Another Year, Another Open RP Post

[duckshaveears]

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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[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.

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[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.

1am phone tag shhhhhh I'm asleep really honest

[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?"

GO2BED BOOMERANG

[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.

SHAN'T BOOMERANG

[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?"

YOU NEED SLEEP also Crowley you poor nerd

[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?

nighttime is clearly tag time

[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."

augh Crowley ;_;

[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.”

and yup that italicized bit comes out SO bitter

[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--"

[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.”

[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."

[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.”

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[confoundthemighty]

Even without the physical sensation Aziraphale feels distinctly swept off his feet. Some part of him responds instinctively; on his dream-self that manifests in him driving his hands into Crowley’s hair and kissing him back hungrily, but in terms of his emotions, the sunlit clarity of them only grows.

I love you too. I love you back. I want what you want and I’m so relieved, so happy, so astonished, because for some reason you chose me. You could have had anyone and you chose me. And we can finally stop hiding from one another and get down to spending eternity together, the only thing I’ve ever thought eternity would actually be good for.

Despite having kept all of this secret for decades—for centuries, if he’s honest—the brilliance of it only keeps strengthening. He knows he should probably restrain himself in some way, he doesn’t want his divine nature to hurt Crowley even by accident, but right now the kiss takes precedence over everything.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley stretches his body atop Aziraphale's, somehow managing to get them both in the bed (it's possible the bed expands in accordance with his expectations). Another half a thought and their shoes are gone; everything else he leaves in place, the better to unwrap them himself.

"Angel." He says it like a prayer against Aziraphale's mouth. "Angel, angel...tell me I can. Tell me you want this."

He's already starting to move downwards, his kisses moving from mouth to neck (which he bites, a nip expertly judged to land right between pleasure and pain). His hands are already busy with Aziraphale's buttons. "Tell me you want me."

[confoundthemighty]

The bite feels just short of real—a sweet little pinch, a splash of heat against his throat—and then those ragged, pleading words register, and it’s like an updraft under the wings of his soul, lifting him.

Distantly he knows he should probably put more effort into waking Crowley, but… but it’s almost real, and the devotion that pours off of his demon is intoxicating.

“Yes.” He’s held it back for so long that it bursts awkwardly from him at first, not so much the peal of a bell as a thunderclap a bit too close. “Yes. I want you.”

There’s a glimpse of that want, something as hot as the heart of a star that stretches towards the unknowable, in the way Aziraphale’s hands grasp Crowley’s back and card through his hair.

[duckshaveears]

It's intoxicating. It always is but it feels even more dizzying this time, maybe because it's been so long since he let himself indulge like this. Later there may be guilt or frustration or doubt but now, now his head is spinning from how perfect it is and he's barely begun.

"Again, say it again." Because he can demandthat here, he can be this here. He's undone Aziraphale's collar and waistcoat and is working on the necktie, kissing and nipping everywhere as he goes. Mouth, face, neck, jaw, ears. Sometimes gently, sometimes hungrily. It's as though he can actual feel Aziraphale wanting him, and it's better than anything he's imagined before, but he still wants to hear it said.

[confoundthemighty]

“I want you.” It comes out hotter, stronger, a spark catching. Crowley is pulling off his layers in more than one sense, exposing truth where his dream self bares skin. “I need you. I did before I knew I did.”

He’s in free fall, now, caught between the familiar indulgence of occasional dreams and the breathtaking newness of knowing the feelings are real, and at last he lets himself start to ruck the back of Crowley’s shirt up and off. Aziraphale can’t help himself—he’s desperate for this, for every iota of love and desire he can feel.

[duckshaveears]

Crowley's eyes roll up in his head, and he wonders if he could come from this alone, the impossible combination of hearing his angel say he needs him and the roar of heat that floods him as it's said. He probably could. And it would do no harm, wouldn't stop them, he can just keep going for as long as he want. And God, how he wants...! He could spin galaxies with the strength of it.

Aziraphale shows some of his own initiative in exactly the way Crowley would wish, pulling at Crowley's shirt, which Crowley is more than willing to duck out of and lose.

He immediately goes back to Aziraphale's bowtie, finally discarding it and moving back to the button down shirt, kissing every inch of bare skin he reveals as he moves down. Aziraphale's hands are on his back, his head. "The things I want to do to you..." Another kiss at the navel, and he moves back up, finding one of the angel's nipples and tonguing it. "You've no idea, angel, the things I'd do. Keep you in this bed with me for months and it wouldn't be enough." He worries it in his teeth, then kisses it gentle and moves to the other one. "Tie you to the bedposts with your own bowties and make love to you til you howl. And you'd love it, wouldn't you?"

[confoundthemighty]

“Yes—!” Starved, smitten, he lets the word go in a raw sob. He’s all but forgotten he’s not in his body, raking fingernails up Crowley’s ribs and chest and shoulder blades the way he’s longed to do for years. “Yes, please, yes.”

There’s no shame in him, no fear whatsoever. They’re safe and they’re together the way they’ve both always longed for and nothing, nothing else in the world could possibly matter but this. Heat flares, a fierce spike of tenderness, an ache to be held close; Aziraphale arches, pinned between Crowley and the mattress, and groans at the sweet pressure of the restraint. He squirms to try and part his thighs, to fit them more closely together.