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

“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.)

From:

duckshaveears

"That's us," Crowley agrees, grinning. The best and worst angel, the best and worst demon, it all depends on perspective. He loves that about them.

They finish their mains, with more small talk that might or might not be flirtation (it is, ohh it is, the only reason Crowley doesn't call it that outright is because the anticipation is more delicious than the food), and a third cocktail in Crowley's case. It's definitely a new favourite drink of his, if only because it'll always be associated with the weighted, heated expression on Aziraphale's face right now. "Amazing meal, angel," he says as he clears his plate, a thing that doesn't often happen. But it was a long nap, the food is delicious, and Aziraphale...well. "Dessert?"

From:

confoundthemighty

This whole wretched year Aziraphale has been mostly alone (a choice he now knows was a mistake), and having Crowley here and laughing makes him feel far more drunk than the cocktail ever could. (Although he does help himself to a second one of those, because it really is an excellent recipe. He’ll have to send Olive and Mutt a thank-you note.) They talk, a meandering conversation about everything and nothing and mostly food; Crowley compliments his cooking and Aziraphale doesn’t even pretend not to be pleased. Here and there one or the other of them will say something just a bit warmer than they’re accustomed to, just a touch more openly flirtatious.

By the time the mains are finished and he’s served up a single delicate serving of sorbet for each of them as a palate cleanser—green apple, lime, and basil, an unlikely marriage of flavors that’s somehow crisp and clean on the tongue—Aziraphale’s heart is racing. He knows his prospects are likely good, he knows Crowley has been following the pace he’s been setting. He knows there’s not much chance that the demon will miss the meaning in this last dish, or that he’ll reject it. But as most humans are when faced with their greatest desires, he’s nervous.

“Dessert,” he repeats, and sets aside his empty glass. The single covered dish on his table (which has been miracled to stay exactly as it was when it was finished, with no condensation or change in temperature) gleams silver, the last unknown on the menu. “This one is… well, it’s a recipe of my own. Took a great deal of adjusting to get it right, but I think it’s passable at this point.”

With one last sly glance, his heart twisting hard in hope, Aziraphale leans over and plucks the cover off.

A single crepe, fragrant with Calvados and bourbon vanilla, rests on the plate like a pillow, with a pinkish filling that almost looks lewd where it threatens to spill past the crepe’s edges: heirloom apple chopped fine and cooked soft. Perched atop the crepe itself is a perfect dollop of whipped cream, thick and snowy, with twelve pomegranate arils arranged in it like jewels in a crown. An offering, small but infinitely precious, shining with secret meaning.

Pomegranate arils, the distilled echo of a myth that’s been passed down through humanity, the story of love between opposites reduced to a single potent symbol. An arrangement, in its way, as old as the one Aziraphale and Crowley had made so long ago.

As different as we are, I make myself part of something bigger, yielding up the person I thought I should be so I can be the person who is on your side.

I give myself to you.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley is by no means as sensitive to symbolism as Aziraphale, but he's also not an idiot, and the message here is about as unsubtle as the cocktail they've been drinking.

He can smell the apples. The original forbidden fruit which led to knowledge and awareness of sin..there's no way for Aziraphale to offer Crowley, of all beings, an apple, not without it being extremely mocking or extremely suggestive. And not just an apple filling but Calvados as well.

A crêpe, which makes his mouth quirk. 1793 had certainly been an interesting meeting. Crowley wonders now if Aziraphale has spent as much time wondering how else it might have gone as he has.

It's the pomegranate arils he focuses on, though. "If I remember right..." he says slowly, reaching out as though to touch one of them. They shine like rubies on their whipped cream bed. "If I remember right, Persephone only had to eat a few of these to be bound eternally to the king of Hell."

Or god of Hades, whichever. The point stands. Crowley delicately swipes a finger through the cream, scooping up just one of the arils with it. "Dangerous sort of thing to serve a demon. Aziraphale." His voice is quiet. They both know he's not talking about the food. "You sure you want to risk it?"

His hand is suspended between them, the cream and pomegranate aril poised on his finger as an offering.

From:

confoundthemighty

The conversation is absolutely not about food anymore. They’re at a threshold, now, a doorway where the door itself has swung wide open and left them staring at one another, closer than they’ve ever been. Everything in Aziraphale’s awareness seems to be white and red, yellow and black, the choice he’s already made and the serpentine eyes watching him to confirm it.

Almost without thinking about it, he wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. Without glancing away he reaches up to curl his fingers around Crowley’s wrist, holding his hand exactly where it is, gently but firmly. (Just under the pads of his fingers he can feel a pulse beating as fast as his own, and a current of electric excitement as the anticipation between them finally begins to blossom.)

“Quite sure,” he says, his voice soft and resonant, and he leans forward and takes the end of Crowley’s finger into his mouth.

Gently he swipes away the aril and the cream with his tongue, sucking just a little, a suggestion and a promise. He can’t help making a pleased sound: not just because he’s added exactly the right amount of sugar to the whipped cream (he has) or because the aril is perfectly ripe (it is), but because this is the first time he’s ever tasted Crowley’s skin, and it’s so much richer than he could ever have imagined.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley stops breathing.

His world has narrowed down to one single point of focus, his finger in Aziraphale's mouth. The heat of it, the way Aziraphale sucks on it, licks at the taste of cream and skin. The small noise he makes. There's nothing else. If an invading army marched by outside the bookstore he wouldn't even blink.

From:

confoundthemighty

He can feel Crowley go still, and a jolt of triumph begins to sizzle through Aziraphale’s nerves. This is exactly what he wanted, this undivided focus, his snake totally enthralled. When he opens his eyes he meets that golden amber stare, only now he knows his own gaze is the one holding Crowley where he is.

In this moment, he realizes, he can do anything. He may have been the one to take the offered bite, but he has Crowley eating out of his hand, may he be forgiven for the pun.

Well. Considering Persephone, and contracts, and symbolism, there’s really only one course of action Aziraphale wants to take.

Without breaking eye contact he reaches down, carefully scoops one of the arils and a smidge of whipped cream off the surface of the crêpe. The air between them smells like sugar and apples and vanilla, heady and warm. And though he pulls his mouth gently off of Crowley’s finger, he doesn’t break contact altogether, his lips pressed to the tip of it in an almost-kiss.

Silently he holds out his own offering, a fruit no longer forbidden.

From:

duckshaveears

With a movement as slow as centuries, Crowley bends forward and takes Aziraphale's finger into his mouth. His tongue darts, tastes the whipped cream, scoops up the aril. Wraps around the digit, tightens as he sucks a little. His eyes never leave Aziraphale's as he makes a thorough job of licking his finger clean, and he never blinks.

Finally he leans back, letting Aziraphale's finger slide out of his mouth with a pop. "Two pomegranate seeds," he says hoarsely. "Does that count as two months total, one for each of us, or do they cancel out?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Aziraphale’s heart fizzes like a firework as Crowley accepts the aril, and his clit actually throbs at the sensation of a wet mouth closing over his fingertip. It’s all he can do not to moan like he’s the one who’s just had a first exquisite bite of dessert.

(In a way he has, actually. If what he’s doing now falls under the general ‘dessert’ umbrella.)

The rough edge to Crowley’s voice only adds fuel to the flame.

“There are twelve of them.” His own voice sinks low, into the deeper part of his register. “Which is six for each of us.”

Persephone only gave half her life away, dividing herself between two worlds. Aziraphale can’t think of a world he’d rather inhabit for the rest of his existence than one with Crowley in it beside him.

From:

duckshaveears

"Does that mean six months together or twelve."

It sounds like he's being a pedant, but he wants to know. It's an important question. And at the same time it isn't, because either is a win, comparatively. Aziraphale can be with him for six months and go read for the other six while Crowley naps, he'll take what he can get, but he wants to know what he's in for here. What's on offer.

He completely ignores the spoon, scoops up another bit of cream and aril on a finger, blatantly thrusts it towards Aziraphale. Offering it up, offering himself. As much time as Aziraphale wants.

From:

confoundthemighty

Without looking away from Crowley’s face he tracks the movement of his hand, the tension in his frame. He’s wound impossibly tight waiting for Aziraphale’s answer, probably not even breathing, his eyes burning gold. It’s one of the most beautiful things Aziraphale’s ever seen.

It’s exactly what he wanted.

He dips his own finger into the cream again (the crêpe is starting to look a bit disarranged, not that he cares at this point), swipes up another aril to offer to the demon. Still deliberately, though nowhere near as slowly as before, Aziraphale takes the offered taste between his lips, licks it up, watches Crowley watch him swallow before he replies.

“Twelve.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley must have started breathing again somewhere along the line, however shallowly, because his breath hitches as that.

He bends forward. This time he blatantly licks Aziraphale's finger, his tongue slightly forked, before sucking on the end. And then takes the whole finger into his mouth, all of it. He's not even pretending at this point that it's about the dessert, or even the symbolism of the pomegrante. It's about getting part of Aziraphale in his mouth, lavishing attention on it, sucking on him, dragging the moment out for as long as possible. He's visibly hard now and knows it and knows Aziraphale must know it, there's no hiding anything in trousers as tight as these.

From:

confoundthemighty

They’ve ended up sitting across from each other but not at the table, seated at opposite corners without anything directly between them. Crowley takes Aziraphale’s whole finger into his mouth, and this time he does let himself moan. The sound seems almost shockingly loud to him; it’s also strangely more arousing to let himself voice it than to keep it muffled.

His clit throbs again at the slick rasp of Crowley’s tongue over his finger, the heat of his mouth. His eyelids flutter, and he glances down a little—he can see Crowley’s cock straining in his trousers. I did that, he thinks dizzily.

The pad of his thumb caresses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. He shifts forward in his chair (fuck, he’s so wet he feels slatternly), leaning in, bringing himself closer. There’s so little distance between them now.

Aziraphale’s free hand lifts, threads into the dark-red silk of Crowley’s hair. It’s much softer than it looks, and he allows himself to stroke it, fingers combing a slow sweep from his temple past his ear and down to the base of his skull. Each touch is another offering, another declaration: you can have this. I want you to have this. I want you.

His pulse races. He wets his lips. His thumb on Crowley’s jaw finds the swift tempo of a heartbeat, traces over a wildly fluttering vein and over muscles that shift when Crowley’s breath catches.