I asked once to send someone poetry I'd written about our relationship, and their answer was no— a moment of self discovery I celebrate, tongue in cheek.
When did I begin my poetry?
When I was invited to a creative writing group (I was so charmed to be asked). After joining, instead of thinking about poetry, I began to write it. Poems I compose in free verse are public, but if I compose in rhyme and meter, I keep it private.
When did I begin my writing?
More recently. "Black, Soft, Unearthly" is the first piece I decided to make for others to read, and its sequel, "Then Shall Change Red".
When did I begin my art?
I explored it through different projects and styles all my life, I pursued it in my education, and I have a bachelor's of science in fine art.
When did I begin my violin playing?
Much later in life than I wanted, but at the first opportunity I had, in college.
What do I love to do, when interacting with others?
Talk about creativity or hobbies, make jokes, make small talk, or give mentorship! I'm very adept at listening and sensing emotions, but I've no idea what to do with this interpersonal knowledge, and very often don't want to do anything that is not my routine or special interests.
I do ask you not to give me a follow if you aren't engaging me/my posts because I'll soon send you into the void, where everyone self interested, boring, or lacking imagination belongs.
If you look at Crowley's desk, there's a black journal, which is rather significant given how intentional and few the items are:
I described Crowley's hand-writing in my fics as "wide looped script". What I had in mind, is that those loops would have the look of feathers. I decided to do some experimentation and enjoyed the result, so I'm sharing it. The ligiature for "th" I saw in hand-writing contemporary to Shakespeare's era and thought was pretty neat.
So here's the question. . .shall I play with the style some more?
Yeah, it has potential!
Too niche, nobody's interested in character hand-writing
Remaining time: 23 hours 43 minutes
The quote in writing is a small part of this excerpt, where Aziraphale requests Crowley describe in more detail one of Aziraphale's frequent erotic fantasies, and Crowley lends his poetic skill to it:
Crowley smiles as he does only when inspiration fills him, a flap of wings as he folds his soft feathers on his back, and lays over him. He inhales once, aligning his voice and tone to something serene and expressive, before that first word. A fingertip strays, traces the vane of Aziraphale's feather, preparing for a journey as much with touch, as voice.
"Your wings cover my bed, Angel, they cut against it with the infinite beauty and strength they do against the black canvas of space. Your radiance unites and scatters oodles of these little rainbows, touching absolutely everything that's touching you, amplifying its potential with your love. Your thighs rest on the curve of your sides, built as a sacred arch to sacred prayer where supplication's welcomed and love's never lost, your navel soft as hillsides of grass in spring, cock hard and smooth as Eden's crowning bladed leaf. Your legs hold like an untamed vine. Your arms caress like a unabashed stream."
"You feel me like oceans feel rain. Softly it's striking a symphony. Entering with longing to you and knowing you. I am your like. You see me with black wings, cut against panes of color, with beauty that is only mine, rebirth and hope found in every feature. My whole body's above you, but it's not separate to you. It never was. My arms carried you through spiraling stars. My chest beat under your weeping eyes. My sides held your sleeping head. My hands taught you, to eat, to drink, to love your body. My hips cradled your virgin la petite mort. My feet walked Eden before yours and my loneliness told me to stay there, for you. Every inch of me is yours, because. . . I gave it. You deserve it."
Dracula and Johnny | That Old Black Magic | Daily Bites
"Then he feels the full weight of Johnny's consciousness tumult into the crimson plain of his mindscape. . .
. . .he shuffles through his years like cards in a deck. Gives Johnny a taste; a sliver of his deepest self. An inkling of his lengthy, storied life, ever shining like a dark star among all the brief ones he's devoured along the way. . ."
–That Old Black Magic by Argyle🩸 Penned by M. House of Estridsen
I will always appreciate your writing, especially for these two ❤️ I don't have it in me to read often, so what I do read I treasure pretty fiercely. Thanks for sharing that special gift for all of us!
He walks with the sound of tasseled layers; a ruby stripe starting over one shoulder, twisting in spirals to his ankles. Robed in black, he disappears in the long shadows of the aqueducts, until the curly hair and beard neatly trimmed to his shoulders catches the golden sun again. Halting at the sight of the gardens sprawled below him, he makes his way down, to a lone figure in white.
"What brings you to Nineveh?" Crowley asks.
"Suppose you could say I'm in the mood for something," Aziraphale answers, adding emphasis with the soft raise of his brow.
Crowley doesn't miss a beat before grinning like a fool in love.
"Are you? Lucky it's the last of today's list," he flirts, hissing playfully with each 's', "Or I'd be in some other palace about now."
He sinks into the bed of foliage and flowers, beside the very conspicuous angel, with his very conspicuous bulge. Already an erection is somewhat noticeable under the sash on the demon's waist, where a single black feather hangs from a beaded necklace.
"Want to enjoy the sunset?" Crowley offers, brushing Aziraphale's cheek gently with his long fingers.
"I'd quite like that," Aziraphale replies, boldness melting into a sweeter smile.
Sunset's really only moments away. As golden rays hint hues of orange and rose, Crowley plucks his dark shades from his face. In their absence there waits a fresh batch of freckles from sun bathing. Aziraphale's gaze skips to them, until receding light reveals a faint glow to the demon's eyes. Now as dusk surrounds them, his eager lips meet Crowley's in a kiss, fingers piercing through his red beard.
Crowley urges him to follow.
Retracing his steps, he tugs Aziraphale along the side of the palace, under the windows. The long square cut edges of the angel's outer robe flutter past, stitched with golden embroidery, one tassel on each corner. Row after row of patterns, from knee to ankle, wrap around his inner robe, ending just above open sandals, displaying the rings on his toes. The demon stops, his fore and middle fingers touching his brow in concentration a moment, before scooping Aziraphale into his arms and darting up with swift, powerful strokes of his wings, into an empty palatial bedroom. . .
. . .still landing, he hops a few times, those hops becoming sure strides to the bed, Aziraphale curled up in his simple bridal carry.
"Any requests, Angel?"
"None tonight," Aziraphale murmurs, with a melting sigh at the thought of being guided and worry free, "You know what I like."
Aziraphale lifts back his robes as he's lowered, and Crowley swings over to grab a handful of each thigh, his own robes hiking up in the angel's hands, until Aziraphale's lips part over his tip, sucking his cock deep into his warm mouth. Crowley licks open Aziraphale with his long tongue, salivating and serpentine, his fingers holding his cheeks wide, until little tells signal him to ready a hovering palm, intercepting the shimmering white splash from his cock, flowing and flowing with each pulse. He presses that inside of Aziraphale, in languid strokes, at last withdrawing his hips from the breathy sigh of the angel's mouth, contentedly warming him. There's yet more of it he can spread over his cock in his tight fist, as he steps off the bed to change direction and vaults up, wings unfolding for balance, casting dark shadows over Aziraphale.
The banquet music below serenades the silence, each of the demon's wings echoing its melody into the intimate space between them. Crowley slides himself into Aziraphale, hungry for the way they move together. An electricity sparks through his center, anticipating familiar pleasures, lusting for Aziraphale to clutch onto his cheeks, pushing his thrusts even deeper into him, for his angel's cock to harden and spill to him twice, untouched. Steady in their pace, his need builds into more, the best feeling from any of the times he can remember, Aziraphale pulling at his lips with soft scrapes and bites held with moans, taking him with ecstasy. The sound of Crowley's name fills Aziraphale's mouth, suddenly breaking the tangle of their tongues.
Cum shoots straight up the demon's chest, Aziraphale's palm chasing after, then sliding down to feel Crowley abdomen as it clenches firmly, a rhythmic contraction that rubs his cock against Aziraphale's prostate even more than with his thrusts. It feels so good to him, before and after orgasm. Aziraphale pants with the deep breaths of Crowley's moans, until the demon's reached his apex as well, flowing searing hot, much more than Aziraphale's body can contain. It soaks along the wrinkled paths under their bodies.
In smiles and caresses, they catch their breath. They miracle away stains, sharing quirked brows and amused laughter.
Aziraphale glances over his arms and feet quickly, double checking any jewelry hasn't slipped into the bed. Wondering what Crowley's doing, he looks back over his shoulder, just in time to see the demon dragging a long fine sheet away from the bedding.
"Crawly, are you stealing?"
Crowley darts past the angel, his long slender arms overfull with fabric.
"Yeah. Why?"
Aziraphale folds his arms across his chest, glaring at the all too innocent blink of Crowley's round bright eyes. The demon nearly loses his footing on the palace wall because of it, hands gripping for dear life over the sill, the sheet awkwardly tied around his body, not to constrict his wings.
"Give me your moral argument later," Crowley starts to hiss, "C'mon, before we're caught!" A few loose black feathers flip up as he flies down. Aziraphale descends airily, Crowley watching every bit of his beauty and poise against the night sky. Aziraphale does not in fact give Crowley a moral argument, though they don't speak again until Crowley's trying knots and stringing the sheet around two secluded trees in the heart of the never-ending tiered garden, cultivated on water and air and imagination. Aziraphale's lips curve up, despite himself, as Crowley spreads the hammock wide, chin tucked with an expression that says "admit this was a little bit clever of me".
"Very nice."
Aziraphale climbs in, then Crowley, with an ease only celestial bodies can have, limbs lovingly entwining, and through the night they make up for lost weeks of conversation, pressed together soothingly under stars.
"He pierced the bared neck under him and took into himself Daniel’s ecstasy, his drunkenness and his delight. They tumbled together in the swoon for as long as Armand dared, and he finally let the bower dissolve, and with it the scent of blossoming trees and the glint of light on water."
–Endearments by Paisley🩸Penned by M. House of Estridsen
CH 7 | We Meet In Dreams | Below In A Jade Bird Cage | Poet to None
Aziraphale's eyes blink drowsily, the sanctuary's palette of pale blues and glimmering white and vibrant books drifting away.
What he wants, all that he wants, is to fall into a deep sleep and dream again, and he does. . .
A weathered book's uneven pages sprawl over black velvet thighs. It's stacked paper smooths with a whisper as a palm moves against it, spread open on his lap. He lifts his hand, curling his fingers around a braided cord keeping the last curtain in the room open, and tugs it loose, until the drape falls behind his shoulder. The faint light of the window's shutter is gone. Now the only flicker interrupting the gloom of the dilapidated library is the candelabra glowing beside him, though not all its wicks are lit. An open matchbox, the word LUCIFERS lettered boldly on its cover, waits in reach of his idle slender frame.
"Back so soon?" Crowley lilts, his voice dark with pleasure and his grin alluring with pride and warmth.
Aziraphale clutches at the items gathered in his arms, taking in every detail. . .
Samuel Jones [a London chemist]. . . began commercializing a version of Holden's [Scottish inventor] product throughout Britain as the "promethean" or "lucifer match" (Latin: lucifer, "light-bearer"). Its popularity—and much lower price—prompted Walker to stop making his own formulation by 1830, while Richard Bell opened the first match factory in 1832 in London. Jones and Bell's lucifer matches were pirated in turn by Ezekial Byam in the United States. These matches continued to have unpleasant fumes, an unsteady flame, and could ignite explosively, sometimes throwing sparks a considerable distance. Nonetheless, they sold well and "lucifer" persisted as a genericized term for matches into the 20th century.
