faemused | Another Year, Another Open RP Post

From:

Crowley went to bed in not the best of moods.

Things could be worse, mind. Armageddon had come and gone, for a value of 'come and gone' that equalled 'had sort of happened except not really and it's all just bloody ineffabble again innit'. He was free from Hell's shackles and Aziraphale was free from Heaven's mindfuckery and humanity was free to go on being blessedly, damnably, fantastically human, and the world turned on.

But the world turning on meant all the usual irritants, wars and plagues and famines. This year was apparently plague, and while it was no 14th century (thank Somebody for that) it wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Not least because they weren't supposed to go walking in parks. Not in company, anyway, and what was the point of a walk in the park on your own with no one to talk to but ducks? So if Aziraphale was going to stand firm about not meeting at all until things eased up, Crowley might as well be asleep. Not like there was much else to do lately.

And if while curled up between dark sheets and a comfortable mattress (or the walls, occassionally, or the ceiling) (which were also dark) he sometimes let himself dream of good wine and better conversation, or of watching an angelic tongue licking cake crumbs off of angelic lips, or of another body curled up against his and sighing in relaxed contentment, well. That was no one's business but his own.

Months passed, and Crowley slept.

From:

lendedahand

[So they’re in Kirkwall, for reasons. And it seems as though there’s been a bit of a murder spree going on... because Kirkwall, and of course they’re the first ones to discover a body because... their luck.

This odd unfortunate fellow seemed to be without a head, and in nothing but his smallclothes. Regular Tuesday in Kirkwall really, not the somewhat odder part was the fact that he had a tattoo of a crudely drawn fish, and someone had thrown cheese over the corpse.]

Well... He’s certainly not getting ahead in life.

[...]

I’m sorry, there’s so much to work with here. I’m not even sure where to start.

From:

grumpycatanthir

Doriath... is a disaster. It was always going to be one, of course, but no one ever listens to Caranthir, what does he know.

(He knows this was a stupid plan is what, if only because it will utterly ruin his carefully negotiated trade routes)

He's not at all surprised that the resistance is more fierce than Celegorm and Curufin were espousing. The Oath may drive them, but it's not supposed to make them idiots. It doesn't mean he doesn't fight as furiously as ever - he needs the Silmaril back as much as any of them, after all - but it does mean that maybe he's not as careful as he should be.

The sword thrust doesn't even hurt, at first. There's a moment when he simply blinks down and thinks oH.

He really hates stomach wounds. They take so long to kill you. He's very grateful for the angry Sinda who cuts his throat, not that he'll be saying that, or anything else, anytime soon. He's a little sorry that this will hurt his brothers, but it's not as if anyone will really notice he's gone, anyway.

(Not until their budget starts to shrink)

The Halls are a nice surprise - he'd rather been expecting the Void. What's even more surprising is who's waiting for him.

.............

He's in trouble, isn't he.

From:

salutosinedelectat

[ From here.]

Well. How curiously specific.

[ You don't have to look at him to hear the grin.]

From:

grumpycatanthir

The Haladin have, after much politicking, finally settled in their new lands. At last, they can turn their thoughts from survival to prospering. There is no reason for the Lord of Thargelion to worry, or to visit or... well. To be anywhere in his cousin's lands, to be honest.

Except that he is.

By himself, even.

Persumably, the scouts suggest, he HAD an escort, that he has, for some reason, left behind.

From:

confoundthemighty

Months and months of wretched lockdown, and at last a breath of hope perfumes the air. Finally (and without any Heavenly interference other than Aziraphale’s own general vague well-wishes, as far as he can tell) the humans have made a vaccine and are distributing it as quickly as they possibly can. There’s optimism ranging from cautious to jubilant in most of the souls he feels pass by the shop, when he bothers to extend his senses.

And still there’s not a word from Crowley.

Strange things happen to a hedonist in isolation. With so many pleasures great and small out of reach and no idea when they might be available again, a kind of weird alchemy takes place over time that rearranges one’s priorities and creates miserable agitation in the soul. Along with the hunger for experience and sensation, a sort of manic determination grows: If I make it out of this I’ll never pass up a chance to indulge again.

Combine this determination with a love that’s only grown keener in the sustained absence of the beloved, and you have an absolutely untenable state of being of the exact kind that grips Aziraphale now.

On New Year’s Eve he decides he’s had quite enough of wallowing (a decision assisted by a glass of champagne that really would be better shared). He digs a picnic basket out of a dusty corner, jams a few bottles of wine into it along with a strawberry almond Budapest roll he’s baked but hasn’t had the heart to eat alone, and heads to Mayfair. For the first time he doesn’t give a damn whether anyone might see him and disapprove—he has things to do. (Though he does, naturally, make certain he has a face mask on. He has standards.)

Crowley’s door knows him well enough to open itself when he arrives after he’s given a courtesy knock; the flat is full of a thick silence. The plants have clearly been too terrified of a sudden inspection to misbehave, though some of them are looking a touch thirsty.

Crowley himself is, to Aziraphale’s dismay, still asleep.

The black sheets on his bed seem to cushion him like the velvet in a jewelry box, setting off a diamond. His hair’s been growing on his pillow, a soft red tangle that’s somewhere between waves and ringlets. His eyelashes rest unmoving against his cheeks.

For a moment Aziraphale wants to simply shake him awake, demand that Crowley sit up and pay attention to him. Then the thought gentles: really, Crowley is quite beautiful when he sleeps, all his angles and edges at rest. A harsh awakening would probably jangle him into a state of exasperation, and that’s not what Aziraphale wants. After all, he’s here to tell Crowley that he wants to ring in the new year together, and hopefully more than that if his courage doesn’t fail him.

That thought sparks another that gives Aziraphale pause. He could make his intentions known and wake Crowley with the same gesture. It would be terribly, terribly romantic, to wake his serpent with a kiss.

Although.

There is, Aziraphale reflects, a bit of a problem with the awakening kiss. In fiction it’s perfectly fine: the author can assure the audience that the handsome prince’s motives and desires are all born of innocent love, and that the princess in her bower pines for the kiss she cannot ask for or say yes to. Negotiation isn’t a necessary part of the equation when an author can show you what’s inside someone’s mind. But outside of a story things get considerably stickier, even for immortal beings. Or perhaps especially for immortal beings, depending on how you look at it.

The other ideal thing about fiction is that no real soul is hurt by a possibly dubious action. If he misjudges this, he might end up hurting the soul he loves most in the world, and Aziraphale would rather pack up and leave for Alpha Centauri than hurt Crowley again if he can avoid it.

Although.

Both he and Crowley have long been slipping into human dreams to examine and shape them, for work (and occasionally for their own curiosity). He could ask. Or at least let Crowley know he’s here.

With the gentleness only an anxious angel can manage, Aziraphale seats himself on the edge of the mattress. His fingers just barely brush the high slope of Crowley’s cheekbone, a touch lighter than a breath of air.

Easily, as quiet and certain as opening a door, he lets himself sink into the demon’s dreams.

From:

confoundthemighty

Once upon a time…

Sunlight, warm as a kiss, stole across Aziraphale’s pillow to dye the dark behind his eyelids rose-red. He breathed in deeply, still half caught in the cobweb of a dream, and rolled to his side to blink out at the window.

It was a little after dawn. The sun, just now cresting the tall trees at the border of the royal estate, spilled gold light into his room to soften the edges of familiar objects. Streaks of pink and violet dyed the clouds just visible at the edges of the window frame. Already it promised to be a perfect summer day, bright and vibrant.

Aziraphale almost wished it wasn’t his birthday.

Not that he wasn’t excited to be twenty-one. Twenty-one was, by every legal and social recknoning he knew, considered of an age to make one’s own decisions. And birthdays as a general rule were a great deal of fun. He simply wasn’t enthused about having to spend most of the day at a birthday party, especially not one thrown by his family. Which this one was.

The food would be divine—the royal chef always ensured that much, at least—but he didn’t look forward to the rest of it. All Aziraphale’s milestone birthdays so far had been marked with the same stifling formal atmosphere. It would be six to eight hours of stifling socializing and insipid games with other petty royals, people who didn’t know or care for him outside of his position as the heir to a small kingdom and a not-so-small fortune. His parents and attendants would be watching him like hawks to make certain he was behaving properly, not quoting too much poetry or expressing shocking opinions. Not to mention they’d all been hinting that it was high time he come to an understanding with a suitable (and suitably distinguished) person.

But maybe when night fell…

His heart turned over, the faint fog of dread lifting. Maybe after dark, he could give everyone the slip and head out to the garden. The old apple tree was about to bloom—it always blossomed and fruited later than the rest of the apples in the royal orchards—and if the moon was out, it would turn the leaves silver. There might be glow-worms winking in the dark.

Maybe Crowley would be waiting for him.

Once upon a time, there was a prince who lived in a beautiful golden cage. His parents loved him, but because a wicked faerie had cursed him as an infant, they kept him locked away to ensure the curse never came to pass. Even after the faerie responsible died in exile, they worried, and so the prince grew up well-loved and protected but not free.

[ooc: see discord for more details!!]

From:

salutosinedelectat

[ I come demanding owed offers! Politely.

I also made seperate accounts for zirafell and cathetel if it's easier ]

From:

confoundthemighty

[[continued from here]]

Personally responsible? Because if so, I’m thoroughly impressed!

Well, simpler relative to Hamlet, but a touch more complex relative to that particular sentiment. This would be more along the lines of… how shall I put this.

[Aziraphale, as it turns out, does not know the first rule of holes. Even if he’s not aware that he’s digging right now.]

These two only seem to encounter one another in the record shop, or the coffee shop, or outside the pub. And it’s quite clear that there’s a mutual attraction, and that there has been since the first time they noticed one another. Only, I’ve been advised that “my heart has not been fully my own since the first time I had the chance to speak more than a few words with you” is, in this day and age, not the best way to express such an attraction.

From:

confoundthemighty

Though they spend quite a lot of time in bed, it does take several months for Aziraphale to actually fall asleep in it. It’s not really that he’s reluctant to keep Crowley from following through on his playful threat to get inside his dreams. He’s just spent such a long time either actively avoiding sleep or spending his nights reading that it’s simply a habit by now to stay awake.

That habit was formed when he spent most of his nights alone, and now nights and days alike are spent in the best of company. Even though they don’t entirely have the world back the way they’d like, even though theatre and restaurants and the symphony and all those sorts of things are still slowly recovering, they have one another. They talk and talk and talk, conversations that go on for literal hours and span the entirety of their shared history; they share little bits of their hobbies, each explaining their own progress and praising the other’s. And they spend a great deal of time exploring in the waking world the things they’ve only dreamed of doing to one another.

The thing is, though, that Crowley does enjoy sleep. He especially seems to love drifting off wrapped around Aziraphale, or with his head in the angel’s lap, or… touching him in any way that he can, really. The first few nights it happens, when Crowley drifts off in his arms, Aziraphale simply watches him. He doesn’t pry, he doesn’t disturb whatever dreams Crowley’s having, he simply watches. Marvels at how beautiful he is, how the little serpent on his face completes the perfection of the whole picture, how all the brilliant elasticity that he adores when Crowley is awake relaxes into something that seems untroubled. And whenever Crowley wakes and discovers he’s still held, still right here by Aziraphale’s side, his smile is ten times more dazzling than the angel he once was.

Eventually, when simple admiring doesn’t quite keep him from wanting to wake Crowley up to talk to him, Aziraphale summons books out of the shelves so he can do some reading. As it turns out, reading is even more enjoyable when he’s got his serpent snuggled up to him. And then, at last, just as it does with humans, sleep catches him off guard one evening as he’s re-reading The Scarlet Pimpernel with Crowley asleep in his arms. Between his demon’s slow deep breathing, his warmth, and the familiarity of the romance, he’s lulled in a way he hasn’t been in a long, long time.

Sleep pulls him down into the comfortable darkness of total rest for a while, with Crowley’s weight serving as an anchor.

From:

freo

Éowyn tugs her robe a little more securely about her frame before reaching for the small glass bottle on her vanity, grateful for the warmth of the fire humming in the hearth. Autumn is beginning to win over summer and the nights already have a chill to them. The scent of lavender and rosemary -- bounties from her beloved garden -- is clean and calming as she pours some of the oil into the cup of her palm, rubbing it into her hands and sifting her fingers through the loose waves of her golden hair, letting her thoughts wander as she devotes these quiet moments to her nightly bedtime routine.

They have been Lord and Lady of Ithilien not quite yet a full year. In that time, they have made plenty of progress, setting down roots in this fair but untamed land, building a permanent settlement and making secure the area. Just because the Dark Lord was thwarted does not mean there is no more danger. Ithilien was wild and ungoverned for so long ere the defeat of the Enemy that change takes its time; yet they are both of them committed to doing what must to see it through. They have toiled hard and there is still more work left to be done, but Ithilien is now a growing town with established infrastructure; each month bringing with it further growth. Éowyn can hardly wait to see how their home will look like in another year.

In another year other things may have changed, as well. At least that is Éowyn's fondest hope. Wagging tongues may have gossiped and wondered at the lack of heir even after nearly a year of marriage, but Éowyn was not worried. A child would come when the time was right. They have certainly labored faithfully to see that goal realized, she thinks with fond amusement. Separate bedchambers might have been the norm for many couples of their rank, but not them! Be that as it may, for a while now, she has been beset by inconvenient spells of faintness and bouts of nausea she's tried not to pin too much of her hopes on. After all, there are other causes for such things than a pregnancy. But her monthly blood should have come weeks ago, and so she thinks she can now judge with some certainty that she could indeed finally be carrying their first child.

She has only just picked up her hairbrush and pulled the bristles through her hair once or twice before she catches the familiar footfalls of her husband, a smile on her lips as she watches Faramir enter their chambers through the mirror sat on her vanity. She almost laughs at herself, knowing how the expression on her face must look like; she is still utterly besotted by the man she's privileged to call her husband, her heart skipping at the thought of telling him the news.

"Good evening, my Lord."

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