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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

duckshaveears

The doppleganger goes quite pink. "There have been a few exceptions," he admits. "After particularly, ah, emotional events. 1941 was...memorable." He sighs with something like mixed satisfaction and regret. "I feel quite willing, understand, even enthusiastic! But I don't know if that's because I'm a copy of you and your desires, or if I'm a reflection of what he hopes they might be. And he doesn't know either. I'm afraid we just muddle on as best we can, and I've learned not to attempt to tempt him overmuch. It hurts him so."

From:

confoundthemighty

Something about those last four words, it hurts him so, sinks into Aziraphale like a barb. A pang of jealousy only drives it deeper—which is ridiculous, this other version of him is basically just a piece of Crowley, and yet how can he not envy a version of him who has what he wants so desperately? It passes in a moment, and he adds it to the list of things he’ll have to learn to forgive himself for eventually.

“If you’re willing and enthusiastic, then you’re an accurate reflection.”

There is a faint peevishness in his tone, half of it irritation at his own reaction to what he’s learned and half of it simple exasperation with Crowley. The indignance helps him deal with the fact that he’s not really admitted to this aloud before, for certain values of “aloud” that include “communicating to an imaginary version of himself”. The exasperation just comes in waves: you idiot, you could have said, and instead you won’t even let yourself dream about it? I ought to give your Bentley a permanent travel sweet tray for that.

“And of course the problem now is that he doesn’t seem to believe either of us.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Ah," Aziraphale breathes out upon learning about his accuracy, however petualantly expressed. "I'd wondered."

They stand in silence for a moment, looking out at the ocean. The sunset seems caught in its moment of dying perfection, with all the colours at their brightest; it doesn't seem to be sinking further. Everything is gold and scarlet and beautiful.

"You have options I don't have, you know," the doppleganger says. "I can't approach him now, for example; he's asked all of us not to. All us dream figments, I mean. Well, not asked, it's debateable how much autonomy any of us possess..." He stops and shakes his head. "That's unimportant. What I mean is, you can approach him, I assume. You're not part of his dream and have free will, you're not limited to his assumptions." His smile turns distinctly pained. "That's where I've always been...lacking, you see. I only really do what he expects I'll do. Or what he wishes I'd do."

From:

confoundthemighty

He considers all this for a moment; it takes him a moment to notice he and his double are both fiddling with their pinky rings in an identical way. The fact that Crowley has registered even his little unconscious habits, so many bits of him that he himself isn’t aware of half the time, sets off a surprised and helpless wave of affection in Aziraphale’s heart that cuts through the irritation.

Crowley’s an optimist about so many things—often to the point of recklessness—and yet he can’t seem to consider the possibility that he might be wanted.

Aziraphale gentles at once, letting go of a tension he’s only now aware he was holding.

“I hope, for both our sakes, that I can help him change you,” he admits. “I don’t intend to keep it from him any longer. He’ll learn to expect more of you—as he should. Or at least he will if I can get him to really listen.”

He glances out and down the beach, looking for a familiar slithering walk or a narrow silhouette somewhere against the brilliant colors of the sunset.

From:

duckshaveears

"You don't mind?" Not-Aziraphale looks surprised. "That I--that I want to, that I hope--" He blushes furiously and leaves what he wants unsaid. "I rather thought that if you, ah, made your appearance on the scene, he'd be even less willing to...entertain fantasies, than he currently. And less able, as well."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Well, less able, perhaps, since he’ll be awake more often,” the angel concedes. “But you already know I can’t be with him all the time. You can, by virtue of being…” Aziraphale gestures vaguely, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “…well, an invention. And when I’m not readily available, someone will have to remind him of how I feel.”

Besides—which he feels a bit less able to explain, or possibly less inclined—it’s actually something of a relief to him to imagine Crowley fantasizing about him. He would feel awfully guilty if he was the only one allowing himself the liberty of dreaming about what could be between the two of them.

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh...!" Not-Aziraphale goes pink again, but this time rather more pleasingly so. A small hopeful smile curves his mouth. "Oh, I should very much like to do that, yes." He shifts his weight happily. "He's down this way, if you'd like to find him and discuss the matter? I believe he's on a beach chair watching the sunset. And drinking, which doesn't work here the way it would on the outside, but he does enjoy making the attempt."

From:

confoundthemighty

He offers his double what he hopes is a kind smile—as strange as it is to be encouraging a version of himself under these circumstances, it still feels important to be kind—before adjusting his appearance slightly. He’s back to how he looked that night in 1941, the night he realized it was love and it always would be. Granted, it’s not an enormous change from his usual appearance, but the difference is just noticeable.

“I’ll do my best.” A thought occurs to him, and he adds, “Feel free to repeat anything you might hear me saying to him, if you think it’ll help. Unless it’s about Restoration-era poetry, I’m fairly sure he tunes that out when I talk about it.”

Another glance down the beach, and at last he can pick out a figure sprawled in a chair, a distant leggy silhouette.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley does indeed have a beach chair. It's black with one single red stripe, of course. There's a matching umbrella, apparently for the look of the thing as it's certainly not needed at this time of day. Night. Endless twilight. Whatever.

He also has a number of bottles. They're slightly buried at intervals in the sand so he can reach out in a any given direction and be fairly confident of grabbing one. There's only one currently opened though, held loosely by the neck in one hand. He's staring at the sunset, unblinking.

From:

confoundthemighty

A thought, and Aziraphale is a few feet away—not quite within arm’s length, but close enough for conversation, though standing as opposed to conjuring a beach chair of his own. He’s never been able to sit gracefully in those things, and even in someone else’s dreamscape he doesn’t want to be seen making the attempt.

He does clear his throat, which in practical terms manifests as just the slightest ripple of projecting his presence: So you know, I’m here.

“I wasn’t actually finished, Crowley.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is so startled the bottle actually goes flying, landing several feet away and leaking purple liquid into the sand. Crowley stares up at Aziraphale in something like mixed dismay and astonishment. "What are you doing here?" he blurts out.

Then he shakes his head. "No, nevermind, I must've gotten distracted. Sorry angel, but you should leave me be for now, yeah?"

He waves a hand, clearly expecting Aziraphale to vanish one way or another.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I’d rather not.”

The hand-wave prompts a fondly disapproving look. Even in his dreams, Crowley can’t resist a theatrical flourish. It’s one of the many things Aziraphale finds both exasperating and wonderful about him.

His attention strays to the bottles buried in the sand, and he bends to retrieve the nearest one. The label is as vague as the books in the background of Aziraphale’s shop were; a moment’s consideration, a flex of his willpower, and it changes to the Châteauneuf-du-Pape they’d shared that night.

“Can I top you up?” he asks, offering it back.

Edited (wine spelling for gOODNESS SAKE) Date: 2023-08-09 02:09 am (UTC)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley looks extremely confused behind his sunglasses. He waves his hand again. Nothing happens (aside from a dramatic hand gesture). One more time; nothing.

"You've picked up a new trick," he says, somewhere between bemused and faintly irked. "I'm really pretty sure that shouldn't be possible. Some worrying philosophical implications to that at the very least. How're you doing it?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“How do you think?”

He’s perfectly aware it’s a maddening response; there is some part of him that really never can resist winding up Crowley a little when he gets the chance. Right now, particularly, he feels as if he’s entitled. Not that he means it in a genuinely spiteful way, he simply enjoys the response it provokes.

From:

duckshaveears

"Well..." Crowley draws out the word, slowly reaching out a hand to take the bottle Aziraphale is offering. "Most likely is that I'm sabotaging crap again and you're here because deep down of course I really want you to be and I'm failing to resist...myself, actually, rather than you. Ugh, psychoanalysts would have a field day with this."

He leans back on his chair, still meditating on Aziraphale. "Or possibly my own imagination has gone rogue on me, which Downstairs would say is only my just desserts. Or I've stopped lucid dreaming and slipped into the ordinary random stuff humans do, in which case this bottle will turn into a squid or a cock or somethibf any minute now. Which psychoanalysts could also have a field day with. What are you doing here?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale knows he could continue to be infuriating with a simple response like I followed you, but the sharp edge of irritation has worn off now. He’s here, he’s got Crowley’s attention. He’s changed the narrative, even if only a little.

“Has it occurred to you that it’s not sabotage? That I might want to be here as much as you want me here?” That I’d like to be here with you, wherever ‘here’ may be, for as long as possible?

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley sighs and rubs his forehead with his hands. "You know I have," he says quietly. "I dream about that possibility all the time. Which is how I keep ending up in this sodding mess, with figments that echo everything I want and don't have."

He takes a deep shuddering breath, shrugs. "And then I get myself under control and it goes back to normal for a while until the next time I want too much. Don't think it's not tempting, angel. It's so fucking tempting." He closes his eyes. "And it wouldn't be fair. Not to you or the real one. Not to me either, most likely. It just makes things harder. So if I put any kindness into you when I dreamt you up, leave me alone for a bit, all right?"

He opens his eyes again, and looks at Aziraphale with open, obvious longing as he tries and doesn't really manage to smile. "It won't be long, I never can stay away for long. Bad penny, me."

From:

confoundthemighty

That longing look stirs something answering in Aziraphale’s soul. Knowing Crowley wants what he wants, just as intensely, and yet believes it to be impossible even in the sanctity of his imagination… he’s flooded with a desire to show his wonderful idiot fiend exactly how wrong he is, even if he’s not yet sure how.

“If I may be so bold,” he points out, some of that fondness warming his voice, “I can’t see how it’s fair to you to rule out the possibility altogether. Or to me, for that matter. We are both retired now, and very much free to do as we please.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley shrugs. "Wouldn't say I've ruled the possibility out. I keep trying, don't I? Offering a ride, a drink, a trip to Alpha Centauri, to stay at my place if he likes, to slither over and watch him eat cake..."

He sighs, and it sounds exhausted. He looks back at the sunset. It hasn't moved. "But the ball's in his court, always is. He knows where to find me if he ever wants to. He's free to do as be pleases and maybe one day that'll be me, but in the meantime--"

He breaks off with something like a snarl and flings himself off the deck chair, pacing in the sand. "--why am I doing this, I already know all this, why can't I let it go even in my own blessed dreams--"

From:

confoundthemighty

“You’re answering your own question.”

He’d hoped, desperately, that the things Crowley’s offered him through the years were more than just friendly temptations. Yes, he’d been terrified of Heaven’s retribution or of Hell punishing Crowley, but… some wants don’t just go away, no matter how ill-advised they are at the time.

“I know where to find you. Here I am.” Aziraphale feels his spirit lift with determination, something that registers on his dream-self as a squaring of the shoulders, a resoluteness about the eyes. “I may not be terribly familiar with sporting metaphors, but I believe the ball isn’t meant to stay in my court indefinitely, and can be returned at any time.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh, angel."

A few quick steps and suddenly Crowley's grabbed Aziraphale in an embrace, hard and close, his face buried in his shoulder. "I wish it were that easy," he says, his voice low and fond and regretful. His arms tighten. "I really do. Wish I could just...let myself pretend that, for a while. But it always bites me in the arse in the end when I do, and not in any sort of fun way."

He sighs, nuzzling his nose against Aziraphale's neck. "...bless it. You smell so good, do you know that?" He kisses the skin there lightly. "So hard to resist, my angel. No wonder I never give up on you."

From:

confoundthemighty

Even though it’s not really a physical sensation, Aziraphale feels the embrace, a rush of desperate warmth and longing that loops around him in thick coils and won’t let go. Helplessly fond, he lets some of his own emotion spill over as his arms wrap around Crowley’s narrow frame to pull him in even tighter, a wave of pure affection.

Yearning brushes against his soul as Crowley kisses his neck. It sparks a feeling in Aziraphale he’s never actually experienced before: a kind of astonished, hungry wonder, a half-disbelieving delight. Not arousal, not passion, but the thunderstruck understanding that what’s between them is mutual. That he is loved every bit as intensely as he loves.

He lifts his head, whispers in Crowley’s ear, a little of that brilliance spilling over in his words.

“I’m ready to stop resisting if you are.”

From:

duckshaveears

Physical things are muted here, including the scent Crowley just mentioned. But his memory is good and his imagination is better, and this place is his. He can make a surprising amount of detail when he wants.

Even so, this is impressive even to him. There are notes in his angel's scent he'd almost forgotten, and he's so warm. So soft and sturdy in Crowley's arms, exactly as he should be.

As if things weren't difficult enough, a wave of...something washes over them, warm and pleasant. Crowley groans helplessly at the feel of it. "Fuck, that's good..." he murmurs. He kisses Aziraphale's neck again, strokes fingers lightly down his back. "You're making this so difficult, angel." There's another wave, this one with even more heat, and Crowley groans again.

From:

confoundthemighty

The revelation keeps breaking, like the tide coming in, like a distant cloud of energy and matter churning out stars. Aziraphale can’t hold it back, not here where he’s more thought than substance, and—and why would he, after all he’s seen, after months of solitude? His hands move gently over Crowley’s back, tracing an impression of sharpness, an anxious heat.

“I meant it,” he whispers, and letting the truth go at last is a dizzyingly heavy weight dropped from his soul. “I ought to have done this a long time ago. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

From:

duckshaveears

There's another minute of them both just holding each other, Crowley nuzzling at Aziraphale's neck and ear, stopping to just breathe, then continuing as though he can't help himself. Which is more or less the case. That blanketing wave of warmth is still around them, like being in a sunbeam but one that sinks under the skin, gets in every pore, every blood vessel, right down to the metaphysical bits that exist only for an uncertain value of existence. All through him, everywhere.

And all of it is laced with Aziraphale, smells like him, feels like him.

"...ahhhh, sod it," Crowley says finally, snapping his fingers. He doesn't have to do it that way here, but it's habit and works just as well. "If I'm going to do this, let's do it properly."

The beach landscape around them melts; the gold of the air becomes gold in truth, gilt trimming on cream walls, embellishments on pillars in a large, circular room with only one piece of furniture in it. The bed is frankly ridiculous, four-postered and easily capable of holding eight people, the linens cream and gold with lace dripping everywhere, all of it resting on a carpet deep and plush enough to make a comfortable bed in its own right. Not that Aziraphale has much time to examine it all before Crowley is on him.

Whatever hesitation there was is clearly gone. Crowley kisses Aziraphale with unrestrained passion, deep and messy and fervent, pushing him down on the bed without pausing to break the kiss even for a breath.