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13 October 2007 @ 11:54 pm
Good Omens  
Title: Not Funny
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley go out. For #4: cock
Rating: G
Word Count: 219

Crowley pulled up in front of Aziraphale's shop, careful to park his Bentley across two of the marked curb-side parking stalls. He fairly bounded to the door of the shop, stepping in to wait.

They were dining at Crowley's favorite restaurant on the posh side of town, a place called Eden, a name which he found hilarious, and Aziraphale, predictably, considered to be Not Funny In The Least. Still, Crowley had managed to convince the angel that the food was good enough to warrant his patronage in spite of the tasteless name. So they had set a date.

Crowley meandered through the haphazard shelves and piles of books, more for something to do than because he was interested; he'd told Aziraphale he'd arrive at six -- he had ten minutes to wait.

When Aziraphale finally appeared, Crowley nearly choked. He wore an old-fashioned suit that made him look rather like a dandy, and Crowley could just make out the outline of his wings, barely impinging on Reality. Crowley was reminded of nothing so much as a rooster cock, working hard to impress his prospective mates.

And yet... some deeply buried part of him was gratified, thankful that Aziraphale should be making such an effort on his behalf.

For once, Crowley did not laugh, and they departed happily, arm in arm.

Title: The Wrong(?) History
Pairing: Aziaphale/Crowley
Summary: Somehow, cosmic Ineffability has given them the wrong history, but neither is prepared to complain about it. For #13: history
Rating: PG
Word Count: 180

Arguably the greatest example of Ineffability is the nature of their association. They are supposed to be on opposite sides; they're supposed to be working against each other.

But they aren't. They never do.

It's as though they have been given the wrong history, a mirror image of the one that they should have got, and instead of coming between them like a wall, their shared past connects them like a bridge. A bridge made up of the long-standing Arrangement and events that only they can recall.

Not, of course, that they remember everything the same way. There is a great deal of truth to the saying "History is written by the victors", and they have rarely been on the same side of any conflict. Still, Aziraphale is partial to a lively debate now and again, and like a lawyer, Crowley just loves to argue.

They've got the wrong history, but they do not question it, especially when they are lying in bed together under two matching pairs of soft grey feathered wings. After all, you just can't second-guess Ineffability.

Title: Paint the Town Red
Pairing: War/romantic rivalry
Summary: War goes on a date. For #14: female
Rating: R
Word Count: 449

Red walks into the club like she owns the place -- and before the night is over, she will -- and settles herself on a barstool. Her blood-red leather skirt creaks as she crosses her mile-long legs, and every head turns to look at her. She shifts a little, rests her crimson fuck-me heels on the crossbar of her seat, straightens her skin-tight top, exuding her unique female charm. Every single male, at the tables, on the dance floor, and including the bartender, gives her the exact same smirk of appreciation. Red makes a show of ignoring them all except the bartender, and orders a drink with a dirty name. And then she waits.

She does this from time to time, between big jobs, just to keep her hand in at a personal level.

In less than a minute, she finds herself surrounded by suitors, with three more drinks in front of her. She samples each one, and smiles her scintillating smile at the men, all vying for her attention. In particular, she smiles at the one who is most handsome and strong. His powerful build and too-perfect good looks make her think of Sparta and also that he would look quite well in woad. He'll do.

It's shockingly easy to choose him -- just a few tugs at her cleavage-bearing top and some flattering words, and he is all hers. Red can feel the tides of jealousy lapping at the embankment of civilized behavior, rising higher every time she makes eyes at her chosen warrior.

With a sliver of her attention, she winds him around her finger; the rest of her awareness is devoted to reveling in the worship of hundreds of violent thoughts. She tosses back a shot of whiskey, showing off the smooth white column of her throat; it amuses her, being in the traditional posture of vulnerability and sacrifice, while she leads them all to her altar like sheep.
At six o'clock in the morning, Red drops her tab on the chipped and splintered bar top, hops off her seat, and sashays over to what was once the dance floor. She tries to step in as much blood as possible.

There is a ring of bodies on the ground, laid out neatly, almost by design, and Red's date is in the center of them all. He does indeed look good in woad, and he's even still breathing, but she knows that won't last for very long. She crouches over him, heedless of her short skirt -- there's no one to see -- and she whispers the ancient words of sacrifice as he breathes his last.

Outside, she walks away, down the street, in the light of a red dawn.
dicolacoll on February 16th, 2013 06:39 pm (UTC)
what are you doing? Let’s chat Go Here dld.bz/chwZG