dumbshow | the critically acclaimed open post

'M busy.

[Giving his angelic boyfriend a fucking hickey like they're in high school, thanks. It's fine. It's no worse than Aziraphale's little noises, endearing and stupid and utterly him. He almost laughs, not mockingly but delightedly, except, again, busy.

Only once he's left two or three does he pull back. And if this were a human, he wouldn't stop. He'd slide down (or more likely, let them go down on him). But this is new and different, and he doesn't quite know the rules for this new game, not yet.]

You-- do you-- shall I, then?

[Wow that sounds fucking stupid and not at all the suave and sensual statement he'd wanted it to be. For fuck's sake, and he scowls.]

[This body is a temple, Crowley, a temple that is, by mass, probably about 60% sushi, but still a temple.

A temple that resolves to wear a scarf for a few days, or perhaps a turtleneck, which will at least get him away from the bow ties until the end of the week. It's good, is the thing (the ultimate problem with temptation, you see, that it's a lot of very nice things depending on the company), and Crowley's mouth leaves him tingling in a way he knows will bruise by morning. He's already decided not to miracle them away, so there they are.

And, oh— his stupid, stupid demon. Aziraphale reaches up with both hands to cup his face and pull him back down, kiss him warmly once, twice... He knows two things with absolute certainty: he wants Crowley, undoubtedly, and he's still somewhat, hmm, terrified by the act of wanting. Giddy with the simple delight of being together he can do, and how! Even kissing him is clear-cut and easy, now that they've done it without the roof caving in.

The rest, though? He looks up at Crowley adoringly, brushing back a loose lock of hair. Hmm. Well.]

Slowly, [he says, with the implication hanging: they have all night, if not even longer. Then he wiggles his eyebrows.] Sometimes a man- well, angel- would like to feel a little wooed.

[Fair enough, although he can't help but retort.]

Six thousand years wasn't enough?

[It wasn't a courtship, not properly. And yet it was, sort of, wasn't it? Oh, the Arrangement was initially a business decision, purely convenience, but . . . even chasing him around to get him to agree to it was a courtship. The two of them popping up in each other's radars, chasing after one another, until what had become defensiveness had melted into a weary resignation, into dinner at mine?, into late nights and lingering gazes, always ever within the safe, stuffy, boring context of platonic acquaintanceship.

Anyway. He won't argue, because he knows what Aziraphale means. And because of that look, which is both utterly stupid and makes every bit of him want to melt, damn it. With a little huff he inches back up, squirming far more than strictly necessary, because if Aziraphale wants slow he'll get slow, but that doesn't mean he'll play fair either.]

Anyway, what do you mean, sometimes? You've never done this. I'd have known if you had.

Oh, don't start.

[Is that for six thousand years, or for tracking his not-so-social life for most of them? Either. Both. He knows Crowley knows he hasn't done this, and he knows Crowley sees his real point. How long did it take Aziraphale to reach the point where he could say no-but-yes-but-no? Millennia!

So please— don't start. And don't squirm, you picky old serpent.]

And alright, I mean right now. Right now, I would like to feel wooed. You can handle that, can't you, dear?

[He pauses just for a moment, just long enough to properly consider the request instead of thinking up some retort. There's no time for grand gestures, and he's definitely not going to pull some flowers out from behind his back like some embarrassing third-rate magician. So what he does, he has to do here, perched atop his angel.

Right.]

Six thousand years.

[He repeats it as he lies back down, nuzzling lightly just beneath his ear. His voice is low, not so much tempting as intimate, something for the two of them.]

Think it started the minute you told me you gave that sword away, if you want to know the truth. 'S when I knew you were different than all those self-important holier-than-thou idiots. Interesting.

[His mouth drags idly over Aziraphale, his jawline, his neck, up towards his lips, touching every bit of him.]

Wish I knew you before I fell.

[Well, you know, flowers wouldn't have left him unimpressed, as it were. He'd find some other way to be giddy about those too, so— keep it in mind. What he gets instead is quiet, and intimate, and breathtaking - ironic, for how slow and winding Crowley's words are around him.]

Oh my, [he breathes, and he knew. He knew, and that makes him feel a pang of that familiar almost-guilt he's felt for centuries, every time Crowley had wanted him so earnestly and he'd told him no, however gently. He'd known, even when he'd rolled his eyes and wanted to believe it was only a ruse. A demon's little joke.

Ah, but--]

I don't.

[He says it suddenly, almost absently, blinking and shifting to nudge Crowley back to looking at him. He has to see him again, he thinks, to say this part.]

We'd have had nothing to talk about.

[In Heaven? With the likes of Gabriel and Michael and the rest? It wouldn't have lasted. Aziraphale knows a great many things and has plenty of regrets, yes, but would it have been at all the same? Could they have happened any differently?

He doesn't ever want to find out.]

I wanted to go to Alpha Centauri with you, you know. Or perhaps somewhere a little warmer, but if it hadn't been for the world, and for, you know... [He would have, and that's the point. Actually he's sidestepping the point, which is not another misplaced apology, but--]

You've been with me all this time. I— That is to say, if you will... [six thousand years] I... love you.

[Very gently, his brain fizzes out and stops.

Ah. Right. He-- yes. Of course he does. Of course he does? Yes. Six thousand years, it'd be impossible not to, but on the other hand, it's as shocking as a slap to the face. Because it isn't just love, but in love that he means, isn't it? Isn't it? It must be, and yet the instant he thinks that he has doubts. Not because he thinks Aziraphale is lying (oh, he would never, not about this, not because it's a sin but because it's just not him), but it simply-- it's just--

Is he unlovable? He's certainly unforgivable. By definition, and you'd think one would preclude the other, but here they are. And yet here's an angel, telling him the complete opposite. I love you, and he repeats the sentence in his mind, emphasizing a different word in each iteration. I love you, I love you, I love you, each time seems a little more real and a little more stunning all at once.

He hasn't said anything, he realizes abruptly. Nor has he blinked in far too long, a slightly unnerving thing.]

I didn't want to go without you.

[Obviously. What would be the point if he was alone up there? Together, he'd said, and he'd meant it.]

I--

[Why is it so hard to stay? He feels it. He knows he does, and maybe he shouldn't be able to, but he does, and it's more important than anything else in his life.]

Angel.

[It's just a little anguished. How is he supposed to answer something like that? Something so adoring, so loving, so perfect, anything he says can't possibly match it. He'll say it back, he will, but just-- give him a minute.]

[Ah. Well, in fairness, Aziraphale expects a response like this. Crowley has struggled for millennia with being a creature that can feel love, can be loved, in precisely the same way Aziraphale has struggled with things like... well, being petty, maybe. That isn't one his former colleagues seem to have much trouble with, so perhaps their hurdle here is the same— after all, God's love towards all His creatures great and small extends to demons only in the textbook way.

He, Aziraphale, is the one who decided to fall (hah) for one.

And he knows, in the way Crowley stares at him, all of the things he can't bring himself to say. He touches his face again, gentle and reassuring, even as his lips tremble in an uncertain smile and his eyes feel watery already. The love is there; the love has always been there, kept tightly bound under a dozen layers of Rules and Regulations and plain fear.

He's not going to cry. Lord have mercy. He feels like he might, but good gracious, he's too old for blubbering.]

Crowley...

[Darling! Dearest! It's alright. It's past the end of the world and it is alright.]

Perhaps we could take a ride in the country. Or a holiday. Sometime.

[It's not Alpha Centauri, but it's the two of them together.]

[He sputters out a laugh, incredulous and adoring, and darts down to kiss him again. It's messy, teeth clicking, his hips rocking down hard, not to be sexual but because he wants to be as physically close to him as possible. One hand rakes through Aziraphale's hair, and when he breaks the kiss, he pulls apart just far enough to speak, his breath hot against his lips.]

A ride in the country . . .

[It's ridiculous. They're ridiculous, and he kisses him again, and again, because it doesn't seem as though he'll get over the shock of being able to do so. What century does Aziraphale imagine this is? But he's always a little stuck in the past, and oh, oh, he loves him for it.]

We can do whatever we want, love.

[Ah. That's . . . closer. A new petname, and it won't replace angel, because he loves that, but it's something. It's an attempt.]

Right now, however . . . I don't intend to let you out of this bed for at least the next two weeks.

[Oh! Okay! Aziraphale makes a noise against his mouth, protesting-but-not-really how he's being so cruelly made fun of for his wonderful ideas. His heart isn't really in it to be bothered, but it's the principle of the thing. He barely has time to kiss Crowley back before he breaks away, and by then, Aziraphale's face is flushed with giddiness and a fussy sort of embarrassment.]

What's wrong with a ride in the country? I told you I wanted to go for a picnic, you remember.

[You know, like, 40 real years ago. It doesn't matter. He will get a picnic basket and tartan napkins and he will make lunch (probably poorly) and they will have a picnic in the country.

But until then, kissing, and holding Crowley close, and ah— love. A warmth blooms in his chest, heavy and satisfying, and he flushes even deeper at the very literal thought of two weeks. Neither of them has to break for sleep, or food— it's very possible to stay in bed for two weeks.]

My dear, [ahem] Two weeks is a fine place to start.

[Two weeks is a pipe dream, because Heaven and Hell won't leave them alone for that long, and they have to prepare. But tonight can be theirs, at least. And tonight-- oh, he has so many thoughts for tonight, chaotic and built up over six whole centuries, but it starts with another little rock of his hips, a deliberate tease as he grins down at his angel.]

Don't tell me a picnic is the only thing you want, though. I might just be disappointed in that. You wouldn't want that, would you?

[Love, and something in him is singing, love love love, he loves him, he loves him, and he wonders if this is somehow the direct opposite of falling: not the loss of love, but rather being filled by it, sustained by it, so overwhelmed by it he almost wants to cry, except that would be disgustingly soft.]

Angel--

[Oh, that's a purr, low and heated, as he grinds his hips down again. Hello.]

[If he wants Aziraphale to react to him, and of course he does, then he's in luck. Even the slightest movement of his hips is brand new and ridiculously distracting; he has no idea how to stop his expression from showing every twitch of surprise and delight, pursing his lips with a little hum.]

Do you want— [Ah, the sound of his voice, the press of his hips; temptation in the way that only Crowley knows how to do to him.] Would you like an itemized list, Crowley?

[This smug little snake, he loves him to the ends of the earth and back. And back, with all the time in the world tonight...

Well, one step at a time. He skims his fingertips down Crowley's spine, pressing insistently when he reaches his lower back. He's going in blind here, but putting his hands on Crowley seems like a good start.]

You know what? I would, actually.

[Is he doing that to be mean? Yes, in part. He likes needling Aziraphale, in no small part because his angel can and will retaliate. But it's in part out of curiosity, because he wants desperately to know what kinds of thoughts the other's had. Can't be too filthy-- or maybe it can, if it's all under the guise of love. Who knows? He certainly doesn't, but he aims to find out.

And in the meantime, he'll just make waiting fun, shall he? Cause a little trouble, so to speak, as he arches up into Aziraphale's lovely, prim, well-manicured hands and begins moving in something akin to, if not actually a lapdance, at least rhythmic grinding downwards.

[He's going to get a list one of these days, born purely out of Aziraphale's need to bother him right back. It will be neatly organized by alphabet, then by complexity, then by some other obscure category like whether or not Crowley should keep his sunglasses on and for how long. It will be precise and neat enough to be framed (he will not allow him to frame it though, good heavens).

But oh, those devilish hips. Aziraphale waggles his eyebrows up at him again, despite his flushed cheeks and the way Crowley's hips make his fingers stutter to a halt before continuing.]

Do you, now? Perhaps we should trade back and forth.

An arrangement, is that really what you're suggesting?

[He means it to be a drawl, but it comes out with more giddiness than he likes. All of him is more giddy than he likes, less suave and more adoring, and maybe he'll regret that tomorrow, but right now he can't bother.]

Fine. And in a show of good faith . . .

[He leans down again, his back arching, grinding up against Aziraphale's fingers, delighted by what he feels growing beneath him. His mouth goes to Aziraphale's ear, but rather than speak right away, he teases instead, nipping lightly at the shell of his ear, sharp teeth stinging just a bit, before pulling back just so he can breathe hotly there.]

I want to suck you off, for starters. Take your cock in my mouth and let me show you how good I've gotten with it. Maybe even see if I could get you to beg me before I finished you off . . .

An Arrangement, yes, now that we're in sore need of a new one.

[Say it with the capital "A," dear. Aziraphale still has that dopey smile on his face, just as giddy about this ridiculous new arrangement thing. Aha, and speaking of desperate need... Of course the entire Crowley experience is overwhelming, breath hot and body warm and firm, and oh—]

Oh, [he breathes, stuck on the way his skin tingles where Crowley's teeth grazed against him. Yes. Words. Fascinating.]

I don't know how good you were with it before. [Stupidly, he says, before thinking about just how it sounds. He swallows, glancing sideways at Crowley, and curls his fingers against him.]

I should think... that I would like it if you did.

Just like it?

[He'll do a lot more than just like it, frankly, or Crowley isn't doing his job right at all. What's the point of being a demon if you aren't at all good at sex? Honestly.

He nips at his ear, but then pulls back, yellow eyes glittering. His tongue runs over his teeth, and it's a sinful gesture, he knows it is, because he's made it a thousand times, but never when he actually cared about the result. Another roll of his hips, and this time he inches down, lining them up, just so he can groan very softly at the resulting pressure.]

You can be more appreciative than that, angel. And it's your go. Let's hear what you can do.

[Listen, he has to start with like or he'll never get anywhere. He knows he'll like it; the rest of the vocabulary has to be earned.

Which he could say and Crowley would no doubt delight in him managing that much, but instead he interrupts himself with a soft gasp and a flutter of eyelashes, sliding his other hand over to rest on Crowley's hip and squeeze. Hello, yes, he's listening. He's appreciating, goodness.

So, then, what he manages to say is,] I will, hm. I will make love to you... on a picnic in the country.

[There is an agenda here.]

[It's not quite the filthy he wanted, but on the other hand, he only ever wants Aziraphale, and him being filthy just isn't him, not at first. Maybe someday, but right now . . . his grin fades, but it isn't in displeasure. Love, he thinks again, and stills his hips so he can kiss his sweet, darling angel the way he deserves.]

Is that a promise, love? I'll hold you to it.

Edited (words?) 2019-06-04 20:19 (UTC)

[Oh, so he gets his ride in the country? Thank you, he loves that. He returns the kiss warmly, but he still manages to look just a tad smug about it when they break apart again. Hmm.]

I give you my word, Crowley. I will see to it that you're well taken care of.

[Gonna bring a nice blanket and bang him on it, but classier. Romantically.]

[Obviously he gets his ride in the country. He's going to get a ride in the country in more ways than one, frankly, because Crowley is nothing if not a right bastard about that kind of thing and will pointedly remind Aziraphale of it, but also, don't be such a brat about it.]

Is that what you call it.

[Actually, no, you know what, the smugness is-- well. Not actually grating, but at least riling enough that he wants to do something about it.]

Go on. Try a bit of dirty talk. It won't kill you to tell me you want to bugger me, you know.

[Let him be smug! He deserves this. Or: he is still smug, but he also opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he isn't sure Crowley was listening? To his very risque dirty talk a moment ago?]

I— I just told you that, didn't I?

[Alright, alright. He will do this. If only to prove a point, he will do this, and he will do it as pettily as possible. He begins slowly, because the details are highly important.]

We will go out on a ride to the country— by train, I suppose— and it will be a lovely day. Then, we'll sit under a tree, and I'll feed you grapes and those fancy little cheeses on the toothpicks you like so much, and we'll sample a delectable vintage, and- [ah; a little inhale, ah,] and I will fuck you under that tree, Crowley, because I love you more than anything.

[It's so incredibly petty, and yet he listens to every single detail, because of course he does. And of course he'll truly enjoy every minute of this picnic, he knows he will, he'll delight in the blue sky and the sunny day and the delighted hum of Aziraphale next to him as he sighs over the meal-- but right now, certain bits of him are only really interested in one aspect of that speech.

It's well worth the wait. Crowley jerks atop Aziraphale when he hears that, that one word, oh, well, god, he thought-- he didn't think that-- but oh, god, his eyes go wide, he wants to savor that, every bit of it, from that delicious promise to the quiet reassurance that oh, yes, he loves him.]

Right.

[Fuck. That's the second time in less than an hour he's made Crowley go blank. Fuck.]

That wasn't so hard, was it.

[Right. Yes. Let him just reboot, let him just--]

Come fuck me now, angel.

[Now is he allowed to be smug? He is, of course, watching Crowley with perfect Heavenly innocence. So, that's getting penciled in on his agenda, yes—]

What happened to what you wanted to do? Honestly, Crowley, you're so easily distracted.

[So fickle! So indecisive! Aziraphale knows he won't manage to keep it together all night - he's hardly managed up until now - so yes, he will, indeed, milk this moment for all it's worth. Maybe that even makes him feel a little bold, enough to wriggle one artfully manicured hand between them and palm against Crowley experimentally. Brow lightly creased in concentration, he is not the picture of the world-wise angel, but thought of his lovely, lovely demon going to pieces over him is very encouraging.

He thinks, and decides that if he's ever going to get to say this thing he wants to say right this second, it's going to be now, so-]

Hmm. This is hard.

[Please, Crowley. Ask him nicely.]

[Maybe this is what will kill him. Not Armageddon nor Hell's wrath, but one smug angel, taking six centuries of sexual tension and delighting in drawing it out. It doesn't matter that he's not experienced, that the look he levels Crowley isn't the practiced seduction of some of the incubi he's known-- it's him, and that's all he's ever needed.

So yes, it works. He ruts his hips up needily into Aziraphale's hand, awful line or no, because he very much needs this right now, please, thank you, god, what the hell does he want him to say?]

Aziraphale.

[Don't do this to him.]

we're doing our absolute best but god i gotta find smut fanart soon

i'll resort to weird symbolic crops of candles next

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject