Happy Holidays, Quantum_Witch!
Dec. 9th, 2007 05:13 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeAdult content. You must be at least 6,000 years old to read this fic.
Title: Sticks and Stones
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quantum_witch
Author:andremeese
Rating: Your author says R, your mod says NC-17
Prompt: Crowley wanks about (with or without Aziraphale knowing), 1st time, p.d.a
Note: I had so much trouble with this at first! Thankfully, the lovely mods allowed me an extension, and I overstepped it slightly, but it's done and I'm happy with it. It took a rather different turn than I had first expected, after all! I would like to thank my beta reader, for without her, this story couldn't have happened. Happy holidays, Quantum_Witch!
If there was anything Crowley was absolutely sick of, it was books. It wasn't just that they were time-consuming and bland, or that they got a funny smell when they got old and stale, or even that one particularly daring tome once had the audacity to give him a papercut beneath his fingernail; no, as petty as it was, it was that they interfered with his angel-time. Aziraphale had been blowing him off for the latest best-seller at an alarmingly increasing rate over the years, and it was pissing Crowley off at nearly the same level.
Patricia Cornwell couldn't hold a match to the real horrors they had seen, damn it! You'd think an immortal would eventually cease to be impressed; since the beginning, there had been the same stories, retold with prettier language all the time. What happened to dynamic conversation? Gossip over a light lunch at the Ritz? Even companiable silence? What happened to that?
Crowley wasn't about to share his time with a stack of pages in cheap binding and a self-satisfied black and white author photo on the back. No, Crowley wasn't about to be spurned like that and come crawling back for more.
A month passed. When Aziraphale finally got around to calling him, Crowley was busy.
A week later, he called back to invite the demon to lunch. Crowley was watering the ferns, leaving no time at all to leave the flat.
A few hours, the angel called back. He didn't bother to answer.
~~~
Being petty was in his nature, really. He knew how to hold a grudge. He could hold up the silent treatment indefinitely- it was the boredom that was killing him. Some jackass overseas had organized a strike which killed the few shows he bothered to watch regularly, and without his weekly view of Cuddy's cleavage from new and exciting angles, he didn't have much interest in the reruns.
One afternoon, after a particularly mind-numbing Monty Python marathon, Crowley was feeling the exhaustion of another day of doing nothing at all. He willed the oversized TV off and rolled over on his sofa, feeling vaguely sticky on the shiny leather. He reached for the table to fetch his sunglasses, but realized in time that he wouldn't reach in his current position, and he'd have to exert the energy to actually sit up, reach again, and then try to get comfortable.
He let his hand fall lazily to the cushion. It wasn't too bright, really. He trailed his hand across the arm, an overstuffed behemoth that was the final sacrifice of too many cows, and sighed, losing interest. As he dropped his hand, however, something sharp hit the heel of his hand at just the wrong angle. That caught his attention, to say the least.
"Mother...FUCKER!" Crowley hissed, glaring at the gap between the cushion and arm that had dared to hide its jagged predator. Punishment would be swift, he decided then, and without mercy. Oh, get a life, his slightly less unreasonable side suggested.
He ignored that thought.
A quick dig in the cushions revealed the culprit; a novel. Figures. This particularly brave villain was a hardback missing its jacket with unnecessarily sharp corners and a simple layout. Histoire d'O, the front cover read. Crowley sighed; another stupid history of the angel's, it looked like. He tossed the book on the table as he decided the book's fate. It sprawled across the table ungracefully, and remembering that it was still his friend's book, he should try to keep from bending the pages. He picked it up and set it open on the table. He was sitting back when a passage caught his attention.
"...Then let him take her, if only to wound her! O hated herself for her own desire, and loathed Sir Stephen for the self-control he was displaying. She wanted him to love her, there, the truth was out: she wanted him to be chafing under the urge to touch her lips and penetrate her body, to devastate her if need be..."
Crowley set the book down silently, for all the good that speaking would have done anyway in the empty flat. A moment passed, and then another, and Crowley finally convinced himself that he had, indeed, just seen that.
"Holy shit," he informed nobody in particular.
Perhaps, Crowley thought,I should give this another look. Just in case.
Six hours later, Crowley shut the book with a snap. A history, indeed; a history of what the fuck else was that angel hiding from him? Was this why he was getting blown off so much? So the angel could read porn? Crowley stood and threw the book to the sofa, stretching to relieve the muscles that were sore from disuse. Perhaps the book didn't belong to Aziraphale, really. Maybe it snuck in with the angel's morning newpaper. Maybe the begonias had some interests they weren't talking about. Crowley leveled a glare towards the flowers in question; they wisely declined to comment.
He paced the flat, teeming with anxious energy. While it was true that he had read, watched, and even participated in porn raunchier than that which he had just finished, he felt a guilty sort of thrill at the thought that it was the angel's dirty little secret.
Oh, he didn't know it, of course. He could still be proven wrong. Crowley paused in his pacing, and a self-satisfied grin spread across his face. If there was something to uncover, Crowley would find it. He abandoned his earlier frustration with silly walks and his primetime eye candy and set to work.
~~~
"...Excuse me?"
"Bondage novels. BDSM, sadomasochism, piercings where piercings shouldn't go, that sort of thing. Know anything about it?"
"Um. Let me get my supervisor."
With that, the young clerk turned and ran to a back room, leaving Crowley to wait patiently at the library help desk. He generally avoided this sort of place; Aziraphale had dragged him to enough of them over the ages that they tended to harbor no surprises. They always had stuffy old librarians overseeing self-important patrons, lording over their collections of musty tomes with a frightening ferocity.
This building would house a different sort of system, he soon realized.
The librarian, he was surprised to find, was not a short, ill-tempered grandmotherly-type. The red-faced clerk scurried out of the office and gestured nervously at Crowley, and the librarian stepped out into the open. He was a tall, lanky man, dressed very neatly and sporting a trendy cut for his rich red hair.
That clued Crowley in to an alarming realization: this wasn't going to be a typical encounter. Librarians were not trendy anything. He straightened his jacket and flashed a winning smile to the pair behind the desk. The clerk went even redder and quickly busied herself with a catalogue, while the other offered a smile in return. "There is something I can help you with, I presume?" he inquired lightly.
The demon coughed. "Hi. Yes. There's this book, see..." He pulled O from his coat and offered it to the man. "What sort of person would be reading this?" He arched an elegant eyebrow at Crowley. "Involved in some espionage, sir?"
Crowley grinned. "Something like that."
~~~
It was a rare occasion for Crowley to leave a library without sulking, and even less commonly, with several books checked out to "Tony Croman" hiding under his jacket. The librarian, while unsettling at first, grew on him quickly. He was knowledgeable about the subject, and not at all embarrassed to talk about it.
No, I don't do it myself, he had laughed, but I have friends in interesting places.
When he returned to his apartment, he threw his tie over the back of his couch, kicked his shoes to the corner, and picked a book at random from the pile.
He had a long weekend ahead.
~~~
Prince Anthony looked down upon the room of waiting slaves, princes and princesses all. They were tributes from their respective kingdoms, sent here for a lesson in humility, the first taste of it any of them had seen. On this first day, many of them were fighting their handlers, but it was nothing the trained men and women were not used to. The spoiled children before him had a long journey ahead of them.
A quick survey of the kneeling, fidgeting mass of unclothed royals did not leave him disappointed. A tall princess was giving a mighty effort to fight her burly bodyguard. Her face was flushed, the shade nearing that of the scarlet hair that flared around her as she twisted in the man's grasp. To her left, a scrawny young man glared daggers towards the front of the room, to the crowd seated casually around their banquet, but he did not fight his keeper. Nearest Anthony was a pale boy, shimmering white against the dark stone beneath him. He was squirming impatiently, but he kept his eyes lowered submissively, seemingly focused on a nearby candle dripping its wax over the clean floor.
"It's a good turnout this year, wouldn't you agree?" A voice drifted from the table, light and lilting.
"Certainly, it is! Why, I don't think we've ever had this many, have we, Your Highness?" said another to his mother. She only hummed in response.
Anthony wasn't listening to the conversation around him. His attention was on the slaves, sizing them up and making his predictions about the time that was to come. Few of them dared to meet his eyes, as some were bowing as they were told, and others were panicking and not looking too closely at anything. In the very center of the room, a man knelt quietly, seeming not to notice the chaos around him. His bodyguard was a small, lithe fellow with an exceptional talent for calming frenzied subjects; he didn't appear to be needed, here. The prince himself had a serene air to him, from his unimposing form to his neat blonde hair. He looked like the sort of boy who had never been properly roughed up. Apparently noticing his stare, the blonde prince lifted his gaze demurely, meeting Anthony's eyes freely. There was a challenge in his expression, however, that intrigued him.
Anthony noted the boy's profile; he would be seeing that one again.
"Sharl ye taketh one of yourre Own, sonne?" the Queen inquired of him. He turned then to get a better look at her grinning, toothless face.
"No," he whispered hoarsely, "No!"
"NO!" he cried out, rolling out of his bed and hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He clasped a hand to his forehead; nothing ruined a naughty dream quite like calling Agnes Nutter "Mum".
At least it eliminated the need for a cold shower, he mused.
~~~
Ring! Ring!
"Nrrrgh."
Ring! Ring! Ring!
"Nuh-uh."
Ring!
"..."
...
"Hmph."
...
RING!
Cursing, Crowley reached for the bedside table and fumbled for the phone that had not previously existed there. He mashed the pound key, flipped the phone, and finally hit 'talk'.
"...'lo?"
"Crowley? Are you still asleep?"
"I was. Quite nicely, actually."
"It's four in the afternoon, Crowley."
"And your point is...?"
"My point is that we haven't seen each other for ages, my dear! I was beginning to worry if something had... happened."
Oh, but it had. "What could have possibly happened, angel? You're the same, I'm the same, and there's no way at all that anything could have possibly happened. Nothing happened. Absolutely. I'm fine."
"...Crowley?"
"Yes, Aziraphale?"
"I'm coming over." Click.
Crowley groaned and tossed the phone across the room. He had some cleaning up to do, and fast.
~~~
Hiding the new books wasn't so great a challenge, in retrospect. He could have vanished them into nothingness, or, failing that, stuffed them under the couch. In his hurry to throw some clothes on and get the new literature out of sight, it is understandable that he would make a few mistakes.
First, when the angel arrived, neat and prim and properly sour-faced at him, he had forgotten to put his glasses on.
Next, after politely taking his coat, Crowley forgot to put it away. He took it with him to the tiny kitchen and only remembered it after the tea had been started. They sat together on the sofa in awkward silence, sipping their tea and skillfully avoiding each other's gaze.
"So," Aziraphale finally chirped, "you've been staying in, then? Your place looks rather more lived-in than last time."
Crowley grunted. "Yeah. Thought I'd, you know, take a break for a while. Watch some TV, train the ficus, not divert an Apocalypse, that sort of thing."
Aziraphale smiled uneasily and shifted forward on the cushions. "It seems like you have a busy schedule, then. Perhaps-"
"Would you like watch a movie with me? Here, I mean," Crowley blurted, pausing afterwards to ask himself where the Hell that had come from. The angel wasn't particularly fond of movies, but he had been known to tolerate them for Crowley's sake several times over the past few years. He saw Titanic with Crowley seven times at the theatre, at least, and he still had no idea why it was so popular; it all seemed quite exaggerated to him.
Surprisingly enough, however, the angel didn't protest this time. "That would be nice. What are we seeing?"
Crowley slumped deep into the sofa and "found" the long-lost remote hiding between the cushions. "Whatever's on?"
Aziraphale toed his shoes off neatly to the side and curled his feet up under him comfortably. "By all means."
~~~
Two hours and one baffling Stephen King made-for-TV movie later, the two supernaturals weren't particularly interested in moving from their warm, cozy spots. They had broken out the liquor fairly early on into the film, and they found it helped them immensely in understanding the plot.
"So that clown thingit was the bad guy?" Crowley slurred into Aziraphale's leg.
The angel twitched. "That tickles," he complained, moving his hand to Crowley's head to push him away in protest. It never got very far, though, and it ended up tangled in his hair in a light caress.
Crowley shifted a bit. "Angel?"
"Hmmm?"
"We're prats, the both of us."
"I know, my dear."
"Hmm."
They lounged together in comfortable silence for another awful movie, this one about giant man-eating plants from space. When Aziraphale finally left, the moon was high in the sky, and Crowley was thoroughly asleep on his couch.
~~~
Crowley was drunk. He was too drunk to know that he was too drunk. He lounged blissfully atop a pile of soft furs and stared up at the top of the translucent tent. The moon was shining bright, shrouding the area in a pale white glow. It was almost too perfect for his addled mind to take.
"You're drunk," an accusing voice from the tent's opening hissed. "And you're naked. You'll catch cold like that." When had the angel come in? It was dangerous for a demon like himself to stay so unprotected. He should do something about it.
"Then cover my nakedness, angel," he purred up to the figure, parting his knees suggestively. Aziraphale looked away, perhaps considering leaving, but compassion won out and he searched the tent for a blanket for the demon. "Sober up, Crawly," he growled, kneeling down to spread the cover over the exposed body beneath him.
The demon caught Aziraphale's wrist and tugged forcefully; the angel collapsed clumsily over him and finally met his stare.
And Crawly kissed him, and Aziraphale did not struggle to break free; rather, he fought for dominance in their kiss, and the demon was in no position to resist.
Crawly moaned as they finally broke apart, flushed and panting. "Angel, hell, you weren't supposed to do that."
Aziraphale smiled down at him. "Perhaps not."
~~~
Crowley awoke with a start. The TV was still buzzing quietly, but the transmission faded out of existence upon his awakening. His suit was rumpled and he felt a hangover on the horizon, but he dealt with that easily enough.
He wasn't entirely sure how to will away the erection that had sprang up without his permission. "Go away," he tried to command it.
It didn't listen. Crowley sighed; suddenly clothes-that-were became clothes-that-had-ceased-to-be, and he started the trek to the bathroom.
This day definitely needs a bubble bath, he thought idly to himself.
He drew the water scaldingly hot and poured a liberal amount of vanilla-scented soap into the water. When a nice foam had built up, he lowered himself into the tub carefully and sighed. Bubble baths were almost sinfully good, he had decided long ago; they just tend to make you a better person. He ducked under the water for a moment and emerged, wet and soapy and already feeling the heat of the bath work away at the tension built up in his body.
No, he hadn't forgotten his morning visitor; far from it, actually. Thoroughly relaxed in the steaming bathtub now, he took his erection in hand and stroked it firmly, slowly, and just how he liked it. Though he didn't do this often, he had perfected the art of pleasing his human forms over the years, and he knew exactly what this this body liked. The images in his mind might change, but the motions were the same.
The images, however, were deviating from the standard fare of the ample-bosomed women he usually thought of. The women were there, but kneeling on the floor at the foot of a leather-clad blond, shuddering in pain and pleasure under the crack of his whip. The blond had a smile that spread further across his face at each snap of the whip, at every whimper from the girls.
Crowley gasped; he was painfully close, as it was, and he couldn't get the twisted scene out of his mind.
"Crowley," the fantasy-angel purred, "I'm waiting for you."
The demon groaned and came hard across his hand, cursing the angel and himself for having ever found that first damned book in his couch.
~~~
Crowley lounged against the wooden gate, catching his breath. The last round had been vicious, but he had come out victorious in the end and had earned himself a break. His trainer had left him there with the other victors to attend to other business, and he was making full use of the time to wind down.
The game was barbaric, but simple. The male slaves were pitted against each other in a competition of strength, speed, and wile: fuck the other before he fucks you. The winner was allowed to rest, but the loser was forced to endure a punishment of his master's choice. Crowley was lucky enough to have won all of his matches so far, though he was still considered a novice.
A woman in white cotton and a naked slave were standing outside the corral, looking in at the strongest of the sport. Words were spoken between the two, and after a moment, the slave pointed his way. "...And you picked a champ, by the way," he heard the woman say. "You better be good."
Crowley sighed mentally, but knew better than to protest. The handlers entered the area and brought him to the preparation stage to be oiled up for the match.
Oh, well. He had won this before, and he would win it again.
There was a crowd around them, he noticed happily. The man across from him did not look anxious, but it was obvious that he had never played a game of this nature before. Crowley was hoping to exploit this in the match; if the boy was afraid to take what had not been given, then he wasn't meant for this lifestyle.
The alarm sounded, the game started, and the crowd's count was begun. Crowley moved fast, hoping for a quick, clean win, but the man caught on and tried the same against him. Crowley lunged for the slick slave, but he just couldn't hold on. Another attempt also ended in failure; the man was determined not to lose.
The crowd was growing impatient. Their job was to please the audience and honor their masters, and they were drawing this out too long. Crowley focused his energy on one last attack. He tackled the boy and had him pinned to the ground, but only for a moment before their positions were flipped. Wasting no time, the slave forced him to his knees locked his head in place with his left arm. For the first time here, Crowley was the one mounted with the cock up his arse and humiliation on his name. The man was brutal about it, too; he snarled and bucked and tried to wrench him free, but it only seemed to make it better for him.
When he came, Crowley felt his face flush hot as it was shoved into the dirt beneath them. The crowd went wild for the winner, but he knew that one face in the crowd was focused on him alone. Once released, he knelt up in the dirt and caught his master's piercing blue stare; he was not going to take this easy on Crowley.
He wouldn't have had it any other way.
~end~
Happy Holidays,quantum_witch, from your Secret Writer!
Title: Sticks and Stones
For:
quantum_witchAuthor:
andremeeseRating: Your author says R, your mod says NC-17
Prompt: Crowley wanks about (with or without Aziraphale knowing), 1st time, p.d.a
Note: I had so much trouble with this at first! Thankfully, the lovely mods allowed me an extension, and I overstepped it slightly, but it's done and I'm happy with it. It took a rather different turn than I had first expected, after all! I would like to thank my beta reader, for without her, this story couldn't have happened. Happy holidays, Quantum_Witch!
If there was anything Crowley was absolutely sick of, it was books. It wasn't just that they were time-consuming and bland, or that they got a funny smell when they got old and stale, or even that one particularly daring tome once had the audacity to give him a papercut beneath his fingernail; no, as petty as it was, it was that they interfered with his angel-time. Aziraphale had been blowing him off for the latest best-seller at an alarmingly increasing rate over the years, and it was pissing Crowley off at nearly the same level.
Patricia Cornwell couldn't hold a match to the real horrors they had seen, damn it! You'd think an immortal would eventually cease to be impressed; since the beginning, there had been the same stories, retold with prettier language all the time. What happened to dynamic conversation? Gossip over a light lunch at the Ritz? Even companiable silence? What happened to that?
Crowley wasn't about to share his time with a stack of pages in cheap binding and a self-satisfied black and white author photo on the back. No, Crowley wasn't about to be spurned like that and come crawling back for more.
A month passed. When Aziraphale finally got around to calling him, Crowley was busy.
A week later, he called back to invite the demon to lunch. Crowley was watering the ferns, leaving no time at all to leave the flat.
A few hours, the angel called back. He didn't bother to answer.
~~~
Being petty was in his nature, really. He knew how to hold a grudge. He could hold up the silent treatment indefinitely- it was the boredom that was killing him. Some jackass overseas had organized a strike which killed the few shows he bothered to watch regularly, and without his weekly view of Cuddy's cleavage from new and exciting angles, he didn't have much interest in the reruns.
One afternoon, after a particularly mind-numbing Monty Python marathon, Crowley was feeling the exhaustion of another day of doing nothing at all. He willed the oversized TV off and rolled over on his sofa, feeling vaguely sticky on the shiny leather. He reached for the table to fetch his sunglasses, but realized in time that he wouldn't reach in his current position, and he'd have to exert the energy to actually sit up, reach again, and then try to get comfortable.
He let his hand fall lazily to the cushion. It wasn't too bright, really. He trailed his hand across the arm, an overstuffed behemoth that was the final sacrifice of too many cows, and sighed, losing interest. As he dropped his hand, however, something sharp hit the heel of his hand at just the wrong angle. That caught his attention, to say the least.
"Mother...FUCKER!" Crowley hissed, glaring at the gap between the cushion and arm that had dared to hide its jagged predator. Punishment would be swift, he decided then, and without mercy. Oh, get a life, his slightly less unreasonable side suggested.
He ignored that thought.
A quick dig in the cushions revealed the culprit; a novel. Figures. This particularly brave villain was a hardback missing its jacket with unnecessarily sharp corners and a simple layout. Histoire d'O, the front cover read. Crowley sighed; another stupid history of the angel's, it looked like. He tossed the book on the table as he decided the book's fate. It sprawled across the table ungracefully, and remembering that it was still his friend's book, he should try to keep from bending the pages. He picked it up and set it open on the table. He was sitting back when a passage caught his attention.
"...Then let him take her, if only to wound her! O hated herself for her own desire, and loathed Sir Stephen for the self-control he was displaying. She wanted him to love her, there, the truth was out: she wanted him to be chafing under the urge to touch her lips and penetrate her body, to devastate her if need be..."
Crowley set the book down silently, for all the good that speaking would have done anyway in the empty flat. A moment passed, and then another, and Crowley finally convinced himself that he had, indeed, just seen that.
"Holy shit," he informed nobody in particular.
Perhaps, Crowley thought,I should give this another look. Just in case.
Six hours later, Crowley shut the book with a snap. A history, indeed; a history of what the fuck else was that angel hiding from him? Was this why he was getting blown off so much? So the angel could read porn? Crowley stood and threw the book to the sofa, stretching to relieve the muscles that were sore from disuse. Perhaps the book didn't belong to Aziraphale, really. Maybe it snuck in with the angel's morning newpaper. Maybe the begonias had some interests they weren't talking about. Crowley leveled a glare towards the flowers in question; they wisely declined to comment.
He paced the flat, teeming with anxious energy. While it was true that he had read, watched, and even participated in porn raunchier than that which he had just finished, he felt a guilty sort of thrill at the thought that it was the angel's dirty little secret.
Oh, he didn't know it, of course. He could still be proven wrong. Crowley paused in his pacing, and a self-satisfied grin spread across his face. If there was something to uncover, Crowley would find it. He abandoned his earlier frustration with silly walks and his primetime eye candy and set to work.
~~~
"...Excuse me?"
"Bondage novels. BDSM, sadomasochism, piercings where piercings shouldn't go, that sort of thing. Know anything about it?"
"Um. Let me get my supervisor."
With that, the young clerk turned and ran to a back room, leaving Crowley to wait patiently at the library help desk. He generally avoided this sort of place; Aziraphale had dragged him to enough of them over the ages that they tended to harbor no surprises. They always had stuffy old librarians overseeing self-important patrons, lording over their collections of musty tomes with a frightening ferocity.
This building would house a different sort of system, he soon realized.
The librarian, he was surprised to find, was not a short, ill-tempered grandmotherly-type. The red-faced clerk scurried out of the office and gestured nervously at Crowley, and the librarian stepped out into the open. He was a tall, lanky man, dressed very neatly and sporting a trendy cut for his rich red hair.
That clued Crowley in to an alarming realization: this wasn't going to be a typical encounter. Librarians were not trendy anything. He straightened his jacket and flashed a winning smile to the pair behind the desk. The clerk went even redder and quickly busied herself with a catalogue, while the other offered a smile in return. "There is something I can help you with, I presume?" he inquired lightly.
The demon coughed. "Hi. Yes. There's this book, see..." He pulled O from his coat and offered it to the man. "What sort of person would be reading this?" He arched an elegant eyebrow at Crowley. "Involved in some espionage, sir?"
Crowley grinned. "Something like that."
~~~
It was a rare occasion for Crowley to leave a library without sulking, and even less commonly, with several books checked out to "Tony Croman" hiding under his jacket. The librarian, while unsettling at first, grew on him quickly. He was knowledgeable about the subject, and not at all embarrassed to talk about it.
No, I don't do it myself, he had laughed, but I have friends in interesting places.
When he returned to his apartment, he threw his tie over the back of his couch, kicked his shoes to the corner, and picked a book at random from the pile.
He had a long weekend ahead.
~~~
Prince Anthony looked down upon the room of waiting slaves, princes and princesses all. They were tributes from their respective kingdoms, sent here for a lesson in humility, the first taste of it any of them had seen. On this first day, many of them were fighting their handlers, but it was nothing the trained men and women were not used to. The spoiled children before him had a long journey ahead of them.
A quick survey of the kneeling, fidgeting mass of unclothed royals did not leave him disappointed. A tall princess was giving a mighty effort to fight her burly bodyguard. Her face was flushed, the shade nearing that of the scarlet hair that flared around her as she twisted in the man's grasp. To her left, a scrawny young man glared daggers towards the front of the room, to the crowd seated casually around their banquet, but he did not fight his keeper. Nearest Anthony was a pale boy, shimmering white against the dark stone beneath him. He was squirming impatiently, but he kept his eyes lowered submissively, seemingly focused on a nearby candle dripping its wax over the clean floor.
"It's a good turnout this year, wouldn't you agree?" A voice drifted from the table, light and lilting.
"Certainly, it is! Why, I don't think we've ever had this many, have we, Your Highness?" said another to his mother. She only hummed in response.
Anthony wasn't listening to the conversation around him. His attention was on the slaves, sizing them up and making his predictions about the time that was to come. Few of them dared to meet his eyes, as some were bowing as they were told, and others were panicking and not looking too closely at anything. In the very center of the room, a man knelt quietly, seeming not to notice the chaos around him. His bodyguard was a small, lithe fellow with an exceptional talent for calming frenzied subjects; he didn't appear to be needed, here. The prince himself had a serene air to him, from his unimposing form to his neat blonde hair. He looked like the sort of boy who had never been properly roughed up. Apparently noticing his stare, the blonde prince lifted his gaze demurely, meeting Anthony's eyes freely. There was a challenge in his expression, however, that intrigued him.
Anthony noted the boy's profile; he would be seeing that one again.
"Sharl ye taketh one of yourre Own, sonne?" the Queen inquired of him. He turned then to get a better look at her grinning, toothless face.
"No," he whispered hoarsely, "No!"
"NO!" he cried out, rolling out of his bed and hitting the floor with a heavy thud. He clasped a hand to his forehead; nothing ruined a naughty dream quite like calling Agnes Nutter "Mum".
At least it eliminated the need for a cold shower, he mused.
~~~
Ring! Ring!
"Nrrrgh."
Ring! Ring! Ring!
"Nuh-uh."
Ring!
"..."
...
"Hmph."
...
RING!
Cursing, Crowley reached for the bedside table and fumbled for the phone that had not previously existed there. He mashed the pound key, flipped the phone, and finally hit 'talk'.
"...'lo?"
"Crowley? Are you still asleep?"
"I was. Quite nicely, actually."
"It's four in the afternoon, Crowley."
"And your point is...?"
"My point is that we haven't seen each other for ages, my dear! I was beginning to worry if something had... happened."
Oh, but it had. "What could have possibly happened, angel? You're the same, I'm the same, and there's no way at all that anything could have possibly happened. Nothing happened. Absolutely. I'm fine."
"...Crowley?"
"Yes, Aziraphale?"
"I'm coming over." Click.
Crowley groaned and tossed the phone across the room. He had some cleaning up to do, and fast.
~~~
Hiding the new books wasn't so great a challenge, in retrospect. He could have vanished them into nothingness, or, failing that, stuffed them under the couch. In his hurry to throw some clothes on and get the new literature out of sight, it is understandable that he would make a few mistakes.
First, when the angel arrived, neat and prim and properly sour-faced at him, he had forgotten to put his glasses on.
Next, after politely taking his coat, Crowley forgot to put it away. He took it with him to the tiny kitchen and only remembered it after the tea had been started. They sat together on the sofa in awkward silence, sipping their tea and skillfully avoiding each other's gaze.
"So," Aziraphale finally chirped, "you've been staying in, then? Your place looks rather more lived-in than last time."
Crowley grunted. "Yeah. Thought I'd, you know, take a break for a while. Watch some TV, train the ficus, not divert an Apocalypse, that sort of thing."
Aziraphale smiled uneasily and shifted forward on the cushions. "It seems like you have a busy schedule, then. Perhaps-"
"Would you like watch a movie with me? Here, I mean," Crowley blurted, pausing afterwards to ask himself where the Hell that had come from. The angel wasn't particularly fond of movies, but he had been known to tolerate them for Crowley's sake several times over the past few years. He saw Titanic with Crowley seven times at the theatre, at least, and he still had no idea why it was so popular; it all seemed quite exaggerated to him.
Surprisingly enough, however, the angel didn't protest this time. "That would be nice. What are we seeing?"
Crowley slumped deep into the sofa and "found" the long-lost remote hiding between the cushions. "Whatever's on?"
Aziraphale toed his shoes off neatly to the side and curled his feet up under him comfortably. "By all means."
~~~
Two hours and one baffling Stephen King made-for-TV movie later, the two supernaturals weren't particularly interested in moving from their warm, cozy spots. They had broken out the liquor fairly early on into the film, and they found it helped them immensely in understanding the plot.
"So that clown thingit was the bad guy?" Crowley slurred into Aziraphale's leg.
The angel twitched. "That tickles," he complained, moving his hand to Crowley's head to push him away in protest. It never got very far, though, and it ended up tangled in his hair in a light caress.
Crowley shifted a bit. "Angel?"
"Hmmm?"
"We're prats, the both of us."
"I know, my dear."
"Hmm."
They lounged together in comfortable silence for another awful movie, this one about giant man-eating plants from space. When Aziraphale finally left, the moon was high in the sky, and Crowley was thoroughly asleep on his couch.
~~~
Crowley was drunk. He was too drunk to know that he was too drunk. He lounged blissfully atop a pile of soft furs and stared up at the top of the translucent tent. The moon was shining bright, shrouding the area in a pale white glow. It was almost too perfect for his addled mind to take.
"You're drunk," an accusing voice from the tent's opening hissed. "And you're naked. You'll catch cold like that." When had the angel come in? It was dangerous for a demon like himself to stay so unprotected. He should do something about it.
"Then cover my nakedness, angel," he purred up to the figure, parting his knees suggestively. Aziraphale looked away, perhaps considering leaving, but compassion won out and he searched the tent for a blanket for the demon. "Sober up, Crawly," he growled, kneeling down to spread the cover over the exposed body beneath him.
The demon caught Aziraphale's wrist and tugged forcefully; the angel collapsed clumsily over him and finally met his stare.
And Crawly kissed him, and Aziraphale did not struggle to break free; rather, he fought for dominance in their kiss, and the demon was in no position to resist.
Crawly moaned as they finally broke apart, flushed and panting. "Angel, hell, you weren't supposed to do that."
Aziraphale smiled down at him. "Perhaps not."
~~~
Crowley awoke with a start. The TV was still buzzing quietly, but the transmission faded out of existence upon his awakening. His suit was rumpled and he felt a hangover on the horizon, but he dealt with that easily enough.
He wasn't entirely sure how to will away the erection that had sprang up without his permission. "Go away," he tried to command it.
It didn't listen. Crowley sighed; suddenly clothes-that-were became clothes-that-had-ceased-to-be, and he started the trek to the bathroom.
This day definitely needs a bubble bath, he thought idly to himself.
He drew the water scaldingly hot and poured a liberal amount of vanilla-scented soap into the water. When a nice foam had built up, he lowered himself into the tub carefully and sighed. Bubble baths were almost sinfully good, he had decided long ago; they just tend to make you a better person. He ducked under the water for a moment and emerged, wet and soapy and already feeling the heat of the bath work away at the tension built up in his body.
No, he hadn't forgotten his morning visitor; far from it, actually. Thoroughly relaxed in the steaming bathtub now, he took his erection in hand and stroked it firmly, slowly, and just how he liked it. Though he didn't do this often, he had perfected the art of pleasing his human forms over the years, and he knew exactly what this this body liked. The images in his mind might change, but the motions were the same.
The images, however, were deviating from the standard fare of the ample-bosomed women he usually thought of. The women were there, but kneeling on the floor at the foot of a leather-clad blond, shuddering in pain and pleasure under the crack of his whip. The blond had a smile that spread further across his face at each snap of the whip, at every whimper from the girls.
Crowley gasped; he was painfully close, as it was, and he couldn't get the twisted scene out of his mind.
"Crowley," the fantasy-angel purred, "I'm waiting for you."
The demon groaned and came hard across his hand, cursing the angel and himself for having ever found that first damned book in his couch.
~~~
Crowley lounged against the wooden gate, catching his breath. The last round had been vicious, but he had come out victorious in the end and had earned himself a break. His trainer had left him there with the other victors to attend to other business, and he was making full use of the time to wind down.
The game was barbaric, but simple. The male slaves were pitted against each other in a competition of strength, speed, and wile: fuck the other before he fucks you. The winner was allowed to rest, but the loser was forced to endure a punishment of his master's choice. Crowley was lucky enough to have won all of his matches so far, though he was still considered a novice.
A woman in white cotton and a naked slave were standing outside the corral, looking in at the strongest of the sport. Words were spoken between the two, and after a moment, the slave pointed his way. "...And you picked a champ, by the way," he heard the woman say. "You better be good."
Crowley sighed mentally, but knew better than to protest. The handlers entered the area and brought him to the preparation stage to be oiled up for the match.
Oh, well. He had won this before, and he would win it again.
There was a crowd around them, he noticed happily. The man across from him did not look anxious, but it was obvious that he had never played a game of this nature before. Crowley was hoping to exploit this in the match; if the boy was afraid to take what had not been given, then he wasn't meant for this lifestyle.
The alarm sounded, the game started, and the crowd's count was begun. Crowley moved fast, hoping for a quick, clean win, but the man caught on and tried the same against him. Crowley lunged for the slick slave, but he just couldn't hold on. Another attempt also ended in failure; the man was determined not to lose.
The crowd was growing impatient. Their job was to please the audience and honor their masters, and they were drawing this out too long. Crowley focused his energy on one last attack. He tackled the boy and had him pinned to the ground, but only for a moment before their positions were flipped. Wasting no time, the slave forced him to his knees locked his head in place with his left arm. For the first time here, Crowley was the one mounted with the cock up his arse and humiliation on his name. The man was brutal about it, too; he snarled and bucked and tried to wrench him free, but it only seemed to make it better for him.
When he came, Crowley felt his face flush hot as it was shoved into the dirt beneath them. The crowd went wild for the winner, but he knew that one face in the crowd was focused on him alone. Once released, he knelt up in the dirt and caught his master's piercing blue stare; he was not going to take this easy on Crowley.
He wouldn't have had it any other way.
~end~
Happy Holidays,
quantum_witch, from your Secret Writer!
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