A Dreamwidth-only post, for now!
May. 17th, 2009 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedJust because I think these are fun. It's OK if no one else does.
I'm going to out myself on a few more things I wrote for the Good Omens Anonymous Kink Meme over on LJ.
Full-On Annunciation
“Well, this is awkward,” said Gabriel, shining in his raiment as he performed his duties.
Aziraphale winced, trying to find a tactful way to tell him the halo might fade the books, and could he turn it down a tad? “Indeed, my dear, perhaps you could just give me the message quickly? I hope it’s not anything…earth-shaking.”
“Er, not for the earth, per se. Just you, for now. Um. See, I have to do this kind of formally. By the book. It’s a full-on Annunciation, you know. Ahem: Behold, you are conceived.”
“What?”
“No, your line is – oh come on, you know how this goes. You’re supposed to say, ‘But how can that be, for I have known no man’? Or something like that,” Gabriel murmured, blushing, for the door to the bookshop had just been opened by a being that was, indeed, technically not a man, who took one look at the radiance and turned on his heel and slammed the door again on his way out.
“No, in this case, it’s how could it be, because in case you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t been issued the type of body that…does that?”
“Are you questioning the Ineffable?”
“It never does any bloody good, does it? So I suppose I’m not! But could the Ineffable be so good as to tell me where I’m supposed to carry it – in a blasted shopping bag?”
“Language!” gasped Gabriel. “Well, you’ll figure it out. All will be revealed.” He departed in a bit of a snit.
Which was nothing compared to the attack of hormones that left Aziraphale laughing and sobbing at once, which was very painful to his face, and he wasn’t going to stop until Crowley returned, at which time he was going to demand to be brought kippers and Nutella.
***
Crowley went through all five stages of grief in 13 seconds, but instead of Acceptance at the end he went for Hysterical Laughter, which led Aziraphale to threaten to put a kipper in a very unorthodox place, which led Crowley to speculate that in that case, Someone only knew what he’d give birth to.
***
They had a massive row that could not all be blamed on Aziraphale’s condition. Well, actually, it could because Crowley, being a demon, was physically incapable of being a partner to a highly miraculous, if not actually immaculate conception without uttering the dread question, “Are you sure it’s mine?”
The bigger problem was that he hadn’t phrased it even quite so tactfully. He’d mentioned that one of his projects in America was a television programme where young women uncertain of their baby’s parentage could have paternity test results read on the air in front of an audience, and would Aziraphale like a holiday overseas?
***
By the time Crowley was allowed to see Aziraphale again, the angel was starting to show.
***
By the time Aziraphale was starting to feel the weight on his lower back, and from time to time leaning on his wings when only Crowley was around, even their prodigious powers of denial had been defeated.
Eventually, Aziraphale took to his bed and Crowley followed in a miasma of worry, hope, and what could only be called morbid fascination. Hand placed gently over the far-rounder-than-usual belly, the demon started once and then looked down in wonder.
“It kicked,” he said.
“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said. “I think it flapped.”
“Look…” Crowley said, “If you’re scared that it’s going to be…I mean, we’ve discussed this before, thinking it’s going to be a demon because its, er, father became one, well we know that…”
“Do stop worrying,” said Aziraphale, with a sudden rush of beatific certainty. “It will be fine. And we will love it no matter what.”
Crowley just nodded, because after all he’d been the one who was more frightened, and just put his ear to the belly as if he could hear the ocean.
***
“It’s time. Midwife please.”
Crowley was panicked, stock still, frozen, and utterly useless for anything but a Lovecraftian gibbering, because he knew, just knew, that there was nothing resembling a midwife on the planet equipped to deal with this.
Anathema arrived with Adam, on the back of his motorbike.
And it was, indeed, fine.
~end~
Lilith's Sweet Revenge
When they were children, Adam was always the pirate captain, the Red Indian chief, the outlaw gang leader, the army general, the Grand Inquisitor. There had never been much of a decision process involved in it, on his part or Pepper's or Brian's or Wensleydale's. It simply was so: Adam was a leader, just like he was a blue-eyed blond boy--or more precisely, in exactly the same way that Dog was a dog. It had simply never occurred to him to be otherwise.
He was later ashamed to admit how old he was before he realised this was an issue. And he usually didn't think much about issues unless and until Pepper made him.
It had begun innocuously. The older she got, the more Pepper was cheerful and open about her obsession with her mother's old bookshelf, and the larger the words got in her arguments.
Then she'd found her mother's other bookshelf.
***
"When I first remembered - no, when I first believed, I was fucking furious at you," Pepper whispered hoarsely.
"Why?" Adam said, his mouth alternately so terribly dry and so terribly wet.
"Because I was just beginnin' to understand the kind of world we live in. The kind where, y'know, the Goddess, has been forgotten, and then there's you, right there in my life, bein' my friend all this time..."
"I didn't mean to, " Adam said, because he hadn't. He pulled a little bit on the fake-fur-lined faux-leather restraints, just to hear the chains jingle.
"But without meanin' to, you almost drew me in. Your patriarchal mythology. So phallocentric." To emphasize, she ran her hand down her belly, over her navel piercing and down to her own very phallocentric reality, leather straps around her hips and thighs doing nothing to detract from that very potent aura of cockiness. It was silicone, and it was hers. And it was long, and thick. Just like Adam's own, made of flesh, bound up in rubber straps, and aching with want.
He writhed along the bed, straining against his bonds, hoping his desperate cock might at least get a little brush against his own belly, any kind of contact. No luck. He was too hard.
Pepper stroked her strap-on authoritatively. "Not much of a power, really...I mean, I bought one. But the longer I wear it, the more...I kinda see what you mean."
Adam moaned and licked his lips, lowered his eyes. It was in his birthright to seek power. And he did - it accrued to him, he couldn't help it. But this was the kind of power he wanted; to lie back and let wonderful things happen, to arch his back and whimper and feign terror as Pepper descended upon him and lifted his legs with her lovely wiry, freckled tomboy arms, pressing his knees back to his chest and exposing his arse to the air and her gaze, as she reached around his thighs to torment his nipples with her sharp little fingernails. One jewel in her pierced nipple beneath her mesh bustier caught the candlelight as she reached for the lube by the bed. Adam reached for it with a nip of his teeth and fell short. She slapped his cheek, as he'd wanted her to all along.
"Someday," she purred, "I'm gonna give you an enhanced interrogation technique until you tell me why the Old Man's got such a kink for foreskins." She tweaked Adam's, bunched and slick beneath the strained head of his prick.
Adam gasped, nearly sobbing as her other finger investigated his entrance, slick and sure.
"Take me," he whispered. "Take me and I'll tell you everything I know."
"I will, but," she said, "I don't think I'm hard enough yet," she murmured. "Think you'd better give my cock a bit of a suck with that pretty mouth of yours."
Adam licked his lips again as she straddled his shoulders.
All calculation, she adjusted the webcam as she pushed into his mouth.
***
Adam rose, as far as he could. Lips parted.
The very tip of Pepper's strap-on dildo brushed him, and he reached out to touch it with his tongue, saying yes.
Pepper lunged forward and thrust into his throat. Hard. Nearly gagging him. He would have reached out to grasp her hips if he hadn't been bound.
Eyes watering, he just concentrated on sensations lower down, where her lubed fingers reached behind her and skillfully avoiding his longing cock, just brushing his balls and mostly interested in his arse, teasing and sliding.
Her touch was, if not gentle, then at least patient.
She gripped the base of her artificial cock as she worked it in and out of his mouth, moaning softly as though she fully felt it.
If she'd just let him speak.
She wouldn't. His lips sucked at her shaft, his tongue flicking under the sculpted vein beneath as her hips rocked. (He'd sucked cock before, oh yes, and he supposed for once he didn't have to worry much about his teeth.)
He worried more about his arse when Pepper broke free, panting, a thin line of spit leaking over his lips as Pepper licked it away, moving down, parting him open further with her hand...
"Pepper...." he whispered. "I know what you are."
"I don't want to be that," she breathed back.
"But you are," he gasped, "And it's not just the....my stuff, the mythology....it's you too."
Her spit-slick, well-lubed dildo burst into flame. It took on the shape of a sword, and its blade shivered as she caressed it.
She felt the touch.
"Adam," she said, stunned. "I'm cross with you but I don't want to hurt you..."
"You won't," he said, certain for the first time in ten years. "It'll feel good."
When she entered him, she felt every minute constriction of his tight passage as though her flaming sword were part of her body from birth.
When she entered him, he felt the shimmering vibrating heat of her weapon as though it were a cosmic absolution, lashing and testing him in the best possible way, stretching him wide and parting him deep and sending a burning joy deep to places no one had ever touched before.
Pepper had thought to fuck him hard and raw like rough trade, but she was so entranced by the sensation she moved slow and strong instead, listening to every breath and shiver of his body, waiting for his pleasure, feeling a burning song against her clit until she could no longer help herself and moved against that pressure, breasts bouncing and aura bursting.
Adam rose up with his hips, the only part of his body he could move freely, taking Pepper's flaming sword ever deeper and absorbing her joy. Wanting to come. Not there yet. Waiting for her.
Trembling, she reached a hand to Adam's bound, straining prick, and he couldn't stand it anymore. This was it. For both of them.
She yowled like a wildcat. He collapsed like prey.
They were still locked together--and in one sense or another, would continue to be til they sorted it out. Already a few thousand years and counting.
Their webcam feed would continue to be entertaining for many years to come.
~end~
The Ocean Will Have Us All
Sinking. That was completely counterintuitive to what Crowley had always thought one ought to do in the sea, but he was doing just that, and rather frantically. Diving? No, it wasn't quite that graceful. The dilemma he wrestled with is that he was a better swimmer as a serpent, but the water was far too cold for a reptilian form.
It wouldn't do anyone any good to get them both...dis...
Don't even think about that. Just plunge.
There was wreckage in the water - a truly worrying amount of boiler parts and scrap metal and ladies' clothing and fine china. There was oil and blood - Crowley could smell it - and there was terror, which Crowley could smell even more strongly.
You can swim, you bloody bullheaded...
There'd be time to ask himself later why he was doing such a boneheadedly heroic thing, and time enough to rationalise it into perfectly respectable self-interest. In fact his mind, remarkably well-suited to those exercises, was doing just that as he went down and down and down.
The others will mercifully freeze soon enough. Wind up wherever they're supposed to wind up. But if this one forgets himself and allows himself to lose another body when he doesn't have to, then...
Oh, for fuck's sake. That blessed priest had leaked holy water as he'd gone. Nasty, toxic spill that made Crowley wince as he could barely avoid it, diluted as it was.
There was a deeper disturbance of holiness, and Crowley just hoped the fool creature hadn't got himself trapped on a lower deck.
He hadn't. Aziraphale was weakly treading water down in the depths, oblivious to the fact that his mortal body should have died in several different, unpleasant ways many long minutes ago. Crowley reached out and grasped wet tweed, his hands tangling in floating hair, and hauled with all his strength, upward.
Being an occult creature, laws of physics were to him mere strong recommendations, and as he kicked upwards through the icy water dragging a sodden, stunned and useless angel out of the vortex of the shipwreck, he needed no oxygen and he barely felt the pressure of the water outside his aether. He only felt the pressure inside, which was a sharp, weeping relief he didn't want to dwell on, and a foaming rage he really did want to dwell on, because it kept him warm.
"Why didn't you get a boat, you idiot?!?" he burbled, the bubbles from his mouth full of sulfur.
"Women and children first," came the flat answer.
"You can be a woman if you have to," Crowley snarled. "Why'd you go down with it? Don't get yourself discorporated for a wine list!"
The answering bubbles came full of words Crowley didn't like.
"For fuck's sake, Aziraphale, why didn't you get them to stop playing those fucking hymns and do something useful?"
"Like what?" came the answer, flat and resigned.
Crowley decided to save his strength for more eloquent berating when he could be better heard, and reached for the surface and its stingy and hostile dawn.
"Won't notice two more," he muttered to himself, making sure they wouldn't, as he did something only a little arcane as he lifted himself and the angel free of the sea's choppy, ice-wracked depths. Scrotum-tightening sea indeed. His hair was stiff with ice. He bent one numb hand in a complicated gesture to thin their weight, send some spare molecules elsewhere til they had need of them again, because Someone knows he was afraid of the state of his wings. With a grunting profanity, he hauled the unco-operative Aziraphale up onto the deck of the waiting rescue ship.
***
"Crowley..." Aziraphale croaked, taking stock of his surroundings much later. "This is a first-class cabin, isn't it?"
The demon sitting by his side on the bunk just shrugged as if to say 'of course,' and plucked disdainfully at the linens. All tinny bravado, he said, "I would have said the Carpathia is passe, but I suppose floating never goes out of style, when you compare it to the alternative."
"We can't be found here!"
"We won't be. We can't fly back just yet. Our wings would still be wet. And frozen. And you--" Crowley cut himself off abruptly. "You've not been well."
"Where are we?"
"Almost to New York."
"How long has it been?"
"Two days."
"And I've been--?"
Aziraphale took a closer, more alert stock of the room and sank back with a groan. Hot water in the pitcher. Hot brandy in a cup that Crowley kept feeding him compulsively. Wet towels, sodden clothing, and tangled sheets.
"Feverish," said Crowley quietly. "Delirious. Babbling."
Aziraphale fell self-conscious and silent. Despite Crowley's best efforts, occult and otherwise, a chill still shivered him throughout.
"Angel," said Crowley. "When was the last time you saw so many of them die at once?'
He couldn't remember. He wouldn't remember. All he could say was, "And to no purpose this time."
Crowley laughed, a harsh bark. "No. Can't say there was. Even your people wouldn't send an iceberg on a crusade. Though some of your knights back in the day were no brighter."
All Aziraphale could do was shake, and with an almost angry cooing sound, which is no easy feat, Crowley pulled a rough wool blanket up about his shoulders and crawled underneath. From the way the demon's slim body fit the mattress, Aziraphale judged he had been there before, but perhaps not wrapped quite so tightly around, for the angel gave a little squeak when Crowley's limber legs trapped his own. He was naked, he realised. They both were. And Crowley was warm, so very warm, his skin so smooth and his contours fitting so neatly against Aziraphale's back.
"Crowley," he whispered.
"Ssshhh," said Crowley. "Ssalvage rightss." His breath was hot at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, warming his hair (ice had turned it brittle in the sea), warming his blood (threatening to still it for good, for this incarnation), and waking his nerves (nearly shut down). What was warm about Crowley could have had a breath of brimstone, a bit of a very hot place, but Aziraphale smelled no such thing. Crowley's hand was actually cool on his brow as it brushed hair aside, and he thought he was indeed feverish, which was difficult to believe, and the heat within him make his limbs languid and his veins overheated--everywhere. His skin was so fearfully sensitive, and Crowley's hands so wonderfully full of life, and everywhere they touched him he began to feel renewed and terribly awake again, and eager for the heat of life. Aziraphale squirmed, as serpentinely as he himself could manage, reaching for contact with every inch of himself, and found the front of Crowley's thighs pressed to the back of his own, and something very alive and insistent cradled in the cool flesh of his rear, and he gave out a sound that Crowley echoed, throaty and grateful.
A skillful hand, only slightly shaking, slid over his hip and took firm grasp of him there.
Sharp teeth held his neck in place for the flickering caress of a tongue that may even have been forked but was undoubtedly warm and hungry.
If Aziraphale had been fully himself he might have found a way to weasel out of it, but he was not - part of him was still dragging the awarenesses of those who died cold and stiff and would never move in this dance again; of children who would never know it. He knew Crowley would pass it off as seduction, but what he was doing, as Aziraphale moaned assent and opened up for him, was most definitely exorcism. He found himself bucking wildly, biting the pillow, reaching back to command Crowley's hip with a clenching hand.
"Mmmm," said Crowley, fading softly against Aziraphale's shoulder after releases wracked them and left them washed on a sleepy shore.
"I'll hate New York," Aziraphale fretted. "And there'll be survivors. Families."
"Taverns. Restaurants. Fine hotels with better beds," murmured Crowley.
"Want. Home," Aziraphale said, fading into sleep.
"You mean...?"
"London, silly."
"Mm. Good. No ships. We'll fly. Long way up from the sea."
"Thank you."
"Don't."
~end~
There are more than that. I've been a prolific little pornographer. But I fear there's currently even less demand over here. Can we fix that?
I'm going to out myself on a few more things I wrote for the Good Omens Anonymous Kink Meme over on LJ.
Full-On Annunciation
“Well, this is awkward,” said Gabriel, shining in his raiment as he performed his duties.
Aziraphale winced, trying to find a tactful way to tell him the halo might fade the books, and could he turn it down a tad? “Indeed, my dear, perhaps you could just give me the message quickly? I hope it’s not anything…earth-shaking.”
“Er, not for the earth, per se. Just you, for now. Um. See, I have to do this kind of formally. By the book. It’s a full-on Annunciation, you know. Ahem: Behold, you are conceived.”
“What?”
“No, your line is – oh come on, you know how this goes. You’re supposed to say, ‘But how can that be, for I have known no man’? Or something like that,” Gabriel murmured, blushing, for the door to the bookshop had just been opened by a being that was, indeed, technically not a man, who took one look at the radiance and turned on his heel and slammed the door again on his way out.
“No, in this case, it’s how could it be, because in case you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t been issued the type of body that…does that?”
“Are you questioning the Ineffable?”
“It never does any bloody good, does it? So I suppose I’m not! But could the Ineffable be so good as to tell me where I’m supposed to carry it – in a blasted shopping bag?”
“Language!” gasped Gabriel. “Well, you’ll figure it out. All will be revealed.” He departed in a bit of a snit.
Which was nothing compared to the attack of hormones that left Aziraphale laughing and sobbing at once, which was very painful to his face, and he wasn’t going to stop until Crowley returned, at which time he was going to demand to be brought kippers and Nutella.
***
Crowley went through all five stages of grief in 13 seconds, but instead of Acceptance at the end he went for Hysterical Laughter, which led Aziraphale to threaten to put a kipper in a very unorthodox place, which led Crowley to speculate that in that case, Someone only knew what he’d give birth to.
***
They had a massive row that could not all be blamed on Aziraphale’s condition. Well, actually, it could because Crowley, being a demon, was physically incapable of being a partner to a highly miraculous, if not actually immaculate conception without uttering the dread question, “Are you sure it’s mine?”
The bigger problem was that he hadn’t phrased it even quite so tactfully. He’d mentioned that one of his projects in America was a television programme where young women uncertain of their baby’s parentage could have paternity test results read on the air in front of an audience, and would Aziraphale like a holiday overseas?
***
By the time Crowley was allowed to see Aziraphale again, the angel was starting to show.
***
By the time Aziraphale was starting to feel the weight on his lower back, and from time to time leaning on his wings when only Crowley was around, even their prodigious powers of denial had been defeated.
Eventually, Aziraphale took to his bed and Crowley followed in a miasma of worry, hope, and what could only be called morbid fascination. Hand placed gently over the far-rounder-than-usual belly, the demon started once and then looked down in wonder.
“It kicked,” he said.
“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale said. “I think it flapped.”
“Look…” Crowley said, “If you’re scared that it’s going to be…I mean, we’ve discussed this before, thinking it’s going to be a demon because its, er, father became one, well we know that…”
“Do stop worrying,” said Aziraphale, with a sudden rush of beatific certainty. “It will be fine. And we will love it no matter what.”
Crowley just nodded, because after all he’d been the one who was more frightened, and just put his ear to the belly as if he could hear the ocean.
***
“It’s time. Midwife please.”
Crowley was panicked, stock still, frozen, and utterly useless for anything but a Lovecraftian gibbering, because he knew, just knew, that there was nothing resembling a midwife on the planet equipped to deal with this.
Anathema arrived with Adam, on the back of his motorbike.
And it was, indeed, fine.
~end~
Lilith's Sweet Revenge
When they were children, Adam was always the pirate captain, the Red Indian chief, the outlaw gang leader, the army general, the Grand Inquisitor. There had never been much of a decision process involved in it, on his part or Pepper's or Brian's or Wensleydale's. It simply was so: Adam was a leader, just like he was a blue-eyed blond boy--or more precisely, in exactly the same way that Dog was a dog. It had simply never occurred to him to be otherwise.
He was later ashamed to admit how old he was before he realised this was an issue. And he usually didn't think much about issues unless and until Pepper made him.
It had begun innocuously. The older she got, the more Pepper was cheerful and open about her obsession with her mother's old bookshelf, and the larger the words got in her arguments.
Then she'd found her mother's other bookshelf.
***
"When I first remembered - no, when I first believed, I was fucking furious at you," Pepper whispered hoarsely.
"Why?" Adam said, his mouth alternately so terribly dry and so terribly wet.
"Because I was just beginnin' to understand the kind of world we live in. The kind where, y'know, the Goddess, has been forgotten, and then there's you, right there in my life, bein' my friend all this time..."
"I didn't mean to, " Adam said, because he hadn't. He pulled a little bit on the fake-fur-lined faux-leather restraints, just to hear the chains jingle.
"But without meanin' to, you almost drew me in. Your patriarchal mythology. So phallocentric." To emphasize, she ran her hand down her belly, over her navel piercing and down to her own very phallocentric reality, leather straps around her hips and thighs doing nothing to detract from that very potent aura of cockiness. It was silicone, and it was hers. And it was long, and thick. Just like Adam's own, made of flesh, bound up in rubber straps, and aching with want.
He writhed along the bed, straining against his bonds, hoping his desperate cock might at least get a little brush against his own belly, any kind of contact. No luck. He was too hard.
Pepper stroked her strap-on authoritatively. "Not much of a power, really...I mean, I bought one. But the longer I wear it, the more...I kinda see what you mean."
Adam moaned and licked his lips, lowered his eyes. It was in his birthright to seek power. And he did - it accrued to him, he couldn't help it. But this was the kind of power he wanted; to lie back and let wonderful things happen, to arch his back and whimper and feign terror as Pepper descended upon him and lifted his legs with her lovely wiry, freckled tomboy arms, pressing his knees back to his chest and exposing his arse to the air and her gaze, as she reached around his thighs to torment his nipples with her sharp little fingernails. One jewel in her pierced nipple beneath her mesh bustier caught the candlelight as she reached for the lube by the bed. Adam reached for it with a nip of his teeth and fell short. She slapped his cheek, as he'd wanted her to all along.
"Someday," she purred, "I'm gonna give you an enhanced interrogation technique until you tell me why the Old Man's got such a kink for foreskins." She tweaked Adam's, bunched and slick beneath the strained head of his prick.
Adam gasped, nearly sobbing as her other finger investigated his entrance, slick and sure.
"Take me," he whispered. "Take me and I'll tell you everything I know."
"I will, but," she said, "I don't think I'm hard enough yet," she murmured. "Think you'd better give my cock a bit of a suck with that pretty mouth of yours."
Adam licked his lips again as she straddled his shoulders.
All calculation, she adjusted the webcam as she pushed into his mouth.
***
Adam rose, as far as he could. Lips parted.
The very tip of Pepper's strap-on dildo brushed him, and he reached out to touch it with his tongue, saying yes.
Pepper lunged forward and thrust into his throat. Hard. Nearly gagging him. He would have reached out to grasp her hips if he hadn't been bound.
Eyes watering, he just concentrated on sensations lower down, where her lubed fingers reached behind her and skillfully avoiding his longing cock, just brushing his balls and mostly interested in his arse, teasing and sliding.
Her touch was, if not gentle, then at least patient.
She gripped the base of her artificial cock as she worked it in and out of his mouth, moaning softly as though she fully felt it.
If she'd just let him speak.
She wouldn't. His lips sucked at her shaft, his tongue flicking under the sculpted vein beneath as her hips rocked. (He'd sucked cock before, oh yes, and he supposed for once he didn't have to worry much about his teeth.)
He worried more about his arse when Pepper broke free, panting, a thin line of spit leaking over his lips as Pepper licked it away, moving down, parting him open further with her hand...
"Pepper...." he whispered. "I know what you are."
"I don't want to be that," she breathed back.
"But you are," he gasped, "And it's not just the....my stuff, the mythology....it's you too."
Her spit-slick, well-lubed dildo burst into flame. It took on the shape of a sword, and its blade shivered as she caressed it.
She felt the touch.
"Adam," she said, stunned. "I'm cross with you but I don't want to hurt you..."
"You won't," he said, certain for the first time in ten years. "It'll feel good."
When she entered him, she felt every minute constriction of his tight passage as though her flaming sword were part of her body from birth.
When she entered him, he felt the shimmering vibrating heat of her weapon as though it were a cosmic absolution, lashing and testing him in the best possible way, stretching him wide and parting him deep and sending a burning joy deep to places no one had ever touched before.
Pepper had thought to fuck him hard and raw like rough trade, but she was so entranced by the sensation she moved slow and strong instead, listening to every breath and shiver of his body, waiting for his pleasure, feeling a burning song against her clit until she could no longer help herself and moved against that pressure, breasts bouncing and aura bursting.
Adam rose up with his hips, the only part of his body he could move freely, taking Pepper's flaming sword ever deeper and absorbing her joy. Wanting to come. Not there yet. Waiting for her.
Trembling, she reached a hand to Adam's bound, straining prick, and he couldn't stand it anymore. This was it. For both of them.
She yowled like a wildcat. He collapsed like prey.
They were still locked together--and in one sense or another, would continue to be til they sorted it out. Already a few thousand years and counting.
Their webcam feed would continue to be entertaining for many years to come.
~end~
The Ocean Will Have Us All
Sinking. That was completely counterintuitive to what Crowley had always thought one ought to do in the sea, but he was doing just that, and rather frantically. Diving? No, it wasn't quite that graceful. The dilemma he wrestled with is that he was a better swimmer as a serpent, but the water was far too cold for a reptilian form.
It wouldn't do anyone any good to get them both...dis...
Don't even think about that. Just plunge.
There was wreckage in the water - a truly worrying amount of boiler parts and scrap metal and ladies' clothing and fine china. There was oil and blood - Crowley could smell it - and there was terror, which Crowley could smell even more strongly.
You can swim, you bloody bullheaded...
There'd be time to ask himself later why he was doing such a boneheadedly heroic thing, and time enough to rationalise it into perfectly respectable self-interest. In fact his mind, remarkably well-suited to those exercises, was doing just that as he went down and down and down.
The others will mercifully freeze soon enough. Wind up wherever they're supposed to wind up. But if this one forgets himself and allows himself to lose another body when he doesn't have to, then...
Oh, for fuck's sake. That blessed priest had leaked holy water as he'd gone. Nasty, toxic spill that made Crowley wince as he could barely avoid it, diluted as it was.
There was a deeper disturbance of holiness, and Crowley just hoped the fool creature hadn't got himself trapped on a lower deck.
He hadn't. Aziraphale was weakly treading water down in the depths, oblivious to the fact that his mortal body should have died in several different, unpleasant ways many long minutes ago. Crowley reached out and grasped wet tweed, his hands tangling in floating hair, and hauled with all his strength, upward.
Being an occult creature, laws of physics were to him mere strong recommendations, and as he kicked upwards through the icy water dragging a sodden, stunned and useless angel out of the vortex of the shipwreck, he needed no oxygen and he barely felt the pressure of the water outside his aether. He only felt the pressure inside, which was a sharp, weeping relief he didn't want to dwell on, and a foaming rage he really did want to dwell on, because it kept him warm.
"Why didn't you get a boat, you idiot?!?" he burbled, the bubbles from his mouth full of sulfur.
"Women and children first," came the flat answer.
"You can be a woman if you have to," Crowley snarled. "Why'd you go down with it? Don't get yourself discorporated for a wine list!"
The answering bubbles came full of words Crowley didn't like.
"For fuck's sake, Aziraphale, why didn't you get them to stop playing those fucking hymns and do something useful?"
"Like what?" came the answer, flat and resigned.
Crowley decided to save his strength for more eloquent berating when he could be better heard, and reached for the surface and its stingy and hostile dawn.
"Won't notice two more," he muttered to himself, making sure they wouldn't, as he did something only a little arcane as he lifted himself and the angel free of the sea's choppy, ice-wracked depths. Scrotum-tightening sea indeed. His hair was stiff with ice. He bent one numb hand in a complicated gesture to thin their weight, send some spare molecules elsewhere til they had need of them again, because Someone knows he was afraid of the state of his wings. With a grunting profanity, he hauled the unco-operative Aziraphale up onto the deck of the waiting rescue ship.
***
"Crowley..." Aziraphale croaked, taking stock of his surroundings much later. "This is a first-class cabin, isn't it?"
The demon sitting by his side on the bunk just shrugged as if to say 'of course,' and plucked disdainfully at the linens. All tinny bravado, he said, "I would have said the Carpathia is passe, but I suppose floating never goes out of style, when you compare it to the alternative."
"We can't be found here!"
"We won't be. We can't fly back just yet. Our wings would still be wet. And frozen. And you--" Crowley cut himself off abruptly. "You've not been well."
"Where are we?"
"Almost to New York."
"How long has it been?"
"Two days."
"And I've been--?"
Aziraphale took a closer, more alert stock of the room and sank back with a groan. Hot water in the pitcher. Hot brandy in a cup that Crowley kept feeding him compulsively. Wet towels, sodden clothing, and tangled sheets.
"Feverish," said Crowley quietly. "Delirious. Babbling."
Aziraphale fell self-conscious and silent. Despite Crowley's best efforts, occult and otherwise, a chill still shivered him throughout.
"Angel," said Crowley. "When was the last time you saw so many of them die at once?'
He couldn't remember. He wouldn't remember. All he could say was, "And to no purpose this time."
Crowley laughed, a harsh bark. "No. Can't say there was. Even your people wouldn't send an iceberg on a crusade. Though some of your knights back in the day were no brighter."
All Aziraphale could do was shake, and with an almost angry cooing sound, which is no easy feat, Crowley pulled a rough wool blanket up about his shoulders and crawled underneath. From the way the demon's slim body fit the mattress, Aziraphale judged he had been there before, but perhaps not wrapped quite so tightly around, for the angel gave a little squeak when Crowley's limber legs trapped his own. He was naked, he realised. They both were. And Crowley was warm, so very warm, his skin so smooth and his contours fitting so neatly against Aziraphale's back.
"Crowley," he whispered.
"Ssshhh," said Crowley. "Ssalvage rightss." His breath was hot at the nape of Aziraphale's neck, warming his hair (ice had turned it brittle in the sea), warming his blood (threatening to still it for good, for this incarnation), and waking his nerves (nearly shut down). What was warm about Crowley could have had a breath of brimstone, a bit of a very hot place, but Aziraphale smelled no such thing. Crowley's hand was actually cool on his brow as it brushed hair aside, and he thought he was indeed feverish, which was difficult to believe, and the heat within him make his limbs languid and his veins overheated--everywhere. His skin was so fearfully sensitive, and Crowley's hands so wonderfully full of life, and everywhere they touched him he began to feel renewed and terribly awake again, and eager for the heat of life. Aziraphale squirmed, as serpentinely as he himself could manage, reaching for contact with every inch of himself, and found the front of Crowley's thighs pressed to the back of his own, and something very alive and insistent cradled in the cool flesh of his rear, and he gave out a sound that Crowley echoed, throaty and grateful.
A skillful hand, only slightly shaking, slid over his hip and took firm grasp of him there.
Sharp teeth held his neck in place for the flickering caress of a tongue that may even have been forked but was undoubtedly warm and hungry.
If Aziraphale had been fully himself he might have found a way to weasel out of it, but he was not - part of him was still dragging the awarenesses of those who died cold and stiff and would never move in this dance again; of children who would never know it. He knew Crowley would pass it off as seduction, but what he was doing, as Aziraphale moaned assent and opened up for him, was most definitely exorcism. He found himself bucking wildly, biting the pillow, reaching back to command Crowley's hip with a clenching hand.
"Mmmm," said Crowley, fading softly against Aziraphale's shoulder after releases wracked them and left them washed on a sleepy shore.
"I'll hate New York," Aziraphale fretted. "And there'll be survivors. Families."
"Taverns. Restaurants. Fine hotels with better beds," murmured Crowley.
"Want. Home," Aziraphale said, fading into sleep.
"You mean...?"
"London, silly."
"Mm. Good. No ships. We'll fly. Long way up from the sea."
"Thank you."
"Don't."
~end~
There are more than that. I've been a prolific little pornographer. But I fear there's currently even less demand over here. Can we fix that?
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Date: 2009-05-17 10:50 pm (UTC)I like the first one best. I'm going to have to C&P the whole damn thing into my quotables file!
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Date: 2009-05-17 10:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-23 07:55 am (UTC)I think I've read the first one before - I still like it! The second was really not what I would go for, but good all the same, and the last was very cute <3