faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Aziraphale chuckles sheepishly into Crowley's neck, face hidden so long as he can get away with it. "I didn't choose it for the last verse," he protests weakly. "Besides, there are more melodramatic choices."

He might have sung a few of those the night before. When the drinking turned from goofy ABBA hits to maudlin torch songs. But it doesn't matter now, Crowley is saying things that he's wanted to hear since... well, 1862, considering that nearly a century of hurt feelings went by until he saw him again. "Of course it's forever," he replies, looking into Crowley's eyes adoringly. "Now that I have you here, I'm never letting you go."

He nuzzles back into Crowley's embrace and adds with a soft laugh, "Not here here, as you said, although this is extremely nice. But we have restaurants to dine at and shows to see. And picnics -- I still owe you a picnic, don't I?"

"Just as well you didn't pick one of those," Crowley mumbles into Aziraphale's hair. "If you'd picked anything more melodramatic I would've probably discorporated on the spot."

It's hard to believe that adoring gaze is fixed on him, that the words I'm never letting you go is meant for his ears. He'd hoped they'd get here, yeah, but hoping is a long way from actually managing it. Seems impossible.

"You do owe me a picnic," he says quietly, stroking Aziraphale's face before leaning in for another kiss. This one is more vulnerable than the others, lingering. It'shard, to say it all out loud, even with Aziraphale openly reciprocating. Like rolling over and exposing a vulnerable underbelly.

One kiss leads to another, a soft sigh of breath and his hands wandering again, his eyes closed. It's easier than words, now that he has permission to say things this way. Every touch whispers adoration, worship, a plea for reciprocation.

"I'll have to remember that for next time," he teases with a smooch to Crowley's cheek. "I have so many more wonderful options."

That kiss, though, that says so much. As exposed and vulnerable as Aziraphale felt when singing from his heart, he realizes now how much harder all of this is for his demon. He returns it with nothing but care, his own hands re-exploring all those lines and curves, wanting to memorize them underneath his fingertips.

"We can have it anywhere you like," he murmurs between kisses. "With all your favorite foods and a bottle from my wine cellar. I can read to you with your head in my lap. Would you like that?"

Edited 2020-01-29 17:15 (UTC)

It is hard, but it's good. It's so blessed good. Literally that, and for once that's a good thing too. He hasn't been loved like this before he Fell. He's never been loved like this. Sonic there's an almost pathetic (to a demon) needy feeling to it all, well. It's not so surprising. He just has to hope Aziraphale won't mind, and that it'll settle in a while.

(He has to trust Aziraphale won't let him fall like She did. Fortunately, he does).

"Yeah...yeah, I'd love that. But better make it somewhere private," he murmurs against Aziraphale's mouth, between soft, unhurried kisses. "'less you want us to be doing this in St. James's Park."

He slides a hand over Aziraphale's buttocks, pulling him in, not from renewed need (yet) but just to reemphasize the state they're in. Any picnic is likely to get heated. At least, if Crowley has anything to say about it, it will.

Edited 2020-01-29 19:17 (UTC)

Crowley's heart is quite safe, as Aziraphale intends to love him openly and unconditionally. Crowley can't possibly take more than the angel can provide, and he returns all kisses with sweet, savoring devotion.

The scandalous suggestion has him giggling into Crowley's mouth and shamelessly wiggling beneath his hand. "Oh, my," he murmurs, one hand sliding along his back while the other brushes tenderly at the short hairs along the nape of his neck. "Are we going to have trouble keeping our hands to ourselves? Then it will have to be somewhere private, or at least with enough greenery between ourselves and everyone else."

"We certainly are." Crowley's voice rumbles with satisfied anticipation. "Haven't waited all this time to get my hands on you just to waste an opportunity like that. So yeah, somewhere private. Without interruptions. A beach, maybe..."

He tilts his head back towards those wandering fingers, almost purring. "We'll have to get a picnic blanket. Extra large. Soft. Not tartan."

The suggestion of a beach has the angel's expression light up excitedly. "Oh, I love the sound of that. We haven't been to a beach in ages." He can already imagine the warm sun on their skin and the salt tang of the air. Just them on a blanket with nothing but the sand, ocean, and sky to keep them company.

He pouts when Crowley puts a pre-emptive ban on a tartan blanket. "Who's going to see if it's just us?" He scratches gently at Crowley's scalp while his other hand ghosts over the demon's ribs in a hint of a tickle. "Besides, it'll match the lining of the picnic basket."

"I'd see," Crowley grumbles, though it's less than convincing given how happily he's leaning into those fingers on his scalp, how his breath catches at the near-ticklish scrap along his chest. "Do you already have a picnic basket, then? You been picnicing without me these past decades, angel? I'm hurt."

Again, it's not remotely convincing, especially not given how his hand strokes up Aziraphale's back.

"No, of course not," Aziraphale replies swiftly, a look of genuine offense in his eyes that he quickly softens by dropping his gaze. "I... I do have a picnic basket, I haven't used it, but..."

His scratches turn into a light massage while his other hand wanders, no longer skimming playfully, but petting Crowley's side as if in apology. "I saw one in the window of a shop and it was so lovely, it even had a spot for the wine. I'd planned to ask you, once I worked up the nerve, but then the whole anti-christ business happened, and... well, it never seemed like the right time..."

He presses another kiss to Crowley's cheek. "The blanket doesn't have to be tartan, dear, it's all right. Whatever color you prefer."

Crowley groans just a little, this time in self-reproach rather than arousal, because the last thing he wants is for Aziraphale to be feeling self-conscious and guilty now. He leans up on an elbow so he can look down at the angel's face, his own far more open and vulnerable than it usually is. Carefully he reaches out and caresses Aziraphale's face, thumb skimming lightly down cheek and jaw.

"Gonna say this only once," he says quietly, looking at Aziraphale's mouth, at the contrast of their skin tones, at anything but Aziraphale's eyes. "Only once, and if you remind me of it later I'll deny everything, so listen. You can make everything tartan. Every blessed thing. Your wardrobe, mine, all the carpets in the world, you can even reupholster my Bentley in fucking tartan, and I'll complain and kvetch about it but I'll let you and I might even secretly like it a little, because it reminds me of you, and I love you an utterly stupid amount."

It comes out in a rush, and he's quick to bend down and kiss Aziraphale before the angel can respond, and if Aziraphale dares to point out how much Crowley is blushing he's gonna blame it on arousal or being overheated or anything except how embarassed he is that he just admitted that.

Aziraphale listens, wide-eyed, first in trepidation, and then with overwhelming awe, and it's a good thing that Crowley keeps him silent with a kiss, one that he returns with fervor, because otherwise he'd spout off something soppy and ridiculous in return.

It's not about the tartan, obviously, but the fact that Crowley accepts him, all of him. He tugs a bit so that Crowley isn't simply bending down, but lying atop him so that he can hold him all the more tightly.

"I also love you an utterly stupid amount," he finally replies, voice thick with emotion. "Your dangerously fast driving and your bebop and even when you had that mustache, I wouldn't change a thing, because it's you."

"Hey, no insulting the mustache," Crowley protests, somewhat distracted by the nearness of Aziraphale's mouth and the hands splayed on his back. "Height of style, that was. At the time. Why are we talking?"

Another kiss, and another, and he'll never get tired of the way they just blend into one another. Kiss after kiss after kiss, sometimes interrupted by a gasp or an "oh" or a name, but mostly it's just their mouths meeting, their hands wandering, their bodies shifting against each other. He'll never get tired of any of it.

"At least a week," he murmurs finally, somewhere in this dizzying array. "Not letting you out of this bed for at least that long." One hand rests on Aziraphale's hip, strokes down his his thigh, squeezing. Just feeling that is enough to make Crowley groan. "Fuck, could just stay between your legs forever...what do you want next, angel? Say the word and it's yours, I'll make it happen. Anything."

"So was tartan, but you -- mmf." Crowley makes good on his word to keep Aziraphale quiet about tartan, and it's only a moment more before the angel also wonders why they were still talking when they can use their mouths for kissing instead. All that glorious kissing while his hands stroke along Crowley's back and his sides, losing himself in the honey-rich sweetness of each moment that passes.

Crowley's proclamation has him laughing softly out of pure joy. "A good start," he says, smiling into the next kiss, and the one after that. "So long as it doesn't preclude anywhere else in the flat."

He groans along with Crowley when his thigh is squeezed and quickly returns the favor, marveling at how he's allowed to touch, to ask for what he wants. And yet he hesitates a moment, as if his next request might be too much. "Will you show me your wings, Crowley? May I touch them?"

"All over the flat, then," Crowley agrees somewhere between kisses. "Sofa downstairs, definitely. Your desk. Against the front door. Against every--blessed--bookshelf--"

He punctuates each of those words with another kiss, and it's a while before Aziraphale can make his request. That does put a pause to the kissing, mostly because Crowley is surprised. "If you like, yeah," he says. No reason why not. Feels surprisingly intimate, but Aziraphale's already had his out, and besides it isn't as though the angel hasn't seen them before, a score of times. "Want me to get up for that, or...?"

He could get them out from here, lying on top of Aziraphale as he is. Blanket them both in feathers. Might not be the best way for Aziraphale to actually see them, though.

"I have a bathtub, too," Aziraphale murmurs in sing-song. A clawfoot bathtub that surprisingly is not currently being used for book storage, as Aziraphale is just paranoid enough about residue moisture that he won't risk it. "But those are all wonderful suggestions."

He almost says to never mind, when he sees the surprise on Crowley's face, but he pushes away his own nerves and nods instead. "They're part of you, and they're so beautiful..." Crowley may never have literally held a wing over his head, but he's sheltered Aziraphale in his own way.

He kisses Crowley once more before untangling himself and sitting up, tugging gently on Crowley to join him. "There. That should give you enough room."

Crowley groans with happy anticipation at the mention of a bathtub. That one is definitely going to be high up on the list...

But for now the next item on the list is wings, and Crowley accommodates. "Flattery will get you everything, angel," he murmurs after dropping one last kiss on Aziraphale's mouth before letting him untwine and sit up, then following after.

Silly to feel self-conscious about this, really. But he does. Couldn't put his finger on why if asked. Hell-born paranoia, most likely.

But there is space now (and even if there isn't and the lamp gets knocked over again, it's hardly going to matter), and Aziraphale is waiting, so Crowley rolls his shoulders a bit and reaches into the ether, stretching not-exactly-muscles in a way that he doesn't usually these days, and--

And there they are. As large as Aziraphale's, dark and sleek. Crowley raises an eyebrow, a silent so, does this meet with your approval? before suddenly grinning and bringing them around to encircle the pair of them in a black cocoon.

"Mmm. Is that so?" He suspects that certain kinds of flattery work better than others, although getting Crowley riled up by calling him 'nice' isn't necessarily something that he doesn't want...

But that's a thought for another time. He sits, legs tucked under him, and watches Crowley unfurl his wings. The last thing he wants is to make his beloved feel self-conscious, but his reaction is not casual; there's a soft gasp, eyes widening, an open-mouthed expression of awe at their beauty, how they arc above Crowley, their healthy, sleek plumage as velvety black as the night sky.

"Oh, Crowley..." Of course he's seen them before, but in this intimate setting, they're even more beautiful than he remembered. Heaven went out of its way to portray demons as foul, filthy creatures, their black wings included, and perhaps that was the case with other demons, but not Crowley. Never Crowley.

Then those wings are wrapping around, leaving them in a warm bubble of near darkness. "Oh, Crowley," he repeats himself, giggling this time. He leans forward and kisses him in utter adoration. "May I?" he whispers, raising a hand to his wings, fingertips ghosting over the feathers.

Crowley claims that adoring expression and the following laughter as a prize, storing them inside himself somewhere to be gloated about later.

It'll have to be later, because right now his breath is caught. It's a good thing he doesn't have to try and hide his devotion anymore. He'd never manage it. "Yeah," he says, shivering as Aziraphale's fingers just barely brush over his feathers. "Yeah, 'course. Dig in."

With the same reverence he gives one of his first editions, Aziraphale makes contact with Crowley's wing, gently running his hand along the grain of the feathers. They are as soft as his own, but more pleasant to touch, because they belong to Crowley.

"You take such good care of them," he murmurs in admiration. He reaches up with his other hand, joining the first in its gentle pursuit of stroking all the feathers he can reach. Although it is harder to see Crowley's expression with the feathered canopy around them blocking out the light, he pays attention anyway, making sure that what he is doing is bringing him pleasure. "Not that they need it, but someday I'd love to groom your wings."

Crowley whimpers. There's no other word for the sound he makes, embarassing as it is. It's ridiculous to find this feeling so intense and intimate, especially after having had Aziraphale's mouth on his cock only a few minutes ago. But it is, unquestionably. No wonder Aziraphale reacted as he did downstairs when Crowley did this, if it felt the same...

"...yeah," he manages, after a minute of almost gasping from the spine-tingling pleasure of it. It's so light a thing, but almost agonizingly effective... "Yeah. That'd--that'd be good--fuck, angel, that feels--"

He bends his head down again, captures Aziraphale's mouth in a series of hungry, needy kisses, trying not to whimper again.

Angel (and by extension, demon) wings are funny things. A bit of a celestial's being essence made corporeal, not something made for touching unless a bond of trust has already been forged. Like sharing one's vulnerability, if said vulnerability could be held and caressed. Aziraphale is awed by the privilege, made humble by the sweet whimpers and stammered reply.

He kisses back, one hand slipping from feathers to shoulder so he can hold on as he pulls himself into Crowley's lap, getting even closer. His other hand keeps stroking those ephemerally soft feathers. "Beautiful," he whispers between kisses. "I want to touch every feather."

The thing about Hell is that only an idiot would let themselves be vulnerable in any way whatsoever. It's partly where the idea that demons can't love came from. They can, obviously, but most would never let it happen. Might as well paint a target on your back and be done with it.

Touch is hardly a thing either, not casual or affectionate touches. It took Crowley a long time to get used to those. And this, this is something else again.

All the more so when Aziraphale, still entirely without clothes, straddles Crowley's lap. Crowley groans and buries his face in his angel's neck, almost panting for breath. "Won't stop you," he manages. One hand strokes at Aziraphale's back, and he turns his head to kiss his neck. "Bring out yours again? Just--for a minute."

It should be no surprise that Heaven isn't much better. Perhaps there are angels here and there who had a close enough friend to groom their wings, but Aziraphale was never one of them. Even ostensibly friendly touches always had a whisper of control behind them. A handshake a little too tight; a shoulder clap a little too hard. Stay in line, little angel. Know your place.

This sort of touch, now that he allows himself to indulge, is effortless. He rubs the back of Crowley's neck, thick thighs bracketing the demon's narrow hips as if he's always belonged there. The request makes him shiver in anticipation. "Oh, my dearest," he sighs, voice laced with affection. "For you, anything."

He materializes his wings -- carefully this time, keeping them nestled within Crowley's feathery cocoon. The sensation of their wings brushing together leaves him momentarily breathless, much like the moment that they lay together without clothes. He shuts his eyes and nestles close, letting the feeling wash over him.

It's almost too much--too much sensation, too much intimacy. It's only a few hours since a kiss was about as much as Crowley would let himself actively hope for, and now this...

It's overwhelming. Everything is bare skin and feathers and touching, everywhere, and Aziraphale's breath and warmth, and there has never, ever in Crowley's long existence been a moment to match it in terms of pure bliss. Not during the earliest days when he was still content in Her grace making stars, even. Nothing compares or even comes close.

For a while he just holds Aziraphale, lets himself be held, is still and trembling and aware of every place where they're connected, every beat of his heart. The sheer intimacy of it would be painful if it weren't so wonderful.

After a long time Crowley lifts his head and kisses Aziraphale's cheek. "Ani L'Dodi," he whispers in Hebrew. "V'Dodi Li."

I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.

Aziraphale wraps an arm around Crowley's back, the other sliding into his hair, twin anchors for them both as they ride this new wave of intimacy. White wings brush against black as he nuzzles into Crowley's bare shoulder and breathes deep. He is trembling only slightly less than Crowley, this melding of earthly and celestial bliss almost too much for an even an angel to contain.

It is the line of love poetry (from the Bible, no less) that has tears appear in Aziraphale's eyes, an outlet for his joy. He is glowing -- literally glowing with his personal grace. "My beloved," he murmurs, tilting his head so he can capture Crowley's lips in a soft kiss. "'Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.'”

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Sonic?!? Stupid autocorrect, sorry. :(

No worries! At least it was an entertaining autocorrect fail.

Sonic, grumble grumble grumble...seriously phone, why...

No more video games for your phone, it's picking up the wrong words. XD

It used to be a Sega Genesis but has been reincarnated as a phone.

It's clearly having flashbacks to its former life.

Dammit phone why couldn't you have been a PlayStation

It would have snuck in a "crash bandicoot" when you weren't looking.

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