The volume of his voice - babbling nonsense, at this point - rises with each tug on his hair until it's more of a cross between a yelp and a moan. He doesn't seem to mind, though; the hand on the small of Crowley's back only tightens, the other is still clamped on his hip, and the look on the angel's face is perfectly blissful.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2009-01-26 04:45 am (UTC)