infernal-scales

[infernal-scales]

IT’S AN UNCOORDINATED KISS ( for the demon at least, who’s seem to have lost all bodily function from the head down ) but he moans into it all the same as pointed ears ring with the sounds of cooing compliments and racing heartbeats. Weak fingers that still tremble with the aftershocks of angelic retribution dive into those silky curls, pushing back the damp ones along Aziraphale’s temples before scratching the tips of his nails at that heavenly crown.

❝ I think… you took care of that… well enough, angel, ❞ Crowley murmurs, voice a low but pleased rumble before his lips are seized again and again by the angel returning down to Earth.

The afterglow of their pleasure is a slow, leisurely glide down a slide of honey. With a snap of fingers, the tartan duvet drapes across them, not because the room has suddenly become cold but to envelop them in a heat of their own making. The serpent peppers a few drowsy kisses along Aziraphale’s cheeks and nose as their legs intertwine beneath the blanket.

❝ Maybe one day, ❞ he sighs against that buttery-soft skin. ❝ It won’t be JUST FOR A NIGHT. Maybe one day I could…❞

It was in these rare moments of theirs—when the high of ecstasy was still prickling like fireworks beneath his skin and his tongue was just as loose as the rest of his corporation—that the danger of forgetting the world outside the shop’s four walls became all the more prevalent. They could tease and joke about such dangerous thoughts under the guise of foreplay, but here? When their hearts were beating as one and the only other company to them in the room was a comfortable yet heavy silence?

Crowley sighs again, letting the unspoken words drift away with the soft breath before replacing them with something else.

❝ WILL YOU DREAM WITH ME TONIGHT? ❞

HE HADN’T MEANT IT LITERALLY, but now he does, mean it quite literally, that is. His throat bobs with a sudden gasp at the growing pressure in his guts. The walls of his corporation stretch and stretch and stretch and stretch to accommodate, and Crowley writhes beneath those brutal thrusts as a pitiful keen rips out from him.

It’s a both a blessing and a curse that he were to have the minimal facilities needed for his corporation to function: a blessing because no true damage can be done and a curse because there’s nothing stopping Aziraphale from UTTERLY RUINING HIM. The bulge of his cock makes the serpent’s lean stomach expand and deflate with its inhumane shape, and Crowley’s own drools between their sweaty skin, lubricating the slick slide of their bodies even further.

Eyes ( without a single speck of white remaining within them ) roll back into his skull as Aziraphale’s pleasure finally crescendos, not only inside of him but also in the air around them. He’s about to join him, too—mere milliseconds away from his own orgasm seizing him for good—when he’s hit with it.

Not it. THEM. All of them. All of the times before intermixed with now.

Suddenly, he’s gone. Transported away from this moment, away from this blinding, scorching pleasure that burns away his physical and metaphysical senses, away from the mouth that’s pressed so hungrily against his. He can’t feel any of it.

Instead, HE FEELS RAIN.

And then, he doesn’t.

Molten gold eyes that has yet to learn how to blink glance up to see, not the dark grey clouds above, but a gentle, downy white. Unblinking eyes travel along the trail of feathers over to their owner, who stares ahead at the fading glow of a flaming sword, worrying their fingers in front of their dampening robes.

Oh, Crawley simply thought with an ease that came with flying or, some time later, breathing.

Just as easily and not even a moment later, they shuffle closer until the two lonely figures atop those great walls become a little less lonely as their shoulders brush against one another. Perhaps this Earth gig wouldn’t be so bad after all…

…the faint smell of citrus and vanilla replace the smell of rain. Sweat, sex, and lust are quick to drown those notes out, too, but Crowley presses his nose harder against the warm, slick surface where they had originated from, which was… WHERE WAS HE AGAIN? Attempting to stretch his toes ( and feathers—when did those come out? ) his cunt quivers in violent protest as it tries to clamp around—

He wheezes.

❝ Ngk. Oughhh, Sssatan…❞ Crowley gasps suddenly like a dying fish, a dreadfully wet sound, and clings onto Aziraphale like a lifeline. ❝ T-Thought ya’disc… discourt… thought ya’killed me, ‘ngel. ❞

[infernal-scales]

❝ REALLY NOW, ❞ he chuckles, tickled by this new information. ❝ That’s what they chose to pin on a supposed dead man? I’m a bit disappointed: you’d think they’d be A LITTLE MORE CREATIVE than the reality that comes with thirty, sweaty soldiers stuffed inside an enclosed space. ❞

Creativity wasn’t really any of their strong suits, even the courageous and noble Diomedes. Still, Odysseus can’t help the faraway look that takes over his gaze as his chuckles subside. It feels like a lifetime ago, being inside that wooden horse’s belly. The closing of the war had really seemed like the end of his journey away from home…

Approaching the stalls where the royal horses are housed, his eyes are snapped away from the gentle beasts in front of them to Telemachus. He seems nervous. Was the question he wanted to ask so daunting? Or was it who he was asking that troubled him?

❝ ANYTHING, ❞ Odysseus assures, soft and patient as his full attention returns to his son. ❝ You can ask me anything you’d like know. ❞

MUSTACHE CURLING in obvious delight over the question, Odysseus tosses a brief glance up into the branches above. He can’t see her—she hides herself too well in order to maintain some semblance of privacy for the mortals she oversees—but he knows she’s out there somewhere.

❝ I’d wager it’s less a guess and more of a certainty, wouldn’t you? ❞ His eyes fall close, letting his sure-footed steps carry him forward as he breathes in the earthy, salt-tinged air of his home that had followed him the moment he had departed its shores two decades before. ❝ YOU’RE MY SON, after all. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew, no matter what path you took in life, you’d be brilliant. ❞

Blinking his eyes open, Odysseus smirks over at Telemachus as a knowing glint strikes through his gaze.

❝ Sorry, were you hoping I’d regale you the tale of how we stormed Troy? I’m sure you’ve heard it all before by now, though; I doubt there’s much I could add that Diomedes or Neoptolemus haven’t already told you and the rest of the world about a thousand times in the years that followed. ❞ The king lifts a hand to his ear, cupping it with a pensive look. ❝ Actually, I think I can hear them now…❞

[infernal-scales]

HE HADN’T MEANT IT LITERALLY, but now he does, mean it quite literally, that is. His throat bobs with a sudden gasp at the growing pressure in his guts. The walls of his corporation stretch and stretch and stretch and stretch to accommodate, and Crowley writhes beneath those brutal thrusts as a pitiful keen rips out from him.

It’s a both a blessing and a curse that he were to have the minimal facilities needed for his corporation to function: a blessing because no true damage can be done and a curse because there’s nothing stopping Aziraphale from UTTERLY RUINING HIM. The bulge of his cock makes the serpent’s lean stomach expand and deflate with its inhumane shape, and Crowley’s own drools between their sweaty skin, lubricating the slick slide of their bodies even further.

Eyes ( without a single speck of white remaining within them ) roll back into his skull as Aziraphale’s pleasure finally crescendos, not only inside of him but also in the air around them. He’s about to join him, too—mere milliseconds away from his own orgasm seizing him for good—when he’s hit with it.

Not it. THEM. All of them. All of the times before intermixed with now.

Suddenly, he’s gone. Transported away from this moment, away from this blinding, scorching pleasure that burns away his physical and metaphysical senses, away from the mouth that’s pressed so hungrily against his. He can’t feel any of it.

Instead, HE FEELS RAIN.

And then, he doesn’t.

Molten gold eyes that has yet to learn how to blink glance up to see, not the dark grey clouds above, but a gentle, downy white. Unblinking eyes travel along the trail of feathers over to their owner, who stares ahead at the fading glow of a flaming sword, worrying their fingers in front of their dampening robes.

Oh, Crawley simply thought with an ease that came with flying or, some time later, breathing.

Just as easily and not even a moment later, they shuffle closer until the two lonely figures atop those great walls become a little less lonely as their shoulders brush against one another. Perhaps this Earth gig wouldn’t be so bad after all…

…the faint smell of citrus and vanilla replace the smell of rain. Sweat, sex, and lust are quick to drown those notes out, too, but Crowley presses his nose harder against the warm, slick surface where they had originated from, which was… WHERE WAS HE AGAIN? Attempting to stretch his toes ( and feathers—when did those come out? ) his cunt quivers in violent protest as it tries to clamp around—

He wheezes.

❝ Ngk. Oughhh, Sssatan…❞ Crowley gasps suddenly like a dying fish, a dreadfully wet sound, and clings onto Aziraphale like a lifeline. ❝ T-Thought ya’disc… discourt… thought ya’killed me, ‘ngel. ❞

❝ TAKE YOUR TIME. ❞ It comes out more a strangled gargle of syllables than anything truly coherent—not that it matters in regards to being heard, given the words hadn’t yet fully left Crowley’s lips before angelic hips deliver their first mighty blow.

The first time they had fell in bed together, it had been a massacre. It was truly a miracle the two ( really, mostly Crowley ) were able to walk away after ( again, in Crowley’s case, it was more so a limp than an actual walk—the sort of limp that, if you were to see an animal exhibiting such an injury, the true mercy would be to put the thing down ). It was “new,” after all, this dance of flesh and flesh, and just like with all the other “new” things introduced between them, such as ox ribs and wine, there is a sudden, immediate, and intense urge to consume before those ravenous feelings are plateaued by Aziraphale’s more… WELL-MANNERED SENSIBILITIES.

This is what Crowley had expected upon the second night of their escapades. It’s a pattern he’s seen in the angel countless times now with anything “new.” That is to say, anything deemed sinful.

It did not calm the second night. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or any other night they shared since the first.

Why was this particular hunger of his not plateauing, then?

He’s not complaining—in fact, he’s not doing anything at all except moaning ( rather embarrassingly, I might add ) and clawing helplessly at pale flesh as he’s practically pummeled into the mattress below—but curiosity slithers outside his peripheral all the same.

Legs finally freed from their denim shackles, Crowley wraps them around those punishing hips for purchase as fingers sink deep into Aziraphale’s scalp, keeping those decadent lips still as a forked tongue slithers inside for a greedy taste. The maddening rub of that soft belly against his squished cock while the angel’s own pistons deep and desperate inside him has him hurdling fast towards his second climax: a dizzying, almost overwhelming pace.

Is this how Aziraphale feels in his passenger seat?

❝ Did… oh, f-fuck… d’you make your prick bigg’r? Think I can… I can feel it in the back of m’throat…❞

[infernal-scales]

MUSTACHE CURLING in obvious delight over the question, Odysseus tosses a brief glance up into the branches above. He can’t see her—she hides herself too well in order to maintain some semblance of privacy for the mortals she oversees—but he knows she’s out there somewhere.

❝ I’d wager it’s less a guess and more of a certainty, wouldn’t you? ❞ His eyes fall close, letting his sure-footed steps carry him forward as he breathes in the earthy, salt-tinged air of his home that had followed him the moment he had departed its shores two decades before. ❝ YOU’RE MY SON, after all. From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I knew, no matter what path you took in life, you’d be brilliant. ❞

Blinking his eyes open, Odysseus smirks over at Telemachus as a knowing glint strikes through his gaze.

❝ Sorry, were you hoping I’d regale you the tale of how we stormed Troy? I’m sure you’ve heard it all before by now, though; I doubt there’s much I could add that Diomedes or Neoptolemus haven’t already told you and the rest of the world about a thousand times in the years that followed. ❞ The king lifts a hand to his ear, cupping it with a pensive look. ❝ Actually, I think I can hear them now…❞

THE SMILE ON HIS LIPS doesn’t falter as they sneak across the courtyard, watching as his son takes the mission with the utmost of seriousness. They didn’t necessarily have to avoid getting caught—a single shake of Odysseus’ head or an index pressed to his lips would stop any servant or guard from approaching them. It wasn’t because of that that he’d wanted Telemachus to lead them.

Enveloped by the warm, flickering light of torches, he adjusts the hood of the cloak over his head before his hands and arms are hidden by its ebony veil once more.

❝ NOT AT ALL. I needed to stretch my legs anyway; I haven’t sat around this much since… hm. ❞ Seven years he had taken up a daily vigil on a sandy, isolated shore—waiting. ❝ That’s a story for another day, I’m afraid. ❞

Odysseus opens the door, allowing Telemachus to exit first this time. He follows after, taking up the spot at his son’s side rather than behind. It would be a few minutes before they’d need to be careful about being spotted again. The brilliant orange of the sky was fading fast to crimson before a deep, rich navy would drench the world below into shadows.

❝ Is this how you usually got around, Telemachus? ❞ It’s said softly as curious eyes glance up from beneath hair and cloak, studying the tall, gentle profile of the boy who was becoming more of a man with every passing day. ❝ I can’t imagine this would feel MUCH LIKE A HOME TO YOU: needing guards or hidden passageways just to walk the halls. ❞

[infernal-scales]

THE SMILE ON HIS LIPS doesn’t falter as they sneak across the courtyard, watching as his son takes the mission with the utmost of seriousness. They didn’t necessarily have to avoid getting caught—a single shake of Odysseus’ head or an index pressed to his lips would stop any servant or guard from approaching them. It wasn’t because of that that he’d wanted Telemachus to lead them.

Enveloped by the warm, flickering light of torches, he adjusts the hood of the cloak over his head before his hands and arms are hidden by its ebony veil once more.

❝ NOT AT ALL. I needed to stretch my legs anyway; I haven’t sat around this much since… hm. ❞ Seven years he had taken up a daily vigil on a sandy, isolated shore—waiting. ❝ That’s a story for another day, I’m afraid. ❞

Odysseus opens the door, allowing Telemachus to exit first this time. He follows after, taking up the spot at his son’s side rather than behind. It would be a few minutes before they’d need to be careful about being spotted again. The brilliant orange of the sky was fading fast to crimson before a deep, rich navy would drench the world below into shadows.

❝ Is this how you usually got around, Telemachus? ❞ It’s said softly as curious eyes glance up from beneath hair and cloak, studying the tall, gentle profile of the boy who was becoming more of a man with every passing day. ❝ I can’t imagine this would feel MUCH LIKE A HOME TO YOU: needing guards or hidden passageways just to walk the halls. ❞

THE KINDNESS fills the space behind his ribs until he feels fit to bursting. It feels entirely undeserved, being treated with such soft consideration, and yet Odysseus is nothing but a weak, greedy man that will offer up his cupped hands again and again to drink every drop that they offer to him without complaint. It burns on his tongue and settles in his gut like a stone, likely to sink him to the bottom of the sea once again—though, it was this weight that would keep him there this time.

His hand slips off the faux soldier. A brief glance at trembling fingers warns him away from wielding a weapon again so soon, especially with Iphitheme’s wails still ringing in his ears…

…still, those same fingers pluck the wooden sword from the dummy’s hands, and Odysseus gives his son a more lopsided smirk as he sheathes it along his hip.

❝ Why don’t we MAKE AN ADVENTURE out of the evening, hm? I can show you my old stomping grounds: the same ones I trained under Athena as a kid. ❞

Sword secured and destination made, the king removes the golden laurels from his graying crown and bestows the weight and title of king to the silent soldier with a humored, ❝ You’re in charge of this corner of the world until we get back. Best of luck, my friend. ❞

Odysseus approaches Telemachus with a lighter step in weary heels, eyes crinkling at their edges.

❝ Can you lead us to the stables WITHOUT BEING SPOTTED? ❞

[infernal-scales]

THE KINDNESS fills the space behind his ribs until he feels fit to bursting. It feels entirely undeserved, being treated with such soft consideration, and yet Odysseus is nothing but a weak, greedy man that will offer up his cupped hands again and again to drink every drop that they offer to him without complaint. It burns on his tongue and settles in his gut like a stone, likely to sink him to the bottom of the sea once again—though, it was this weight that would keep him there this time.

His hand slips off the faux soldier. A brief glance at trembling fingers warns him away from wielding a weapon again so soon, especially with Iphitheme’s wails still ringing in his ears…

…still, those same fingers pluck the wooden sword from the dummy’s hands, and Odysseus gives his son a more lopsided smirk as he sheathes it along his hip.

❝ Why don’t we MAKE AN ADVENTURE out of the evening, hm? I can show you my old stomping grounds: the same ones I trained under Athena as a kid. ❞

Sword secured and destination made, the king removes the golden laurels from his graying crown and bestows the weight and title of king to the silent soldier with a humored, ❝ You’re in charge of this corner of the world until we get back. Best of luck, my friend. ❞

Odysseus approaches Telemachus with a lighter step in weary heels, eyes crinkling at their edges.

❝ Can you lead us to the stables WITHOUT BEING SPOTTED? ❞

❝ REALLY? ❞ The stiffness that had vexed Telemachus ripples throughout his body, eyes brightening. His gaze falls to the sword in hand, blinking at the wooden hilt as he rotates it over, and with a clearing of his throat, his spine is erect once again.

He's had more time to himself these days. The palace may have been cleansed—first with bow and blood, then with oil and water—but now that her long-lost king had returned, Ithaca stirred to life, near every household having a word to share that surely demanded Odysseus' personal attention.

There was really never such a thing as a MOMENT ALONE unless one carved it out.

It hadn't gone unnoticed by Telemachus: his father's thin frame. Truthfully, he had expected him to be bigger. It was his mother's continual insistence that Odysseus have some form of food or another nearby at all times that confirmed his expectations were justified.

While the king was far from weak, he was... weary.

"HE SEEMS TIRED." At least, that's what he told Athena.

❝ Are you sure it wouldn't be too much trouble? I could ride with you, too. Or show you some other good spots for when you need fresh air. There's a HIDDEN DOOR IN THE KITCHEN CELLAR that'll lead you out by the sea in case you want to be... well, not here. I know it can be like that sometimes. ❞

[infernal-scales]

❝ OH, I’m quite familiar with those ruthless tactics of hers. ❞ A tender amusement laces his words as honey-brown eyes take on a nostalgic gleam. ❝ Some years ago, it dawned on me that neighboring kingdoms were likely so adamant about speaking to me and me alone because of your mother’s penchant for…❞

Odysseus drops his head with a soft chuckle, shaking cocoa curls at the memory of a dozen men staring dumbfounded at the woman who had not hesitated to call them out for their attempt at giving Ithaca a raw deal during negotiations. He had been playing along during the meeting, waiting for a moment to twist the deal back into their favor, but Penelope wasn’t one for wasting time—leaving the men scrambling to make amends for their dishonest slight and ending negotiations with Ithaca far richer than either party had initially intended.

Raising his head again, his gaze finds those clever azure pools that belonged every bit to Penelope as they did to Telemachus. What a gift it was, for him to look so much like her…

❝ Ha. Listen to me, talking about her as if you don’t personally know her infamous distaste for mincing words. ❞ Odysseus uncrosses his arms and travels deeper into the hidden sanctuary, coming to a stop next to the training dummy before his hand clamps atop its wooden shoulder. ❝ She didn’t kick me out this time, though; I excused myself for the evening. I just… NEEDED SOME FRESH AIR. ❞

Calloused, scarred fingers roves along the grooves and chips left behind by countless of battles, likely battles of frustration and fear. Maybe even hatred.

❝ I was planning on taking a ride through the woods, but if you were hoping for a far-less-silent sparring partner…? ❞ Odysseus offers Telemachus a polite smile, though a hopeful quirk in his brow gives him away.

ohhh, my son ;;w;; || @fell-feathers

THE HALLS OF THE PALACE, once haunted by the presence of a hundred and eight men, experience a period of silence it has not known for years. The very walls seem to heave out a sigh of relief, settling back deep into its rich foundation as the tension within is quite literally cut through by arrow, sword, and spear.

Peace, at long last...

It's a fleeting moment of tranquility, however. Where a hundred and eight men once took up space, citizens and voyagers alike now traverse with ease through the palace, hoping to seek an audience with the long lost king of Ithaca. Days and nights pass by in a whirlwind of familiar faces and conversations, of treaties and allegiances, of merchants and trade... and of families and grieving hearts. The weight of golden laurels feels heavier on those particular days.

It's on one of those days that guttural cries echo throughout the palace's halls long after they had been uttered hours before by a mother who had stormed through the throne room's doors, seeking answers for the son she had sent away to war from the king—the father—who had promised her his safe return. How it must feel to learn that her son had been valiant on the battlefield in Troy, yet it was a wave mere miles from the shores of his home that took him away from her arms.

Her grief swells within the limestone walls even after she's escorted safely back to her home. The sun is just beginning its descent over the horizon when the next outcry sounds from the throne room; this time out of frustration than despair.

"WHERE IS HIS MAJESTY?!"

The queen, who had sat alone on her own throne for over two decades, simply raises an eyebrow at the crimson-faced tradesman. An elegant wave of her hand has the guards at her side relaxing in turn.

"What ever you were hoping to address with him, you can address to me in kind. If it's a truly urgent matter that needs his immediate presence, I'll ensure his swift return for you. Otherwise, I shall handle it myself. Now," Penelope smiles down at the man, the embodiment of regal courtesy as she continues, "What brings you here today?"

➴➶➴➶➴➶

It's the sound of wood against wood that draws him in.

The courtyard is practically empty at this hour, save for the cheerful chirp of crickets and the occasional hurried steps of a servant passing through. Empty, it seems, except for one figure hidden deep within the vibrant foliage. A WORLD AWAY FROM THE WORLD: it's the perfect spot to seal one's self away in during drunken fits of rage and passion by over a hundred uninvited strangers inside one's home.

As a wooden staff swiftly greets the side of a wooden dummy, Odysseus, who had been silently watching at the entrance of this sequestered sanctuary, makes an approving sound.

❝ Excellent form. I'd ask if your mother taught you, but...❞ a soft laugh escapes him. ❝ Well, to tell you the truth, she's not nearly as graceful as you. Has she shown you before? Fights more like A RAMPAGING BULL that you'd have better luck praying to the gods for mercy than having a chance at stopping her. ❞

[infernal-scales]

ohhh, my son ;;w;; || @fell-feathers

THE HALLS OF THE PALACE, once haunted by the presence of a hundred and eight men, experience a period of silence it has not known for years. The very walls seem to heave out a sigh of relief, settling back deep into its rich foundation as the tension within is quite literally cut through by arrow, sword, and spear.

Peace, at long last...

It's a fleeting moment of tranquility, however. Where a hundred and eight men once took up space, citizens and voyagers alike now traverse with ease through the palace, hoping to seek an audience with the long lost king of Ithaca. Days and nights pass by in a whirlwind of familiar faces and conversations, of treaties and allegiances, of merchants and trade... and of families and grieving hearts. The weight of golden laurels feels heavier on those particular days.

It's on one of those days that guttural cries echo throughout the palace's halls long after they had been uttered hours before by a mother who had stormed through the throne room's doors, seeking answers for the son she had sent away to war from the king—the father—who had promised her his safe return. How it must feel to learn that her son had been valiant on the battlefield in Troy, yet it was a wave mere miles from the shores of his home that took him away from her arms.

Her grief swells within the limestone walls even after she's escorted safely back to her home. The sun is just beginning its descent over the horizon when the next outcry sounds from the throne room; this time out of frustration than despair.

"WHERE IS HIS MAJESTY?!"

The queen, who had sat alone on her own throne for over two decades, simply raises an eyebrow at the crimson-faced tradesman. An elegant wave of her hand has the guards at her side relaxing in turn.

"What ever you were hoping to address with him, you can address to me in kind. If it's a truly urgent matter that needs his immediate presence, I'll ensure his swift return for you. Otherwise, I shall handle it myself. Now," Penelope smiles down at the man, the embodiment of regal courtesy as she continues, "What brings you here today?"

➴➶➴➶➴➶

It's the sound of wood against wood that draws him in.

The courtyard is practically empty at this hour, save for the cheerful chirp of crickets and the occasional hurried steps of a servant passing through. Empty, it seems, except for one figure hidden deep within the vibrant foliage. A WORLD AWAY FROM THE WORLD: it's the perfect spot to seal one's self away in during drunken fits of rage and passion by over a hundred uninvited strangers inside one's home.

As a wooden staff swiftly greets the side of a wooden dummy, Odysseus, who had been silently watching at the entrance of this sequestered sanctuary, makes an approving sound.

❝ Excellent form. I'd ask if your mother taught you, but...❞ a soft laugh escapes him. ❝ Well, to tell you the truth, she's not nearly as graceful as you. Has she shown you before? Fights more like A RAMPAGING BULL that you'd have better luck praying to the gods for mercy than having a chance at stopping her. ❞

[infernal-scales]

❝ TAKE YOUR TIME. ❞ It comes out more a strangled gargle of syllables than anything truly coherent—not that it matters in regards to being heard, given the words hadn’t yet fully left Crowley’s lips before angelic hips deliver their first mighty blow.

The first time they had fell in bed together, it had been a massacre. It was truly a miracle the two ( really, mostly Crowley ) were able to walk away after ( again, in Crowley’s case, it was more so a limp than an actual walk—the sort of limp that, if you were to see an animal exhibiting such an injury, the true mercy would be to put the thing down ). It was “new,” after all, this dance of flesh and flesh, and just like with all the other “new” things introduced between them, such as ox ribs and wine, there is a sudden, immediate, and intense urge to consume before those ravenous feelings are plateaued by Aziraphale’s more… WELL-MANNERED SENSIBILITIES.

This is what Crowley had expected upon the second night of their escapades. It’s a pattern he’s seen in the angel countless times now with anything “new.” That is to say, anything deemed sinful.

It did not calm the second night. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or any other night they shared since the first.

Why was this particular hunger of his not plateauing, then?

He’s not complaining—in fact, he’s not doing anything at all except moaning ( rather embarrassingly, I might add ) and clawing helplessly at pale flesh as he’s practically pummeled into the mattress below—but curiosity slithers outside his peripheral all the same.

Legs finally freed from their denim shackles, Crowley wraps them around those punishing hips for purchase as fingers sink deep into Aziraphale’s scalp, keeping those decadent lips still as a forked tongue slithers inside for a greedy taste. The maddening rub of that soft belly against his squished cock while the angel’s own pistons deep and desperate inside him has him hurdling fast towards his second climax: a dizzying, almost overwhelming pace.

Is this how Aziraphale feels in his passenger seat?

❝ Did… oh, f-fuck… d’you make your prick bigg’r? Think I can… I can feel it in the back of m’throat…❞

❝ NO, ❞ he breathes out in agreement, quirking a brow as a loose, carefree smile melts across his lips like honey. ❝ The Moon doesn't need the Sun, and the Sun certainly doesn't need the Moon. ❞

Slinky hips try to roll against that buttery-soft palm; a stark contrast to the way the metal teeth of his zipper grazes along the base of his cock. Crowley stretches his arms above his head—arching up like a cat bathing in the sunlight—before a single gold eye takes a peek back down at the dove.

❝ BUT THE EARTH DOES. Right? The Earth needs the Sun for all its warmth 'n light, and the Earth needs the Moon for its tides 'n stability. Without the Sun 'n the Moon working together, the Earth would, well, it'd just be a frozen, dark rock driftin' alone through the endless expanse of space, now wouldn't it? 'S no place for humans or animals or plants or life to thrive in, I can tell ya that much. ❞

A few gentle rise and falls of his chest follows before, quietly, the serpent admits to the ceiling above, ❝ There is something the Moon needs the Sun for, though, something it doesn't have the capabilities to do on its own. Bit of a minor thing, really, nothing too important, but...❞

Crowley's eyes find Aziraphale's, two gleaming suns meeting two brilliant moons.

❝ When the Earth is plunged into total darkness, is it not the reflection of the Sun's light against the Moon that provides A GENTLE SPOTLIGHT? ❞

[infernal-scales]

❝ NO, ❞ he breathes out in agreement, quirking a brow as a loose, carefree smile melts across his lips like honey. ❝ The Moon doesn't need the Sun, and the Sun certainly doesn't need the Moon. ❞

Slinky hips try to roll against that buttery-soft palm; a stark contrast to the way the metal teeth of his zipper grazes along the base of his cock. Crowley stretches his arms above his head—arching up like a cat bathing in the sunlight—before a single gold eye takes a peek back down at the dove.

❝ BUT THE EARTH DOES. Right? The Earth needs the Sun for all its warmth 'n light, and the Earth needs the Moon for its tides 'n stability. Without the Sun 'n the Moon working together, the Earth would, well, it'd just be a frozen, dark rock driftin' alone through the endless expanse of space, now wouldn't it? 'S no place for humans or animals or plants or life to thrive in, I can tell ya that much. ❞

A few gentle rise and falls of his chest follows before, quietly, the serpent admits to the ceiling above, ❝ There is something the Moon needs the Sun for, though, something it doesn't have the capabilities to do on its own. Bit of a minor thing, really, nothing too important, but...❞

Crowley's eyes find Aziraphale's, two gleaming suns meeting two brilliant moons.

❝ When the Earth is plunged into total darkness, is it not the reflection of the Sun's light against the Moon that provides A GENTLE SPOTLIGHT? ❞

PERPLEXED, Aziraphale’s brows furrow, and his lips part with a pause, mind attempting to ascertain where this curious road leads. His efforts are fruitless, however, unlike the fingers that hook into denim and peel, peel, peel back the single layer between him and the target of his desire.

❝ …No? ❞

The dove pulls just enough to expose the serpent, a heavy palm resting over Crowley’s cock and massaging lightly.

[infernal-scales]

❝ CHOICE WORDS… sounds like you’re going to give me a stern talking to or something. ❞ Aziraphale hadn’t, at all, meant it that way, but, if there was one thing a serpent knew how to do, it was to twist and twist and twist. He likely would’ve kept twisting ( deflecting ) if that necktie hadn’t dragged along his bare skin like a whisper, causing gooseflesh to prickle down his chest and arms as a shudder followed the angel’s journey.

As nimble fingers ( oh, and they were nimble. They might not look it, stocky and clumsy as they were when it came to anything sleight of hand, but looks can be deceiving—Crowley should know, he first coined the term thinking of bunched smiles and clever eyes ) popped open the button to his jeans and slowly dragged the silver zipper down its row of blunt teeth, Crowley wets his lips.

❝ DOES THE MOON NEED THE SUN? ❞

❝ DAMN TEASSSE, ❞ comes the hiss of the heated serpent—heated not in anger but embarrassment as sharp cheeks and twitching ears burn hot. Yet, despite those words that make him squirm and flush, slender legs spread wantonly beneath that demanding touch, begging for more.

Crowley knows what the angel’s aiming for here, goading him like this, and he swallows, chin dipping down to his collar as shimmering gold cuts up through a curtain of lashes to meet glinting steel.

❝ You know I NEED YOU. Don’t make me spell it out…❞

[infernal-scales]

❝ DAMN TEASSSE, ❞ comes the hiss of the heated serpent—heated not in anger but embarrassment as sharp cheeks and twitching ears burn hot. Yet, despite those words that make him squirm and flush, slender legs spread wantonly beneath that demanding touch, begging for more.

Crowley knows what the angel’s aiming for here, goading him like this, and he swallows, chin dipping down to his collar as shimmering gold cuts up through a curtain of lashes to meet glinting steel.

❝ You know I NEED YOU. Don’t make me spell it out…❞

SNAKE-ISH SNICKERS spiral into a pained hiss as thigh meets groin without mercy, and Crowley attempts to squirm within that unrelenting hold. He whimpers against Aziraphale’s lips, fingers and toes alike curling as that maddening pressure builds and builds and threatens to implode like a dying star deep inside his guts.

Safe to say, one was not paying very close attention to maelstrom eyes at this particular moment.

❝ SSSHIT—angel. N-Not ssso much. Gonna… ‘m gonna…❞

A single reflexive buck against the strong, sturdy surface of a principality’s muscle has the serpent jolting with a moan before his own climax seizes him without further warning. Cock and cunt pulse in a violent, raging tandem with each other as denim is soaked through with both come and slick. “RELIEF, AT LAST,”they seem to scream with every blinding twitch and spasm. Crowley coils around the angel like the constrictor he had molded into as he endures the seemingly endless waves of pleasure… before, all at once, he melts into a puddle in those steady arms.

❝ Dammit, ❞ he pants, eyes fluttering open again, looking more akin to honey with their glazed-over sheen. ❝ I… liked these pants…❞

It should be noted—since certain demonic parties would fervently refute this claim—the choice to not wear anything underneath them had been an intentional and enthusiastic one.

[infernal-scales]

SNAKE-ISH SNICKERS spiral into a pained hiss as thigh meets groin without mercy, and Crowley attempts to squirm within that unrelenting hold. He whimpers against Aziraphale’s lips, fingers and toes alike curling as that maddening pressure builds and builds and threatens to implode like a dying star deep inside his guts.

Safe to say, one was not paying very close attention to maelstrom eyes at this particular moment.

❝ SSSHIT—angel. N-Not ssso much. Gonna… ‘m gonna…❞

A single reflexive buck against the strong, sturdy surface of a principality’s muscle has the serpent jolting with a moan before his own climax seizes him without further warning. Cock and cunt pulse in a violent, raging tandem with each other as denim is soaked through with both come and slick. “RELIEF, AT LAST,”they seem to scream with every blinding twitch and spasm. Crowley coils around the angel like the constrictor he had molded into as he endures the seemingly endless waves of pleasure… before, all at once, he melts into a puddle in those steady arms.

❝ Dammit, ❞ he pants, eyes fluttering open again, looking more akin to honey with their glazed-over sheen. ❝ I… liked these pants…❞

It should be noted—since certain demonic parties would fervently refute this claim—the choice to not wear anything underneath them had been an intentional and enthusiastic one.

IT’S THE SAME SONG AND DANCE every time they find themselves entangled in a mess a limbs. They indulge. They indulge in conversation, in food, in wine, in hungry touches and desperate kisses that say nothing but scream everything. The worst indulgence of the night, however—one neither of them speak of as morning light graces the horizon—are the charged teases of dreams and futures that may never be. An undercurrent of yearning cuts through their voices and words, though they easily cast the blame on the wine in their bellies.

Crowley will be gone by sunrise just as always. What’s the harm in a little game of pretend, though?

( The harm comes later. Like a broken limb or bullet hole or stab wound, he will not feel the pain immediately. He will see the injury, and he will know the pain will arrive without fail. The question is THE WHEN. Will he be alone, snarling at trembling emerald foliage? Will he be driving mindlessly through the streets of London? Will he be packed like a sardine inside the cramped tin of Hell’s hallways?

He won’t know until it happens, and it will happen.

The pain will still be fresh, still raw, when he returns to the shop’s four walls again, and Crowley will not hesitate to hold out an empty glass with a smirk, knowing just exactly what wine and certain angelic company entails. Pain, after all, is just a figment of one’s imagination. If you simply believe hard enough, IT’S LIKE IT WAS NEVER THERE. )

None of that matters now, of course, as nostrils flare from the liquid blessings spilling down Crowley’s throat. He swallows down every drop, hooded eyes never once straying away from the expression of pure ecstasy on Aziraphale’s face. The slender belly of the serpent briefly glows a golden white from divinity before it burns away in the infernal pits of his stomach, leaving him feverish to the touch but more than satisfied from the meal.

A slow, final drag of that cock along his tongue, and it’s released with a wet pop!

❝ Well, THAT WAS FUN, ❞ Crowley chuckles, the sound like the crunch of gravel beneath leather soles. ❝ Doin’ alright there, angel? ❞

[infernal-scales]

IT’S THE SAME SONG AND DANCE every time they find themselves entangled in a mess a limbs. They indulge. They indulge in conversation, in food, in wine, in hungry touches and desperate kisses that say nothing but scream everything. The worst indulgence of the night, however—one neither of them speak of as morning light graces the horizon—are the charged teases of dreams and futures that may never be. An undercurrent of yearning cuts through their voices and words, though they easily cast the blame on the wine in their bellies.

Crowley will be gone by sunrise just as always. What’s the harm in a little game of pretend, though?

( The harm comes later. Like a broken limb or bullet hole or stab wound, he will not feel the pain immediately. He will see the injury, and he will know the pain will arrive without fail. The question is THE WHEN. Will he be alone, snarling at trembling emerald foliage? Will he be driving mindlessly through the streets of London? Will he be packed like a sardine inside the cramped tin of Hell’s hallways?

He won’t know until it happens, and it will happen.

The pain will still be fresh, still raw, when he returns to the shop’s four walls again, and Crowley will not hesitate to hold out an empty glass with a smirk, knowing just exactly what wine and certain angelic company entails. Pain, after all, is just a figment of one’s imagination. If you simply believe hard enough, IT’S LIKE IT WAS NEVER THERE. )

None of that matters now, of course, as nostrils flare from the liquid blessings spilling down Crowley’s throat. He swallows down every drop, hooded eyes never once straying away from the expression of pure ecstasy on Aziraphale’s face. The slender belly of the serpent briefly glows a golden white from divinity before it burns away in the infernal pits of his stomach, leaving him feverish to the touch but more than satisfied from the meal.

A slow, final drag of that cock along his tongue, and it’s released with a wet pop!

❝ Well, THAT WAS FUN, ❞ Crowley chuckles, the sound like the crunch of gravel beneath leather soles. ❝ Doin’ alright there, angel? ❞

A SOBER-MINDED AZIRAPHALE might have found a way to protest—some aspect with which to provide a counterargument to such a ludicrous and impossible suggestion, no matter how tempting it may be.

So, perhaps, it is a good thing for angel and demon that the dove finds himself rather compromised at the moment, and the sharper faculties of his mind are, well, to put it delicately, quite plastered.

Body and mind succumbed to the will of the damned, the heat of the bedroom rises with each methodical push and pull of Crowley's expert ministrations. Even as the most satisfied of moans spring from his throat, ones that would make the patrons of the Ritz blush with sin, Aziraphale hears himself not, far too consumed by a hidden hiss: two words that he only has three with which to reply to.

❝ Then don't leave. ❞

The instructions drift from his lips with his next exhale. It's quite simple really. If one wishes to be kept, he only needs to stay. Don't leave. Just don't leave. Stay. Just.

Stay.

Would that be such an awful thing?

Aziraphale's fingers curl. They tighten. They tighten around any strand of crimson, any shred of Hell he can gasp, but it's not really Hell now is it? It's certainly not Heaven either... something else entirely.

With thighs wrapped tight around slinking hips and heels digging into demonic flesh, the dove bursts, overflowing without a morsel of shame as his first course of indulgence settles oh so sweetly within the depths of a satisfied belly. There's always a fraction of a second right about now, when time stills and his mind is at ease, that he remembers just how much he lo—no, don't think like that. Don't break hearts in two with lovely four letter words.

Clinging tight, even as his climax subsides, Aziraphale relaxes but refuses to unwind from the snake, body crying out what trembling lips cannot:

Stay.

Just.

STAY.

[infernal-scales]

THE ENCOURAGING SCRATCHES beckons forth a rapid wave of swallowing from the serpent as lashes flutter in sheer ecstasy. He’s not sure if he’d ever revealed the erogenous spot to Aziraphale before, or if the angel had done his research, or if it was just mere coincidence—what ever the case may be, the simmering embers of his arousal erupt into a raging hellfire.

As quick and as startling as lightning, Aziraphale’s legs are hooked over Crowley’s shoulders before nails dig into the sturdy meat of those thighs. Spine straightening like the sudden, unforgiving crack of Dagon’s whip, he sits back on his haunches as the angel is dragged across the bed to meet him—leaving only Aziraphale’s upper back and head resting against the covers. The rest of him is either suspended or propped atop A DEMONIC LAP.

There’s not a moment wasted to allow anyone to gather their bearings before he sets a brutal, hungry pace. Hollowing out sharp cheeks as he pulls back, Crowley almost allows the head of that precious cock to pop out past his lips before choking as it fucks deep into his esophagus once more, carving its shape with every thrust.

He loses himself in the hypnotic motions: up, down, up, down, suck, swallow, suck, swallow. It’s noisy and far from pretty, but who really cares about that sort of thing? Drool makes a glistening mess of Aziraphale’s skin, while crescent moon trenches are dug beneath curled fingertips that grip ay supple flesh like an angelic anchor.

As the demon takes complete possession over his succulent meal, a serpent black as ink makes its own journey south. Curling along the shell of the dove’s ear, there comes a hiss—THE SOUND OF TEMPTATION ITSELF—that makes a home in the depths of Aziraphale’s intoxicated mind.

« WOULD THAT BE SUCH A BAD THING? »

Lying beneath that lingering hiss, there’s another. An echo slithering amongst the tall grass. It may be hidden, but it’s there all the same.

« Keep me. »

❝ NO, PLEASE, ❞ comes the snickered reply as Crowley toys with the loops of that silver “ascot.” ❝ Prance ‘round just like this more often. Maybe you could add those assless chaps you wore back in North America that one time—always thought those hugged your hipsss well. Better yet…❞

His voice drops to a slinky, sultry sound as he slithers further down Aziraphale’s lap, letting curious palms stroke down his chest and stomach. The serpent kisses the white curls at his navel, practically prostrating between angelic thighs as his fingers rediscover the aching need at their center.

❝ One of these days, you should let me DRESS YOU UP. We could go to your usual tailor…❞ Crowley’s tongue flickers out to flatten across flushed glans, indulging in a hearty lick with a hum. ❝ Or maybe a new one, jus’ so I can see ‘em fondle you for your measurements. I’d pick out the fabrics ‘n style, though. ‘M thinking something dark, maybe wool or cashmere. ❞

Another thoughtful lick follows; this time from the root of Aziraphale’s cock to its angry head. Gold never leaves silver.

❝ I can’t decide if I’d wanna make it a challenge to unwrap you later or if I should request the tailor makes you… EASIER TO ACCESS. ❞ A single gentle kiss to the angel’s slit. ❝ It’ll have those over-the-top frills you love. I know that much. ❞

Without another word, the serpent engulfs him, swallowing down the entire length of Aziraphale until the head of him curves along the bend in Crowley’s throat. His own cock weeps within his jeans, but the unbearable pressure was almost soothing as much as it was maddening.

[infernal-scales]

❝ NO, PLEASE, ❞ comes the snickered reply as Crowley toys with the loops of that silver “ascot.” ❝ Prance ‘round just like this more often. Maybe you could add those assless chaps you wore back in North America that one time—always thought those hugged your hipsss well. Better yet…❞

His voice drops to a slinky, sultry sound as he slithers further down Aziraphale’s lap, letting curious palms stroke down his chest and stomach. The serpent kisses the white curls at his navel, practically prostrating between angelic thighs as his fingers rediscover the aching need at their center.

❝ One of these days, you should let me DRESS YOU UP. We could go to your usual tailor…❞ Crowley’s tongue flickers out to flatten across flushed glans, indulging in a hearty lick with a hum. ❝ Or maybe a new one, jus’ so I can see ‘em fondle you for your measurements. I’d pick out the fabrics ‘n style, though. ‘M thinking something dark, maybe wool or cashmere. ❞

Another thoughtful lick follows; this time from the root of Aziraphale’s cock to its angry head. Gold never leaves silver.

❝ I can’t decide if I’d wanna make it a challenge to unwrap you later or if I should request the tailor makes you… EASIER TO ACCESS. ❞ A single gentle kiss to the angel’s slit. ❝ It’ll have those over-the-top frills you love. I know that much. ❞

Without another word, the serpent engulfs him, swallowing down the entire length of Aziraphale until the head of him curves along the bend in Crowley’s throat. His own cock weeps within his jeans, but the unbearable pressure was almost soothing as much as it was maddening.

AN UNSTEADY ROCK OF HIPS and a pitiful groan escapes the serpent before his wandering lips find Aziraphale’s, silencing him from making any further temptations. The angel’s formed a real knack for it over the centuries since their Arrangement first began but to have those efforts turned back onto him? A double-edged blade.

❝ What’s awful about it s’how much ‘m into the idea, ❞ he grumbles, trailing his moody ( horny ) kisses down along the soft line of the angel’s jaw and down further onto his neck and collar. ❝ DON’T TEMPT ME WITH A BAD TIME, angel, you know I can’t say no to those. Not from you. ❞

Crowley’s lips finally reach that familiar necktie, and he pulls back to see the obstruction to his prize. Gold meets silver, and a glint flashes in his eyes. A sudden snort turns into a chuckle turns into a cackle before he smothers his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, shoulders shaking in drunken amusement. Why he thought seeing his necktie done up in such a fanciful, droopy bow hanging from that pale collar he’s not sure. It tickles him to his bones, though, no doubt.

❝ UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, ❞ Crowley snickers into that heated skin, said more like a loving endearment than a dismissive insult.

[infernal-scales]

AN UNSTEADY ROCK OF HIPS and a pitiful groan escapes the serpent before his wandering lips find Aziraphale’s, silencing him from making any further temptations. The angel’s formed a real knack for it over the centuries since their Arrangement first began but to have those efforts turned back onto him? A double-edged blade.

❝ What’s awful about it s’how much ‘m into the idea, ❞ he grumbles, trailing his moody ( horny ) kisses down along the soft line of the angel’s jaw and down further onto his neck and collar. ❝ DON’T TEMPT ME WITH A BAD TIME, angel, you know I can’t say no to those. Not from you. ❞

Crowley’s lips finally reach that familiar necktie, and he pulls back to see the obstruction to his prize. Gold meets silver, and a glint flashes in his eyes. A sudden snort turns into a chuckle turns into a cackle before he smothers his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, shoulders shaking in drunken amusement. Why he thought seeing his necktie done up in such a fanciful, droopy bow hanging from that pale collar he’s not sure. It tickles him to his bones, though, no doubt.

❝ UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, ❞ Crowley snickers into that heated skin, said more like a loving endearment than a dismissive insult.

THE SUDDEN PRESS OF HOT FLESH within his grasp leaves Crowley moaning low in appreciation against those cherub-soft lips. Deft digits are quick to wrap themselves around Aziraphale’s cock, tugging unhurriedly along his shaft as utter filth falls from divine lips—utter filth for angelic standards, that is.

❝ I’ll get by SLITHERING ALONG. Who needs two legs anyway? Terrible idea, really, what with the weight of gravity ‘n all...❞

He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol buzzing in his ears, his racing heartbeat, or the purr elegantly lacing through that posh English. Whatever it was, every bit of intoxicated blood shoots south for the winter, leaving the serpent’s lips to run loose without a shred of filter to protect them from making a right arse out of the demon.

❝ You’ll let me suck you off for a bit, yeah? ❞ Crowley squeezes that twitching erection, massaging the pad of his thumb along those sensitive glands. ❝ ‘S not really fair if you’re the only one GETTING A MEAL AROUND ‘ERE. Demons gotta eat, too. ❞

They don’t. He doesn’t.

What’s a little harmless fib, though?