Author's Note: I really cannot apologize enough for being abominably lazy and not writing anything worth posting.
Summary: What a wonderful caricature of intimacy. Aziraphale/Crowley.
Soundtrack: Build God, Then We'll Talk, by Panic! at the Disco.
Warning: contains blood, nudity, and various other not-exactly-child-safe things.
Least Favorite Things
i. kiss
His kisses are clean and soft and sweet—lemon pie wrapped in clouds with a dash of formaldehyde. Divinity is the best preservative. Then his teeth find my tongue and our mouths fill with blood as the kiss turns coppery and rich and sharp.
ii. hands
We hold hands. He covers one of mine with both of his—exquisitely manicured, slightly plump. No one notices how tightly he grips, knuckles turning white, or the way my nails become talons, shredding his palms.
iii. touch
My hands grab his shoulders, trickling like water down his spine. Sliding back up against his skin, my thumbs move instinctively to the hollows of his shoulders. If I press hard enough, his wings will unfold, just pure and precious enough to tear. I pull him to me—hard enough to bruise, but no harder. His hands rest on my shoulders now, and his smile holds less mercy than mine.
iv. roses
I bought him roses once. They were fresh from a garden, still glistening with dew. He snatched them from me, huge armfuls of red and white blossoms tenaciously clinging to the faint warmth of the early sun. Slowly, carefully, he plaited two crowns—one for each of us. As he placed mine on my head, pressing too hard, I smiled through the crimson and thorns. He looked so pretty, golden hair crowned with white roses, ivory skin painted with drops of blood.
v. ducks
As we feed the ducks, seemingly harmless in our trench coats and familiarity, we turn every gesture into a battle of wills. I am so intent on drowning ducklings, and he as intent on saving them, that it comes as a surprise to both of us when we have the same thought as the same time. I would like to see the expression on his face, although I am sure mine is just as interesting, as we reach, in perfect coordination, inside each other's trousers. It's less obvious on a park bench than reaching for each other's throats, and this way we can still watch the ducks.
vi. wine
He smiles at me over his glass, filled with something French and expensive and fine. He looks so innocent. I should really sober up, but I must admit I am enjoying inebriation far more than I should. As soon as he glances down, adorable, long-lashed, I feel the drugs start to kick in. Date rape is highly underrated, I think as I smile at him through the haze. I make no effort to resist him as he pulls me closer. I can scarcely wait until tomorrow—retribution is just too much fun.
vii. bed
I admire him as he lies sleeping, bound hand and foot and wing to my bed. He is lovely when displayed so utterly, complete with the bruises and bites I have left him. Fangs come in useful when you would least expect them to. I catch my breath—unneeded—at the sight of him. Delight in a sleeping angel, though, is nowhere near comparable to the shiver of anticipation that runs down my spine when he awakens and looks straight at me, eyes full of promises.
-fini-
