musebox for Ashfae's minions

"I'd see," Crowley grumbles, though it's less than convincing given how happily he's leaning into those fingers on his scalp, how his breath catches at the near-ticklish scrap along his chest. "Do you already have a picnic basket, then? You been picnicing without me these past decades, angel? I'm hurt."

Again, it's not remotely convincing, especially not given how his hand strokes up Aziraphale's back.