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

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.

From:

duckshaveears

"I'll take this over the Ritz any day," says Crowley, still staring intently as Aziraphale...

Well. There's no polite way to put it. Aziraphale's mouth is making love to that sashimi, or vice-versa, and Crowley could happily take a seat and watch the angel appreciate his way through every last crumb of this planned meal and not get bored of it. Especially not when Aziraphale looks like that while eating.

Crowley's trousers suddenly start to feel tighter than did.

"That good, hmm?" His throat is dry. He takes another sip of cocktail. Forbidden Love, which might not be as appropriate a name as its first seemed. Crowley is starting to wonder what if anything is forbidden here.

He picks up another of the toro sashimi, and slowly eats it. Staring unblinking at Aziraphale all the while.

From:

confoundthemighty

Again there’s that sense of being a prey animal caught in a snake’s focused gaze. Aziraphale holds eye contact for just a moment longer than he probably should before reaching for a piece of the wagyu himself.

“Well, I can’t exactly take credit for that,” he says, trying to use the words as an excuse to blow out a little breath to calm himself. Which only sort of works. “All I did there was slice and plate it, I’m afraid. But it is lovely, isn’t it? Incomparable texture. Clears the palate of the heat from the cocktail, a bit.”

He’s aware he’s sort of nattering on, at this point, so he pauses to try the beef. Admittedly, very little will ever come close to that very first taste of cooked meat, but a few things do come close, with wagyu being one of them.

From:

duckshaveears

"Thought of it, didn't you?" Crowley's voice is low and dark with appreciation. He remembers so clearly the first time he tempted Aziraphale, over a plate of roast ox. Little had he known what he'd started...

"Assembled it, paired it properly. Give yourself credit, angel." Remembering his earlier thought, Crowley picks up one of the oysters next, but holds it out for Aziraphale instead of swallowing it himself. "Petronius himself would envy your palate."

From:

confoundthemighty

The oyster draws his gaze immediately, and he feels his throat tighten. There’s a charge of both challenge and invitation in Crowley’s posture. He knows, or at least suspects, and he’s clearly waiting to see what Aziraphale will do about it.

While lockdown has certainly increased Aziraphale’s desire to indulge, it has not put any significant dent in how much of a bastard he can be. He began this evening with the intention of being the one doing the tempting; he recognizes that he’s being offered a chance to turn the reins over to Crowley here.

With a start he realizes he doesn’t actually want to.

He wants Crowley wound up, wants to push him to the same point of I can’t stand it anymore that he himself has only now reached. He doesn’t just want to give in, he wants to watch Crowley trying to hold himself together until he does, with both of them knowing it’s only a matter of time until they can both have what they want.

Aziraphale’s smile turns bright, if a touch sly, and he takes the oyster—and then reaches over to grab a fork so he can eat it out of the shell himself.

“Now, be fair to the man. I’ll concede I’ve had considerably more experience in sampling world cuisine than Petronius ever got, but he was an excellent chef given the limitations of the century and the available ingredients.”

From:

duckshaveears

Later, when Aziraphale tells Crowley what his thoughts were at this point, the demon will laugh himself senseless. As though he hadn't spent centuries already wound almost to the breaking point...! It was frustrating before, often, but by then it'll be hilarious.

And now?

Now Crowley sees a very familiar expression on Aziraphale's face, the one that says I am a bastard and I am going to enjoy it immensely and furthermore so shall you. And Crowley will, because he'd follow Aziraphale anywhere for that bit of mischief in his smile, and they both know it.

God, Crowley loves him.

He barely hears what Aziraphale says about Petronius because it's utterly unimportant compared to the real conversation happening here, the silent one about who's in charge and what speed they're going at. With Aziraphale looking like that the answers are a foregone conclusion, even if the goal hasn't yet been explicitly stated.

But that's no reason not to enjoy it, right?

"Yeah, he wasn't bad," Crowley says, picking up another oyster. "First time I ever had one of these." And he'd spent half the meal mercilessly teasing Aziraphale about what they were supposed to suggest and signify, the taste, and so on. No need to repeat that, the angel will remember. Instead Crowley leans his head back, tips the shell and lets the oyster slide in. Chews once to let all the taste bloom in his mouth. Swallows it down, his throat on display. "Mm."

From:

confoundthemighty

It’s not often that Crowley does more than steal tastes off of his plate, but Aziraphale remembers very vividly the sight of him trying an oyster for the first time. The way his fingers curled around it, how his throat worked, how his expression bounced between confused and delighted and surprised… he hadn’t yet known what to call the slipping, tumbling feeling that accompanied all his thoughts and every taste of food.

Aziraphale knows, breathing through that feeling now, it’s always been love.

Now, though, there’s anticipation under it. Now there’s something that blazes brighter than hope, something that warms the air as his gaze traces along the line of Crowley’s neck again, watching him swallow. The sight alone is every bit as lush to him as the actual flavors.

He’s going to enjoy this.

“And at the time I’d thought you knew all there was to know about food,” he says, his tone very gently teasing. “But I’m glad I could broaden your horizons. Talking of which, by the way, you’ll have to let me know if I got the dough on this next one right.”

Aziraphale gestures at one of the plates, which obligingly scoots closer. He rarely admits to liking pizza, as it’s in general not the tidiest of foods, but for the first time he’s actually made one himself. Just a miniature one, already sliced for quick tastes.

(This one is subtle in a way he’s intensely pleased with himself for. Goat’s milk feta—he couldn’t have used goat meat; that would have felt cruel—and prosciutto, with an additional topping that looks like black olives. They’re not olives at all, but cherries pickled in balsamic vinegar with thyme and peppercorn. He’d originally intended it to pique Crowley’s curiosity; now he’s simply interested to see how the demon reacts.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley snorts. "Nah. Never was as much a one for food, you know that. Drink now, that's another matter." His eyes twinkle as he tastes the cocktail again, slow and deliberate. If his tongue flicks out to lick his lips at the end, and if it looks a bit forked...well, that doesn't mean anything. Nothing at all. "I like this one, incidently. Remind me to thank your neighbours for inspiring you to share it."

He tilts his head to look at the pizzas. Those definitely aren't Aziraphale's usual style--but at the same time they are, made small and neat with posh-looking toppings. "This is a new one from you." He picks up one of the thin slices, examining it. Looks harmless enough, and he likes olives.

One bite in leaves him almost sputtering in surprise. He manages to chew and swallow instead of spitting (bad form, can't do that, might be remembered later). His expression can only be described, whether Aziraphale is familiar with the phrase/abbreviation or not, as 'WTF'. "Angel," he says slowly. "Why are there cherries on my pizza?"

(He does sound more amused than not, but only someone who knows him well would be able to tell)

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, did you mistake them for olives?”

If it’s possible to be arch and gleeful at the same time, Aziraphale is certainly pulling it off now. He knows perfectly well he’s fooled Crowley, and furthermore that he enjoys the deception. Which makes him feel terribly clever and sneaky.

“I came upon a recipe for pickled balsamic cherries and thought they might fit the flavor profile nicely.” He says it almost sweetly, punctuating the statement by picking one off of his slice of pizza and popping it into his mouth.

(Admittedly, it’s not the most delicious thing on the table. It’s a peculiar taste, to say the least. But it’s also a grab for Crowley’s attention, an alert meant to let him know that not everything here is as he might expect it to be.)

From:

duckshaveears

"You absolute bastard," Crowley says with delight that becomes more and more obvious. "You did that on purpose and we both know it."

Because he likes olives, but he loves when Aziraphale surprises him.

He takes another bite, now that he has some idea what he's getting into. "Not bad," he judges. "They're no pineapple, but it all works."

(of course Crowley likes pineapple on pizza. It's hilarious how angry people get over the issue, and while they're sweeter than he usually enjoys they're also acidic as hell and he likes tart things. Which also explains why he likes Aziraphale, come to that)

From:

confoundthemighty

“I rather thought so. Glad you agree.”

He takes another bite of his own, feeling absurdly pleased with himself. And, if he’s honest, with how Crowley’s reacted to the surprise. There’s a wicked delight in those yellow eyes that Aziraphale relishes with every fiber of his being—once he would have never admitted to it, but now he’s allowing himself to bask. Because he loves the rare occasions when he can surprise Crowley like this on purpose. Without fail, it makes him feel suave and accomplished, something even vaguely approaching Crowley’s level of effortless cool.

Aziraphale chases the pizza with another sip of the cocktail, which makes his lips tingle.

“I’m also choosing to count this as an instance of you being fooled by my stage magic skills, even if it is more disguise than sleight of hand.”

You thought I was an absolute bastard a minute ago. I’m afraid you gravely underestimated what you’re in for, dear boy.

(If it happens at all it’ll take years of prying and poking and dirty tactics, but until then, Aziraphale will sooner submit to voluntary discorporation than admit to how much he enjoys being a bastard sometimes. How there are moments when it gives him a little rush of what feels like power, a feeling he likes far more than any angel ought to do. Even a retired one.)