Heart hammering in his chest, every breath filled with Oscar's scent, his cock making its presence known with a demanding and distracting pressure in his pants, Adam broke the kiss and let his head fall against Oscar's chest. After a few deep breaths, he pulled back and brushed his hands over Oscar's shoulders and down the arms of the jacket that he'd been so admiring all night. He liked the way the velvet felt under his palms and the feel of Oscar, solid, beneath it.

"Any particular way you want to do this?" Adam asked, a thrill of nervous energy making his voice shake.

Oscar caught Adam's hand as it started to trail down his waistcoat, and held it still for a moment until Adam looked up to meet his eyes. "What do you want?" he asked, sounding a whole hell of a lot steadier than Adam felt.

"No preferences." He tried to seem nonchalant, and shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. "I like a bit of everything."

Oscar hummed, "So you've said." He released Adam's hand to dip into the pocket of his waistcoat, and pulled out the strip of condoms that Adam had given him on the night they met. "I was informed, by a young friend of mine," he said, "that I should wear one of these, if I wanted to stick my cock in anything with a heartbeat."

Adam let his face fall into the plush velvet of Oscar's shoulder and shuddered, as he let out a helpless laugh. It broke some of the tension he was feeling.

"That's solid advice," he agreed, "but we might be getting a little ahead of ourselves. How about I peel you out of this suit first?"

"I do recall the mention of a banana," Oscar said, smiling. "Peel away."

"That's not what-" Adam started, but then he looked up to see the playful look on Oscar's face. "Never mind. We'll worry about the practical demonstration later." He slid Oscar's jacket off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, then he fingered the ascot open and pulled it loose. He held it to his face for a moment, breathing in the masculine smell clinging to the cream lace, and then he cast it aside to join the jacket on the floor.

Oscar's eyes had fallen half-lidded, hands gripping Adam's hips, as Adam unbuttoned his waistcoat, slipped it off to add to the growing pile, and started on the buttons of his shirt.

The sheer amount of effort to get Oscar undressed was taking the edge off of his need, and he couldn't help but wonder, "Was that Victorian attitude toward sex just because it takes too long to get your kit off, so that, by the time you're both undressed, you're too tired to get down to business?" His fingers seemed either too shaky, or too big to handle the row of tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons.

Oscar snorted. "Might I lend a hand?"

"You'd better, or we'll be here all night."

Adam dropped his hands away and let Oscar tend to the buttons.

"Do you have somewhere else pressing to be?" he asked.

"No,"Adam said, dropping to his knees as he fumbled at the front of Oscar's trousers instead. "I do, however, have better things to do than learning about the intricacies of Victorian tailoring. Damn these buttons."

"I don't know which department of Hell handles tailoring for temporarily corporated souls, but the whole suit is infernal in origin—buttons included."

Adam huffed. "Azazel probably made it for you. No one else would have picked such a ridiculous colour."

"You don't like the colour?"

Adam gave up on the buttons and mouthed at Oscar through the fabric instead, feeling the heat of him even through the thick fabric. "You're every English Lit. major's wet dream in this suit."

"What about the paleontology students?" Oscar asked.

"For the past week at least," Adam admitted. "The possibility had never crossed my mind before that, but I think the full effect of your legs in these trousers has to be experienced in person."

"You'll have to remind me to thank Azazel then."

"If you mention one word about any of this to my mother, I'll never forgive you,"Adam said against the bulge in the aforementioned trousers.

"There won't be much to tell if we don't hurry this along." Oscar bit his lip against a moan. "It's been far too long since I've had a blonde lordling between my legs."

"Prince of Hell," Adam corrected, with a growl, "and if you ever compare me to Bosie fucking Douglas again, it'll be a lot longer."

"There's no comparison," Oscar agreed quickly.

"Is he in Hell?" Adam asked, as he gave Oscar a reprieve, and went back to the buttons.

"What?"

"Douglas. I have a sudden urge to feed him to my dinosaur. Him and his father both."

"Oh," Oscar said. "I have no idea."

"If he's in Heaven, I'm done with the whole thing."

"Is now really the time, A-Adam?" Oscar asked, ending with a hitch in his breath, as Adam finally managed the fastenings on his trousers, and pushed them down over his hips.

At, the same time, Oscar managed the final button on his shirt and shrugged it off, even as he was bending to unlace his shoes and step out of his trousers.

And, Adam was laughing at him.

He froze, uncertainly. "Is something amusing?" he asked.

"You're," Adam choked, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "You're.. No, I can't even…" Adam sunk down into a seated position on the floor, unable to contain his giggles. "All of that, and you're still fully clothed."

Oscar looked down at himself, understanding Adam's amusement at his current state of undress, as it were- ankle-length drawers, and a low-waisted undershirt. "I suppose my small clothes are rather modest, by your modern standards," he admitted. He extended a hand down to Adam and drew him back to his feet. "However, I think you're the one who's overdressed."

Adam laughed. "I bet I can still get out of all this before you can unbutton your…underwear."

"Is that a wager?" Oscar asked with a sly smile. "What are the stakes?"

Adam considered a moment. "Winner's choice?"

"Dangerous proposition," Oscar opined.

Adam shrugged, "Either way, we'll both be naked by the end of it. Under the circumstances, I call that a win-win scenario."

"Agreed," Oscar said. "GO!"

He started in on his buttons before Adam realized the game had started, but even so, Adam had his shirt pulled over his head before Oscar had one arm out of his undershirt. He toed off his trainers, unbuckled his belt, and shucked off his jeans and pants all in one go. He was pulling his socks off while Oscar was still cursing the button fly of his drawers.

Adam stood naked before him, golden skinned, with a fine scattering of pale hair leading down to a nicely proportioned, half-erect cock, and Oscar stumbled as he pulled his long legs free of his drawers.

Adam reached out an arm to steady him, and Oscar finally managed complete nudity, as they both laughed and clung to each other.

"Victory is yours, my dear Antichrist," Oscar said, humble in defeat. "Name your forfeit."

Adam let his eyes rove over the pale expanse of flesh finally revealed, and then smirked a bit when he said, "Elastic."

"Pardon?"

"Elastic," Adam said again. "No more union suits and undergarments that cover you from neck to ankles. That's my forfeit. Tomorrow, I want you in pants with an elastic waistband."

"You have me utterly at your mercy, and you've decided to dictate my small clothes? How very devilish."

"Well," Adam said, moving to press himself into Oscar. "I only have another, guaranteed, 24 hours with you. If I get a chance to lure you into a broom cupboard during the wedding reception, tomorrow, I don't want to waste time trying to unbutton your underwear."

Oscar licked his lips, cheeks dimpling around the smile he was fighting back. "That seems sensible."

"I'm a sensible man," Adam said, feeling it at least half a lie. He had to stand on his tiptoes to reach Oscar's lips, and curled his fingers into the man's hair to pull him down for another, brief kiss. "Now, I think we should try out that nice, big bed."

oOoOoOo

As the Bentley sped through the streets of London, gliding in and out of traffic, and continued to not crash into a flaming ball of wreckage with Freddie trapped inside, his terror slowly abated into wary irritation.

He gave up his attempts to force the car under his control, and eventually just slumped into the seat and crossed his arms over his chest in defeat.

He decided to wait it out. The needle of the fuel gauge was already resting on empty. It was only a matter of time before it ran out of petrol completely, and sputtered to a halt. He had no illusions that the locks on the doors would let him out when it did, but perhaps he'd be able to get the attention of some passersby, and the authorities could cut him out of Crowley's precious Bently, with the jaws of life, if need be.

oOoOoOo

Yeshua took a couple more bottles of beer from the fridge and brought them over to Crowley on the couch. "Freddie's taking an awful long time. You don't think he's actually… you know?" Yeshua made a lewd hand motion while he pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

"Gah! Don't do that." Crowley pulled a face and snatched one of the bottles from Yeshua, popping the cap off with a flick of his thumb. He took a deep swig from the neck of the bottle. "The Bentley has a date with a vat of disinfectant when this is all over."

Yeshua shrugged. "What a consenting adult and a self-aware, vintage automobile get up to in the privacy of… a public street…" he trailed off a bit. "I mean, you should let the old girl out for a spin once in a while."

"The relationship that a man shaped being has with his car is a sacrosanct … erm… well… that's a bond that should be respected. You don't just throw a century of symbiotic existence between car and driver out the rear window for the first hyper-sexualized rock star that saunters by."

Yeshua blinked at him. "You're jealous."

Crowley scoffed, but his posture stiffened from its usual fluidity, like a snake deciding whether it should strike or curl into a defensive ball. "That's ridiculous."

"So, you don't mind The Bentley's sudden obsession with Freddie, then?"

"Trust me, it isn't sudden. I've been putting up with this since1973. The only difference is now the Bentley has a real person to malfunction over, instead of just transmogrifying all of my tapes and compact discs." Crowley frowned. "He has been down there a long time. Maybe we should check up on him."

oOoOoOo

Adam had seen Oscar perform fellatio, albeit on a tiny, plastic, penis straw. It had been impressive. Truthfully, the sight had had him squirming somewhat uncontrollably in his seat. The point was, he thought that he'd known what to expect. And, anyway, he'd been on the receiving end of blowjobs before, from both men and women, on enough occasions that it shouldn't be a particularly novel experience. When you put your cock into someone's mouth, it felt nice: there wasn't much more to be said about it. You could read all the wikihow articles you wanted for sex tips, but the main thing was just to keep your teeth mostly out of the way, give some suction, bob your head bit, work the shaft, and try not to gag. Once you had the hang of it, and got the rhythm down, anyone could do it. There wasn't all that much skill involved. One mouth was much the same as any other, right?

Wrong.

He'd been oh so very, very, wrong.

It was like comparing DaVinci to someone's aunt doing a paint by number Mona Lisa. It was like comparing Mozart to a child's piano recital. It was like comparing Oscar Wilde to… that one bloke, named Kevin, that he'd met in one of his literature classes his first year of university, who wrote really bad poetry, and had once sucked him off in the gents, after dragging him to a poetry slam at one of the coffee shops near campus.

Yeah, it was exactly like that. In a world full of Kevins, Oscar Wilde was king. And, he should give up that writing nonsense to follow his true calling- suckingAdam's cock for the rest of eternity.

Or… no…

Adam had half an instant to try to get a handle on his thoroughly derailed train of thought, a moment to make a noise of complaint at the loss of that wonderful mouth, a second to start to get his faculties in order enough to open his eyes to see what Oscar was doing, and then… yeah,… that was a tongue in his…

"Ahhhhhhh."

Adam's legs were shaking, and he had to fight his body's sudden need to twitch, and spasm, and convulse, like some kind of epileptic codfish.

This, unlike the blow jobs, was not something that Adam had any great experience with, but he was pretty sure that Oscar was a master of the art anyway.

Adam was busy slowly losing his mind, melting into a puddle of jelly and raw nerves, and composing sonnets about Oscar's talented tongue, when this new level of nirvana also came to an abrupt end.

"Do you have oil?"

"Hmmm? What?" Adam asked dreamily. "Are you going to paint me like one of your Florentine silk merchant's wives."

"Adam?"

"If we're going to hang someone's smile in the Louvre, I think it should be yours. Your mouth is a masterpiece."

Oscar chuckled. "I see that I've left you senseless. Do we have any oil?"

"Oil?" Adam wasn't sure that he was the one talking nonsense. What kind of oil? Engine oil? Cooking oil? Lamp oil? Whale oil? Did Oscar want to hunt a whale? No, that was Melville, or maybe Hemmingway… He giggled. "Just put my moby dick back in your blow hole."

"I would very much like to bugger you into further insensibility," Oscar said, "but without a little slick, that's a daunting prospect. I want you squirming and blabbering more lovely nonsense, not gritting your teeth through it, my dear."

"Oh, lube," Adam gave him a dopy smile. "We don't use various household products for lubrication in the 21st century. Only disgusting, drunken demons, and weepy angels do that. It's a crime against basic human decency… and basic hygiene. It's definitely a crime against overstressed Antichrists who just want to worry about exams, and not have to go into creepy, adult bookstores to buy lube for their godfathers."

Oscar was giving him a concerned look.

"Right," Adam blinked through his euphoria and tried to focus. "We forgot about lube. I planned a seduction and completely forgot about lube. We could just use… spit?" Adam grimaced. No. Lube… lube… an array of complimentary, single use, hotel bath soaps and lotions flashed through his mind's eye, and he felt utterly disgusted with himself. What was he even thinking? He wasn't some powerless, former supernatural being in a depressive downward spiral of sex, alcohol, and crying. He was the goddamned Antichrist. He moved the world to his will. And, right now, his will was to have Oscar Wilde's dick buried so deep in his arse that he wouldn't be able to walk straight for a week.

He'd raised the city of Atlantis. He'd initiated first contact. He'd set the kraken loose on the likes of Ernest Hemingway. What was a little personal lubrication, compared to all that?

He pulled himself together, and concentrated for a moment. He shivered. "Oh, that's bloody weird."

There was a sensation like a warm bubble forming inside him- growing and stretching. Adam shifted his hips, beneath Oscar, unable to hold still in the midst of it. There was a rush of pleasure as the bubble seemed to pop, and Adam cried out.

"Adam?" Oscar's voice sounded concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Gah," was all Adam could say. He let out a shuddering breath that ended in a moan, the noise coming from him guttural and practically inhuman.

"Adam?"

"Yeah? All right. Great. Never been better." His next shaky exhale was practically a laugh. "I should have thought to try that when I was fifteen."

"What have you done?" Oscar asked, brows furrowed.

Adam reached down for his hand, and guided it to his opening. Oscar seemed to get the idea and breached him with one of those lovely, large fingers. Adam met his eyes, as he whimpered and bore down on it.

"You're as wet a shepherdess on Beltane," Oscar said in wonder.

"Advantages of dating the Antichrist."

"Is that what we're doing?" Oscar added another finger.

"If you want," Adam said. "If it's allowed."

"I think I do want that," Oscar said, "and I'm not sure that I care if it's allowed or not."

"Great," Adam said. "Glad we're on the same page. Now, would you like me to put that condom on for you, or do you think you can figure it out?" As delighted as he was with the prospect of trying to make a go of things with Oscar, he had more pressing needs, just at the moment, than discussing long-term relationship goals.

"You did promise me a practical demonstration." Oscar added a third finger, and he didn't stop the steady motion of his hand the entire time that Adam attempted to open the foil wrapper and roll it onto him.

In terms of practical demonstrations of the proper way apply a condom, Adam thought that it would have been more informative, and with considerably less cursing, if he had been using the banana. It also would have been much easier to concentrate if Oscar's long fingers hadn't found his prostate, or at least he'd have been less worried that he was going to come all over both of them before he'd managed the nearly impossible feat of finding the correct direction to roll the thing on.

Oscar looked down when Adam was finished. "Is my sausage safely cased?"

Adam, relieved that he didn't have to concentrate anymore, let his head fall back against the pillows. "They d-don't make them out of sausage casings anymore. No lamb intestines; only the.. f-finest, Antichrist-crafted… latex ff-for you."

He was almost relieved when Oscar pulled his fingers out. He'd been on the edge so many times already, but he wanted Oscar's cock inside him before he came, at least this first time.

He closed hiseyes and let out a gasp as Oscar entered him. And, it just felt so right. He knew it was the endorphins and the serotonin rushing through his system, making him feel ready to swear himself utterly to this man, as they grunted and thrust their way to the sweetest oblivion, but that didn't make the feeling any less real.

The science of love was just one piece of the bonds that people form with one another- just another part of the complexity of humanity, but not the whole of it. What a scientific mind composes in data and chemical reactions, the poet quantifies in well versed metaphor. It all came down to the same thing.

Love was love, and Adam Young had fallen deeply, and completely, in love with Oscar Wilde.

The orgasm had almost nothing to do with it.

oOoOoOo

"Not again," Crowley said, staring at the empty spot where his Bentley was supposed to be parked.

"He probably just took it to a club or something," Yeshua said. "One last chance to sin before he goes back to Heaven."

Crowley growled. "He's supposed to be fixing it, not compounding the problem."

"What do you mean?"

"The Bentley has been sulking for a week because Freddie decided to snog a couple of strippers out on the pavement. What do you think would happen if he tries to have sex in the backseat?"

Yeshua shrugged. "A really weird automotive three-some?"

Crowley choked.

"Well, I don't know," Yeshua said, helplessly. "They're gone. Maybe Freddie just took the car for a drive to try to work things out. There isn't much we can do about it either way."

Crowley frowned. "Hang on a sec." He fished into the pocket of his leather jacket and came out with a set of keys with a flying "B", medallion key fob. "How's he supposed to take it anywhere without the keys?"

They exchanged a worried look and both scanned up and down the street, as though a vintage Bentley might suddenly appear.

"Enough of this. Freddie had better hope he isn't doing anything… strenuous; spontaneously having all of your atoms transported across London is not at all pleasant. That's why I have the Bentley. This is going to hurt."

He winced in sympathy as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

"Well, fuck."

oOoOoOo

Hours had passed, and while the needle on the Bentley's fuel gauge continued to rest resolutely on zero, the car showed no sign of stopping, and as Freddie had heard over, and over, again on a loop in all that time, there was nothing he could do about it.

He'd tried singing along to the music; he'd attempted fruitlessly to turn it off; he'd screamed; he'd covered his ears, curled into a ball, and quietly wept, but while he used to be a man with a stick in his hand, he was rushing headlong, down the highway, and it ain't so groovy when you're screaming in the night, but there ain't no stopping, and there's nothing you can do about it.

No, there's nothin' you can do about it.

Nothin' you can do about it at all.

Freddie feared that he was going more than just slightly mad. He was one card short the full deck, not quite the shilling, one wave short of a shipwreck, but in Crowley's Bentley he was always, always, top billing.

oOoOoOo

Oscar was adrift in a foggy haze of arousal, like slipping into a hot bath, or a long drag off the first cigarette of the day. He felt simultaneously as though he had left his body completely, and as though he had never so fully inhabited it.

It had been so long since he'd experienced this level of complete immersion in the moment, that he'd forgotten what it could feel like, to lose yourself inside another person, to feel each new wave of pleasure crash violently into the tattered shell of your body like breakers against a rocky shore, leaving you a gasping and shuddering mess, fearful the next wave will shatter you completely, even as you seek it out with clutching hands and bruising lips.

Adam was like an inferno, but Oscar was happy to burn for the rest of eternity, if only it could be an eternity in this moment. He would pledge himself fully to the fires and smile as he blazed in the heated regard of Adam's affections.

He would bask in the heat of Hades, find pleasure in perdition, and peace in pandemonium. His lips would be filled with prayers of thanks to God for His eternal condemnation, gratitude for every torment, that it had brought him to this moment.

He would—

There was a shrill sound from their pile of discarded clothing on the floor, and Oscar's eyes flew open. Adam's cheeks hollowed one final time with a hard suck, and he released Oscar's member with a wet, popping sound, and looked up. His cheeks were flushed, and his blonde curls were a messy halo around his head. He blinked heavy eyes up at Oscar, as his mobile continued its banshee shriek, and intruded in upon the moment.

"I thought I turned that fucking thing off," Adam grumbled.

Oscar admired the stretch of muscle under tanned skin, as Adam sprawled across the end of the bed to fumble through the pile of clothing for his telephone.

He looked at the screen, disturbingly bright in the low light of the room, seemed to consider the screaming thing for a moment, then grunted in irritation, as he swiped at it with one forefinger and held it to his ear.

"This had better be good," he said, even as he moved to straddle Oscar's hips again.

There was a faint noise of someone speaking on the other end.

"What do you mean gone?" Adam asked, reaching down between them to idly stroke Oscar's erection. "I told you not to park it on the street."

Noticing that Adam's erection had started to flag as his attention was called away by the conversation, and feeling fiendish, Oscar reached between them to do a bit of stroking of his own- less idly, and with a bit more feeling.

Adam's breath hitched, and he made a startled grunt, looking down at Oscar with wide, accusing eyes.

"Well, unh, does he have a mobile phone? He's probably just gone for a drive. Uhhh." Adam's eyes drop closed, hand gripping Oscar a bit too tightly, as he thrust into the first around his cock.

"What? No. He's in Hell for the weekend. I don't bloody know. Call Anathema; I'm a bit busy at the moment."

More disgruntled noises from the other side of the call, and Oscar took advantage of the opportunity to give a few hard strokes of his fist.

"Ohhhh, you complete arse," Adam gasped out, moaning, thighs clenching around Oscar's hips, as his chin fell against his chest, and he sucked in a couple of harsh breaths.

"What?" he said into the phone after a moment to compose himself. "No, not you. Bugger off, Crowley. I'm not your best man. You and Yeshua figure it out, or call Anathema. I told you; I'm busy, and so help me, if you dare to complain about this after everything you've put me through for the last five years."

Adam aggressively ended the call and tossed his phone aside, then turned his attention to Oscar with a hungry look in his eyes. "That was not a very gentlemanly thing to do."

"Wherever did you get the idea that I'm a gentleman?" Oscar asked.

oOoOoOo

"Oscar fucking Wilde," Crowley snarled at his phone. "What is it about that poncy, Scottish twat that leaves everyone frothing at the mouth?"

"I thought he seemed nice," Yeshua said.

"You think everyone is nice," Crowley snapped back, making it sound like an insult.

Yeshua turned the other cheek. "What do you want to do now?"

"I guess we'll call Anathema."

oOoOoOo

"Anathema's phone," Madame Tracy said brightly, when Crowley called.

They were just puttering over a flyover, crossing the M25, in Newton's old wasabi. Anathema's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and she was leaning far over the dash, squinting into the dim radius of light cast out from the headlamps, her nose nearly touching the windscreen.

"Who is it?" she asked, as they rounded a turn a bit too fast (the proscribed speed for turning in the Wasabi, being roughly the speed of a lame snail) and the chassis gave a worrying tip over to the passenger side.

"It's Mr. Crowley," Tracy said. "He says that his car is missing."

"Again?"

"Yes, well… I'm sorry; what was that Mr. Crowley? Absconded? Oh, my, yes. That does sound serious. Witchcraft? I'm not sure… yes, well, I'll ask her." Tracy moved the phone away from her mouth and said, "Crowley wants you to check to see if they're still in England."

Anathema sighed. She clicked on the hazard lights and pulled the Wasabi over onto the hard shoulder.

"A crisis is an opportunity riding the dangerous wind. Dangerous enemies will meet again in narrow streets," chimed the electronic voice of the Wasabi's navigational computer, in a melodic, Asian accent. Anathema thought it sounded rather ominous.

"I think there's a map in the glove compartment."

The Wasabi was not a car that was made for passengers. It was barely a car that was made for drivers. Tracy had to unfasten her safety belt and half-crouch in her seat to get the glove compartment open, while Anathema searched through the contents to find a tattered road map.

"Yes, hold on, Mr. Crowley," Tracy said into the phone as they attempted to unfold the map inside the cramped confines of the car. There were some elbows into ribs, a bit of accidental groping, and Madame Tracy sustained a papercut to the eye, before they gave it up as a bad job, and Anathema took the map outside to spread it over Dick Turpin's blue bonnet instead.

"Life is a journey. Time is a river. The door is ajar," chimed the mechanical voice, still sounding nothing at all like an 18th century English highwayman.

"I need a pin or something," Anathema said.

Madame Tracy reached into her bob and felt around until she found a hairpin and pulled it out. "Would this work, dear?"

Anathema took it and stretched the prongs apart until she had a single, long, sliver of metal. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her feelings of animosity towards Crowley's rolling crime against the environment.

She knew the moment that the hairpin touched the map that she had an accurate lock on the car. She could feel the magic thrumming through her body. She opened her eyes and squinted down at the map. "Definitely still in England," she muttered, "but it's too dark to see. Here, give me my mobile."

Anathema ignored Crowley for the moment and turned the flashlight feature on with one hand, while holding the hairpin in place with the other. "It looks like it's on the A40, just past…" Anathema broke off as the usual noise of traffic passing was surpassed by pounding rock music and the roar of an engine, as a pre-war, hulk of a Bentley swerved through the congestion and blew past them at 90 mph.

She brought the phone up to her ear. "Yeah, it's on the A40, just past the M25 flyover, heading towards Gerrards Cross."

"You're sure?" Crowley asked.

"Pretty sure," Anathema said. "It just drove past us."

"We'll be there in a moment," Crowley said, darkly, and the line went dead.

A moment later, Crowley and Yeshua were lying in the verge on the side of the road. Crowley was cursing and spitting as he struggled to his feet, and Yeshua was gibbering in Aramaic and clutching his head.

"I told you it was awful," Crowley said, holding out a hand to Yeshua.