faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

Currently offering: Crowley, angel!Crowley, Haleth. Will update this if that changes. If you want one of those three, have at it.

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From:

confoundthemighty

“Well—”

Every one of Aziraphale’s reflexes was prompting him towards a firm no—it was against the rules, after all, and even if he wasn’t working for Heaven anymore, a sense of duty to humanity still anchored many of his actions. Hard not to want to work towards the common good for the sake of someone you love, or in this case, billions of someones. He shouldn’t say yes.

But now that he’d finally, finally heard Crowley’s voice again after the most uncertain six months of his entire long existence, he couldn’t bear to say no either.

Fortunately, over a very long career of finding ways to say yes without getting either of them in trouble, he had a far more expansive vocabulary than yes or no.

“I think,” he said, after a shaky inhale, “that it’s high time you started setting a terrible example for humanity again, Crowley. And I think you ought to start by flouting social distancing guidelines. In fact, I suggest you compound this prospective bad behavior by bringing records to play at an excessive volume, and enough alcohol to make you a general neighborhood nuisance.”

From:

duckshaveears

This was the thing about Aziraphale: there was rarely a straightforward answer. Most of his nos could be worked around, tempted into changing, turned into loopholes. Most of his yeses first had to be cajoled into being, arranged, carefully coerced. A firm no did happen now and then; a definitive yes almost never. It could get frustrating.

But damn if it wasn't a thrill every time he got to see Aziraphale bending the rules of both virtue and language in order to make a yes out of no without admitting it directly. Greedy, sneaky, bastard of an angel.

"You've got a point there." Crowley almost purred the words, now definitely feeling more awake. "I'm well overdue for a spot of wiling. And Soho is a prime location for troublemaking. Not like Mayfair." The cogs in his head were spinning properly now, considering options: which albums, which wine, what to wear.

From:

confoundthemighty

That tone of voice, Aziraphale thought as he struggled to keep his knees from giving, was manifestly unfair in its mere existence. Even though he rather prided himself on being able to control and hide his response to that tone, six months of profound isolation had worn him down; he had to grip the edge of an end table to steady himself.

This would likely be a visit with more than its share of temptation, even if Crowley didn’t set out to do anything more than get Aziraphale to overindulge in wine. With a world’s worth of freedom laid at his feet after the failed Apocalypse, half a year’s worth of worldwide loneliness had begun some nearly chemical change in the angel.

He’d had plans, once. Plans to start slowly, to drop a few gentle words here and there, to grow whatever already existed between them inch by inch. Plans that involved the theatre, and lingering dinners, and walks through the city. Plans that he couldn’t bear to think of as irretrievably shattered.

But right now, another plan was sparking into being in the angel’s mind, one far more improvisational and even a little wild.

“Soho is more than overdue for some bad behavior.” Aziraphale straightened, adjusting his bow tie out of sheer fussy habit. “I haven’t had my dinner interrupted once in the past four months. Entirely too quiet.”

[ooc: I had a wild thought about this thread right before I left for work. How would you feel about seduction/temptation via tapas and tiny bites of dessert? :D I know he likes to taste things but not necessarily eat a whole meal, and oh my do I have ideas for flavor profiles. And a touch-starved angel who’s been baking for months.]

From:

duckshaveears

"Can't have that." Crowley kicked off his sheets and swung himself off the bed. "At this rate, from the sound of it, you might end up letting actual customers in, just to shake things up a bit."

He sauntered over to his closet. There were more accessories than actual clothes in there¹, but still several of the current year's best options fashion-wise.². Mentally he picked out a few of his current favorite pieces, then snapped his fingers. His pyjamas vanished, replaced by the items he'd deemed acceptable for the moment. He looked himself over in the mirror and smirked. "I'll do what I can to spare you from such a terrible fate. If you want a disruption around, you should have the best."

Which was him, obviously. He said it with pride. Crowley was unemployed, but he was still a demon.

¹ Most particularly a large assortment of wristwatches, including the first official prototype of the Dick Tracy radio watch, which he would never admit to owning but privately gloated over possessing.

² Decade's, at least. Crowley wasn't really as clued in to hte minutiae of fashion as he pretended to be, largely because he knew fashion's biggest secret: wear black and act like you're the coolest person in the room and a surprisingly large number of people will believe it. That and the right sort of sneer did 90% of the work for him.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Agreed.” The word tumbled out fond and warm before he could stop himself; Aziraphale found it both easy and a touch terrifying to let it go.

He could do this. He could make this work. All he needed was a little time[1], and the courage of his convictions. Already the menu was blooming in his mind’s eye, phantom tastes skittering along his palate—an earthly inspiration as powerful as any divine revelation he’d ever had or been a vessel for, a surge of determined fire up his back.

A quick glance at the pocketwatch that obligingly turned its face up to him as he palmed it revealed that it was nearing four-thirty in the afternoon. Numbers flashed through his brain, processed nearly quicker than human thought.

“Shall we say seven o’clock? Just to make for optimal disruption of the neighborhood. I’ll make dinner.”

Not just dinner, his pounding pulse sang. This would be a temptation worthy of a Serpent, with meaning in every bite. An invitation in flavors, a message written directly onto a forked tongue. His whole life he’d been a half-baked hedonist—enjoying only the pleasures he knew he could get away with—but he had centuries’ worth of meals and secret thoughts to draw on for inspiration, and now there was a wild absence of fear in him.

Already he knew exactly what he’d be making as an amuse-bouche.

[1] While Aziraphale had never gotten the hang of messing with time directly, he had certainly gotten quite proficient at making himself or objects move quicker or more slowly through time. During lockdown he’d gotten enough practice that he could now hand-beat egg whites, sugar, vanilla, and lemon juice into a fluffy meringue in less than ten seconds. Granted, the meringue always tasted a little startled when he did this, but he didn’t mind.

From:

duckshaveears

That quiet Agreed tripped Crowley up for a moment, partly as he'd expected some denouncement (wasn't that what they did?) and partly for how much...affection...the word contained. It sounded like affection, at least. Sometimes it was hard to tell over the phone. What the Heaven had been going on with Aziraphale during the last several months while he'd been sleeping?

Two and a half hours suddenly seemed a long time to wait. But there was no question he had things he could attend to in the meantime--checking that none of his plants had dared expire on him, for one thing--so he made a small noise of agreement, followed by another of amused surprise. "You'll make dinner, will you? Since when do you cook, angel?"

From:

confoundthemighty

There was a faint prim noise on the other end of Crowley’s line—not quite a scoff, but with a touch of the same indignance. “Since shortly after I began baking,” he said, as if it ought to be perfectly obvious. Then a tinge of embarrassment slipped into Aziraphale’s voice: “If you must know, it was the goat cheese soufflé that did it. I’d resolved not to cross over so I could focus on a single skill set, but once I got started—well. It passed the time, while everything else was... unavailable.”

The less said about that at the moment, the better. Crowley would be here tonight, if nothing else—there would be sound and warmth and company in the bookshop. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, and like a human he was sprinting straight for it, shutting out the dark possibility of failure.

“At any rate—see you at seven? Bring an appetite. And whatever music you like. Except not disco, there was a—bit of a fiasco in the neighborhood, and if I never hear ‘Waterloo’ again it’ll be too soon.[1] Ciao, my dear!”

Already half a dozen delivery people were en route to the bookshop, confused but carrying the ingredients the angel didn’t have to hand, all about to be inexplicably several hundred pounds richer.

[1] A would-be good samaritan attempted to cheer up a particular corner of Soho with music through wireless speakers. This plan backfired terribly when said speakers were hacked by a prankster and made to blast ABBA for three straight days. As you can imagine, during lockdown three days of non-stop ABBA felt like three decades to everyone within the speakers’ radius.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley lets out a bark of openly delighted laughter as Aziraphale talks of goat's cheese soufflés. That's the angel he knows.

He barely has time to make a wordless noise of assent before Aziraphale is off, apparently to engage in a noteworthy amount of cooking.

Well then. Let it never be said that Crowley doesn't know how to rise to the occasion.¹

Six fifty-nine that evening finds Crowley smoothly dressed in a new suit with a red-lined black satin face mask to match², his hair freshly trimmed, waiting on the doorstep of the bookshop. Under one arm are a few carefully chosen records, and in his hand is a large bouquet of two dozen mixed roses, white and yellow and deepest red, because Crowley is nothing if not an opportunist. At precisely seven pm, he rings the doorbell.

¹ As a demon, 'rising' is not usually one of Crowley's during point, but there are exceptions.

² The face masks have more potential for spreading envy and avarice than he'd realized, all those months ago. He'll have to think on that later. Though humans are probably a few steps ahead of him again. Still, could be fun.

From:

confoundthemighty

The two and a half hours between when Aziraphale hangs up the phone and when the doorbell rings are some of the longest of his existence to date, and they fly by.

The nature of the game he and Crowley have been playing for centuries is to say things without saying them. When you’re afraid the most secret and vulnerable parts of you are subject to be scrutinized at any given moment, you learn the power of suggestion and implication. Even with the prospect of that scrutiny gone, six thousand years is a long time to be subtle about your emotions, and anyway Aziraphale is sure Crowley wouldn’t actually believe him if he simply laid his proverbial cards on the table at the very start.

But they have shared history, enough that he can serve little bites of memory with a new flavor, and watch to see if Crowley remembers what he himself remembers. He’s gripped with a weird manic energy as he macerates and dices and sautées, muttering triumphantly to himself as he gets each dish ready. They’re all small—just tastes; Crowley likes tastes better than a full meal—except for dessert.

The word endgame suddenly makes sense in a way it didn’t before.

He’s just finished getting the final touches on the whole meal (and reminding it that it’s to stay presentable until he says it’s all right, thank you very much) when the doorbell rings.

It startles him an entire inch off the floor, and he has to sternly remind gravity to please put him down, though it does absolutely nothing to quell the fact that his heart feels as if it’s flinging itself around inside his chest cavity like a pinball in one of those gaudy machines.

His fingers are tingling as he adjusts his bow tie. (He takes a moment to adjust his corporeal form as well—nothing too drastic, just changing genitals to the set with less visible signs of arousal.) Breath feels strange in his lungs, and not simply because the smell of old books now mingles with the smells of garlic and wine and hot sugar.

He pulls the door open, and what was a smile becomes a full-on beam when he takes in the sight of Crowley. Unmistakably Crowley, here at last, masked (the cheeky bugger) but still a figure he’d recognize anywhere.

For the wild reckless space of a single second, Aziraphale’s entire being is torn between wanting to burst into grateful tears and wanting to leap across the threshold and kiss him senseless.

He does neither. His chest expands with an inhale, and the urge to act so directly, like thousands before it, passes.

“Just in time,” he says, unable to tamp down the warmth in his voice. “Do come in, won’t you? I’ve just put out the hors d’oeuvres.”

(as much so I don’t forget as so you know: hors d’oeuvres: wagyu beef with red wine reduction, oysters Rockefeller, fatty toro sashimi. The last one I admit I included solely because it is decadent and ruined me entirely for eating tuna any way other than in sushi. It is like silk in your mouth. Crowley prepare to be seduced.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's grin is revealed as he enters and takes off his face mask before stuffing it into a pocket. "Here," he says, all but thrusting the roses at Aziraphale. "Find a vase or something for these while I get my coat and all, yeah? I've ordered them not to wilt but best not to risk it."

He deposits his coat on the rack with the ease of long familiarity, sniffing the air. The change is profound. Usually the shop smells like books (obviously) plus an assortment of dusty mouldy things designed to put off potential customers. But now it's redolent with a variety of rather more appetising things, both familiar and new. "You've been busy " he says, impressed.

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s heart jumps as he registers the roses—that’s promising, that’s very promising, this plan might just work. Though of course there is always a demonic explanation for these sorts of things.

“Aren’t these just conspicuous enough to get the rumor mill in the neighborhood going,” he says, because he knows the dance of their excuses by now. “You’re a menace. Thank you.”

Even as Crowley hangs up his coat, Aziraphale reaches down to fiddle with the stems of the roses, feeling for a bud somewhere. Something he can tuck into his buttonhole, if he feels brave enough.

“And I’ve certainly had to keep myself busy, over the last few months,” he adds. “Remind me to show you some of my other projects later.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley considers not taking the opportunity Aziraphale's put in front of him, but the steps of this dance are second nature for them now. Thwart and wile and thwart again, layers of excuses and justifications. He's here; everything else is a bonus. "Yeah, better put 'em in the window so they get attention. Should've gotten a more ostentatious display, but there were limits to what I could do on such short notice." He sniffs at the air. "Is that wagyu beef I smell? You have been busy. Where'd you even get that in these times?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“I know a few enterprising souls who could use a boost in these trying times.” As lofty as the words are, he can’t help sounding pleased with himself—and with Crowley, for recognizing at least one of the dishes.

“If you wouldn’t mind putting on some of that likely-scandalous music you’ve brought,” he adds, as he breezes past Crowley to find a blown glass vase wedged awkwardly into one of the shelves. (The stack of theatre programs it was holding upright wilts to one side slightly, but doesn’t dare fall on the floor with Crowley around.) “Then we can get started properly.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Not a boost," Crowley corrects, more of less automatically. "They're to inspire jealousy and envy, keep up." The grin he flashes at Aziraphale takes any sting out of the words as he walks over to the grammophone. He has a posh sound system in his flat, of course, but there really is just something about vinyl. It's no sacrifice to bring records over. Besides, they're trendy again.

Contrary to expectations, however, he puts on something smooth and jazzy instead of scandalous. Even if he'd had other plans, he can recognize a scene being set when he sees one. He doesn't have to understand it yet to get the basic idea. "Properly? What exactly am I in for here, angel?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Dinner,” Aziraphale says airily, shooting him the sort of pretending-not-to-be-a-bastard look he usually reserves for infuriating statements like well, it’s your turn this time, isn’t it or wait and see. “Talking of which—thank you very much, my dear, you can help yourself whenever you like.”

There’s a small pink bud, just very slightly open, that will just do the trick. Aziraphale gently pulls it free from the bouquet, breaks the stem off in just the right place so he can tuck the rosebud into the lapel buttonhole on his coat. (It stays there without needing to be pinned, because he asks it to.) That done, he nearly strides back to the table.

“Oh—did I forget to mention what I was serving?” He knows perfectly well he never specified. “To start—wagyu beef, oysters Rockefeller, and toro sashimi. Just a little something to whet the appetite.”

(Their first shared meals, plus something new with a pleasant texture and a fresh, bright taste. Oh, certainly he’s dressed up the beef with a red wine reduction and some caramelized onion and rosemary, and half hidden the oysters under parsley and bread crumbs, but the bones of their history are there.)

From:

duckshaveears

"'ve for more of an appetite than usual, after that nap," Crowley admits, sauntering over towards the spread. It's an impressive one, wouldn't disgrace the Ritz itself. "You really made all these?" he says, admiration evident. He might not be a food conessieur the way Aziraphale is but he can appreciate artistry when he sees it.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I most certainly did.” He can’t help allowing himself to be pleased and proud, even if that does tip over a bit into smug. “Including the menu. Something of my own invention.”

He can’t resist dropping that in too—it feels like boldness, in the same way the vase in the window and the rosebud in his buttonhole feel bold. Something’s different today, and I can’t wait for you to guess how.

“Oh—and of course there’s wine. And,” he adds, almost gleefully, “a cocktail. Just the one sort, though, at least for today. The rest of the menu rather got away from me.”

Only one, but he’s proud of how simple and brazen his choice is. Vodka, infused with jalapeño peppers [footnote: Which was both shaken and stirred in ways openly disrespectful to the laws of physics and time to produce the desired effect in less than an hour.], and passion fruit juice. Sweet and strong and full of fire going down.

From:

duckshaveears

Aziraphale never does anything without going over-the-top, but even for him this is decadent. Crowley has a brief pang of guilt; Aziraphale really must have gotten bored and lonely, to make a celebration like this.

Hard to feel too guilty though, with the angel wiggling in pride and anticipation.

"Cocktails, is it?" He grins. "Hand me one of those and let's get this party started, angel!"

From:

confoundthemighty

Of course he’s already got two ready for them, perfectly chilled, in two martini glasses. [footnote: They’d been champagne flutes that morning, but the look hadn’t been quite right, so they’re martini glasses now.] Beaming and effortless, he whisks them up from their place on the table and brings them to Crowley, offering one out. Let me tempt you. This has been part of the dance too, for a long time, and it’s a part he loves dearly.

“It’s a rather unusual recipe, but I think you’ll like it. I learned it from one of the other shopkeepers on the street—you know they’ve got this thing called a ‘mailing list’, and they use it to chat about all sorts of things. You can learn some fascinating stuff, giving people license to talk about their hobbies.”

From:

duckshaveears

It's usually Crowley tempting Aziraphale, not the other way around. Crowley finds that he doesn't mind the switch, particularly since Aziraphale is offering him alcohol. He rolls his eyes as he accepts the cocktail. "Yes, angel, I know what a mailing list is, along with everyone else in the 21st century." It's teasing but not unkind or unfond.

He has a sip. His eyebrow rises. "Zingy," he says, with approval, taking another taste. "This thing have a name?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Well.” He draws himself up a little, shoots Crowley what he hopes is a sly glance. It’s still got quite a lot of his beaming softness in it, though, so the net effect is debatable at best. “As it so happens, the spouse of the gentleman who owns the magic shop got very interested in something called ‘mixology’. It’s one of their creations. They’ve named it the amor prohibido.”

This, he knows, is very nearly brazen of him. But after centuries of being timid, he’d rather like a change. Even if it is a bit terrifying.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley manages to not spit his mouthful back into the martini glass in sheer surprise. The tone of the evening is already suggestive, but that? That's blatant, especially by Aziraphale's standards.

Then again, whenever he's committed to a course of action, he does tend to dive into it fully. Theatrically, even.

Well, well, well. Isn't this promising...

Crowley fires his best quirked eyebrow at Aziraphale. "Is it, now," he says, almost purring and trying to look as demonically suggestive as possible. [footnote: It turns about as over-the-top ridiculous as most of Aziraphale's efforts. They're quite well-matched in that regard really.]

From:

confoundthemighty

All at once something shifts behind those gold eyes, and Aziraphale finds himself a small fascinated creature held in thrall to a snake. Just for a second. He manages to shake the sensation on his next inhale, but it leaves him with a pleasant free-falling feeling.

“It is. Invented in honour of their wedding anniversary,” he adds, which is true, though hardly a convincing fig leaf at this point. Not that he really wants the fig leaf, exactly, but… it’s more force of habit than anything else. “Thirteen years this coming May. According to Olive, their relationship had to remain a secret for a few months, as their family didn’t entirely approve of stage magicians. Oyster?”

Edited (nattering!) Date: 2023-08-09 07:36 pm (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley has the distinct impression that if he says yes to an oyster, Aziraphale will feed it to him by hand. Which is...a pretty appealing idea, to be honest, enough to make his head spin.

You don't get to be the world's foremost expert in temptation without learning something about timing, however. Or about anticipation.

"In a minute, maybe," he says. "I'd like to get my mouth around one of those meaty things first."

Yes, he knows exactly how it sounds, as is made obvious by his smirk as he reaches for one of the wagyu beef things. Which proves to be sinfully good. He eats it in two near bites, slow and deliberate and not quite provocative. "Mmm. That's good, angel."

From:

confoundthemighty

Immediately Aziraphale is glad he’d made a switch from his usual corporeal preferences at the start of the evening—his body is most definitely reacting without his permission. Between the capsaicin in the cocktail reddening Crowley’s lips, the absolutely shameless innuendo, and the deliberate way the demon handles his first few bites, he’s so wet it’s a little uncomfortable. (Not quite embarrassing, though.)

There’s a charge in the air that feels like a seam slowly unraveling: a thread being pulled, inches at a time, steady and sure.

“Thank you very much.” Somehow his voice remains smooth; though a flush rises on his cheeks and in his ears, his smile is sincerely pleased. “Not quite the Ritz, but I am very happy with the progress I’ve made, over the last few months.”

He snags a piece of toro and pops it into his mouth. It’s silky, cool, absurdly soft on the tongue, a sharp contrast to the heat of the cocktail; his eyes flutter shut for a half-second at the sensation.