faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

duckshaveears

"Yeah," Crowley drawls, picking up a fork and blatantly stealing a bite of Aziraphale's starter, mostly to be cheeky. He's gotten away with it before, though not always. He saves the urge for special occasions. And if this isn't a special occasion, there's never been one. "Lucky you."

From:

salutosinedelectat

The angel gasps faintly and quietly, fakely, over this great offense. He thought the wily serpent knew better than to touch his food.

"Getting cheeky, you are." Which is, of course, totally not flirting.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley might snort at the first two, not unamused by this retort, but his breath catches noticeably at dearest, and dearheart earns a slight whimper. Aziraphale undoing his bowtie earns another. Aziraphale's lips brushing along his face and earlobe causes a sound that can only be described as a moan.

Oh well. He knew as soon as he agreed to go out for karaoke that his dignity was going to be an inevitable sacrifice to the evening, and this is the best possible way for it to die. Buried under angelic kisses and endearments.

Crowley turns his head and this time the kiss he steals is openly needy, hungry, back to the way they were downstairs. He pushes Aziraphale back down on the bed and follows after, leaning over him, one hand cradling the angel's face as he takes kiss after kiss after kiss, or gives them, or both.

From:

sohoangel

He can't help but smile, lips curving up against the shell of Crowley's ear, in response to all the lovely sounds that his demon makes. "My love," he murmurs throatily, before Crowley captures his mouth and silences his litany of verbal affection. Oh, it feels so good to call him such things, to kiss him back just as hungrily, to no longer deny the love he has for Crowley, fit to overflowing.

There is only a soft note of surprise when he's tipped back onto the bed. In another context, a demon looming over an angel would be considered threatening, but Aziraphale feels as safe as he's ever been, the comfortable mattress below him and Crowley cradling his face while they exchange kisses. Distantly, he congratulates himself on suggesting the change of venue as he tries to emulate Crowley's position from earlier. A leg hooks around the demon's and his hands tug more purposefully on Crowley's shirt, trying to untuck it from his pants.

"May I?" he asks breathlessly between kisses. Caught up in the pleasure of Crowley's mouth, he hadn't thought to ask initially, but Crowley did, so he assumes he should as well.

Edited Date: 2019-10-27 03:02 am (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

"Whaddya mean 'getting'?" Crowley smirks, looking over his sunglasses as he very deliberately eats the forkful he's stolen. "I've always been cheeky. And you like it."

Which most definitely is flirting.

From:

duckshaveears

"Ngk," is the only answer to that 'my love', but it's a fervent one. Just as fervent as the "God, yes, anything," response when Aziraphale pulls on Crowley's shirt. He's pretty sure it's wanting permission to undress him, but honestly it doesn't matter. Whatever Aziraphale is asking, the answer is yes.

Crowley pulls up for a minute, helping to pull the relevant garments off. Shirt and his own waistcoat all at once, and he tugs off the small scarf thing and the chain while he's at it, flinging the lot off somewhere to the side. Normally he's more neat, but at this moment neatness is so very, very unimportant. Especially in comparison to kissing Aziraphale some more, and starting to undo his shirt buttons, because now that Crowley is half-naked all he can think about is getting Aziraphale into the same state.

From:

salutosinedelectat

The angel smiles, in that muted way that could well be a knowing smirk, if he let it be.

"I've always found you to be rather harmless, my dear." And he takes another delicate bite, just to emphasize his point.

From:

sohoangel

Despite asking, he's not much help as Crowley essentially strips his upper half in one go. In truth, he only wanted access to Crowley's skin, but this! This is good. This so good. He rests his hands on Crowley's newly bared waist and looks up at him with a dopey expression on his face. "Good Lord, you are beautiful, darling."

He could go on, but Crowley is kissing him again, and there is all that naked torso to explore, which he does. Liberally. His hands slide and stroke, relearning how all those lines and edges feel without fabric in the way. It's so blessedly wonderful that it takes him a while to notice his own shirt buttons being undone. It causes him on a moment of uncertainty -- oh, but Crowley has already told him how much he loves his softness. His hands resume their unabashed exploration.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley may have made a terrible, terrible, wonderful mistake, because now that he has Aziraphale's hands all over his skin he's never going to be able to think straight again. His fingers keep slipping off the buttons on Aziraphale's shirt as he arches into all that touch, warm and caressing and fuck, he almost wants to purr, but he wants at Aziraphale's skin to return the distraction much, much, more.

Four buttons done is enough to let him kiss Aziraphale's upper chest, and from then on every button undone earns a kiss to follow, as he travels lower on Aziraphale's stomach. There is no question given the reverence in his lips, the low pleased sounds he makes, that he absolutely loves what he finds, all that smoothness and softness and Aziraphale. Once he gotten down to the belly button he surges back up, catches Aziraphale's mouth in an urgent kiss, puts his hands on the angel's hips and rolls them over on the bed.

Back to the position they were in downstairs, but fuck, this is better. There's a soft mattress under him and a soft angel above him and they're skin to skin, chest to chest, hands everywhere, and Crowley groans. "You are perfect," he whispers into Aziraphale's mouth. "You, you're--fuck, angel, you're everything--"

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale continues to map out the beauty of Crowley's torso until he's undone by those precious, reverent kisses to his chest. He shuts his eyes, holding back a sudden well of tears at how tender it is. This is love, it's all he feels with each bit of himself exposed, no longer shy, but humbled by the depth and breadth of it.

He's rolled over without complaint, although his shivering returns, and if his wings were out, they'd be quaking hard enough to shed feathers. It's nearly too much, the press of all that skin together, and, oh, it is perfect. He moans helplessly at Crowley's words, swept up in the pleasure of it.

"It feels so good," he whimpers, kissing back haphazardly, his hands sliding into Crowley's hair and holding fast. "I swear, Crowley, I never knew it could feel like this --"

From:

importuned

[That, despite everything, pulls Ophelia fully to her feet. There are few enough moments together, and fewer still in which it's easy to smooth her fingers protectively through his hair and against his cheeks without reaching up toward his towering height.]

Will you rest, elskede?

[They're too alike, she knows. They would both burn themselves nearly to ashes caring for those they felt needed the attention, the gentleness, the devotion that they each held in the depths of themselves.

They'll rest together. They'll find their way back to something close to themselves together again.]

From:

duckshaveears

"Me neither," Crowley rasps. "Thought--hoped it would, thought about it all the bloody time, but--"

This babbling is interrupted by a sudden groan, his whole body shuddering as Aziraphale grips his hair, fingers tangling and holding and, intentionally or not, pulling a little. "Oh, oh fuck, do that again, with the hair--" His body lifts under Aziraphale's, and they're going to need to do something about that, about, about the clothes and the things that go under the clothes, but there's fingers in his hair and Aziraphale's breath in his mouth and it is so hard to think right now.

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale makes a sound of questioning surprise when Crowley bucks against him, but all is revealed to him soon enough. That request -- in that voice -- following that groan -- well, honestly, how can he possibly refuse?

One hand grips tighter in his hair, pulling experimentally, just short of actual pain. The other he places flat on the bed to give him enough leverage to push up and watch Crowley's reaction. It must be important to demand something that specific, he wants to see what effect it has on Crowley. Dimly, he's also aware of the clothes between them, as well as the fact that he hasn't bothered to shrug out of his shirt yet, but this is far more important.

From:

confoundthemighty

Moving Crowley into the space above the bookshop means that in fact Aziraphale has to spend quite a lot of time in Mayfair.

It’s the kitchen, mostly—or, to be honest, the lack thereof. The floor above the shop needs minor renovations [1] to accommodate appliances and a new sink. They’ll likely be moved in around the New Year, which seems strangely appropriate. Even though the idea of New Year’s is a human construct and the date has changed over the millennia and between traditions, there’s a symbolism to it that Aziraphale appreciates.

And whether by day in the shop or by night in the most comfortable bed in London, he’s rarely alone anymore.

It’s bliss. It’s messy, gorgeous perfection, and he loves every minute of it.

They’re constantly tripping over one another’s things—clothes, shoes, books, the now-flowering plants. Every meal is now a shared meal; every bottle of wine or liquor is split evenly between them. Aziraphale teaches himself how to make French toast, and crepes, and omelets; Crowley sits him down in front of the enormous flatscreen television and twines around him while they watch a number of films Aziraphale’s never seen before. Some Like It Hot, Young Frankenstein, Murder on the Orient Express, both Star Wars trilogies.[2]

(They make love, shag, fuck, and Aziraphale learns that the difference between those things isn’t merely semantic. He learns that his own body feels strong and solid when Crowley’s thin frame is held in his lap, male or female; he learns that there’s no safer place in the world than pinned under his demon. He learns he very much likes to be on his knees with one of Crowley’s hands in his hair, regardless of what fills his mouth. He learns that sometimes he needs to have his wrists tied to the bedposts, especially when they experiment with Crowley’s serpent form.)

Every day is a gift. Every time Crowley’s arms tighten around him and he whispers, tell me again, Aziraphale says what’s in his heart, without fear. I love you. I want you above the shop with me. I’ll never leave you again.

Somehow it doesn’t quite feel like enough.

And as autumn starts to frost over, an idea comes to him.

He has to carry out his plan in bits and bobs, which is no longer as easy as it might be if he lived alone. Crowley is almost always underfoot, sometimes literally, and once or twice Aziraphale is sure he’ll need a miracle to keep the entire endeavor a secret. But somehow he manages, and at last in the second week of December there’s a final phone call telling him it’ll be ready tomorrow.

That night, as they lie tangled and catching their breath, Aziraphale manages to scrape together enough of his brain to bring it up.

“Tomorrow evening,” he says, voice a little throaty. “I want to take you out. Dinner and a show.”

[1] Well, minor for a celestial being and a good crew blessed with luck.

[2] “Why are we only watching episodes four through nine? Isn’t there something important in one through three?”
“Trust me, angel, you don’t want to watch those. I know you, and I know you don’t want to see the reason George Lucas is going to Hell.”
“That bad?”
“Worse, if you can believe it.”

From:

duckshaveears

Everything is different, and Crowley couldn't be happier about it.

He doesn't admit that, naturally. He complains about books being left everywhere ("Not every flat surface is a shelf, angel!") and Aziraphale complains about how Crowley and his long limbs are always stretched out across a narrow aisle to trip him up ("Must you use my coffee table as a footrest?") and they bicker like they always have, millennia of now-and-again practice put into suddenly constant use. Aziraphale compliments him and Crowley hisses a denial, Crowley says something disparaging about Keats and Aziraphale rolls his eyes at him.

But now whenever Crowley refuses to be called 'good' or 'nice' Aziraphale can kiss him until he stops arguing, and whenever Aziraphale rolls his eyes Crowley can laugh and wrap arms around him from behind and nibble at his ear to placate him, and they both smile like idiots all the time and couldn't care less.

(and at night, during those dark intimate hours when the world sleeps they tangle and twine and join and undo each other, and sometimes the fears that Crowley no longer finds it as easy to blithely ignore catch up to him, and Aziraphale chases them off with words and caresses, and they make every kind of love from filthy to worshipful until Crowley collapses into sleep with an arm around his angel's soft waist while wonders how on Earth he ever got this lucky)

Months pass, and it just keeps getting better. And then suddenly it's Christmas season. Red cups at Starbucks, that obnoxious Paul McCartney song all over the radio, the works.

Crowley lies happily winded on his back, Aziraphale snuggled up to him. He absently strokes the angel's spine (still tacky with drying sweat, about which Crowley is distinctly smug) when this announcement is made. "Sure thing, angel," he says agreeably. More often it's him arranging events out but he's more than willing to have the tables turned in him. "What and where? Do I need a pretty frock?"

Edited Date: 2019-11-18 12:30 am (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

They've been to the symphony, the opera, to revivals of My Fair Lady and A Little Night Music, and have held hands at every performance, content simply to share the warmth of tangled fingers in the dark. It's one of the greatest pleasures of this new shared life: the freedom to touch, to be casually affectionate, without caring who sees or knows. Aziraphale isn't sure what to call the feeling it inspires in him, but he suspects it's peace, from the way it reverberates gently in all the parts of his soul where fear used to live.

"If you like," Aziraphale murmurs, eyes fluttering shut with satisfaction at the gentle movement of Crowley's hand along his back. "Dinner at the Ritz first, I think, and as for the show... I realized we haven't been to the ballet together."

His mouth softens with a smile that manages to be both sweet and sly. The little blue book lives on the nightstand next to the bed now; every so often he'll read it to Crowley again, sometimes with a recording of the ballet score on in the background. (They still haven't managed to get past Odette's declaration. He doesn't mind a bit.) But even before this, ballet wasn't something they ever really got round to seeing together, for some reason. At least not as it's existed for the past two centuries.

"It's not the traditional Tchaikovsky one usually sees this time of year, but..."

He glances up, the better to watch the penny drop, unmistakable delight behind his eyes.

From:

duckshaveears

Ballet isn't as much Crowley's thing--he likes the music, usually, but watching a bunch of highly muscular people torturing themselves on tip-toe while wearing utterly ludicrous skirts, not as much. He has too much respect for feet to not wince at the thought of the damage en pointe does to dancers. But to please Aziraphale he can make an exception. To please Aziraphale he'll do nearly anything.

Besides, it doesn't take long to put the pieces together, and he turns his head to look at his angel. Aziraphale's pleasure in offering up this surprise is transparent, and Crowley is delighted as much by that as anything else. Though he has almost as large a soft spot for this particular ballet as Aziraphale does, now, for transparently obvious reasons. ^[3] "Is Swan Lake in town? How the devil did I miss that?" He rolls over onto his side, the better to look Aziraphale in the face, the easier to toy with wayward curls of hair as they talk. "This the infamous Michael Bourne version or something more traditional?"

^[3] Every time Aziraphale reads his book to Crowley, he gets as far as Odette's declaration and then gets interrupted with a kiss, though these days it's a more enthusiastic one than that first time. Crowley's still never heard or even read the end. He doesn't want to. Let Odile and Odette stay in that blissful moment of love realized forever, and him and Aziraphale also. All their life now feels like it's still that moment drawn out into months, and he'll keep it going as long as possible.

From:

duckshaveears

Something else that was revealed during that unintentional buck: one of them, at least, already has something under his clothes, and it's already hard and insistent and demanding attention. It's a visible thing now as well as something that can be felt, for all that Crowley's jeans are still in the way.

But for now he groans again, a blatantly needy noise, as the fingers tugging on his hair send spikes of fire racing through him. Go--Sa--Fuck but it feels good, it feels amazing, and when he thinks of combining it with other things..."Angel--" He reaches back up, pulls Aziraphale's mouth back down, tugs a little on those curls to see if Aziraphale will react the same way.

From:

sohoangel

Aziraphale watches, delighted, whatever worry he might have had about the tightness of his grip vanishing in the wake of Crowley's needy groan. He lets out a quiet oof when he's pulled back down to Crowley's mouth, quickly followed by a groan of his own when his his curls are tugged.

"Naughty," he murmurs, and gives Crowley's hair another sharp pull, the same as before. This time, he keeps the demon's head tilted back so that he can suck a love bite onto his exposed neck -- or tries to, anyway. He's never done this before, and the novels he's read aren't very specific about the mechanics...

As he presses his weight against Crowley to keep him still, he finally becomes aware of the demon's hardness pressing into him. Oh, that's not his hipbone, is it? Sweat prickles down his back, his open shirt suddenly much more of annoyance. A quick gesture with the hand not in Crowley's hair and he miracles it away. Good riddance.

"Crowley," he whispers into his ear. "Should I -- Is this a good time for me to make an Effort?"

From:

confoundthemighty

"Neither."

He has seen the Bourne version, and found himself unexpectedly moved by its themes of being chained to a life that provides you with little freedom or pleasure or other soul-nourishing things, though he does on the whole prefer a slightly more traditional ballet. But he knows Crowley isn't as fond of the trappings and the aesthetic as he is himself, so for Crowley he'll make an exception. (Though it is part of why it was somewhat more difficult to arrange this part.)

"It's a new dance company, only about three years old--Artemis Warehouse. Known for rather unusual productions. This is their biggest and most ambitious show yet, and tomorrow is the night before their formal opening. First performance for supporters, families, and angel investors."

(Though he has in fact begun to learn the pleasures of sleep, sharing a bed with Crowley, he's also used a few stolen hours to sneak into the dreams of an artistic director with a hungry soul and show her a Swan Lake without a prince, without a tragic ending. It won't quite be their version of the story--no two people can ever tell quite the same story, after all, and he thinks he'd feel a bit odd if it were spot-on anyway--but it'll have a similar enough heart.)

From:

duckshaveears

"Angel investors, is it?" Crowley smiles, leans in and kisses Aziraphale's forehead. "Still doing good, I see."

From forehead to mouth is a short trip, and he takes a leisurely kiss more from the pleasure of being able to do it so easily than for any other reason. It's still a wonder to Crowley that they can kiss each other so casually, whenever they want, for no reason. Perhaps the novelty of that will wear off in time, but he rather doubts it. At the very least it will take a millennia or two.

It's a little tempting to get distracted--it always is--but Crowley pulls back, nuzzles his nose against Aziraphale's before laying his head back on the pillow. "I'm looking forward to it." His smile is wide and genuine, no hint of the sarcastic quirk or protective mockery that he usually wears as he goes through the world. There's been less of those lately, at least here. "And I'll definitely wear my prettiest frock for the occasion."_[1]

_[1]An offer that would carry more weight if Crowley actually had a closet. Or rather, a closet with anything in it. He'll summon up something or another but it's not as though he has a collectiion, much less a ranking system.

From:

duckshaveears

"You knew that," Crowley retorts, though it breaks off into another raw, needy sound as Aziraphale pulls his head back and sucks on his mouth, fucking Christ that feels better than it has any business doing...Crowley's had that done to him before back in the day, but it did not feel like this, it did not inspire anything like this sort of reaction--

It takes a good deal of effort to draw his attention back to words, to make sense of what Aziraphale is saying. "Ngh?" he manages. Realizing this is unhelpful, he tries again. "Yeah, might--might be handy--'f you want--don't have to, 'm good--"

Honestly if Aziraphale doesn't want to and just wants to use hands and mouth, Crowley will be more than fine with that option, provided they don't have to stop. Especially since that shirt is gone and it's suddenly much easier to run hands all over Aziraphale's back, tease nails down the spine, pull him in and suck on his neck in return to see how he likes it.

From:

sohoangel

One way or another, the angel gets a handle on his technique. He pulls back a moment to admire his handiwork before kissing the spot soothingly. "Beautiful," he murmurs against his skin. "You're so beautiful." All of him, he means, as his mouth travels down his neck, along his collarbone, nipping and licking wherever he fancies. Crowley is a temptation merely by existing, but his body, the sounds he make, they feed into his desire and entwine with his feelings of love until it's all the same.

Which is why, when Crowley stutters out his mangled reply, he also wonders if it's necessary. He has all he wants right here. He feels his own passion burning bright when Crowley runs nails down his spine, when his own skin is sucked hard, a sharp snap that has him moaning, not only in pleasure but at the implication that Crowley is leaving evidence of their love-making.

But Crowley feels so good beneath him, so urgent and needy. He wants to experience that, too. "I-- I'd like --" he gasps, squirming a little as Crowley has his way with him. "--to know what it's like for you."

Of course, he'll need to be able to concentrate to do so. So perhaps not quite at this particular moment.

From:

duckshaveears

"--right," Crowley croaks, trying to rein himself in a little, which is difficult when Aziraphale's been mouthing all over his chest and calling him beautiful. Not a word that would have affected him much from anyone else, but this is Aziraphale. "Right, should--we should talk about that." Because they should, this is important, and yeah he's eager but he can wait a few minutes. Aziraphale isn't going anywhere and Crowley will keep hands firmly on him to make sure of that.

So he rests his hands on the angel's waist, touches their foreheads together, catches his breath for a minute. "Right," he manages again. "Let's...let me get the run of things, here. You've never manifested anything at all, there? Either way?" Male or female parts, he means.

From:

sohoangel

Oh, they're going to talk about this now. Aziraphale pushes himself up on his elbows, hands splayed against Crowley's shoulders so he can look down at him with wide, attentive eyes. He smiles without meaning to, so ridiculously besotted that Crowley is taking the time to ask. "I've manifested male genitalia before. Back when public bathing was popular and it would have led to too many questions if I didn't. Oh, and occasionally while wearing certain styles of trousers, they don't fall right otherwise."

He blushes and swallows. The love bite on his neck has blossomed quite nicely. "I was never... ah, aroused, while having one. I'm curious what that's like, although if... if you prefer female genitalia, that wouldn't be any trouble for me, either."

Edited Date: 2019-11-19 05:07 pm (UTC)