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carmillaSUMMARY: Temptation comes in many forms. Some BDSM content.
His arms are outspread, straining. Crucifiction imagery floods his mind, coarse and obvious, like cheap red wine. A small part of him prompts that in some churches (Greek Orthodox, maybe?), they adopt this position to pray. He isn't praying. He should be.
Demon eyes are fixed on him, glowing in warm amusement.
A fingernail rakes down his chest. Not a talon, he reminds himself, not a claw. Just a fingernail. It's predatory nonetheless.
Slowly, carefully, the finger withdraws. Is sucked into that hot mouth. It has gathered no sweat. Angels don't sweat. The demon does it anyway.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
He knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that they're a mistake, an opening he shouldn't have given.
"Foolish angel, because I can."
The voice is soft as silk, sibilant, a hiss with the scratch of sandpaper underneath.
"And do you know why I can?"
The forked tongue that was the downfall of man flickers against his ear, and he shivers, bows his head. He already knows the answer.
"Because you're letting me."
A sudden pressure on the straining muscles at the base of his neck forces him sharply upward. His wings jerk open suddenly, without their accustomed grace, matching the span of his arms. Wickedly talented hands run over them gently, too gently, and the stab of pain, when it comes, is almost a relief. Crowley holds a single feather.
Aziraphale feels its point press at the nape of his neck. Feels it scrape, with agonising slowness, down his spine. Feels liquid trickle further down, reminds himself that his own flesh can wound him. The feather slides back upwards, the soft end this time, tracing over the angry red line that is already healing.
His eyes are closed. Breath has always been an interesting novelty, like food and sleep, but now for the first time it seems a necessity. His breaths are deep, shuddering. His entire body trembles. So this is the apple in the Garden; this is the forbidden knowledge only humans have. Sensation.
When he feels the scrape around his ankle, he assumes at first it is the feather. But this is something new again. What it reminds him of, strangely, is Crowley's voice. Smooth on the surface, but with rough edges hovering just beneath. Dangerous, like the glacial beauty of an iceberg's tip. It starts to move, spiralling upwards. He risks a glance down.
A serpent, large and black and gleaming, twines around his leg. As he watches, its muscles bunch, rippling beneath its scales, and it moves another few inches. Its head is past his knee now. Its tongue flickers maddeningly against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Its red eyes gleam up at him, ironic and knowing. He looks away first.
That flat diamond head comes to rest on his shoulder - the proper perch for a demon, he supposes. Its coils encircle him; he feels bound. He feels possessed. Then the tight band in one particular place shifts, ever so slightly, and his eyes snap shut again, and he is lost in a place he didn't know existed.
He doesn't know how long he is kept there, trapped on the edge of an epiphany, his body taken over by the demon's expert handling. But just when he thinks he can bear no more, its head rears up. Its breath is strangely cool against his ear.
"Why did you let me do this?"
"Because I wanted to know. Because I had to. To redeem humans, one should know them. One should understand their weaknesses. This is their greatest. So I had to. I had to do this."
His speech is oddly broken up, coming in short spurts, punctuated by gasps.
"Not good enough, angel."
Speed. Friction. Pressure.
"Why did you let me do this?"
"Because I wanted to."
And fangs pierce his neck as he hurtles over the edge, into the whirling dark.
His arms are outspread, straining. Crucifiction imagery floods his mind, coarse and obvious, like cheap red wine. A small part of him prompts that in some churches (Greek Orthodox, maybe?), they adopt this position to pray. He isn't praying. He should be.
Demon eyes are fixed on him, glowing in warm amusement.
A fingernail rakes down his chest. Not a talon, he reminds himself, not a claw. Just a fingernail. It's predatory nonetheless.
Slowly, carefully, the finger withdraws. Is sucked into that hot mouth. It has gathered no sweat. Angels don't sweat. The demon does it anyway.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
He knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that they're a mistake, an opening he shouldn't have given.
"Foolish angel, because I can."
The voice is soft as silk, sibilant, a hiss with the scratch of sandpaper underneath.
"And do you know why I can?"
The forked tongue that was the downfall of man flickers against his ear, and he shivers, bows his head. He already knows the answer.
"Because you're letting me."
A sudden pressure on the straining muscles at the base of his neck forces him sharply upward. His wings jerk open suddenly, without their accustomed grace, matching the span of his arms. Wickedly talented hands run over them gently, too gently, and the stab of pain, when it comes, is almost a relief. Crowley holds a single feather.
Aziraphale feels its point press at the nape of his neck. Feels it scrape, with agonising slowness, down his spine. Feels liquid trickle further down, reminds himself that his own flesh can wound him. The feather slides back upwards, the soft end this time, tracing over the angry red line that is already healing.
His eyes are closed. Breath has always been an interesting novelty, like food and sleep, but now for the first time it seems a necessity. His breaths are deep, shuddering. His entire body trembles. So this is the apple in the Garden; this is the forbidden knowledge only humans have. Sensation.
When he feels the scrape around his ankle, he assumes at first it is the feather. But this is something new again. What it reminds him of, strangely, is Crowley's voice. Smooth on the surface, but with rough edges hovering just beneath. Dangerous, like the glacial beauty of an iceberg's tip. It starts to move, spiralling upwards. He risks a glance down.
A serpent, large and black and gleaming, twines around his leg. As he watches, its muscles bunch, rippling beneath its scales, and it moves another few inches. Its head is past his knee now. Its tongue flickers maddeningly against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Its red eyes gleam up at him, ironic and knowing. He looks away first.
That flat diamond head comes to rest on his shoulder - the proper perch for a demon, he supposes. Its coils encircle him; he feels bound. He feels possessed. Then the tight band in one particular place shifts, ever so slightly, and his eyes snap shut again, and he is lost in a place he didn't know existed.
He doesn't know how long he is kept there, trapped on the edge of an epiphany, his body taken over by the demon's expert handling. But just when he thinks he can bear no more, its head rears up. Its breath is strangely cool against his ear.
"Why did you let me do this?"
"Because I wanted to know. Because I had to. To redeem humans, one should know them. One should understand their weaknesses. This is their greatest. So I had to. I had to do this."
His speech is oddly broken up, coming in short spurts, punctuated by gasps.
"Not good enough, angel."
Speed. Friction. Pressure.
"Why did you let me do this?"
"Because I wanted to."
And fangs pierce his neck as he hurtles over the edge, into the whirling dark.