Though tingling still with the echoing residues of pleasure, in his current state of torpor Crowley's wings are little more than two massive dead weights at his back. Reluctant to winch them in - especially with the way the gentle breeze is ruffling his coverts - he takes the next most logical course of action, which is to spread his hands on Aziraphael's chest, and sort of twist a bit, and then simply lean insistently into the kiss until the angel sinks far enough back into the pillows that Crowley can drape himself across him.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2009-01-02 07:53 pm (UTC)There.
Much better.