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

Aziraphale hears his own name—for the first time, he realizes; Crowley’s been calling him angel through this whole encounter—and then those precious, precious words, words that have been secretly engraved on his own heart for literal ages. It’s an ecstasy that matches the pleasure already burning through his nerves, too much to bear, and at last it shatters open.

It’s an order of magnitude stronger than before, shaking them both fiercely, a lifetime of love bursting into furious bloom. They cling to one another, trembling in startled exhilaration, as overwhelmed as mortals.

As the last of the sharp sweet pulses rocks them, Aziraphale breathes a long sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“I love you, Crowley.”

His whole being seems to ring with the words, certain and nebula-bright, the deepest truth he knows. It brings with it a last wave of memory: Aziraphale may have once admired an angel who watched the birth of the stars with innocent joy, but his heart belongs to the demon he met on a wall, the one who’s slouched and complained and teased and always, always been there for him. His arms and legs wrap tight around Crowley, his dream-body following the lapping tide of devotion that flows from his heart.

From:

duckshaveears

It's a bit like a supernova. The physical (imagined physical) release is overpowered by the sheer emotional explosion, shared pleasure and want and need and devotion. Crowley half expects to be blasted apart by it and is almost sorry he isn't.

They lie together shaking, entwined and clutching at each other, as their bodies (imagined bodies) gradually calm and the rest of it fades to something less overwhelming.

Aziraphale says those words, and they sound so sweet and certain. So sure. Everything he wants to hear.

Crowley buries his face in the angel's neck and trembles as a few tears fall. This is why he doesn't do this, why he shouldn't do it. Because after the moment, after the ecstacy, he's so fucking alone. He's holding a dream of Aziraphale in his arms, yes. But it's only a dream. He might as well be hugging a picture, or a mirror.

He can still feel that pulse of adoration, quiet and steady, trying to keep him in the illusion. It's an impressive new level of self-deception, even by his standards.

He tries. He lies there, clinging to Aziraphale as hard as he can, trying to make himself pretend this is real. Breathing him in, feeling the heated places where their skin touches. Just a little longer.

From:

confoundthemighty

It takes several moments before Aziraphale registers the heat of tears against his skin, the sudden curl of hurt that creeps into their bliss. He’s no stranger to the loneliness that can eat away at him when he wakes from a beautiful dream to find himself alone, but this… it approaches hopelessness, a dark as profound as the void between stars.

(No wonder humans fight and die for love; no wonder they come up with endless combinations of words in every language to describe its intricacies. No wonder they believe this is what makes up the truest substance of the Almighty. Even the thought of its absence is powerful enough to bring an immortal being close to despair.)

Aziraphale tries to fold around him, a hand sliding into his hair. Deep in his soul he’s comforted by knowing Crowley loves him back, that he hasn’t been imagining things all these years, and he does his best to pour that comfort out into the wounded heart pressed against his own.

I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. I’ve missed you when we’ve been apart, and rejoiced when we’ve had the opportunity to be together, and I can say yes now, I’m finally ready and I’m sorry I made you wait but you made this so, so wonderful and I’m so glad I came to you.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley isn't unmoved by the warm blanket of comfort that covers him. It's soothing, and he lets himself be soothed, if only a little. It's not as though he's lost Aziraphale, after all. Things are hardly hopeless. The current plague will pass eventually and they'll still be here on Earth, able to meet and talk and drink and all the other things they do. It might be like this someday and it might not, but even just Aziraphale's friendship is worth more than anything else in the world. In the waking world that's enough. He can be content with that, even happy, keeping the rest of his desires tucked away out of sight.

But this, what he's doing now...

He sighs a little, kisses Aziraphale's neck, tastes the salt of his own tears there. Traces the line of the jaw, leans up enough to take a full kiss. He makes it last, a lazy luxurious thing, getting as much of the taste of that mouth as he can. Another memory to add to the collection, even if it's only a memory of a dream.

Then he starts pulling away.

From:

confoundthemighty

For a while (not long enough, not nearly long enough) they simply drift together. But then Crowley starts to pull back, and Aziraphale reaches after him, running on some instinct he didn’t know existed until now.

“What’s the matter?”

In his own dreams he always lingers, basking greedily in what he can’t have in real life (or thought he couldn’t have, anyway) for as long as possible. The sudden withdrawal of this warmth stings a little, far too much like moments he’s realized he was waking up and wanted to cling to the dream a few seconds longer.

“Crowley?”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley lets himself be pulled back down for a minute, holds on hard. Places a kiss on Aziraphale's cheek. "It's time for me to go, angel," he murmurs, nuzzling at the skin there. Another kiss. "Come on, let me up."

From:

confoundthemighty

“Oh, but…” He can’t hold back a smile, and with it a warm caress of pure, helpless affection. “Here I was going to ask if I could kiss you awake.” His fingertips find the coils of the tiny snake again, caress the length of it tenderly.

From:

duckshaveears

It sends a shiver all through Crowley, every inch of his body and right through to his deepest self. He groans, distracted by the intensity of it. "That's...fuck, that's new..." It's not erotic, not exactly, though it definitely could be. It steals his breath for a minute. "Angel." He bends his head again, resting his forehead against Aziraphale's cheek. "Oh, angel. You're too good at this."

He tries again to pull away, manages to get loose from one of Aziraphale's arms at least, attempts to roll over out of the bed.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I’m being serious, Crowley.” There’s still a sunny smile in his voice; he catches at the demon, trying to make it more difficult for him to disentangle himself, and somehow manages to roll so Crowley is half underneath him on the big, plush mattress.

“If you’re going to wake up, at least let’s do it properly.”

From:

duckshaveears

"Whaa--"

Crowley is clearly caught by surprise, both by being pinned and by Aziraphale's happy determination. This isn't how things usually go.

"Wasn't going to--nothing to wake up for yet," he manages, flustered. What the heaven is going on here? He hasn't heard his alarm, or the phone ring. There's nothing waiting for him in the real world but more being locked in his flat watching shit telly. Or drinking, which is a little tempting, but not a good idea. "Just--" A sudden pulse of loneliness brings a sudden lump in this throat, and he swallows over it. "Something else. Should do something else for a while, 'til it stops."

From:

confoundthemighty

There’s a slight change in the quality of Crowley’s voice, something far too sad for the intimacy they’re still sharing, and Aziraphale noses at his cheek to try and chase it off.

(Something feels strange, a little more vivid than perhaps it ought to, in the way his breath stirs against Crowley’s face. As if their bodies have actually gotten closer in the waking world, which is entirely possible. Aziraphale is much more aware of it now.)

“And what if I follow you and keep asking?” It’s an entirely earnest question. Not a shred of accusation colors it, only warmth and determination. “How many times will I have to ask before you realize it’s me?”

He punctuates the last word with a bright bloom of affection that registers like a warm exhale against the snake tattoo.

From:

duckshaveears

"What are you talking about?" Crowley says with growing frustration and confusion. He works harder to get free now, pushing on Aziraphale's shoulders so he can eel out from underneath. It's tricky, especially as he's distracted by that so-intimate caress on his deepest self again (since when does his tattoo do that? Could it always?) "And how are you doing that? You didn't--I never--"

He more or less falls off the bed, rolls to his hands and knees and then to a sitting position, settles himself against a wall that obligingly moves closer. He's starting to look vaguely haunted. "What the fuck is going on?"

It sounds like it's said more to himself than anyone else.

From:

confoundthemighty

Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, the demon wriggles out from underneath him, squirming away like a wet bar of soap. (Or possibly a wet snake. He’s never handled a wet snake, though, so he wouldn’t know.) Aziraphale props himself up on one arm, then pushes himself all the way to a sitting position, too concerned about Crowley’s reaction to be self-conscious about the fact that he’s still nude.

All this, all the intimacy and truth they’ve just shared, and Crowley still thinks he’s just a stray figment that’s… what? Malfunctioning? A splinter of his mind driving him into Shakespearean madness? Immediately Aziraphale feels a stab of guilt; he hadn’t meant to frighten Crowley, not in the least. Though it’s not without frustration that he can’t seem to figure out how to get the truth to register.

“Look,” he tries, scooting closer to the edge of the mattress. “I’ve been trying to tell you. Please don’t panic.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's been operating under a certain set of assumptions, quite reasonable ones. He's dreaming, he knows he is, it's safe to assume he's alone in his own head because why wouldn't he be? What would anyone else even be doing in here, how would they get in without an invitation? Besides, Aziraphale's back at the Bookshop baking cake and enjoying having no customers. Everything Crowley finds in his head is his own creation and his own problem.

But.

There've been all those niggling little details he's been noticing. Any of them on their own might've been forgotten, and then again he might've followed up on any of them if he hadn't been so distracted by the image of everything he wants.

Suddenly those details are forming a clear picture. It doesn't make much sense, and at the same time it makes quite a lot of sense.

Crowley stares. Then he stares harder, looks deeper.

"...Aziraphale?" he asks, disbelieving.

From:

confoundthemighty

Now, at last and despite the intense emotions of only minutes before, Aziraphale’s confidence flickers. Has he buggered all of this up without meaning to? He’d only wanted to ask a question, and now they’re… well, they’re here, and suddenly he’s not at all sure he’s done the right thing.

“I think you must have slept through your alarm,” he says, and his voice sounds distinctly smaller. “It’s New Year’s Eve, and I… changed my mind. About strictly following the human social distancing rules. And I didn’t want to just shake you or something, and…”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley keeps staring.

He's sitting bareass naked on the floor, looking up at a frankly over the top bed which contains an also bareass naked angel who is apparently actually an angel and not just a figment of one.

An angel with whom he's just done...quite a number of quite explicit things.

Inside Crowley's own dreams.

Shock doesn't begin to cover it.

He has a large number of questions, mostly beginning with "how" and "why" and "how" again and a generous side helping of "when." The first one that comes out is, unfortunately. "...what the fuck?!?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Oh, that’s not good at all. Aziraphale’s uneasy thoughts manifest as fidgeting; he twists his pinky ring fretfully.

“I did try to tell you! More than once.”

(Minutes ago he felt like the most beautiful being in creation, caught up in the greatest and deepest love he’s ever felt, and all at once he’s starting to shrink back down to his pitiful unremarkable self again. Why did he do this? Why did he think this was a good idea?)

From:

duckshaveears

"You told me, did you?" Crowley retorts. "You said 'Oh, by the way Crowley, sorry to pop into your dreams without warning but this is the real me and not one of the fakes you have running around to take advantage of,' did you?"

He'd like to stand up and walk around and pace but he's still bareass naked and far too worked up to do things like manifest clothes. Which would be easier in here than it would outside but he doesn't remember that either. And Aziraphale is looking unhappy and upset, and that's awful, especially after...but seriously what the fuck? "How are you even..." He waves a hand, indicating...everywhere, really, the entire dreamscape.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I… I came by the flat. You were still asleep, and I wanted to ask if I could wake you up—” (He won’t add with a kiss now because it’s ridiculous, it was so foolish of him) “—and I thought I’d look in and say hello before I…”

Damn, he’s buggered this up, he’s possibly ruined the best thing that’s ever happened to him. But there is another thought surging in his heart, one that spills out far more easily in this dreamscape than it would in the real world where he’s as much substance as he is thought.

“I’m not sorry we did that, but I am sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

From:

duckshaveears

"I--"

Words dry up in his mouth. What should he even address first? Crowley feels it, the sharpness of fear coming off of Aziraphale, the anxiety that he's broken something irreplaceable. And twined with it...

I'm not sorry we did that.

Crowley runs a hand over his face, trying to process.

"Right," he says finally. "Right. One thing at a time. Clearly we need to talk, yeah? But let's do it...out there. Waking up time. If I slept through my alarm I'm overdue anyway. Can we start with that?"

Because talking here...that's too vulnerable for him, right now. And the way they can feel each other's emotions is as much a hindrance as a help given how confusing and overwhelming they are (oh fuck, all that earlier was coming from Aziraphale, actually Aziraphale, not...)

Waking up first, definitely.

From:

confoundthemighty

Right, well. That’s… it’s not progress exactly, but at least Crowley isn’t flying into a rage, which is promising (even though he’d be perfectly within his rights to if he were so inclined).

Aziraphale nods, swallowing back his anxiety. “I, ah. See you outside, then?”

Already he’s preparing to draw his consciousness back, to pull fully into his own corporation and rejoin earthly reality. But he hesitates, taking a long look at Crowley first, aware this might be the last time he’s in the demon’s bed in any capacity and (selfishly, he knows, so selfishly) hoping he’s wrong.

From:

duckshaveears

"Yeah." Aziraphale's looking at him with...Crowley doesn't even know what that is.

Except he does. He can feel it, a bit of it. Longing and guilt and worry and...

(And ohhh he remembers with a sudden visceral awareness that only minutes ago they were twined together and writhing and laughing and kissing and it was real, it was all real, what should he do with that?)

"Don't run off," Crowley adds, just in case, before closing his eyes and concentrating on waking up.

From:

confoundthemighty

“I won’t.”

Aziraphale pulls his focus back from the dream, up and up and out, their minds disentangling. It’s almost a shock, the moment he fully separates from Crowley’s consciousness, though breath in his lungs feels almost more intense. His entire self flows back into his human corporation, nerves and bone and muscle and all of it, and it’s a bit like the time they switched bodies, if a touch lonelier.

With some chagrin he realizes, even before his eyes are open, that he’s sticky.

It’s not surprising, but it is uncomfortable. Especially since he’s still bent over Crowley, which is also starting to get uncomfortable. His eyes flutter open, and he blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to actual earthly sight again.

From:

duckshaveears

It takes Crowley a bit longer to rouse. He's been asleep for over half a year, after all; that's not a small thing to shake off, even with all the practice he's had. But things are rather urgent, so he puts in the effort.

It is, frankly, unpleasant. His hair's grown and tickling around his neck, his mouth tastes like dust, his eyes frankly don't want to open and are protesting the invention of light with vehemence, and his pelvis area is--ah. Yeah, that'd be the other reason he doesn't indulge in his dreams too often, at least not during extended naps. Just as well he's been woken up early this time.

Except it isn't early. New Year's Eve, Aziraphale said.

Aziraphale.

Crowley forces his body to cooperate and opens his eyes. Even though he was warned it's still surprising to see Aziraphale half-bent over him, blinking and looking uncomfortable.

...ah. Yeah. There's some evidence that what just happened, happened to both of them, if Crowley still needed it.

Well. This is awkward.

"Tea," Crowley croaks, even before sitting up, because he might not technically be English but he's lived there a bloody long time and there are certain things that go along with that. "Gonna need a few minutes to, uh, set myself to rights. Post-nap rituals and all." Splashing water on his face and getting clean clothes on, at the veryleast. "There's tea in the kitchen if you want it." And one of Aziraphale's own cups, stashed there decades ago when Aziraphale first bought the set, which Crowley's kept just in case of...just in case of this, actually. Aziraphale being here, in his flat. Though he would never, ever have guessed the exact circumstances. "Or wine if you want something stronger," he adds, sitting up and rolling his shoulders.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Ah. Right.” He glances down the bed at the basket he’d brought in with him, and feels silly all over again, almost ashamed of himself. “I, ah… there’s also a strawberry almond Budapest roll. If you’re hungry. And more wine. I’ll just—I’ll go and put tea on.”

As Aziraphale stands he scrapes together the presence of mind to miracle himself clean, though truth be told he doesn’t exactly feel that way. (Truth be told, he wishes he were still in that bed, the two of them covered in one another and twined impossibly close.) He nearly stumbles into Crowley’s kitchen, re-familiarizing himself with the physical world and with the way he inhabits his own body, trying to keep his churning brain on some sort of solid ground by finding where the various accoutrements for tea are.

Whether it’s because the flat belongs to Crowley and thus responds instinctively to Aziraphale or because he knows his friend’s organizational tendencies or because of sheer dumb luck, Aziraphale manages to find most of the things he needs the first time he opens a cabinet or drawer. Spoons—those are easy, they’re in the very first drawer he opens. Kettle—sleek and shiny, in a cabinet beside the induction stove. Tea above the stove, and an assortment of mugs—

And one white cup with a pair of sculpted wings instead of a handle.

Aziraphale’s heart lurches. He knew he bought six, but he’s only ever been able to find five. Whenever he’d complained to Crowley about it, he’d been teased: dunno, angel, maybe the shop took it as tribute. Or some rogue customer managed to sneak in here and make off with it while you were distracted trying to make sure they didn’t buy any books.

For a moment he remembers the deep, hungry tide of love that held him in its grip. The look in Crowley’s eyes, more beautiful than starlight, as they lay tangled up in one another.

That’s the eternity I want. Just you and I, like this.

By the time the demon makes his own way into the kitchen Aziraphale has mostly composed himself; he still looks a bit subdued, but he’s set the angel-winged mug out for himself and the most serpent-themed black mug he could find for Crowley.