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:

duckshaveears

With a movement as slow as centuries, Crowley bends forward and takes Aziraphale's finger into his mouth. His tongue darts, tastes the whipped cream, scoops up the aril. Wraps around the digit, tightens as he sucks a little. His eyes never leave Aziraphale's as he makes a thorough job of licking his finger clean, and he never blinks.

Finally he leans back, letting Aziraphale's finger slide out of his mouth with a pop. "Two pomegranate seeds," he says hoarsely. "Does that count as two months total, one for each of us, or do they cancel out?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s heart fizzes like a firework as Crowley accepts the aril, and his clit actually throbs at the sensation of a wet mouth closing over his fingertip. It’s all he can do not to moan like he’s the one who’s just had a first exquisite bite of dessert.

(In a way he has, actually. If what he’s doing now falls under the general ‘dessert’ umbrella.)

The rough edge to Crowley’s voice only adds fuel to the flame.

“There are twelve of them.” His own voice sinks low, into the deeper part of his register. “Which is six for each of us.”

Persephone only gave half her life away, dividing herself between two worlds. Aziraphale can’t think of a world he’d rather inhabit for the rest of his existence than one with Crowley in it beside him.

From:

duckshaveears

"Does that mean six months together or twelve."

It sounds like he's being a pedant, but he wants to know. It's an important question. And at the same time it isn't, because either is a win, comparatively. Aziraphale can be with him for six months and go read for the other six while Crowley naps, he'll take what he can get, but he wants to know what he's in for here. What's on offer.

He completely ignores the spoon, scoops up another bit of cream and aril on a finger, blatantly thrusts it towards Aziraphale. Offering it up, offering himself. As much time as Aziraphale wants.

From:

confoundthemighty

Without looking away from Crowley’s face he tracks the movement of his hand, the tension in his frame. He’s wound impossibly tight waiting for Aziraphale’s answer, probably not even breathing, his eyes burning gold. It’s one of the most beautiful things Aziraphale’s ever seen.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He dips his own finger into the cream again (the crêpe is starting to look a bit disarranged, not that he cares at this point), swipes up another aril to offer to the demon. Still deliberately, though nowhere near as slowly as before, Aziraphale takes the offered taste between his lips, licks it up, watches Crowley watch him swallow before he replies.

“Twelve.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley must have started breathing again somewhere along the line, however shallowly, because his breath hitches as that.

He bends forward. This time he blatantly licks Aziraphale's finger, his tongue slightly forked, before sucking on the end. And then takes the whole finger into his mouth, all of it. He's not even pretending at this point that it's about the dessert, or even the symbolism of the pomegrante. It's about getting part of Aziraphale in his mouth, lavishing attention on it, sucking on him, dragging the moment out for as long as possible. He's visibly hard now and knows it and knows Aziraphale must know it, there's no hiding anything in trousers as tight as these.

From:

confoundthemighty

They’ve ended up sitting across from each other but not at the table, seated at opposite corners without anything directly between them. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s whole finger into his mouth, and this time he does let himself moan. The sound seems almost shockingly loud to him; it’s also strangely more arousing to let himself voice it than to keep it muffled.

His clit throbs again at the slick rasp of Crowley’s tongue over his finger, the heat of his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he glances down a little—he can see Crowley’s cock straining in his trousers. I did that, he thinks dizzily.

The pad of his thumb caresses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. He shifts forward in his chair (fuck, he’s so wet he feels slatternly), leaning in, bringing himself closer. There’s so little distance between them now.

Aziraphale’s free hand lifts, threads into the dark-red silk of Crowley’s hair. It’s much softer than it looks, and he allows himself to stroke it, fingers combing a slow sweep from his temple past his ear and down to the base of his skull. Each touch is another offering, another declaration: you can have this. I want you to have this. I want you.

His pulse races. He wets his lips. His thumb on Crowley’s jaw finds the swift tempo of a heartbeat, traces over a wildly fluttering vein and over muscles that shift when Crowley’s breath catches.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's almost roll up into his head at the sound of that moan. He's heard it before, and food was always involved. He's even fantasized about hearing it in contests quite like this. The reality is even better than he'd dreamed.

And then there's a hand stroking his hair, caressing his face...

He whispers. Later in maybe he'll feel humiliated about that but not now, not with a thumb resting just above his pulse point and a finger in his mouth and a hand on the back d his neck. There's no room in him for embarassment, just a glorious growing need.

He pulls (slowly, slowly, slowly) off of Aziraphale's finger, again, but this time leans further in, reaches yup to hold his wrist there, suspended in front of his face so he can kiss the palm, trace the life line with his tongue. It's slower and more deliberate feasting than he's done on any other course of the meal, and judging by the small noises and sighs Crowley keeps making it's also the most to his liking.

From:

confoundthemighty

He’s never heard Crowley enjoy food like this. Or… possibly anything. Drinks, music, anything at all. The needy little sound he makes when Aziraphale’s hand threads into his hair resounds in every thrumming vein and tingling nerve in the angel’s body. The tip of Crowley’s tongue drags hotly against Aziraphale’s skin, soft and almost ticklish, lips dragging against his palm.

It takes so little movement to curve his hand back, to press that palm into Crowley’s cheek. To haul himself out of his chair, into Crowley’s lap (clumsily, since there’s so much more of his human shape than there is of Crowley’s and it’s all rather soft), tipping the demon’s head back so Aziraphale can capture his half-open mouth for a searing, hungry kiss.

(Did Eve taste the apple like this, driving her tongue deep and desperate into a flavor she’d never experienced? Did Adam? Was this what it was like, a rush of knowledge that could only ever be half guessed at suddenly flooding mouth and lungs and heart? Or is this better, because it has nothing to do with Heaven or Hell, because it’s finally just the two of them?

Probably the latter.)

From:

duckshaveears

No one has ever heard Crowley enjoy anything like this, including Crowley. He'd be a bit embarassed about it all if he weren't too busy seizing the moment. The moment, and the angel. Lots of seizing going on.

Aziraphale might move clumsily but he's more than welcomed onto the demon's lap. Crowley wraps arms around him at once, pulls him in hard, fists against the top and base of his spine. Opens his mouth into the kiss with a needy moan he doesn't attempt to hide at all, tasting Aziraphale's breath and mouth with far, far more enthusiasm than anything they've eaten or drunk tonight. Or ever, for that matter.

From:

confoundthemighty

The sound Crowley makes into his mouth travels down Aziraphale’s throat, into his lungs and chest and stomach and limbs, waking strange confidence in him. Crowley’s never moaned like that, not ever, not for anything, and yet he lets Aziraphale drink the sound straight off his lips. His hands nearly grab at Aziraphale’s back, clutching him close as if Crowley needs the contact.

There’s so much more to the way Crowley tastes than the meal they’ve just shared, even if the capsaicin in the cocktail and several of the dishes lingers somewhat on both their already-reddened lips. Aziraphale can’t wait to spend hours untangling what these new layers of flavor are; already he can sense a hint of smoke, a metallic spark. It’s delicious. Crowley is delicious.

He’d say so, but that would mean breaking the kiss. And truth be told, he hasn’t got either the presence of mind or the desire to. His thighs squeeze a little either side of Crowley’s, his hips grinding downward, and the pressure steals his breath. (Not that he needs it, but it’s pleasantly dizzying.)

From:

duckshaveears

Another groan is ripped from his Crowley's throat as Aziraphale grinds against him. They fit so perfectly like this, his arms locked around Aziraphale's torso, Aziraphale's thighs straddling him, and their pelvises meeting just...like...that...

He's so hard in his jeans, he can't remember ever being this hard before in his life, and they've only been at it for a scant few minutes.

No, not minutes. An hour at least. There's no question that Aziraphale set everything up with intentions and they've both been dining on anticipation as much as food and drink. That's the best part. Though Aziraphale rubbing his cunt against Crowley's cock is a blessed close second, even with layers of clothing in the way.

(He can smell it, could as soon as he walked in, though it took a while to realise what he was smelling. But it's clear now, so clear, a scent-picture that talks of soft wet heat, a welcoming place just aching for him to...)

Another groan swallowed up in another kiss, and nails almost clawing at Aziraphale's back. Crowley is feasting and he's never been more starved.

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s just a hint of pain, like the very edge of a knife, at the scrabble of those nails; Aziraphale welcomes it as wholeheartedly as the spice in anything he’s cooked tonight. It makes his cunt ache with a desperate need for pressure; grinding down again relieves that ache a little, but only a little. Mostly it just makes him aware of how furiously his clit pulses for proper friction, how there’s a distinctly wet drag in the seam of his trousers as he moves, how the shape of Crowley’s cock feels against him.

A shivering wave of arousal moves up his spine,strong enough to make him break off their kiss with a gasp—though only just. The words he manages to rasp out are almost kisses themselves, still punctuated by flickering presses of lips and tongue.

“All of me. Starting right here. Right now.” It’s a promise and a plea. Aziraphale wants to be devoured in a way Crowley’s never done to any meal they’ve ever shared, wants to do the same in return. He drives the point home with another full kiss, hips pressing down again.

He doesn’t care if it happens on the table or the floor or even right here in this chair. He doesn’t care how many times it happens. As long as they get their fill of one another, or at least begin to take the sharpest edge off this shared starvation they can finally end.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley temporarily loses his mind.

It's the only way toexplain what he does next. If he saw it in a Richard Curtis film he'd laugh himself silly, guffaw about the ridiculous, unrealistic things humans consider romantic and how they'd never happen (or at least, not successfully) in real life.

Nevertheless.

"All of me. Starting right here. Right now.”

He almost snarls his agreement. More clear is the way he immediately moves his hands to Aziraphale's thighs, wraps legs around his waist as he stands, still kissing the angel furiously. It takes only a moment to turn towards the table, another moment to push whatever's on it out of the way.

(There's a crash as some part of their meal falls to the floor. Whatever it was, he'll fix it later. Though a tiny barely coherent part of his brain hopes it wasn't the alcohol)

And then he's lowering Aziraphale onto the table, on his back, bent in half to keep kissing him. Hands freed to fumble with trouser buttons, yank them down with no finesse. Pull the pants down in their wake. Put his hands on Aziraphale's hips to make sure the angel won't move.

Crowley strikes like the snake he is, burying his tongue in Aziraphale's quim, licking and kissing and sucking and tasting, tasting, tasting.

From:

confoundthemighty

The whirl of movement as Crowley lifts him pulls a shocked noise from Aziraphale, a noise that’s lost in their kiss. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that the demon is stronger than his corporeal form’s appearance might suggest. And even if he wasn’t technically on his feet, he’s almost certain this is what being swept off one’s feet is supposed to feel like.

He hears dishes clatter, barely registers the sound [footnote: The bookshop knows its owner well enough by now to know what sorts of messes are welcome and what sorts are to be avoided. Which means that it’s one of the few places in the world where someone could drop their toast and have it land buttered side up. The dishes may fall noisily, but they know better than to break or to land face down.] before his back hits the table. Dizzy, Aziraphale grabs at the tablecloth, needing a fistful of something to cling to in the moment; he grips hard as desperate hands yank his trousers and pants down.

Then Crowley pins his hips to the table and nearly dives between his thighs, and Aziraphale makes a raw, ecstatic noise. One hand grabs at the demon’s hair, the other keeps a death grip on the tablecloth, because oh fuck, Crowley’s tongue flickers and darts and strokes in the most exquisite ways. Not just his clit but along his soaked lips, dipping into his cunt, making the most beautifully obscene wet sounds.

Aziraphale whimpers out a “yes” in some language, possibly not currently in use on Earth, and squirms in Crowley’s grasp to try and fuck his mouth.

From:

duckshaveears

Physical strength isn't an option Crowley usually needs to take advantage of, but it has its uses. Or maybe he was just inspired by the moment. Hardly matters, so long as something got them here to this point, this utterly perfect moment. Exquisite as the meal was, Aziraphale tastes better. Michelin-starred chefs would weep.

Not that they'll have a chance. This, all of this, is just for Crowley.

He hooks his ankle around his chair, pulls it in place so he can sit back down. Means he's not bending over at such an awkward angle, which leaves him free to shove Aziraphale's thighs further apart, bury his face between them even more thoroughly. Aziraphale's laid out on the table as the final course of the best meal Crowley's ever had and he intends to appreciate every single nuance.

He teases, plays, explores, researches. Flicks his tongue over Aziraphale's clit, then kisses it. Circles the vulva with fingers and tongue and a ring of kisses. Presses his tongue deep into the cunt, replaces it with a finger when he withdraws to suck at the clit again. Anything that earns an approving or desperate sound gets repeated. Aziraphale rolls his hips against Crowley's mouth and Crowley loves it, would happily sit here feasting for the rest of the night. All the nights.

Crowley feasts.

From:

confoundthemighty

During lockdown Aziraphale had experimented with more human skills than cooking and programming and crafting. For about a fortnight during the summer he’d spent his nights reading several human books about self-pleasure and putting their techniques to use into the small hours. Ultimately it had gotten a bit lonely, so he’d gone back to once every few days, but he’d gotten to a point where he could tease himself for quite some time without losing control.

This is an order of magnitude hotter than anything he could do on his own, though.

Crowley slides a finger inside him (oh fuck yes his fingers are slim but they’re long and he can slide deep) and suckles his clit, and Aziraphale sobs out a rising crescendo of approval. His cunt squeezes tight and there’s pressure against a spot that makes his thighs shudder, and suddenly it feels like every swipe of Crowley’s tongue across his clit is a separate orgasm.

He can’t count them all. He can’t control himself. He loses track of the wanton things he’s whispering or shouting or begging. He just hangs onto Crowley’s hair and gives into the shattering ecstasy of being worshipped.

From:

duckshaveears

He feels the first climax hit, which is a thrill. It's a fluttering around his finger, a change in the taste, more liquid to ease his way. It's Aziraphale crying out his name in a broken sob.

Crowley hums his approval, right against Aziraphale's clit where he knows the vibration will be felt. And keeps going. Aziraphale's fingers are buried in his hair, gripping and pulling, and he hums again again for that, a quiet moan to show his own pleasure. Never occurred to him he might like having his hair pulled, but turns out he does, which is convenient.

Aziraphale is vocal, which is no surprise to someone who's shared meals with him for millennia. Yes and please and more, directions that Crowley follows, Crowley's own name. There's even a fuck or two, and sometimes it just dissolves into a quick whispered ohgodohgodohgodohgod. Such sweet blasphemy.

They stay like that for who knows how long, could be hours, until Crowley's tongue finally starts to tire despite himself. Even then Crowley doesn't stop, though he does remove his mouth and sit back. He wipes his mouth with his free hand while the other is still buried three fingers deep in Aziraphale, thumb gently pressing on what must be a hellishly (literally) overstimulated clit.

Crowley takes in the view with evident satisfaction. Aziraphale's body is limp, blasted with rapture, though he still trembles at Crowley's ceaseless touch. "All right there, angel?" he murmurs quietly.

From:

confoundthemighty

If he were human he’d likely have begged Crowley to stop a while ago. But after literal ages of wanting, it takes quite some time for both of them to get to the point of needing a break. Though he groans when Crowley’s mouth pulls off of him, the sound is edged with gratitude.

The sight that greets Aziraphale when his hazy eyes find a focus is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. Crowley’s jaw is almost dripping and his hair is a wreck; his own inner thighs nearly shine with wetness. His clit is swollen, red, stiff against the pad of Crowley’s thumb.

“Fuck,” he manages. Tries again: “Bloody hell.” A dizzy laugh. “S’incredible.” Does he sound drunk? He feels drunk. Not on alcohol, but on the sheer release of finally getting to this. (And however many times Crowley’s made him come. Dozens, it feels like.)

He grins down at Crowley, more satisfied than he’s ever been after any meal they’ve shared, any act of self-pleasure. “What about you?”

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh, I'm all right, angel. I'm more than all right." Which isn't what Aziraphale meant and Crowley knows it, but it's also true. He's more than willing to ignore his own hard-on for a while longer in order to appreciate the view. Crowley's eyes rake over Aziraphale with a mix of greed and smugness. "Just wish I had a photo of this. No, a painting. Think you'd be willing to pose for one of the Italian masters like this? Still life with debauched angel?"

He leans forward and kisses Aziraphale's thigh. "I'd hang it on the wall and look at it for days."

From:

confoundthemighty

He shivers at the kiss—with his nerves lit up firework-bright by an unprecedented amount of stimulation, even a touch that nearly approaches chaste is enough to send little shocks dancing up to the base of his spine.

“And you’d let me languish in the meantime, would you?” he teases. The demon could bring him back to the brink of orgasm in seconds and they both know it, and yet some dizzy part of Aziraphale’s mind is just as eager for laughter as he is for sex. “What am I meant to be doing while you’re—ahh—staring at this painting?”

(Actually, he can think of a few things he could be doing, all of which make him almost painfully aware of the quick thump of his pulse in his clit.)

From:

duckshaveears

Greedy, greedy, sensualist angel. A disheveled half-dressed heap on the table, ruined by countless orgasms, and already teasing about being deprived. God, but Crowley loves him.

He grins and kisses Aziraphale's thigh again, a little further up.

"Sitting in my lap, maybe?" he says, the words slow and thick like honey. "Keeping my cock warm."

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s a filthy delight in knowing their comfort with one another—and their banter—translates to flirtation and sex. Aziraphale grins right back, his head lolling on one shoulder, mischief in his eyes.

“It must be freezing now.” He doesn’t care whether he looks silly; he feels bold and wanton, tipsy with how much he now knows he’s desired. “I feel I’d be a terribly rude host if I didn’t offer to help you out with that.”

From:

duckshaveears

The best thing about spending time with Aziraphale had always been that it is, quite simply, fun. It's no surprise to Crowley that that extends to this. Bit of a surprise that they've actually reached this point, but that's one thing he'll never complain about.

"Definitely not cold." He stands up, smirking as his hands go to his waist and start undoing his belt. "If anything it's much too hot just now. Could probably do with an airing. Bit of a breeze..."

The sentence drifts off as he pulls out his cock because oh fuck, just having it freed from the confines of his denims and in his hand feels better than it has any right to. He's suddenly viscerally aware that he's been aroused for hours without relief, and the need to do something about it is overwhelming.

Crowley leans forward, one hand on the table next to Aziraphale's leg, to support his weight. He begins fisting himself with the other, in a slow, hard grip. "Fuck, angel--" he gasps, staring at the lewd vision in front of him. "You look good enough to eat, you know. Just need--nghh--a few finishing touches--"

Edited Date: 2023-09-12 11:29 pm (UTC)

From:

confoundthemighty

The second Crowley leans forward, Aziraphale scoots himself closer, almost to the edge of the table. He spreads his thighs a little wider, licks his lips—more for Crowley’s benefit than his own; after an evening spent teasing he wants to reward his demon as thoroughly as he can. Whatever that includes, he wants to provide.

“Tell me,” he purrs, low and commanding. Tell me what I can do for you now. He reaches out, manages to grasp at Crowley’s sleeve—just to be able to hold on to some part of him.

From:

duckshaveears

"Want to paint you," Crowley rasps. His voice is already ragged and no wonder, after so long being wound up and ignoring it it's no surprise how needy he is. This won't take long at all and he doesn't care. "Mark you up, splatter my come all over you like icing. You're the last course of this feast, Aziraphale. Want to decorate you and lick it all off, and--ahh shit, fuck, fuck--!"

He'd started slow but sped up his fisting as he talked, and orgasm catches him by surprise, bending him over as he jerks and spills over his hand, Aziraphale's cunt and belly in long white stripes.