Smutcake beats fruitcake!
Dec. 27th, 2006 10:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vulgarweedSo this was supposed to be my Boxing Day porn offering, but I didn't finish it in time. Sue me.
When I finished Brag It Out With a Card of Ten, my Good Omens piratefic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
swashbucklathon, I joked to my beta reader ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
use_theforce_em that "It has my idea of a happy ending. Everybody gets laid." They do it more or less off-stage, though, because that story is a fast-paced adventure/comedy sort of thing.
This, however, is a PWP, since you've already read the plot.
Bent On a Splice
(Crowley/Aziraphale, NC-17)
“I don’t think it had those baroque running lanterns before.”
“I suppose I got a little carried away,” Aziraphale sighed.
“Oh lord, heal this ship,” Crowley muttered sarcastically.
“Well, they are nice young people,” Aziraphale said. “For pirates, I mean. Not like that horrid…” and he shuddered.
Crowley whirled around quickly. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “They thought they could get money out of me, but…”
“If they had, I’d hunt them down and tear them to pieces,” Crowley blurted, relief and rum speaking, and then a change came over his face in embarrassment.
Aziraphale wasn’t going to let it slide. “Really, my dear? Only because that’s your job?”
Crowley took a deep breath, bit a metaphorical bullet, and took Aziraphale’s hand. “Awfully soft hands you’ve got…for a pirate.”
“I’m not—"
“We’ll see about that,” Crowley said, and silenced Aziraphale with his mouth.
Neither of them saw the limping and slightly drunken Quartermaster Pepper watching them from the shadows, just coming from having gone to find Brian and Wensleydale and having walked in on them in a state of very active obliviousness to her presence. As mental images went, it was both disturbing and...well…
She had a choice here. She could make a scene. Or not. And, tightening her good hand around her rum bottle, she decided that she would.
Only not with them.
***
You cannot judge punch-drunk, lonely Pepper--feeling the life force running hot the way one always does after a rousing battle and seeking out the companion she’d come to reply upon. (Had she been a good girl, she’d still have reservations about deals with demons of any kind, never mind the, shall we say, carnal dimensions. But she’s a pirate, and said deal had consisted largely of “I’ll keep my mouth shut about you if you do that thing with your tongue again,” and anyway, reservations were things that happened to other people.) You can only sympathise with her finding him—in his manlike form, standing at the Grog Blossom’s stern so near to his friend, and reaching out with one hesitant hand to settle into his friend’s hair. There is a moment when time holds still (perhaps literally, considering what they are) and then, of course, a kiss.
You cannot judge her because what she feels is not, ultimately, jealousy. It is envy. Those two are not at all the same (ask him; he would know). You cannot blame her for watching for a few moments either. You would too.
***
If you asked Crowley later what possessed him, he’d pretend to be unfamiliar with the idiom, just like Aziraphale does. After all, demons didn’t get possessed. They did the possessing. It was just that Aziraphale’s hands were so soft, like Crowley’d said, and his mouth was inviting him without saying a word. And it was soft too, and a bit stiff and startled at first, and then responding, wet and opening, tasting so slightly of seawater and tea.
Oh Someplace—why did they wait so long?
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as the stars emerged from the brackish sky behind him. “We’ve been in worse peril. Why now?”
Crowley struggled to get his breath back in line. He was making it all the harder for himself by his position pressing Aziraphale against the railing of the ship’s stern. (And more difficult as well.) “Because…” he sighed. “We’re in a happy ending. That’s what they’re like for them. Can’t you feel it around us?”
“What are you feeling?”
“Do you think I can’t sense Lust?”
“Of course you can, just like I can sense…er…” Aziraphale started to purse his lips in a particularly penitent way before he said something delicate. Crowley headed it off at the pass by swooping in again, using a good deal more tongue this time and making Aziraphale gasp and go a little bit weak against the rail, clutching at Crowley’s neck to stable himself.
“Mmmf!” he finally cried.
“What?”
“It’s dizzying out here,” the angel said. “it’s too much!”
It was. There was singing and good-natured fighting and drinking and rutting filling the air with heady energies. There was Greed and Gluttony and Pride running rampant; there was even Charity and Faith and Hope and Justice making things sickly sweet (though Temperance was significant by its absence), and making it all so boggling was the thing they both sensed, the ship’s Captain himself now caught in his own eddy of Lust and…well, that other thing…and he cast such a pull…
“I haven’t had that much rum,” Crowley whispered, “And I’m drunk.”
“I am too,” Aziraphale said, “I can’t tell if…”
Crowley took a deep, steeling breath; all his instincts screamed succumb, succumb, and yet…
“Clearer air,” he gasped, taking Aziraphale’s wrist and striding firmly, waiting to see how much resistance there’d be. There was none. The quarterdeck was nearly clear now, and beyond it was the plank that still led to the injured, anchored Megiddo.
“So this is the place,” Crowley said as he looked up at the lurching masts with their mighty sails. “It’s so different when it’s quieter.”
“Well, it’s not the ship’s fault,” Aziraphale said, his wrist twisting slightly in Crowley’s gratuitous grip. Crowley loosened his hold but didn’t let go.
“Where did they keep you?” Crowley asked suddenly, turning around.
Aziraphale sighed. Certainly his pride could afford another small bruise; he was just reluctant to part with the stars just yet. With a twitch of his hand, he reversed their positions, claiming Crowley’s wrist as he started down the first of many series of wobbly stairs.
At the dank brig in the hold, Crowley sniffed the air and let loose just one unconscious, angry, animal hiss. “There?”
“Yes. It was very unpleasant.”
“It stinks! And there’s…oh, yuck.”
It was just a skeleton in chains. Aziraphale had hardly paid it any mind since it was long past having any identity to speak of, or much of a smell.
“There’s rats,” Crowley cried.
“Yes, just like on every ship, what—“
“I can’t believe they did that to you!”
“It was horribly tedious. I think that nice Wensleydale would’ve brought me books if he’d had any, but…”
“You’re really all right?”
Aziraphale sighed and took Crowley’s hands in his. “Yes, dear boy, I am. I have heard of terrible things pirates do to prisoners, but they didn’t try, and if they had I assure you your headquarters would’ve found themselves in a blizzard of paperwork the likes of which they haven’t seen since Sodom. How much of a pansy do you think I am?”
“A great big one, frankly. But you’re an angel! Why’d you stay?”
“There wasn’t anywhere else pressing I had to be, now was there? Besides, that young man was quite kind, and I couldn’t leave him to the wolves. And as soon as I learned Warlock wasn’t the one, it sounded like the one Wensleydale was looking for was a more promising lead, and I thought perhaps if I found him…”
“Yes?”
“I’d come closer to—“ Achieving our mission? Not necessarily. “—finding you.”
Crowley’s face went through a process of changes, and somewhere in there was something that Aziraphale thought for a flash of a second might have vaguely resembled a distant cousin to guilt.
“Well, now you have,” Crowley said, his voice dropping, sliding closer. “Still, that Warlock—what an idiot. Had an angel in a cage and no idea of what to do with him.”
“I wondered if you’d know what to do with one if you caught one,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley tugged at the outdated lace at his throat, moving his mouth close enough to breathe against the tender skin.
“I have lots of ideas,” Crowley purred, nipping gently, letting the tip of his tongue swipe lightly in slow circles. Aziraphale moaned just a little, and then the damp of the wall against his back reminded him of where he was.
“Crowley,” he said. “Enticing as it may be for you, I really don’t want to spend any more time here.”
“All right, well,” said Crowley, his blurry mind racing for a better suggestion. To his immeasurable relief, one presented itself, and he grinned, twisting his hand around to catch Aziraphale’s wrist once again. “C’mon then!”
Up the stairs they went, again and again, past more decks than any ship should have rightfully had without calling itself a skyscraper, until they reached the hallway just below the quarterdeck. Crowley sniffed around with his sharpest instincts until he found the greatest concentration of sin, and an elaborate door swung open at his touch.
“Oh…my…” he exclaimed in rapturous horror.
Warlock had really believed he was the Antichrist, and he’d outfitted his cabin accordingly. First off, it was huge (and growing huger by the moment as Crowley’s morbid fascination worked upon it). Secondly, to call it baroque would be to call the palace of the Sun King ascetic. Was that a gold-plated goat’s head? Were those carved liquor taps in the shape of a nun’s bare breasts…and the bottle opener her…oh WOW.
Crowley was starting to think this might have been a bit of a misstep. But Aziraphale was just laughing. The angel had seen plenty of the reverse aesthetic, to use the term loosely--that Cardinal with the bed carved like the giant enfolding arms of Jesus, for example…in the most dreadful sincerity. Compared to that, the four massive teak posts of this one shaped like inverted crosses were mere kitsch.
Red silk, lambskin, manacles, and gargoyles. A bootscraper in the shape of a bare-arsed priest on his knees. A holy-water font full of…well, Crowley couldn’t tell what that was, but he was no more eager to touch it than if it’d been used for the intended purpose.
“My goodness,” Aziraphale said. “What a pretentious pillock.”
“You said it,” said Crowley, rooting around on the shelves and sniffing at bottles. “He does have good spirits, though.” He took up two silver goblets shaped like virgins’ severed heads and poured some fine amber whiskey, inhaling deeply.
“I don’t know if I should,” Aziraphale said in an obligatory fashion.
“Of course you should,” said Crowley. “He owes you.”
“I suppose he does,” Aziraphale smiled, reaching out his hand and letting the strong smell of good malt from the Scottish Isles inflame his senses. “I think it might be clearing my head.”
“Really? It’s a bit murky in here, I think.”
“To you, of course,” Aziraphale said, drifting close. “It must be confusing.”
“It doesn’t…bother you?”
“It’s ugly, but—oh no, don’t you dare change the décor,” Aziraphale said. “My dear, you’ve kissed me twice already, and for the last time---“
Whiskey.
Wetness.
“Ow!” clumsy crunch of lips against teeth, and…
Wanting.
“Oh no. Oh no, not the last time. First time.”
There were cups falling to the wooden boards, whiskey spilled with no shame for there was always more, and then a clumsy, slightly painful crash of tangled bodies upon a vast, slippery bed.
Aziraphale made a helpless sound as Crowley’s hand in his hair pulled a bit, shook some light loose, bent his neck back a little too sharply and made raw energy pour from his throat as the demon kissed him there, sucking lightly at the very point where his pulse sprang into action. Azirphale arched his neck up harder, craving more of it, and finding his own mouth pressed against a cotton-covered shoulder; he bit down just to hear Crowley moan.
“Oh this is awkward, but…” Aziraphale scrunched himself upward as far as he could with his coat trapped under Crowley’s side. He decided it would work better this way, and he shoved Crowley underneath him.
“Angel…” Crowley whispered, “it issss awkward, but…”
Aziraphale trembled. Crowley’s fair face below him, dark hair spilled across crimson sheets. But then there was Crowley’s hand atop him, running under his coat and above his snug waistcoat and just over his breeches, over his arse and then, the back of one thigh…
The twitch of Aziraphale’s hips was involuntary; the clench of Crowley’s hand between his legs so calculated, but such an immediate response. “Mmm, not so sexless,” Crowley growled.
“Not with you, no,” Aziraphale said. “Not now, and it’s your fault.”
“Not even those rude rogues that took you prisoner? Not even that lad with the glasses?”
“Not humans, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, twitching his fingers roughly against Crowley’s back where his wings weren’t. “Can’t really let go, can one?”
There was such a surge Crowley gasped and sat up suddenly with Aziraphale on his lap,
“Not…fair…”Aziraphale whispered, undone for a split second. “You didn’t lose your…beauty. Why?”
“I need it,” Crowley said. “I need it more than you do.”
“I didn’t mean compared to me, I…meant…” Aziraphale dithered for a moment wondering just what he had meant. “Never mind,” he said firmly. “That’s not the reason I want you.”
“Oh you do? Do you now?” Crowley said, lounging back on one hand, running the fingers of the other down Aziraphale’s chest where his shirt and waistcoat hung open. With a lazy flick of his hand, the upper clothes vanished, and Crowley’s hand wandered to the front of Aziraphale’s breeches. “I’m not sure an angel can. Want it, I mean,” he said, smirking as his fingertips explored that particular bulge that made it so clear Crowley was lying, quite naturally and insufferably. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove it.”
Aziraphale had been enjoying rather lasciviously leaning into that touch, but that just made him growl and shove Crowley down, and then they were doing again that which a bed of that tasteless size was made for—competitive rolling, with tangled legs and pulled hair and torn clothes. One of Aziraphale’s shoes went flying. Aziraphale was stronger and faster than he looked, but Crowley was as lithe and bendy as he looked, and he came up on top at last. Through half-closed eyes Aziraphale watched Crowley staring at him for a moment, before striking low again, and if he’d been about to protest anything, it sure wasn’t the way Crowley’s mouth moved over his collarbones. But he opened his eyes again long enough to watch the hanging candelabras made of iron and bones swaying with the motion of the sea. Really.
“Crowley?”
“Mm?”
“Why do you want me?”
“Won’t answer that,” Crowley panted, and he bit lightly down on one nipple, plucking at it delicately with his teeth until Aziraphale gasped and arched upward, probably not asking anything else for quite a while. Crowley shifted, twisted, sucked harder when one of the angel’s hands worked his trousers open and halfway down his hips, grasping at his cock with surprising skill Crowley thought he might have to ask about, just...not now. Oh, not now. He gave a rough shove with his hips, forcing them down against Aziraphale’s just so, again and again, finding a tight, pulsing pattern that made Aziraphale rise to meet him, clutching fiercely at his arms.
“Oh…fuck, Crowley,”
“Yes, let’s,” Crowley said.
“Now?”
“No, next week.”
“Bastard!”
“No, demon,” Crowley whispered harshly, “spesss—specifically—demon about to plunder you good in a pirate’s cabin decorated in Early Abomination. You want that, angel?”
“Yes. Yes, very much,” Aziraphale panted, grinding his erection wantonly against Crowley’s belly.
“Prove it,” Crowley said. “Show me.”
“I am,” Aziraphale whined, struggling and writhing and managing to hook his plump thighs over Crowley’s arms. And then the demon saw it: light shining through – the mundane outline of Aziraphale Day-to-Day (as though he could be truly mundane in this context, which certainly wasn’t ordinary) no longer entirely containing an entity in such shimmering contrast to his tawdry surroundings that he enhanced them and made everything around him so much more than it was.
“Oh…” Crowley gasped. His self-editing mechanism was utterly gone, and what came out of his mouth was, “oh fuck, if you look this good now, what’s it going to be like when you come?”
Aziraphale looked up at him and smiled. “The view’s not so bad from down here either, my dear.” That primmest of endearments had never sounded so lewd.
“We don’t have to…it’s kind of…advanced…there’s so much else we can do…if you…”
Aziraphale reached up as far as he could, dug his nails in Crowley’s upper back (and the demon winced, for he had stripes of his own there, quite unlike Wensleydale’s, that he rather hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t see). “I want it,” he snarled, demonstrating that he’d already decided what that mysterious and ugly holy water font contained: oil. Neither holy nor unholy—rather like olive with a hint of rosemary. And very nicely slick when Aziraphale took Crowley’s cock in a commanding, sliding grip as the demon gasped helpless for just a second. Then he growled and pinned one of Aziraphale’s hands; the other he mined for its slipperiness. He hovered his hand down there for long moments, stroking and playing and teasing, before shoving one finger in deep and laughing as Aziraphale whimpered and bit his lip.
“Thought you were ready, eh?”
“It’s good,” Aziraphale winced, bearing down bravely, lifting his hips in time to that finger’s probing strokes.
“Want more?”
“Yes.”
“Greedy,” Crowley said. “Gluttonous. Lustful.”
“Victorious,” Aziraphale sighed.
Crowley said nothing. His fingers said it for him – throbbing and spreading, counting himself pretty victorious too as he played with that round spot inside that drew deep startled sounds from Aziraphale’s throat.
But Crowley couldn’t see what Aziraphale saw, which was his own true form made of light only slightly brassy and tainted, sinuous and threatening and beautiful and making the garish homages all around him almost look like intentional playful mockery. He had a way of that.
“Fuck, love, give it to me,” Aziraphale pleaded, and Crowley did. He couldn’t pause, he couldn’t even be careful or gentle because any hesitation might make them both start thinking about awful and dramatic things that could happen to the sea and the world, at least possibly, if divine and diabolic forces did the unthinkable (though it wasn’t as if they both hadn’t thought about it plenty) and let down all dignity to couple like, well, drunken sailors. Aziraphale’s cry of pain was short, but by the time it ended it had already turned into something else. Crowley’s groan of disbelieving ecstasy stayed exactly as it was, only growing more disbelieving as Aziraphale rose to meet him, wild-eyed and grasping.
The world was taking it just fine. Happy endings, after all—though of course strictly speaking there were still a couple of climaxes left to go before true resolution.
Crowley found his sea legs at last—or more accurately his sea knees and his sea hips, moving with a sort of oceanic motion, in near harmony with the ship’s pitch and Aziraphale’s unleashed writhing. They both tried to keep their eyes open in study as they learned each other’s little ways of needing and taking, offering and giving.
Crowley managed to balance on one arm so he could touch Aziraphale there, grasping, and then Aziraphale went rigid and twitching with words breaking on his parted lips that no one had spoken for three thousand years. Crowley watched enraptured as light that should have burned him didn’t. Then Crowley pressed himself against the limp, sticky angel with a hiss and took his own pleasure roughly, burying himself deep and letting go; what he did to the syllables of Aziraphale’s name in that cry could never be replicated under any other circumstances.
“My…goodness,” Aziraphale panted, stroking the dark head lying on his chest. “Is it always so…messy? And vigourous?”
“Pretty much,” Crowley murmured bonelessly.
“Mmm, good,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it even more now I know that’s normal, and I’m not discorporating.”
Crowley laughed quietly and crept up just enough to flick his tongue at the little pool of sweat in the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. “It does take a spot of practice…to get really good.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well. I may be beginning to take to sea life at last.”
“You’ve certainly taken well to rum and sodomy,” and here Crowley crept up a bit further, mouth to Aziraphale’s ear, “don’t know yet about the lash.”
“Now that’s rather advanced, isn’t it?”
“Well, you did look fetching bound to the mast,” Crowley said in a low voice. “Pity you didn’t have better taste in captors.”
“He would hardly have been my first choice. And why do I suspect you’ve tempted me to take revenge?”
“We took it out on his sheets, anyway.”
“And his whiskey,” Aziraphale whispered, and then was out of commission. In addition to all the other strange things happening on this adventure, Crowley realised he had never seen Aziraphale sleep before. And while once he might have thought this not a very interesting thing to watch, now he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight, not until his own eyes fell closed.
Nearby, on the Grog Blossom, Captain Young cradled a dishevelled, naked, snoring Pepper in his arms amid his own ill-treated sheets, and thought of the world, and thought that it was good. Just the way it was.
~end~
Tharrr ye go!
When I finished Brag It Out With a Card of Ten, my Good Omens piratefic for
swashbucklathon, I joked to my beta reader use_theforce_em that "It has my idea of a happy ending. Everybody gets laid." They do it more or less off-stage, though, because that story is a fast-paced adventure/comedy sort of thing.This, however, is a PWP, since you've already read the plot.
Bent On a Splice
(Crowley/Aziraphale, NC-17)
“I don’t think it had those baroque running lanterns before.”
“I suppose I got a little carried away,” Aziraphale sighed.
“Oh lord, heal this ship,” Crowley muttered sarcastically.
“Well, they are nice young people,” Aziraphale said. “For pirates, I mean. Not like that horrid…” and he shuddered.
Crowley whirled around quickly. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”
“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “They thought they could get money out of me, but…”
“If they had, I’d hunt them down and tear them to pieces,” Crowley blurted, relief and rum speaking, and then a change came over his face in embarrassment.
Aziraphale wasn’t going to let it slide. “Really, my dear? Only because that’s your job?”
Crowley took a deep breath, bit a metaphorical bullet, and took Aziraphale’s hand. “Awfully soft hands you’ve got…for a pirate.”
“I’m not—"
“We’ll see about that,” Crowley said, and silenced Aziraphale with his mouth.
Neither of them saw the limping and slightly drunken Quartermaster Pepper watching them from the shadows, just coming from having gone to find Brian and Wensleydale and having walked in on them in a state of very active obliviousness to her presence. As mental images went, it was both disturbing and...well…
She had a choice here. She could make a scene. Or not. And, tightening her good hand around her rum bottle, she decided that she would.
Only not with them.
***
You cannot judge punch-drunk, lonely Pepper--feeling the life force running hot the way one always does after a rousing battle and seeking out the companion she’d come to reply upon. (Had she been a good girl, she’d still have reservations about deals with demons of any kind, never mind the, shall we say, carnal dimensions. But she’s a pirate, and said deal had consisted largely of “I’ll keep my mouth shut about you if you do that thing with your tongue again,” and anyway, reservations were things that happened to other people.) You can only sympathise with her finding him—in his manlike form, standing at the Grog Blossom’s stern so near to his friend, and reaching out with one hesitant hand to settle into his friend’s hair. There is a moment when time holds still (perhaps literally, considering what they are) and then, of course, a kiss.
You cannot judge her because what she feels is not, ultimately, jealousy. It is envy. Those two are not at all the same (ask him; he would know). You cannot blame her for watching for a few moments either. You would too.
***
If you asked Crowley later what possessed him, he’d pretend to be unfamiliar with the idiom, just like Aziraphale does. After all, demons didn’t get possessed. They did the possessing. It was just that Aziraphale’s hands were so soft, like Crowley’d said, and his mouth was inviting him without saying a word. And it was soft too, and a bit stiff and startled at first, and then responding, wet and opening, tasting so slightly of seawater and tea.
Oh Someplace—why did they wait so long?
“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered as the stars emerged from the brackish sky behind him. “We’ve been in worse peril. Why now?”
Crowley struggled to get his breath back in line. He was making it all the harder for himself by his position pressing Aziraphale against the railing of the ship’s stern. (And more difficult as well.) “Because…” he sighed. “We’re in a happy ending. That’s what they’re like for them. Can’t you feel it around us?”
“What are you feeling?”
“Do you think I can’t sense Lust?”
“Of course you can, just like I can sense…er…” Aziraphale started to purse his lips in a particularly penitent way before he said something delicate. Crowley headed it off at the pass by swooping in again, using a good deal more tongue this time and making Aziraphale gasp and go a little bit weak against the rail, clutching at Crowley’s neck to stable himself.
“Mmmf!” he finally cried.
“What?”
“It’s dizzying out here,” the angel said. “it’s too much!”
It was. There was singing and good-natured fighting and drinking and rutting filling the air with heady energies. There was Greed and Gluttony and Pride running rampant; there was even Charity and Faith and Hope and Justice making things sickly sweet (though Temperance was significant by its absence), and making it all so boggling was the thing they both sensed, the ship’s Captain himself now caught in his own eddy of Lust and…well, that other thing…and he cast such a pull…
“I haven’t had that much rum,” Crowley whispered, “And I’m drunk.”
“I am too,” Aziraphale said, “I can’t tell if…”
Crowley took a deep, steeling breath; all his instincts screamed succumb, succumb, and yet…
“Clearer air,” he gasped, taking Aziraphale’s wrist and striding firmly, waiting to see how much resistance there’d be. There was none. The quarterdeck was nearly clear now, and beyond it was the plank that still led to the injured, anchored Megiddo.
“So this is the place,” Crowley said as he looked up at the lurching masts with their mighty sails. “It’s so different when it’s quieter.”
“Well, it’s not the ship’s fault,” Aziraphale said, his wrist twisting slightly in Crowley’s gratuitous grip. Crowley loosened his hold but didn’t let go.
“Where did they keep you?” Crowley asked suddenly, turning around.
Aziraphale sighed. Certainly his pride could afford another small bruise; he was just reluctant to part with the stars just yet. With a twitch of his hand, he reversed their positions, claiming Crowley’s wrist as he started down the first of many series of wobbly stairs.
At the dank brig in the hold, Crowley sniffed the air and let loose just one unconscious, angry, animal hiss. “There?”
“Yes. It was very unpleasant.”
“It stinks! And there’s…oh, yuck.”
It was just a skeleton in chains. Aziraphale had hardly paid it any mind since it was long past having any identity to speak of, or much of a smell.
“There’s rats,” Crowley cried.
“Yes, just like on every ship, what—“
“I can’t believe they did that to you!”
“It was horribly tedious. I think that nice Wensleydale would’ve brought me books if he’d had any, but…”
“You’re really all right?”
Aziraphale sighed and took Crowley’s hands in his. “Yes, dear boy, I am. I have heard of terrible things pirates do to prisoners, but they didn’t try, and if they had I assure you your headquarters would’ve found themselves in a blizzard of paperwork the likes of which they haven’t seen since Sodom. How much of a pansy do you think I am?”
“A great big one, frankly. But you’re an angel! Why’d you stay?”
“There wasn’t anywhere else pressing I had to be, now was there? Besides, that young man was quite kind, and I couldn’t leave him to the wolves. And as soon as I learned Warlock wasn’t the one, it sounded like the one Wensleydale was looking for was a more promising lead, and I thought perhaps if I found him…”
“Yes?”
“I’d come closer to—“ Achieving our mission? Not necessarily. “—finding you.”
Crowley’s face went through a process of changes, and somewhere in there was something that Aziraphale thought for a flash of a second might have vaguely resembled a distant cousin to guilt.
“Well, now you have,” Crowley said, his voice dropping, sliding closer. “Still, that Warlock—what an idiot. Had an angel in a cage and no idea of what to do with him.”
“I wondered if you’d know what to do with one if you caught one,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley tugged at the outdated lace at his throat, moving his mouth close enough to breathe against the tender skin.
“I have lots of ideas,” Crowley purred, nipping gently, letting the tip of his tongue swipe lightly in slow circles. Aziraphale moaned just a little, and then the damp of the wall against his back reminded him of where he was.
“Crowley,” he said. “Enticing as it may be for you, I really don’t want to spend any more time here.”
“All right, well,” said Crowley, his blurry mind racing for a better suggestion. To his immeasurable relief, one presented itself, and he grinned, twisting his hand around to catch Aziraphale’s wrist once again. “C’mon then!”
Up the stairs they went, again and again, past more decks than any ship should have rightfully had without calling itself a skyscraper, until they reached the hallway just below the quarterdeck. Crowley sniffed around with his sharpest instincts until he found the greatest concentration of sin, and an elaborate door swung open at his touch.
“Oh…my…” he exclaimed in rapturous horror.
Warlock had really believed he was the Antichrist, and he’d outfitted his cabin accordingly. First off, it was huge (and growing huger by the moment as Crowley’s morbid fascination worked upon it). Secondly, to call it baroque would be to call the palace of the Sun King ascetic. Was that a gold-plated goat’s head? Were those carved liquor taps in the shape of a nun’s bare breasts…and the bottle opener her…oh WOW.
Crowley was starting to think this might have been a bit of a misstep. But Aziraphale was just laughing. The angel had seen plenty of the reverse aesthetic, to use the term loosely--that Cardinal with the bed carved like the giant enfolding arms of Jesus, for example…in the most dreadful sincerity. Compared to that, the four massive teak posts of this one shaped like inverted crosses were mere kitsch.
Red silk, lambskin, manacles, and gargoyles. A bootscraper in the shape of a bare-arsed priest on his knees. A holy-water font full of…well, Crowley couldn’t tell what that was, but he was no more eager to touch it than if it’d been used for the intended purpose.
“My goodness,” Aziraphale said. “What a pretentious pillock.”
“You said it,” said Crowley, rooting around on the shelves and sniffing at bottles. “He does have good spirits, though.” He took up two silver goblets shaped like virgins’ severed heads and poured some fine amber whiskey, inhaling deeply.
“I don’t know if I should,” Aziraphale said in an obligatory fashion.
“Of course you should,” said Crowley. “He owes you.”
“I suppose he does,” Aziraphale smiled, reaching out his hand and letting the strong smell of good malt from the Scottish Isles inflame his senses. “I think it might be clearing my head.”
“Really? It’s a bit murky in here, I think.”
“To you, of course,” Aziraphale said, drifting close. “It must be confusing.”
“It doesn’t…bother you?”
“It’s ugly, but—oh no, don’t you dare change the décor,” Aziraphale said. “My dear, you’ve kissed me twice already, and for the last time---“
Whiskey.
Wetness.
“Ow!” clumsy crunch of lips against teeth, and…
Wanting.
“Oh no. Oh no, not the last time. First time.”
There were cups falling to the wooden boards, whiskey spilled with no shame for there was always more, and then a clumsy, slightly painful crash of tangled bodies upon a vast, slippery bed.
Aziraphale made a helpless sound as Crowley’s hand in his hair pulled a bit, shook some light loose, bent his neck back a little too sharply and made raw energy pour from his throat as the demon kissed him there, sucking lightly at the very point where his pulse sprang into action. Azirphale arched his neck up harder, craving more of it, and finding his own mouth pressed against a cotton-covered shoulder; he bit down just to hear Crowley moan.
“Oh this is awkward, but…” Aziraphale scrunched himself upward as far as he could with his coat trapped under Crowley’s side. He decided it would work better this way, and he shoved Crowley underneath him.
“Angel…” Crowley whispered, “it issss awkward, but…”
Aziraphale trembled. Crowley’s fair face below him, dark hair spilled across crimson sheets. But then there was Crowley’s hand atop him, running under his coat and above his snug waistcoat and just over his breeches, over his arse and then, the back of one thigh…
The twitch of Aziraphale’s hips was involuntary; the clench of Crowley’s hand between his legs so calculated, but such an immediate response. “Mmm, not so sexless,” Crowley growled.
“Not with you, no,” Aziraphale said. “Not now, and it’s your fault.”
“Not even those rude rogues that took you prisoner? Not even that lad with the glasses?”
“Not humans, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, twitching his fingers roughly against Crowley’s back where his wings weren’t. “Can’t really let go, can one?”
There was such a surge Crowley gasped and sat up suddenly with Aziraphale on his lap,
“Not…fair…”Aziraphale whispered, undone for a split second. “You didn’t lose your…beauty. Why?”
“I need it,” Crowley said. “I need it more than you do.”
“I didn’t mean compared to me, I…meant…” Aziraphale dithered for a moment wondering just what he had meant. “Never mind,” he said firmly. “That’s not the reason I want you.”
“Oh you do? Do you now?” Crowley said, lounging back on one hand, running the fingers of the other down Aziraphale’s chest where his shirt and waistcoat hung open. With a lazy flick of his hand, the upper clothes vanished, and Crowley’s hand wandered to the front of Aziraphale’s breeches. “I’m not sure an angel can. Want it, I mean,” he said, smirking as his fingertips explored that particular bulge that made it so clear Crowley was lying, quite naturally and insufferably. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to prove it.”
Aziraphale had been enjoying rather lasciviously leaning into that touch, but that just made him growl and shove Crowley down, and then they were doing again that which a bed of that tasteless size was made for—competitive rolling, with tangled legs and pulled hair and torn clothes. One of Aziraphale’s shoes went flying. Aziraphale was stronger and faster than he looked, but Crowley was as lithe and bendy as he looked, and he came up on top at last. Through half-closed eyes Aziraphale watched Crowley staring at him for a moment, before striking low again, and if he’d been about to protest anything, it sure wasn’t the way Crowley’s mouth moved over his collarbones. But he opened his eyes again long enough to watch the hanging candelabras made of iron and bones swaying with the motion of the sea. Really.
“Crowley?”
“Mm?”
“Why do you want me?”
“Won’t answer that,” Crowley panted, and he bit lightly down on one nipple, plucking at it delicately with his teeth until Aziraphale gasped and arched upward, probably not asking anything else for quite a while. Crowley shifted, twisted, sucked harder when one of the angel’s hands worked his trousers open and halfway down his hips, grasping at his cock with surprising skill Crowley thought he might have to ask about, just...not now. Oh, not now. He gave a rough shove with his hips, forcing them down against Aziraphale’s just so, again and again, finding a tight, pulsing pattern that made Aziraphale rise to meet him, clutching fiercely at his arms.
“Oh…fuck, Crowley,”
“Yes, let’s,” Crowley said.
“Now?”
“No, next week.”
“Bastard!”
“No, demon,” Crowley whispered harshly, “spesss—specifically—demon about to plunder you good in a pirate’s cabin decorated in Early Abomination. You want that, angel?”
“Yes. Yes, very much,” Aziraphale panted, grinding his erection wantonly against Crowley’s belly.
“Prove it,” Crowley said. “Show me.”
“I am,” Aziraphale whined, struggling and writhing and managing to hook his plump thighs over Crowley’s arms. And then the demon saw it: light shining through – the mundane outline of Aziraphale Day-to-Day (as though he could be truly mundane in this context, which certainly wasn’t ordinary) no longer entirely containing an entity in such shimmering contrast to his tawdry surroundings that he enhanced them and made everything around him so much more than it was.
“Oh…” Crowley gasped. His self-editing mechanism was utterly gone, and what came out of his mouth was, “oh fuck, if you look this good now, what’s it going to be like when you come?”
Aziraphale looked up at him and smiled. “The view’s not so bad from down here either, my dear.” That primmest of endearments had never sounded so lewd.
“We don’t have to…it’s kind of…advanced…there’s so much else we can do…if you…”
Aziraphale reached up as far as he could, dug his nails in Crowley’s upper back (and the demon winced, for he had stripes of his own there, quite unlike Wensleydale’s, that he rather hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t see). “I want it,” he snarled, demonstrating that he’d already decided what that mysterious and ugly holy water font contained: oil. Neither holy nor unholy—rather like olive with a hint of rosemary. And very nicely slick when Aziraphale took Crowley’s cock in a commanding, sliding grip as the demon gasped helpless for just a second. Then he growled and pinned one of Aziraphale’s hands; the other he mined for its slipperiness. He hovered his hand down there for long moments, stroking and playing and teasing, before shoving one finger in deep and laughing as Aziraphale whimpered and bit his lip.
“Thought you were ready, eh?”
“It’s good,” Aziraphale winced, bearing down bravely, lifting his hips in time to that finger’s probing strokes.
“Want more?”
“Yes.”
“Greedy,” Crowley said. “Gluttonous. Lustful.”
“Victorious,” Aziraphale sighed.
Crowley said nothing. His fingers said it for him – throbbing and spreading, counting himself pretty victorious too as he played with that round spot inside that drew deep startled sounds from Aziraphale’s throat.
But Crowley couldn’t see what Aziraphale saw, which was his own true form made of light only slightly brassy and tainted, sinuous and threatening and beautiful and making the garish homages all around him almost look like intentional playful mockery. He had a way of that.
“Fuck, love, give it to me,” Aziraphale pleaded, and Crowley did. He couldn’t pause, he couldn’t even be careful or gentle because any hesitation might make them both start thinking about awful and dramatic things that could happen to the sea and the world, at least possibly, if divine and diabolic forces did the unthinkable (though it wasn’t as if they both hadn’t thought about it plenty) and let down all dignity to couple like, well, drunken sailors. Aziraphale’s cry of pain was short, but by the time it ended it had already turned into something else. Crowley’s groan of disbelieving ecstasy stayed exactly as it was, only growing more disbelieving as Aziraphale rose to meet him, wild-eyed and grasping.
The world was taking it just fine. Happy endings, after all—though of course strictly speaking there were still a couple of climaxes left to go before true resolution.
Crowley found his sea legs at last—or more accurately his sea knees and his sea hips, moving with a sort of oceanic motion, in near harmony with the ship’s pitch and Aziraphale’s unleashed writhing. They both tried to keep their eyes open in study as they learned each other’s little ways of needing and taking, offering and giving.
Crowley managed to balance on one arm so he could touch Aziraphale there, grasping, and then Aziraphale went rigid and twitching with words breaking on his parted lips that no one had spoken for three thousand years. Crowley watched enraptured as light that should have burned him didn’t. Then Crowley pressed himself against the limp, sticky angel with a hiss and took his own pleasure roughly, burying himself deep and letting go; what he did to the syllables of Aziraphale’s name in that cry could never be replicated under any other circumstances.
“My…goodness,” Aziraphale panted, stroking the dark head lying on his chest. “Is it always so…messy? And vigourous?”
“Pretty much,” Crowley murmured bonelessly.
“Mmm, good,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it even more now I know that’s normal, and I’m not discorporating.”
Crowley laughed quietly and crept up just enough to flick his tongue at the little pool of sweat in the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat. “It does take a spot of practice…to get really good.”
“Anything worth doing is worth doing well. I may be beginning to take to sea life at last.”
“You’ve certainly taken well to rum and sodomy,” and here Crowley crept up a bit further, mouth to Aziraphale’s ear, “don’t know yet about the lash.”
“Now that’s rather advanced, isn’t it?”
“Well, you did look fetching bound to the mast,” Crowley said in a low voice. “Pity you didn’t have better taste in captors.”
“He would hardly have been my first choice. And why do I suspect you’ve tempted me to take revenge?”
“We took it out on his sheets, anyway.”
“And his whiskey,” Aziraphale whispered, and then was out of commission. In addition to all the other strange things happening on this adventure, Crowley realised he had never seen Aziraphale sleep before. And while once he might have thought this not a very interesting thing to watch, now he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight, not until his own eyes fell closed.
Nearby, on the Grog Blossom, Captain Young cradled a dishevelled, naked, snoring Pepper in his arms amid his own ill-treated sheets, and thought of the world, and thought that it was good. Just the way it was.
~end~
Tharrr ye go!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2006-12-28 08:01 am (UTC)But I don't wanna take a cold shower right now, V!Very tasty, my dear.no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 03:26 am (UTC)don't fight it.Thank you so much!no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 08:15 am (UTC)Ahem. Lovely. And QUITE worth waiting a bit extra for. A/C smut from you is the best Christmas present I could ask for. ^_^ The way you phrase things just makes me love you so much more than I already do--His self-editing mechanism...Neither holy nor unholy—rather like olive with a hint of rosemary...“Greedy,” Crowley said. “Gluttonous. Lustful.” Yeah. Pretty much brilliant.
Also, Az called Crowley "love." fjdla;zjfdsvrfNGK!!
You know how to make for a damn jolly holiday!! Thanks an awful lot!
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Date: 2006-12-29 04:21 am (UTC)Also, Az called Crowley "love." fjdla;zjfdsvrfNGK!!
Aziraphale's self-editing mechanism was impaired as well. :D
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Date: 2006-12-28 08:48 am (UTC)Anyway, I meant to go to work now, I really did, but then I saw this and I just had to read it. You are so one of my favorite authors, you write such funny and smutty (and sometimes plotty) Good Omens stories and I enjoy them so much. In fact, I haven't read all your stories yet, because I'm saving some of them up like candies for when I need to be cheered up. In short, your porn makes the world better. : )
So, about this story: I liked the hint of their otherworldliness during sex, how Aziraphale shines. And the breakdown of Crowley's self-editing was hilarious. It's nice to see Crowley on top. I do very much like your bossy Aziraphale (and that usually does more for me, to be honest), but they need some balance as well.
Ok, now I really do have to go to work. I hope it's ok that I friended you, don't feel you have to friend me back because I'm not sure how much I'll be writing in my journal, right now there's nothing in it.
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Date: 2006-12-29 05:20 am (UTC)It's nice to see Crowley on top.
Heh, yes. I was getting some stern WORDS on that. XD
Thank you so much, again! And please, stick around, you're totally welcome.
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Date: 2006-12-31 04:27 pm (UTC)Thank you, I will. : )
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Date: 2006-12-28 09:21 am (UTC)Lass, that were hotter than the noon day sun at the equator an' spicier than Tortuga chilli grog. Captain Warlock's interior decoratin' skills particularly brought a tear to my eye.
A flagon of the finest rum for the lady!
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Date: 2006-12-29 05:23 am (UTC)*slurps rum, lies on the beach*
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Date: 2006-12-28 10:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 05:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-28 01:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 05:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 02:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-31 01:32 am (UTC)I have ideas for fresh things, but my brain feels so limp and useless right now. My mind is really NOT in the best place, though I've been forcing it to produce when I can. :(
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Date: 2006-12-31 02:33 am (UTC)I know, dear *pats brain and gives it chocolate* :(
I think our public will wait for all-new stories 'til you're better, just as they unfortunately must wait for massive amounts of illos 'til my brain and hand reconnect. It's improving. And so will your situation, and thus your brain :) I have faith.
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Date: 2006-12-31 05:35 am (UTC)I have to find a way to keep writing at least some no matter what, tho. It's what keeps me marginally sane.
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Date: 2006-12-29 04:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-29 07:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-01-04 09:01 am (UTC)Everytime you write something, it makes me insanely happy and has me chuckling or grinning to myself every five minutes for the rest of the day, whenever I remember a bit of it. (I know this isn't what sane people do, but as I said, you're inevitably doing this to me every time.)
Aziraphale's "Victorious" line, was the best part, but also the cabin deco and... Well, shoot me, I liked everything! I admit to having a weak spot for top!Crowley as well, rare as that is, so this was especially nice.
The hottest thing I have read since your last story!
And I agree: What's missing now are Quantum Witch's illustrations!
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Date: 2007-01-06 07:26 am (UTC)Aziraphale's "Victorious" line, was the best part, but also the cabin deco and...
Smug, smug angel. And that cabin decor was big fun to write. It just kept getting worse and worse as I dwelled upon it...
I admit to having a weak spot for top!Crowley as well, rare as that is, so this was especially nice.
That pendulum has swung a little too far over, hasn't it? XD
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Date: 2007-01-05 01:31 am (UTC)I don't feel the need to reiterate that you are High Queen of Smut because that's just far too obvious. What I really feel the need to point out is how incredibly beautiful this is. It's candy for my brain. Pretty gourmet/designer chocolate candy fic, that's what it is. The wrist-grabbing switches always made my breath catch, for some reason. It's the little things with these two. Everything metapysical came off so gorgeously, I could just melt in it. Wrap myself up in its blanket-y goodness. Particarly, Crowley watched enraptured as light that should have burned him didn’t. Guh. Amazing.
And this: “Not…fair…”Aziraphale whispered, undone for a split second. “You didn’t lose your…beauty. Why?”
“I need it,” Crowley said. “I need it more than you do.”
-broke my damn heart. I got all snuffly and ridiculous. And then they get all funny on you again, and you just want them to be there bantering back and forth forever, but that's not entirely true because then we would teeter on the edge for too long, which is also cruel.
For whatever reason, I loved that you spelled out that Crowley has a self-editing mechanism. Despite the fact that he's the demon, I've always felt that he says what he means and wants far less than Aziraphale. If I'm making sense. Could be that Paris has mashed up my brain. ;) I loved Aziraphale laughing at the decor and the descriptions of the room were fall-off-your-chair hilarious. I also personally feel that to be fair, they must take turns tied to the mast. Yup. That seems good to me....
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Date: 2007-01-07 04:16 am (UTC)Ooo, pirate puppy eyes! Not fair! It could happen. Stranger things have happened. (Some of them in the fic.)
The wrist-grabbing switches always made my breath catch, for some reason. It's the little things with these two.
Oh, thank you so much. They're more or less on neutral ground, and a bit confused about who ought to be in the lead. Aziraphale knows the ship better, but Crowley knows where to find the sin. :)
And this: “Not…fair…”Aziraphale whispered, undone for a split second. “You didn’t lose your…beauty. Why?”
“I need it,” Crowley said. “I need it more than you do.”
-broke my damn heart. I got all snuffly and ridiculous.
Aw. Awwww. You know, I didn't know where that came from - that surprised me when I wrote it too. This strange moment of frankness there. And I was thinking of why all the demons we see have this quality of deformity and twistedness about them...but not Crowley. Not really. He has to maintain some advantage to do well on Earth, for he'd not exist very well in Hell. But I don't think it's his earthly good looks Aziraphale is talking about.
And then they get all funny on you again, and you just want them to be there bantering back and forth forever, but that's not entirely true because then we would teeter on the edge for too long, which is also cruel.
But not the BAD kind of cruel. ;)
For whatever reason, I loved that you spelled out that Crowley has a self-editing mechanism. Despite the fact that he's the demon, I've always felt that he says what he means and wants far less than Aziraphale.
I think he's less direct about it, yes. And somewhere he got the idea that his natural enthusiasm about things is unbecoming to a demon. Aziraphale has a self-editing mechanism too, though, and it has a little breakdown here as well. :D
I also personally feel that to be fair, they must take turns tied to the mast. Yup. That seems good to me....
Yup, sounds right. Such switchy things. You know, I left it vague in the main story about whether or not they accept Adam's offer at the end, but if they do, I imagine there'd be very little actual piracy involved. Or sailing, for that matter. (I imagine the Megiddo would manage to sail itself when it has to just like the Bentley does.)
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Date: 2008-10-18 02:03 pm (UTC)Warlock's cabin was hilarious. Loved how you did Crowley andAz--particularly Crowley threatening to dismember anyone who hurt Az and Az cursing. :D For some reason, I always find that entertaining... And that Az was smart enough not to name what he was "sensing." And my favorite:
"Not…fair…”Aziraphale whispered, undone for a split second. “You didn’t lose your…beauty. Why?”
“I need it,” Crowley said. “I need it more than you do.”"