faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

I love you. He echoes, in that other language, in that other place. I love you, and that will never change. I love you, and I'll do anything to stay by your side.

He'd proven that already. It didn't take much thought then, which is possibly why it's catching up with him now. Something with less severe and lasting consequences would have most certainly been ignored for whatever immediate positive or negative consequences arised in the moment, but not something like this. Something with its own web of meanings and significances that bite away at him in the quiet. If he lets them trick his mind into believe that he is or will be alone, he's not sure he's strong enough to fight it. But he's not alone. Could never be alone, not anymore.

He'd always held out some faith. Still does, in some ways, even for those that may wish them harm. It's a complicated subject, reserved for times when the conversations are long and the mood is near silent, filled with words to never be uttered out loud again. But there's nothing, no one, that he holds more belief for and confidence in than his beloved.

So he would do it again. He would defy them again. He would step away again. Nothing could ever give him anything near what Crowley gave him of the pure love in his heart.

Eventually, he breaks their kiss, gingerly, resting his forehead against the demon's. His eyes are closed, and his thumb brushes against the side of Crowley's jaw. He sniffs, and there is a subtle tear, much like when they couldn't reach through the barrier between them.

We're here., another echo, for the both of them.

Somewhere else Crowley and Aziraphale are still entwined so tightly that it's impossible for them to be closer; here, Crowley's arms tighten. He can almost hear Aziraphale's thoughts racing, the doubts and sureties chasing each other in restless circles. He's always been able to tell when Aziraphale was doing that. Taken advantage of it on countless occasions too, teasing out temptations and arguments to coax the angel into doing what Crowley wanted. What Aziraphale wants too, in truth; on the few occasions when Aziraphale legitimately did not want to do a thing there'd be no convincing him. Under all those layers of softness the angel is made of adamantine.

Crowley's always been comforted by that. It's been frustrating as Heaven sometimes, sure, but also comforting, to know there are limits to how much he can manipulate Aziraphale.

It's not always about temptation, however. Sometimes it's another way of offering comfort, finding the tangled knots of Aziraphale's emotions and soothing them until they straighten and calm. Crowley's a Hell creature, but he's also a snake. He can do calm. He can be still and wait, entwine and hold. He can be patient.

Their foreheads rest together quietly, and Crowley just listens to the sound of their breathing. In, out, aligned and in tandem, as happens when two people are so close. When he scents salt-water he gently kisses the tear away, not even needing to open his eyes to see where it is. Other soft kisses to Aziraphale's face follow, his cheek, his eyelids.

Ever since that day, even now, he wonders how much different a path he would had walked if Crowley hadn't been there by his side through most of it. Pointless thoughts, he's well aware, as the past cannot be changed - not by most creatures, anyway, safe for a couple of special cases -, but simply as something to be kept in his mind, what-ifs used to keep one well aware of the conditions of their reality.

He wouldn't be here, he doesn't think. Wouldn't have broken free from the heavenly mentality, not fully, even if the questions were there since the beginning. Certainly wouldn't have led as much of an interesting life as he did. Less late night conversations about something or other, less of travelling the world as he saw fit. And he wouldn't have someone to hold, or to hold him, or to share a home with, someone to hold his hand, someone to share the deepest parts of his mind, which he so often ignored when left to his own devices. He wouldn't have the part of his world that he cherishes the most. Wouldn't have someone who knows him better than he knows himself.

Nerves begin to settle, at least on the surface. In any other level, they may never settle down, for as much as he can tell. There are concepts that shake even immortal, ageless creatures to their core, for even they share traces of the humanity that a lot of them disdain. That Aziraphale and Crowley have observed, both admired and criticized, but with interested curiosity. May have absorbed. May have always been there.

Endless wings and feathers cover scales. Hundreds, thousands of eyes, most of them, close, calm. Here, the angel takes a long, deep breath. They're here. They've returned, and he holds no regrets for his choices. He isn't entirely sure of all that he may have sacrificed, but nothing could give him as much as being here, like this, with him, does. He will do it again, if he has to. As many times as it takes.

He shifts, brings a hand into Crowley's hair, thumb brushing over his ear. Opens his eyes just barely, and brings himself back to what's real. The darkness can't take them again. Not yet.

Crowley sighs a little as fingers run over his hair, caress his ear. He tilts his head, encouraging Aziraphale's hand to keep wandering. His own fingers stop just holding and start rubbing, long strokes of his thumbs on either side of Aziraphale's spine slow and firm and designed to push away tension. "Mmm...sit up properly for me and I'll rub your back, if you like."

The angel gently combs his fingers through Crowley's hair, gentle and methodical, simply because he knows the demon likes it. It brings him peace. It comforts him to be able to do so, to know the things that are real.

The offer makes him smile, faint existencially tired as the expression might be. "I suppose we might not get any more sleep for a while. Unless you want to, of course." He's had enough of it for now. The exhaustion he feels can't really be fought off by sleep, if he's feeling it to begin with.

Leans in, gently pressing his lips under Crowley's eye, before gently pulling away only far enough so he can sit. No polite fussing or anything of the sort, not for the idea of pampering or selfish comfort, just something to pass the time. They could well just sit there and talk, about anything else but the elephant in the room, and he'd be mighty happy with that.

He rubs his back with his hand and takes a long, deep breath, sighing as he exhales.

Crowley sighs and shifts, with only a twinge of reluctance at losing the lovely, lovely feeling of having his hair stroked. Later. "Nah, 'm good for now," he says, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Before he settles his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders he leans in, lightly kisses the back of the angel's neck. "Just want to be touching you."

And distracting him from invisible elephants, truthfully. So this works as a plan. Slowly he presses his fingers in, the pads of his thumbs immediately going to a place on either side of Aziraphale's spine, where tension often hides. He takes meticulous care in soothing the knots and muscles, there and everywhere, gradually working outwards and then down the back.

Let it be known that Aziraphale continues to be the most spoiled angel in existence. God's love does not compare to the dedication of one demon and his capability to love and care for. And the angel knows it, too, knows there's really not that much that he could ask for that the demon wouldn't give him unless it was truly impossible. He's known that for a very long time.

The gentle kiss makes him smile, and he settles where he sits, eyes closed, hands rested on his lap, fussing only slightly, and not really for long. Not as Crowley works meticulously to work out the tension from the angel's back, of which there is always some at any given moment, just from the way he carries himself, but justifiably a lot more now.

Aziraphale needs some spoiling, to Crowley's mind. Heaven treated him like shit for millennia and Crowley is only too willing to redress the imblance. Which he does, thoroughly, clever hands kneading and pressing and stroking. A few spots of tension prove more difficult to unwind than usual, and Crowley frowns at them, understandable as they are.

Quietly he leans in and kisses Aziraphale's neck again. "Relax for me, angel," he says quietly. He chuckles a little, adds another kiss and then the slightest nip of teeth. "Or do I need to distract you?"

Heaven did treat him like shit, in more ways than he was ever fully aware. But Heaven and Hell, Good and Evil are just names for sides. On an individual level, Aziraphale would say he did fairly good. You know, being seen as traitors and being possibly wanted and death train notwithstanding.

He lets himself be spoiled, of course, though not all the tension goes away. With the magnitude of recent events, that would be impossible. In a permanent manner, anyway.

Eyes still closed, he smiles again, tilting his head to the side slightly. "You know your temptations don't work on me, demon." Said soft and warm.

Crowley figured out it was all just names for sides long ago, and it didn't take him much longer to realize which side he wanted to be part of. This one, here, with the best angel and the worst demon, or maybe the other way around. It all depended on perspective.

Crowley's perspective is currently that Aziraphale's neck needs a few more kisses, which he tends to accordingly. "You sure about that?" he teases. "I can name any number of occasions when they've been...effective..."

The word turns into an innuendo in its own right, punctuated by a small nibble on Aziraphale's shoulder.

It's always perspective. It's always been perspective. And it took Aziraphale a while to fully open his eyes, but here they are. He'll continue to prove there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

Aziraphale hums quietly, nonchalant. Clearly the distraction is having some effect already. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Forgotten already? Tsk." Crowley smiles against his angel's skin, running a line of kisses along his shoulder, then back to his neck, over to the other side.

This is good. Oh, he wants this, now that they've rested a little. He wants to inhabit their bodies as fully as possible, reclaim them. Reclaim each other, too, in a less profound and more familliar way than what they've done. Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale to embrace him from behind, hands splaying over his chest. "I'll have to remind you."

This feels better. This feels like home, it's familiar and intimate in ways that could never be taken away from them. Perhaps impeded, but never erased.

The angel tilts his head in ways as Crowley's kisses travel across his shoulder and neck, and the embrace makes him feel so much warmer. He brings his hands up to comfortably rest on the demon's arms. "Perhaps you do." He mutters softly.

It's not really temptation, not when Crowley already knows exactly how to stroke his angel's skin, where to kiss, where to nip lightly with his teeth. When he already knows every touch is welcome, even adored.

Still, he's slow about it, partly to savor the experience (they get to do this, they're here to do this, they were so close to never being able to do this again, don't think about that), and partly so that Aziraphale has as much space as he needs to stop him. It's been an intense experience and the last thing Crowley wants, for once, is to be overwhelming.

So when he does reach for the buttons on Aziraphale's pyjamas and undo them, it's with a speed better reserved for glaciers. Careful and deliberate, while kissing the join where Aziraphale's neck meets his shoulder. "This all right?" he asks quietly. Aziraphale's breathing says it is, as does the way he shivers in Crowley's arms, but verbal consent is always good. Any demon knows that the deal isn't sealed without a solid, undeniable yes.

It's hard trying to keep away the thoughts about how they almost lost this. How they almost lost any chance to ever be together again, to be in their home, with each other, in each other's arms, together, holding, touching, gentle warm lips against his skin.

Don't think about that. Don't think about it, but, oh, he can't. There will be a time, maybe, where that feeling of dread will be entirely replaced by relief and thankfulness over the outcome. Certainly, they'll look back and appreciate the fact that they came out of it together. But the wound is still fresh, still sore, but they can find ways to relieve the pain.

He notices Crowley's slowness. He appreciates every touch of Crowley's lips on his shoulder, yearning for one after the other, hands still on the demon's arms but well out of the way as he works at the buttons on Aziraphale's pajamas. And the way he checks, it just warms the angel's heart even more, with how gentle and careful his adored, adoring demon can be.

"Yes." He mutters simply, just as quietly. They'll go at whatever speed they like, for they are more powerful than time and chance.

Crowley sighs a little in acknowledgement at that yes. Yes, yes, yes, this...deliberately he undoes every button, then strokes up Aziraphale's chest, palms his way back down, long caresses that leave no part that's uncovered untouched. After another kiss to Aziraphale's neck he leans back, putting just enough distance between them that he can pull the open nightshirt off completely, reaches with one hand to tug his own over his head with less care.

Then he returns to the embrace and they're skin to skin, warmth to warmth. No feathers or scales here, just their bodies, assumed but still wonderfully part of them. Crowley sighs again and resumes his stroking, hands sliding over shoulders and arms and chest, again and again.

As Crowley's hands travel over every exposed area of his upper body, Aziraphale keeps his eyes closed, letting himself feel, letting himself want, in this gentle sharing of corporations they claim as their own. They get to feel in different ways, and none shall be taken away from them. They will love, and they will feel, and they will be, just as they are and as they can be.

He leans back, a comfortable weight against Crowley's chest, bringing a hand up and back to touch at his hair, turning his head to brush his lips against it, seeking to press a loving kiss, welcoming all the warmth he can give him.

It's a reclaiming, in part. These bodies belong to them. They were taken away for a little while, sort of, but no longer. Theirs to take care of and enjoy and share with each other.

Aziraphale turns his head to kiss Crowley's hair, and Crowley cranes in, steals a kiss on the mouth. Awkward position in ways but doable. Sharing mouths, breath, with Aziraphale resting encircled in his arms...

Crowley would be pretty content to keep it at that, but another part of his anatomy is starting to pay attention to things, filling and twitching against the small of Aziraphale's back. Crowley accordingly let's his hands wander a little further afield, over covered thighs and back up. Drifting around the waistline. Reaching in and down to cup him for a moment with one hand. Not too quickly, none of it, just...teasing. Appreciating.

A sense of themselves and the freedom from those that would dictate what and who they are and should be has been a topic in their lives for a rather long time, in one way or another, whether by discarding the concepts entirely or being too stuck to them. To have their bodies taken away for a while, almost forever, almost being seperated in more intrinsic ways than that - reclaiming is a good word. Rebellion, in a way. Celebration, maybe. Definitely much needed comfort.

He feels Crowley against his back, feels his hands travel over his thighs, touches that create a want for more. Efforts tend to be left to be decided to the moments they are relevant, but he has, as Crowley will feel, quite made his decision with barely a whisper of a thought. There's a light twitch of his shoulders back against Crowley's chest at the touch, and he leans his head, turning more to meet the kiss properly.

A hand goes over Crowley's wrist, an encouraging hold to tell him to keep going.

He'd meant to suggest a little and then move on, still taking it slow. But Aziraphale traps his hand in place, traps his mouth, and Crowley can take a hint.

Slowly he prizes his angel's lips open with his tongue, takes time to explore his mouth, tasting and breathing him in. At the same time his hand takes a more firm grip between Aziraphale's thighs, fingers settling into a firm hold and slowly stroking. Slow, all of it. No rushing.

They will rush later, he suspects. At some point there will be a desperate scramble, the kind of "I thought I lost you" grappling you get in romance novels and action films. And maybe they need that. But they need this too.

Whatever Aziraphale needs, Crowley will give it to him, however he can. Forever. That's been truth for almost as long as they've known each other. This is just another way of saying it, showing it.

Aziraphale knows that about Crowley - even when he doesn't know what he himself needs, he knows Crowley will be there to provide it none the less. From the words he doesn't know he needs, to the smallest whims. He hasn't always been the best at showing his appreciation for the fact...but he's been getting better, ever since the shackles of Heaven were finally broken.

There's a faint muffled sound from the back of his throat, welcoming all that the demon gives him. Slow is good, he likes slow. Slow is good specially now, giving them the time to appreciate every touch, every breath, every taste of each other, in the comfortable silence of the room.

He gently digs the fingers of his free hand into Crowley's hair, tilting his head and parting his lips, tongue brushing against the demon's. He wants this, needs this maybe, wants to share. Wants to feel that he's here, that Crowley's here, and they're here together, against all odds. So many odds stacked against them, he wonders if they really ever did anything so wrong that they could deserve such punishments.

--Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

Crowley has six millennia's worth of experience watching Aziraphale be in denial or restrain something he doesn't know how to cope with. Even with his eyes closed and the distraction of a kiss, he can read Aziraphale's tension.

He's not all right. Neither of them are. They will be. They'll get there.

Crowley sighs into the kiss, wraps his free arm more firmly around Aziraphale, splays his flat palm and open fingers over the angel's heart. His other hand moves, teases at the elastic pyjama waistband and slips underneath, resumes its hold and slow, firm strokes with no barriers.

Crowley really wants there to be no barriers between them, not even thin cloth layers.

(Elsewhere scales caress against feathers, and it's comforting).

They aren't alright. He certainly isn't alright, and even pretending that he is or could be would fall even shorter than any of his usual lies. So he doesn't try, not again, and instead opts to dive into the physical, the intimate, the things that are only theirs.

He won't think about it. He will only feel, and he will only love, and he will give into what they have. He will refuse to let go of it.

One less barrier and he pulls in a soft breath, breaking the kiss for a moment and gently pressing his forehead against the demon's. The tension will leave him one way or another, and this way may be a bit more effective than a backrub.

Crowley has the advantage in this. There are lessons you learn when you Fall, and one of them is about isolation. There are illusions you're stripped of, along with God's grace. He's had millennia to get used to things Aziraphale's never had to face or really think about.

But one of his coping mechanisms has always been protecting Aziraphale, and in particular protecting him from those particular fates. In some ways it hurts Crowley more to know (and he knows, however the angel hides it) how lost and untethered and terrified Aziraphale must be feeling, hurts more than knowing how close they came to losing everything. Hurts more than the reminder. If anything Crowley is better off for the whole experience, in some ways. He's faced his worst fear, the one he always thought was inevitable, and he's still here. With Aziraphale, hand on hand, skin on skin.

(Feathers against scales, eyes closed as they rest, but he can still see the angelic glow of his beloved surrounding him, and even though there is no warmth There he feels it anyway)

Crowley doesn't have to think about it. He knows what to do. There will be so much more they need to do to recover from this, but this isn't a bad place to start.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale gently but thoroughly, tongue tracing slow circles around his mouth even as his hand works a deliberate rhythm around Aziraphale's cock, using all the little tricks he knows his angel likes. Twisting just here on the upstroke, swiping his thumb over the head here and there, tightening here and loosening there, taking cues from Aziraphale's breathing. Eventually he releases Aziraphale's mouth and kisses his way back to the angel's ear, breathes hot breath into the lobe. "That'sss it, angel--" he murmurs, soft and encouraging. "You're doing ssso well for me. How'sss it feel?"

Things he's never had to face. Things he never opened his eyes to, no matter how close they'd been. Heaven doesn't work as a family, most of them aren't even friends, they're all the idea of Pristine, Perfect Beings working within goals and strict rules. Aziraphale had broken away from that, in increasingly more significant manners the more time he spent away from Heaven, but he still always felt part of it, part of him, connected intrinsically as the being he is. And then he made other connections, with Crowley, with humans, with Earth. Different types of connections, different things and people grounding him and ready for him to fall back on, but he never truly thought of the empty, of the Nothing, of isolation. Crowley had talked to him about eternity, when trying to persuade him to help stop the Apocalipse, but even that was filled with something, just the wrong things and the wrong people. And Aziraphale had felt loneliness, too, sometimes when their friendship would be strained, or on that day he made the wrong choice. But there was always something. Even on the day Heaven cut him off, that happened because he'd made his choice. Because Crowley was there, and helped him see what he wanted. He made a choice.

To be aware of the Nothing, to step on the rope and look down to see that the safety net you always assumed was there, even if you've never seen it, had no idea of its shape and size and characteristics, assumed it was there because certainly it had to be, it's only natural, only logical - only to find out it isn't...

He's trying not to think about it. He doesn't want to think about it. He rejects thinking about it. Not that any of that will mean anything at all as soon as things get quiet again.

( He glows and he rests. He exists in that place, they do, and he feels himself wrapped up and secure.)

He gives himself into what Crowley gives him. That's not difficult, not in the slightest, feeling himself wrapped up and held and secure here too, skin against skin, warm breaths and sweet tastes, familiar hands and being known. Soft, sweet murmurs that reverberate in his head. He grips Crowley's hair between his fingers, arching back against him when his mouth is free, head back against the demon's shoulder. Hot breath in panting growing heavier. "Ah--good. It feels so-mmph-"

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FUCKING OW: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M12_pgW4IyI (blame my mp3 player)

hhhhhhhhhhhh

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