Fic: Saeculum Obscurum (JUST READ THE RAMBLING)
LOL THIS FIC.
Okay, so. I started this ~ironically for a commentfic meme, basically in illustration of the fact that AU!J2 fic relies in only the loosest of ways upon anyone's actual character. I fear it didn't, ultimately, convey much of the intended irony. However, what it is, if not terribly ironic, is: cliched, stylised, unrealistic, slightly historically inaccurate (*warps dates* *whistles*) and verging on purple in places.
But! It is also blowjob porn featuring Jensen Ackles as a captured Anglo-Saxon, speaking ye genuine article, because I am a total, total geek. Also, Jared is a boy Pope from the era of the Pornocracy, or saeculum obscurum. Which is...kind of cool? I DON'T KNOW.
Basically I'm posting it because I feel like I should have some record of the fact that I once wrote a truly ludicrous, not-entirely-made-of-crack, POPE AU.
And I'm rambling to myself to justify not leaving it to die anonymously on the meme where it was born. As a mad Pope would have done.
Title: Saeculum Obscurum
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ostensibly Jared/Jensen, but technically 'Jensen' could be anyone...
Summary: SELF-RIGHTEOUS SLUTTY BOY POPE USES CAPTURED ANGLO-SAXON FOR SEX. MAKES BAD LATIN PUNS DURING. SLAVE LIKES IT (OF COURSE).
Disclaimer: I think we've all established that this is the biggest load of shit to ever bull.
There were those who questioned the sanctity, the divinity, of the bloodline; who protested in the streets that the God-king should be made and not born. For the most part, Jared ignored them - was not the distinction, after all, ludicrous? Every child is made before it is born, the Christ-child notwithstanding. Those who objected loudly enough were disposed of. After all, Jared was the godhead on Earth, and that made his opinions the only truths.
To Jared's mind, the bond of blood was everything. It was from his father that he had learned the ways of the world, of the citadel - learned to kill quickly and question at his leisure, and to take that leisure in the form of some beauty almost too divine for flesh. His father had passed onto him his particular fondness for Angle-boys - non Angli, sed Angeli, as Gregory had said. And they were like angels, fair and freckled and sublime. His father had been given a beautiful specimen, tribute from a king, booty from some skirmish in the west. Jared had wanted him, saw him as a consort at his throne. A sleeping draught in wine, a twist of his knife, and boy and throne were his.
"Kill quickly, son," said his father, "and question at your leisure."
The Angle wasn't a boy, not really. Jared spoke no word of his strange, barbarian tongue, and the slave played dumb when questioned in Latin, although Jared suspected him of understanding more than he pretended. So he did not know his age, or his name; received only a blank stare when he asked. Still, it didn't much matter. He would be Jared's angel in the glorious whorehouse of the Lord.
As a physical specimen, there was no flaw in him. His skin ran pale and unspoiled over muscles that marked him clearly as a working man - a farmer, perhaps, or a craftsman. His hair was light, too, golden brown as perfect, new-risen loaves, and Jared knew its softness under his fingers. It would have been a waste of him, to leave him in a land too cold for nakedness, this vision of sex and sin. Jared loved his eyes best, a green-gold such as he had never seen.
"You are golden everywhere," he breathed against the angel's cheek.
"Mánsceaðan," said the angel, mildly, and brushed his knuckles against the fastenings of Jared's robes. He said that often, gently, as his hands cupped Jared's face, or as he readied Jared's vestments for High Mass. Jared liked to imagine it meant darling, my prince, soft sibilant weight of it on the angel's wicked tongue. He would never know, after all, so it did not matter. His angel existed for his pleasure, and nothing else.[1]
"Beautiful," Jared said, in the same tone. The angel was barely dressed beyond what would safeguard the modesty of any ladies who happened to pass, but the swathe of fabric about his hips was an aberration, to be instantly disposed of. Jared tugged, unwound, discarded, until his angel stood naked before him, cock rising up out of its nest of fair hair. He smiled, meeting the green eyes, steady and sure. "Kneel," he ordered, pleasantly imperious.
The angel had learned to obey that order quickly. He quirked his mouth, and knelt.
Even here, in Rome, where cultures ebbed against each other like waves, Jared was taller than all but the very very rare. That this gorgeous barbarian was almost as tall was more than intriguing; was thrilling. It was interesting, to grip against himself a body as strong as his own, to tilt his head only barely downwards to plunder the lush mouth upraised to be kissed. Not upraised in surrender, either, as Jared was used to, but almost under duress - the angel not protesting, but not giving all of himself at the first touch. He would give more, Jared discovered, if he worked for it, if he gave a little for what he took. It should have been unthinkable, that a slave could suggest such a trade without even a word, but from this man, it was delectable, heady and addictive and good. Jared kissed him and sought the gratification of being kissed back; learned from him to love the sound of another's pleasure.
But still, sometimes a boy-king liked to be tall, to exercise the instruments of his power and his glory; to have his servants exercise all their art in pursuit of his delight. His hand found the sharp line of the angel's jaw, tilting it upward, holding it steady.
"My angel," he said, "you will swallow me, and it will be your benediction."
The angel smiled a little, twist of his mouth that struck a flash of heat in Jared's abdomen. "Unscrýdee, þú sott,"[2] he said, and laughed, tugging at the belt of Jared's robes. Jared smiled back, indulgent, and slipped the catch of the belt; shook the loose robe from his shoulders. It slithered down his body in a smooth cascade of silk, uninhibited. Sometimes, the language barrier was no barrier, when the angel's face was soft and fond like this - when the words he spoke were so clearly commands, and yet Jared couldn't bring himself to care. If his angel wanted him naked, he would stand naked before him, the jut of his cock unclothed against his belly, the muscles of his thighs revealed to the slave's exploring hands. His fingers crept into the soft gold of the angel's hair, tugging, imploring. "Swallow."
The angel smiled, and took him to the root.
And this, this, the angel had done before, somewhere in his wind-bitten homeland where the heathen gods still stalked in forest exile. For a moment, Jared let himself envision it: his angel, on his knees before some pagan hammer, learning the shape of a cockhead in his perfect mouth. The angel would look good among the leaves, Jared thought, their green casting his eyes all the greener.
But that was in the past, now, for this one, his consort and his favourite. Jared was the only god in Rome to be worshipped. He thrust up into the wet heat of the angel's mouth, tightening his fingers in his hair. Around him, the muscles of the slave's throat rippled, clutching him hot and tight and strong.
"Fuck," he breathed, tilting his head back, "Holy Father, you are perfect."
The angel huffed out a breath of amusement at that, the twitch of it resonating thick and diffuse in his throat. Slowly, he began to slide his mouth upward, unsheathing Jared's length like a sword. When he reached the tip, his tongue flickered out to curl around the head, slicking through the precome where it leaked from the slit. His fingers splayed, strong and firm, on the jutting planes of Jared's pelvis, mouth slipping wetly side to side so that the cockhead smeared its slick over the pinkness of his lips. Jared twitched and moaned and prayed for the strength to stay standing.
The angel enjoyed loosening him like this, Jared knew; loved to shake him apart from the inside out until he whimpered and cried out his pleasure. Jared knew he should question that, should judge carefully where its dangers lay. But this man, this boy, this creature was beyond his capacity to deny, all sin-soft mouth and clever tongue ripping flares of heat from Jared's cock. He seized his hair, thrust back into the haven of his mouth, cockhead bumping at his throat - "Fuck!"
The angel hummed around him, taking him deeper, lifting his head in response to the grip of Jared's fingers. It was always quick, when they did it like this; relentless; the riptide of orgasm curling in his stomach almost the moment the angel's mouth touched him, and spiralling out of him in tightening coils as those lips and tongue teased the length of him. He was close, now, breathless, pelvis pistoning erratic and quick as he cradled the angels's face between his palms. The angel's fingers on his hips were like brands of fire, holding him steady even as they seemed to burn through his skin. The white heat inside him was everywhere, building with a pressure like lava gnawing at rock, behind his eyes and pulsing in his stomach and thrumming in his fingers and his throat like a second heartbeat. He dug in his fingers, crescent half-moons in the angel's skin, and bit back a cry, and another, and another, and another.
The angel moaned something incomprehensible around Jared's cock, and then pulled back slowly; pressed the tip of his tongue to the slit.
Jared came in a rush like the wrath of God.
The first thing to emerge from the darkness was the angel's face, sticky and slick with the heated unction of his come. He was smiling, and Jared smiled back without a thought, pulling him closer, lapping whiteness from the lesser paleness of the angel's skin. The angel shifted, throwing a leg over Jared's, and Jared laughed, reaching down to close his fingers around hardness. His slave hummed his appreciation, rocking his hips into the circle of Jared's grip.
"Come on," breathed Jared, softly, with what strength he could muster. "Move, boy. Fuck my hand. Come for me."
Jared loved the fact that his angel never took very long like this, pistoning reckless and quick. He cared, for some reason, with this one; cared that his angel enjoyed him, leaked slick for him all over the shaft of his cock. Jared watched his face as he crested and spent himself, the creases at the corner of his eyes.
"Beautiful," he murmured, bringing up his hand to the angel's mouth. "Beautiful, my angel. Gonna clean it up, hmm? Clean it up for me?"
The angel laughed, always, before he slid down on Jared's fingers, quirk of his mouth saying you don't fool me, prince. But Jared - Jared didn't need or wish to fool him, not when his angel licked himself from Jared's fingers and closed his eyes as if the bitter salt were nectar; not when he met Jared's eyes, sinful, when they fucked. Something about him was inpenetrable, and Jared liked it. Everything about him was gorgeous, like a vision of sin.
Probably, this would be a detriment to Jared's attention to duty. Probably, he would die bloody before next Christmas.
Still. He would die with an angel in his bed, fucked open and slicked with the sugar of their sins. There were worse deaths.
~ end~
[1] 'mánsceaðan' = 'enemy sinner' (Anglo-Saxon).
[2] This roughly equates to 'undress, then, y'idjit'.
Really, I'm just neurotic. I'm unable to sit still, knowing there's something I've written that isn't collected on my journal. What if I should NEED my Pope porn at some point in the future, and be unable to find it? HORRORS.
Okay, so. I started this ~ironically for a commentfic meme, basically in illustration of the fact that AU!J2 fic relies in only the loosest of ways upon anyone's actual character. I fear it didn't, ultimately, convey much of the intended irony. However, what it is, if not terribly ironic, is: cliched, stylised, unrealistic, slightly historically inaccurate (*warps dates* *whistles*) and verging on purple in places.
But! It is also blowjob porn featuring Jensen Ackles as a captured Anglo-Saxon, speaking ye genuine article, because I am a total, total geek. Also, Jared is a boy Pope from the era of the Pornocracy, or saeculum obscurum. Which is...kind of cool? I DON'T KNOW.
Basically I'm posting it because I feel like I should have some record of the fact that I once wrote a truly ludicrous, not-entirely-made-of-crack, POPE AU.
And I'm rambling to myself to justify not leaving it to die anonymously on the meme where it was born. As a mad Pope would have done.
Title: Saeculum Obscurum
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ostensibly Jared/Jensen, but technically 'Jensen' could be anyone...
Summary: SELF-RIGHTEOUS SLUTTY BOY POPE USES CAPTURED ANGLO-SAXON FOR SEX. MAKES BAD LATIN PUNS DURING. SLAVE LIKES IT (OF COURSE).
Disclaimer: I think we've all established that this is the biggest load of shit to ever bull.
There were those who questioned the sanctity, the divinity, of the bloodline; who protested in the streets that the God-king should be made and not born. For the most part, Jared ignored them - was not the distinction, after all, ludicrous? Every child is made before it is born, the Christ-child notwithstanding. Those who objected loudly enough were disposed of. After all, Jared was the godhead on Earth, and that made his opinions the only truths.
To Jared's mind, the bond of blood was everything. It was from his father that he had learned the ways of the world, of the citadel - learned to kill quickly and question at his leisure, and to take that leisure in the form of some beauty almost too divine for flesh. His father had passed onto him his particular fondness for Angle-boys - non Angli, sed Angeli, as Gregory had said. And they were like angels, fair and freckled and sublime. His father had been given a beautiful specimen, tribute from a king, booty from some skirmish in the west. Jared had wanted him, saw him as a consort at his throne. A sleeping draught in wine, a twist of his knife, and boy and throne were his.
"Kill quickly, son," said his father, "and question at your leisure."
The Angle wasn't a boy, not really. Jared spoke no word of his strange, barbarian tongue, and the slave played dumb when questioned in Latin, although Jared suspected him of understanding more than he pretended. So he did not know his age, or his name; received only a blank stare when he asked. Still, it didn't much matter. He would be Jared's angel in the glorious whorehouse of the Lord.
As a physical specimen, there was no flaw in him. His skin ran pale and unspoiled over muscles that marked him clearly as a working man - a farmer, perhaps, or a craftsman. His hair was light, too, golden brown as perfect, new-risen loaves, and Jared knew its softness under his fingers. It would have been a waste of him, to leave him in a land too cold for nakedness, this vision of sex and sin. Jared loved his eyes best, a green-gold such as he had never seen.
"You are golden everywhere," he breathed against the angel's cheek.
"Mánsceaðan," said the angel, mildly, and brushed his knuckles against the fastenings of Jared's robes. He said that often, gently, as his hands cupped Jared's face, or as he readied Jared's vestments for High Mass. Jared liked to imagine it meant darling, my prince, soft sibilant weight of it on the angel's wicked tongue. He would never know, after all, so it did not matter. His angel existed for his pleasure, and nothing else.[1]
"Beautiful," Jared said, in the same tone. The angel was barely dressed beyond what would safeguard the modesty of any ladies who happened to pass, but the swathe of fabric about his hips was an aberration, to be instantly disposed of. Jared tugged, unwound, discarded, until his angel stood naked before him, cock rising up out of its nest of fair hair. He smiled, meeting the green eyes, steady and sure. "Kneel," he ordered, pleasantly imperious.
The angel had learned to obey that order quickly. He quirked his mouth, and knelt.
Even here, in Rome, where cultures ebbed against each other like waves, Jared was taller than all but the very very rare. That this gorgeous barbarian was almost as tall was more than intriguing; was thrilling. It was interesting, to grip against himself a body as strong as his own, to tilt his head only barely downwards to plunder the lush mouth upraised to be kissed. Not upraised in surrender, either, as Jared was used to, but almost under duress - the angel not protesting, but not giving all of himself at the first touch. He would give more, Jared discovered, if he worked for it, if he gave a little for what he took. It should have been unthinkable, that a slave could suggest such a trade without even a word, but from this man, it was delectable, heady and addictive and good. Jared kissed him and sought the gratification of being kissed back; learned from him to love the sound of another's pleasure.
But still, sometimes a boy-king liked to be tall, to exercise the instruments of his power and his glory; to have his servants exercise all their art in pursuit of his delight. His hand found the sharp line of the angel's jaw, tilting it upward, holding it steady.
"My angel," he said, "you will swallow me, and it will be your benediction."
The angel smiled a little, twist of his mouth that struck a flash of heat in Jared's abdomen. "Unscrýdee, þú sott,"[2] he said, and laughed, tugging at the belt of Jared's robes. Jared smiled back, indulgent, and slipped the catch of the belt; shook the loose robe from his shoulders. It slithered down his body in a smooth cascade of silk, uninhibited. Sometimes, the language barrier was no barrier, when the angel's face was soft and fond like this - when the words he spoke were so clearly commands, and yet Jared couldn't bring himself to care. If his angel wanted him naked, he would stand naked before him, the jut of his cock unclothed against his belly, the muscles of his thighs revealed to the slave's exploring hands. His fingers crept into the soft gold of the angel's hair, tugging, imploring. "Swallow."
The angel smiled, and took him to the root.
And this, this, the angel had done before, somewhere in his wind-bitten homeland where the heathen gods still stalked in forest exile. For a moment, Jared let himself envision it: his angel, on his knees before some pagan hammer, learning the shape of a cockhead in his perfect mouth. The angel would look good among the leaves, Jared thought, their green casting his eyes all the greener.
But that was in the past, now, for this one, his consort and his favourite. Jared was the only god in Rome to be worshipped. He thrust up into the wet heat of the angel's mouth, tightening his fingers in his hair. Around him, the muscles of the slave's throat rippled, clutching him hot and tight and strong.
"Fuck," he breathed, tilting his head back, "Holy Father, you are perfect."
The angel huffed out a breath of amusement at that, the twitch of it resonating thick and diffuse in his throat. Slowly, he began to slide his mouth upward, unsheathing Jared's length like a sword. When he reached the tip, his tongue flickered out to curl around the head, slicking through the precome where it leaked from the slit. His fingers splayed, strong and firm, on the jutting planes of Jared's pelvis, mouth slipping wetly side to side so that the cockhead smeared its slick over the pinkness of his lips. Jared twitched and moaned and prayed for the strength to stay standing.
The angel enjoyed loosening him like this, Jared knew; loved to shake him apart from the inside out until he whimpered and cried out his pleasure. Jared knew he should question that, should judge carefully where its dangers lay. But this man, this boy, this creature was beyond his capacity to deny, all sin-soft mouth and clever tongue ripping flares of heat from Jared's cock. He seized his hair, thrust back into the haven of his mouth, cockhead bumping at his throat - "Fuck!"
The angel hummed around him, taking him deeper, lifting his head in response to the grip of Jared's fingers. It was always quick, when they did it like this; relentless; the riptide of orgasm curling in his stomach almost the moment the angel's mouth touched him, and spiralling out of him in tightening coils as those lips and tongue teased the length of him. He was close, now, breathless, pelvis pistoning erratic and quick as he cradled the angels's face between his palms. The angel's fingers on his hips were like brands of fire, holding him steady even as they seemed to burn through his skin. The white heat inside him was everywhere, building with a pressure like lava gnawing at rock, behind his eyes and pulsing in his stomach and thrumming in his fingers and his throat like a second heartbeat. He dug in his fingers, crescent half-moons in the angel's skin, and bit back a cry, and another, and another, and another.
The angel moaned something incomprehensible around Jared's cock, and then pulled back slowly; pressed the tip of his tongue to the slit.
Jared came in a rush like the wrath of God.
The first thing to emerge from the darkness was the angel's face, sticky and slick with the heated unction of his come. He was smiling, and Jared smiled back without a thought, pulling him closer, lapping whiteness from the lesser paleness of the angel's skin. The angel shifted, throwing a leg over Jared's, and Jared laughed, reaching down to close his fingers around hardness. His slave hummed his appreciation, rocking his hips into the circle of Jared's grip.
"Come on," breathed Jared, softly, with what strength he could muster. "Move, boy. Fuck my hand. Come for me."
Jared loved the fact that his angel never took very long like this, pistoning reckless and quick. He cared, for some reason, with this one; cared that his angel enjoyed him, leaked slick for him all over the shaft of his cock. Jared watched his face as he crested and spent himself, the creases at the corner of his eyes.
"Beautiful," he murmured, bringing up his hand to the angel's mouth. "Beautiful, my angel. Gonna clean it up, hmm? Clean it up for me?"
The angel laughed, always, before he slid down on Jared's fingers, quirk of his mouth saying you don't fool me, prince. But Jared - Jared didn't need or wish to fool him, not when his angel licked himself from Jared's fingers and closed his eyes as if the bitter salt were nectar; not when he met Jared's eyes, sinful, when they fucked. Something about him was inpenetrable, and Jared liked it. Everything about him was gorgeous, like a vision of sin.
Probably, this would be a detriment to Jared's attention to duty. Probably, he would die bloody before next Christmas.
Still. He would die with an angel in his bed, fucked open and slicked with the sugar of their sins. There were worse deaths.
~ end~
[1] 'mánsceaðan' = 'enemy sinner' (Anglo-Saxon).
[2] This roughly equates to 'undress, then, y'idjit'.
Really, I'm just neurotic. I'm unable to sit still, knowing there's something I've written that isn't collected on my journal. What if I should NEED my Pope porn at some point in the future, and be unable to find it? HORRORS.