faemused | Open To Anyone For Anything RP Post 2

Aziraphale's miracle holds and their booth remains undisturbed while they settle into a looser grip with one another. When Crowley reaches up and twines their fingers, he makes a soft sound of pleasure. Just to have Crowley touch him, to keep that connection between them, makes him so blissfully happy.

"Oh... I think I've been in love with you for a very long time." He exhales, as if relieved to finally get that off his chest. "But I didn't realize it until that night you saved my books from the church bombing." His eyes, already giving Crowley a soft look, turn nostalgic as he remembers. "Up until then, I could pretend that your acts of kindness towards me were simply to grease the wheels of our Arrangement... but to rescue the books without me even asking... well, I really had no choice but to admit to myself my feelings for you."

He gently squeezes the fingers held between his own. "How about you? When did you know that you loved me?"

Crowley hasn't actually said the word love yet. Even when singing, that one came out more of a mumble. But he doesn't deny it. "Fuck...forever, I sometimes think, except that I kept trying so blessed hard not to call it that." The noise Aziraphale makes when he joins their hands shivers down his spine. He'd like to wrap it up in a box or something, keep it for later. "Couldn't call it anything else after what you did in 1967, though. That was a real kick in the head. Tied me in knots for months."

He's still not looking at Aziraphale, though their heads are bent close together, foreheads touching as they crowd close together on one side of the booth, just...getting used to this. No, not getting used to it at all. Still recovering from the sheer astonishment of it all, that they're actually talking about it, after so much time and so much effort putting into not acknowledging it at all.

No, Crowley hasn't, but he doesn't need to. Aziraphale feels that love as surely as Crowley's warm body crowded against his. It's nearly embarrassing, that he hadn't noticed it before. But maybe it's like anything else that's been around him for so long, like the sounds of London outside his bookshop or the air he doesn't need to breathe but does so anyway.

"Oh..." His gaze drops as he thinks back to that moment in the Bentley when he handed over the holy water. It's a reminder that his love for Crowley is not merely a sweet, effervescent spring. It runs deep, so deep it hurt at times, knowing how close he was to losing Crowley, how he could only do so much to keep him safe. How it never felt like enough.

"Well, I... I loved you. I couldn't very well let you risk your life because of me." His eyes flutter shut, a sigh of regret escaping his lips. "I wish I had been braver. I thought, when push came to shove, I wouldn't choose you." Another sigh, and then he whispers, "So, so glad I was wrong about that, by the way."

It's strange how alone they are, despite being surrounded by so much noise and activity. On the other hand, it's always felt like that. One of the things that made him keep greeting the angel way back when, in the earliest days. Even then it felt like the two of them surrounded by everything, like they were in a bubble together, a shared and unique perspective.

It wasn't the only reason he'd kept putting himself in the angel's path, but it'd certainly been a justification for it.

"I thought you wouldn't either," Crowley admits after a minute. "But it wasn't about wanting you to--to pick me over all the hosts of Heaven, you know. I mean, obviously I wanted you to, but that wasn't why I kept pushing. I just wanted to keep you alive."

There's a second where his fingers spasm hard around Aziraphale's, so hard, as he remembers that horrible hour where he thought Aziraphale was gone. Fuck. Someday he'll be able to think of that without his heart stopping all over again, but not for a long while. He bends that much closer to Aziraphale, breathing in the smell of him, cologne and cotton and sake and angel. Just to make absolutely sure once again that this is real and the worst didn't happen, except for that hour.

They always had one another, didn't they? Even when they couldn't express it in so many words. Aziraphale is grateful to have the chance now. Not in a song, but in his own words.

It hurts, though, to know that Crowley thought he'd been abandoned at the bandstand, and again on the street corner, begging the angel to go off with him to Alpha Centauri. He hates himself for it, for turning Crowley away, but he wasn't ready. He needed more time, just one more chance to try and get through to the Almighty and stop Armageddon through the proper channels.

The sharp squeeze of his hand snaps him out of his spiral of self-loathing. He looks up at Crowley , realizes immediately that he's forgetting the deepest cut of all -- Crowley finding his bookshop in flames and the angel gone. Discorporated, except Crowley didn't know that at the time, did he?

As close as Crowley gets, Aziraphale pulls him in that much more, pressing a frantic kiss into Crowley's hair. "I'm here, I'm here," he whispers, as much for his own reassurance as for Crowley's. "Please... please, my dear. My dearest. Can we go now?"

Edited 2019-09-09 15:41 (UTC)

Someday Crowley will tell the angel he was right to refuse, both times, maybe not in how he went about it but right to refuse all the same. If they'd gone, would the world still be here?

Might. Might not. Either way, this is better. Even without right now, this is better. And with right now...Crowley closes his eyes as Aziraphale kisses his hair again, at that urgent whisper. "Yeah...yeah, I think we'd better..." Fuck, he's going to get bloody maudlin if they keep on this trail of conversation, or if Aziraphale keeps calling him sweet things.

Dearest. Sweet son of Satan (who isn't, on either count, but nevermind), it feels like he's been waiting thousands of years just for that one word. And he has, really.

Crowley digs in his pocket for his wallet and pulls out several fifty pound notes, more than enough to cover dinner, drinks, a large tip, and probably a few dozen more tracks for the karaoke machine as well. He doesn't want to wait around to talk to the waiter, or anyone else. "You'll have to get out first, angel," he murmurs. "I'm a little trapped over here." Which is nice, honestly. But not so conducive for moving.

If Crowley is close to maudlin, then Aziraphale has tipped over the other side of it, his emotions like a tap that's had the handle snapped off. No way to get those feelings stuffed back inside, not that he particularly wants to.

He makes a soft sound of complaint when he realizes that he'll have to scoot out of the booth first, which means letting go of Crowley, but it was his idea to leave, wasn't it? Besides, there's kissing to look forward to. He had almost forgotten about that. With reluctance, he drops his hug and then slides out. He gets up and immediately has to put a hand on the wall for balance, because, oh, right, very drunk on sake right now. He sobers up just enough so that he can walk out of the restaurant with dignity, because all the miracles in the world cannot keep the restaurant staff from beaming and waving goodbye to their two new favorite customers.

(Especially the redhead. Big spender!)

Aziraphale waits for Crowley to leave the booth, then very gallantly offers his arm. He waits until they are out the door and the cool night air sobers him up a bit more before asking, "So. Your place or mine?"

"Yours," Crowley says at once. "It's closer." Which is true, but also it feels more theirs than his place does. Aziraphale's been to his flat a few times, but the bookshop is where they spend evenings drinking and talking and enjoying each other's company. The bookshop is where they gravitate to. Or maybe it's just that the bookshop is where Aziraphale always is, and it's always Aziraphale that Crowley gravitates to...

No need for gravity now, with Aziraphale by his side like a magnet, arm in arm and both of them stumbling along being a little too drunk. "I liked that place," he says, a little belatedly. "Good sushi. Want to go back next week? I need to terrorize the emcee s'more."

All right, that answers that. Aziraphale would have been fine with either. He's fond of his back room in the bookshop, a cozy place to hide away from the rest of London, either with a book and a cup of cocoa or Crowley and a bottle or more of wine. But there is something alluring about Crowley's flat, as well. Perhaps it's because it reminds him of Crowley. The room with all the plants is especially nice.

He gently leads Crowley in the direction of his bookshop, arm in arm as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if they do this all the time, and his heart beats a little faster at the idea that they can now, if they like, whenever they like.

"The sushi is very good," he agrees, before the rest of Crowley's words catch up to him. He looks at the demon, eyes lighting up at the prospect. "You want to go back? Really? I mean, yes, of course I do." He gives Crowley's arm a squeeze. "I'll have to think of some more songs..." No more songs about unrequited love, for a start.

"I'm going to regret suggesting that, aren't I." Crowley mutters, but there's no real frustration in it, and he's half-smiling as he looks down at Aziraphale. "But I'm never singing fucking ABBA, fair warning. Not even for you."

He'll listen, though. He'll sit there and listen to Aziraphale sing ABBA to his angelic's heart delight, which is a blessed sight more than he'd do for anyone else.

He leans down and kisses Aziraphale's forehead, mostly to see if he can get away with it. This whole evening feels like getting away with something.

Aziraphale scoffs, but it's only for show. "So long as you don't expect me to sing... ah..." It's hard to name a musical group in Crowley's preferred genre when he barely knows any of the names. "...Velvet Underground!"

He smiles triumphantly, pleased to have come up with a 'bebop' group on the fly... and then Crowley kisses him. On the forehead, but it stuns him to silence, anyway. He looks up at Crowley with big eyes before dropping his gaze and smiling shyly, nudging his shoulder into Crowley's. "Thought you wanted to wait until we were somewhere more private."

Not that he's complaining. That kiss to his forehead caused more of a stir within him than all those Gavotte kisses ever did.

Someday Crowley will tell Aziraphale what a 'velvet underground' actually is. He expects it will be entertaining.

He flushes a little at Aziraphale's reaction to the kiss, which is...more than he expected. He didn't think the angel's eyes could get that wide. "You've been kissing my head already," he mutters, trying not to sound embarrassed. "Thought it didn't count." Though it is more private, oddly. More people around, they're on a public street, but fewer paying attention to them. Still not...the idea place for kissing, really. Lot of traffic, lot of glarey shop lighting...

It's a bit tempting all the same.

There will be some sputtering, but only a little. He's spent the last two centuries living in Soho, after all.

"Yes, but..." But that was him kissing Crowley. It was a matter of reassurance, a kiss to break the spell of uncertainty between them. This was Crowley kissing him as they walk along a public street, a sweet albeit oddly matched couple to anyone happening to glance their way. "It counted. Just in a different way."

It is nice to know that Aziraphale had it within him to take the initiative. His gaze unconsciously drops to Crowley's lips as he realizes that he could take the initiative here, too. Oh, but no, this isn't a proper place for a first kiss on the lips, either... no, not proper at all...

If he walks just a shade quicker, it's only because they're approaching a crosswalk and he doesn't want to miss the light. "I didn't mind it, though. In case you were wondering."

Two centuries in Soho, plus six thousand years around humans in general. It's a little difficult to miss their preoccupation with their own genitals. Crowley has always thought the term 'privates' to be incredibly misleading.

Aziraphale walks a bit quicker, and so does Crowley, and then Aziraphale looks at his mouth and says he didn't mind and fuck. "Here--" Crowley abruptly takes a left, turning them off course in the direction of Soho Square. It's closer. There are park benches, and trees, and still too many people but fuck it.

What he wants is to just shove Aziraphale up against a tree and kiss him until they're both senseless and breathless and willing to let the rest of the world go to Hell in a handbasket. What he does is find a relatively quiet corner (only relatively quiet, it's still Soho), wave his hand a little to divert attention away from them for a minute--and then stop. Just stop, looking at Aziraphale, gaze darting between eyes and mouth. "Aziraphale--" He stops, swallows, runs his thumb lightly over the angel's mouth. "May I?" May he, can they, is this actually happening?

Aziraphale makes a soft sound of surprise as they veer off-course, but otherwise doesn't protest, letting Crowley lead them towards Soho Square. Why the change? It's a nice enough park, even at night, a small oasis of greenery in an urban landscape, but Crowley had seemed eager to go to the bookshop before. Had he changed his mind about the kiss?

Oh... oh, no, he hadn't. He intends to do it here. Aziraphale's lashes flutter at the feeling of Crowley's thumb brushing over his lips, his breath catching in his throat. This isn't the back of his bookshop or a discreet gentleman's club or a hidden rendezvous spot. Even with the diversion of attention, they're out in the open, exposed to God and humanity and everything in between.

He can't think of a better place.

"Yes." He brings his face, his whole body closer, until the space between them is negligible. "Yes, please."

Edited 2019-09-11 17:24 (UTC)

It does fit, Crowley thinks distantly. Mostly his motivation is impatience, but it does fit. Under the night sky, in the light of stars he helped make once, long ago before things began. In the open air, in defiance of anyone who might be watching or judging. In London, where they've both rotated around each other for the past two hundred years. Longer. They've always been moving towards this.

The last second before their mouths meet seems to take an eternity, and for every bit of it Crowley is convinced something will interrupt, go wrong, change, explode, something. The shock of his mouth meeting Aziraphale's is more that is succeeds at all than from the feel of it.

The first kiss is little more than a touch and a breath, and then a pause.

Then he all but flings his arms around the angel, his mouth opening against Aziraphale's with an incoherent, needy noise as he pulls him as close as their corporeal forms will allow.

Edited 2019-09-11 20:31 (UTC)

That is a benefit of being patient, perhaps, of already waiting so long for this to happen, that Aziraphale is ready when their lips meet, that soft touch in the span of a single breath, like the kiss at the end of a gavotte. Thank you for this dance, this orbit we've been spinning in. For leading and for following, always together.

He has but a moment to savor that sweet and simple kiss before Crowley is all but crashing into him, and oh, here are the fireworks, the sparks, the metaphors that poets pile on but can't quite capture the indescribable feeling that shivers through him as he wraps his arms about Crowley in turn, that needy sound echoed with one of his own.

He keeps his mouth soft and open, bravely exploring this new sensual pleasure. It is so blessedly good. He never wants to stop, he wants to stay like this forever, fingers gripping the back of Crowley's jacket, their bodies pressed together so that nothing can come between them.

Eventually, though, it does end, only so Aziraphale can whisper into the space between their lips, "My dear, you are the most wonderful thing I've ever had the pleasure of putting my lips to."

Edited 2019-09-12 01:44 (UTC)

Crowley wants to laugh. He also wants to sob, to split into a thousand pieces and scatter himself across the sky, to drive around the city as fast as he can, and to stay completely, utterly still.

He leans forward, resting his head against Aziraphale's, smelling his breath, the angel's taste still lingering in his mouth. There's still a pull towards Aziraphale's lips as strong as any suction from a black hole, and Crowley resists just for the moment because this time he knows the resistance is temporary and therefore sweet with anticipation of more. "Better than crepes?" he teases, still breathless. His hands are splayed on Aziraphale's black, one between the shoulderblades and the other at the base of the spine, and there's no space between them at all.

Aziraphale hold him close, the grip on his jacket easing so he can smooth the fabric beneath his fingers. He feels like a flock of doves that has finally come home to roost, a cacophony of wings and feathers swirling and settling inside of him, crowding up together into a downy ball of warmth.

He laughs softly into that little space between them, his breath warm and sweet with a lingering note of sake. "Better than crepes," he murmurs. "Better than brioche." He presses a kiss to the corner of Crowley's mouth. "Better than my first taste of honey, my first sip of wine, my first bite of fruit." His voice trembles, not from uncertainty, but the sheer joy of sharing this with Crowley. "Better than anything."

Better than anything certainly sums up Crowley's opinion of these proceedings, and the best way he can show it is with another kiss, just as enthusiastic but slower. He nips at Aziraphale's mouth, teasing it open again, slipping his tongue in to explore. His hands slide up Aziraphale's back, then down again, coming to rest on his hips.

And then another kiss, and another, until he's dizzy with them, much more intoxicated than he was by the sake, and somewhere in the middle he manages to say, very quietly, "Love you too. Hadn't said yet."

As Crowley takes advantage of Aziraphale's open mouth, the angel realizes helplessly that he was wrong before. This kiss is better than anything, and the one after that, and the one after that... he loses count, swept up in the slick tenderness of Crowley's lips and tongue, the hands that chase the shivers that run rampant up and down his back.

And then Crowley says that he loves him, and the doves in his heart are all a-flutter, a wild beating of wings against his chest. He feels like he might discorporate, and leans into Crowley that much more, chasing each kiss as if it might be the last.

When they take another break, he's flushed and disheveled, like he's just gotten out of Crowley's Bentley after another harrowing speed race through downtown. Excepting he's smiling, practically glowing. Scratch that, he may actually be glowing a little. "I know you do. It's wonderful to hear. And to say. I love you, darling."

"Always did." The words just spill out of him now, centuries upon centuries of their being held back now suddenly ended, and he couldn't stop if he tried, which he doesn't. "Always. Since the blessed garden, even, that first day on the wall when you thanked me and asked for my name and sheltered me with one of your wings. That long, angel."

And then another kiss, another, maybe they'll tell his side of the story better than these words do. None of it seems to be enough.

"Crowley..." The words stun him, leave him breathless even before Crowley starts kissing him again. He feels that maddening beat of wings again, except it's his own wings, itching to free themselves from the astral plane and wrap around Crowley, to give him that love and shelter he had craved ever since Eden.

He slides his arms from around Crowley's shoulders so he can cup his face with both hands and delicately stroke the sharp angles of his cheeks. "I'd give that to you now," he says in the gap between one kiss and another. "If we weren't standing in the middle of Soho Square."

They've tried to go easy on miracles lately, keeping to small things, the sort that won't draw attention from people they would really rather keep ignoring them. But there are limits.

Crowley doesn't stop kissing Aziraphale, because he can't, wouldn't if he could but he can't, not after so much time spent trying to get to this point and never managing it. But one of the hands pressed up against the angel's back let's go, shakes itself out, snaps fingers, and then they're just outside the bookshop. Can't appear inside directly, there are wards and protections up to prevent that sort of thing, but outside he can do.

It drains him, and he sags a little in Aziraphale's embrace, but it's worth it. And if some humans notice two people suddenly appearing and disappearing...fuck it, it's London. All sorts of weird shit happens in London, everyone knows that, especially Soho.

He's still kissing Aziraphale. He'll never stop unless he has to, or is asked.

Aziraphale braces himself instinctively when Crowley teleports them, so it's no bother to keep Crowley upright. He recognizes the wards and protections of his shop, as they're his own handiwork, and door opens easily to his silent request for it to open.

It's still a struggle to get inside, what with him not wanting to stop kissing, either, and the inherent clumsiness of two people trying to get through a doorway together, one forwards and one backwards, but they manage, and as soon as they're through, the door slams shut. Aziraphale leaves the lights off, his only desire to get to the clear open space in the middle of his shop.

Once there, he manifests his wings. Magnificent and pristine, stretching out to their full span before wrapping themselves around Crowley, a cocoon of gleaming white feathers. Distracted as he is by Crowley's mouth, he overcompensates for the demon's slacked weight and loses his balance, tipping forward with a muffled note of alarm. Whoops!

At least his wings will cushion their fall.

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