Enchantment Under the Sea

[applesaucemod]

Tonight, the dreamers of Manhattan will find themselves transported to what is unmistakably a high school gymnasium. Granted, it's lavishly decorated in blues, greens, and violets. There are jellyfish made of tissue paper and streamers, painted cardboard fish are dangling from ceiling, and an abundance of transparent balloons serve as substitute bubbles. Tables and chairs are clustered around the periphery for those who'd like to sit, but the majority of the floor is open for dancing. Along one wall, folding tables hold snacks and bowls of punch. There's no DJ to be seen, but a sound system is playing a steady stream of classic dance songs.

It's impressive work for a nonexistent prom committee, all things considered.

But the setting is not the only thing that hearkens back to one's teenage years. The dreamers will find, regardless of age or species, that they're now saddled with the hormones of an average sixteen-year-old human being… and with the delightful mood fluctuations and bouts of irrationality that come with the package. (Dreamers who are already teenagers might be said to be getting a reprieve… but dealing with adults in such a state will be trying enough on its own. Someone has to chaperone, right?)

The good news for dreamers who aren't into dances is that there's an entire high school to explore, though the hallways will only be half-lit and many of the classrooms will be locked up. Even the parking lot and athletic fields are accessible, but dreamers may find themselves getting mysteriously turned around if they try to actually leave school property.


[ooc: you all know the drill. Any and all characters are welcome, regardless of whether or not they're in the game. Dreamers may remember or forget the events of the party at the player's discretion.]

Comments

[anguiform]

There's no thought involved, Crowley can't help it. Aziraphale's mouth is open and slack, wet from Crowley's spit and his own, the lower lip swollen from the force with which Crowley's mouth had initially collided with it, his eyes without the intervening glasses impossibly dark. It's utterly uncalculated, but the result is to make him look like the best kind of Roman boy-whore, the ones who'd been privately richer than the patricians.

Crowley hauls him in by his tie, groaning again even before their lips even touch, licking hungrily into Aziraphale's mouth. Only for a moment, all wet scoop of tongues before he slides back, breathing hard and grinning open mouthed.

'How literal do you want me to be?'

He unwinds his hand from Aziraphale's tie and doesn't even bother waiting for an answer, impulsive as he's been all night. As easily as he'd willed the matter of his original suit into something of better quality, he widens the bonds between the molecules comprising the fabric of Aziraphale's hideous orange jacket. The cloth accordingly weakened, he sinks his hands into the lapels and rips.

The jacket comes apart with a fantastically satisfying sound, and Crowley laughs as he presses Aziraphale back against the wall of the little alcove in another kiss.

[bibliophale]

All sorts of blasphemies cycle through Aziraphale's thoroughly addled head as Crowley drags him forward by the tie, oh Heaven help him he wants to be on his knees like that, Crowley's fist around his tie, pulling him in to press his mouth against those trousers - and for a moment he's actively scared to have this thought, without any hesitation or, well, effort - where is this coming from? - but it stops mattering, because Crowley's taken him at his literal word (thank Everyone) and torn the hideous jacket apart.

"Like that," he manages to get out before Crowley's pushed him back again. He squirms a little, absurdly coy and playful, partly just rubbing back and partly trying to wriggle out from under the kiss.

"Crowley," he says breathlessly, muffled against his lips. He twists away just enough to talk. "I - please, I want to, I want to have- I mean to be made to- I-"

Talking is overrated. He arches up, pressing the length of his body against Crowley's, insatiable, hungry. He knows what he wants, if he only had the willpower to put it to truly simple words: he wants to be bad.

[anguiform]

Crowley groans breathily into (and then out of, the groan turning into a little gasp) Aziraphale's mouth as he wriggles up against him. His pelvis is still cradled snugly between Aziraphale's thighs, and the rubbing is unbearably distracting. There's a definite part of him that wants to dispense with thought and altogether and just rub off against Aziraphale until they both come, and in that state he's in, that wouldn't take long. He feels faintly dizzy from the sheer amount of blood packed up in his cock and balls.

'Yeah?' he breathes, when Aziraphale twists away to speak. It's half inquiry and half careless agreement, because yeah, whatever, sure, as long as they keep going. Except that then he actually registers what it is Aziraphale's stumblingly trying to get out and nearly folds over from the sheer, spiking gutpunch of arousal.

'Oh,' he manages, once he gets his breath back. 'Yeah, yeah, ah, I'll make you, nnh--!'

Screw this mostly-clothed dry-humping, he decides; he wants to hear more of what Aziraphale wants, he wants to give it to him. So he pushes himself back and slides down-- or really, it's less of a slide, more of a flop and a scrabble-- until he ends up with his arse in the air and his hands on Aziraphale's thighs. A thought banishes the horrible orange trousers, and a second later, Crowley's swallowed his cock down hungrily, whimpering at the heat and the fullness of it pressing down against his tongue.

[bibliophale]

"Ah!" Aziraphale can't keep from bucking, the sudden warmth and wetness of Crowley's, oh, oh his mouth sending a hot surge of electric energy deep into his gut, a jolt that seems to ricochet throughout his entire body. He thrusts up once and then he forces himself, with an immense burst of restraint, to keep still, tense and taut and quivering. He wants this to last. He wants to feel it as long as he can.

"Ohfuck, fuck, yes," he breathes, completely past worrying over any petty blasphemies. "Oh, not- not so ffffuck, Crowley--!"

Desperate, he wraps his legs back around the demon, holding him tight and close, jerking his hips ever so slightly to thrust into his mouth, against that tongue, it just isn't fair, how can he be expected to keep up with that-?

"Nnhh," he whimpers, clinging onto the bench, barely keeping himself upright. "Oh, oh n- not yet-!"

Helpless to hold it back, he comes with a startled, breathless gasp, abrupt and much too soon, his whole body burning with an ardor he's never, ever felt in six thousand years. He collapses back against the wall of the alcove, his legs dropping shakily down, and suddenly realizes he is incredibly sweaty.

[anguiform]

It is, absurdly, as if Crowley has never given head before. Not in that he's somehow lacking the skills required¹, but that he suddenly finds himself experiencing everything about having Aziraphale's prick down his throat, intensely, as if it's new and strange and amazing. The smell of sex and sweat in the pubic hair Crowley's got his nose jammed into, the quiverings of his thighs, the incredible heat of his skin, the way Crowley can feel his cock jerk and pulse as he sucks and swallows around it.

And then he's got his legs up, practically pressing against the back of Crowley's neck, keeping him there, his mouth for Aziraphale's cock, and Crowley exhales a choked, stifled whimper, squirming so he can get his hips down against the cushion, grinding helplessly. Because that, that is fucking sexy and he doesn't even know why, doesn't care, except that his body is reacting and that is good enough for him. So he sucks, artless, careless, eager, hollowing his cheeks, sliding his tongue up against the vein, finding the frenulum and pressing, licking, wallowing in it.

It's always a source of pleasure to make Aziraphale swear, but he only half notices it now, too caught up in the physical, and his own swelling need for release. His orgasm comes suddenly, and Crowley sucks him through it, swallowing easily, loving the heat he can feel briefly in his throat. When he pulls himself up and off the angel's cock, he's sure he must look a mess, pupils huge and lips swollen and hair all over his face, but he cares absolutely not a jot.

Aziraphale looks gorgeous post-orgasm, all flushed and hazy, and Crowley whines, breathing hard, arching up above him to press his face into the angel's neck. 'Just-- touch me, yeah? Please? 'S all I need, fuck, trousers--' And the trousers are gone, miracled away as he sucks a kiss against the hinge of Aziraphale's jaw.

¹ Having no need for a gag reflex and the ability to do really weird things with his tongue, Crowley has always found that oral sex, of all the many and varied ways to fuck, comes most easily to him

[bibliophale]

"Hhhall- all right." Aziraphale's breath catches heavily when Crowley sucks on his jaw, turning quickly to another sharp whine. He fumbles, his hands almost trembling, for Crowley's cock.

"Just let me-" This alcove has gotten beyond uncomfortable. Aziraphale slides down to his knees, to the floor, dragging Crowley down with him. "I just want- want to feel-" He can't seem to complete a thought. Doesn't matter anyway. He wraps one arm around Crowley's waist, hugging him close - and sod these shirts, he gets rid of them as well, eager to feel Crowley's skin, his sweat - he presses his mouth to Crowley's long neck and sucks as hard as he can, his free hand grabbing a hold of the demon's cock, holding it just tight enough before it'd hurt, rubbing his thumb rapidly up and down and over the head.

"Come all over me," he begs, still completely breathless and scarcely able to believe he's really saying these things.

[anguiform]

Crowley yelps as Aziraphale drags him down off the little cushioned shelf, entirely unprepared for it and landing in an awkward tangle, skinning a knee and the palm of a hand on the awful, scratchy library carpet. He's ludicrously aware of all his limbs, legs a-splay and arse in the air, but it's all right; Aziraphale's got an arm around him, suddenly skin-to-skin, mouth wet and hot on his neck, and Crowley whines helplessly.

Fuck, he's so close already, his hips giving little abortive jerks independent of any thought, probably a single touch and he'll be off. And then, oh, there it is, Aziraphale's hand, his gorgeous, soft, stupidly manicured hand. Crowley thrusts up, growling, and then Aziraphale speaks, and--

Crowley manages a nanosecond of bafflement, a 'Nngeh?' escaping suddenly slack lips. He doesn't know whether it's a plea or a command, but it's so filthy, so explicit, so entirely shameless that his brain hardly knows what to do with it.

His body does. The instant the nanosecond passes, Crowley does as he's told and comes, explosively, all over Aziraphale's hand and stomach. He jolts forward, supernova heat washing out through every nerve ending as he cries out, as much in shock as pleasure from the sudden-- violence of it.

His brain feels as if it's swimming through treacle in the seconds that pass after his orgasm, and all he can do is hunch there, half-kneeling and half-slumped into Aziraphale's shoulder, breathing like Pheidippides in a force 10 gale. And then he starts laughing, helplessly.

''ziraphale,' he groans fervidly, pressing his dopey smile against his neck. 'Nnh, you are brilliant, you are my absolute bloody favourite.'

He pulls back, grinning down at Aziraphale. There's a distinctly warm feeling welling up in him that's not quite related to the already-present and generally warm afterglow of orgasm, and Crowley feels for the first time in six-thousand years the urge to tell Aziraphale he loves him. Ordinarily, whilst he recognises that there are Feelings there and some of them are of varieties demons aren't technically supposed to be allowed to feel, he doesn't feel any need to go vocalising any of that. That's not how the Arrangement works, and what would be the point, besides?

Now, he can practically feel the weight of the words on his tongue. He's still got enough sense not to let them free, but he can't do anything about the way he suddenly, ridiculously, blushes. His eyes wander to the horrible carpeting, and he gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

[bibliophale]

"Hhg," Aziraphale moans as Crowley empties across him, dear saints in Heaven what has come over him? Oh, haha, that would have been funny if he said it out loud. He considers vocalising the unintentional pun but is thoroughly distracted by Crowley suddenly bestowing... what are those, compliments? Over him? Declarations of... of affection?

"Wh," he says, still breathing heavily, distantly aware of how panicked and nervous Crowley suddenly looks. He looks beautiful like, that, or all the time. Oh dear. "Wh. Thank you?" He looks down at the mess they've made, and finds he doesn't quite want to clean it up, just yet. He sort of... basks, in the afterglow, or the... the niceness of Crowley, having said something nice.

"You, er, aren't so bad yourself," he says with a perfectly dumb grin. Hmm, he wishes he'd left Crowley's shirt on, only so he'd have something to grab. "C'mere," he humbly requests, beckoning limply. They're both spent, and it's such a shame, but he wouldn't mind doing a fair bit more kissing, even if it meant spending more time on this awful library carpeting. Maybe he can make it into something nicer. When he's not so engaged trying to get Crowley's mouth back.