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

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.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's almost roll up into his head at the sound of that moan. He's heard it before, and food was always involved. He's even fantasized about hearing it in contests quite like this. The reality is even better than he'd dreamed.

And then there's a hand stroking his hair, caressing his face...

He whispers. Later in maybe he'll feel humiliated about that but not now, not with a thumb resting just above his pulse point and a finger in his mouth and a hand on the back d his neck. There's no room in him for embarassment, just a glorious growing need.

He pulls (slowly, slowly, slowly) off of Aziraphale's finger, again, but this time leans further in, reaches yup to hold his wrist there, suspended in front of his face so he can kiss the palm, trace the life line with his tongue. It's slower and more deliberate feasting than he's done on any other course of the meal, and judging by the small noises and sighs Crowley keeps making it's also the most to his liking.

From:

confoundthemighty

He’s never heard Crowley enjoy food like this. Or… possibly anything. Drinks, music, anything at all. The needy little sound he makes when Aziraphale’s hand threads into his hair resounds in every thrumming vein and tingling nerve in the angel’s body. The tip of Crowley’s tongue drags hotly against Aziraphale’s skin, soft and almost ticklish, lips dragging against his palm.

It takes so little movement to curve his hand back, to press that palm into Crowley’s cheek. To haul himself out of his chair, into Crowley’s lap (clumsily, since there’s so much more of his human shape than there is of Crowley’s and it’s all rather soft), tipping the demon’s head back so Aziraphale can capture his half-open mouth for a searing, hungry kiss.

(Did Eve taste the apple like this, driving her tongue deep and desperate into a flavor she’d never experienced? Did Adam? Was this what it was like, a rush of knowledge that could only ever be half guessed at suddenly flooding mouth and lungs and heart? Or is this better, because it has nothing to do with Heaven or Hell, because it’s finally just the two of them?

Probably the latter.)

From:

duckshaveears

No one has ever heard Crowley enjoy anything like this, including Crowley. He'd be a bit embarassed about it all if he weren't too busy seizing the moment. The moment, and the angel. Lots of seizing going on.

Aziraphale might move clumsily but he's more than welcomed onto the demon's lap. Crowley wraps arms around him at once, pulls him in hard, fists against the top and base of his spine. Opens his mouth into the kiss with a needy moan he doesn't attempt to hide at all, tasting Aziraphale's breath and mouth with far, far more enthusiasm than anything they've eaten or drunk tonight. Or ever, for that matter.

From:

confoundthemighty

The sound Crowley makes into his mouth travels down Aziraphale’s throat, into his lungs and chest and stomach and limbs, waking strange confidence in him. Crowley’s never moaned like that, not ever, not for anything, and yet he lets Aziraphale drink the sound straight off his lips. His hands nearly grab at Aziraphale’s back, clutching him close as if Crowley needs the contact.

There’s so much more to the way Crowley tastes than the meal they’ve just shared, even if the capsaicin in the cocktail and several of the dishes lingers somewhat on both their already-reddened lips. Aziraphale can’t wait to spend hours untangling what these new layers of flavor are; already he can sense a hint of smoke, a metallic spark. It’s delicious. Crowley is delicious.

He’d say so, but that would mean breaking the kiss. And truth be told, he hasn’t got either the presence of mind or the desire to. His thighs squeeze a little either side of Crowley’s, his hips grinding downward, and the pressure steals his breath. (Not that he needs it, but it’s pleasantly dizzying.)

From:

duckshaveears

Another groan is ripped from his Crowley's throat as Aziraphale grinds against him. They fit so perfectly like this, his arms locked around Aziraphale's torso, Aziraphale's thighs straddling him, and their pelvises meeting just...like...that...

He's so hard in his jeans, he can't remember ever being this hard before in his life, and they've only been at it for a scant few minutes.

No, not minutes. An hour at least. There's no question that Aziraphale set everything up with intentions and they've both been dining on anticipation as much as food and drink. That's the best part. Though Aziraphale rubbing his cunt against Crowley's cock is a blessed close second, even with layers of clothing in the way.

(He can smell it, could as soon as he walked in, though it took a while to realise what he was smelling. But it's clear now, so clear, a scent-picture that talks of soft wet heat, a welcoming place just aching for him to...)

Another groan swallowed up in another kiss, and nails almost clawing at Aziraphale's back. Crowley is feasting and he's never been more starved.

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s just a hint of pain, like the very edge of a knife, at the scrabble of those nails; Aziraphale welcomes it as wholeheartedly as the spice in anything he’s cooked tonight. It makes his cunt ache with a desperate need for pressure; grinding down again relieves that ache a little, but only a little. Mostly it just makes him aware of how furiously his clit pulses for proper friction, how there’s a distinctly wet drag in the seam of his trousers as he moves, how the shape of Crowley’s cock feels against him.

A shivering wave of arousal moves up his spine,strong enough to make him break off their kiss with a gasp—though only just. The words he manages to rasp out are almost kisses themselves, still punctuated by flickering presses of lips and tongue.

“All of me. Starting right here. Right now.” It’s a promise and a plea. Aziraphale wants to be devoured in a way Crowley’s never done to any meal they’ve ever shared, wants to do the same in return. He drives the point home with another full kiss, hips pressing down again.

He doesn’t care if it happens on the table or the floor or even right here in this chair. He doesn’t care how many times it happens. As long as they get their fill of one another, or at least begin to take the sharpest edge off this shared starvation they can finally end.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley temporarily loses his mind.

It's the only way toexplain what he does next. If he saw it in a Richard Curtis film he'd laugh himself silly, guffaw about the ridiculous, unrealistic things humans consider romantic and how they'd never happen (or at least, not successfully) in real life.

Nevertheless.

"All of me. Starting right here. Right now.”

He almost snarls his agreement. More clear is the way he immediately moves his hands to Aziraphale's thighs, wraps legs around his waist as he stands, still kissing the angel furiously. It takes only a moment to turn towards the table, another moment to push whatever's on it out of the way.

(There's a crash as some part of their meal falls to the floor. Whatever it was, he'll fix it later. Though a tiny barely coherent part of his brain hopes it wasn't the alcohol)

And then he's lowering Aziraphale onto the table, on his back, bent in half to keep kissing him. Hands freed to fumble with trouser buttons, yank them down with no finesse. Pull the pants down in their wake. Put his hands on Aziraphale's hips to make sure the angel won't move.

Crowley strikes like the snake he is, burying his tongue in Aziraphale's quim, licking and kissing and sucking and tasting, tasting, tasting.

From:

confoundthemighty

The whirl of movement as Crowley lifts him pulls a shocked noise from Aziraphale, a noise that’s lost in their kiss. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that the demon is stronger than his corporeal form’s appearance might suggest. And even if he wasn’t technically on his feet, he’s almost certain this is what being swept off one’s feet is supposed to feel like.

He hears dishes clatter, barely registers the sound [footnote: The bookshop knows its owner well enough by now to know what sorts of messes are welcome and what sorts are to be avoided. Which means that it’s one of the few places in the world where someone could drop their toast and have it land buttered side up. The dishes may fall noisily, but they know better than to break or to land face down.] before his back hits the table. Dizzy, Aziraphale grabs at the tablecloth, needing a fistful of something to cling to in the moment; he grips hard as desperate hands yank his trousers and pants down.

Then Crowley pins his hips to the table and nearly dives between his thighs, and Aziraphale makes a raw, ecstatic noise. One hand grabs at the demon’s hair, the other keeps a death grip on the tablecloth, because oh fuck, Crowley’s tongue flickers and darts and strokes in the most exquisite ways. Not just his clit but along his soaked lips, dipping into his cunt, making the most beautifully obscene wet sounds.

Aziraphale whimpers out a “yes” in some language, possibly not currently in use on Earth, and squirms in Crowley’s grasp to try and fuck his mouth.

From:

duckshaveears

Physical strength isn't an option Crowley usually needs to take advantage of, but it has its uses. Or maybe he was just inspired by the moment. Hardly matters, so long as something got them here to this point, this utterly perfect moment. Exquisite as the meal was, Aziraphale tastes better. Michelin-starred chefs would weep.

Not that they'll have a chance. This, all of this, is just for Crowley.

He hooks his ankle around his chair, pulls it in place so he can sit back down. Means he's not bending over at such an awkward angle, which leaves him free to shove Aziraphale's thighs further apart, bury his face between them even more thoroughly. Aziraphale's laid out on the table as the final course of the best meal Crowley's ever had and he intends to appreciate every single nuance.

He teases, plays, explores, researches. Flicks his tongue over Aziraphale's clit, then kisses it. Circles the vulva with fingers and tongue and a ring of kisses. Presses his tongue deep into the cunt, replaces it with a finger when he withdraws to suck at the clit again. Anything that earns an approving or desperate sound gets repeated. Aziraphale rolls his hips against Crowley's mouth and Crowley loves it, would happily sit here feasting for the rest of the night. All the nights.

Crowley feasts.