice drive into the countryside. Do a picnic. Nice bath in the evening...
[ His hands wander down Aziraphale's arms until he reaches a fork-free hand to hold. ]
...hop into bed, you with a nice book... it sounds perfect.
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[ But then again, so is this one. They're all perfect days, now that they're together, he thinks. ]
I'll read to you. What do you think? We've always followed humans on their adventures.
[ And they could do so without any chance of intervening, even. He extends his fingers all the way out so that Crowley's have to slip in between them, and then closes them, interlocking. ]
Or, perhaps... if you'd like, have you read those choose your own adventure books? What a novel idea!
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[ Given what they've gotten up to, how utterly shameless they are in their affection, it's pretty astonishing what will make Crowley flush from head to toe. Here, in the privacy of their bed with no one else to see, he is positively blushing over the offer to be read to while they hold hands and Aziraphale eats cake. ]
Always wanted you to...
[ He mutters, ever so softly. ]
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Any requests?
[ Otherwise, he might be down there for a little too long, and come up with tomes upon tomes for Crowley to choose from. He might already have fallen asleep by then. ]
Anything you want.
[ Even though he's doing the work, he supposes this is like how Crowley always treats Aziraphale to things. He gets no less enjoyment by being the narrator, than being on the receiving end of a good book reading. ]
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Mm - something funny. Or saucy. Or so saucy it's funny.
[ Crowley may have been a great patron of the arts and sciences, but his taste in literature could be almost absurdly pedestrian.
He gets himself comfortable, exchanging out his day-to-day attire for his silk pajama bottoms and a t-shirt sporting the logo of some rock group he'd seen at a pub once and liked enough to pay actual money for their merchandise. ]
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[ His romances were usually... heavy on the romance, light on the sauce. ]
But humor on the other hand... Ah, I've got just the thing. Lend me a jiffy.
[ He jumps out of bed and goes downstairs for a moment, coming back and tossing the book on Crowley. It appears to be slightly old, leather-bound from the 1800s. And there's no title or anything on the spine. The sheets are rather thick. In fact, if he opens it, he'll see that it's written in Aziraphale's handwriting.
Or, hm. A messy, drunken version of Aziraphale's handwriting. ]
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He opens it curiously; a handwritten manuscript of some sort. He wasn't surprised; Aziraphale kept a number of pieces that had never seen a publishing house for one reason or another. But then, it dawns on him just who the writing belongs to, and he looks up at Aziraphale with both love and astonishment. ]
You wrote this...?
[ He beckons for Aziraphale to come back to bed, eager (for once) to read something. His heart is doing that strange thrumming as he skims the thick parchment. ]
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[ He smiles confidently to hide that he's actually rather nervous on the inside, as he climbs back into bed, and says: ]
I believe I mentioned in passing that I once wrote of you. Of us, while... very drunk and surrounded by other, more talented writers who were sick of my pining, in their words. They encouraged me - they dared me - to write, and so, I did.
And I never looked at it again.
[ He's not actually sure he could read it, with his handwriting getting noticeably worse as the book went on, and with his line of thought meandering and full to bursting of a loved shot through and scarred with denial. ]
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[ Crowley says it emphatically, despite only skimming a sentence or two. He's clutching the manuscript protectively to his chest, as though Aziraphale had offered him something small, frail and delicate.
Crowley opens one arm invitingly, wanting to hold Aziraphale as they read together. ]
You're not ridiculous, Aziraphale. Not for writing this.
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Oh, don't get all serious on me, Crowley, it'll be great fun.
[ In an embarrassing way, but maybe they could both laugh at how absolutely cheesy and purple Aziraphale's attempts at describing Crowley through his eyes in the 1800s after having missed him for part of the century. ]
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