Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

[questionablewit]

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[duckshaveears]

Crowley strokes Aziraphale's face with his fingertips, from forehead to chin, then tilts that chin up for another kiss. "So am I, angel," he murmurs, just before pressing his mouth gently against Aziraphale's. A slow kiss, thorough and deep and familiar. Already familiar, though they've not been able to do this for so very long now, not by their reckonings. Not nearly long enough.

[salutosinedelectat]

They do have time now. A much more pleasant thing to catch up with, comforting and nice, that helps his mind settle somewhere much more pleasant. He lets his hands rest on Crowley's chest, moving only to gently hold onto his lapels. Hold onto something.

Much rather look forward than look back, he finds. But he supposes it needs to be done, anyway. Perhaps in smaller increments.

When he pulls back from the kiss, it's gentle and slow, and he rests his forehead against the demon's, eyes still closed. Just an intimate moment, only theirs.

"I do love you." He mutters, just in case there's a need for a reminder.

unexpected boomerang tag!

[duckshaveears]

"I know," Crowley murmurs back. Their mouths are separated only by a few inches. They can feel each other's breath, taste it. "I do know." His thumb strokes along Aziraphale's face. "Love you too, Aziraphale."

He leans in a little, rubs their noses together. One of those silly, intimate gestures that means nothing and everything, the sort of thing he used to long for. And now he has permission. Encouragement, even.

Stupid to have brought up the past, really. It doesn't matter what happened, what either of them did. Not if it all lead to this.

Crowley brings up his other hand as well, brackets Aziraphale's face in them and kisses him again. After a few minutes he whispers, "Think I owe you another date night, though, seeing as I kind of wrecked this one. You free tomorrow, maybe?"

!!

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale has also found that he quite enjoys the silly intimate gestures. Quite a lot, actually. Fancy that.

He does smile then, bringing one of his hands up to cover one of Crowley's, ever so charmed by how gentle and sweet his demon can be. Temptation doesn't hold a candle to something like this.

"I believe I can find the time." He responds in an amused murmur, thumb stroking over Crowley's knuckles.

Do we want to continue this or let it drift to a conclusion?

[duckshaveears]

Crowley would object if he heard the words gentle or sweet. Maybe eventually this will all be familiar enough, taken for granted enough, that he'll accept words like that, admit they're part of him, admit he wants them.

(He hopes so, deep down in the places where he knows himself)

"Good," he whispers. Another kiss, and then a hint of a grin. "In the meantime you should kiss me a few more times, don't you think? Practice. To make sure we get it right tomorrow, you know."

we can finish up this one, probably pick up the topic some other time . One of our shortest ones wow

[salutosinedelectat]

Crowley may protest. And Aziraphale will expect him to. And they will continue that cycle until it changes into something else, as things tend to do. It's just the natural flow.

"Oh, of course. Wouldn't want to come up short." Even without either of them looking, the angel still pulls a mock serious frown, which lasts for a whole two seconds before he's smiling again. "How does it go, again?"

We'll actually *finish* one? Is that allowed?

[duckshaveears]

Crowley chuckles, low and husky. "Something like this, I think?" Aziraphale's mouth is warm, and he slides his tongue in to get a taste of it, breathes in deep. His fingertips tighten their hold, almost imperceptibly. "Or maybe this--" The next kiss is a little more hungry, a little less teasing. "Or this..."

He loses track eventually, both of the teasing and of the numbers and types of kisses.

This is untold territory

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel, ever the dedicated learner, makes sure to take mental notes of all of these methods they have obviously never tried before. Practice makes perfect, doesn't it? And there's nothing quite like learning by doing.

His arms find his way around the demon's neck, ever so gently pulling him closer to the angel. Better angles. More details to note. A far better conclusion to the evening, he would have to say, and he's quite eager to put his learnings to the test tomorrow evening.

They did have a lovely evening, after all. Perhaps with a couple of bumps in the road - which he's sure will come up some other time, along with others. But that's alright. They'll cross those bridges when they get to them, hand in hand.

Maybe Oscar hadn't been wrong after all. He would have been rather smug about that.

[salutosinedelectat]

Whatever warmth he can give him, he's there. Whatever reminders, reassurances, the love and care he never could, he'll give it to him. Crowley's always given him everything he could ever want, and the things he needed when he didn't know he did. They had to wait so long to get here. They're never leaving.

With a stuttered groan and a gasp, the angel arches under him, almost lifting his hand his hand off of the bed, were it not pinned down. His leg squeezes around the demon, some eager attempt to pull him closer.

[duckshaveears]

There's a tide to this. The rhythms of the body have their own currents, and while they might be eldritch beings of supernatural power there are some instincts it's hard to ignore. He could, probably. He could try harder than he does. (He does try, he does.)

But it's so good, it's so good, all that heat and tension and tightening, and Aziraphale arching and groaning to the air, openly. Crowley tries to focus on breathing, on balancing, whatever it takes to prolong this as much as possible. But it overpowers him sooner than he wants. He has enough presence of mind to keep the angle Aziraphale needs once he's found it, so he finds that sweet spot with every stroke, but he's panting for breath, snapping his hips in hard, a continuous litany of angel on his tongue.

Another groan, and this time the kiss he sucks into Aziraphale's leg will bruise, florid and painful and real. "Can't--" he huffs against Aziraphale's thigh. "Angel, angel, I can't--need to--"

[salutosinedelectat]

Whatever mark Crowley leaves on his body is cherished. Whatever way he holds it, touches it, moves with it, it never leaves the angel feeling anything but safe and wanted and loved. It's not just the pleasure of such acts, but, more importantly so, who they're shared with. No one else could ever make the angel feel like this. No one could love him as intensely and as perfectly as Crowley does.

Aziraphale's breath catches, moans and sounds escaping him freely, as he grips his demon tight, as he arches and moves along with him, pushes himself closer, body asking, begging for more, right there. More, for longer. More, and closer, faster, and there, right there, please.

"Crowley--" He feels that sting in the tender skin of his thigh, Crowley's breath hot against it. "I'm--oh-" Stuttered through, as his gentle but strong hand pulls on the fiery red hair with a mind of its own.

My pleasure. Also wow the Vulgate Merlin is a thing.

[confoundthemighty]

By now they’ve known one another long enough that Aziraphale can tell he’s really gotten Crowley’s attention. The drunken, disbelieving look the angel gives him is the surest sign Aziraphale can think of that he’s stopped whatever spiral Crowley’s been pacing within his own mind.

(It’s like playing the flute and watching a child look up, seeing the whisper in the melody sink in and take hold. It’s a tiny victory against the way Heaven thinks the world ought to be. It’s exactly what Aziraphale needs to keep going.)

“I’m entirely serious,” he says, still keeping his tone as light as if this is just another conversation—even as his fingertips smooth away a smear of caked-on mud from the pink edge of a lash mark. “Of course they got a lot of it wrong, or made up something they thought suitably weird when they were missing information. They think you were fathered by the forces of Hell, for one thing. Also claimed you had a hand in arranging Arthur’s conception—not personally, mind, just that you facilitated things.”

With a flick of his wrist he banishes the dirt already in the water to a back alley somewhere, leaving the bath clean again so he can continue his work.

“Though funnily enough they left out the most interesting bits. Not a word about you showing Arthur what it was like to be a sparrow. Or the arguments you’d get into with Bedivere over why potatoes have eyes.”

I've only vaugely heard of it, I admit!

[duckshaveears]

Crowley's put significant effort into deafening the endlessly circling thoughts his mind has spun along for months. All that time and especially alcohol, and now they're detailed in a moment by a few sentences from Aziraphale. It's not the subject; of course Arthur would inspire legends, that was part of the point of the Round Table to begin with. And of course Merlin, enigmatic and powerful and so suspiciously absent at the crux points, would come in for his share. It's just so unexpected a choice of subjects for the circumstances.

Which is no doubt why Aziraphale chose it. Clever demon, tricking Crowley's brain into jumping off the too-worn tracks it's been stuck in.

Kind demon, talking to him as though nothing is wrong, nothing changed, letting Crowley pretend for a little bit. Crowley's smile is small and tremulous, but there. "He made a good sparrow," he says. "Good fish, too. Squirrel, now, that one was a problem."

He sighs, and shifts a little; the water sloshes against the side of the tub. "Those rumors were around even then, y'know. Plus others. One said I didn't have a father at all. Liked that one." Being more or less true. God might be called a the Father by humans but it's a rather different thing. "Not sure anyone would call me arguing with Bedivere the interesting bits of...all that."

Arthur. Christ, Crowley misses him. He misses Christ too, come to that, though it's always hard to reconcile the images of Christ everywhere with Yeshua and his unique mix of determination and selflessness.

But that, that's a thought he's had too many times, one to send him right back into that spiral, and Crowley shudders violently all at once and tries to lurch himself back on topic. "Have you got a poem?" he manages, grasping at...anything, really. "You should. Not just as a minor mention in mine, or--"

Lancelot's. He stops before he says the name, bites back a groan, would kick himself halfway to England if he could. The last, the absolute last thing he wants is to hurt Aziraphale, and reminding him of his lost son will do it. Crowley buries his face back in his arms. "... sorry. 'm an idiot sometimes, you know that."

Found a prose translation online. Arthur has like five bastard sons? And a full sister?

[confoundthemighty]

The shudder under Aziraphale’s hands gives him pause; his heart lurches when the angel curls forward. With the same steady care he’s used this whole time he strokes two handfuls of water over the sharp ridges of Crowley’s shoulderblades.

“You did say you were drunk,” he replies, as fondly as if it’s a casual I forgive you, hoping he hasn’t accidentally made everything worse. “But to answer your question, they get more of my story wrong than yours, so I don’t mind being in the background.”

(That, and he’s perfectly content not attracting a great deal of attention from his supervisors as the mother of a famously good and holy knight. Not that any of them read much, or are particularly invested in human stories, but he still prefers to keep a low profile.)

Having finished with the lash marks, he moves to start washing Crowley’s upper arms—but then he pauses, his wet hands gently rubbing at the angel’s thin shoulders.

“If you lean back a bit,” Aziraphale murmurs, as gentle as if he’s offering a few crumbs to a wounded sparrow, “I’ll wash your hair for you.”

Say what?? Welp, Crowley will laugh at that when he reads it.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a sob. "'Lil bit drunk, yeah," he confirms. The hands smoothly running over his shoulders and arms feel like support, a bulwark. Against what, he's not entirely sure.

Then he's rubbing, not for cleaning, that's a gesture purely for giving comfort and pleasure, and tears sting at Crowley's eyes behind his closed lids. They used to do this for each other. He'd forgotten how good it felt.

His face is still hidden in his arms, do his reaction is hidden. Probably a good thing.

"...s'got all sorts of stuff crawling in it, y'know," he says reluctantly after a minute. He's already forgotten the precise surge of power a minute ago, and even if he hadn't he's discombobulated enough to not have realised what it was for. "And it's all, all matted and...pretty awful, really. Might be better just cutting it off."

La la la finding really old threads

[duckshaveears]

"Oi!" A casual observer might believe Crowley to be genuinely offended. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and glowering over his sunglasses. "You take that back. I won't stand for such heinous slander, angel, even from you."

(A more observant observer would notice the slight curve of his mouth, as though a smile forcibly restrained)

[salutosinedelectat]

The angel simply raises his brows, continuing to eat, and returning that positively furious glare with a look that doesn't so much scream, as politely declares that he will do no such thing, and that the recipient will just have to deal with it.

"I don't believe I will." He will, however, take a sip of his wine.

[duckshaveears]

It's infuriating. It's insulting. He's a demon and he shouldn't stand for it, except that it's also just adorable, particularly with that slight twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes just daring him to do something about it.

Crowley casually steals another forkful of food from the angel's plate, chewing it while still looking at him with eyebrow raised high. "Do you really want to taunt the demon who'll be driving you to Scotland?" he points out. "Really? Might regret that. All sorts of mischief I could get up to en route."

[salutosinedelectat]

Daring? No one's daring anyone. Of course not. He's an angel, all that he's doing is being honest, and politely standing his ground.

There's a muted smirk as Crowley so devilishly steals another bite, as if he might say something about it. But he doesn't.

"Oh?" That look and tone might imply a bit of daring, this time. "Such as?"

[duckshaveears]

"Oh, I'll have to wait for inspiration to strike, obviously," Crowley drawls before taking a long swallow of wine. He tilts his head back just so, to show off the long line of his neck a little. "Can't warn you in advance, after all. You might change your mind."

Something flickers in his eyes just a little at that, some shadow of doubt. Because for all that he's joking, there's a little truth in it. Aziraphale could change his mind. Satan knows this is more than they've ever dared before, and even if the reasons why Aziraphale's always balked at doing things openly in the past are astonishingly no long relevant, even if they've hinted at certain things never before confessed...

He puts the glass back down on the table a little too hard and tries to find something to say to cover up the moment. "Take back all my promises about speed limits, at the very least," he says. "Play bebop the whole way. Go cross-country and terrorize the sheep."

[salutosinedelectat]

Aziraphale watches him, entirely missing that faint moment of uncertainty in Crowley's eyes, far to enraptured in the banter and the meal. And, possibly, finding his eyes wandering to the demon's slender neck to a moment, before he speaks again.

Of course he could change his mind. He could do a lot of things, just as much as he could find himself haunted by the echoes of rules and risks past. There's still so much to work through. But, right this moment, he's too busy trying to outwit the demon to worry about that, clearly.

The angel scoffs; at what suggestion, is unclear. "Not if I have any say in it." His tone is still amused, light, playful even

Yeah apparently Merlin is the one who advises him to get all those bastards started. Which... lol.

[confoundthemighty]

Aziraphale can hear the distress rising again in the angel’s voice, and it tightens his heart. He sounds so lost, so pale an echo of the soul who comforted him in some of his darkest hours and loved him through some of the brightest.

“Nonsense, darling.” It might be a minor miracle that his voice doesn’t wobble. “All the crawling things seem to have fled.(1) And Fernand’s got all sorts of interesting soaps up here. I don’t think I’d mentioned Fernand—pleasant fellow, lovely sense of humor, excellent barber. Now just... lie back a little for me?”

It’s not quite a plea aloud, though in Aziraphale’s soul it resonates like one. For so many centuries Crowley’s been the brave one, recklessly generous with his compassion; seeing him in such desperate need of the most basic comforts... it hurts, in some raw red corner of Aziraphale’s heart that has never quite recovered from the shock of being expelled from Heaven.

But he can’t sit by and do nothing. He won’t. He never has. Even if he has to start small, with the stroke of his hands and the soothing hush of his voice.




(1) For those of you wondering if head lice have their own separate Hell, yes they do, and yes it is worse than human Hell, in ways the human brain cannot fathom. Or at least this has been the case since a very specific point at the turn of the sixteenth century.

Head Lice Hell. <3 And Crowley's going "I NEVER."

[duckshaveears]

Crowley does, of course. Anything Aziraphale asks, he'll do. There's nothing new about that. He keeps his eyes closed but lifts his head and leans back with Aziraphale supporting him, which is only appropriate really, and tilts his head back as far as it'll go.

"Fernand..." he repeats, a faint stirring of curiosity rising, dusty and stuff from disuse but never gone. "That where we are? A barber's shop?" He opens his eyes, tries to focus on Aziraphale's face. "What are you doing here? In Seville? Not--" He stops, swallows hard. "For work?"

[duckshaveears]

"Ah, but you wouldn't, that's the point. My car, my rules. That's how it worksss." His grin has a touch of fang in it. He loves when Aziraphale is playful. Most of the time. So long as coin tricks and rabbits are nowhere involved. "And I know where the best gastropubs are."

[salutosinedelectat]

"Oh, is that how that is?" At the sound of rules, as if there have ever been any proper explicit rules that Aziraphale has ever explicitly and properly followed without at least bending them a little. Or finding a certain demon to do so for him.