Anthony J. Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
inlovewithmycar) wrote2023-06-11 06:36 pm
inlovewithmycar) wrote2023-06-11 06:36 pmThe City Inbox
⛧A.J. CROWLEY⛧
"This is Crowley. I'm not in. You know what to do, so do it with style. Chow." |
inlovewithmycar) wrote2023-06-11 06:36 pm
⛧A.J. CROWLEY⛧
"This is Crowley. I'm not in. You know what to do, so do it with style. Chow." |
no subject
He's about to protest the 'thank you' the way he's always done. The 'don't' is already halfway to the tip of his tongue before he abruptly shuts his mouth and swallows it back down.
Who's watching? No one. No one they care about, anyway, no one who isn't dangerous regardless of whether or not they say please and thank you and spend their nights together cozied up under the blankets as they figure out this immense thing that's grown from them.
Love, he reminds himself. It's love. It's always been love, from the moment he slithered up that wall, and maybe even before if his fractured memories are reliable.
He chuffs out a soft laugh, just a big puff of air that the 'don't thank me' disintegrated into the second he realized he didn't have to say it, warm and soft against Aziraphale's cheek, and he can't stop smiling. What a marvel that he can just say what he means, without a single caveat.]
...Any time, angel. Any time.
[It feels so good to say it.]
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how did it come to this? how did things turn out this way? what had aziraphale done for things to develop to such a wonderful, fantastic direction? what had he gotten so right? this had started as a phone call, like many they have had over the years, but now the two of them lie underneath the protection of a fluffy comforter, foreheads pressed together, and his hands cradling crowley's face like the precious treasure he is.
aziraphale thinks that he could live in this moment forever.
he couldn't go back to a time before knowing crowley's touch, his warmth, and the noble bow of his lips. he couldn't bear it. not any more, not after having a sample of what he's been longing for for so long.
for a while, aziraphale lingers, rubbing his thumbs along the sharp lines of crowley's cheekbones. appreciating what he has in front of them. appreciating the demon who has been trying so, so hard for him. he wants to kiss him, kiss him full on the lips in the way they do in films, but aziraphale fears that he couldn't take it.
he wants to kiss him, but it might fry every nerve in his vessel if he does. he's not ready for it yet, not ready to take that step.
but he wants to. just as he wants to hold crowley close to him and see if their bodies fit together as perfectly as aziraphale always imagined they would.
aziraphale squashes those feelings down, pushing them down low and out of the way.
then, after a stretch of time, he has something more to say. )
So then, Mr. Crowley, what's next for this wake-up routine?
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It's enough. It's more than enough; it's everything and then some.
He wants this to slot into their routine; this amber warmth in the low light pre-dawn quiet, snuggled close together as their pulses synchronize. Heaven's light is nothing compared to the rosy glow of Aziraphale's cheeks in the incandescent glow of the bedside lamp, God's love but a grain of sand next to Aziraphale's veritable ocean of affection.
He smiles, another laugh escaping him, because how can a body hold this much happiness inside?]
I believe I promised you breakfast...?
no subject
( there's a laugh behind his words, terribly fond. terribly smitten. it feels like crowley's laugh chimes with his, joy echoing between them. no, more than feels. must be. no doubt about it. he feels in tune with the demon laying beside him, firmly standing on the same ground.
it's such a lovely thing.
affectionately, he shifts his hands and smooshes crowley's cheeks. )
Let's not be late.
( in a manner of speaking. )