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:

duckshaveears

Crowley hasn't looked directly at Aziraphale since he entered the room. Mostly he's looking at the countertop, or his mug. They're nice, safe things to look at. Reassuringly physical. Unlikely to explode. He doesn't think things between him and Aziraphale are likely to explode, but the tension is not dissimilar. Like walking on...whatever those breakable things you're supposed to not walk on are. Or are you supposed to walk on them but very carefully?

He's aware that he's babbling, albeit silently.

"Agreeing to it doesn't necessarily mean you wanted it," he says finally, his voice even lower than before. "'Least, not all of it."

Because that was a lot. Fuck, it was so much. Decades of not going too fast and then he just...lobs everything at the angel all at once. Without realising, but still.

From:

confoundthemighty

“But I did.”

He hadn’t known how much of a desert his heart had been until he’d felt that fathomless love pouring over him. Even as he aches for its absence, he feels altered by it: whatever else happens for the rest of his long existence, for a brief while he’s known his love was welcomed and returned, and it was a greater wonder even than watching the birth of a universe. The things that happened in a short slice of time outside of reality will be with him forever; he will forever be richer for them.

Aziraphale pushes his mug away, flattens his hands on the breakfast bar where he’s sitting. The marble is cold; it doesn’t settle him as much as he’d like.

“I did want all of it. None of it was unwelcome, Crowley, not at all.”

From:

duckshaveears

Finally, Crowley looks up.

Aziraphale's face is nakedly earnest. It usually is, he's a terrible liar and it's obvious when he's prevaricating even a little bit. At least, obvious to Crowley. He means what he's saying. At least, he does right now.

Crowley remembers their last phone call before he went to sleep, how he offered to come over and was told they'd just have to wait 'til it was all over, follow the rules.

He also remembers Aziraphale whispering about the places they could go, the things they could do there.

Stay with me.

He swallows.

"Prove it."

From:

confoundthemighty

Those words sink into him like an arrow. He feels their impact, breathes around it, knows they’ve cut open something inside him. He’s not sure what yet, but there’s no going back from it.

He can’t feel what Crowley’s feeling, but he hears the invitation in the challenge, watches something flicker behind serpentine eyes.

Always. Please.

Aziraphale pushes himself away from the breakfast bar, standing now, aware of how his heart’s racing. With purposeful steps he crosses the short distance between them, bringing himself close—within arm’s length. He only has to look up a little to keep eye contact, which he does, right up until they’re standing close enough that he can reach out and trace the demon’s long jawline with the back of one finger.

His gaze flicks down to Crowley’s lips, then back up, checking. But only for a moment, only the barest space between breaths, before Aziraphale leans in and kisses his mouth.

From:

duckshaveears

The words are a challenge, even a dare, but Crowley's painfully aware that they sounded more like a plea. Or maybe that's just to his ears. He honestly has no idea how or if Aziraphale will respond to it.

But Asiraphale doesn't hesitate. He moves at once. Steps forward. Reaches out. Touches Crowley's face in a caress that's simple but still potent enough to make Crowley sway on his feet.

Tilts his head up.

It's a simpler kiss than any of the ones they shared in the dream. Their lips brush gently together, once, twice, and then stay pressed close. He can feel Aziraphale's breath on his skin, smell him, and Crowley realizes dizzily that the experience is far more physical than it was in his dream. Well, it would be. Wouldn't it? Who knows?

Questions for later. For now, Aziraphale is kissing him, and this one is real, this one is the first. They both know, they're both doing it on purpose.

This one is real.

Crowley makes a small muffled noise and raises his hands to Aziraphale's face, cupping his face as he kisses him harder.

From:

confoundthemighty

All at once Crowley’s leaning in hard, trying to pull him closer still (if that were possible), and Aziraphale’s heart soars. He’s got both arms around Crowley before he really knows what he’s doing, stay with me, and it’s so different because now it’s so much more than thought and conjecture and imagination filling in the blanks. There’s a forked tongue pushing at Aziraphale’s lips, and he welcomes it with a moan.

The taste—a real, true, physical taste of him, in these bodies they’ve inhabited for much of their lives—is intoxicating. Even though it’s his own memory supplying it this time, Aziraphale feels in this kiss some echo of the desperate waves of love that rolled over him in the dream.

This isn’t graceful; details aren’t softened by the fuzzy logic of dreams. Everything is immediate, everything has an impact on all his earthly senses.

One of his hands splays against the base of Crowley’s shoulder, the other fists at the small of his back. He holds on tight, tight as he can, and even though their noses bump and their teeth click together more than once, that only reminds him that this is the waking world.

Stay with me always.

From:

duckshaveears

The dream had felt pretty real at the time, but it's immediately apparent that is had nothing on reality. There are so many ridiculous little things Crowley's aware of. The seat poking into the back of his leg, his stupid hair making his neck itch, the taste of tea and a hint of leftover toothpaste. A dozen tiny little distractions they didn't need to put up with there, which he welcomes because they're all things he never would have imagined on his own, not even for verisimilitude.

But in addition to those there's the hot slide of their to guess against each other, the smell of Aziraphale's breath, the warmth of his face under Crowley's hands. All of it so much stronger than it was there. Even without those waves of emotions (something else to ask about) it's overwhelming, in the best way.

Prove it, he'd said. And yeah, this'll do. For a start.

Crowley finally breaks it off, though he doesn't move away. Instead he rests his forehead against Aziraphale's, and there's laughter and even affection in his voice.

"You bastard."

From:

confoundthemighty

Even before Crowley speaks, Aziraphale can feel the demon’s mouth beginning to tilt into a smile. Some tiny knot of tension that had been gathering between his shoulder blades dissolves into nothing, swept away by the giddiness of knowing they’ve really and truly kissed for the first time.

He lets himself smile back, nuzzling at Crowley’s nose with his own. (He’s an angel; they’re allowed to do soft things like nuzzling. Or at least he’s decided he is.)

“Enough of a bastard to be worth taking back to bed?” he asks. One hand wanders up Crowley’s spine a little, feeling over the ridges of bone (or its occult equivalent), and a sudden surge of courage rises.

“Or…” His voice has dropped, and he rushes through the words just to get them out before he changes his mind. “Or on a world tour, eventually?”

From:

duckshaveears

"Oh, we'll go more places than those, you git." He steals another kiss, mostly to make sure he can. And he can, soft and easy. "You snuck into my dreams so sometime I want to get in on yours, find every embarassing thing you've got in there. You owe me, angel, and I'll collect. You've been warned."

Another kiss stolen, and another. Almost as though he's not stealing them at all, but being given them freely.

From:

confoundthemighty

Somehow being fully in his body makes this more exhilarating. Aziraphale hears Crowley’s smile widen, feels the words being kissed onto his lips; his heart leaps and his breath catches in startled delight. He manages something like a laugh, some sound that’s adoring and unabashedly happy, and with every stolen kiss he tries to give as good as he’s getting. He dares a long stroke up Crowley’s back, then down again, just tracing the shape and textures of him. Wiry, flexible. Angular. Perfect.

“Taken under advisement.” He’s distracted for a bit by another kiss. And, somewhat, by wondering whether or not Crowley would be surprised at the things he dreams about. “I don’t sleep terribly often, though, so you may have to wear me out first.”

From:

duckshaveears

There's so much more to notice here, so much more to distract. More to feel. Aziraphale's hand running up and down his spine makes him gasp, and the happy laugh that escapes him almost brings tears to Crowley's eyes. It's a good thing they aren't doing that emotions-as-tangible-sensations thing right now because his are a mess, mostly happy but shot through with disbelief and fear and the memory of pain and doubt. He's trying to focus on the happy part. It helps that Aziraphale keeps kissing him.

"Noted," Crowley manages, shivering again at the implication. "Wearing you out, right. Can do." This new, assertive Aziraphale is going to take some getting used to, clearly. No time like the present. "You mentioned going back to bed? Though seems a little absurd, you coming over to get me up because I've spent too long in bed and now you want to put me back in it..."

From:

confoundthemighty

“You were in it without me before. That’s different.”

After six thousand years of knowing Crowley, he knows when Crowley’s trying to pretend he’s less affected by something than he really is. Aziraphale tightens his arms around his demon (really and truly his now; it’s a wonder all over again), just holding him firmly for a long moment. Just to reassure them both that this is real.

“I missed you,” he says, realizing it’s the first time he’s ever said it aloud. “That’s why I came over.”

From:

duckshaveears

Azirpahale's never said that to him. Never. 'It's good to see you' is as close as he ever got, and even that was a rarity.

Crowley makes another muffled noise that could be pain or delight or just emotion; he's going to have to work on those, but not right now, because now he's busy kissing Aziraphale like their lives depend on it. His hands wander urgently, skittering down Aziraphale's back and cupping his arse, pulling him in, needing to be closer.

From:

confoundthemighty

He could never have dreamed up the strangled sound Crowley makes into his mouth, or the urgency with which Crowley pulls him close. There’s a strength in the demon’s spare frame and his hands (gorgeous hands, sometimes Aziraphale could swear the great masters of Renaissance sculpture studied them) he couldn’t have guessed at either.

Though they stagger a bit in a way they wouldn’t have done in the dream, Aziraphale doesn’t care. He relishes knowing what it’s like to have Crowley’s tongue in his mouth and fingers gripping his arse and both of them shuffling awkwardly because their combined weight keeps teetering back and forth.

It’s all real this time. The things they say are shaped by breath into actual sound. The things they do exist outside their own minds.

And now his body is involved, and if he thought he was hungry for Crowley in a dream, he’s starved in the real world.

Aziraphale moans, a low helpless sound, tries to squirm as close as he can even though they’re already embracing tightly. They shift and Aziraphale grinds into Crowley’s thigh and gasps—oh fuck, it’s so much more, suddenly his clothes feel like a cage.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley's head is spinning like he's drunk three or four bottles of red wine. The positively indecent moan Aziraphale makes doesn't help. The way he blatantly grinds an erection against Crowley's leg certainly doesn't help. They were eager in the dreamscape, both of them, but it wasn't like this. That's more an emotional, figurative place. This sheer visceral physicality is something else again.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale in as close as he can, rolls his hips against him in return. Why did he put on these blessedly tight jeans, for someone's sake? He really should take them off before he embarasses himself. Again.

He slides open-mouth kisses along Aziraphale's jaw and neck, towards his ear. "Bed?" he manages. Or floor. Or wall. This breakfast bar, even. He'll take whatever he can get.

From:

confoundthemighty

“Please.” Already he’s pulling at the hem of Crowley’s shirt, while trying to shrug out of his own coat at the same time. It’s not the most successful endeavor, especially since he doesn’t really want to stop kissing Crowley.

But there’s a bed to get back to, and more delights than kissing to enjoy there.

With a noise that’s almost a growl of need, he pulls away a little, both hands trailing down to grab both of Crowley’s and tug him along. It’s not far from the kitchen to the bedroom by any means, but he feels every searing second they’re not holding one another. Then they’re back on the threshold of Crowley’s bedroom, and he can’t help it, he has to sway in close again and take a hungry kiss.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley tries to help Aziraphale out of his coat and waistcoat, and probably gets in the way more than he actually assists, though Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't protest, but granted that's probably because Crowley's tongue is in his mouth. Or because Aziraphale's tongue is in Crowley's mouth. Or both. Aziraphale growls his impatience.

It still doesn't seem possible.

But they're stumbling together, his hands gripped by Aziraphale who's pulling him back towards the bedroom they just woke up in...half an hour ago? It can't be that small an amount of time.

Aziraphale pushes him against the doorway for a kiss and Crowley seizes it and him as soon as they're offered. He untucks Aziraphale's shirt, considers unbuttoning it and doesn't bother, just slips his hands under the splay on the bare back underneath.

From:

confoundthemighty

Glorious as it was to feel Crowley’s love for him as a pure emotion, it’s magnificent to feel it physically. Hot hands on his back, the whole of Crowley’s lean frame pressed against his own, the firm shape of a hard cock against his hip, all of it happening too quickly and completely to shut out anything. It’s possible that’s why it doesn’t occur to him that he could simply miracle their clothes gone.

(But there’s something about the weight coming away, something about them getting rid of these layers the way humans do. Something about the way fabric slides and gives and reveals an inch at a time. Crowley didn’t create a hopeless hedonist when he first tempted Aziraphale with food, but he certainly encouraged one.)

One of his own hands slides to Crowley’s waist, pushing the hem of the demon’s shirt up in turn and the second Aziraphale’s palm skims along Crowley’s bare side for the first time he gasps into their kiss. Clumsily he tries to use what leverage he has to pull Crowley into him, hopefully getting them somewhere a step or two further bedwards, but mostly just wanting him as close as they can get.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley moans at the feeling of Aziraphale teasing along his waist. It's too brief a touch and he wants more. Aziraphale tugs him forward but all that accomplishes is them half-turning so Aziraphale's back is against the wall.

It's not the bed, but Crowley is quick to quote literally press his advantage, using his own body to hold Aziraphale's in place. It's amazing, his leg between the angel's thighs and a hard length pressing against him, their chests crushed together. Crowley breaks the kiss in order to dip his head and ravish Aziraphale's neck with small nibbling bites interspersed with kisses, lingering at the edge of his jaw. "Angel," he murmurs, then laughs a little. "Aziraphale. Fuck, is this real?" He nuzzles at the skin, nips at at it. Soothes any pain away with kisses. Repeats."Are you real?"

From:

confoundthemighty

The little nips of almost-pain have his nerves wide awake and crackling with dazzling awareness. And that astonished whisper against his throat, the wonder in Crowley’s voice…

(He remembers hot tears on his neck, a spike of hurt and loneliness that cut into the bliss of afterglow. He remembers a dream he woke from a thousand years ago, a dream of Crowley leaning towards him for a kiss, and how there were tears spilling from his eyes the second he opened them to empty darkness.)

His fingernails dig gently into Crowley’s bare skin—both hands now, resting on his sides just above his hips, the pressure just enough to register in a way that makes him aware that his body is awake, not enough to hurt.

“I’m real.” With the angle they’ve found themselves at, he can breathe the words right into Crowley’s ear, where he can’t possibly miss them. “And I’ll be real at the running of the bulls, and Glyndebourne, and in France and Venice, and Chile, and Japan, and anywhere else in the world you want to go. Anywhere at all.”

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley hardly knows what he's feeling. There's wonder, yes, amazement, growing delight...but he can't help but doubt as well. Can't help but fear this too will prove an illusion of some sort. Even when Aziraphale promises the truth of it. Promises a future they've never had, one where they're together. Not by chance or luck or covert arrangement of circumstances but openly. On purpose.

It's hard not to be confused when someone tells you that yes, in fact, your dreams have come true, however much you want to believe them.

So much easier to concentrate on the purely physical, which fortunately is more than overwhelming enough to drown out all the tangled emotions. There's a sharpness of nails on his skin now, pointed enough to make him gasp, Aziraphale's scent filling his head. "The bed would do for a start," Crowley manages, forcing himself to step back, pulling Aziraphale along with him.

From:

confoundthemighty

Crowley pulls and Aziraphale follows, love tugging him forward with the same certainty as gravity. This time they do manage to make it all the way there—Aziraphale first, finally shrugging out of his jacket and waistcoat as he twists to sit on the mattress. Which ends up being a somewhat graceless movement, more of a collapse than actually sitting, so that he half sprawls onto the bed.

With a huff of embarrassed laughter he looks up at Crowley, reaches for him with insistent hands.

From:

duckshaveears

Crowley, surprisingly, resists, pulling back to get a good look.

In his dream they fell into the bed, started by removing clothes the slow way and then cheating for the rest, but all while up close and personal. He didn't get to see this: Aziraphale, eager and laughing and already half undone, his shirt untucked. Crowley's never seen Aziraphale with an untucked shirt, never imagined him messy and graceless.

It is, to put it mildly, fucking erotic.

Crowley gaze scrapes over Aziraphale from head to foot and back up. He licks his lips. "Have you any idea," he says, voice low and raspy, "how gorgeous you are?"

From:

confoundthemighty

Look at you, you’re gorgeous.

The first time Aziraphale ever heard that word, it was exciting—a momentary pleasant shock, even if it did dull back down into a disappointment that had become all too familiar over millennia. Over the years he’s entertained the occasional idle daydream about hearing it again. Not because he misses the angel whose lips it came from—even if that angel lingers somewhere inside Crowley, he’s only a shadow of the person Aziraphale has come to love so desperately—but because he wants to hear it from this version of Crowley and know that he means it, that it’s not simply a compliment to the universe in whose blast radius he happened to be standing.

Hearing it now makes something in his heart clench and then release, so that hot emotion floods his chest. A flush spreads from his face down his throat.

Even if he’s no longer projecting his emotions, even if he can’t make himself felt as directly as he can in a dream, there’s no mistaking the sheer adoration in his smile.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost shyly.

From:

duckshaveears

Oh bloody hell, that smile. Crowley has done any number of incredibly inadvisable things over the millennia just in the hopes of seeing a shade of that smile, and now it's turned in all its glory on him. For him. And accompanied by the absolutely fascinating way all that pale skin is turning nicely pink, flushed with pleasure and arousal. Gorgeous doesn't cover it, frankly.

"Well," he says, bending over the bed and crawling onto it, so he's on his hands and knees above Aziraphale. "Don't let me stop you, if you have the urge."

His grin is wide and wicked and pleased as he leans down and takes another kiss. This one is slower, deliberate and anticipatory.

Edited Date: 2023-09-08 09:37 pm (UTC)