faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

The coy smile on his face and his gentle air might be betrayed by his objective, but not entirely. He brings his free hand back up to curl back and gently touch at Crowley's hair, while the other keeps intertwined with the demon's on his chest. The stuttering doesn't pass him by, in fact he finds it quite endearing. There's a rather lovely feeling in being able to catch the demon by surprise sometimes.

He turns his head to place a gentle kiss on Crowley's cheekbone. "I do." He murmurs sweetly against his cheek, a fair easier answer; he's feeling Crowley's already, which he shifts against again, just a gentle tease.

Crowley draws in another ragged breath, closes his eyes. Aziraphale's mouth is warm on his skin, and the smell of his breath somehow shoots down Crowley's spine, pooling in the small of his back, hot and hungry. He shudders with anticipation. "How d'you want me, then?"

Aziraphale gently digs his fingers through the demon's hair, a gentle touch, affectionate, but not without the suggestion of something a bit less gentle if the demon so wishes. They know each other's tastes, the way to handle each other's corporations and the way they move together. And what they need, right now, is the comfort of that familiarity.

So Aziraphale keeps his voice quiet and low, smooth. Gentle fussing through that fiery red hair, body pressed back against him, warm and soft, with only the most faint movements. Their hands kept to his chest. A gentle, slow build up. Things he's learned in the time they've been together.

He presses another kiss on his cheek as he thinks. One on his jaw. One by his ear. "I want you to take me."

"Angel--"

He should be used to it by now. He never is, somehow. They've done this countless times now, and Aziraphale's stated his desires in those exact words countless times, and it still leaves Crowley breathless with astonishment, still sends a thrill through him. His arms tighten before he takes a breath and forces himself to loosen them, and the way he nibbles at Aziraphale's neck is more sharp than he probably intends. He can keep it gentle and slow like this, he can, he has and he will, but fuck, he wants...

Crowley shudders all over, his hands already wandering, and nips at Aziraphale's neck again. "...on your stomach." His voice is lower already, husky. "Lie down for me, angel. While I get you ready."

He already is ready, almost painfully so all at once. But he refuses to rush this part.

The tone in Crowley's voice sends shivers down his spine, with the sting on his neck having something to do with it. The offers he gives the demon when the mood strikes for intimacy and passion are delivered easily and well, but sometimes there is a struggle, a pleasant one, to listen more than he speaks. To feel and to turn, to take or to give, hold or be held. But there are no limits in the way they go about these things, they can do all if they so wish. These things, these moments that are theirs and theirs alone. Thrills that won't end.

Aziraphale doesn't rush, either. He never rushes when he's enjoying something, unless that's part of the experience, and even then. He takes a few more seconds to press kisses on Crowley's face, on his temple, before finally pulling away languishly, shifting and lowering himself onto the bed, plush and comfortable, glancing over his shoulder at his demon.

"I love you, my dear." Simple words, a quiet voice, but also given with a point. There are many ways the angel can lack in being self aware, but less so when situations of this nature call for his full attention.

Crowley accepts all those kisses and returns a few, capturing Aziraphale's mouth briefly before the angel turns to settle himself on the bed and Crowley accordingly gets to his knees beside him, leans over to reach for the bottle of lubricant they keep beside the bed. (There are times when it's part of the thrill to magic something up and cackle about some poor sap doing the paperwork for it, a small hello, and fuck you to their previous employers; there are other times when they simply don't care. But there are also times for complete privacy with no specter of being observed, and this is one of them)

Aziraphale's statement arrests him mid-motion, as it so often does. Crowley waited too long to hear it to ever take it for granted or let it pass by without a response. His eyes almost glow in the dark, wide and golden, as they are during moments of passion or intense emotion.

He leans down and takes another kiss, tasting Aziraphale's mouth and moaning like it's something ambrosial. "Angel," he whispers, endearment and wonderment and statement of fact all in one. He slides his mouth to Aziraphale's shoulder, kisses that, drops kisses all along his upper back even as his slicked fingers reach carefully between the Aziraphale's thighs. "I love you." His finger teases at the puckered opening he finds there, circles, presses, withdraws and circles again. "More than I ever thought possible. More than anything else on Earth or outside it." He pushes in just the tip, stretches him gently. Bites a little at his shoulder. "Beyond life, or death, or eternity." Pushes in further, to the first knuckle, then the second. Crowley gasps and shivers as though he's the one being penetrated, his control kept sharply in check. (Somewhere else, scales spark with internal light, and coils shift to encircle.)

"Beyond everything," Crowley whispers, meaning it and knowing what it means better than most are capable of understanding, and pushes in a second finger as he kisses the back of Aziraphale's neck.

Aziraphale closes his eyes when Crowley's hand first moves between his thighs, leaving nothing but the sensation of his touch, of his kisses, and that voice whispering undying eternal, devotion. Not the first time the demon declares his everburning feelings for the angel, words that barely reach the ankles of everything he's done to show it. Every time, it brings a shiver to the angel's spine to know, and let himself know, that there's someone that loves and cares for him so deeply, so passionately. That something he spent the better part of his existence never imagining or even being aware was something he could ever have, a being of Love, for whatever that really entails, finding out he could be more than a mere observer...

Every time, it blinds him to everything else. When it's quiet, when the only thing is their bodies, his voice, warmth, in a void made for their own, when everything else stops existing. Every time, it steals his breath.

This time, he knows. They know. They already did know, but this time they have been forced to prove it. This time, he's seen it happen, they've had it happen, he's seen it and the words ring so much louder. It rocks him to his core. All the things he doesn't want to think about, they'll be louder too, but they don't get to take this away from them.

His breath shakes. He grips the the sheets under him and hunches his shoulders. Bites at his lip, gasps when another finger is pushed into him, tensing slightly around it. "Crowley..." A soft murmur, feeling the warm lips on the back of his neck.

( Somewhere else, wings fold back and let themselves be held, a bundle of bright light inviting that touch.)

It matters to Crowley to say it like this, sometimes. Not just I love you but the ultimately unsuccessful attempt to express how much. It can't be done, and they both know it; the bond between them is profound in a way that goes far beyond words in any language mortal or immortal. But Crowley likes to try sometimes, to be expansive and eloquent. After so much time having to keep the words in it's a relief to say it, even if he can only say a small part of what's meant.

That doesn't matter. Aziraphale knows what he doesn't say.

Actions do speak louder. Not the fact of Crowley's fingers there, so intimately situated, but it shows in how much care he takes, his own body's needs held in check while he sees to Aziraphale's, slowly and carefully opening him up, making sure every step is pleasurable and relaxed instead of rushed. He can wait. He's always been good at waiting. And any discomfort for him is more than repaid by the sound of Aziraphale gasping, the sight of his fingers gripping the bedsheets, the way his body trembles around Crowley's fingers. "That's it, he says, soft and soothing. "That's good, angel, let me take care of you..."

He does know all Crowley doesn't say. They've learned to read each other, understand each other, even before they were free to let themselves see all of it. Snippets and glances sometimes spelled danger, so they'd ignore it, fight it, even be blind to it - in the case of the angel -, but they've always related and understood each other better than anyone else in existence. Their way of existing just made it so.

And, nowadays, he knows all of Crowley's unspoken words, the impossibly grand meanings. He can feel them in times past, he can feel them in glances he catches of Crowley's eyes, in the way he kisses him and makes everything else stop. He feels it in his careful touches. He feels it in everything they share. It's more than than the things he does - it's the way he does them, and why.

He lets his forehead rest down on one of his arms, warm breaths hitching as Crowley's deft gentle fingers work him open, patiently and meticulously, sweet in his patience, loving in his words. Aziraphale keeps himself still, but his body aches to hold his demon, to kiss him, to intertwine with him, to tell the world the message it won't hear, that they can never tear them apart.

Perhaps Crowley can read the message in the way Aziraphale's shoulders tense, or perhaps his own wants change. At any rate he kisses Aziraphale's back, then withdraws his fingers. "Turn over, angel," he murmurs. "Let me see you."

Let them see each other, let them both be seen. As soon as Aziraphale is able to watch Crowley grins wickedly and licks at his fingers, forked tongue on display.

Taking but a few seconds to breathe, he carefully turns himself around, leaning back on his elbows, just in time to watch the demon being wicked and wily. It makes Aziraphale stare for a lingering moment moment, face already warm, but the coy smile that places itself on his face, more of a smirk, on his face is betrayed by the look in his eyes, warm and loving and knowing, and surely more than inviting.

"Oh, you serpent." Veritably lounging in front of Crowley, waiting. Gently teasing. " Do come here..."

It goes beyond inviting. Crowley crawls forward and sinks into his angel's embrace with the air of someone coming home, which he is. It's the only place he's ever belonged and the only one he needs.

"Angel, angel--" Kisses on the mouth, on Aziraphale's jaw and neck, as their bodies undulate against each other, skin sliding against skin. "My angel, Aziraphale--" His cock is still hot and hard where it's trapped between them but he kisses Aziraphale's face as though he needs nothing else, only this. One hand strokes along Aziraphale's side, the other presses his hand to the mattress, fingers tightly entwined.

The angel's embrace will always be there, waiting for him, a selfish refuge he will never have to share. A self sustaining give and take of safety, and warmth, and care.

Aziraphale drinks in the attention, the words again, the feeling of the demon's body pressing him into their bed. He grips Crowley's hand with their intertwined fingers, pulls a thigh up against his side and toward his hand. It feels like a dance and makes him think of music, every time, but the notes sound different this time around.

"Only yours." He murmurs, free hand slipping between Crowley's shoulders to hold, to pull him and meet him in a kiss, before pulling back and settling on the bed over his head, leaving him vulnerable and unguarded, and delightfuly so.

Another invitation, and Crowley smiles. His hand slides from hip down to thigh, around, lifts Aziraphale's leg so it's hooked over Crowley's shoulder. Crowley turns his head and kisses Aziraphale's knee, still meeting his eyes, his own still glinting warm and wicked. A few more kisses up the thigh, slow and suggestive; a bite, sharp rather than hard.

He doesn't need to ask. He knows Aziraphale is ready. More than ready; expectant.

Crowley shifts, keeps Aziraphale's leg on his shoulder; balancing it will help him get a better angle while also distracting him enough that this won't be over as soon as it starts.

He goes slowly, almost agonizingly slowly, penetrating Aziraphale gently and carefully. A little, then back, then further, then back. He could just sink in, knows his angel could take it, and sometimes they prefer it that way. Hard, fast, rough, hungry.

Not this time. This is about more than hunger, much more, and he wants it to last as long as possible. Hours, weeks. Forever. Sweat beads Crowley's forehead and he welcomes it, one hot rivulet sliding down his face as he forces himself to keep absolutely in control of each tiny movement.

Forward. Back. A little further. Back.

There will be a time for it to be about hunger. Maybe when they finally feel the dust has settled, and they believe they might have finally defeated what haunts them. Maybe then, when it creeps in at the corners in an otherwise far too normal day, then it will be time for that. But not now. This time it's about feeling. This time it's about seeing and being seen. About telling each other and all of creation that they won't be torn apart, that they won't be taken into the shadows. That they won't let go of each other. That they promise each other they'll be there.

Aziraphale shudders and twitches, grips Crowley's hand in his own. That spot on his thigh sore and sensitive. His eyes stay on the demon's, even as his breath grows a little heavier. He's watching, he's promising, he's asking for so much, without uttering a single word. Crowley could always tell - but can he feel it, now, in the way they're connected? How he's reaching for him, how he's thankful for him, how he's so goddamn terrified he might not be strong a second time?

He can. Of course he can. He feels all the same things, even the fear, though that he's buried under determination to take care of Aziraphale, the same way he's always done. It's a well worn coping mechanism for Crowley. And in the circumstances, it's not a bad one.

So he concentrates on that, only that. Only Aziraphale, and wringing those shudders and twitches from him, those breaths, until he's fully seated in his lover's body, shaking and panting. Crowley looks up and meets Aziraphale's eyes, and the focused expression on his face morphs into a slight smirk. "Ready?"

It's a tease more than a word, a silent request: are you ready, tell me you are, tell me you want this. Tell me you want me. Say it out loud.

He'll take everything he can get, and he knows it's never ending. All the attention, all the care, all the overwhelming droves of love his demon can give him. But he won't do so selfishly, no, he will give back everything he has, everything he can offer, his mind, his love, his body, his touch. Everything he has, he will give him, all in return for the same.

The angel pulls in a breath, feeling himself full, that familiar bliss, head tilting back in a pleasant shudder, his eyes only close for a moment, not wanting to break their shared gaze for long. He knows it'll be a little more difficult as they go on, but that's alright.

"Yes." Aziraphale murmurs under his breath, his free hand coming up to rest on the demon's cheek in the gentlest touch, brushing his fingers back into his hair, conjuring up enough words and coherence to even begin to show how he feels. "All I want is you, my love. All of you. If everything else were to burn, I'd be happy with just you, just like this."

His fingers dig into the demon's red hair, where they belong. "Please, Crowley..."

That's considerably more than Crowley had been aiming for, and he groans helplessly and falls onto Aziraphale's mouth again, as though all those words are still there and he can breathe them in directly, swallow them, keep them inside the core of himself to warm him from within.

(It was so cold, on the train. So cold, beyond anything. Part of him still feels it, part of him is still desperate for heat)

Crowley starts to move. The kiss is passionate and unrestrained, but the motion of his hips is slow and deliberate, teasing out the drag and push of his thrusts. Sweat beads his forehead but he doesn't increase the pace, however much his body wants to just fuck in with abandon. Not yet. Not yet. It'll be better if he can wait, for both of them. And he needs this, these minutes of being this close, this connected. So does Aziraphale. He'll make it last as long as he can.

Not yet. They can wait. Not yet, not yet.

Aziraphale's quiet moans are muffled in their kiss, hand gripping at Crowley's hair with familiar gentleness, not aiming to sting, not yet, not now. Just another point of contact, as if they didn't have enough already, as if they weren't intrinsically connected in ways very much beyond the physical, as if that wasn't enough. Maybe it's not, yet. Maybe he's still far too hurt for what he saw, but what should have been - that empty, emptying ache from those seconds he almost gave up didn't make any kind of clean exit, leaving behind a wound that may take a rather long time to heal. Longer if he doesn't tend to it like he should.

He grips Crowley's hand tight in his, feeling an urge to move along and hurry things, this deep, barely hidden need to cling to him, to forget, to feel only, to feel them together. To rush through. But it's not really hunger, it feels like. Not the kind they sometimes feel. No, it's something else. It's dark. Invasive. He doesn't like it or trust it.

He feeds it only through their kiss, refusing to give it what he wants. Through the way he grips at him, and everything else he controls. They control. They decide. They won't let anything else win.

I love you. Only you. Like this, only you. Forever you. Always you.

Crowley knows that dark urge all too well, has known it since he Fell, the one that says: grab this, take this, seize it, *now*, before it's ripped away from you, before it's taken. It's not fear or greed but something more primal than either, something uncontrolled and ravenous, something that devours from within.

He's been that before. It's not what he wants. It's not what they need. They've both been injured, in a way. They can heal, they'll heal each other, but not with that. It can only rend.

No. This, this thing that isn't angelic or infernal. This mortal communion they've made their own. Their choice.

I choose you. I've always only ever chosen you. I will always choose you. Only you, always.

"Love you," he says, as much grunts of exertion as words. The motion of his hips is deliberate, controlled, but speeding up a bit. Not too fast. Not too fast. But god, the tight slide in, the suction as he withdraws, the feeling of being surrounded by Aziraphale... "Fuck, angel, I love you."

For all that he's ever tended to indulge, it's always been with the mindset of enjoying things, experiences, places, things he could give himself to, as long as he managed to find an excuse to do so. He still had to justify it, sometimes to his former superiors, sometimes just to himself, but the urges he had were never dark. They never felt like a need, like an emptiness to be filled. Like this thing that feels almost like fear, like a creeping ache. It nags at him as such a awful bastardization of what he's always been, always done, that is what feels vile. That is what he vehemently refuses to let that take over this moment. He refuses to let it poison it. But he can't do it alone. He doesn't feel strong enough. He's aching. He's hurt. They're both wounded, but they can protect each other. Hold each other. Heal each other.

"Crowley-" The name comes strained, back arching up as the angel gasps, grips Crowley's hair tighter. But he tries to settle, he has to, he wants to, wants to make it last as long as he can. The leg not on Crowley's shoulder tangles behind the demon, their hands laced together pressing into the bed. He breathes out words. "Oh-mh, I love you too. I love you so much."

He's trying to hold back, to not go too fast, he's trying. But Aziraphale is so hot and tight around him, and those words are so warm and so desperately wanted. Always wanted, and always a little desperate. He can't help that. They had to wait so long, to get to this point.

Crowley shudders and sucks in a deep breath, turns his head and kisses Aziraphale's thigh, digs his fingers in harder on the leg resting on his shoulder. Another kiss, harder, with teeth. Not enough to leave a bruise. Not yet.

Still thrusting, he adds a roll of his hips at the end, looking for the sweet spot, the sunburst point. The place that will make his angel moan for him.

Whatever warmth he can give him, he's there. Whatever reminders, reassurances, the love and care he never could, he'll give it to him. Crowley's always given him everything he could ever want, and the things he needed when he didn't know he did. They had to wait so long to get here. They're never leaving.

With a stuttered groan and a gasp, the angel arches under him, almost lifting his hand his hand off of the bed, were it not pinned down. His leg squeezes around the demon, some eager attempt to pull him closer.

There's a tide to this. The rhythms of the body have their own currents, and while they might be eldritch beings of supernatural power there are some instincts it's hard to ignore. He could, probably. He could try harder than he does. (He does try, he does.)

But it's so good, it's so good, all that heat and tension and tightening, and Aziraphale arching and groaning to the air, openly. Crowley tries to focus on breathing, on balancing, whatever it takes to prolong this as much as possible. But it overpowers him sooner than he wants. He has enough presence of mind to keep the angle Aziraphale needs once he's found it, so he finds that sweet spot with every stroke, but he's panting for breath, snapping his hips in hard, a continuous litany of angel on his tongue.

Another groan, and this time the kiss he sucks into Aziraphale's leg will bruise, florid and painful and real. "Can't--" he huffs against Aziraphale's thigh. "Angel, angel, I can't--need to--"

Edited 2020-04-22 00:59 (UTC)

Whatever mark Crowley leaves on his body is cherished. Whatever way he holds it, touches it, moves with it, it never leaves the angel feeling anything but safe and wanted and loved. It's not just the pleasure of such acts, but, more importantly so, who they're shared with. No one else could ever make the angel feel like this. No one could love him as intensely and as perfectly as Crowley does.

Aziraphale's breath catches, moans and sounds escaping him freely, as he grips his demon tight, as he arches and moves along with him, pushes himself closer, body asking, begging for more, right there. More, for longer. More, and closer, faster, and there, right there, please.

"Crowley--" He feels that sting in the tender skin of his thigh, Crowley's breath hot against it. "I'm--oh-" Stuttered through, as his gentle but strong hand pulls on the fiery red hair with a mind of its own.

Re: ohhhhh yes

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