Work Text:
Human beds weren’t designed for wings.
Trying to sleep on your back was impractical. Sore shoulders, sore neck, sore wings, and that’s before the pulled feathers everywhere.
Sleeping on your side was feasible, but far too disappointing. Even tucked in, wings would take up half the bed behind you, and spooning with someone was out of the question. A single midnight stretch would get them jabbed in the face with something far too solid to be a pillow, if you could get within a foot of each other to begin with.
Stomach sleeping it was, then. A tangle of wings, overlapping, feathers mingling like intertwined fingers. A sleepy mess, careless, requiring thorough grooming in the morning to set them all straight. The quiet morning ritual that was gentle hands carding through soft feathers. Taking the time to do that, carefully, the human way, not snapping them into perfection like artful red waves nor leaving them tousled like natural curls. A feather left behind in those waves or curls too, sometimes. A feather kept there for the rest of the morning, usually.
Yes, stomach sleeping had its issues, but it was still the best way.
In the middle of the night, dim lamplight could filter through that dense blanket of feathers to faintly illuminate the profile of a demon who still loved to sleep.
In the morning, golden dawn could filter onto the set-aside book of an angel who was just now learning sleep’s charms.
Wings made for terrible pillows, but arms could serve alright, whether your own or someone else’s. And a blanket of wings made for a rest that was warm, and intimate, and so very protected.
Human beds weren’t designed for wings. But if you were going to share one, you might as well do so in your own true shape.