13 Works in Porn Battle
Listing Works
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A lingerie shop in Soho acquires spiritual responsibilities, indirectly and accidentally. Written for Porn Battle 2012.
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For a prompt at the Porn Battle XIII (Lucky Thirteen): Aziraphale/Crowley, genderswap, smoking
originally posted here -
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Aziraphale and Crowley share a one bedroomed cottage.
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Say what you like about the nature of demons, but Crowley's always been an optimist. Not hopeful, exactly, just... keen on the future. Even though right now it looks like there might not be much of that left to come-- well, hey, that's what they said a decade ago, right?
But even Crowley thinks that it's a sad state of affairs when angels start falling for trying to save the world. There's one on his bed right now, two steps from human and two bottles past tipsy.
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prompt: Aziraphale/Crowley, the first day of the rest of their lives
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On the second day of the rest of their lives, everything goes right to hell. Crowley spends a long time picking up the pieces, but it's not until twelve years later, in a little cottage in the South Downs, that the last one finally slides back into place.
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A look at immortals through the eyes of art history.
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Aziraphale returns from Heaven with a new corporation, and Crowley is a little bit taken by it.
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Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, hands folded in his lap, shirt and sweater vest discarded. And his wings, of course, are out. Crowley's breath is warm on the back of his neck, stirring faintly the soft down between his shoulder blades. They are five seconds away from kissing, fifteen seconds from sex-- and yet they couldn't be farther away. Who gives up love-making in exchange for... rutting?
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They're out of time. It's the End of Days, the end of the world. The end of everything.
Aziraphale doesn't know how long the battle has raged, because the sun has long since gone dark over what was once the Earth, but now it, too, has come to an end. The note of a crystal horn rings over the churned desert sands, silvered with celestial ichor, and everything stills.
"We've won," says Aziraphale, and feels sick.
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"Nothing about [Crowley] looked particularly demonic, at least by classical standards. No horns, no wings. ... Crowley had dark hair and good cheekbones and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue."
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Crowley shifted, and Aziraphale made an embarassing noise almost as loud as the squeak of his wet skin against the white leather of Crowley's sofa. The buffed semicircles of his nails dug perfect Sanskrit halfmoons into Crowley's arched hipbones.
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It's 4004, and nobody on Earth-- two humans and an angel, at the moment-- knows exactly why they're counting down the years instead of up. Not yet. The sky is huge and the air is heavy with nectar and the sweetness of overabundant fruit decaying in the lush grass. The angel beams like an excited Child (not that anybody knows what children are yet, either) as a fat, fuzzy Bee bumbles peacefully past his face, leaving a dusting of gold pollen on his eyelashes.
He's distracted, and almost misses it: the parting of lush grasses, the hiss of scales over earth, and the flash of a thick, muscular coil through the undergrowth. Sunlight shining off scales in a shade so deeply tinted that they're nearly black.
He never does end up reporting the Serpent.