faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

The indignant sputtering sends a smug little thrill through him—he knows it winds her up terribly when he’s a bit of a bastard, and he loves it—but the smile that warms her face sends a wave of affection unfurling across his whole body, sweet and almost tingling. He can always tell when she’s genuinely happy, and knowing he’s the cause makes his heart ring with joy. Of course he knows he’s improved human lives with his miracles or with words of comfort, and that is itself something to be proud of, but watching her set aside her armor with him—for him—is an accomplishment that very nearly makes him want to sing.

Aziraphale beams back at her, reaches over to curl his hand through hers atop the table, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“To the first of many anniversaries, I think,” he says. “Another six thousand at least.”

He can’t begin to imagine how the world will change in that time, how humanity will evolve in good and evil and everything in between, but now they face that vast unknown as a united front. That knowledge alone lights him from within, lightening the mood of the entire dining room and the whole street outside. The pianist, inspired for reasons she doesn’t understand, launches into You Were Meant For Me, flashing a smile over at the adorable waitress she’s been flirting with for weeks.

"Technically, this isn't an anniversary, you know," Crowley drawls, because she's a bastard like that. She curls her hand under his, holding it firmly, squeezing his fingers. "This is the zero point, the event. A year from now, that will be the anniversary."

She picks up his hand and kisses it, her eyes smiling at him over their joined fingers. "Though I'll happily drink to six thousand returns of the day. And six thousand more after that, and so on." She kisses his hand again, red lips lingering on pale skin. "And to all the days between, so long as they're spent with you."

Yeah, it's soppy. She doesn't care. It's a night for that. And besides, it's true.

It’s not actually possible for the room to get much brighter, but Aziraphale himself is nearly glowing, and it affects everything around them—the candles, the festive decorations, the gleam of light on crystal and silver and the sequins of elegant gowns. He can’t help himself. (Even if he does have to resist the urge to roll his eyes at her semantic teasing.)

“I’ll certainly drink to that.”

The sommelier returns with an actual spring in his step—he’s not sure why, but his mood has lifted tremendously—and quietly fills their glasses, smiling at them before he vanishes again.

Aziraphale’s smile is broad and beaming, nearly blinding in its sincere joy, as he raises his glass.

“To a zero point event, and six thousand more years, and all the days in between—in short, to our side.”

Those last two words are spoken with the same certainty and affection as they were the first time he ever dared to say them.

Edited 2019-12-11 21:55 (UTC)

"To our side," Crowley says softly. Her favourite toast, along with to the world. The two mean nearly the same thing, to Crowley. She smiles with no edges as she lifts her glass and clinks it against his, brings it to her mouth to taste the effervescent liquid within. It tastes like sunshine and celebration and promises. It tastes the way Aziraphale's beaming face looks.

"Careful there, angel," she murmurs, teasing. "Glow any brighter and you'll be outshining the chandeliers."

He smiles sheepishly, and the glow becomes slightly less intense, though the mood in the dining room and on the street outside remains joyful, little acts of kindness passing between strangers in the reflected brilliance of an angel’s happiness.

“Perhaps we should have brought your car after all,” he teases right back. “You could have distributed spare sunglasses to anyone too close to our table. Though no one else would wear them as well as you.”

Much as he loves those gold eyes, there’s been a strange thrill for him since eyeglasses were invented, in knowing that he’s the only one who gets to see what’s underneath. He’s the only soul who has the privilege of knowing all of Crowley, even the parts she hides, and in turn she’s the only one who knows all of him. This is my beloved, and this is my friend.

Aziraphale has to rein himself in before any plants start blooming out of season and in spite of their biological limitations.

“Now, I believe you said something about the lavender duck? Or of course we could try the menu surprise before the tarte.”

"Absolutely not, Crowley says firmly, squeezing Aziraphale's fingers again with the hand not holding a champagne glass. "Only two people in the world have permission to touch my sunglasses, and they're both sitting at this table. Everyone else can bloody well get their own."

She finally releases his hand, holds up the menu and glances it over, then shrugs. "I like surprises sometimes. Let's do that." Her mouth quirks up. "Seems a good night for it."

For just a moment Aziraphale’s smile turns sly—it does fit, though Crowley probably has no idea yet just how well.

“Only sometimes?” he asks, taking a deliberate sip of his champagne. Even with the glasses concealing her eyes he can feel them flick towards his mouth; already he’s starting to form a plan on how to get them into the cloakroom. “Or is this another subtle way of discouraging me from practicing my magic act at home?” [1]

[1] To his credit, he’s getting a little better at card tricks, but it seems nearly every time he sets out to practice Crowley ends up distracting him. He knows the demon does it on purpose, but it’s difficult to be upset with her about it.

Aziraphale's expression makes Crowley's brath catch, and she licks her lips unconsciously as she glances at his mouth. Aziraphale isn't the only one thinking about cloakrooms. She loves it when he has that expression of knowing mischief, when he teases her.

"Depends on who's doing the surprising." Low and sultry words, a bit spoiled by how she grins afterwards. "Your magic act, unfortunately, is never surprising."

From there the conversation continues as it so often does these days, banter and teasing intermixed with subtle and not so subtle flirtation. And fantastic food and drink, of course. The Ritz never fails. And if Crowley appreciates watching Aziraphale appreciate his food more than she appreciates her own (terrific as it is), that's nothing unusual.

And if her flirtations become a bit less subtle as the evening progresses, if her skin is flushed from the nearness of him and the way he says her name now and then...if she just happens to slip her foot out of her shoe and run her toes along his leg, and just happens to keep going all the way up to his upper thigh, and if she plots multiple routes to get to the cloakroom in the quickest possible amount of time just in case...well, no one else need know about those.

Except Aziraphale.

It’s a perfect evening, in every way that matters: the food and wine are impeccable, the atmosphere is cozy and bright, and he has the very best of company sitting across from him, flushing slightly at some of his jokes and offering him a fond smile at others... and silently, brazenly caressing him under the table, which is affecting him more than he wants to let on. And once dessert has been flambé’d and consumed, the bill settled (and of course Aziraphale insists it’s his treat, though since money is a polite fiction it only takes the briefest whisper of magic), he notes with a glance at his watch that they still have the half-hour of spare time he budgeted in.

Aziraphale reaches across the table to take her hand, thumb stroking across the backs of her long fingers before he lifts them to his mouth to kiss. Anyone observing might think the gesture purely romantic, but what they wouldn’t be able to see from a distance is the brief flash of tongue against her skin, the way his eyes glitter with blue fire.

“Something on your mind, temptress?” he murmurs, knowing full well what the answer is. “Should I fetch your coat?”

Crowley's mischief has always had a tendency to backfire, is the thing. The same can be said of her temptations, particularly when directed at Aziraphale. Oh, they work, they work marvelously, whether he admits it or not. He doesn't have to, she knows all his tells, every twitch or shifting of his body weight or faint catch of breath.

The problem is, they all affect her at least as profoundly. By the time he's ordered dessert she's stopped plotting routes to the cloakroom and is instead considering dropping her fork and slipping under the table. Wouldn't even require stopping time, just a little bit of don't notice me redirection. There's a long tablecloth. Aziraphale already makes near-orgasmic noises while eating desserts.

Crowley doesn't order a dessert herself. Impatience is eating her alive. She does let him feed her a few bites. They're delicious. The look in his eyes is much more delicious.

(If the staff really think Aziraphale is bringing two different lovers here, they'll have to come up with an explanation for how both give Aziraphale an identical I want to eat you alive and you would like it expression from behind their sunglasses. That alone should put an end to any rumors of Aziraphale having two different redheads on his string)

Crowley rolls her eyes but doesn't argue when Aziraphale insists on paying for the bill (her foot is at that point right between his legs, her toes playing with his upper thigh; she could go even further, and doesn't). When the bill is paid she retrieves her foot, slips it back into her shoe, looks up with a smile as Aziraphale takes her hand and then lifts it to kiss.

Her eyes go wide when he flicks his tongue between her fingers, when she sees the heat in his eyes, and she sits absolutely still for a moment.

Then his qestion sinks in, and she almost hisses. Bastard, beautiful beautiful bastard of an angel, he knows perfectly well what's on her mind. "Certainly not," she says haughtily. "I am a modern woman and will fetch my own coat. While you fetch yours. With me."

As soon as her foot begins to slide back he knows this quiet negotiation between them has reached its critical point, that a decision has been made. A moment later he sees that moment of serpentine stillness, knows that behind the glasses her eyes must be almost entirely gold, the slitted pupils wide. And it registers as a triumph, in a distinctly human way: he is himself the thing that tempts one of the world’s greatest tempters.

Aziraphale smiles, broad and happy and just a little smug.

“Very modern,” he replies, in a low voice—and then, miraculously, everyone in the hotel stops noticing them. It’s not that they become invisible, just that they register as unimportant, as visual background noise. “After you, then, my dear.”

(“I’m telling you, that’s the same person! I’ve seen twins before and this isn’t twins. Twins don’t grow their hair out at the same time to the exact same length.”
“Oh... oh wow, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.”
“See? Besides, you said they’ve been coming here, what, ten years?”
“Yeah, long as I’ve been working here.”
“Then it’s definitely one person. Trust me, nobody can hide an affair for that long.”)

The walk to the cloakroom is short and a little awkward, even if no one actually sees how aroused he is. He keeps his hand on the small of her back the whole time, and the light touch is as tantalizing to him as it is to her—the space between them is stretched tight with anticipation and desire.

Locks are no barrier to a celestial being, even state-of-the-art ones designed to prevent the theft of extremely expensive furs and designer coats, and it’s the work of a second to get the door open and slip inside after her.

Edited 2019-12-13 15:10 (UTC)

Those fingers. It's as though there's an electrical current between them, sparking at that one lone point where he's touching her, and it's powering her to move forward with quick clipped steps. She knows Aziraphale has made them unnoticed, just as she'll make sure no one interrupts or hears. For a few minutes somehow no one will happen to need access to the cloakroom. People on their way will be delayed by slow traffic, people already here trying to leave will find that the card machine isn't working, some will choose to linger longer over their desserts or listen to the song the pianist is playing.

Th door closes and Crowley turns, pushes him against it, pushes her body against his, pushes her tongue into his mouth. There's a small window on the opposite wall, set high-up and letting in some moon and city light, but it's mostly dark. That doesn't matter. She can see just fine and her hands and mouth know the way. She would know him anywhere, find him anywhere. She always has.

"You," she hisses into his mouth. "You're so good, damn it. So blessed good." It sounds angry, the word like an insult. She catches his hands, presses them against the door on either side of his head, pins him. Her mouth moves down neck, sharp teeth scraping against the skin as she sucks on his neck. "You're so fucking good to me, angel." She bites hard, leaves a mark. Something to show above the edge of his collar, something more permanent than lipstick.

At once his arms wrap around her, pulling her close in the dark, and he returns her kiss with fevered enthusiasm--he can never get enough of this, of Crowley, of the hot press of her slender frame against his own. Her mouth muffles his moan of approval; the door and the walls are too thick to let anyone but her hear it.

He's gasping for breath by the time she pulls back from the kiss, too overcome to put up even a token protest as she finds his hands and restrains him, which is absolutely not playing fair. Already he feels ravished, as thoroughly claimed as if they're home in bed, and then, fuck, her teeth find the soft skin of his neck, and the sound he makes is embarrassingly close to a whine. His hips cant forward, desperate, back arching away from the door as his body curves in search of more contact.

"Can't help it," he manages, ragged, his head falling back against the door with a soft thunk, exposing more skin above his collar. "Suppose you--ah--bring out the best in me..."

"S'not all I want to bring out." A growl into his skin, near his ear, hot breath and then her tongue flicking into the lobe. She switches to the other side, bites his other ear, scrapes her teeth down his neck to leave a matching mark on the other side. Frees one hand so she can pull his shirt out of the way and leave a third mark on his shoulder.

Lowers that hand to his trousers, cups him through the cloth, grinding the heel of her palm against him. "Wanna make you come, angel." Low words, with the hum of the restaurant still audible from the other side of the door, background music. "I want to get on my knees, I want you pulling my hair, and I want to fuck your cock with my mouth." This mouth, the one whispering obscenities to an angel, this devil's tongue and fangs. "Wanted to do it there, under the table. Could you have been quiet?"

She lets go the other hand too, undoes Aziraphale's trousers, shoves them roughly over his hips. Lowers herself to her knees. Gives one long, impatient lick from base to tip. "Could you have done it, angel? Kept quiet?" Gold eyes glint upwards just briefly before she lowers her head and wraps her lips around him.

"Oh fuck--"

He's tellingly disheveled, already, and worlds past caring. Impossible to care about anything except that exquisitely sinful mouth, wet velvet heat sliding down the length of him, and the gleam of light on luminous gold eyes.

His hands find her hair, gripping, fingers sliding through the soft red locks, knocking the black feather ornament out of it to fall forgotten to the floor somewhere. The thought occurs to him that she's probably leaving lipstick marks all over his cock, and the mental image sends a jolt through him that makes him bite into his lower lip for a moment, breathing hard through the sharp sweetness.

"Probably--would have taken a--a miracle--oh fuck, fuck yes..."

Crowley hums her approval of this, then keeps humming for a minute, knowing the vibration will be an extra sensation for him. Every time he says fuck, it's a victory. It's her favorite hobby now, inspiring bits of angelic blasphemy, hoarding them like Aziraphale hoards rare books. Both of them chasing after words.

Words, and other sounds. That heavy breathing definitely has its own appeal, and the way other words get interrupted partway through by gasps.

One hand circles the base of his cock, holding it hard enough to make sure things don't happen too fast. The other the slides underneath, between his thighs, gently rubbing the soft skin there. At the same time she swallows, sucks, her cheeks hollowing around him. That ought to earn at least one more profanity.

The profanity is starting to turn into a steady stream, now, whispered with each tight breath, and though he's not conscious of it the are words slipping in from Japanese and French and Middle English. It'll probably take them both years to learn how many different ways Crowley can short-circuit Aziraphale's considerable brain during sex, but this one's become apparent very quickly: the heat of her determined desire melting together all the languages he's ever learned. Not that it happens all the time, but it's certainly happening now.

"Vile seductress," he gasps, and just as Crowley's compliments sounded angry, Aziraphale's scolding words are deeply affectionate, almost reverent. "Femme infernale--insolente--蛇女--fuck--"

Edited (i spel gud. also "hebi onna" = "serpent woman") 2019-12-14 22:58 (UTC)

To Crowley's mind those are all compliments or at least statements of fact rather than scolds or insults, and would be even without the love in Aziraphale's voice as he says them. She chuckles throatily--no other way to do anything at the moment, given what's in her mouth. Sometime she'll play a different game, tie him up and draw this out and count how many languages she can earn. Keep silent track, along with her mental lists of the most times she's made him swear during one bout of lovemaking. She has several such lists now. It's her favorite hobby by far.

Not nearly enough swearwords yet, though all those names are very pretty...it barely counts as a miracle to make her finger slick, and then she's reaching further back, circling the tight puckered hole there, slipping just the tip of her finger in. Her tongue swirls around the head of his cock at the same time as she pulls up, then moves back down. On her knees with an angel's cock in her mouth and a finger up his arse, in the cloakroom at the Ritz.

It's a minor miracle that the cry he lets out stays within the walls of this little room. Even so, out of some very human impulse to keep anyone from hearing Aziraphale bites his lip again, trying to muffle his own noises as best he can with his hands still tangled in her hair. It's not especially effective, but the soundproofing is good and his miracles are reliable even when they're not done entirely consciously, so it doesn't really matter.

"クソ野郎--fuck, don't you dare stop, merde, belle gredin, ne t'arrête pas--"

His hips rock and sway. He loves her fingers, long and slender and every bit as agile as her hot tongue, and already he's lost count of how many times she's made him come on them alone.

[Crowley moans, her eyes closed in concentration as she keeps her lips slack, her tongue swirling whenever there's space for it. Fuck but she loves doing this, loves every filthy word he says.

If they were at home and it was an ordinary night she would tease, would drag this out or even stop, watch that delicious moment of lustful frustration as he realized she'd stopped and took his vengeance.

Not tonight. He's been spoiling her all evening, planned an event, is treating her like a queen. The least she can do is repay him a little, show him how much she appreciates it, show him...

(She loves him so much, it's never enough, not words or gifts or acts of service, the whole universe in a box with a gold ribbon wouldn't be enough. But she can give him this, now, give him bliss. Hear him cry her name in a voice broken by ecstacy. Still not enough but better)

Crowley moans again, adds another finger, her mouth taking him in deep at a pace she knows full well drives him wild.

[He knows she knows exactly what she's doing, temptress, séductrice, and it's absolutely wrecking him. The sensation starting to rush under his skin seems less like approaching climax and more like being on the inside of a firecracker that's just been lit. And he's genuinely pulling her hair now, holding on for dear life, as if he really might lift off at any second.

(He adores her. Aziraphale trusts her, sometimes more than he trusts himself; he would walk into Hell again for her, if he had to, and back out again without a scratch for her sake as well. And though he knows that what he does tonight will be pitifully small in comparison to the magnitude of the actual emotion, he's eager to show her just how much she means in his life. How much joy she brings him, more than anything else in the world, for being herself, himself, themself, Crowley. This is part of it, too--the obscene worship, her fingers steadily fucking him as she swallows down his cock.)]

Oh please--please--oui, c'est ça, please please please--

[He's started to tremble, his words more gasped than spoken.]

[He's close. She knows it, from the snap of his hips to the words he spills to the way he vibrates to the exact grip he has on her hair. Crowley purrs her assent, her enthusiasm, approval. It's the only flaw of oral sex, that her mouth isn't free to encourage him onwards with words both loving and profane. Come for me, come for me, I want you to lose control, I want all that restraint utterly obliterated, I want you shouting my name, I want to know I did this for you, show me, give it to me.

No words, but it's there in the curve and twist of her fingers, the slide of mouth and press of tongue, and above all in her eyes as she looks up at him.]

[Somehow, in the dark, he manages to catch her gaze--and that's all it takes, he can't hold back, can't keep himself from shattering. And though no human voice can hear it, the desperate sound that bursts from him resounds in the tiny room, a sob of praise.]

Crowley--!

[It does remind him of fireworks, and maybe humanity invented them to have something to compare orgasms like this to, fizzing and sparking and wildly bright. Aziraphale's whole body shudders with burning ecstasy, coming and coming and coming, straight down her throat, so hard he sees stars.]

[Crowley's eyes slip blissfully closed. She strokes him through his climax, swallows everything down. Her touch turns gentle. The way she pulls her fingers back is a caress, as is the last slide of her tongue over his skin as she releases him from her mouth.

Then she pulls his pants and trousers back up, buttons whatever needs buttoning and so on, and tugs on him until he joins her on the floor. She's not altogether sure his legs will hold him after that, so it's just practical, really. The fact that she can then finangle things so she can sit herself in his lap and kiss lightly at his cheek and hair while he recovers is a minor detail.

(Crowley is cuddly after sex, any sort of sex. Actually she's cuddly in general. Half the time she emphatically denies it, the other half she shrugs and blames it on being a snake. No amount of denial stops her from twining around Aziraphale given any opportunity, however, whether she admits to it or not)]

[He wobbles, gasping for breath, until she starts to pull him down, at which point he very nearly melts to the floor. His head is swimming, brain scattered, his skin nearly alight under his clothes; when Crowley drapes herself across his lap he nearly groans, leaning into her as his body restores itself to calm.

He loves these moments with her, the safety of her embrace and the affection she lavishes him with. After thousands of years of wishing for even one moment like this, he relishes every time she crawls into his lap or sneaks her arms round his shoulders or, yes, winds the heavy coils of a snake's body around him. It always feels like a blessing, that same sense of peace that soaks down to the soul.

Eyes shut, heartbeat settling a few measures at a time, Aziraphale turns his head blindly to catch one of those light kisses with his own mouth.]

Fucking hell, [he whispers, the kind of astonished and reverent tone people usually reserve for seeing an impossibly majestic sight.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Does he have plans for dinner or can we gloss a little?

We absolutely can gloss. To the cloakroom, or the ballet? ;)

Cloakroom. 1) I am a smut fiend, and 2) Crowley wants something.

1) oh good me too, and 2) oho, something specific?

1) Whoohoo 2) Oh, she'll make it clear.

https://youtu.be/x6QZn9xiuOE

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

"kuso yarou" = roughly, "oh you motherfucker"; "gredin" = "scoundrel"

Loving the multilingual thing! It actually annoyed me how bad his french was in the show.

Thank you! Education finally paid off! ;) And bless Sheen's Welsh heart, he tried.

Not that, I didn't believe Aziraphale wouldn't have better French! ;)

Oh! Pff, yeah, now that you mention it...!

Maybe he needed miracles for language but bah humbug all the same! Esp given how much he reads

And given how much stuff in line with his tastes is French!