Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

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[duckshaveears]

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.

[salutosinedelectat]

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.

[duckshaveears]

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."

[salutosinedelectat]

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."

[duckshaveears]

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.

[salutosinedelectat]

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.

[duckshaveears]

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--"

[salutosinedelectat]

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.

[duckshaveears]

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--"

[salutosinedelectat]

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.

[duckshaveears]

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.

[salutosinedelectat]

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."

[duckshaveears]

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."

[salutosinedelectat]

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.

[duckshaveears]

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."

[salutosinedelectat]

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."

[duckshaveears]

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."

[salutosinedelectat]

There's something to thoroughly enjoy when seeing the demon smile wickedly. Maybe not so much when you're at the other end of whatever motivated it - Aziraphale has been there many times, but never in a way where he ever suffered for it -, but such delight is contagious at times.

Aziraphale welcomes his kiss, hands landing on Crowley's back and moving up to curl over his shoulders. He returns the gentle hum, eyes closed. "Of course I am."

[duckshaveears]

Crowley makes another approving mmm noise as Aziraphale's hands curl over his shoulders, holding him in place. Good. He doesn't want to move. This is exactly where he wants to stay.

Several minutes of slow, savoured, unhurried kisses follow before Crowley sighs again and rests his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Dunno why I thought fairy lights were a good idea," he says drowsily. "You glow more than they do. Probably responsible for whoever came up with the things."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale lets his fingers lock over the demon's back, comfortably blanketed by his lover's body. Such closeness was always welcomed, comparatively short has it has been since they first actually began to indulge in such a thing, but, in this instant, it just feels right.

He opens his eyes to peek down at the demon. "I don't believe so. I've never met anyone who went on to make such a thing. That I know of." He looks up at their darkened ceiling again, thumb brushing over the back of Crowley's shoulders. "Besides, no one's ever...seen me like this."

[duckshaveears]

"Good." Crowley's arms are draped over Aziraphale's shoulders, wrapped around his head, and he buries his fingers in his angel's hair. "They don't deserve it. None of them."

Once, he would've added or at least thought, and neither do I, not out of any lack of self-worth but because it was simple fact. Even a few days ago he might have thought it, if only in the deepest darkest part of his heart.

Not anymore. They're past the point where that's at all relevant. This is where he belongs, where they both belong, entwined and inseparable. What either of them deserves doesn't enter into it. Not anymore. Never again.

(Scales caress wings, and a long sinuous body winds itself around an angelic form, the heart hidden by layers of feathers)

Crowley lifts his head for another kiss, strokes Aziraphale's face with his thumb. "I like you, like this," he murmurs into the mouth that opens against his. "I love you, like this."

[salutosinedelectat]

Well beyond deserving. Well beyond wondering. Well beyond the erroneous notions of good and evil and unforgivable and deserving, and into whatever they make happen. Heaven and Hell have no hold on them anymore. And now, it looks like, no even Death. The concept, not the creature, with whom he never did quite have an issue with. But he supposes he must have been involved, somehow. Or his superiors.

(Almost all eyes lay closed and dormant, while a couple glow bright and ethereal and watch the shining scales reflect the bright light. They cannot begin to tell where the light, or the scales, or the wings of one end and the other begin. Feathers fluff up, comfortable and relaxed.]

Aziraphale breathes calmly against those lips, feels the gentle caress of those fingers in his hair. "Like this?"

[duckshaveears]

"Here." Soft and solid, warm and real, accessible to all senses. Touch, sight, taste, sound, smell, and those others they don't have names for in this language, the ones that expand beyond this world, these bodies, this time. "With me."

(He moves, he's always moving, he never stops, but now the twisting of scales is calm and slow instead of restless. Even for countless eyes it's impossible to tell how many coils he has. It doesn't matter, the numbers are meaningless)

He tilts his head to kiss Aziraphale's cheek, soft and deliberate, then repeats the gesture on his neck. "I love you like everything."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale tilts his head back slightly, against the bed and against those fingers buried so gently in his hair. These senses, what a thing. What a gift, with corporations like these. All of these sensations, and all the ways they can be awakened, all they can bring. Fascinating to no end.

( They are together in their infinity. In worlds unreachable by any but those already in it. No end, no beginning, and yet here they both tangle. There's a warmness to those scales, in a place where heat can't live. His eyes can't find the serpent's right now, but he doesn't mind, and simply waits. His company is infinite too.)

"Everything?" He mutters quietly, palms resting down on Crowley's back again.

[duckshaveears]

"Everything." A brush of lips along Aziraphale's neck, then a soft press. Another, open-mouthed, with just a flicker of tongue as Crowley tastes the salt-sweat skin there. "Like this. Like you are in the library reading. Or in the kitchen making cocoa, or eating pasta. Watching the sunset. Saying some ridiculous thing no one's said for centuries."

He reaches a bit to kiss Aziraphale's ear, sucks on the lobe a bit. "Like you are when we're out for a walk, or when you're all tight-lipped in the car because you hate how I drive. Or when you stain your clothes and ask me to fix it, and the way you smile when I do." He nuzzles the skin behind Aziraphale's ear with his nose. "All of it. Everything."