faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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.

It's not enough, it's so blessed close but not enough, it won't be enough unless Aziraphale is there too. Nothing has ever been enough unless Aziraphale was there, not in six thousand years.

Crowley reaches between them somehow, takes Aziraphale's cock in his hand again, strokes hard and fast. He's bottoming out on every thrust now, their hips slapping together, friction a miracle in its own right. "Come for me." Not encouragement this time but demand. "Come for me, now, now, do it angel, now, come--"

It doesn't take him much more than that. Senses overwhelmed with white hot pleasure, his body curled under the demon, arching and twitching and moving, hot, so hot, freely given and clinging and pulling. The sting of Crowley's lips and teeth on the tender flesh of his thigh, his hand gripped tight and pinned against the bed, Crowley's body pushing against his, into him, with knowing thrusts and desperate fervor. It's so much, so much, and he's greedy about it for a moment, but the demon knows all the right things to do and say.

His back arches off of the bed, limbs gripping at the demon like a vice however he can reach, body tensing around Crowley's cock hot and tight, groaning out through his orgasm, spilling through his hand. And he glows, again, brighter this time, against the harmless darkness around them, a beacon, but only of their own, pinned between the demon and their bed. Nowhere else he rather be.

Crowley only barely hangs on long enough. Aziraphale squeezes around him, and there's hot liquid striping his hand and oh Heaven yes, Aziraphale squeezing his hand and pulling his hair and his legs, those strong thighs gripping him, and all of it together pulls pleasure out of him until his head is thrown back in a silent shout and he slams in hard, again, spilling deep inside his lover, his angel, his everything. He hears the beating of mighty wings, countless numbers of them, and maybe he imagines it or maybe it's happening Somewhere Else.

Then he collapses on Aziraphale, drenched with sweat and utterly spent. Their hands are still locked together.

He could swear he feels scales brush up against him, soft and tender, squeezing around him in a loving embrace. It feels safe. It feels loving.

The climax of their pleasure and their bodies gives way to panting breaths in the dark, forgetting all the needlessness of these physical states, dwelling comfortably within them. Aziraphale lets go of the demon's hair, hand falling back against the bed as he catches his breath, though the other stays locked together with Crowley's.

For a moment, that's all they do, they rest and they breathe, and feel warm against one another. Aziraphale's hand returns to Crowley's hair, this time to dig gently through it. "Well..." He sighs out, blissfully. "It seems I've been thwarted by your temptations once more."

Crowley makes a low, pleased rumble in his throat as Aziraphale strokes his hair again. His face is turned towards Aziraphale's neck, and he kisses it almost absently. "Whereas I definitely feel smote by your angelic grace. Smited. Smitten. All those."

They're still joined at the hip, and little as he wants to move it can't be comfortable for Aziraphale. Reluctant fly he gets up and withdraws, then lays back down on Aziraphale, this time blatantly using him as a pillow. Crowley rests his cheek on the angel's chest, listened to his heartbeat. Fantastic, amazing things, these corporations, capable of so many wonders...

Crowley makes that quiet purring noise again, feeling quiet and heavy and content. "Nghh...we may have to wait a while before doing that crepes plan. Don't think I'll be able to walk for a while after that."

Funny things too, these bodies. There isn't always a heartbeat. There isn't always a breath. But there certainly are many times when they are so ingrained in these corporations, that everything functions as it apparently should. There's beauty in such things, small and sometimes curious as they might be.

Aziraphale shivers gently as his demon pulls away, then settling comfortable and relaxed, welcoming him back with that hand in his hair, and his faint angelic glow.

"I suppose they can wait." Said in a gentle, teasing tone, fingers scratching gently against the demon's scalp. His chest rises and lowers with every breath, now even and relaxed. "This'll have to do for a while... Can't have you go about in that state." With a clear soft smile to his words.

That's the thing: they don't have to breathe. They don't have to sweat, have racing heartbeats, have sex, eat food, sleep, any of it. But they enjoy it. They choose it. Sure, things like feeling your skin go prickly and cool aren't as intense as climaxing in your lover's arms, to pick an example entirely at random. But it's part of the overall tapestry of experience, and they both appreciate it. And they're fantastically grounding, these small things. Good for keeping you in the moment.

This is a particularly good moment, and Crowley would like to be kept in it.

"Which state?" Crowley lifts head enough that Aziraphale can watch him smirk. "Stark naked and looking exceptionally well fucked? It'd give the village something to talk about."

It's always been about choices. About the ones made actively and attentively, and even the ones made subconsciously. The experience of being alive, and its possibilities are endless. These smaller ones are easier, but no less important, specially in times when they have been almost taken away.

The angel smiles, still gently scratching. "That would be improper." He replies with such a posh tone. "No, you're much better off here."

Crowley tilts his head into the scritching fingers, encouraging them to wander. His hair is damp with sweat, spiky at random intervals, and he resembles the proverbial cat in cream in the way he preens and smirks. "Satan forbid I be improper," he says with mock solemnity, grinning down at his lover. "Can't have that. But if you're going to insist on my being decent before taking me to breakfast, you're several millennia plus time uncounted too late."

He bends down and kisses Aziraphale, slow and sated. "Mmm..." he murmurs into the other's mouth. "You're right that I'm better off here, though."

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