(no subject)
Title: The Twelve Days of Christmas
By: musegaarid & _serpensortia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On the fourth day of Christmas, an angel gave to me, a love of music history...
Notes: The fourth part of our twelve part holiday ficlet. Part one, Part two, Part three.
"But... I don't understand," Remiel said, sounding somewhat helpless in light of his recent assignment.
"Well," Crowley said, "you're the angel of hope, aren't you? Sounds like exactly the angel I was hoping to see." He thought better of going into the details of just what he was hoping for and simply flashed the angel his most genial of serpentine smiles.
Remiel didn't seem to be listening, however; he was perusing the details of his latest assignment again, muttering to himself. "Mayfair... Adams Row... No, this is the right place. But you're - you're a de - "
"Devilishly handsome bloke? Why, Remiel, you're too kind. Why don't you have a seat? I'll just go and pour us some wine..." Crowley indicated the pristine expanse of his white leather couch - part of next year's collection, he didn't mind pointing out - and made his way into the kitchen to open that old bottle of Chateau Lafite that that he'd suddenly been saving up for a special occasion.
Remiel was perched somewhat uncomfortably on the couch when Crowley returned with two glasses of wine in hand. He ran both hands through his golden curls, a somewhat agitated gesture, before looking up at the approaching demon and accepting the glance Crowley offered him. Crowley settled on the couch next to him, turned to face the angel amiably over his wineglass.
Remiel glanced over the demon from the corner of his eye. "So... you're my assignment?"
"It would appear," Crowley replied nonchalantly, "judging by that."
He nodded toward Remiel's pocket; the angel look vaguely scandalized until he realized that Crowley had been referring to the note that he'd stuffed in his pocket. He promptly dug it out and glanced at again, as though it might have changed in the last few minutes. Behind the shield of dark glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes.
Remiel made a thoughtful noise. "Well... what were you hoping to see me for, exactly?"
Crowley's pleasant smile curved into an almost predatory grin. "Well, since you asked..."
But Remiel's eyes had narrowed, his attention snatched away by something over Crowley's shoulder. The demon frowned, turning to see what had worried the angel, but before he could say anything, the angel of hope had leaped up and all but scampered over the the sleek dark shelves that housed Crowley's CD collection.
"You have all of the Velvet Underground albums?" the angel said, a hint of awe in his voice, as he reached unerringly for an album with a stylized banana on the cover. Crowley arched a brow curiously, giving a slightly confused affirmation. "I don't suppose we could... ?" the angel began, and then dropped off, looking sheepish.
Crowley grinned, and with a gesture, the top-of-the-line sound system booted up and the first strains of Here She Comes Now spilled into the room. Remiel, like Crowley, didn't seem to notice that there were no speakers to be found in the room, yet the music poured forth in crystal clear strains from every corner.
"Nice," Remiel commented, and his delighted smile matching Crowley's mischievous grin.
"Now, Remiel," Crowley said, "I don't suppose you like Queen?"
The angel's eyes went wide.
They'd gone through half of the 70s glam movement (not to mention half of the bottle of wine) before Crowley dared to take Remiel's hand and tug the angel up off the couch. "You know, you're not getting the full experience if you're not dancing."
The angel was actually a passable dancer, which somewhat surprised Crowley; the demon was, after all, accustomed to Aziraphale's sterile gavotte. Though his movements didn't have the practiced finesse of Crowley's, he had an innate grace that allowed him to keep up with the smooth twists and turns of Crowley's hips. It was almost... fun. Yet, as they danced, Crowley didn't lose sight of his goal in the matter. His movements brought him closer and closer to the angel, brushing against him where it seemed most natural; until, at the perfect swell in the music, Crowley kissed him.
Remiel started, but seemed to be more surprised than anything else. "What are you doing?" he asked when his lips were free enough to do so.
"Finding hope in bleakest times," the demon murmured, something heavy and sensual in his voice. "That's your function, isn't it, angel?"
"Well..." Remiel glanced down when he realized that Crowley had backed him up against the sleek black coffee table. "Finding hope?" he echoed.
"Oh yes," Crowley said, showing lavish attention to the angel's left ear. "I'm feeling very hopeful."
David Bowie was crooning something about getting to Heaven while going down as Crowley urged the angel back against the table. Remiel was enticingly warm beneath his hands, in a way no mortal ever could be, and Crowley made short work of his own jacket and black tie before settling himself over the angel. He covered the pale face and throat with rough kisses. The angel responded with a faint groan, hands on Crowley's hips as he guided the demon closer. Crowley was both surprised and pleased at this show of willingness. At the edge of his vision, he could see his movements reflected back at him in the glass table top as he shifted against the angel, an exhilarating friction between them. Blessed Haniel, anyway. This was going to be much more gratifying...
Crowley shifted, until he could get one hand between them, stroking the angel's torso, drawing patterns up and down his rib cage with gentle fingers, until he'd worked his way down to the clasp of Remiel's trousers. Remiel responded in kind, though his hands were somewhat more timid as he reached up to find Crowley's waistband.
Suddenly, Remiel froze.
"Crowley, wait."
Crowley pulled back just far enough to give Remiel a questioning look, not relinquishing any of the weight that had the angel pinned to the coffee table. "Yess?"
"I've got to go."
"What?"
"I've got to go. I mean, I... I can just tell. I've got a new assignment."
"New. Assignment?" Crowley asked flatly, barely keeping his annoyance in check.
Remiel squirmed, managing to work his slender hips out from under the demon's weight, and slid his legs over one side of the table. He rose, one hand on the waist of his loose trousers.
"You - you really have to go?" Crowley sounded a bit desperate, even to his own ears; but then, with his heart racing and his still clothed erection pressed against an unyielding coffee table, frustration seemed a rather reasonable reaction.
"Hardly seems fair, does it? Anyway, thanks for the wine."
The sound of the door closing behind Remiel was echoed by the unamused thud of Crowley's head against the table top. "Fucking angels."
By: musegaarid & _serpensortia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On the fourth day of Christmas, an angel gave to me, a love of music history...
Notes: The fourth part of our twelve part holiday ficlet. Part one, Part two, Part three.
"But... I don't understand," Remiel said, sounding somewhat helpless in light of his recent assignment.
"Well," Crowley said, "you're the angel of hope, aren't you? Sounds like exactly the angel I was hoping to see." He thought better of going into the details of just what he was hoping for and simply flashed the angel his most genial of serpentine smiles.
Remiel didn't seem to be listening, however; he was perusing the details of his latest assignment again, muttering to himself. "Mayfair... Adams Row... No, this is the right place. But you're - you're a de - "
"Devilishly handsome bloke? Why, Remiel, you're too kind. Why don't you have a seat? I'll just go and pour us some wine..." Crowley indicated the pristine expanse of his white leather couch - part of next year's collection, he didn't mind pointing out - and made his way into the kitchen to open that old bottle of Chateau Lafite that that he'd suddenly been saving up for a special occasion.
Remiel was perched somewhat uncomfortably on the couch when Crowley returned with two glasses of wine in hand. He ran both hands through his golden curls, a somewhat agitated gesture, before looking up at the approaching demon and accepting the glance Crowley offered him. Crowley settled on the couch next to him, turned to face the angel amiably over his wineglass.
Remiel glanced over the demon from the corner of his eye. "So... you're my assignment?"
"It would appear," Crowley replied nonchalantly, "judging by that."
He nodded toward Remiel's pocket; the angel look vaguely scandalized until he realized that Crowley had been referring to the note that he'd stuffed in his pocket. He promptly dug it out and glanced at again, as though it might have changed in the last few minutes. Behind the shield of dark glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes.
Remiel made a thoughtful noise. "Well... what were you hoping to see me for, exactly?"
Crowley's pleasant smile curved into an almost predatory grin. "Well, since you asked..."
But Remiel's eyes had narrowed, his attention snatched away by something over Crowley's shoulder. The demon frowned, turning to see what had worried the angel, but before he could say anything, the angel of hope had leaped up and all but scampered over the the sleek dark shelves that housed Crowley's CD collection.
"You have all of the Velvet Underground albums?" the angel said, a hint of awe in his voice, as he reached unerringly for an album with a stylized banana on the cover. Crowley arched a brow curiously, giving a slightly confused affirmation. "I don't suppose we could... ?" the angel began, and then dropped off, looking sheepish.
Crowley grinned, and with a gesture, the top-of-the-line sound system booted up and the first strains of Here She Comes Now spilled into the room. Remiel, like Crowley, didn't seem to notice that there were no speakers to be found in the room, yet the music poured forth in crystal clear strains from every corner.
"Nice," Remiel commented, and his delighted smile matching Crowley's mischievous grin.
"Now, Remiel," Crowley said, "I don't suppose you like Queen?"
The angel's eyes went wide.
They'd gone through half of the 70s glam movement (not to mention half of the bottle of wine) before Crowley dared to take Remiel's hand and tug the angel up off the couch. "You know, you're not getting the full experience if you're not dancing."
The angel was actually a passable dancer, which somewhat surprised Crowley; the demon was, after all, accustomed to Aziraphale's sterile gavotte. Though his movements didn't have the practiced finesse of Crowley's, he had an innate grace that allowed him to keep up with the smooth twists and turns of Crowley's hips. It was almost... fun. Yet, as they danced, Crowley didn't lose sight of his goal in the matter. His movements brought him closer and closer to the angel, brushing against him where it seemed most natural; until, at the perfect swell in the music, Crowley kissed him.
Remiel started, but seemed to be more surprised than anything else. "What are you doing?" he asked when his lips were free enough to do so.
"Finding hope in bleakest times," the demon murmured, something heavy and sensual in his voice. "That's your function, isn't it, angel?"
"Well..." Remiel glanced down when he realized that Crowley had backed him up against the sleek black coffee table. "Finding hope?" he echoed.
"Oh yes," Crowley said, showing lavish attention to the angel's left ear. "I'm feeling very hopeful."
David Bowie was crooning something about getting to Heaven while going down as Crowley urged the angel back against the table. Remiel was enticingly warm beneath his hands, in a way no mortal ever could be, and Crowley made short work of his own jacket and black tie before settling himself over the angel. He covered the pale face and throat with rough kisses. The angel responded with a faint groan, hands on Crowley's hips as he guided the demon closer. Crowley was both surprised and pleased at this show of willingness. At the edge of his vision, he could see his movements reflected back at him in the glass table top as he shifted against the angel, an exhilarating friction between them. Blessed Haniel, anyway. This was going to be much more gratifying...
Crowley shifted, until he could get one hand between them, stroking the angel's torso, drawing patterns up and down his rib cage with gentle fingers, until he'd worked his way down to the clasp of Remiel's trousers. Remiel responded in kind, though his hands were somewhat more timid as he reached up to find Crowley's waistband.
Suddenly, Remiel froze.
"Crowley, wait."
Crowley pulled back just far enough to give Remiel a questioning look, not relinquishing any of the weight that had the angel pinned to the coffee table. "Yess?"
"I've got to go."
"What?"
"I've got to go. I mean, I... I can just tell. I've got a new assignment."
"New. Assignment?" Crowley asked flatly, barely keeping his annoyance in check.
Remiel squirmed, managing to work his slender hips out from under the demon's weight, and slid his legs over one side of the table. He rose, one hand on the waist of his loose trousers.
"You - you really have to go?" Crowley sounded a bit desperate, even to his own ears; but then, with his heart racing and his still clothed erection pressed against an unyielding coffee table, frustration seemed a rather reasonable reaction.
"Hardly seems fair, does it? Anyway, thanks for the wine."
The sound of the door closing behind Remiel was echoed by the unamused thud of Crowley's head against the table top. "Fucking angels."