demonicmiracle | (duplicity) ic contact

Not here, darling.

[A little softer. Here they can both be hurt, and he'd be a fool to forget it. No game is worth that risk, not when he now has the freedom just to invite him over.]

I'll have to find some suitable substitute for the thrill, won't I?

[Because he doesn't want to turn it right back dark and serious again.]

[That's a good point, but Crowley's also willing to not get into discussion about how dangerous that could actually be here. Instead, he blinks slowly, offering a smirk.]

Don't think I haven't noticed you like a bit of a thrill.

[The way he reached into him when they both had their wings out, the fact that he seems to like the occasional sharpness.]

[He leans forward a bit, the better to get direct eye contact.]

I haven't exactly tried to hide the fact. If you hadn't noticed, I'd fear I wasn't sufficiently holding your attention.

[Hoisted by his own petard.

But he's not giving in that easily. He traces his fingers lazily up and down his calf, drops his voice to a purr.]

Oh, sweetheart, you always have my full attention.

Good.

[He's not completely sure he's only playing at this. It's an odd feeling, something he'll have to dissect later when he's less distracted.]

In some of your song lyrics for the dancing, they expressed anger. Are you? Is there some part of you angry at me?

[It doesn't seem to be the expected "trying to sort things out" question. There's a different sort of energy here. Only potential energy at the moment while he's feeling things out.]

[The question surprises him, though he's sure that it makes perfect sense to Aziraphale, so he'll answer it with honesty.]

Not right now, but I've been angry at you a lot, in the past.

All those times you pushed me into a wall. I half wondered how much was show and how much of it was real, somewhere under there. Or if some of it wasn't an excuse to touch in an...acceptable way. Maybe a combination of all of the above.

I always wondered how you'd react if I rose to it, even though I wasn't supposed to.

[It's subtle, the change in his tone of voice. Dark for him is relative, but it's a dark(er) thread weaving through the more conversational notes.]

[Oh.

Crowley's mouth goes dry, his heart skittering in his chest, and he suddenly feels very vulnerable, kneeling the way he is. He thought Aziraphale was asking the question for a reason, that they were moving past the flirting, but apparently it was... part of it.]

Um. [Words. Come on, he knows words.] Probably — probably would've reacted well. Depending on your definition.

Or if I had just gone to my knees instead.

[He's fairly sure he's with him now, still stroking his hair gently.]

[Utterly ridiculous, he is, and he knows it. Just a few words and that gentle stroke of his hair has him exhaling shakily.]

Wouldn't have known what to do with that, I reckon. Probably would've panicked.

[A hint of a rueful smile. But it's the truth. He was so careful around Aziraphale, making sure never to cross the line, that if something like that had happened it might've rattled him.]

Then I'm glad I never did that. Wouldn't want to, oh, how do they put it? Freak you off.

[He widens his eyes momentarily to make the point.]

But you wouldn't panic now. If I went to my knees for you. If I told you it's OK if you are angry. If I told you I've never been afraid of it.

Out. Freak me out.

[He's not so far gone that he can't manage at least that correction. Though maybe that's helped by the fact this suddenly feels like the sort of thing he has to focus on, his gaze searching Aziraphale's face.]

I'm not — [He doesn't know where that sentence is going. His brow furrows slightly as he licks his lips, caught between the image that Aziraphale has so lovingly supplied him and the unpleasant sensation at the thought of ever hurting him.] I'm a demon, Aziraphale, you should be afraid of my anger.

[Not him, he doesn't want Aziraphale to be afraid of him. But his anger shouldn't be taken lightly.]

I'm very aware of what you are.

[He inhales and sits back a little, fingers still in his hair. He's not withdrawing, but he is shifting gears. He doesn't want to upset him.]

I have never been afraid of any part of you, and I never will be.

[It's stupid, really, but something about those words makes his heart feel too big for his body, as if it might spill over. He manages to blink back the tears, though he's sure his eyes are still bright.]

Is that — is that something you want? My anger?

[He has a feeling he understands those almost tears. It wasn't so long ago he had his moment. His hand trails from his hair to his cheek, but not in a way to call attention to what he sees. Not directly.]

I've told you. I want all of you. It's part of you. How could I love it any less than your care and kindness? Your mocking? Your teasing? There's no picking apart the threads without unraveling the entire package. Why would I want to?

[I'm not kind is on the tip of his tongue before he swallows the words, knowing that this isn't the argument to get into.]

Is that what you're trying to do, unravel me? [He's asking a lot of questions, he realizes, but Aziraphale has never minded his questions. There's something in that, too.] Knowing it's there doesn't mean you have to want it. Accepting it doesn't mean you have to want it, not like... that.

[Because he feels like they're talking about sex, or were talking about sex, and that makes a difference.]

No. That would be cruel of me. You've had quite enough of that.

[Coming apart. Being unmade in a sense.]

What if I do? Am I asking too much? You can be honest if I am. I won't ask again. I don't want you pushing yourself into something that would upset you to do. And I don't want to push you into that, myself.

I'd not mind, if it was you.

[Maybe that doesn't need saying. Maybe it's obvious, considering the name carved into him, what he let the other version of Aziraphale to do him.

The rest of it he's less certain of. He trusts that Aziraphale is being honest with him, that if he's asking after this it's because he wants to, not because he thinks Crowley needs it. He's quite for another moment, still watching, still not quite sure he's got the thread of this conversation. He could keep trying to parse it out piece by piece, but he decides to cut straight to what he thinks is happening here, even if it's a little blunt.]

Are you asking me to be rough with you?

Crowley.

[It's one of his smiles that isn't.]

I'd not mind if it was you. If all I wanted was rough, I'd pull your hair. You'd get there.

[He hates the sensation that he's missing something, that there's a layer of the conversation he can't parse out, and maybe it's that he's scared to dig too deeply into it. He hates that smile, too, when Aziraphale gets all cold and too calm.]

I'm sorry. [a little shaky, and he draws back, draws in on himself.] I don't want to hurt you.

[He's not sure why saying that feels as if he's failed somehow.]

All right, Love.

[The coldness is gone as though it never were. He looks at him with understanding. He won't ask again, won't put him in this position twice.]

Then I won't ask you to. I'm sorry I upset you.

[He feels wrung out, between the anger from earlier and the vulnerability and now — this. The sickening sense that he's failed, given the wrong answer to a question he didn't want to be asked.

He's struck by the urge to run away, to be anywhere but here so he can deal with this awful, ugly thing in his chest without making Aziraphale witness it, but he doesn't want to give the wrong impression, so he swallows it down instead.

Words are useless and he doesn't trust his voice anyway, so he just nods mutely and tips his head to press his forehead against Aziraphale's thigh, letting his hair fall down to hide his face as much as it can be hidden.]

[He has the sense that he has dug into something he shouldn't have and shoves down his own mounting frustration with himself for continuing these missteps. Why wouldn't Crowley crave something more gentle?

So he can be very stupid sometimes, despite his intelligence.

He lightly sets both hands on his head and does the only thing he can think to do, the same thing he did when he took him off that rooftop, opens up enough of himself to give him a feeling of love without the divinity that would harm him.

One day he prays he can figure out how not to hurt him. Today isn't that day.]

[It isn't necessarily the wrong move, to give him that love, but it's another sudden intense feeling on top of everything else and it makes it impossible for him to keep everything buried the way he'd been hoping to. Instead, a sob wrenches free of him and his shoulders tremble, a painful hiccup of breath as he tries to get himself under control.]

Fuck — sorry. I can — I should go.

[Muffled, against the fabric of his trousers, and he doesn't move despite the words. It's not a purposeful manipulation, but he wants Aziraphale to tell him to stay.]

Please don't.

[Very softly.]

If you feel that you truly have to, I don't want to force it, but if you can stay, I wish you would.

I'm starting to think maybe your friends are right to worry. About your choice in me.

[A little breathless.]

Because it seems like I keep pushing you to this, and...

[He just shakes his head, continues touching him both physically and with that openness. He loves him more than he knows what to do with it, and maybe that's part of the problem. He really doesn't know what to do.]

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