He sees the wings, Crowley's wings, as black as night, beautiful even in the dim light. But maybe he's biased, because everything about the demon feels beautiful, worthy of every bit of love, appreciation, adoration.
Feathers brushing together, bodies warm and pressed close, the feeling of Crowley inside him, and he closes his eyes again, tilts his head back, lets whatever tension and ideas of air to keep just gradually crumble, letting himself freely fall into the pleasure and passion they share.
He moans and curls his wings inward, solely around Crowley, like a protective barrier, a soft selfish shield, but free enough to move in. He curls his toes, thighs pressed against the demon's sides, hands on his back, keeping him close, keeping him his.
ah, the typos/misspellings of a phone tag at 2 in the morning, I'm so classy
Feathers brushing together, bodies warm and pressed close, the feeling of Crowley inside him, and he closes his eyes again, tilts his head back, lets whatever tension and ideas of air to keep just gradually crumble, letting himself freely fall into the pleasure and passion they share.
He moans and curls his wings inward, solely around Crowley, like a protective barrier, a soft selfish shield, but free enough to move in. He curls his toes, thighs pressed against the demon's sides, hands on his back, keeping him close, keeping him his.