faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

“Not at all, no.”

His hands flex on her waist; he leans in close to put his mouth by her ear. From a distance, if anyone were to notice his beatific expression, one might assume he’s murmuring tender endearments to her.

“I want to start the very moment we’re inside with the door locked. Mostly because I can tell your nipples have been hard all evening, and I’m looking forward to the sound you make when I taste them.” His tongue darts gently against her earlobe. “You’ve been imagining it too. My mouth on you. Kissing. Biting. Having you for dessert.”

Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. She should have expected this. She did, just not in such detail, or she'd underestimated how it would sound, and--

Crowley's hands are trembling where they rest on his Inverness Cape. She tries to glower at them so they'll stop, but then Aziraphale's tongue touches her ear lightly, lightly, lightly, and Crowley realizes not trembling is a completely lost cause. "Maybe," she says, aiming for noncommittal and not even hitting the white bit of the target. "Thought you'd had dessert, though. Two of them, even."

“You know me. Always room for more. Especially when dessert is you.”

He can feel her trembling, and his thumbs stroke over the curve of her waist, soft and steady.

“First your breasts, and then when I lay you down in our bed, I’ll pin your thighs apart and lick you open.” He inhales slowly, as if he’s breathing in the scent of her from between her legs. “Mm... I love the taste of you, wet on my tongue.”

Crowley draws in a quick, stuttered breath, her nipples tightening painfully under her dress, already feeling a damp place between her legs. Not fair, not fair, not fair...she closes her eyes as he breathes her in, and yes, she can feel exactly what it would be like if his face were in other places making the same noise. If that delicate touch of tongue from a moment ago were placed between her thighs instead of on her ear.

"...yeah?" she manages, not altogether coherently. No, wait, she shouldn't make this so easy. He'll win in the end, it's a foregone conclusion, but she shouldn't make it this easy for him. Crowley swallows, stands a little taller. "Thought we were by the front door a moment ago. How'd we get to the bed already?" When in doubt, go for pedantry.

Aziraphale’s smile only widens. She’s so cute when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected.

“Oh, we’ll probably need a miracle. To spare you from having to take the stairs. Though I could always simply have you on the sofa...”

His hands tighten gently on her hips, the way they might if she were riding him, hidden in the warm and intimate space beneath their coats. I’ve got you.

“Either way,” he almost purrs, “we’ll find you a spot to lie down...” Again his tongue darts out, this time a gentle brush at her neck. “...so I can kiss your quim very, very thoroughly. Lick your lips apart, slowly, so slowly, and then when you’re almost begging—”

His lips brush lightly at her ear, his voice dropping even further, a rough whisper.

“You can feel it, can’t you? My tongue, between your legs, drawing little circles on your clitoris?”

A small, high-pitched noise escapes her at that touch on her neck, which aches for more. The need to feel his mouth graze along the skin there is painful, his lips, his teeth...Crowley's hands spasm on Aziraphale's shoulders, snarp nails digging into layers of coat and jacket and waistcoat, far too many layers, far far too many.

"Yes." It's a hiss more than a word. "Fuck, yes." She squeezes her thighs together in an attempt to relieve a bit of the growing ache there, and it does nothing. Crowley groans her frustration aloud, swaying a little in his gentle grip. "Angel--"

Gently he shifts her closer in their embrace, one of his thighs sliding between her legs. His mouth curves into an even broader smile as her nails dig in, and the low chuckle he lets out against her neck is encouraging and warm.

“Little circles to start.” He’s absolutely being a bastard now, and he can tell she loves it, can hear it in the tightness of her breath. “Then steady strokes across your clit—back and forth, back and forth. Harder now. A little quicker. Two of my fingers inside you. Can you feel them?”

Crowley moans and leans against him, pushing him fully back against the wall. It means she can shift her own stance, kneel just a little. Curse her earlier self for wearing fucking high heels and creating a greater heights difference to overcome, because it's that much harder to settle against the thigh between her legs, to find any sort of pressure she can use to relieve that growing ache. Not that Aziraphale is helping.

"...bastard," she breathes, low and husky. She leans her head against his shoulder, bends her knees more, tries to rub herself against his thigh. "Yes, I feel it, I fucking feel it, angel--"

“Good.”

His breath steams against her ear and her flushed cheek; his hands slide a touch lower, to her hips, holding her just as firmly as if she’s actually riding him. With his back fully to the wall he can shift as well, still hidden by their coats, guiding her so she can grind against the curve of his hip.

“Harder now, love. Faster.” Again his tongue flickers, far too lightly, against the side of her throat. “You’ll be pulling my hair, this time, while I devour your quim. Holding on for dear life as you fuck my fingers and my filthy mouth.”

Aziraphale knows by now that a little well-timed vulgarity works on Crowley; judging from the way her hands shake on his shoulders and her words have collapsed into hissing groans, tonight it’s working wonders.

She doesn't know if that harder and faster is meant to be a description of what he'll do later or a command for what she should do now, or both. She acts as though it's both, blatantly rubbing herself against his leg, her dress riding up to a level that would be indecent if their coats weren't acting as a shield, if she weren't reasonably sure he'd made sure no one would be watching them anyway, if she cared.

She doesn't care. Crowley's world has shrunk to this little bubble of space, his voice, the spell he's weaving with it, her need and his. This must be affecting him too. If it isn't she'll bloody well make sure it does. "Yes," she answers, though it's more a moan than a word. She's soaked now, her pants thoroughly wet, enough that he may be able to feel it through the layers of her sheer tights and his elegant trousers. Maybe it'll leave a stain there, a sweet wet spot on his immaculate outfit.

That idea makes her moan again. "Fuck, angel--" She pulls her head back enough to look at him, skin flushed and mouth open, puffy from where she's been biting at her lip. She lifts a hand to his face, traces his mouth with two fingertips, presses them briefly against his lips, seeking entrance. "Your mouth...fuck, how'd an angel like you learn to be this dirty?"

His own face is flushed now, not from the cold; his irises are a ring of blue around pupils swollen wide. As the hem of her dress rucks up he can feel wetness spreading against the fabric of his trousers, and oh God, for a split second he's tempted to miracle them back home so he can tear her clothes off.

But only a second. Only a breath, before he kisses her fingertips, flicks his tongue against them, soft and ticklish.

His smile is wicked.

"Thousands of years," he breathes, "of reading dirty books and thinking dirtier thoughts about you. You're a terrible influence, Crowley. Making me want to fuck you with my fingers and tongue till you fall apart, suck your clit until all you can say is my name. Shameless."

Behind her glasses Crowley's eyes are full gold, no whites showing at all. From this close he may be able to tell, despite the dark lenses. Though he knows anyway. He knows what he does to her. What he's doing to her.

Crowley keens, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder, nipping at the skin there with too-sharp teeth. She scrapes her nails down his arms, finds his hands at her waist. "Aziraphale." The way she says it is worshipful, despite the context. Because of the context. "Fucking touch me, please--you filthy obscene bastard--"

There's a huff of soft hot laughter against her ear, and then one of his hands slides low. It doesn't take much to push the hem of her dress up and the waistband of her knickers down, to shove two curled fingers inside her and swipe his thumb roughly over her stiff, slippery clit.

"That's it. Let go." Aziraphale's voice has dropped to a growl. "Fuck me as hard as you need, harder, faster, come for me, I know you want to come for me..."

It's what she needs, the rough speed of fingers and the gravel in his voice, the command and demand in one, undeniable. The way he says for me, so that it becomes a gift she can give him, a hymn of praise. Her cry of relief when he pushes into and against her is muffled against his shoulder, as is the quick series of sobs that follow after, whispered but rising in pitch, yes yes yes. She clutches at him with hands and thighs and cunt, thrusting against his hand until she breaks and gasps open-mouthed at his neck, her scream of rapture silent, her body shuddering against him.

When it passes she sags, kisses his neck in blissed out lassitude. "Angel," she breathes.

Muffled as they are against his shoulder, her lustful cries sink through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin, stirring little warm waves of tingling down his spine. She's desperate, squirming, thrusting, fucking herself on his fingers right here against a wall in front of God and everyone. Not that anyone is watching--but then Aziraphale doesn't entirely care whether they have an audience.

And then he feels her gasp and shiver and jerk, squeezing his fingers, and this time he does murmur hushed tenderness in her ear. Little shushing noises, meant to soothe and settle, the hand not buried between her thighs sliding around to stroke the small of her back.

As her lips brush his neck, lazy and satisfied, he begins to ease his fingers out of her. His thumb, index, and middle finger are decadently slick.

"Didn't I tell you I'd bring you off with my filthy mouth?" he teases, gently, and drops a kiss at the side of her jaw.

All those soft crooning noises help recall her to herself. She whimpers a little as he withdraws his fingers; oversensitive as she now is, she still hates losing the feeling of being joined, even this fairly small amount.

But they are outside, and there's still the other half of the show. Much as she enjoyed the first half, Crowley's a little sorry about that. There's nothing she'd like more than to be in their warm bed at home, snuggling and teasing and twined around each other. The fact that they'll get there in a few hours is only some comfort.

"Mm," she agrees, tilting her head as he kisses her face. "Didn't doubt you. Never do." She kisses him in return, whatever part is nearest; it turns out to be the edge of his mouth. "Was right, earlier. You're too good to me, angel."

There's nothing self-depreciating in the words. If anything they're smug, a silent and I love it and will shamelessly take advantage of the fact tacked on to the end.

Edited 2019-12-28 01:57 (UTC)

His smile curves wide and warm; he noses gently at her neck, perfectly contented.

"I did set out to spoil you tonight." This is the most glorious of secrets--the two of them, leaning on one another, half-entwined beneath their coats, no human soul around them remotely aware of what they've just done. Aziraphale isn't a stranger to the pleasure of feeling like you've gotten away with something, but he relishes it in this new context all the same. "And I intend to make good on all my promises once we're home. But not before we've gotten to your favorite part of the story," he adds, fondly teasing.

They do, miraculously, have enough time to readjust themselves and find their seats. With a strange surge of pride Aziraphale notices there's a wet spot on his trousers, one his cape hides from view; even though a good dry clean will probably get it out, he'll always know it was there. (Unfortunately, he does find he has to refrain from licking his fingers clean, because he knows the taste of her will lead him right back to the clothes-ripping impulse, and he does want to save that for the end of the night.)

"Yeah, you did." Crowley steals a languid, liquid kiss, still resting against him. When she pulls away her smirk is evident. "Can't say I wasn't warned. But I will get you back, angel. You're setting a high bar here but I'm up for the challenge."

A little reluctantly she adjusts her clothing back into place, and does use a bit of a miracle to clean herself up (wet knickers would be much, much too distracting, as well as uncomfortable). But an earlier thought prompts her to look down at Aziraphale's trousers, and her grin when she sees the damp place there is thoroughly demonic.

She leans in again and kisses him, her fingers trailing down his leg to that spot. "Keep this," she murmurs. "For the rest of the night, at least. I want to know it's there."

He does, and she's radiant with satisfaction as much as happiness and the general afterglow of a really good orgasm, even though he refuses her other offer to clean his fingers for him. Teasing him about that keeps them nicely occupied for what's left of the intermission, and she manages to catch his hand and kiss the back of it when the lights dim once more, whereupon she laughs wickedly, but refrains, settling for just holding his fingers in hers.

Even though they're only holding hands, somehow this second act feels as intimate to Aziraphale as if they're curled up together in bed with Crowley twined around his body. They're basking in each other's satisfaction, wrapped in a soft haze of mutual delight, occasionally exchanging little messages of love with a caress of thumbs or a slight shift.

Odile and Odette, when they re-enter, are masked for their trials. The supposed Raven Queen dances with waves and water nixies to music that was once meant for a Prince's ball; the supposed Swan Queen is whirled about by dancers dressed as flame and smoke to music that was once a black swan's triumphant solo. At last, though, both water and fire bend to the lovers' will.

There is an actual gasp from the audience when the two queens, presenting themselves to Von Rothbart, unmask to reveal that they've switched places. Aziraphale can't help grinning. It is a good twist, after all.

And, just as in his story, as soon as the sorcerer moves to threaten Odette, Odile stabs him in the back. His death throes are far more dramatic than the ones Aziraphale wrote, but then it does make them highly satisfying to watch, especially as the raven court reappears to whisk him offstage.

Then, at last, where most productions have a grieving prince throwing himself in a lake and a lot of ladies in tutus gesturing sorrowfully, the show's final pas de deux. The two dancers, in white and black, spin and leap and twine lovingly together, and as the set and the lighting change around them to indicate the warm glow of a rising sun and the shapes of two birds rising into the light of morning, they exchange a final loving kiss.

The applause begins even before the curtain falls. It takes real effort on Aziraphale's part not to brighten the place before the house lights come up, he's so pleased. His story, their story, and human hearts are also moved by it, are delighted that a swan and a raven could make themselves a happy ending in spite of everything that stood in their way.

This act has even more meaning for them than the first would have, given the subject matter. Trickery with fire and water and masks, defiance leading to freedom. Crowley's not sentimental enough to weep about it, but she does lean her head against Aziraphale's shoulder in parts, and she does squeeze his hand a little more fiercely when the disguised swan queen is dancing with flames.

(Shut your stupid mouth and die already. She'll never forgive Gabriel, never. Never forget how satisfying it was to watch the righteous smirk on his face dissolve into confused horror as she stood in the flames unharmed. Never forget how terrifying it was to let Aziraphale walk into Hell for her, her utter overwhelming relief upon seeing that he'd successfully walked back out again. Never take any of what they have now for granted.)

But there's no tragedy here. Not on the stage, where the swan and raven queens claim their own and fly into the dawn; not in the audience, where an angel and demon sit side by side and hand in hand. Maybe they were written for a tragedy originally, but as Adam said: where people are concerned it can always be crossed out and rewritten.

Crowley might not be the sentimental sort ^[1], but when the curtains fall, her clapping is some of the loudest, and goes on the longest.

^[1] This is, of course, complete and profound self-deception on Crowley's part, as numerous of her possessions are tangible proof to the contrary, whatever she claims.

(He’s not sure she’ll ever tell him what happened that day in Heaven; he’s already learned that her eyes harden and flash with anger when she thinks about it, and especially when she has reason to think about Gabriel. It’s not something they talk about much in general, when they talk about their past, but as terrifying an ordeal as it was he’d held tight to his faith that at least Crowley would make it through all right.)

They’re the first two on their feet when the audience rises for a standing ovation. It might be a minor miracle that Aziraphale doesn’t float a few inches off the ground—he’s always felt particularly proud of himself when he’s taken Crowley to a show and the demon enjoys it. Of course he’d known going in that this story would appeal, but it’s one thing to know and another to see it firsthand, to have something that can become a memory.

And it makes Aziraphale happy beyond expressing, watching a crowd cheer for the once-sidelined Odile.

The audience buzzes with pleased chatter as they make their way out. Backstage, the dancers are hugging, crying, complimenting one another on the performance. It’s the perfect level of benevolent chaos for Aziraphale to drop a blessing into, for the company and their director. They may not need it—human gumption gets a lot done on its own—but he privately considers it his thanks for an excellent adaptation of his work.

He slips his arm around Crowley’s waist, snags her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Not to blow my own horn,” he smiles, eyes glittering, “but I do think that may have been a more enjoyable evening than The Sound of Music.”

(She's told a few bits. The safe parts. That she breathed fire at them (only a little fire), some of her own more flippant feelings about being in Heaven again ("Even worse than I remembered". Maybe someday she'll say more, when it won't hurt either of them. Maybe not. Some doors are better closed.)

Crowley rolls her eyes at this comparison. "That's not hard," she says in the dryest of dry voices, wrapping her free arm around his shoulders in turn. "And you don't even like that musical. But yeah, good show this." Her grin turns faintly wicked. "Think I should pull a Hamlet? It's tempting. I've certainly made worse things popular."

“You certainly have. Don’t think I’ve forgotten Starlight Express.” He leans up to brush a kiss on her cheek. “But I think they’ve earned a breakout hit.”

His heartbeat picks up a little—now, at last, they can head home. Together. The final piece of his plan is finished by this point in the evening, or at least he has faith in the humans he hired. The rest of the night is for the two of them.

A cab pulls up, as if on cue. Aziraphale’s grin widens.

“Shall we head home?”

Crowley cackles. "That one was fun," she admits, smirking. "And you wouldn't believe what I've had them do with the film version of Cats, it's a masterpiece. But I won't go overboard with this one. Cross my heart."

Once upon a time, that promise would have come with any number of detracting adjectives. Cross my black, withered, demonic heart. They'd been funny, and to her mind accurate, and then eventually also a sort of protection. Her demonic, useless heart, which wasn't supposed to feel things like love and certainly wouldn't have been welcomed if offered, or so she'd thought so deep down that the conviction wasn't even conscious...

Aziraphale kisses her cheek and squeezes her arm, and says those magic words, Shall we go home? They still amaze her. The we she's almost used to, but the home idea, that's still new.

Well, home as a physical place, at least. She figured out a century ago that wherever Aziraphale was counted as home. It's still a miracle to Crowley that she gets to share it.

"Yeah," she says softly, smiling at that grin. He looks so happy, and it makes Crowley's heart, whatever the state of it, just melt to see that. "Yeah, let's. I've got to thank you properly for my evening out, and I can't do that here. Not without a lot of miracles or getting arrested."

[ooc: Maybe more of an evil dragon shapechanger guy. A can wear anything for his clothes or under them, Crowley will be happy with anything. ;) I absolutely accept the headcanon that C is responsible for Starlight Express so on. Explains a lot tbh!]

Edited 2019-12-31 00:42 (UTC)

His laughter fills the cab for a moment as they climb in together. "Wicked woman," he scolds affectionately, pulling her into his lap again before he gives the driver the address.

(Though the driver is normally quite a talkative fellow with his rides, for some reason tonight he finds himself perfectly content to keep his mouth shut. Especially whenever he glances in the rear view mirror and catches a glimpse of the redhead with the sunglasses. Oh well. At least they seem to be having a nice evening.)

Again they're enfolded in their own little bubble, only distantly aware of anything besides one another. Aziraphale wants to have the playbill framed; Crowley thinks they should hang it next to his dirty limerick. They laugh and tease and steal kisses, back and forth, and not for the first time Aziraphale finds himself almost hoping one of his old coworkers would dare to have a peek at him. Though probably they'll have convinced themselves by now that watching an angel and demon sinning together will turn them blind, or something equally ridiculous*.

At last they pull up to their own little corner of the city--home, for as long as they want it to be, as long as they happen to be there together.

The painters he hired have been finished for about an hour, and as requested have packed up to take the rest of the night off. Already there's an email sitting in the tray of Aziraphale's dot matrix printer from the young woman who supervised the team, with a quick report on how the job went (smoothly) and an expression of gratitude for hiring a local business (effusive).

Their work is evident above the door.

CROWLEY, FELL & CO.
Booksellers * Established 1800
Unusual * Antiquarian * Out of Print

* There is, in fact, a rumor to this effect in Heaven. Sandalphon started it.

[ooc: RIGHT? And lord have mercy now I want this dragon/princess scenario so much. We should do the thing.]

Exactly what I wanted! :D

I have so been wanting to use this icon.

HEHEHEHEHEHEH. <3

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Crowley would like to strongly endorse having her clothes ripped off

Soon enough, no worries

Okay so my Crowley is more sub than dom, though she can switch.

My Aziraphale's a switch who enjoys being a bastard, so I think this works out nicely.

It certainly does.

A does love peril/rescue foreplay (because of course), but with that part over he's quite flexible!

Anytime he wants to roleplay, Crowley is up for it. Especially redoing certain events from theirpast

...is a trip to the Bastille in the near future? >:D

The chains did suggest interesting possibilities. Though also, Rome. Or Sherwood? ;)

Both is good! Maybe some pirate/highwayman stuff too.

Crowley wants to be a dragon who's kidnapped a Princess because of course he does

holy shit yes please. A would even go femme for that.

Too much for header, see below..

HA! I heard the Cats movie is a living nightmare. Also TA-DAAAAAA.