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

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.)

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley snorts, bu it's fond. "Keep your attempts at stage magic to culinary venues and we will both be happier for it, angel," he says dryly. "Should I be worried about the main course, or dessert? Is there going to be stake tartare that turns out to be made of marzipan, or a cake that's actually lasagna?"

He pauses. "...hang on, is a lasagna just a pasta cake?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“It is not, and don’t you start with your food semantics,” Aziraphale retorts immediately. (He hasn’t yet forgotten Crowley giggling to him for a week straight over the consternation he’d caused with the simple question ‘is a hot dog a sandwich’.) “Though actually there isn’t one main course. I did it a bit like tapas, in that sense.”

Only three dishes, and only small servings, but made with care and plated beautifully. Pork medallions with a honey apple glaze, wild rice pilaf with a mole poblano, and patatas bravas. He’d had a dozen more ideas but had ultimately narrowed it down to those three. Two sweet and savory, and one with a fairly modest starch in combination with a sauce too spicy to eat on its own. Pairings of contrast.

From:

duckshaveears

"Half the point of a fancy meal is talking about the food! I'm doing you a favour bringing semantics into it." (Crowley loves asking people that hot dog question, it's amazing how much rage it induces).

He steals (it is stealing and not just taking, matter of lack of principle) another of the raw fish things--Aziraphale's right, the texture is like silk--and finishes off his cocktail, holding out the empty glass. "Got another one of these to tide me over 'til the next round of tapas, in that case?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Of course.” Knowing how much Crowley enjoys spicy things (or straight espresso, or scotch, or taco truck monstrosities) he’d made an entire pitcherful of the stuff. Granted, the only pitcher he had on hand was a Biot glassware one he’d intended to gift to the young lady across the street at the coffee shop as part of an anonymous ‘hang in there’ care package, but Crowley doesn’t need to hear about his good deeds. Particularly since they highlight how awful things have been over the past year, and he’s frankly not in the mood to discuss it.

So he pours Crowley another glassful, watching the demon watch his wrists the whole time, and though the smile on his face is an average size the grin in his soul is enormous.

“And at any rate, there is no pasta cake of any sort on this table, thank you very much.” (A sole covered dish, yes—dessert he wanted to keep a complete surprise visually—but no lasagna.) “Though I’ll have you know I can make a passable tagliatelle from scratch, given some time to clear a large enough surface for it.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley does watch Aziraphale's wrists. They're nice wrists. Strong. Attached to frankly mouth-watering forearms.

He's not ogling, but it's a near thing.

(is he allowed to ogle now? He might actually be allowed to ogle now. He might even be being encouraged to ogle now. Oh brave new world.)

The nice wrists hand him another cocktail, which is just adding insult to injury, for a value of both that equals 'insanely attractive'. "Tagliatelle, hmm." He takes a slow, deliberate sip, moving his gaze from Aziraphale's wrists up to his eyes. "I can do a good puttanesca sauce. If that's something that interests you."

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley’s gaze flicks up to meet his, and Aziraphale’s breath hitches quite without his permission, though silently. It’s manifestly unfair that whatever he does to his physical appearance he’s the single most attractive person Aziraphale has ever come across, and doubly unfair that he’s rendered even more attractive when he obviously wants something.

A shame they gave Satan the title of Great Seducer, since Crowley’s the most effortlessly seductive being he’s ever known.

If that’s something that interests you. God, doesn’t it just. “I didn’t know you’d ever learned.” This is also true, and makes a good cover for the momentary slip. “We might have to make an evening of that sometime.”

He reaches back for one of the small plates with the trio of main-course-tastes on it, offers it out to Crowley with an indulgent smile.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's mouth quirks. "Well, spent some time in the bordellos in the Quartieri Spagnoli for work, back in the day. Picked up a few tricks."

Yes, he knows exactly how that sounds. Yes, of course it's intentional. Crowley's seduction techniques would probably only work on Aziraphale and he knows it, but that's the only person he wants to impress, so. Temptation accomplished. Almost.

The anticipation is more dizzying than the alcohol, and he's loving it.

He looks away from Aziraphale only to glance at the plate he's handed, and grins the patatas bravas, which he immediately picks up. "You remember how much I liked these, hmm?" When were they in Spain? Centuries, at least, maybe a millennia. But it's not a dish that changes much over time.

He takes a bite, and for once it's Crowley making a small pleased noise about food. It's spicy, no second-rate aioli or mayo emulsions but a properly hot tomato sauce loaded with spices. "Bless...that is delicious, angel."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, thank you.” He can’t help but preen a little; he had in fact remembered how much Crowley enjoyed the dish. Hard not to, when it was one of the only things Aziraphale’s ever seen him finish eating instead of just tasting. “I was hoping that one would have enough heat for your palate.”

That last part comes out dangerously close to a purr, and he has to disguise his satisfaction (and, if he’s honest, calm himself down a little) by picking up his own plate and helping himself to one of the pork medallions. The honey-apple glaze, made with fresh apple purée and a splash of hard cider for taste along with a razor-thin sliver of melted garlic, is sweet without being cloying, a feat that’s made him feel quite accomplished.

“Mm—I do remember how much you complain every time we have some and they’re not properly spicy.” Dozens of terrified waiters over centuries, he’s sure, must have nightmares about him chasing them with a mortar and pestle.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley might not eat much but like Aziraphale, he has standards. And if something is advertised as being spicy, it should be spicy.

(He might once have breathed fire at one of those chefs. Not the waiters, poor sods, they're just the delivery boys. Hardly their fault)

These potatoes deliver, and before long they've vanished from his plate. He moves on to the pilaf next; a combination of chili and chocolate is also a solid bet to get his attention. "I really impressed by--" He waves a hand. "All this. You put a lot of effort into it. Did you get ambitions to open your own restaurant while I was asleep?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Strangely enough, Aziraphale finds he doesn’t really want to be coy with his answer here. He does contemplate how best to word it, though, over a bite of his own potatoes.

“I had a great deal of time, and very little of a directed nature to do with it,” he admits. “Helping out the neighbors when possible, of course. Organizing the collection. But other than that, well… I’d already exercised one set of skills, why not try another?”

What he doesn’t add is, And when I realized I could work my way through any number of projects and still feel time crawling wretchedly by, I knew I had to call you. Instead he concentrates on the potatoes, and allows himself to glance at Crowley’s mouth as he eats, at his throat.

“Besides, I haven’t been to a restaurant in months. And you know takeaway simply isn’t the same.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Nah, takeaway is its own culinary niche." One which Crowley has been known to enjoy now and then, kebabs in particular. He hums approval of the mole, notices Aziraphale watching his throat as he swallows, grins to show that he knows he's watched. "Probably a good thing you woke me up just now, in that case. First baking, then gourmet cooking...what would you take up next without me around to distract you? Making your own craft ales?"

From:

confoundthemighty

“Good Lord, no.” Aziraphale’s scoff is, to tell the uncharitable truth, prissy. “Then I’d never be able to keep people out of here. I’ve seen the other shopkeepers discussing the possibility of bookshops that also serve food or alcohol, and this is not that sort of establishment, thank you very much.”

He pauses before adding, “You happen to be a special case, naturally.” Which he punctuates with another bite.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's grin widens. "Missed me, did you?"

He doesn't even try not to sound smug about it.

From:

confoundthemighty

There would have been a time when that question, posed that directly, would have encouraged a round of verbal dancing that tended towards a frantic jig: denial, poking, some posturing about being on opposite sides. Except there’s no opposite sides anymore. Not in this shop, not in this new world.

“Good company is hard to come by.” A smile curves his lips; his gaze flicks from Crowley to his plate and back again before he almost reluctantly starts to pile his fork with pilaf and mole. “And worth keeping around.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley could point out that he'd offered to come over and be kept around months ago, if he wanted to gloat. But he's high on good food and great alcohol and the best company, so he doesn't.

(Yet. There's always later for that, after all, if he wants to rub it in)

Instead he lifts his cocktail glass. "A toast, then?" he suggests. "To keeping good company? Well, bad company in my case, obviously."

From:

confoundthemighty

Game or not, dance or not, no matter what else is happening here, Aziraphale can never quite resist an opportunity to toast with his best friend. Not when he’s so relaxed, so happy.

“The best of the worst,” he offers, “or the worst of the best, but either way, extremely welcome.”

He lifts his own glass, leans over so they can clink together with a pleasant ringing noise. (It always feels like their toasts have a ring about them, whether made with porcelain or plastic cups or crystal or stoneware. Possibly that’s just Aziraphale being sentimental, though.)