faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

That was the hardest part, the intimacy. For all the good it brings, it also allows for a lot of mistakes with grander consequences. Aziraphale had had enough trouble with it all before they ever found themselves free to be together, and he still makes mistakes, but they have time to work through it all, and to learn from every experience.

Everything they have is theirs. And no one's taking that away.

His body relaxes, and he slowly works on catching his breath, the one he doesn't need, and the gentle kisses and gentler words pull a faint, slightly hazy smile out of him. He leans his head against the nuzzling demon's, one of his hands coming up to touch the one resting on his chest.

He hums quietly and vaguely. "Far too kind, my dear." he murmurs sweetly against him, drinking in every word. Crowley's temptations don't hold a candle to words like these.

Somewhere in that dizzying haze of post-orgasmic bliss, Aziraphale feels those final hard thrusts and distantly thinks that he might like a round of love-making where Crowley does that the entire time. It's a short-lived thought, replaced with the nearly indescribable sensation of Crowley coming inside him. He keeps the strength to support Crowley in his arms, marveling at how fortunate he is to share this moment with the being he loves more than anything.

With wings cocooned around them and limbs holding one another steady, the angel hoards this precious moment as he does any other, committing it to memory, letting the sound of Crowley's breathing keep him in the present, savoring every last drop of it. When Crowley finally looks up to meet his eyes, he kisses each cheek, and then his forehead, before tilting his head and nuzzling the snake tattoo at Crowley's temple.

He wishes he had the words to express the profoundness of what they just shared, but when his mouth opens, all that comes out is a soft, plaintive, "Dearest."

Crowley makes a small whimper of a sound, closing his eyes as Aziraphale brushes angelic lips over the tattoo. The kisses to cheek and forehead felt a little like benediction, but this feels a little closer to blasphemy.

But it's neither. None of these kisses and caresses are either, every gesture belongs just to them. It's all theirs, and that's why Crowley will hold it sacred. He bends his head, leaning in to that touch. "Been wanting you to call me that for a thousand years. Two. More."

The fact that they make mistakes and then work through them is still a wonder to Crowley. He's not used to mistakes being fixable, or going unpunished. In a relationship the stakes are simultaneously lower and higher than they've ever been.

But because it's a relationship they work together to fix the mistakes, instead of being at odds. The most profound change of all, after millennia of balancing and cancelling each other out.

Crowley catches at Aziraphale's hand, presses it to his chest, covers it. "Am not," he murmurs, nibbling languidly at Aziraphale's skin. A double denial these days, as the angel well knows. He's not kind because he's a demon and demons aren't kind, by definition. And he's not too kind because it's impossible to be too kind to Aziraphale, who deserves all that's eat and brightest in the world. It's a fond argument by now, both halves of it. As soothing and familiar as a caress.

It's work. Work far more difficult but far more valuable than anything they've ever done. They're still learning, you can't just forget six millenia and more of a way of living in a single night. But they'll keep going, and they'll keep trying, and they'll keep on loving each other through it.

He smiles, gently squeezes Crowley's fingers against his chest, breathes out a calm sigh through his nose. And he stays like that for a beat, just riding on the calmness and glow, and feeling the warmth of his demon wrapped around him.

Opening his eyes just barely, with a glance, he shifts slightly, gently pressing back against the demon. He feels him, there, stiff against his back, patient as he is. "Mh, dear...I believe I should repay the favor."

"Then I'll have to make up for lost time. Dearest." He presses another kiss to Crowley's tattoo, then across his face again, each one followed by a dearest or my dearest. More than a mere pet name, as Crowley truly is the most loved and cherished in his angelic heart.

Wrapped up as he is in Crowley's embrace, Aziraphale never wants to let go, but his thighs are starting to ache from how he's perched in Crowley's lap. "Can we lie down for a little while, darling?"

Crowley shudders at that repetition of dearest, clutches at Aziraphale's skin as the word washes over him. Dearest. Unloved and unforgivable and unwanted in the eyes of God and Heaven and Hell, but dearest here.

Nothing has ever felt this perfect or precious.

But he's exhausted too, drained physically and emotionally. "Yeah..." It only sounds a little reluctant. He turns his face and steals another kiss, sweet and lingering, before sighing and bringing his hands back to Aziraphale's hips. "Yeah. So long as I still get to hold you while we do it." He smiles, his face tired but open, easy to read. "Been waiting for that darling, too."

Aziraphale returns the kiss, chasing Crowley's lips before laughing quietly at himself. They'll never lie down at this rate, but, God, he really needs to. "Of course," he replies, scoffing at the very idea that they wouldn't remained entwined with one another while horizontal. "Let me just --"

He rolls his shoulders and his wings disappear. He shivers a bit as Crowley's feathers brush his bare back and he murmurs, "Leave those out, if you like, darling." The logistics of two sets of wings out while lying down is too much for his tired mind to handle, but he likes the idea of remaining curled up in all that soft warmth.

With a soft sound of disappointment, he shifts up and feels Crowley slide out of him. As he lies down, he miracles away the mess, but not the ache that remains. Once he's settled comfortably, he holds out his arms, beckoning Crowley into them. "Anything else you've been waiting to be called, my beautiful treasure?"

Crowley should have realized it would all go wrong when he tried to do something nice. That was definitely his mistake. Never do nice things. He might not work for Hell anymore but he's still a demon and therefor a fount of wickedness, mischief, sin, and vice in general, and therefore has no business doing nice things.

Except, it'd been for Aziraphale.

It isn't even that he likes doing nice things for Aziraphale. He doesn't. ^[1]Oh, the angel deserves nice things, Crowley won't deny that. All things great and small and cute and cuddly and beautiful and wonderful and okay, fine, so maybe, just maybe he's done Aziraphale a few kindnesses in their time. Maybe.

But for selfish reasons, ultimately. Because he is ^[2] addicted to the smile Aziraphale wears whenever Crowley does something nice for him. Crowley likes that smile. So it's purely selfish and not for the angel's benefit at all. Crowley is the one who benefits. He's justified it to himself like that for centuries--millennia now, really--and the logic is as sound as ever.

It's also now completely moot.

Several months ago, the world failed to end. Several weeks after that, Crowley and Aziraphale managed to actually get their act together (at the same speed, on their own side) and start something that might, just might, possibly, be considered a relationship. With kissing and everything.

And Crowley's never been happier, and judging by how often Aziraphale wears the smile Crowley used to go to great lengths to try and coax out of him, neither has Aziraphale.

So Crowley thought he'd do something...nice. The sort of thing humans in relationships do. A date. Dinner, flowers, an evening out.

Which is how he's ended up sitting at a performance of An Ideal Husband next to Aziraphale, watching actos and actresses exchange Oscar Wilde witticisms in the name of art and theatre.

It does not explain why he's got his arms folded over his chest and has been gradually looking more and more scowl-y as the play's gone on. Granted, one of the main themes is forgiveness for past mistakes, which is always going to be something as a sore point.

This was a bad idea and it's biting him and he's trying to hold his tongue and just enjoy the play, or at least enjoy Aziraphale enjoying the play, which was always going to be the real point of the evening for Crowley. But it's proving hard going.

And that's why Crowley shouldn't be caught doing nice things. Obviously. It only leads to trouble.

...fucking Oscar Wilde.

^[1] As a professional fount of wickedness Crowley spends a lot of time lying, especially to himself.

^[2] Also was, has been, and always will be

Edited (html failures) 2020-03-10 16:58 (UTC)

He's happy, all things considered. He thought he knew what happy was, what it felt like, but it didn't feel like this. It's not just what he has with Crowley now - though that is clearly no insignificant part of it and comes from a long, long line of events; a web, really, an intricate web that would take far too long to fully follow -, but the fact that so much pressure has been taken off his shoulders. The kind of weight that had always been there, so he stopped noticing it. Believed it had to be there, so it was just part of him. Now, it's gone, and he's learning to move around without it, effectively stumbling around life like a newborn deer, even if the terrain is so familiar.

A date. He was delighted at the idea. Being who he is, he put far too much effort on preparing himself for an outing that was only different than their usual ones by context. He'd even got, surprisingly, a new vest (though, nobody panic, his beloved, at least two century old piece is safety put away in his shop and will return to his person when this is all over), along with some advice from his very patient barber.

He was even more delighted when it turned out that Crowley had got them tickets to one of Oscar's plays. He's seen many, of course, many versions of as many of them as he could get to, but it never lost its spark. It was always a different experience to see new actors bring his words and his ideas to life, to breathe new energy to his witty remarks and his commentary, his insidious jokes. It warms Aziraphale's heart to see his works survive to this day - there are many minds whose names are still uttered, many from long, long before Oscar's time, but, having seen the waves of humanity pass by, they're all just drops in a bucket. Rather shiny, lovely drops, most of them, resplendent or poisoned depending on what they have done, but they're barely a handful of them when you think about it.

So that made it all the more special, really, that the angel's friends words kept being repeated, his ideas newly interpreted, his name still known, even after it had been stripped away from him and what he had created, for a time. Aziraphale wishes he could have known, that he could have seen the impact he made.

The angel is lost in these thoughts as he watches the story he's watched so many other times. A swell of emotion that may well seem out of place for the scene, but the lack of lighting helps conceal it, and he's Fine. He thinks to hold Crowley's hand - in fact, he looks, searching for it on the arm rest, only to find it hidden away in the demon's crossed arms, and to notice the scowl on his face.

He doesn't understand. And he wonders if there's something he's missed.

Gingerly, he places a hand on Crowley's elbow, giving him a quizzical look.

Crowley is good at noticing things. It's a necessary skill, first of all because being a denizen of Hell means paranoia is a valuable life skill and second because it's much easier to tempt people if you've paid enough attention to them to know where their weak points are. And there's no one he's ever paid more attention to than Aziraphale. The new vest was noticed at once, and complimented in Crowley's usual fashion (which is to say, with a lot of good-natured teasing that Aziraphale perfectly understood).

All the same he's lost enough in his own preoccupation that he doesn't notice Aziraphale's, not until suddenly there's a hand on his elbow, which jolts him back into the moment with a visible jerk.

Aziraphale looks confused. Not one of the expressions he wants to see there.

Crowley shrugs, quirks his mouth in a smile, everything's fine, nothing to see her, everything is some demonic equivalent of tickety-boo. His eyes, fortunately, are covered, as they usually are when they're out in public.

He catches at Aziraphale's hand and squeezes it, twines their fingers, turns his attention back to the play. There. Comforting distraction accomplished, hopefully.

Self-sacrifice is a thing that should be put down by law, someone says onstage. It is so demoralising to the people for whom one sacrifices oneself. They always go to the bad.

...fucking, fucking, fucking Oscar Wilde.

When Crowley squeezes his hand, the angel smiles, a warm, affectionate look given freely. He still wonders, vaguely, if there's something he's missing. He's unfortunately good at missing things.

But maybe it's in his head. Maybe he's reading too much into Crowley's usual cool, aloof demeanor, and taking it for something else. Maybe it's just date night jitters, and he's nervous there might have been a misstep, though he can't really pinpoint any. The evening has been delightful so far, as far as he can tell.

Aziraphale squeezes back, and looks toward the stage again.

Oh, Oscar. Aziraphale can hear him in these words spoken by someone else. Many an exchange about the uniqueness of self, many a debate indulgence and self sacrifice. A few of them stayed with the angel nearly word for word. He does wonder what he would have said about the near end of the world.

My dear father, when one pays a visit it is for the purpose of wasting other people’s time, not one’s own.

Fucking Oscar Wilde.

I don’t at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited.

Fucking Oscar Wilde.

What conceited ass has been impertinent enough to dare to propose to you before I had proposed to you?

(Surely Aziraphale hadn't actually been...well, fucking Oscar Wilde, though. Surely not. He would've said. Wouldn't he? All right, so it's not as though the subject has ever come up, but...surely not)

If you knew anything about anything, which you don’t, you would know that I adore you. Everyone in London knows it except you. It is a public scandal the way I adore you.

Crowley squeezes Aziraphale's hand perhaps a little more than is really necessary. His other hand has something of a death grip on the opposite armrest, which is on the verge of splintering.

I can’t imagine any one refusing you.

Crowley would just bet not. Fucking fucking fucking fucking Oscar Wilde. Never again. He'll do Hamlet ten times over instead of this.

Gertrude, is it love you feel for me, or is it pity merely?

(Crowley doesn't ask that question. He doesn't dare. The answer wouldn't matter anyway, he'd do just as he has regardless)

When the play winds its way around to its ending, all loose ends nicely tied and happy couples made happy, for the most part beyond their deserving. Crowley manages to relinquish his grip on the poor abused armrest, which has been somewhat warped and scored by too tight a grip and very pointed nails, and will be the source of much speculation by future theatregoers. He even claps. It's polite, and Aziraphale will expect it. If Crowley curses the director just a little bit, ensuring he'll be splashed with muddy water every time it rains for the next week, that's his own business.

Lines, witty lines, and memories of times past, of friends and long conversations, of a time he grew once again closer to humans, and how it helped combat the loneliness. Of dances and music, literature and debate, private chambers and drinks until the sunrise. Of someone who could never understand, not completely, but whose words simply made sense.

( He thinks vaguely, what his friend would jave thought about... Them.

He thinks he knows what he would have thought. Would have said. How he would have been wrong then.

Maybe.)

Aziraphale feels Crowley squeeze his hand. It grants, in the very least, a look at their hands tangled together, and a glance at the demon again.

He doesn't notice the chair. He can't see his eyes. He notices Crowley claps. They have a lovely evening.

People pour out into the streets as the show ends. The angel holds onto the demon's arm in a show of recent familiarity, as it feels appropriate as two people on a date. He rambles, softly and cheerfully, about the performance. The passion, the play.

"It's a classic. I do feel the male lead has quite a lot of potential."

"Yeah, loads."

Crowley is more than willing to have his arm taken but his conversation is a little lacking by his usual standards. He makes small grunting noises of agreement when appropriate but is monosyllabic at best. All the way back to the bookshop, where they usually end an evening now, drinking and talking (and sometimes other things) until they decide to stop. Or until Crowley falls asleep on Aziraphale's couch and Aziraphale finds something else to do.

It's not until they're at the bookshop door that he says, so very very casually, "So...you and Wilde..."

And he leaves it there, the rest of the questions unspoken.

Aziraphale rambles on about the play. About the actors, about the delivery of lines, criticisms, compliments. It's when he's already a bit into it when he notices he isn't really getting any answers when he asks things. That Crowley is neither ranting nor raving nor teasing, or...much of anything.

But they had a lovely evening. Dinner was grand, the conversation sparkling and entertaining and flirty at times. Crowley was his usual delightful, wily self. There was banter. The drive to the show was fine. The play seemed to go just fine, quite nice, actually.

They had a lovely evening. He thinks.

The suddenly question has him doing a double take, looking quite genuinely confused. "What?"

"Wilde!" Crowley says it impatiently, as though it should be obvious what he's asking despite his own complete inability to put the question in words. He waves a hand. "You know, you and Wilde and...and gentleman's clubs and the gavotte, all that, what was--"

He stops, swallows. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Looks somewhere else. "Uh. All that. What...was that like?"

All right, so he's a fucking coward. That's not news.

Well, his cowardice will only serve to prolong this absolutely painful experience, but most things Crowley sets out to do are cursed anyway. Aziraphale still looks vaguely confused, clearly not really understanding the...implications of the question.

“Oh.” Very obviously missing the point. “Lovely man, he was. Even wittier than would seem by just his works. A penchant for the spoken word that would put most to shame.”

He unlocks the door to the shop, gesturing inside. “After you.”

"Lovely," Crowley repeats. It doesn't mean anything. The angel uses that word all the time, it doesn't denote anything special aside from approval. So that's....good, right?

He still wants to grind his teeth.

Crowley slinks into the bookshop, lobs his hat and coat at the coatrack (they land perfectly, because they know better than to do anything else).

Aziraphale follows him in, the door locking behind them with a thought.

"Yes. Would draw in a room, if he so wanted. Often did, too." He neatly puts away his coat, smoothing it straight. The fresh flowers sit in a nice new vase, right on the front desk. Such shows of pride had unwittingly made it either somewhat suspicious, or very obvious, to most locals that know the shop that Mr. A.Z. Fell may have had a recent change in his life.

Hands gently clapped together, he gives his demon a pleasant smile. "Drinks?"

Edited 2020-03-13 20:40 (UTC)

"Course he did," Crowley mutters to himself, hopefully quietly enough that Aziraphale doesn't hear.

But Aziraphale is smiling, and behind him on the desk are the flowers Crowley gave him just a few hours ago, and humans come and go but Crowley is still here, always still here, so he tries. He does. He smiles and nods, and they pour drinks and he exerts himself to actually make conversation, and if he veers the topic more towards their dinner or theatre in general and away from the show they just saw, well. He's trying, all right.

For a while. After an hour the wine is kicking in and Crowley is comfortably sprawled on the sofa with his socked feet on Aziraphale's lap, and out of nowhere he blurts out, "So, uh, did you and Wilde ever...dance the gavotte...?"

Suave.

The earlier passing doubts fade from the angel's mind as the conversation goes on and through much better topics. The wine flows freely, as it often does, making certain looks and certain comments a tad more cheeky than they would have been.

He sits, a hand resting on one of Crowley's legs, and he's sipping his wine when the new sudden question comes up. Aziraphale hasn't noticed a pattern, not yet, at least not an unpleasant or tense one. They watched one of Oscar's plays, and Crowley knows they got along, and that's all he thinks is happening.

"Hm, a least a couple of times, yes." He looks up vaguely, with a tipsy glow, reminiscing. "He seldom did, but sometimes he would delight everyone with a dance. Quite the sight."

There's not an easy way to do this part, it seems, this messy disentangling. It's both a relief and a loss when he withdraws. Aziraphale handles the mess before Crowley can decide what to do about it, then lays down. Reaches up for him. Aziraphale, reaching out to him.

Crowley is losing count of how many things he's wanted that he's suddenly been granted.

He does put his wings away. He's too tired, and he doesn't want to deal with them at present, he wants to be as close to his angel as possible for as long as possible as comfortably as possible. Aziraphale getting to used him as a feathery blanket will need to wait for another day.

There will be another day, there will be more of this, and Crowley still has a lump in his throat as he lies down and lets Aziraphale wrap arms around him. He buries his face in the angel's chest, under his chin. "Anything where you call me yours." He chuckles suddenly and kisses the skin near his mouth. "Though I never thought of that one. Beautiful treasure, really?"

Crowley's relaxed somewhat by this point, enough to exchange banter the way they always do, though nowadays his teasing has a more obviously affectionate edge. But he stays tense, however he tries to ignore it, and distracted, however he tries to hide it.

He has at least lost the glasses by now, however--they never survive drinking in the bookshop--so the way his eyebrows lift halfway off his head is more obvious than it would've been earlier. Along with the way he sputters into his wineglass. "Everyone...? Oh, wait, gavotte, yeah..." He forgot for a moment that it wasn't a euphamism, and takes another drink while recovering. "Quite the sight how, exactly?"

It's work, but it's the most satisfying and rewarding work they've ever done, both in the short term and the long term. Crowley lowers his head and just breathes for a moment, being in the moment. It's a good moment, with Aziraphale warm and content and next to him.

Then he pushes back and Crowley's breath hitches. It's not that he'd forgotten how aroused he was, exactly, he was just...concentrating on other things. But that small pointed movement definitely recaptures his attention. "I--ngk--" he manages, briefly tongue-tied. "If you want, then...yeah, yes. 'Course." He kisses Aziraphale's neck. "Angel."

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

avid subscriber that crowley isn't the only one with a thing for praise

no subject

no subject

I also subscribe to that.

just look at their lives tbh

no subject

no subject

no subject

for salutosindelicat, dammit Skree it turned frikking epic again

aw dang can't hold all these words

Must...make...shorter...

good luck

Doom doomy doom de doom.

Wow he's the master of chill

That's not news ;)

SUBTLE, ANTHONY. SO SUBTLE

What in all your dealings with Crowley tells you he even knows the word?

Tbf law of balance between them means Aziraphale takes a while to even understand

Obviously

also he has a HAT

I wanted a hat so by god I gave him a hat!

good!!! also alcohol was clearly the best addition to crowley's whole headspace that evening yep

no subject

it usually is!

ohhhhh yes

Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

avid subscriber that crowley isn't the only one with a thing for praise

no subject

no subject

I also subscribe to that.

just look at their lives tbh

no subject

no subject

no subject

for salutosindelicat, dammit Skree it turned frikking epic again

aw dang can't hold all these words

Must...make...shorter...

good luck

Doom doomy doom de doom.

Wow he's the master of chill

That's not news ;)

SUBTLE, ANTHONY. SO *SUBTLE*

What in all your dealings with Crowley tells you he even knows the word?

Tbf law of balance between them means Aziraphale takes a while to even understand

Obviously

also he has a HAT

I wanted a hat so by god I gave him a hat!

good!!! also alcohol was clearly the best addition to crowley's whole headspace that evening yep

no subject

it usually is!

ohhhhh yes

SUBTLE, ANTHONY. SO SUBTLE