#twisted perversions... unbearable delight

[festering-cadaver]

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Too Weak to Fly (chapter 6)

Back to chapter 1 

Another chapter done! (can I hear a wahoo? lol) Tagging: @cosmic-malarky @swanheart69 @boysinperil @agentlokii

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Chapter 6

 It is the cold that wakes him, a kind of oddly familiar frigid iciness that bites into his exposed skin, painful like a burn.  Which is strange, considering that the last thing he remembers is being cradled in Aziraphale’s arms ­– warm, protected, loved….

 And now… now it feels as though he’s lying naked on a block of ice.  

 He frowns at the mental image.  Slowly, laboriously peels open the lead-heavy eyelids, sneaking a bleary peek at the length of his body, stretched out before him and….

 Oh… oh! Shit…

 He’s naked, indeed. Bare as the day the Almighty Herself wove him out of the dust of the still-forming cosmos.  

But it isn’t ice he’s lying on (though he wishes it were now, oh how he wishes it were!)  It’s worse, it’s so much worse. And he understands now why the air felt familiar to him; knows why that familiarity brought with it an uncomfortable, chilling sensation of doom.  And all he can think is that he’s well and truly fucked.

 “Ah! I see you’re awake already!” The voice, slightly high-pitched with fervently fake enthusiasm, is, unfortunately, familiar as well.  

 He grits his teeth, pushes himself to move.  It’s slow going, his body stiff and uncooperative like a snake during brumation, but eventually he manages to roll himself onto his knees.  Stares defiantly up at the “Archangel fucking Gabriel” who smiles plastically at him from a couple feet away, violet eyes alight with glee.

 “Excellent, excellent,” Gabriel croons, slapping his hands together in a gesture of perverse delight. “I was worried I’d have to use some… persuasion to get you going.”

The archangel’s smile widens, shark-like, on the word “persuasion”, and Crowley can’t quite suppress a shiver of apprehension it sends down his spine.  Judging by the sadistically appreciative glimmer in Gabriel’s eyes, his apprehension doesn’t go unnoticed.  

The archangel takes a step closer.

 “Recognize this place?” The archangel gestures at their surroundings, the disturbingly predatory smile still in place.  

Crowley doesn’t dignify him with a response.  He’s pretty sure one isn’t needed anyway.  If Gabriel brought him here to this place, he already knows the answer to his question. And that means… that means… Oh, angel, we are so, so screwed!

 “I thought you might,” Gabriel goes on, unbothered by Crowley’s silence.  “Of course, we dialed down the holiness a bit the last time you were here. Didn’t want to make things too uncomfortable for our Hellfire messenger.”  He barks out an angry little laugh.  “Imagine our surprise when we realized that we inadvertently made them less uncomfortable for you as well.”  The archangel’s features sharpen, something dark and decidedly un-angelic flashing in the stunningly purple gaze as Gabriel leans in closer, his face – mere inches away.  Hisses out with the pure, honeyed venom that would put any snake to shame.  “Feel the difference?”

 Oh, Crowley feels it, alright. The increasingly painful burn against his skin where it comes in contact with the icy surface, the uncomfortable, suffocating pressure in his lungs, the blinding, cold whiteness that sears his eyes….  He has a pretty good suspicion, however, that it is nothing in comparison with what is yet to come.

 Gabriel pulls back, straightens out, snapping his fingers as he does so, and Crowley bites back a gasp as golden chains shoot snakelike up from the ground, wrapping themselves around his wrists and ankles and middle.  He bucks, trying ineffectively to twist out of the unwelcome restraints, but the chains tighten impossibly in response to his movements, drag him down, slamming him forcefully back down to tether him spread-eagled to the freezing floor.

 “You know, after I found out about the little trick you and Aziraphale played on us, I reeeally wanted to drown you in a bath of Holy Water myself.”

 Crowley can feel the archangel above him now, can feel the press of his hand, heavy and hard, on the back of his head as he squirms uselessly on the flawlessly polished surface.

 “But then I realized,” the hand on his head presses harder, crushing his face into the floor, “that it would be too quick of a death for you.  One might even say it would be… merciful.”  The archangel bends down closer, his breath singing Crowley’s ear.  “And if there’s one thing I don’t want to do is show mercy to a filthy demon.”

 “Offff courssse not,” Crowley gasps out into the shining blue tile that fogs over with his breath. “That would be too… angelic.”

 Retribution for his cheekiness is swift – Gabriel’s fingers tightening in his hair, yanking his head up before slamming it brutally back down onto the floor.  But it’s worth it.  It’s so totally worth it to rankle the wanker’s overinflated ego!  At least that’s what he tells himself as ichor trickles down his lips from a broken nose, dripping onto the pristine tile underneath him.

 “I have no intention of letting you die quickly, demon,” Gabriel’s voice continues to filter past the loud ringing in his ears. “So you know what I am going to do?

 “M’ssssure you’re gonn’… tell me,” he manages, spewing out ichor-stained spit onto the tiled surface.

 The savage grip on his hair disappears, the archangel’s hand moving to lie flat against his spine, right between his shoulder blades.  “I’m going to take you apart,” Gabriel promises with perfectly, terrifyingly controlled fury, “piece by demonic piece.  Until there’s nothing left of you to destroy.  I’m going to take it slow.  And I’m going to start with your wings.”

 The hand presses down once again, firm and unforgiving, the insistent, unbearable pressure increasing until Crowley has no choice but to give in, and two enormous inky-black wings unfurl from his back with a loud pop.

 “There,” Gabriel sounds pleased now.

 He hears another snap of fingers, and two more golden chains shoot up from the ground, wrapping themselves around the tips of his wings.  He thrashes, trying desperately to break free, he growls and hisses and spits, but the chains hold fast, and soon his wings are bound to the floor, stretched out impossibly, agonizingly tight.  

A door to the side of him opens with a swoosh, and he twists his head in that direction as much as he can, and he can’t help a jolt of blinding, primal fear at the sight of two more angels that walk into the room, carrying a large bucket each.  

 He knows what’s in those buckets.  Knows it even before Gabriel confirms his fearful suspicion as he squats beside him to pat him patronizingly on the shoulder, adding in a mockingly reassuring tone, “Don’t worry, it’s quite a bit diluted.  Would defeat the purpose, otherwise.”

 Crowley’s subsequent heartfelt suggestion for Gabriel to shove those buckets up where even that blasted heavenly light won’t reach them is drowned out in a deafening howl of pure agony that rips out of his throat as the buckets are upturned over his extended wings, Holy Water eating its way through the feathers, gnawing into the delicate flesh, and burning, burning, burning!

 He writhes and screams, half-mad from the pain that seems to intensify with each passing moment, until he knows nothing but pain, his consciousness slowly but inexorably slipping into the churning black void of it.

 ***

 “There’zzzz only one more tape so far.  You want to see?”

 Aziraphale shakes his head jerkily in response to Beelzebub’s uncharacteristically subdued question, his tear-blurred gaze glued to the screen, watching in stomach-churning horror as Crowley’s desperate, convulsive movements still, the demon falling blessedly unconscious from the terrible pain.  

 He watches the expression of squeamish disdain on Gabriel’s face as he gestures at twin puddles of ichor, speckled with chunks of half-melted feathers, bone and flesh, instructing the other two angels to “Clean up this mess, would you?”

 Watches as he pats the insensible demon on the head, telling him with a cold, condescending chuckle, “You hang tight now, you hear. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 Two days they’ve had him, he thinks.  Two days.

 “There is one more thing I want from you,” he says, marveling at how steady his voice sounds given the way his entire essence trembles uncontrollably in fury and pain.  

 He tears his gaze away from the now blank screen, glances at the Prince of Hell, noting with detached surprise the look of almost sympathetic unease on the demon’s face.  Almost as if… almost as if they were troubled by what they’ve seen.  

He dismisses the thought.

 “I need you to get me Hellfire,” he says instead.  “Now, if you please.”

[luluxa]

Eeey, it’s a JJ minifc :D (I bet you didn’t expect that - neither did I. XD)  (And it’s more like the first part, but complete on its own.) 

Fluff all the way! 

"Are you trying to have sex with me?"

Jeremy sits up in alarm, snatching his hand away from James's knee. He's not sure how it got there – probably the lack of people in the Portakabin that made Jeremy too relaxed – but it was quite nice.

For a moment, Jeremy's lost for words under James's calm and inquisitive stare.

"No," he says at last, although not too confidently. "I mean, no," Jeremy says more firmly. "I'm just..." Well, it's pretty hard to explain the notion, especially since Jeremy's never tried to verbalise it even to himself. He waives a hand. "I like human contact." It sounds a bit pervy and Jeremy cringes at himself. "No sexual implications, I swear."

James regards him for a while with a tilted head, as if he's just heard something that doesn't make any sense. But then again, he would, being an oddball with a touch aversion.

"Are you sure?" James asks finally with a straight face but there's a smirk in the corners of his eyes. "It's that just you do tend to bring up sex quite a lot when I'm nearby."

Jeremy huffs. "I bring up sex a lot regardless of where you are." With a sceptical eyebrow raised at him, Jeremy huffs again. "You're just so uptight and proper I can't help but try and wind you up. I don't want to shag you – or any bloke for that matter, because I'm not gay," Jeremy points out insistently. "You're not even very hot," he adds for the good measure.  

"Oi!" James scowls, exaggeratedly affronted. "And how would you know if I'm hot if you're not gay?"

Jeremy almost starts to argue that objective assessment of hotness has nothing to do with one's sexuality, but thankfully, realises James is mocking him.

"Exactly – I'm not gay and therefore I don't find you hot," he says dismissively.

"But you keep putting your paws on me," James retorts, the smirk in his eyes beginning to touch his lips as well.

"I just told you, I'm naturally a hands-on person. If you were a dog I'd be petting you too." There is a marvellous second when laughter fills James's eyes and then bursts out in a giggle, to Jeremy's delight. He grins. "There isn't much difference to begin with, of course," he says gesturing at James's spaniel bangs.

James bats his hand away. "So I'm your pet now?"

Wow, trust the idiot to make it sound all wrong again. "No. You're ridiculous. Why do you interpret any touch as sexual? Is that why you don't let people anywhere near you? Because a hug automatically means a prelude to sex in your perverse mind?"

Now James huffs. "Of course not. A man's hand on my knee, though, and not for the first time –"

"Oh, give up!" Jeremy cries, fed up with the implications. "I don't find your knee, or any other part of your anatomy remotely sexy! It's just a touch!"

"In that case, if you put your hand on my crotch while not finding it sexy, would that mean I've no reason to be alarmed, either?"

Jeremy scowls. "You keep twisting my words and I don't like it. And I wouldn't put my hand anywhere near your cock, as it bears no interest to me."

"But my knee does?"

Jeremy wails and gets up from the sofa in exasperation. "I can't stand it any longer!" he announces and strides away, deciding that a smoke on the porch where it is windy and cold is much better than another minute of the petty May pedantry.

After a minute of blessed silence James joins him outside, a seeming offer of truce but Jeremy doesn't trust it for shit.

"Got a light?” James asks, smiling slightly. He stands too close to Jeremy while lighting up his fag, radiating warmth and, somehow, comfort. How can Jeremy refrain from touching him? "I don't mind it, actually," James continues after he returns Jeremy his lighter and takes the first drag. "As long as it's not my crotch you're palming," he adds, his expression positively sly. With the messy curls blown into his face, cheeks pink under the wind and eyes bright with amusement, he is almost pretty enough to declare him hot after all and snog the hell out of him. Jeremy wonders at himself for a moment, but then again, they did spend some time talking about shagging.

"Your virtue is safe with me, May," Jeremy says, dismissing all the unwelcome ideas. "Does that mean you are giving me a permission to touch you whenever I like it?"

James shrugs. "Have I ever objected before?"

Surprised, Jeremy realises that indeed he never has, which is very easy to push into another round of petty arguing. Jeremy could choose to be above it, but it's too bloody tempting.

"So you don't mind it when I'm touching you, but can't stand anyone else within three feet of you?"

James sighs. "You're going to turn it on me, aren't you? No, I don't find you particularly hot either, Clarkson. But whatever it is that makes you want to cuddle with me – well, it seems to go both ways."

For a second, Jeremy is torn. There's so much lewd innuendo in that statement it's unbearable to leave it unaddressed, but just five minutes ago, Jeremy has basically admitted that cuddles is exactly what he wants, so taking the piss now would be rather counterproductive.

For a while they stand on the cold porch, smoking. Surely, it’s perfectly reasonable now to get his bloody hug?  

"May I hug you now, then?" Jeremy asks as he finishes his cigarette. He wants to sound cocky and serious in the same time, and as a result ends up being unsure and unnecessary challenging.

James flicks his glowing butt away and turns to face him, his patient smile and contemplating head-tilt amplifying Jeremy's awkwardness.

"Okay," he says nevertheless.

It's so weird, asking for a permission to hug someone – Jeremy's never had to before, it's just what people do, especially if they've been close friends for several years.

It feels special and earned when, at fucking last, he slides his arms around James's shoulders and leans closely into him, trying not to sigh with content. He doesn't expect James to be very eager, still not trusting his forthcoming confession. But he appears to be wrong, because James buries his face in Jeremy's sweater immediately, holding tightly onto his back, and bizarrely, it turns out to be sweeter and more intimate than naked spooning with an attractive woman. Jeremy still doesn't think he wants to have sex with James, but he definitely wants everything else.

 -

Jeremy spends the next month trying to find out where James would draw the line, but no matter what he does, James lets him.

It’s strange and rather unsettling at first, as well as nice – when Jeremy expects resistance, James just smiles and relaxes into his hands, when he expects a cold incredulous stare, he gets playful wrestling and easy laughter. He puts his head on James’s shoulder cheekily but it warrants nothing but an amused huff. When they hug, Jeremy strokes his fingers through James’s shaggy curls and in response, James rubs his face against Jeremy’s shoulder, like an affectionate cat. It’s ridiculously lovely.

And Jeremy still wants more.  

 -

"Would you care to join me for a dinner tonight?" he asks when his frustration reaches crescendo.

James tears himself away from a screen with an assortment of ratty old Hondas to look at Jeremy with a raised eyebrow.

"You look shifty. Is there an ulterior motive?"

Jeremy pouts. "Why do you always suspect me in something unseemly?"

"Because you're naturally suspicious and unseemly, of course."

Well, it's not like he's far from the truth. "It’s just a dinner, James."

It isn’t, and worse still, Jeremy has no idea how to address the things he wants to address, mostly because he doesn’t really know what is it he wants.

“Okay.” James shrugs, his eyes sliding to the Honda porn already. “Where?”

“Mine,” Jeremy says firmly. “Be there at 8.”

There is a pause and James looks up again, squinting. “You’re definitely up to something. Shall I prepare for anything?”

Jeremy would love to warn him, but he has no idea what of. An unusual amount of cuddling? Jeremy snorts. “For fuck’s sake, James, I just want to have a dinner and I’m inviting you for company. Can’t I wish to have a dinner in your company?”

“You can, but usually there’s something else to it.” James huffs. “Fine, I’ll be there at 8. I hope you’re not going to poison me.”

For the next ten minutes Jeremy splutters, insisting his cooking is superb, unlike James’s, who can only do pies, and then the Richards come from their respective coffee and phone breaks, and Jeremy forgets to be bothered by his conundrum.

At eight, though, the table served, some smooth background music on (jazz, which James might appreciate), and his shirt crispy fresh, Jeremy smokes nervously on the balcony, trying and failing to come up with a plan. Tired of it, he glances at his watch, then back inside, at his nicely serviced dinner, and swears.

“It’s a date,” he says to himself incredulously. “I’ve asked him out on a date!”

He’s going to notice. Even having his head constantly stuck up in the Honda-shaped cloud, James can’t fucking miss the unmistakably romantic air about the whole event. Panicking, Jeremy rushes in, intending to at least change into a ratty t-shirt and turn off the jazz, but he’s too late.

The door opens, because James never bloody rings anymore, just lets himself in, and Jeremy freezes in the middle of the room. He tries to appear more casual than he feels, only coming across more awkward as the result.

James gives him a scowl as he walks in. “Seriously. You look like I just caught you with your hand down your pants. What’s going on?”

Jeremy clears his throat. “I think I forgot to switch the oven off,” he says, escaping to the kitchen for a short breather. Maybe it is the sex, he muses a bit panicky. Maybe he’s been sex-less for so long he’s managed to associate the desire for it with James due to all the fondling he’s been suddenly allowed. Maybe Jeremy had to invite a lady to a dinner and just get on with it, instead of trying to figure out what is it that James is making him crave for.  

Having not figured out anything, Jeremy comes back to the table and finds James completely unperturbed, studying the label on a wine bottle. “Lovely,” he comments, pouring a glass for himself. Jeremy has his own rosé, which he downs right away.

“I see you’ve made an effort,” James says in the same light tone. “Are we on a date, Jeremy?”

Jeremy chokes on his second glass of wine. “Why?” he croaks, hoping his ears are not too red. “Why would we be on a date?”

James looks mighty entertained. “Well –“

“It’s not a date,” Jeremy assures him quickly, before he begins to list everything that makes it look exactly like a date. “It’s just a dinner. Eat it and be grateful.”

James chuckles but obeys, settling on the safe subject of their upcoming Race to the North challenge, to Jeremy’s infinite relief.

“I’d love to take the train,” he says wistfully. “Are you sure you don’t want to switch?”

“James, with me driving the car there’s no suspense. At least with you behind the wheel there’s a chance the Jag might lose.”

“I’m betting on the train, actually. It’s not so much the driver that may befall the car, than the state it’s in. Actually, I’m more likely to win with the Jag cos I’d be able to mend it under two days’ time.”

Jeremy snorts. “If it was an old Honda, I might even agree. Talking about which – I think we’ve set Hammond up with this. He’s never going to go past  M25.”

“No, he will. You, on the other hand, are definitely going to have a heart attack.”

Jeremy waives him off. “How hard can it be?” He pauses, regarding James’s grin. “No, you’re right. It’s going to finish me. Be thankful this peril is not awaiting you.”

The chatting lulls Jeremy into the fake feeling of safety – and as for his vague but powerful frustration, then he can always work it out some other day, maybe after shagging a woman first to make sure it’s not about his blue balls. He has a creeping and horrifying suspicion it’s not the case, but Jeremy is not ready to accept it just yet.

Of course, when the hell does James take Jeremy’s woes to consideration?

They have a smoke outside, the night air cold but London pretty and lit brightly before them. Jeremy feels almost calm, slightly tipsy and enjoying the view and James’s proximity, almost content enough to leave it at that and never search for anything else.

Back inside, in the room a bit too warm and the smooth jazz a bit too noticeable, James corners him by a DVD shelf.

“Now tell me honestly, Jeremy. Is this a date?”

He’s standing too close and his eyes are too serious, and Jeremy can’t come up with any deflection.

“I don’t know,” he says plaintively. “I wasn’t in my intentions.”

“What was in your intentions, then?”

“I don’t know!” Jeremy insists, feeling unusually helpless. He doesn’t like feeling helpless. “This is way out of my area of expertise!”

James rolls his eyes. “That’s not unusual at all. All right, then. You clearly want something. We just got to find out, what.”

He’s being pedantic and logical, but for a rare change, Jeremy actually appreciates it. Logic is something familiar and useful, unlike all the undefined feelings Jeremy’s been having for the last half-year. It’d be even better if James was logical from a distance, but he remains on place, almost pressed flush to Jeremy, and then, as Jeremy fails to respond, puts a hand on his nape and drags him down for a brief and chaste kiss.

Jeremy’s so shocked by this development he stays bent down awkwardly, gaping, as James leans back.

“Wuh?”

James smirks. “Well, we had to start somewhere. It’s not kissing, then?”

“No – I – You didn’t – Let me –“ he shuts up and takes a breath, realising he’s sounding like an imbecile. “Is kissing something you’d like to do?” he asks, deciding an attack is a fine tactic in these circumstances.

“I wouldn’t mind.” James shrugs.

Whoa. Okay.

“And… uh, sex?”

That makes James pause, finally. “I don’t know,” he admits after a moment. “I’m not dying to see you naked and with your cock out,” he says, making Jeremy blush violently, “but then again, before ten minutes ago, I never thought about kissing you, either.”

Jeremy swallows. “I’m not even sure about that one yet. You’ll have to kiss me again, I’m afraid.”

His eyes lighting up instantly, which does all sort of things to Jeremy’s insides, James complies. The kiss is rather less brief this time, but about as chaste, no tongues and no lust in it, but it’s soft and eager and leaves Jeremy warm and a bit flushed in a very delightful way. James’s fingers are light and gentle on his nape, and Jeremy holds onto his lower back as on an anchor, and sways in helplessly when James leans away a bit.

“You seem pretty sure to me,” James mutters, smiling and pink around the edges – so ridiculously lovely Jeremy has to kiss him again, and then his pink cheeks and crinkled eyes and the little scar on his nose, until James is laughing softly, never trying to push Jeremy away.  “Was there something else you wanted, then?”

Jeremy draws him into a proper hug, burying his face in the messy bangs, for now content.

“Not right now, no. Well, a film and more wine would be great.”

James hums in agreement. 

Well, Jeremy thinks, beaming like an idiot, it’s pretty clear he won’t be inviting any ladies any time soon. 

[cunt242]

Pestigore - Twisted Perversions... Unbearable Delight [1992]