faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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.

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)

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.

(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."

“You certainly have. Don’t think I’ve forgotten Starlight Express.” He leans up to brush a kiss on her cheek. “But I think they’ve earned a breakout hit.”

His heartbeat picks up a little—now, at last, they can head home. Together. The final piece of his plan is finished by this point in the evening, or at least he has faith in the humans he hired. The rest of the night is for the two of them.

A cab pulls up, as if on cue. Aziraphale’s grin widens.

“Shall we head home?”

Crowley cackles. "That one was fun," she admits, smirking. "And you wouldn't believe what I've had them do with the film version of Cats, it's a masterpiece. But I won't go overboard with this one. Cross my heart."

Once upon a time, that promise would have come with any number of detracting adjectives. Cross my black, withered, demonic heart. They'd been funny, and to her mind accurate, and then eventually also a sort of protection. Her demonic, useless heart, which wasn't supposed to feel things like love and certainly wouldn't have been welcomed if offered, or so she'd thought so deep down that the conviction wasn't even conscious...

Aziraphale kisses her cheek and squeezes her arm, and says those magic words, Shall we go home? They still amaze her. The we she's almost used to, but the home idea, that's still new.

Well, home as a physical place, at least. She figured out a century ago that wherever Aziraphale was counted as home. It's still a miracle to Crowley that she gets to share it.

"Yeah," she says softly, smiling at that grin. He looks so happy, and it makes Crowley's heart, whatever the state of it, just melt to see that. "Yeah, let's. I've got to thank you properly for my evening out, and I can't do that here. Not without a lot of miracles or getting arrested."

[ooc: Maybe more of an evil dragon shapechanger guy. A can wear anything for his clothes or under them, Crowley will be happy with anything. ;) I absolutely accept the headcanon that C is responsible for Starlight Express so on. Explains a lot tbh!]

Edited 2019-12-31 00:42 (UTC)

His laughter fills the cab for a moment as they climb in together. "Wicked woman," he scolds affectionately, pulling her into his lap again before he gives the driver the address.

(Though the driver is normally quite a talkative fellow with his rides, for some reason tonight he finds himself perfectly content to keep his mouth shut. Especially whenever he glances in the rear view mirror and catches a glimpse of the redhead with the sunglasses. Oh well. At least they seem to be having a nice evening.)

Again they're enfolded in their own little bubble, only distantly aware of anything besides one another. Aziraphale wants to have the playbill framed; Crowley thinks they should hang it next to his dirty limerick. They laugh and tease and steal kisses, back and forth, and not for the first time Aziraphale finds himself almost hoping one of his old coworkers would dare to have a peek at him. Though probably they'll have convinced themselves by now that watching an angel and demon sinning together will turn them blind, or something equally ridiculous*.

At last they pull up to their own little corner of the city--home, for as long as they want it to be, as long as they happen to be there together.

The painters he hired have been finished for about an hour, and as requested have packed up to take the rest of the night off. Already there's an email sitting in the tray of Aziraphale's dot matrix printer from the young woman who supervised the team, with a quick report on how the job went (smoothly) and an expression of gratitude for hiring a local business (effusive).

Their work is evident above the door.

CROWLEY, FELL & CO.
Booksellers * Established 1800
Unusual * Antiquarian * Out of Print

* There is, in fact, a rumor to this effect in Heaven. Sandalphon started it.

[ooc: RIGHT? And lord have mercy now I want this dragon/princess scenario so much. We should do the thing.]

Crowley isn't expecting anything further. Why would she? Dinner and a show, and an unspoken but safe to assume promise of several hours of shared passion afterwards. That's more that enough to spoil any demon rotten (if it's possible to spoil a demon). Add in the intensely personal aspects of that particular show, and Crowley honestly can't imagine a better evening.

She wouldn't notice the change on her own. How often do you really look up at the sign above a well-known shop? Especially at night, especially when you live there? Especially when you're much too busy filling your eyes by looking at the most beloved being in the universe?

Crowley probably wouldn't notice on her own. But she notices Aziraphale noticing, wonders what's causing the odd note of satisfaction in his face, glances up.

It takes a few seconds to sink in, to recognize her own name there. Next to his. On his shop, his home. A home she now shares, but which has still mostly been his, two hundred years of ownership versus a few paltry months if squeezing her things in next to his, squeezing herself into his life, invading, invited and welcome but still invading and almost pitifully grateful for the privilege. And now her name is above the front door.

Crowley stops dead in her tracks, staring up at it with her mouth open. Behind her sunglasses there are tears in her eyes. Not many. But they're there.

A warm arm steals around her waist.

“I told you.” Aziraphale’s voice is a caressing murmur, low and full of love. “I want everyone who walks in to know this is your home as well as mine.”

He glances up at her, at the shape of her open red mouth, the way her eyebrows have gone still.

“That this is where you belong,” he adds, squeezing her slightly. “With someone who loves you.”

Someone who adores you, worships you, who wouldn’t change you for the world, who has only ever wanted to see you happy. Who draws courage and strength simply from being near you, who will stand at your side until the very stars you built burn to nothing.

Crowley just stares upwards. She manages to close her mouth, but it's possible she's forgotten to breathe for a few minutes. If it weren't for Aziraphale's arm around her, his own steamed breath teasing at the side of her face as she speaks, she'd wonder if she were dreaming. If she could collect her thoughts enough to wonder anything. Which she can't.

With a movement so slow galaxies could be built and burn themselves out before it's completed, Crowley reaches up and pulls off her sunglasses, still not blinking as she looks up. The words are still there.

She gasps with sudden harshness, almost staggering as she breathes in. Aziraphale's arm supports her, she doesn't fall--not again--but she's still unsteady as she turns to look at him, her eyes wide and yellow and overly bright.

Just as slowly as before, she lifts a hand, this time to touch his cheek. The touch is tentative and oddly uncertain, as though she's making certain he's real. She tries to speak, can't, and then suddenly both her hands are on his face, sunglasses dropped forgotten to the pavement, as she kisses him. Tears of fire run down her skin, and the kiss tastes faintly of sulphur.

For several eternal moments he watches her stare at the sign, watches her wide unblinking eyes; at her gasp he shifts in closer, instinctively, his first priority keeping her steady.

Then she touches his cheek, with the same wondering light in those gold eyes as the moment after Aziraphale had dared to make his feelings clear, and his heart gives the same sort of dizzy lifting leap.

His arms are around her before her glasses hit the ground.

Crowley’s tears sting his skin, just a little; even with his eyes closed Aziraphale is strangely aware of how those tears must glitter as they run down her cheeks and cling to her eyelashes. He shifts in their embrace to smooth a thumb across one of her cheekbones, soothing, deeply affectionate.

Again his heart sings, a continuous soft thrum of song every bit as sweet as any hymn he ever sang in Heaven. Our side, our home, our shop, our night. Our life. Not just mine or yours anymore, not ever again, as long as we exist.

They stand there for hours or centuries, locked in place against one another. Maybe she's stopped time, or God has, or maybe the world just gently decides to ignore them for a while. If there are people talking on the pavement as they walk to the club, or cars honking, or noise blaring from the bar down the road, Crowley doesn't hear it. Just her breathing, and Aziraphale's, and the soft noise of their lips touching, parting, meeting again.

The intensity of the moment is almost painful--is it possible to die if sheer devotion, when you're a demon? It might be--and eventually Crowley can't sustain it. It's with as much a sob as a laugh when she breaks off, rests her forehead against his, breathes in the smell of him. "So... you're officially giving me permission to not sell your books?" she manages.

His smile curves softly against her mouth, thumb still caressing away the stinging wetness on her cheek, steady and certain. Though his actual wings remain safely tucked into their interdimensional space, his heart extends sheltering wings around Crowley, as if he could curl his very self around the source of the joy that now rings through him.

“Officially and permanently,” he says, as quiet and sincere as a vow. “Here, and wherever else we may end up.”

They’re still so close that his view of her is a little blurry; nevertheless, he glances up, trying to catch her serpent’s eyes with his own earnest gaze.

“Can you bear one more surprise, dearest?”

"Angel--" Crowley's voice shakes, and she's all but clinging to Aziraphale, though she manages to pull her head back enough for them to look at each other. Her eyes are fully serpentine. "How can there be more than this?" Officially and permanently. Officially and permanently. "How can I ever--"

Whatever she was going to say gets choked off at the end. She shakes her head, laughing again, a little helplessly. "Can it wait until we're inside, at least?"

Aziraphale grins, somehow sly and tender at the same time, and lifts up on his toes a little to press one more kiss to her damp cheek before sliding his arm gently through hers.

“Not out in the cold, I agree.”

The front door recognizes them, as it always does, and swings obediently open. A wave of familiar scent rolls forward to envelop them—that of old paper and leather, cologne, hints of good wine, dust and sunlight even in the middle of a winter night.

When the door closes it leaves them in a soft, deep quiet, the sort that’s perfect for reading or murmuring gentle truths. Aziraphale takes Crowley’s coat, as a gentleman should, before hanging up his own; he lets her lean on him as they make their way upstairs.

Edited 2020-01-02 20:12 (UTC)

The smile makes her shiver. It's one Aziraphale never wore before their relationship began in earnest, open and acknowledged. A smile that just seemes to be for Crowley, one that combines the deep depths of Aziraphale's capacity for devotion (angelic and possibly infinite) with the sneaky bit-of-a-bastardness that Crowley adored in him from the start. It's a devastating combination, one that never fails to melt her from within.

She doesn't really need to lean on him as they go upstairs. But neither of them wants to move away from each other, aside from the small necessary moments like removing coats. And heels, in Crowley's case; she carries those up in her free hand, puts them in the closet in their room. Takes a deep breath before she turns around to look at him, trying to summon up some of her more usual casual flippancy.

(In the back of her mind she can still see the sign outside, official and permanent, their names side by side for all the world to see. Heaven and Hell, God, all the humans, everyone. It's one thing to be claimed in private and another to have it be so publically declared, and it's entirely possible Aziraphale is incapable of understanding just how world-altering it is. Good, yes, fucking miraculous, but also world-altering. Aziraphale might have been rejected by Heaven, but he never Fell. The difference is profound. Crowley doesn't intend to enlighten him)

"So--" she says, slinking back to him, hips swaying. "Keeping in mind that you've already treated me to dinner, a show replete with personal meaning for us, an intermission orgasm, and one of the most public demonstrations of affection imaginable...I'm honestly having trouble imagining how you can have anything else up your sleeve." She puts her hands on his shoulders, slides them down his arms. "Unless it's literally up your sleeve and you're wearing interesting lingerie. Or have some for me to model for you."

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.

It certainly does.

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? ;)

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

holy shit yes please. A would even go femme for that.

Too much for header, see below..

HA! I heard the Cats movie is a living nightmare. Also TA-DAAAAAA.

Haven't seen it but the reviews are hilarious. Also crowley.exe has crashed.

I’ve heard “bewilderingly horny” a lot. Also AWWWW bluescreen demon.

I can't imagine the film is more fun than the reviews. Loving them. And ohhh yes. Kinda broke him.

And the ring hasn’t even come up yet!

Forget bluescreen of death. That's hard drive catching on fire territory.

“Whoops, your hard drive is on fire, better rip your clothes off!”

She's too shaken for ripping atm. Better save that one for another thread. =) (pity, I love ripping)

Time enough for clothes-ripping. ;) (see princess/dragon below...)

It does have possibilities! But gaaah still need to get back to Sherwood!

Take your time! :D also welcome to this headcanon.

Yay headcanon! There are a few other threads I think I owe you too. Inbox is a mess.

I know that feeling. I owe you some, I think!

No worries, of course. =) And gonna blatantly plagerize myself with this but I liked it so there.

I love it and so does Aziraphale.

I just love this image I came up with for making a ring? (didn't cut and paste, just reused idea) :)

It is fantastic and don’t worry, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t recycle good images!

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"Make of our hands one hand, make of our hearts one heart."

And now… a swing at trueform?

yessssssssssssssssssssssss also spot the gratuitous Marvell quote I love that poem

don’t. don’t look at the time stamp. HI.