faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

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From:

confoundthemighty

[He knows she knows exactly what she's doing, temptress, séductrice, and it's absolutely wrecking him. The sensation starting to rush under his skin seems less like approaching climax and more like being on the inside of a firecracker that's just been lit. And he's genuinely pulling her hair now, holding on for dear life, as if he really might lift off at any second.

(He adores her. Aziraphale trusts her, sometimes more than he trusts himself; he would walk into Hell again for her, if he had to, and back out again without a scratch for her sake as well. And though he knows that what he does tonight will be pitifully small in comparison to the magnitude of the actual emotion, he's eager to show her just how much she means in his life. How much joy she brings him, more than anything else in the world, for being herself, himself, themself, Crowley. This is part of it, too--the obscene worship, her fingers steadily fucking him as she swallows down his cock.)]

Oh please--please--oui, c'est ça, please please please--

[He's started to tremble, his words more gasped than spoken.]

From:

duckshaveears

[He's close. She knows it, from the snap of his hips to the words he spills to the way he vibrates to the exact grip he has on her hair. Crowley purrs her assent, her enthusiasm, approval. It's the only flaw of oral sex, that her mouth isn't free to encourage him onwards with words both loving and profane. Come for me, come for me, I want you to lose control, I want all that restraint utterly obliterated, I want you shouting my name, I want to know I did this for you, show me, give it to me.

No words, but it's there in the curve and twist of her fingers, the slide of mouth and press of tongue, and above all in her eyes as she looks up at him.]

From:

confoundthemighty

[Somehow, in the dark, he manages to catch her gaze--and that's all it takes, he can't hold back, can't keep himself from shattering. And though no human voice can hear it, the desperate sound that bursts from him resounds in the tiny room, a sob of praise.]

Crowley--!

[It does remind him of fireworks, and maybe humanity invented them to have something to compare orgasms like this to, fizzing and sparking and wildly bright. Aziraphale's whole body shudders with burning ecstasy, coming and coming and coming, straight down her throat, so hard he sees stars.]

From:

duckshaveears

[Crowley's eyes slip blissfully closed. She strokes him through his climax, swallows everything down. Her touch turns gentle. The way she pulls her fingers back is a caress, as is the last slide of her tongue over his skin as she releases him from her mouth.

Then she pulls his pants and trousers back up, buttons whatever needs buttoning and so on, and tugs on him until he joins her on the floor. She's not altogether sure his legs will hold him after that, so it's just practical, really. The fact that she can then finangle things so she can sit herself in his lap and kiss lightly at his cheek and hair while he recovers is a minor detail.

(Crowley is cuddly after sex, any sort of sex. Actually she's cuddly in general. Half the time she emphatically denies it, the other half she shrugs and blames it on being a snake. No amount of denial stops her from twining around Aziraphale given any opportunity, however, whether she admits to it or not)]

From:

confoundthemighty

[He wobbles, gasping for breath, until she starts to pull him down, at which point he very nearly melts to the floor. His head is swimming, brain scattered, his skin nearly alight under his clothes; when Crowley drapes herself across his lap he nearly groans, leaning into her as his body restores itself to calm.

He loves these moments with her, the safety of her embrace and the affection she lavishes him with. After thousands of years of wishing for even one moment like this, he relishes every time she crawls into his lap or sneaks her arms round his shoulders or, yes, winds the heavy coils of a snake's body around him. It always feels like a blessing, that same sense of peace that soaks down to the soul.

Eyes shut, heartbeat settling a few measures at a time, Aziraphale turns his head blindly to catch one of those light kisses with his own mouth.]

Fucking hell, [he whispers, the kind of astonished and reverent tone people usually reserve for seeing an impossibly majestic sight.]

From:

duckshaveears

[She laughs, wickedly delighted.]

Such language...love your filthy mouth, angel.

[Which she promptly kisses, making sure it's deep enough for Aziraphale to taste himself there on her tongue.]

From:

confoundthemighty

[Aziraphale groans softly into the kiss—he’s learned to love the taste of himself in her mouth. His whole body thrums with the warm rush of afterglow; his heart floods with tenderness. By the time she pulls back he’s smiling, gently mischievous.]

I hope you know, [he murmurs against her lips,] that we’re not leaving here till this filthy mouth has brought you off too.

[His hand drifts to her thigh; his voice is as much a suggestive caress as the brush of his fingers.]

Can’t let you sit there through the performance all wound up...

From:

duckshaveears

[Her breath hitches as his hand slides up her leg, at the evocative tone of his voice.]

Don't have to. I got what I wanted.

[It's true; she did. Oh, Crowley can be as greedy in bed (or on floor, in this case) as anyone, as demanding. But what she wanted now, more than anything for herself, was Aziraphale's pleasure. Fuck knows the angel deserved it. So she hums satisfaction against his mouth as they keep kissing each other.]

And we wouldn't want to be late for the show.

Edited Date: 2019-12-16 02:43 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

[That does give him pause. By now they’ve learned from experience that he can in fact happily spend at least double the length of a standard performance performing oral sex. And the staff and diners here will definitely notice that sort of a delay.

Still, he’s already resolved he’ll return the favor with interest, and soon.]

You do have a point, my dearest.

[One more long kiss, warm and sweet; his fingers stir gently against her thigh, a sort of IOU.]

Better make ourselves presentable again.

[He’ll miracle his clothes back to their pristine state, but the love bites now peeking over the edges of his collar on either side of his neck will stay exactly as they are. If the artistic director wants to come say hello to her dance company’s biggest angel investor, she’ll have to deal with the sight of them, with the knowledge that the exquisite creature at his side loves him enough to leave marks on him.]

From:

duckshaveears

[She kisses him one more time, lingering, before clambering off of him and reaching for her abandoned feather hair ornament.]

Mm. Make sure you leave the lipstick marks, though. I want to be able to look at you all evening and know they're there underneath all that finery.

From:

confoundthemighty

I wouldn't dream of denying you.

[Even if his clothes are now immaculate, the skin beneath still bears lipstick prints, his own happy secret. They'll remain till they're rubbed off by the sweet friction of their bare bodies at the end of the night.

Thankfully, his balance has returned in time for him to get back to his feet; he offers her a hand up, smiling brilliantly.

He will, however, pull her nearly into his lap in the cab on the way to Artemis Warehouse, keeping her close enough for fond whispers and petting, shared laughter that both makes their cab driver feel somewhat awkward and strangely fortunate to have such a cute couple in his backseat.]

From:

duckshaveears

You better not.

[A teasing, sultry grin from a smug mouth, smudged and stained and thoroughly indecent. Crowley lets him help her up, swaying a little on her heels, then refastens her hair ornament and cleans herself up. They leave the cloakroom decorous enough for anyone's standards, provided that anyone didn't look too closely at Aziraphale's neck. Crowley silently vows that next time they dine here, she'll fuck him up against the wall. Or let him fuck her up against the wall. Either way. On a pile of coats. Something. A new dessert tradition.

They find a cab and break all the rules of seatbelts as Aziraphale keeps her snuggled in ridiculously close. Crowley doesn't argue. She nuzzles at his face and ear and squirms happily when his hand slides up her leg or under the hem of her skirt, or when the hand holding her side stretches a finger and teases along the curve of her breast. They talk low, teasing and flirting and reminiscing and laughing, above all laughing. Neither of them can stop laughing, or touching each other, or beaming like lovesick idiots, which they are.

It's the best night Crowley can ever remember having, and they aren't even at the show yet.]

From:

confoundthemighty

(There's only one miracle unfolding at the Ritz, but it's not exactly a small one. The pianist finally finds she has the courage to ask the adorable waitress if she'd like to have lunch sometime, and is overjoyed to know her answer is a delighted yes. Six months from now the waitress will propose to her in the middle of dinner hours; video of it will go briefly viral and mostly be tagged with #relationshipgoals.)

The theatre that currently plays host to the Artemis Warehouse dance company is a smallish brownish building, one of those blocky 1970s affairs that was probably supposed to look serious and efficient when it was built and now seems a touch out of place. Still, it's not nearly as forbidding as most buildings like it, and the space inside is vibrant. A backlit poster reading SWAN LAKE: A NEW BALLET shows a watercolor sketch of two women, one in a white gown and one in a black gown, leaning towards one another for an embrace. The same image is printed on the front of the playbills; Aziraphale makes a note to contact the artist and see if they'll sell him the original.

This being a performance for supporters and investors, several of the main creative personalities of the company have come out to the lobby to greet and thank their first audience. Though Aziraphale keeps his arm around Crowley's waist, he glances towards one of the people doing the greeting, a short woman in a black suit with a white feather boa.

"I don't suppose you'd indulge me for a moment, in showing you off to the artistic director?" he murmurs, sweetly.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley looks around at the venue with interest and approval. Not a proper theatre--this is the sort of homegrown place where alternative types of art thrive. She's always liked those. It's where you find the hidden talents, the secret geniuses who the mainstream overlook. (She also makes a mental note to find the artist of that poster and see if she can buy the original, as a gift for Aziraphale)

"Think I see why you wanted this production, angel," she murmurs, looking up at the poster with a wide grin. She has an arm around the angel's shoulders, and squeezes tight for a momentary embrace. "And sure, I'll be your arm candy. Introduce me. Anyone who can wear a feather boa with that much style is in my good books."

From:

confoundthemighty

He leans up to steal a quick kiss, and there's an actual spring in his step as he steers them through the smallish crowd.

"Good evening--Merope, isn't it?" he asks the woman in the boa, and saves her the courtesy of rifling through her mental files by extending the hand not currently splayed against Crowley's side. "We've been corresponding via email."

Her eyes widen in recognition; there's a definite spark behind them, some pleasant association.

"Mr. Fell?" she ventures, her smile growing broader and brighter. "From--"

"From the bookshop, yes. So good to meet you in person at last."

She grins hugely as she shakes his hand. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Fell. I can't thank you enough for your support on this production--you've helped us make some real miracles with this show, and I hope you'll be proud of what you see."

"I'm certain I will. And--may I introduce my partner?"

The word doesn't come close to encompassing what Crowley is to him, but it does also give him a little thrill of pride--they're not just two souls who have an Arrangement, they're a united front.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley has to stifle a laugh at corresponding via email, it's a miracle Aziraphale's computer can access the internet at all. Actually a miracle. Possibly several.

But she can tease her angel (hers, hers, hers, and she feels all melty inside when he introduces her as his partner) later. For now Crowley holds out a hand to be politely clasped. "Merope, hmm?" She grins. "One of my favourite stars, that one. Crowley."

She does that a lot, when giving her name. Like Bond, James Bond, which Ian Fleming absolutely stole from her, except with just the Crowley. She might not have to put up a front for Hell anymore but there's still such a thing as style.

From:

confoundthemighty

Something in the woman's expression opens a little, when Crowley mentions the star; her grip on Crowley's hand is firm, and the nervousness seems to fade for a moment. Clearly people don't get the reference very often. Though she has no idea she's shaking hands with the chief architect of her namesake.

"Merope Stanton. Mr. Fell mentioned you in his emails[1]. It's great to meet you."

"Swan Lake is a mutual favorite," Aziraphale says, somehow both sly and proud. "Very dear to our hearts. From what you've already told me I have every confidence this production will do it justice."

"Well, for a certain value of justice," Merope laughs, gaze flicking between the two of them. "I don't know if Mr. Fell has told you, but the story in our version is very different from the traditional ballet."

[1] It did, in fact, take several miracles for Aziraphale's computer to handle email. Thankfully, computers are very good at doing what they're told without question or complaint, and Aziraphale can be quite articulate and polite when he wants something, so whenever the angel writes out a letter with ink and quill, then folds and seals it and feeds it into the floppy disk drive, it finds a way to make the entire process work. Incoming emails, incidentally, print themselves out on his dot matrix printer in exquisite and extremely legible handwriting.

From:

duckshaveears

"I can see that," Crowley says with emphasis, looking up at the poster. Her smile grows. "That's why we're looking forward to it, to be honest. Can't tell you how long I've wanted to see a production where Odile gets more of the story. Among other things."

She silently tightens her grasp on Aziraphale's shoulders again, turns and smiles at him; her expression visibly warms whenever she's looking Aziraphale, whether she's aware of it or not, which just now she isn't. But she has a strong idea who might be responsible for certain directions this production has decided to attempt with the story. Sweet, sentimental, meddling angel.

From:

confoundthemighty

"Oh, I think you'll like what we've done with her," Merope says earnestly. "We've really fleshed her out, made her her own character. And Alyx, our principal Odile--they're an amazing dancer, and they brought such interesting ideas to the creative process."

Aziraphale turns a little, catches Crowley's gaze, his heart squirming happily as he watches pink heat creep over her sharp cheekbones. He can tell, even with the sunglasses in the way, that her eyes are luminous as molten gold.

"I can't tell you how glad we are to hear that."

A nervous, slender young person in tight jeans and very high heels catches at Merope's arm, trying to get her attention; she shoots the two of them an apologetic look.

"Duty calls--but, listen, I hope you enjoy the show, it's great to meet you both!"

From:

duckshaveears

They make their polite farewells, then Crowley's free to look at Aziraphale more directly, lean down and steal a quick kiss. "Something tells me this show's had a bit of divine inspiration behind it as well as financial backing." Her eyebrow is arched high in affectionate amusement. "Anything you want to confess, angel?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale's smile is the sort of gently, serenely glowing smile he usually only wears when he's got a really good Very Secret Plan up his sleeve.

"Confession is for the contrite," he says, blithely, "and I have no regrets whatsoever. Besides, some human was going to have the idea eventually--I just happened to help along the inevitable with a vision or two, and let these humans' imaginations do the rest."

(He'd been rather surprised and not a little touched that, in her correspondence, Merope had been genuinely and deeply enthused about the project. Even if it won't have the same meaning to any mortal heart as it does to the two of them, it's nice to know that their version of this story resonates with humans too--and especially that there are other humans who, like Crowley, have been waiting for a chance to give Odile the story she deserves.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley has reason to sometimes distrust that smile. It's the same smile that sometimes means Crowley, I procured tickets for us to attend the International Magic Festival Gala in Edinburgh next month, isn't it marvelous? Do say you'll help me practice my card tricks beforehand! But it's also the smile that means Aziraphale is truly, fully happy about something, and the plain fact of the matter is that Crowley is putty in the angel's hands, always has been, and now even admits the fact. So she just smiles back, glowing almost as much. But infernally, of course.

"Is that all," she says, obviously teasing and suspecting Aziraphale has had a larger hand in this than he claims. Something is up, that's for certain, something beyond the obvious. Crowley's too experienced a plotter not to smell one when it's under her nose.

But Aziraphale is frankly adorable when he's trying to be secretive, so Crowley steals another kiss, lingering a bit longer this time. It is so good to hear the angel say he has no regrets, in any context, after years and years of watching him fret and fuss and fear about every little thing.

"Love you," she murmurs quietly, kissing his cheek as well before stepping a little away so she can take his arm. "And we should probably find our seats."

From:

confoundthemighty

A ripple of contentment like a happy sigh runs through his whole body as her smile finds his, in front of anyone and everyone who has eyes to watch. (And in fact there are a handful of humans who glance at them and can’t help smiling at the way they complement the poster—dark and light, leaning to entwine rather than struggling against one another.)

“Probably a good idea,” he replies, though already he’s had a better one: how to get back at her during the interval. Twenty minutes should be long enough for what he’s got in mind. “I love you too.”

*

They find their seats easily enough, get comfortable together and spend a few minutes chatting about the current season at the National Theatre before the lights dim. Merope Stanton takes the stage first, to give a short speech: She thanks her audience for their support, in all its forms, and the company as well, for their faith in this new production. With the embarrassed ease of someone telling a by-now infamous story about themselves, she relates how the inspiration for this Swan Lake came from a recurring dream she had, about two bird queens who fell in love—the perfect twist on a classic, for a dance company that aims to bring queer love stories and ballet together, to show happy endings for those who don’t traditionally get them.

She also apologizes for any technical mishaps they might have this evening, but reassures everyone that the final tech rehearsal should have eliminated all the pre-opening problems*.

There’s an enthusiastic round of applause as she thanks the crowd one last time before jogging offstage. Then the lights dim further, the recorded score kicks in, and Aziraphale squeezes Crowley’s hand gently in the dark.

Instead of the triumphal entrance of a prince and a hunting party, the performance opens at the Court of the Ravens, with the triumphal entrance of their queen, Odile. The costumes are stylized, the sets mostly projected onto panels along the back of the stage and accentuated with a few props. And none of the dancers are on pointe—in fact they don’t look much like a traditional dance company at all, with the variety of body types on display, very few of them the standard stick-thin and short. For instance, Von Rothbart is six foot three, muscular, bearded, and has the show’s only pointe solos.

And it’s their story. A few deviations, yes, but the bones are all the same.

The first act ends with Odile and Odette being interrupted by the sorcerer; what had been a tender pas de deux becomes a nearly-acrobatic pas de trois as Von Rothbart issues his challenges and tries to keep the lovers apart. The mountain of fire and the depths of the lake glow ominously into life at either side of the stage, presenting the two queens with their challenge as the curtain falls.

The applause would be enthusiastic even if there weren’t two supernatural beings in the audience. A wonderful sign, Aziraphale thinks, and turns his beaming smile on Crowley as the lights come up.

“What do you think so far?”

* It didn’t. The angel in the audience, however, did.

From:

duckshaveears

It's not classical ballet and thank all the infernal legions for that, to Crowley's mind. Thank all of them for the lack of any uniformity among the dancers, too. No troup of two dozen identical swan maidens in tutus following Odette around. It's Odile who has a court here rather than the Swan Queen, and Odile has surrounded herself with as varied an assortment of followers as can be imagined.

Good. Fuck uniformity. Half the interest and fun of the world is in its endless variety. Even without the more personal inducements Crowley would be enjoying this.

And it's their story. Theirs, the one Aziraphale wrote for Crowley, for them. Not exactly as the angel did it, no--it's lacking a few particular inside references, details are altered, extraneous characters around to distract, all those things. But at its heart it's the same.

She sits back in her seat, watches with open enjoyment and interest, and holds Aziraphale's hand for the entire first half. Sometimes during a moment that feels particularly relevant somehow--Odette's jump of surprise when she's found by the lake, Odile's confusion when she's offered friendship instead of fear--she'll caress Aziraphale's hand with her thumb, or hold a little more tightly, or move her leg so their knees touch for a moment. It's rare for any event they attend together to hold Crowley's attention as much as the angel himself does, but she watches without looking away once, and her smile is smaller than Aziraphale's but never fades.

When the house lights come back on Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale's broad, beaming smile (she always does, how is the angel so positively ebullient about everything, doesn't it ever get exhausting?), but she grins back. "I think you cheated a lot more with those dreams than you've let on," she says, obviously amused. "And I love that you did. Sneaky, angel, very sneaky."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Inspiration takes many forms,” he says, as if pronouncing a minor blessing. “And I’ve had something of an ongoing masterclass in being sneaky.”

Though there is no greater pleasure in this brave new world they’re making than not having to be sneaky. She’s been writing messages on him with her touch, I see you, I see us, and I love what I’m seeing, but even in the dark of a theatre they don’t have to hide.

Aziraphale leans a little closer, gaze trailing over the sharp contours of her face like a caress.

“And speaking of inspiration.” His voice has dropped to a conspiratorial tone, soft and measured as if he’s reading poetry. “I’ve had an idea. Would you be willing to accompany me outside, for a breath of fresh air?”

(If he’s honest, the idea has occurred to him before—cold winter air to roll over their desire-flushed faces. The sensory contrast is delightful even to think about, and an easy way of heightening the experience for both of them. And, of course, no one will notice them.)