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

[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.