faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

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From:

confoundthemighty

As this is very much outside of Aziraphale’s frame of reference, his imagination struggles to provide something at first. It’s a bit like watching a program compile, in a way. The sensation that eventually emerges is… actually quite lovely. Pleasant. Warm, slick. Definitely ticklish, in a slightly breathless way. Not quite as erotic as some of the other things he’s imagined (or indeed as most of the things they’ve already done here), but the adoration in the gesture and the careful snaking of that serpentine tongue are very nice. Aziraphale sighs appreciation, a shivering edge of laughter in the sound.

He’s read about this sort of thing, of course; he’s been curious for a long time, and humans do love telling stories about sex. Somehow it had never occurred to him that an especially specific sort of desire could be directed at him.

I like trying things with you, he finds himself thinking—possibly the first time he’s ever let himself have the thought in terms that clear—and it’s a brief bright ray of delight he can’t keep entirely to himself. It suffuses the dream like sunlight for a moment, shimmering in Crowley’s red hair, playing along the muscles of his throat and shoulders.

From:

duckshaveears

There's still something niggling in the back of Crowley's mind as he watches Aziraphale's face, sees surprise and laughter blossom there along with the pleasure. There's something about it that's important, beyond the obvious fact of his having wanted to see it for longer than he can easily reckon, beyond his desire to be the cause of it all. Something he should be paying attention to.

But it's so very, very pleasing to hear the small huffs of Aziraphale's delight, the way his breath catches. To see easy, happy affection written all over him.

Crowley does a thorough job on the one toe and moves on to the next, being a bit less thorough in his attentions to the smaller ones. Another nice thing about dreams: clean feet. No stale leather or sweat smells, nothing between the toes. He licks and teases and laughs himself. The act isn't particularly doing anything for him, and Aziraphale is enjoying it but nothing more than enjoying it. But it's playful. That's new, being able to play, and ohhh he loves it. Not something desperate or cathartic, or a sweet fantasy of devotion, but mutual exploration.

It's wonderful.

He completes his toe-sucking journey with the other foot, kisses the sole, watches the toes he's just worshipped curl as his lips touch sensitive skin. "Mm. Fun, but I don't think it's my favourite sort of foreplay, do you?"

He blatantly licks there with forked tongue, knowing full well it'll be ticklish. And knowing that here there's no need to fear Aziraphale being at all put off by his more snakey attributes. Not here.

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s possible something about Crowley’s intent makes the contact more ticklish than it would have been otherwise. But regardless of why it happens, it registers as a playfully provoking tease, as certain as a real touch, and Aziraphale giggles again. He’s almost light-headed with happiness. Crowley’s being so free with him right now, uninhibited in a way he’s never seen in the waking world, and it’s a sight Aziraphale will treasure for as long as his consciousness exists.

“Mm, something tells me you’ve got more up your proverbial sleeve.” Delight flows from him like body heat; his voice holds both contented sigh and astonished laugh. “Or you’re about to be a menace for a while before you let me find out. Fiend.”

This last part he says in a way that absolutely communicates and I would love nothing more than to be menaced, very thoroughly, please and thank you.

From:

duckshaveears

The wave of delight is too much for Crowley, combined with his own astonished enjoyment. He surges up and kisses Aziraphale again, not urgently but joyously. They twine close, breaking off the kiss now and then to laugh or smile at each other.

Crowley rolls them over on the bed so Aziraphale lies atop him, strokes long fingers down his back and up again. "My angel," he murmurs, his face alight. "No wonder I don't do this often. Every time I do I end up wondering why I ever do anything else. Can we just keep doing this forever?" Another kiss, and another. "That's the eternity I want. Just you and I, like this. Maybe we can stop once every few years to get you a meal and me a drink." Another kiss, and then more kisses to his jaw and neck. "Maybe once every few decades. Think I'll be too busy with this for anything more."

From:

confoundthemighty

This easy, playful intimacy is every bit as sweet as the moments of passionate worship; Aziraphale’s so happy he can’t contain it all. It wraps around him and Crowley as surely as wings, and he can feel Crowley’s own happiness twining around him too. They’re utterly caught up in each other, nothing whatsoever held back, and for a little while Aziraphale lets himself be lost in it.

When Crowley speaks he laughs quietly, his own hands stroking up the demon’s narrow sides. “You are a menace.” The little snake that lurks by Crowley’s ear seems strangely vivid, almost as real as one of his own memories; Aziraphale kisses it gently. “But that does sound like a perfectly lovely eternity.”

He means it, too: already he wants six thousand years and more of this, of the smile on Crowley’s face and the joy in his eyes. He’s hungrier for it now than he was before he ever had a taste.

From:

duckshaveears

An odd sort of shock ripples through Crowley at the touch of lips on his tattoo. This is a dream, this isn't really his body and it's not really there, but nonetheless...it's connected to his truest self in a way that can't be explained (not without multiple dimensions and several pages of equations). It reacts to the touch of ethereal lips.

That's...odd. Not unpleasant, far from it, but definitely odd.

(deep in Crowley's hindbrain the awareness of odd things is starting to add up, a few pebbles that have yet to set off an avalanche)

He sets it aside. It doesn't seem all that important, particularly not compared to all this soft, sturdy skin against his, the length of their bodies (even if they're illusory it's a *really good* illusion) measured against each other. Aziraphale radient with happiness in a way he's never, ever been.

Crowley can't stop smiling at him, can't stop kissing him, and he doesn't want to try.

He has one leg hitched up around Aziraphale's, and between them his cock is half-hard, aware that he's had one orgasm to Aziraphale's two. "So many things I want to do with you." He brushes Aziraphale's hair from his forehead, caresses his face. "Here in this bed and everywhere. Not even just sex. What if we went travelling, angel? Not for work, just for the fun of it." He nuzzles their noses together, a thoroughly undemonic gesture but so what. "Go to the Mediterranean, maybe. Or Spain. Somewhere warm. Go see the running of the bulls, drink Rioja in La Rioja." Another kiss. "Get a room with a balcony and do shameless things on it until sunrise."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Mmm…” He shivers warmly as they shift together, as Crowley’s half-hard cock pushes into the curve of his hip. Every once in a while, in his own dreams, Aziraphale has conjured a scenario very like this one; only in his dreams has he ever allowed himself to say yes as much as he is now. And since this is a dream, even if it’s not actually his own, he lets himself respond the way he only ever has deep in his own heart.

“Why not a world tour? Glyndebourne. Picnics on the banks of the Rhône. Masked balls in Venice at the height of Carnival. Stargazing in the mountains in Chile. Long walks under the sakura trees on Mount Yoshino. Watch the swallows come back to Capistrano.”

He turns his head, kisses the long fingers that brush against his face, and adoration sparks from him with every touch.

“Sneak into the Bastille at night.” Aziraphale’s voice drops to a near-rumble. “Show you how I wanted to thank you for that rescue. Make love under the open sky, anywhere in the world you like. Night or day.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Angel."

The itinerary alone is enough to make him dizzy, just the idea of going all those places and sharing all those experiences with each other. Combining it with soft lips against his fingers is almost enough to make Crowley melt.

And that was before the last bit. The idea of redoing something from their history, remaking it to fulfill a fantasy...that's thrilling.

The idea of loving each other under the open sky, with the stars spread out above them, that's something more than thrilling.

Crowley groans, arousal firing through his veins like lightning. He leans up to kiss Aziraphale, darting his tongue in at once to taste him, hungry. His body rolls against the angel's, his cock suddenly raging hard against the crease where Aziraphale's thigh meets his pelvis. "That," he says breathlessly after a few minutes. "I want that, all of it." More furious kissing, his hands grasping at Aziraphale's skin, his shoulders, his back. His arse, and Crowley slides his body so their cocks are aligned. "I want you," he gasps into that hot mouth. He slides fingers down the crevase of Aziraphale's arse, fingers his rim lightly. "God, I want you, can I have you? Please let me have you, angel, my angel--"

From:

confoundthemighty

The ferocity with which Crowley responds is almost startling. It comes with a wave of desperate love and devotion, something dark and hot, and Aziraphale feels caught up in him, a sunbeam being spread out into dazzling colors by the loving embrace of a prism. He tries to meet every kiss with equal fervor, hands running up and down Crowley’s sides, their mutual passion both fuel and fire to one another.

Again it takes Aziraphale’s imagination a second to catch up to Crowley’s intent, though this time it’s far clearer, since he does have some experience of his own fingers for comparison. He groans, shifts clumsily (though more gracefully than he might in the waking world) to straddle Crowley’s thighs, opening himself up a little further.

“Yes,” he breathes into the demon’s mouth, pleading and promising, half wild with love. Whether he’s actually speaking or whether his thoughts are loud enough to sing themselves into being while they kiss he’ll never know, and anyway this is a dream, so it might be both or neither or something in between. It doesn’t matter. “Yes, Crowley, take me, have me, stay with me, please, please.”

From:

duckshaveears

Yes. It's the sweetest word, in Aziraphale's mouth, and Crowley exults in it, slicking his finger with a thought and slowly pressing in. Aziraphale's channel welcomes the intrusion, hot and tight around his finger, and he knows it will feel even better for them both in a few minutes when there's more of him there.

But then--

Stay with me.

Crowley would give the soul he no longer has to hear that in the waking world. All of this, all the rest of what they've done and said here is all just showing how desperately much. The only thing he actually wants. It hurts, how much he wants it.

He all but sobs into Aziraphale's mouth, his tongue delving in with ferocity, mimicking what his fingers (two now, not slow and exploring but impatient, greedy) are doing below. He should drag this out longer, should take time to appreciate it, but he can't, not after those words. Not when he wants so desperately.

He rolls them over, still kissing Aziraphale as though their lives depend on it, as though this could dissolve at any moment. (It could, it will, he can't keep it, he's not going to think about that yet) His angel's thighs are still spread around his waist, cock hard and trapped against their bellies, it's so good, it's not enough.

Stay with me.

Always, his heart answers. Always, always, always, please, and then he has his cock in his slicked hand and is lined up, pressing in, he should be more careful, he should, but this is a dream (it'll vanish and he has to enjoy it while he can, don't think about that yet) so it'll work, he'll make it work. Aziraphale will be ready and willing and eager for him, and he is, he is, clutching at him and gasping encouragement and Crowley slides in with a slow ease that's almost torturous for how good it is.

From:

confoundthemighty

Always.

He hears it, clear and certain, feels the thought coil around him like the long body of a snake. It’s that thought and the hunger behind it, the longing, that moves Aziraphale’s dream-body where Crowley wants him to go.

Always.

How is all of this for him? Aziraphale has always been soft, weak, anxious. Unremarkable. How can Crowley want him so much? How can it possibly be real, that the depth of what Crowley’s been hiding from him matches what Aziraphale has had to keep concealed for years? And it’s not real, not in the physical sense, but the emotion is so raw and strong it can’t come from his own imagination.

Always.

He’s on his back, spread open, hot slick pressure stealing his breath; he’s had this dream, he knows the motions. But every movement is also Crowley saying please, please I want, and as Aziraphale tightens his thighs around Crowley’s sides and rocks into his thrusts he responds. I want that too, I want you too, I want all the things you want.

Blindly he feathers kisses across Crowley’s face, and some of them are less kisses than they are flashes of memory. Tiny fragments, accumulated over thousands of years, of warmth and companionship and intimacy. A long slow fall in images of his fiend: a laugh, a moment of stillness, a rare kind gesture, a bright ray of enthusiasm.

Stay with me, he repeats, nearly begging, his hands scrabbling at the small of Crowley’s back to push him deeper.

From:

duckshaveears

It's never been like this, in all the times he's given in and let this happen it's never happened like this (it's never happened at all, don't think about that). Crowley's used to the ocean-ache in his chest, the yearning large enough to drown in. There've been times when he's felt masochistic enough to wallow in it, made a metaphor dreamscape and dived in, his imagination is too good not to have explored his own empty spaces with it.

That still wasn't like this. He moves in his angel and that ocean-tide of need moves with him, almost tangible. There's so much of it. That's one reason he's so cautious about this with Aziraphale when they're awake, why should they both drown, could even an angel face something like this?

But now every time he thrusts home, every time Aziraphale kisses his face, there's a spark. A memory of them laughing outside Athens, the taste of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a brief handclasp, Aziraphale rolling his eyes, Crowley complaining, tickets. The sun on Aziraphale's hair as he looks over his shoulders. Mesopotamia, Paris, Edinburgh. More times and places and words and images than even he can process. A lifetime shared. You were never alone, they say. I was with you all the way, we walked this path together.

The ocean roars. Crowley's eyes are screwed shut now, his thrusts hard and rough, stay with me always (but he won't), and it feels so good, Aziraphale's warmth and affection (he won't call it love, he can't) all around him, welcoming, wanting Crowley. All of it asking for more, more, more and he gives all he has (pours water out on the dry sand), and it's so good, it's bliss, ecstacy, and that moment of release will be so perfect and so painful (because it isn't real)--

"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, sweat dripping off his brow. "I love you."

And the wave crashes over him.

Edited Date: 2023-08-27 02:54 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale hears his own name—for the first time, he realizes; Crowley’s been calling him angel through this whole encounter—and then those precious, precious words, words that have been secretly engraved on his own heart for literal ages. It’s an ecstasy that matches the pleasure already burning through his nerves, too much to bear, and at last it shatters open.

It’s an order of magnitude stronger than before, shaking them both fiercely, a lifetime of love bursting into furious bloom. They cling to one another, trembling in startled exhilaration, as overwhelmed as mortals.

As the last of the sharp sweet pulses rocks them, Aziraphale breathes a long sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“I love you, Crowley.”

His whole being seems to ring with the words, certain and nebula-bright, the deepest truth he knows. It brings with it a last wave of memory: Aziraphale may have once admired an angel who watched the birth of the stars with innocent joy, but his heart belongs to the demon he met on a wall, the one who’s slouched and complained and teased and always, always been there for him. His arms and legs wrap tight around Crowley, his dream-body following the lapping tide of devotion that flows from his heart.

From:

duckshaveears

It's a bit like a supernova. The physical (imagined physical) release is overpowered by the sheer emotional explosion, shared pleasure and want and need and devotion. Crowley half expects to be blasted apart by it and is almost sorry he isn't.

They lie together shaking, entwined and clutching at each other, as their bodies (imagined bodies) gradually calm and the rest of it fades to something less overwhelming.

Aziraphale says those words, and they sound so sweet and certain. So sure. Everything he wants to hear.

Crowley buries his face in the angel's neck and trembles as a few tears fall. This is why he doesn't do this, why he shouldn't do it. Because after the moment, after the ecstacy, he's so fucking alone. He's holding a dream of Aziraphale in his arms, yes. But it's only a dream. He might as well be hugging a picture, or a mirror.

He can still feel that pulse of adoration, quiet and steady, trying to keep him in the illusion. It's an impressive new level of self-deception, even by his standards.

He tries. He lies there, clinging to Aziraphale as hard as he can, trying to make himself pretend this is real. Breathing him in, feeling the heated places where their skin touches. Just a little longer.

From:

confoundthemighty

It takes several moments before Aziraphale registers the heat of tears against his skin, the sudden curl of hurt that creeps into their bliss. He’s no stranger to the loneliness that can eat away at him when he wakes from a beautiful dream to find himself alone, but this… it approaches hopelessness, a dark as profound as the void between stars.

(No wonder humans fight and die for love; no wonder they come up with endless combinations of words in every language to describe its intricacies. No wonder they believe this is what makes up the truest substance of the Almighty. Even the thought of its absence is powerful enough to bring an immortal being close to despair.)

Aziraphale tries to fold around him, a hand sliding into his hair. Deep in his soul he’s comforted by knowing Crowley loves him back, that he hasn’t been imagining things all these years, and he does his best to pour that comfort out into the wounded heart pressed against his own.

I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve missed you when we’ve been apart, and rejoiced when we’ve had the opportunity to be together, and I can say yes now, I’m finally ready and I’m sorry I made you wait but you made this so, so wonderful and I’m so glad I came to you.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley isn't unmoved by the warm blanket of comfort that covers him. It's soothing, and he lets himself be soothed, if only a little. It's not as though he's lost Aziraphale, after all. Things are hardly hopeless. The current plague will pass eventually and they'll still be here on Earth, able to meet and talk and drink and all the other things they do. It might be like this someday and it might not, but even just Aziraphale's friendship is worth more than anything else in the world. In the waking world that's enough. He can be content with that, even happy, keeping the rest of his desires tucked away out of sight.

But this, what he's doing now...

He sighs a little, kisses Aziraphale's neck, tastes the salt of his own tears there. Traces the line of the jaw, leans up enough to take a full kiss. He makes it last, a lazy luxurious thing, getting as much of the taste of that mouth as he can. Another memory to add to the collection, even if it's only a memory of a dream.

Then he starts pulling away.

From:

confoundthemighty

For a while (not long enough, not nearly long enough) they simply drift together. But then Crowley starts to pull back, and Aziraphale reaches after him, running on some instinct he didn’t know existed until now.

“What’s the matter?”

In his own dreams he always lingers, basking greedily in what he can’t have in real life (or thought he couldn’t have, anyway) for as long as possible. The sudden withdrawal of this warmth stings a little, far too much like moments he’s realized he was waking up and wanted to cling to the dream a few seconds longer.

“Crowley?”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley lets himself be pulled back down for a minute, holds on hard. Places a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek. "It's time for me to go, angel," he murmurs, nuzzling at the skin there. Another kiss. "Come on, let me up."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, but…” He can’t hold back a smile, and with it a warm caress of pure, helpless affection. “Here I was going to ask if I could kiss you awake.” His fingertips find the coils of the tiny snake again, caress the length of it tenderly.

From:

duckshaveears

It sends a shiver all through Crowley, every inch of his body and right through to his deepest self. He groans, distracted by the intensity of it. "That's...fuck, that's new..." It's not erotic, not exactly, though it definitely could be. It steals his breath for a minute. "Angel." He bends his head again, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's cheek. "Oh, angel. You're too good at this."

He tries again to pull away, manages to get loose from one of Aziraphale's arms at least, attempts to roll over out of the bed.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I’m being serious, Crowley.” There’s still a sunny smile in his voice; he catches at the demon, trying to make it more difficult for him to disentangle himself, and somehow manages to roll so Crowley is half underneath him on the big, plush mattress.

“If you’re going to wake up, at least let’s do it properly.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Whaa--"

Crowley is clearly caught by surprise, both by being pinned and by Aziraphale's happy determination. This isn't how things usually go.

"Wasn't going to--nothing to wake up for yet," he manages, flustered. What the heaven is going on here? He hasn't heard his alarm, or the phone ring. There's nothing waiting for him in the real world but more being locked in his flat watching shit telly. Or drinking, which is a little tempting, but not a good idea. "Just--" A sudden pulse of loneliness brings a sudden lump in this throat, and he swallows over it. "Something else. Should do something else for a while, 'til it stops."

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s a slight change in the quality of Crowley’s voice, something far too sad for the intimacy they’re still sharing, and Aziraphale noses at his cheek to try and chase it off.

(Something feels strange, a little more vivid than perhaps it ought to, in the way his breath stirs against Crowley’s face. As if their bodies have actually gotten closer in the waking world, which is entirely possible. Aziraphale is much more aware of it now.)

“And what if I follow you and keep asking?” It’s an entirely earnest question. Not a shred of accusation colors it, only warmth and determination. “How many times will I have to ask before you realize it’s me?”

He punctuates the last word with a bright bloom of affection that registers like a warm exhale against the snake tattoo.

From:

duckshaveears

"What are you talking about?" Crowley says with growing frustration and confusion. He works harder to get free now, pushing on Aziraphale's shoulders so he can eel out from underneath. It's tricky, especially as he's distracted by that so-intimate caress on his deepest self again (since when does his tattoo do that? Could it always?) "And how are you doing that? You didn't--I never--"

He more or less falls off the bed, rolls to his hands and knees and then to a sitting position, settles himself against a wall that obligingly moves closer. He's starting to look vaguely haunted. "What the fuck is going on?"

It sounds like it's said more to himself than anyone else.

From:

confoundthemighty

Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, the demon wriggles out from underneath him, squirming away like a wet bar of soap. (Or possibly a wet snake. He’s never handled a wet snake, though, so he wouldn’t know.) Aziraphale props himself up on one arm, then pushes himself all the way to a sitting position, too concerned about Crowley’s reaction to be self-conscious about the fact that he’s still nude.

All this, all the intimacy and truth they’ve just shared, and Crowley still thinks he’s just a stray figment that’s… what? Malfunctioning? A splinter of his mind driving him into Shakespearean madness? Immediately Aziraphale feels a stab of guilt; he hadn’t meant to frighten Crowley, not in the least. Though it’s not without frustration that he can’t seem to figure out how to get the truth to register.

“Look,” he tries, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress. “I’ve been trying to tell you. Please don’t panic.”