faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

A small, high-pitched noise escapes her at that touch on her neck, which aches for more. The need to feel his mouth graze along the skin there is painful, his lips, his teeth...Crowley's hands spasm on Aziraphale's shoulders, snarp nails digging into layers of coat and jacket and waistcoat, far too many layers, far far too many.

"Yes." It's a hiss more than a word. "Fuck, yes." She squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to relieve a bit of the growing ache there, and it does nothing. Crowley groans her frustration aloud, swaying a little in his gentle grip. "Angel--"

Gently he shifts her closer in their embrace, one of his thighs sliding between her legs. His mouth curves into an even broader smile as her nails dig in, and the low chuckle he lets out against her neck is encouraging and warm.

“Little circles to start.” He’s absolutely being a bastard now, and he can tell she loves it, can hear it in the tightness of her breath. “Then steady strokes across your clit—back and forth, back and forth. Harder now. A little quicker. Two of my fingers inside you. Can you feel them?”

Crowley moans and leans against him, pushing him fully back against the wall. It means she can shift her own stance, kneel just a little. Curse her earlier self for wearing fucking high heels and creating a greater heights difference to overcome, because it's that much harder to settle against the thigh between her legs, to find any sort of pressure she can use to relieve that growing ache. Not that Aziraphale is helping.

"...bastard," she breathes, low and husky. She leans her head against his shoulder, bends her knees more, tries to rub herself against his thigh. "Yes, I feel it, I fucking feel it, angel--"

“Good.”

His breath steams against her ear and her flushed cheek; his hands slide a touch lower, to her hips, holding her just as firmly as if she’s actually riding him. With his back fully to the wall he can shift as well, still hidden by their coats, guiding her so she can grind against the curve of his hip.

“Harder now, love. Faster.” Again his tongue flickers, far too lightly, against the side of her throat. “You’ll be pulling my hair, this time, while I devour your quim. Holding on for dear life as you fuck my fingers and my filthy mouth.”

Aziraphale knows by now that a little well-timed vulgarity works on Crowley; judging from the way her hands shake on his shoulders and her words have collapsed into hissing groans, tonight it’s working wonders.

"Of course, my love. Of course." He draws his hand up and down, his initial strokes loose and exploratory as he gets a feel for Crowley's erection. Having never even felt his own, he's intrigued by the contrast between the hardness of its girth and the velvety softness of the skin. Carefully, he tightens his grip and strokes more confidently, thumb swiping over the head just as Crowley had done for him, watching the demon closely for feedback.

"Is it good?" he murmurs, wanting so desperately to please. "You deserve only good things, darling. Tell me what you want and it's yours."

Crowley's head falls back as Aziraphale explores, his breathing ragged and quick, Adam's apple bobbing in his neck. It takes all of his remaining self-control (what little there is of it now) not to just fuck up into the angel's grip, to give him time to get used to the feel of it all. Crowley doesn't want to cheat him of the experience, and he doesn't want this to be over too fast either.

But then Aziraphale whispers that encouragement and offer, and a desperate groan rips itself from Crowley's throat just before he leans up and crushes his mouth against Aziraphale's. "You." One of his hands goes to Aziraphale's face, keeping him pulled close. "You, God, I want you, I want you madly, always have, always. Want to be yours, want you to be mine. Angel, fuck, please, tell me I'm yours, tell me, please--"

Edited 2019-12-26 23:37 (UTC)

She doesn't know if that harder and faster is meant to be a description of what he'll do later or a command for what she should do now, or both. She acts as though it's both, blatantly rubbing herself against his leg, her dress riding up to a level that would be indecent if their coats weren't acting as a shield, if she weren't reasonably sure he'd made sure no one would be watching them anyway, if she cared.

She doesn't care. Crowley's world has shrunk to this little bubble of space, his voice, the spell he's weaving with it, her need and his. This must be affecting him too. If it isn't she'll bloody well make sure it does. "Yes," she answers, though it's more a moan than a word. She's soaked now, her pants thoroughly wet, enough that he may be able to feel it through the layers of her sheer tights and his elegant trousers. Maybe it'll leave a stain there, a sweet wet spot on his immaculate outfit.

That idea makes her moan again. "Fuck, angel--" She pulls her head back enough to look at him, skin flushed and mouth open, puffy from where she's been biting at her lip. She lifts a hand to his face, traces his mouth with two fingertips, presses them briefly against his lips, seeking entrance. "Your mouth...fuck, how'd an angel like you learn to be this dirty?"

His own face is flushed now, not from the cold; his irises are a ring of blue around pupils swollen wide. As the hem of her dress rucks up he can feel wetness spreading against the fabric of his trousers, and oh God, for a split second he's tempted to miracle them back home so he can tear her clothes off.

But only a second. Only a breath, before he kisses her fingertips, flicks his tongue against them, soft and ticklish.

His smile is wicked.

"Thousands of years," he breathes, "of reading dirty books and thinking dirtier thoughts about you. You're a terrible influence, Crowley. Making me want to fuck you with my fingers and tongue till you fall apart, suck your clit until all you can say is my name. Shameless."

Behind her glasses Crowley's eyes are full gold, no whites showing at all. From this close he may be able to tell, despite the dark lenses. Though he knows anyway. He knows what he does to her. What he's doing to her.

Crowley keens, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, nipping at the skin there with too-sharp teeth. She scrapes her nails down his arms, finds his hands at her waist. "Aziraphale." The way she says it is worshipful, despite the context. Because of the context. "Fucking touch me, please--you filthy obscene bastard--"

There's a huff of soft hot laughter against her ear, and then one of his hands slides low. It doesn't take much to push the hem of her dress up and the waistband of her knickers down, to shove two curled fingers inside her and swipe his thumb roughly over her stiff, slippery clit.

"That's it. Let go." Aziraphale's voice has dropped to a growl. "Fuck me as hard as you need, harder, faster, come for me, I know you want to come for me..."

It's what she needs, the rough speed of fingers and the gravel in his voice, the command and demand in one, undeniable. The way he says for me, so that it becomes a gift she can give him, a hymn of praise. Her cry of relief when he pushes into and against her is muffled against his shoulder, as is the quick series of sobs that follow after, whispered but rising in pitch, yes yes yes. She clutches at him with hands and thighs and cunt, thrusting against his hand until she breaks and gasps open-mouthed at his neck, her scream of rapture silent, her body shuddering against him.

When it passes she sags, kisses his neck in blissed out lassitude. "Angel," she breathes.

Muffled as they are against his shoulder, her lustful cries sink through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin, stirring little warm waves of tingling down his spine. She's desperate, squirming, thrusting, fucking herself on his fingers right here against a wall in front of God and everyone. Not that anyone is watching--but then Aziraphale doesn't entirely care whether they have an audience.

And then he feels her gasp and shiver and jerk, squeezing his fingers, and this time he does murmur hushed tenderness in her ear. Little shushing noises, meant to soothe and settle, the hand not buried between her thighs sliding around to stroke the small of her back.

As her lips brush his neck, lazy and satisfied, he begins to ease his fingers out of her. His thumb, index, and middle finger are decadently slick.

"Didn't I tell you I'd bring you off with my filthy mouth?" he teases, gently, and drops a kiss at the side of her jaw.

Oh, that's not the answer he expected, nor the crushing kiss that precedes it. His touch falters, but only because he's moving, tucking one arm underneath Crowley's neck and shoulders while he drapes a plush thigh over his legs. He presses butterfly kisses to Crowley's eyelids and cheeks as he resumes stroking him once he's secure, over six thousand years of longing cradled against his body.

"You're mine," he breathes between kisses. "My beautiful serpent, my beloved treasure. Forever and always, just as I am yours. I love you, every part of you, your corporation and your soul. Everything I could ever want from this universe is here in my arms."

Crowley mewls a protest as the rhythm fails, but it's more than worth it when Aziraphale wraps himself around him, when he can wrap an arm around the angel in turn, twined together like ivy on a tree trunk or a snake on a branch. He gasps as Aziraphale's hand resumes its works, and again at those words, those words, and then he just keeps gasping because there's not enough air in the room. No space for it with the mounting pressure in the way, the oncoming rush of bliss.

His free hand covers Aziraphale's on his cock, part to show how he likes it, how firm and fast, but also just to be touching him even more. You're mine rings in his ears, as loud as his own rushing blood and ragged breath. Every soft kiss to his face thrills him, pushes him closer to the edge.

When Crowley comes it's with another deep, wrecked groan, his head tilted back and body arched as he paints his abdomen in white stripes, trembling all over and then collapsing limp and drenched in sweat. For several minutes after he just breathes, still trembling, mind blanked out from pleasure.

When he eventually opens his eyes again to look up at Aziraphale, they're wholly gold. "Angel," he whispers, as though awed.

All those soft crooning noises help recall her to herself. She whimpers a little as he withdraws his fingers; oversensitive as she now is, she still hates losing the feeling of being joined, even this fairly small amount.

But they are outside, and there's still the other half of the show. Much as she enjoyed the first half, Crowley's a little sorry about that. There's nothing she'd like more than to be in their warm bed at home, snuggling and teasing and twined around each other. The fact that they'll get there in a few hours is only some comfort.

"Mm," she agrees, tilting her head as he kisses her face. "Didn't doubt you. Never do." She kisses him in return, whatever part is nearest; it turns out to be the edge of his mouth. "Was right, earlier. You're too good to me, angel."

There's nothing self-depreciating in the words. If anything they're smug, a silent and I love it and will shamelessly take advantage of the fact tacked on to the end.

Edited 2019-12-28 01:57 (UTC)

Aziraphale is grateful for the addition of Crowley's hand, both so he can learn how Crowley likes to be stroked, but more importantly, so he can focus on the glorious way Crowley gasps at his words, his touch, his kisses. The demon's pleasure is his own, knowing that he's causing this, that he is bringing Crowley closer and closer to peak bliss.

"I'm so lucky," he murmurs into his ear, breath hot as he watches Crowley come undone. "The most beautiful sight in all of creation, just for me."

He strokes Crowley through his climax, marveling at the way the demon trembles and groans. It's more erotic than any piece of human literature he's ever read, an image that he'll keep close to his heart, one he already knows he'll never tire of recreating. He holds Crowley close while he recovers, nuzzling and kissing his damp skin in the near silence. The mess of sweat and sticky spend does not bother him as much as he thought it might. It's evidence of their love-making, and he's reluctant to miracle it away.

"Your angel," he answers, beaming down at Crowley, his blue eyes shining. He leans in and kisses the demon tenderly. "I'm guessing that was enjoyable for you?"

His smile curves wide and warm; he noses gently at her neck, perfectly contented.

"I did set out to spoil you tonight." This is the most glorious of secrets--the two of them, leaning on one another, half-entwined beneath their coats, no human soul around them remotely aware of what they've just done. Aziraphale isn't a stranger to the pleasure of feeling like you've gotten away with something, but he relishes it in this new context all the same. "And I intend to make good on all my promises once we're home. But not before we've gotten to your favorite part of the story," he adds, fondly teasing.

They do, miraculously, have enough time to readjust themselves and find their seats. With a strange surge of pride Aziraphale notices there's a wet spot on his trousers, one his cape hides from view; even though a good dry clean will probably get it out, he'll always know it was there. (Unfortunately, he does find he has to refrain from licking his fingers clean, because he knows the taste of her will lead him right back to the clothes-ripping impulse, and he does want to save that for the end of the night.)

"Yeah, you did." Crowley steals a languid, liquid kiss, still resting against him. When she pulls away her smirk is evident. "Can't say I wasn't warned. But I will get you back, angel. You're setting a high bar here but I'm up for the challenge."

A little reluctantly she adjusts her clothing back into place, and does use a bit of a miracle to clean herself up (wet knickers would be much, much too distracting, as well as uncomfortable). But an earlier thought prompts her to look down at Aziraphale's trousers, and her grin when she sees the damp place there is thoroughly demonic.

She leans in again and kisses him, her fingers trailing down his leg to that spot. "Keep this," she murmurs. "For the rest of the night, at least. I want to know it's there."

He does, and she's radiant with satisfaction as much as happiness and the general afterglow of a really good orgasm, even though he refuses her other offer to clean his fingers for him. Teasing him about that keeps them nicely occupied for what's left of the intermission, and she manages to catch his hand and kiss the back of it when the lights dim once more, whereupon she laughs wickedly, but refrains, settling for just holding his fingers in hers.

Even though they're only holding hands, somehow this second act feels as intimate to Aziraphale as if they're curled up together in bed with Crowley twined around his body. They're basking in each other's satisfaction, wrapped in a soft haze of mutual delight, occasionally exchanging little messages of love with a caress of thumbs or a slight shift.

Odile and Odette, when they re-enter, are masked for their trials. The supposed Raven Queen dances with waves and water nixies to music that was once meant for a Prince's ball; the supposed Swan Queen is whirled about by dancers dressed as flame and smoke to music that was once a black swan's triumphant solo. At last, though, both water and fire bend to the lovers' will.

There is an actual gasp from the audience when the two queens, presenting themselves to Von Rothbart, unmask to reveal that they've switched places. Aziraphale can't help grinning. It is a good twist, after all.

And, just as in his story, as soon as the sorcerer moves to threaten Odette, Odile stabs him in the back. His death throes are far more dramatic than the ones Aziraphale wrote, but then it does make them highly satisfying to watch, especially as the raven court reappears to whisk him offstage.

Then, at last, where most productions have a grieving prince throwing himself in a lake and a lot of ladies in tutus gesturing sorrowfully, the show's final pas de deux. The two dancers, in white and black, spin and leap and twine lovingly together, and as the set and the lighting change around them to indicate the warm glow of a rising sun and the shapes of two birds rising into the light of morning, they exchange a final loving kiss.

The applause begins even before the curtain falls. It takes real effort on Aziraphale's part not to brighten the place before the house lights come up, he's so pleased. His story, their story, and human hearts are also moved by it, are delighted that a swan and a raven could make themselves a happy ending in spite of everything that stood in their way.

This act has even more meaning for them than the first would have, given the subject matter. Trickery with fire and water and masks, defiance leading to freedom. Crowley's not sentimental enough to weep about it, but she does lean her head against Aziraphale's shoulder in parts, and she does squeeze his hand a little more fiercely when the disguised swan queen is dancing with flames.

(Shut your stupid mouth and die already. She'll never forgive Gabriel, never. Never forget how satisfying it was to watch the righteous smirk on his face dissolve into confused horror as she stood in the flames unharmed. Never forget how terrifying it was to let Aziraphale walk into Hell for her, her utter overwhelming relief upon seeing that he'd successfully walked back out again. Never take any of what they have now for granted.)

But there's no tragedy here. Not on the stage, where the swan and raven queens claim their own and fly into the dawn; not in the audience, where an angel and demon sit side by side and hand in hand. Maybe they were written for a tragedy originally, but as Adam said: where people are concerned it can always be crossed out and rewritten.

Crowley might not be the sentimental sort ^[1], but when the curtains fall, her clapping is some of the loudest, and goes on the longest.

^[1] This is, of course, complete and profound self-deception on Crowley's part, as numerous of her possessions are tangible proof to the contrary, whatever she claims.

Crowley laughs, and for once there's no edge to it at all, nothing of sarcasm or cynicism. He reaches a hand back to Aziraphale's face, pulls it down for another kiss, easy and joyous. "It was a good deal more than enjoyable, and you blessed well know it."

Another kiss, and he nuzzles Aziraphale's face with his nose and lips. "Best thing that's ever happened to me, ever."

The expression on Aziraphale's face is one of faux innocence. Of course he knows, but it is especially delightful to hear Crowley say it. Even more so to see him so relaxed and happy. He returns each kiss with love and affection, basking in their shared afterglow.

"Me, too." He nuzzles back, giggling, tangling himself up more in Crowley's limbs. He could stay like this forever... although he does have to admit to himself that the stickiness between them has become a little off-putting. "Shall I clean us off?" he asks, raising a hand and readying his fingers for a snap.

(He’s not sure she’ll ever tell him what happened that day in Heaven; he’s already learned that her eyes harden and flash with anger when she thinks about it, and especially when she has reason to think about Gabriel. It’s not something they talk about much in general, when they talk about their past, but as terrifying an ordeal as it was he’d held tight to his faith that at least Crowley would make it through all right.)

They’re the first two on their feet when the audience rises for a standing ovation. It might be a minor miracle that Aziraphale doesn’t float a few inches off the ground—he’s always felt particularly proud of himself when he’s taken Crowley to a show and the demon enjoys it. Of course he’d known going in that this story would appeal, but it’s one thing to know and another to see it firsthand, to have something that can become a memory.

And it makes Aziraphale happy beyond expressing, watching a crowd cheer for the once-sidelined Odile.

The audience buzzes with pleased chatter as they make their way out. Backstage, the dancers are hugging, crying, complimenting one another on the performance. It’s the perfect level of benevolent chaos for Aziraphale to drop a blessing into, for the company and their director. They may not need it—human gumption gets a lot done on its own—but he privately considers it his thanks for an excellent adaptation of his work.

He slips his arm around Crowley’s waist, snags her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Not to blow my own horn,” he smiles, eyes glittering, “but I do think that may have been a more enjoyable evening than The Sound of Music.”

(She's told a few bits. The safe parts. That she breathed fire at them (only a little fire), some of her own more flippant feelings about being in Heaven again ("Even worse than I remembered". Maybe someday she'll say more, when it won't hurt either of them. Maybe not. Some doors are better closed.)

Crowley rolls her eyes at this comparison. "That's not hard," she says in the dryest of dry voices, wrapping her free arm around his shoulders in turn. "And you don't even like that musical. But yeah, good show this." Her grin turns faintly wicked. "Think I should pull a Hamlet? It's tempting. I've certainly made worse things popular."

Crowley is a little reluctant for either of them to just wave away the evidence, this first time. But it is rather a mess. So he nods.

Once they're free if all the stickiness, he's quick to pull Aziraphale back down into his embrace, roll them back over so he can be on top, his slighter weight pinning the angel to the mattress as Crowley attempts to kiss him breathless. "That was--" Another kiss. "Perfect. You're perfect. Fuck, I love you." And another, and another. "Can't believe I get to say that now. Can't believe I get to do this. If this is a dream, angel, don't wake me up, 'kay? Don't wanna wake up." And more kisses. He'll never have enough of them, not if they're in this bed for another thousand years.

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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Crowley would like to strongly endorse having her clothes ripped off

Soon enough, no worries

Okay so my Crowley is more sub than dom, though she can switch.

My Aziraphale's a switch who enjoys being a bastard, so I think this works out nicely.

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It certainly does.

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A does love peril/rescue foreplay (because of course), but with that part over he's quite flexible!

Anytime he wants to roleplay, Crowley is up for it. Especially redoing certain events from theirpast

...is a trip to the Bastille in the near future? >:D

The chains did suggest interesting possibilities. Though also, Rome. Or Sherwood? ;)

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Both is good! Maybe some pirate/highwayman stuff too.

Crowley wants to be a dragon who's kidnapped a Princess because of course he does

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