faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

"Oh, I think you'll like what we've done with her," Merope says earnestly. "We've really fleshed her out, made her her own character. And Alyx, our principal Odile--they're an amazing dancer, and they brought such interesting ideas to the creative process."

Aziraphale turns a little, catches Crowley's gaze, his heart squirming happily as he watches pink heat creep over her sharp cheekbones. He can tell, even with the sunglasses in the way, that her eyes are luminous as molten gold.

"I can't tell you how glad we are to hear that."

A nervous, slender young person in tight jeans and very high heels catches at Merope's arm, trying to get her attention; she shoots the two of them an apologetic look.

"Duty calls--but, listen, I hope you enjoy the show, it's great to meet you both!"

They make their polite farewells, then Crowley's free to look at Aziraphale more directly, lean down and steal a quick kiss. "Something tells me this show's had a bit of divine inspiration behind it as well as financial backing." Her eyebrow is arched high in affectionate amusement. "Anything you want to confess, angel?"

Aziraphale's smile is the sort of gently, serenely glowing smile he usually only wears when he's got a really good Very Secret Plan up his sleeve.

"Confession is for the contrite," he says, blithely, "and I have no regrets whatsoever. Besides, some human was going to have the idea eventually--I just happened to help along the inevitable with a vision or two, and let these humans' imaginations do the rest."

(He'd been rather surprised and not a little touched that, in her correspondence, Merope had been genuinely and deeply enthused about the project. Even if it won't have the same meaning to any mortal heart as it does to the two of them, it's nice to know that their version of this story resonates with humans too--and especially that there are other humans who, like Crowley, have been waiting for a chance to give Odile the story she deserves.)

Crowley has reason to sometimes distrust that smile. It's the same smile that sometimes means Crowley, I procured tickets for us to attend the International Magic Festival Gala in Edinburgh next month, isn't it marvelous? Do say you'll help me practice my card tricks beforehand! But it's also the smile that means Aziraphale is truly, fully happy about something, and the plain fact of the matter is that Crowley is putty in the angel's hands, always has been, and now even admits the fact. So she just smiles back, glowing almost as much. But infernally, of course.

"Is that all," she says, obviously teasing and suspecting Aziraphale has had a larger hand in this than he claims. Something is up, that's for certain, something beyond the obvious. Crowley's too experienced a plotter not to smell one when it's under her nose.

But Aziraphale is frankly adorable when he's trying to be secretive, so Crowley steals another kiss, lingering a bit longer this time. It is so good to hear the angel say he has no regrets, in any context, after years and years of watching him fret and fuss and fear about every little thing.

"Love you," she murmurs quietly, kissing his cheek as well before stepping a little away so she can take his arm. "And we should probably find our seats."

A ripple of contentment like a happy sigh runs through his whole body as her smile finds his, in front of anyone and everyone who has eyes to watch. (And in fact there are a handful of humans who glance at them and can’t help smiling at the way they complement the poster—dark and light, leaning to entwine rather than struggling against one another.)

“Probably a good idea,” he replies, though already he’s had a better one: how to get back at her during the interval. Twenty minutes should be long enough for what he’s got in mind. “I love you too.”

*

They find their seats easily enough, get comfortable together and spend a few minutes chatting about the current season at the National Theatre before the lights dim. Merope Stanton takes the stage first, to give a short speech: She thanks her audience for their support, in all its forms, and the company as well, for their faith in this new production. With the embarrassed ease of someone telling a by-now infamous story about themselves, she relates how the inspiration for this Swan Lake came from a recurring dream she had, about two bird queens who fell in love—the perfect twist on a classic, for a dance company that aims to bring queer love stories and ballet together, to show happy endings for those who don’t traditionally get them.

She also apologizes for any technical mishaps they might have this evening, but reassures everyone that the final tech rehearsal should have eliminated all the pre-opening problems*.

There’s an enthusiastic round of applause as she thanks the crowd one last time before jogging offstage. Then the lights dim further, the recorded score kicks in, and Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand gently in the dark.

Instead of the triumphal entrance of a prince and a hunting party, the performance opens at the Court of the Ravens, with the triumphal entrance of their queen, Odile. The costumes are stylized, the sets mostly projected onto panels along the back of the stage and accentuated with a few props. And none of the dancers are on pointe—in fact they don’t look much like a traditional dance company at all, with the variety of body types on display, very few of them the standard stick-thin and short. For instance, Von Rothbart is six foot three, muscular, bearded, and has the show’s only pointe solos.

And it’s their story. A few deviations, yes, but the bones are all the same.

The first act ends with Odile and Odette being interrupted by the sorcerer; what had been a tender pas de deux becomes a nearly-acrobatic pas de trois as Von Rothbart issues his challenges and tries to keep the lovers apart. The mountain of fire and the depths of the lake glow ominously into life at either side of the stage, presenting the two queens with their challenge as the curtain falls.

The applause would be enthusiastic even if there weren’t two supernatural beings in the audience. A wonderful sign, Aziraphale thinks, and turns his beaming smile on Crowley as the lights come up.

“What do you think so far?”

* It didn’t. The angel in the audience, however, did.

It's not classical ballet and thank all the infernal legions for that, to Crowley's mind. Thank all of them for the lack of any uniformity among the dancers, too. No troup of two dozen identical swan maidens in tutus following Odette around. It's Odile who has a court here rather than the Swan Queen, and Odile has surrounded herself with as varied an assortment of followers as can be imagined.

Good. Fuck uniformity. Half the interest and fun of the world is in its endless variety. Even without the more personal inducements Crowley would be enjoying this.

And it's their story. Theirs, the one Aziraphale wrote for Crowley, for them. Not exactly as the angel did it, no--it's lacking a few particular inside references, details are altered, extraneous characters around to distract, all those things. But at its heart it's the same.

She sits back in her seat, watches with open enjoyment and interest, and holds Aziraphale's hand for the entire first half. Sometimes during a moment that feels particularly relevant somehow--Odette's jump of surprise when she's found by the lake, Odile's confusion when she's offered friendship instead of fear--she'll caress Aziraphale's hand with her thumb, or hold a little more tightly, or move her leg so their knees touch for a moment. It's rare for any event they attend together to hold Crowley's attention as much as the angel himself does, but she watches without looking away once, and her smile is smaller than Aziraphale's but never fades.

When the house lights come back on Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale's broad, beaming smile (she always does, how is the angel so positively ebullient about everything, doesn't it ever get exhausting?), but she grins back. "I think you cheated a lot more with those dreams than you've let on," she says, obviously amused. "And I love that you did. Sneaky, angel, very sneaky."

“Inspiration takes many forms,” he says, as if pronouncing a minor blessing. “And I’ve had something of an ongoing masterclass in being sneaky.”

Though there is no greater pleasure in this brave new world they’re making than not having to be sneaky. She’s been writing messages on him with her touch, I see you, I see us, and I love what I’m seeing, but even in the dark of a theatre they don’t have to hide.

Aziraphale leans a little closer, gaze trailing over the sharp contours of her face like a caress.

“And speaking of inspiration.” His voice has dropped to a conspiratorial tone, soft and measured as if he’s reading poetry. “I’ve had an idea. Would you be willing to accompany me outside, for a breath of fresh air?”

(If he’s honest, the idea has occurred to him before—cold winter air to roll over their desire-flushed faces. The sensory contrast is delightful even to think about, and an easy way of heightening the experience for both of them. And, of course, no one will notice them.)

Crowley is arrested for a moment by the nearness of him, the almost tangible feeling of his eyes wandering over her face, and his voice, low and secretive and suggestive.

She swallows hard, then tries to regain some of her aplomb, chuckling. "About time some of my wicked ways rubbed off on you." She stands up, gets her coat. "And sure, why not. Not too long, mind, it's much too blessed cold out there. What sort of an idea? More ways to interfere with art and culture?"

“You could say that,” he smiles, already putting his own coat back on. “But it ought to keep you warm, at least.”

He can almost feel her skin prickle beneath her coat as he takes her arm; they move with the same purposeful quiet that got them to the cloakroom at the Ritz. Again no one notices them in the crowd, or on the hushed street outside.

This time there’s no door to lock, no space to insulate to hold in their sounds. All the same, they’re alone, unseen, a single shadow against the side of the building.

Aziraphale leans back, his Inverness cape keeping him cushioned against the chill of the night and the bricks of the building. His hands find Crowley’s hips and draw her close, gently.

“I find myself very inspired,” he murmurs, the steam of his breath caressing her face even as it vanishes, “to tell you exactly what I want to do to you, when we get home.”

Crowley spends the walk outside trying to interpret mixed signals. That expression and voice suggest certain thoughts going through her angel's mind (or other places), but going outside...doesn't.

Not that she'll refuse to follow his lead regardless. He has the reins tonight, mostly--Crowley is still smug about the cloakroom diversion--and besides, why not?

It is cold. But quiet, despite other theatregoers having a smoke or getting some air. And Crowley is of course more than happy for Aziraphale to put his hands on her hips and pull her in.

It's not quite an embrace. Her hands find their way to his shoulders, his breath teases at her face as he speaks. Crowley manages not to blush. "Oh?" she says, carefully casual, trying to hide how her heart skips. This is playing dirty, and Aziraphale knows it. "I take it we're not discussing hot toddies and nightcaps here?"

“Not at all, no.”

His hands flex on her waist; he leans in close to put his mouth by her ear. From a distance, if anyone were to notice his beatific expression, one might assume he’s murmuring tender endearments to her.

“I want to start the very moment we’re inside with the door locked. Mostly because I can tell your nipples have been hard all evening, and I’m looking forward to the sound you make when I taste them.” His tongue darts gently against her earlobe. “You’ve been imagining it too. My mouth on you. Kissing. Biting. Having you for dessert.”

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. She should have expected this. She did, just not in such detail, or she'd underestimated how it would sound, and--

Crowley's hands are trembling where they rest on his Inverness Cape. She tries to glower at them so they'll stop, but then Aziraphale's tongue touches her ear lightly, lightly, lightly, and Crowley realizes not trembling is a completely lost cause. "Maybe," she says, aiming for noncommittal and not even hitting the white bit of the target. "Thought you'd had dessert, though. Two of them, even."

“You know me. Always room for more. Especially when dessert is you.”

He can feel her trembling, and his thumbs stroke over the curve of her waist, soft and steady.

“First your breasts, and then when I lay you down in our bed, I’ll pin your thighs apart and lick you open.” He inhales slowly, as if he’s breathing in the scent of her from between her legs. “Mm... I love the taste of you, wet on my tongue.”

Crowley draws in a quick, stuttered breath, her nipples tightening painfully under her dress, already feeling a damp place between her legs. Not fair, not fair, not fair...she closes her eyes as he breathes her in, and yes, she can feel exactly what it would be like if his face were in other places making the same noise. If that delicate touch of tongue from a moment ago were placed between her thighs instead of on her ear.

"...yeah?" she manages, not altogether coherently. No, wait, she shouldn't make this so easy. He'll win in the end, it's a foregone conclusion, but she shouldn't make it this easy for him. Crowley swallows, stands a little taller. "Thought we were by the front door a moment ago. How'd we get to the bed already?" When in doubt, go for pedantry.

Aziraphale’s smile only widens. She’s so cute when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected.

“Oh, we’ll probably need a miracle. To spare you from having to take the stairs. Though I could always simply have you on the sofa...”

His hands tighten gently on her hips, the way they might if she were riding him, hidden in the warm and intimate space beneath their coats. I’ve got you.

“Either way,” he almost purrs, “we’ll find you a spot to lie down...” Again his tongue darts out, this time a gentle brush at her neck. “...so I can kiss your quim very, very thoroughly. Lick your lips apart, slowly, so slowly, and then when you’re almost begging—”

His lips brush lightly at her ear, his voice dropping even further, a rough whisper.

“You can feel it, can’t you? My tongue, between your legs, drawing little circles on your clitoris?”

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.

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.

I'm very proud of that, thank you! And feel free to use it if you'd like. :D

I may well, it's too good to not share! If I do I'll credit you in notes, of course. <3

I always consider borrowed headcanon a great compliment, especially from writers I admire. :D

I'm wary, having been in HP fandom back when Shit Went Down. But with permission and credit, yes. =)

btw unless she has other plans he’s going to talk her off at intermission.

Oh hell yes bring it ON. Crowley has no other plansyet, get her off balance enough and she won't. ;)

All right, brace for serious (and highly affectionate) filth. >:D

Do your worst, this will be brilliant. =)

Happy holidays, I brought you the angel with the filthiest imagination!

It's exactly what I wanted!! Have an affectionate snake who will likely swoon. ;)

Exactly what I wanted! :D

I have so been wanting to use this icon.

HEHEHEHEHEHEH. <3

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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.