pippychick

SPN fanfic

2007-09-05T07:07:44Z

Ok... I know I've been really quiet lately. I've had real trouble getting online it's been a nightmare, and I still can't access all my old word docs and stuff *gulps*

But I've also been watching Supernatural and along with esteliel I have plans for these two... aren't they lucky? *eg*

This one though... it's very unlike me but here you have something with such a low rating I can post it on ff.net.

Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warnings: SPOILERS FOR SEASON TWO FINALE - You have been warned.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own Dean or Sam, and believe me I wish I was good enough to make those kind of deals. They belong to Warner Bros and their wonderful writers. Please don't sue me, I don't have a thing.
Summary: A post series two drabble just to see if I could write them in character before doing something really evil with them.

It's late when they get back to the motel; dark outside and full of promise. Since the door to Hell was opened - even for that short space of time - there's been so much to do; so many demons and spirits to deal with that Dean can't remember the last time he got a good night's sleep. Though even if it was quiet he doubted he could sleep well again now.

Sam stumbles in to their little room in front of him. It's another one of those with motel stationery and a bible by the side of the one bed. They've been here for two days now; this will be their third night and Dean knows they will move on tomorrow. Even now with all they have to consider they can't stay in one place too long. The police are still searching for them.

His brother doesn't even make his usual comment about there being one bed as he settles upon it without even taking off his mud-covered shoes. It was the only room left the previous night and Dean had taken it without an argument. If they could sleep there, it would be good enough. With a silent sigh and the kind of patience reserved only for Sam, Dean leans over the side of the bed where Sam is already cradling the pillow beneath his head with his eyes closed as if listening to it. It's not much trouble to take off his brother's shoes and make him comfortable. As Dean suspected he's already mostly asleep anyway, and it's a kind of relief for him.

One year. That's fifty-two weeks, and it's been three weeks since the deal was made. That leaves forty-nine. Dean knows it, and Sam knows it too. Something has changed in his eyes, something hurts inside Sam. Dean can't even remember seeing that look when their father died. Not exactly llike it is now. It's almost accusing.

Something serious flits over Dean's face as he places the muddy shoes carefully by the side of bed. "It was a good deal, Sammy," he says quietly, knowing his little brother can't hear him now anyway. "One year," he muses, reaching out to almost touch Sam's cheek with a forefinger, his hand dropping at the last moment the same time as his eyes. "Better than I expected. Hell, I would have taken it for ten minutes."

Suddenly he stands up and walks around the small room, kicking his shoes and socks off, throwing his jacket onto a chair and peeling the blood splattered t-shirt away from his skin to let it drop in an untidy red and white pile on the floor. Just something else that needs to be incinerated tomorrow once they're alone and outside of town. They need the credit card fraud just to keep them in clothes. Dean has one t-shirt that has survived to see three launderette trips. Secretly he calls it his lucky shirt, although technically all it means is that he doesn't seem to get splattered in blood while wearing it.

Dirty, like the shirt, and yet Dean feels good and whole in his skin - at least for now. He pulls a gun from a pocket of the jacket and leaves his jeans on as he thinks about washing and instead just settles on the other side of the king size bed. The bible goes into the drawer and the gun takes its place at his right hand. Something about that would bother him if he let it, but he doesn't let it. He lays for a few moments staring at the yellowed paint on the ceiling with his hands behind his head, then slowly closes his eyes.

"Dean," Sam mutters, and instantly the gun is in his hand. Almost before he opens his eyes he is cocking the trigger and sitting up.

"What is it?" He looks around for a moment, taking in the empty room, then looks down to where Sam is still lying motionless and seemingly asleep. He's almost about to ask again before Sam speaks.

"Ten minutes would have been just enough time for you to lie to me, wouldn't it?" Something cold clutches at his heart, and he doesn't want to do this now. Not now. Sam still hasn't moved, hasn't turned to face him, and so he closes his eyes momentarily in guilt and hurt as he relaxes his grip on the gun and lets the trigger gently back to a safer position.

"Go to sleep, Sammy."

"Just close my eyes, huh?" There's a dark humour in the words and Dean smiles before he can help himself, though it isn't really funny.

"Bitch," he mutters.

"Jerk," he gets back. And he's sorry, but he can't say it. Not now. Because he'd do it again. For being able to kill the demon, but also for this one moment. There's a gentle snore from Sam as he puts the gun back on the bedside table and looks at it there. For a moment he sees a bible instead of a gun, and he shivers. Now he lets it bother him.

No one is on our side.

He interlaces his hands behind his head again and lies sleepless for a while as Sam snores. It's warm enough in summer that they don't need the blankets, especially with most of their clothes on. A few long dark moments later and he feels Sam sliding in close to him in his sleep. One hand underneath his back, the other draped over his chest as Sam uses him for a pillow. Dean opens his eyes again, sure that Sam is asleep now because he wouldn't do this if he was awake. But it was always like this when they were kids. Only difference now it that as he looks down the bed he can see all six foot four inches of his brother stretched away at an angle, feet just barely keeping on the giant bed they're sharing.

He moves his hands from behind his head, just so that he can lay one hand on Sam's hair and the other on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he admits at last, because now he sees what he didn't when he made the deal. Like himself sat in front of Sam's dead body, empty and hopeless, everything around him turned to grey ash. One day Sam is going to be in that exact place, and he's put his brother there himself in his selfishness. One day Sam will reach out for him in his sleep and he won't be there.

Maybe he was waiting for this because when Sam clings to him somehow he feels he can relax, and he drifts off slowly, unaware of the single tear that made it's way down his cheek at the moment of his apology.

~ finis ~

Author's Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Comments welcome.

Original Story - WIP

2007-07-06T09:13:56Z

Author: Pippychick
Pairings: Angel/Demon, Demon/Neal, Angel/Neal, Angel/Jesus, Demon/Jesus.
Rating: NC-17. Please don’t click on the link if you are underage.
Warnings: There will be (in no particular order): Graphic sex, slash, gender ambiguity, BDSM, and a complete lack of respect for all organised (and disorganised) religion. There will probably be many more warnings applicable to this story in time, but I will update you on those as they come around. Expect horror in later chapters.
Disclaimer: They’re mine… all mine! The characters and their universe belong entirely to me. I do not, however, own Jesus. He belongs to God, and no copyright infringement is meant.

Chapter Four

Hell. It wasn’t dark or even particularly depressing. The air was fresh with ozone, a product of the savage weather systems. There were no mortals here, burning in agony for eternity, although had any been here, they might well believe they were in the proverbial place of punishment. Hell was the pinnacle of perfection for certain ideas that had taken root on earth. Natural selection, for one – the grandest and most magnificent creatures existed here, spurred on by centuries of enforced survival in a robust and perilous world. Here the dinosaurs still roamed; some were a perfect realisation of the predator, while still others had become brilliant at mastering the tactic of survival through indulgence.

Here all the sins were represented, and each had a benefit. Hell was fiery, however. It was an unstable world; earthquakes and storms were only the very tip of the dangers that Hell had to offer. Depressions of land that seemed to have been formed over centuries were in fact the evidence of supervolcanoes. That life still existed here, and that it actually thrived, was a testament to the animals’ tenacious nature.

But for all that Hell wasn’t ugly. The catastrophic behaviour of the planet itself had actually contributed to its beauty. The rugged and ravaged land was in many places covered over with plant life, and it made for unparalleled vistas of rolling hills and valleys. But even the trees here weren’t safe, and sought to protect their leaves from predators by advertising their poisonous nature. They glowed phosphorescently in the dusk as a warning, and Angel thought they looked magnificent.

He and Demon stood on a rocky promontory, looking out over what seemed to be an enchanted forest in the twilight of the rapidly darkening day. The sheer violence of the volcanic activity ensured there was a scattering of ash in the upper atmosphere, and the rays of the dying sun were made into a spectacular display of colour and light. Hazy gold and streaks of silver fired the imagination, before giving way to a deep, crimson red before darkness fell. Combined with the forest, the effect was startling and almost magical.

As darkness fell properly, small lights appeared between the trees, moving in a purposeful and sentient way. They looked pretty, but Angel shuddered, and turned his face into Demon’s shoulder, who smirked.

“You know, on Earth they are beginning to consider unreasonable disgust a failing,” he stated. Angel ignored him. Demon didn’t do anything but watch the strange lights curiously, waiting for them to appear from the trees. His eyes glittered in something that might be hunger. He was rewarded a moment later when a single, giant moth came fluttering from the trees. Another creature chased it. It looked much like a spider, except for its size. It was as big as a medium-sized dog, and its abdomen flashed an intermittent light that was designed to confuse its quarry. On Earth, spiders were solitary, lonely creatures that built traps to catch their meals. Here they were pack animals who hunted, and they were very good at it.

Demon watched the moth with baited breath as it fluttered forward, just out of the reach of its pursuer, only to be caught by one of the pack that stood waiting just shy of the shelter of the trees. Immediately the ground was alive with the giant spiders. The smaller young were even more vicious than the rest as the meal was divided out. Still, Demon watched, having seen something the spiders hadn’t learnt to notice… yet. The moth had been carrying something. Eggs.

The first of the spiders fell when they had barely begun to retreat back into the woods. The rest quickly followed. There wasn’t time in Hell for the young of any species to hang around, and there was only a very limited impression of the spiders being eaten alive from the inside out by the voracious grubs of the grey moth. When all the spiders were gone, the grubs started on each other to settle their insatiable hunger. Eventually there were only three or four left, and those unfurled fresh, new wings and fluttered away calmly. There was nothing left to tell of the drama. Demon smiled. He admired those moths. But he had prey of his own here…

Stepping back, he regarded Angel thoughtfully, and his lover laughed. “You may as well give up now. If one of us is fear, it isn’t me,” he said lightly. One of the moths had returned, and now flew around him, occasionally alighting on his robes playfully. Having seen nothing of the spiders and their fate, Angel laughed and smiled in pleasure at the way its velvety soft wings felt when they brushed against his face.

Demon felt lust beginning to stir at the truly innocent display, and he reached out to pull Angel close to him. His eyes were still alight with joy at the butterfly, and his lips glistened in the bright moonlight and the eerie glow from the forest below them. “You need me,” he stated harshly.

“Yes,” Angel replied instantly, and Demon growled. The need to possess was paramount in his mind, much more than a simple desire. Whereas with Angel, the restraint he practised on Demon was purely to keep him still and quiet, Demon had an intense compulsion to subjugate and subdue his lover. He never needed to wonder if Angel could withstand it – he always did.

He bit his lover’s neck, and felt his teeth break through Angel’s skin. The rich, warm tang of blood flowed over his lips and tongue like release, and he moaned. He stopped for a moment to whisper against the beautifully ruined flesh. “You need me,” he repeated. “You need everything I am. Death, and fear, and hate. Even when you don’t know what they are. You need this. You need me to hurt you.” He looked up at Angel, his lust driven on by his own words.

There was pain in Angel’s eyes, but he made no complaint. Nor did he push Demon away. With his complacency he invited the coming violence, and Demon would have felt disgust and revulsion for him if there weren’t something else. Angel was not really submissive to him at times like these. Oh, he could make Angel cry, and beg, and plead. But there was an inner core of strength and self-belief that Demon couldn’t damage, something of Angel he couldn’t change. And it was that impenetrability that made him want more, and more. There would never be a time when he had done enough, and there would never be a time when he became bored. Angel was perfect. It was so easy to want him.

For his part, Angel found himself a little apprehensive. He knew, after all, what to expect, but at the same time he was happy. If this was what Demon required, then he would give it gladly. In some ways, Angel often thought Demon resembled the animals he created. Ruthless, merciless and selfish. But there was something else. As much as he needed Demon, his lover also needed him. However many times Demon destroyed him, he needed Angel’s warmth and compassion. Angel saw how they complimented each other, and it was that sense of completeness that made him endure Demon’s torments. There would never be a time when Demon asked for too much, and there would never be a time when Demon’s need for his submission encompassed self-destruction. Demon was perfect. It was so easy to love him.

But for now… He looked at his lover. Demon was still favouring the idea of temptation, the blond hair and wide blue eyes were so incongruous with the sudden tearing away of his robes. He stood naked, and looked away self-consciously. Demon laughed at him, and forestalled the violence to take Angel’s member in his hand and tease him. The thought of pleasing Demon never failed to make him hard. If one day he would accept the love that was offered to him…

“How do you deal with shame?” he asked curiously, sliding his hand over Angel in a way that made him tremble. Angel felt the heat in his cheeks, and didn’t answer. “What purpose does it serve?” he asked in the same mildly inquisitive tone. At that moment, Angel had no answer for such a question, and so he did something that was guaranteed to seal his fate for now. He tentatively touched Demon in return, and made eye contact despite the flush on his face. He deliberately licked his lips, knowing it would draw a reaction. He wasn’t wrong.

Demon shoved him to his knees roughly, and before long Angel found himself giving his lover pleasure, licking and sucking at the hard column of flesh before him. He took Demon into his mouth slowly, drawing the pleasure out for both of them. When he thought to move back, he wasn’t surprised to feel Demon’s hand at the back of his head, holding him in place. He looked up, only to find Demon watching him with narrowed eyes. Or more correctly, watching what was happening. Angel closed his eyes as Demon moved further forward, pushing slowly but insistently deeper into his mouth. Then it was his throat, and still it didn’t seem to end. Angel stopped breathing, and swallowed. In a part of his mind, he thought this was all a bit tame, and so he almost expected the violence when it came.

Demon drew back suddenly, and then forced himself back, so that Angel wanted to cry out. But he couldn’t. What Angel would have made a loving, pleasurable thing became a brutal act of domination. He was pushed around. Used. It didn’t last long, no more than a minute or two, before Demon had enough and pulled out completely. Although Angel could will himself not to breathe or gag, the physical form he occupied still required air, and he gasped and coughed when Demon finally gave him freedom.

“Turn around!” he demanded in a low voice, and Angel complied while he caught his breath. There was no rest for him though. After the barest amount of preparation, Demon was taking him. He did manage to cry out this time. He felt tears come unbidden to his eyes at the way his body was mistreated. It hurt and burned, but Demon didn’t give him even the slightest time to grow accustomed to the invasion before he began to move in a deep, masterful rhythm.

He tried to scream, but his throat was raw and all that emerged was a weakened cry. “Be quiet,” Demon hissed, and Angel tried to obey, but he couldn’t help voicing a distressed whimper every now and again. He dug his fingertips into the rocky ground and gritted his teeth as the assault continued. Demon took hold of his long hair and began using it to pull him backwards in a way that made Angel feel like little more than an object. When Demon’s other hand came around to make him hard, Angel fought it. He concentrated grimly on the pain, and shut out the pleasure. But Demon didn’t let up, and soon Angel found himself moaning and moving back to meet Demon’s thrusts, despite the agony of the rape. At times like this Angel was reminded that Demon was much more at home with the physical than he was. It was easy for Demon to manipulate him like this.

“Please,” he groaned aloud, feeling Demon pulse inside him in response.

“Are you begging for it to stop, or begging for me to continue?” Demon asked huskily. He squeezed Angel’s flesh lightly at the same time as his words, purposefully making it difficult to answer. Demon stopped moving for a moment, finally allowing Angel to adjust to him. The sharp, shooting pains calmed as his body grew used to Demon’s presence at last, and Angel found himself wondering once more how something so wonderful could be made into such a painful, destructive act.

“Please,” he said again, his voice not reaching above a defeated whisper this time. Demon moved again, and this time Angel found it was at least a little pleasurable. He zeroed his mind in on the warmth that was slowly spreading through his body, instead of the sharp, punishing nature of Demon’s movements. He felt it when Demon was close, and used his muscles to try and encourage his lover.

When Demon came he gathered Angel close to his body, and it was the one part of all this that Angel truly enjoyed. For this short space of time in Demon’s arms, it was almost as though he was loved in return. Desperately he clung to the dream, relaxing into Demon’s arms. He was able to enjoy it for a short minute or so; but as always, Demon shattered the illusion.

“You love me, and you love me to fuck you. Even like that,” he breathed heavily into Angel’s ear. Now it was over for Demon, he turned his attention to Angel properly, and his hand began to move again, making Angel sigh in pleasure. “How does it feel to please me?” he asked quietly, and Angel moaned helplessly and thrust into Demon’s hand. He sniggered. “I thought so.”

Angel blushed and tried to move away from Demon’s touch, but there was nowhere to go. “It’s all right,” Demon said softly, calming him. “I know what you want me to say.” He fell silent for a few seconds, and Angel listened to the sound of his heartbeat accelerating in anticipation. Demon could do something Angel couldn’t do. Something that was worth a thousand painful, humiliating experiences like this. Demon could lie.

“I love to take you. You are everything I need.” Angel shuddered in desire and accepted the lie, knowing what it was, but unable to resist the fantasy. “I love you to come in my hand when I touch you like this… I love you.” He finished with a light kiss to the lobe of Angel’s ear that made him jerk and cry out suddenly, as he spilled at Demon’s touch. His mind registered the words of praise and encouragement; until it was all over, and then Angel turned around in Demon’s arms to face his lover. There was a strange sense of guilt now, because Demon gave him something he just couldn’t give in return. He touched Demon’s lips regretfully.

“I cannot lie to you,” he said apologetically. Demon smiled.

“I had noticed,” he observed wryly, and Angel laughed despite himself. “I will have to teach you the trick, one day.” They both smiled then. Such a thing was impossible. Demon had already tried it long ago, in the same way that Angel had tried to make him experience love. But this was enough. Somehow it really was.

“I love you,” he said at last. From Angel it wasn’t a lie. It was real.

“Even when I win?” Demon teased, his thoughts turning to the youth. Angel laughed.

“Always.”

“That’s good,” Demon remarked. “If love means I can have you like this, then I will always need your love.” Angel blushed, realising it wasn’t meant to sound romantic, but in some way it was exactly that. He surrendered when Demon pulled him close. They were both tired, and he opened his eyes long enough to ascertain that they were back on Earth, in a place that belonged to Demon.

They lay on a soft bed now, instead of kneeling before each other on the inhospitable, rocky ground of Hell. Angel drifted off to sleep in Demon’s arms. He didn’t need to sleep. He could always abandon this body and take a new one. But Demon enjoyed this, and so did he. At least for now. Soon the argument would continue.

Chapter Five

There was another. Angel knew of the other even now, and searched for it, soaring over the ravaged planet below. Unlike Heaven, this wasn’t a place where Angel could take on a physical form to study it. Angel wasn’t surprised by the magma and the heat. Heaven had looked the same way in the very beginning. And there was no life here yet. But Angel saw something new; something that by turns bothered, confused, and shocked him. The future was not an enigma, and Angel could see it – at least a little way. This necessary violence was not merely a beginning. This would continue once life came to the dead rock. There was another. Troubled, Angel retreated a little to watch from a distance.

In contrast, Demon glided over the planet happily. It was like Hell in the beginning. The beginning was a favourite time, because it was so unruly. By necessity, once life began here the planet would calm, but for now… Then Demon saw something new; something that by turns angered, intrigued and frightened him. The future had already come to pass in some ways, and Demon could see it. Demon could see that the planet would calm – but it was more than that. There were no words, but Demon felt the onset of something alien to him. Not only would there be calm – there would be stability. There was another. Curious, Demon stayed to watch.

They were both right – because over time, although there was stability, there was also uncertainty. At times the land revolted against the orderly appearance of the slowly forming crust, as a volatile reminder of what lay beneath. Angel and Demon moved closer to their first meeting, and the earth reacted to that too. Water came from the interior of the planet and thunderstorms began, filling the hollows and making oceans.

Eventually, life appeared, simple at first, and both Angel and Demon were excited by it. Angel observed the single-celled organisms with hope and love, watching over them as a father might watch over children. But there was something wrong.

If Angel could blink and rub his eyes, then Angel would have done so. But in the ethereal form, all that happened was Angel drew back in surprise, then came closer again. There was no doubt about it. Now there was one, where once there were two. It was all the wrong way around. An opposite of reproduction. How could that be? But then Angel observed the other, trapped inside the now bigger organism, suffocated; its brief flame of life slowly extinguished. It wasn’t frightening – Angel knew no fear. But it revolted and insulted Angel in the worst way.

There was another. The air changed subtly as the other came close, and Angel asked the question without words. Is it you? A positive answered, a positive that mixed with Angel’s negative reaction to the sight of life consuming itself, and the fragile stability of the earth gave way for the briefest of moments before Angel fled.

Demon pursued, feeling a new kind of desire. There was another! Demon chased Angel over the earth, while beneath them the planet cooled, and ice caps formed. Their flight took them from volcanoes and earthquakes to the darkness of polar night, to deserts where the sun never seemed to set, over vast masses of rainforest that constituted the main part of the one colossal continent of true land.

Millions of years passed while the pursuit continued, both of them were a match for each other. While ever Angel did not want to be caught, he was free. And while ever Demon did not want Angel to escape, he was close. It was an impasse, and eventually something had to change. The one to change was Angel.

As the time had passed, Angel had been able to take physical form at last… but he didn’t do it often. Unable to stay for long in one place, Angel favoured the ethereal – but that involved a kind of distance that Demon didn’t maintain. As the endless hunt continued, Angel knew that the earth had become stable. The plates had moved long ago, and continued to do so, creating continents that drifted slowly further and futher apart and causing earthquakes where they collided. He saw life creep from the oceans. He watched as a diverse range of animals began to populate the forests and plains. But it was darker all the time. What had in the beginning seemed like Heaven was becoming something else.

Now he ran through a world that was almost entirely composed of monsters, and Angel knew his flight made it so. Retreat made it like this. And so, after a pursuit that had lasted billions of years, or perhaps only an instant, Angel stopped running. As soon as he did, the world began to change. The balance shifted, and the reptilian dominance of earth began to wane. Demon caught up to him, and their first clashes were unwelcoming and murderous. Fascination there may be – but neither of them could accept the other.

This is your doing, Angel accused, seeing a world that was cruel and heartless. Cold and ruthless. The worst of all was death. In Heaven there was no death – and the concept of it was unimaginable – or had been before this place.

Demon was furious. After all the time spent giving chase, building this world in the image of a paradise, it was being dismantled by something beyond his control. Death he may be, but senseless extinction was something new to him, and he mourned for the loss of every perfected species. It was no consolation at all to know that they still existed in Hell.

Reaching an accord at last, when both of them became weary of fighting, they seperated for a while. Both of them wandered alone, giving to the earth that it might more accurately reflect the way things should be.

Mammals came to take the place of reptiles, and although Demon had admired the first domineering life on this new planet, he came to appreciate what could be done with hot blood and fur. And of course, there was always going to be teeth and claws. But he hated some things. These animals nutured their helpless young. It was such an obvious imperfection, and Demon knew who was to blame.

Angel too, watched the mammals rise to superiority, and it was all wrong. He urged them to sacrifice and nobility with the necessity of family and instincts that were an echo of the love he felt. But he disliked some things. There was still death everywhere he looked. There was still struggle, and that first shocking experience of life consuming itself was all around.

Both of them knew, however, that this earth did not require so much energy to sustain. In fact, it required hardly any. And both of them assumed – wrongly – that the other was responsible for the continuance of this world.

Only when millions of earth years had passed did they meet again. This time, both of them had succumbed to the temptation of life on earth in an attempt to gain the upper hand. Their imaginations were embodied on this planet, in the variety of life that thrived upon it, and while they were not true representatives of their chosen incarnations, they at least chose the things that appealed to them the most.

And so, at last, after all of the chasing, and fighting, the lion and the lamb faced each other. Angel represented everything that was important; innocence, hope and love. Demon, everything that was an advantage; physical superiority, honed reflexes, killer instinct. Slowly, in a kind of silent truce, they approached each other. Angel did not feel fear, or even understand it, and so he registered the lion’s reticence with suspicion.

Demon did not feel forgiveness, nor did he understand it, so he viewed Angel with wary fear, waiting for the moment when the attack began anew. But it never did. They were close enough to touch, and they discovered that although there was a likeness in the lion’s furry mane, and the lamb’s coarse wool – no two were ever so different.

But, as they explored and investigated each other, the peace was shattered by a coming storm. Together, they took shelter under a gathering of trees on the grassland, and lie down together to wait it out. It made a strange sight, and later, this image would return to haunt them both. But for now they rested against each other. They didn’t understand, and they didn’t know each other, but for now at least, the war was over.

Their meetings were infrequent after that, and yet they both seemed to seek one another at the same time. At every one of their rendezvous’ there was a thunderstorm, as though the natural order of things were protesting at their proximity to each other.

It was difficult for them to even begin. Their attraction at first was all that kept them from destroying each other out of ignorance. It was as though one were blind, and the other deaf. Neither of them could explain satisfactorily their point of view, because for instance Demon could not comprehend such a thing as love, and Angel, for all his understanding, could not envisage such as thing as hate.

They were not always in the physical form when they met, and when they were, they were not always the lion and the lamb. So it was inevitable that the day would come when they met as equals. Both of them were shocked to find that they had chosen the same this time – for they were both human.

This animal was new, a more evolved species of the ape which Demon had chosen many times before. But Angel chose the human because there were echoes of Heaven in these animals. They lived in families. They shared love in a way that no animal had before now. When trouble came to them, Angel had even known them to die for each other. Why was Demon taking their shape?

Angel had chosen something that belonged to Hell, and for a moment Demon was astonished. The human animal was reminiscent of the advanced animals in Hell. They had made the transition from vegetarians to hunters. They were highly intelligent, volatile and violent. He had seen them kill each other when they fought over a mate.

It was perhaps no surprise then that Angel had favoured the female form, while Demon took on the more aggressive male of the species. But something different was in the air, and both of them realised it. Demon felt the desire he had known for so long become primal and concentrated… almost beyond his control. Angel felt the love he held for Demon, despite the tragedies on the earth, grow much stronger… almost too much.

They had to touch – and when they did, nothing was ever going to be quite the same. Whatever they felt, and however different they were, their passion was the same. It was everything – and it lasted. When their physical bodies tired of their demands they simply took new ones. They changed roles often, sometimes Demon taking the female form, and showing Angel a kind of aggression and forcefulness that he hadn’t believed the females were capable of. At times their gender was the same, almost as if it didn’t matter, because what mattered was them.

In their best moments, Demon lay still and compliant while Angel made love to the body Demon had chosen, so slowly that the earth entered a period of almost complete peace. Then, at the worst times, Demon listened while Angel begged for death - and he did kill Angel time and again, making blood, violence and pain a part of their sexual deviances.

Every dark desire Demon could imagine he practised on Angel. And when he became weary, Angel took the opportunity to love him. Everything that the human would do in years to come was contained in their coming together. Every selfless act of love, every twisted desire. When they were finally sated enough to part from each other, Demon was surprised to find that Angel had not changed. Angel was likewise surprised that Demon had not mellowed. But somewhere, something had altered drastically and suddenly. It would become one of the greatest mysteries.

The human animal had begun to draw pictures on the walls of their caves. Later, it would be argued that these were a pictorial representation of the day’s hunt – but it was a new awareness of imagination and art. Expression. It was important because the animal had begun to think in an entirely new way. And with that came other things. The animal had become aware – they had questions – and in their desire to answer them, they began to speak.

In many ways, the human animal became a mirror of the relationship between Angel and Demon. They sought to understand their conflicting nature, how it was that they loved and hated with an equal fiery passion. Above all they longed for ‘the reason’ and in their questing they were almost aware of their makers, and every time that happened, Angel and Demon knew each other a little better. But for all this, the human animal was unaware of what they meant to their Gods, and they had no idea that they were being used.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the present day, Neal walked into the snooker club, and grinned when he saw a couple of the local lads at the bar.

“All right?” he asked casually, pulling a tenner out of his pocket and catching the barman’s eye while the others greeted him. The man was attractive, but Neal didn’t even dare to imagine making any kind of comment. Here was home. Here was where he had to fit in, or be… what? Eaten alive? Beaten? Murdered? He considered the lads that he was stood with. They didn’t look so fearsome, really. But he knew enough about the way their minds worked to know that if he came out here, he would regret it.

So, he stayed quiet, joining in with their raucous comments when the subject of girls came up. That wasn’t so difficult – Neal had an attraction to girls too, which made him feel out of place on the gay scene as well. It was as though there was no place for him to be, and often he felt completely alone. But if he didn’t let anyone know, then he would be safe.

Angel and Demon watched him, this youth who was a reflection of them, and their struggle with each other. Both of them had known interest in a particular human before, and both of them were aware of how maddened and insane Jesus had been by the end. Angel may have won, but in their battle, the man had been torn to pieces between them. Their use of Jesus had led him to be crucified by his fellows. The human animal was complex and able to combine the best and worst of Angel and Demon in a way that was startling – but it couldn’t withstand the pressure when the attention of the two became personal and focused.

Whatever he thought about his sexual preference and his silence, Neal wasn’t alone – and he wasn’t safe at all.

Chapter Six

Outside the same, familiar dark clouds gathered, blocking out the stars and covering the moon in a decidedly final, evocative way. There was the odd flash of lightening, and distantly, thunder rumbled ominously, yet the rain didn’t start to fall. The storm was being held at bay by the thinnest of barriers…

Angel and Demon lay at either side of Neal, all three of them stretched out on the bed; but only these two were awake. Neal was already asleep, and had been for some time.

Angel finally reached out with one hand, feeling the endless love he held for their creation fill him once again. He caressed Neal’s face with his fingertips, rewarded when the mortal turned his head to face him in his sleep. He was sweet. Trusting like a child in the embrace of the good God. Angel smiled indulgently and kissed Neal’s cheek in a chaste manner, gasping in slight surprise when Neal turned his entire body towards Angel, draping an arm over him possessively. But then Angel relaxed and softened, melting against Neal in happy acceptance.

The flat of his palm rested against the mortal’s cheek, and Neal tilted his head, as if for a kiss. Angel obliged, and then pulled back, but Neal followed him, chasing his lips as though they held the promise of happiness – which they did.

“Just want to love you,” Neal whispered adoringly, his eyelids jerking as his mind tried to make sense out of what was happening in dreams. But no dream could explain this. Angel kissed Neal back, and pressed against him in unspoken acceptance. “Want you to love me,” Neal pleaded, and Angel’s arms descended around him, pulling him closer.

“I do love you, Neal,” he whispered softly, “so much.” He lifted his head for a moment to be free of the mortal’s worshipful kisses, and Neal immediately fell to peppering Angel’s neck with the same wonder and joy-filled proofs of love.

“Don’t do this,” he pleaded Demon softly, looking up from the mortal, still asleep despite his dreams, and who was unchanged by their attention as yet. But it wouldn’t take much – Angel knew.

“How do you propose to stop me, Angel?” Demon asked in real curiosity, running the palm of one hand slowly up Neal’s leg. The mortal moaned in sudden lustful desire against Angel’s neck. Where his kisses had been esctatic before, now they became needy and hard.

“No,” Neal moaned, almost as if he was aware of what was happening to him, and tears of pity and remorse filled Angel’s eyes. He stroked the mortal’s hair as if to soothe him while Demon played with his body – but it didn’t work. It couldn’t work. They were light and dark, domination and submission, lust and love. Neal cried out as if he was being torn in two, which in a way perhaps he was. “Please!” he entreated, still sleeping, and Demon smirked as he rewarded the mortal with a pump of his fist. The youth was hard in his hand. Hard and willing. Angel could not win outright. This one would be a good battleground indeed.

This, then was the barrier. This delicate, fragile life between them. The night was still only young, and already a thin sheen of sweat covered Neal from head to toe as the two immortals fought over him. His agony made him beg, and yet, in his dream, it was the most wonderful thing he had ever known.

Angel wanted to stop, he really did, but then what of Neal? He would become Demon’s puppet… his protégé. Angel couldn’t allow that – not when there was goodness here. When there was love. When there was such nobility of spirit. And so he tried to make the mortal understand. “Give in to me,” he whispered. “Feel with me. Be with me.” And at times Neal was almost his. The mortal almost came fully under his sway, only to be snatched away a moment later as if some ill wind had plucked him from Angel’s grasp.

Oh, how Demon wanted to win this time! And he would. Demon whispered fantasies into Neal’s ear, stealing them from his very dreams to tempt him with. “Everything can be yours,” he assured the mortal. “Just believe me. I will show you. And when you are with me – you can even have him. Isn’t that what you want?” He referred to Angel, of course, and he made sure Neal knew it.

He pulled one of Neal’s hands down, so that it rested over the hard, lengthened shaft of his adversary. The mortal’s reaction was immediate. “Oh, God!” he cried out on an exhale of breath, his fingers already curling around Angel.

“You don’t need to listen to him,” Demon suggested. “You can have him anyway.” Neal moaned and whimpered. “You can fuck him.”

“Yess!” Neal hissed, his fingers tightening, making Angel moan.

“Don’t,” Angel said softly. “You know me. I know you love me. I’ll let you,” he promised faithfully, his words making Neal shiver in contrition.

“I’m so sorry!” he whimpered. “I do love you. I just… want…”

And then, at the moment when he had to make a choice, the mortal awoke. Angel and Demon had been expecting it, and so Neal saw nothing… but he could hear them still – or was that the thunder? And he could feel them – so warm! Or was that the dream? He flipped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling in the hot, heavy darkness. And he wasn’t alone.

Neal almost screamed when he felt it all begin again. He closed his eyes in horror. It’s just the remnants of a dream! he thought, trying to convince himself. But the lips on his neck were too real for that. The lips on his left nipple were too real for that. The hand on his… Neal came suddenly, arching up almost off the bed. A hand covered his mouth – a hand he couldn’t see. And when he had calmed, the touches and kisses began anew.

He could feel them – so real – and he didn’t dare to move, trapped as he was between them. Who were they? Ghosts? And then the words began again. The endless argument.

“Stop!” he pleaded, but they carried on, ignoring his weak protest. Once again, deft, skillful fingers were manipulating his body, and he had no choice. No choice but one. The voices whispered to him. Seductive, loving, cajoling, trusting…

With a moan that was eloquent of nothing but torture, Neal turned his head to one side, making the choice at last, and Demon celebrated his triumph with a kiss. His kiss was not the same as Angel’s. It was intrusive and dominating, and Neal moaned helplessly, raising his hands only to find there was no one to push away.

But then Demon overcame him, and he began to reciprocate while Demon laughed in victory. He was losing himself in this – whatever it was. No longer frightened, all he felt now was lust. To take or be taken. Only… he felt soft, generous lips on the back of his neck. Gentle fingers moved over his ribs, soothing him. It was like Heaven. Nice. And, faced with the extreme, conflicting emotions yet again, Neal began to cry.

“Don’t,” Angel wished quietly. “Don’t cry.” He looked at his lover. “Demon. Stop.”

Demon broke the kiss and looked down at Neal. “Are you going to stop?” he asked Angel, glancing over at him.

“Please!”

“Again. How do you propose to end this Angel?” He sounded bored, but then his eyes filled with passion. “I want this!” he almost shouted, another distant rumble of thunder accompanying his words, and Angel closed his eyes. As he did, his features changed. Only a little – he kept the brown hair and brown eyes – but Demon’s response was immediate.

“It’s only a temporary reprieve, Angel,” he warned, forgetting about Neal as he looked on his lover. He purred low in his throat, and now he changed. The blond hair darkened to black, and his eyes darkened too, his face became more angular, until he looked like an incarnation of Satan. He was no devil… but when he smiled…

Angel’s eyes widened in apprehension. “Keep looking like that,” Demon commanded, appreciation in his voice, not moving his eyes from Angel. “Stay.” Slowly, he moved over Neal to get at Angel, who had changed, and who was now something new, in the most literal sense. This was Angel’s current approximation of purity, and Demon got to see it so rarely that it could indeed make him forget about Neal for a while.

“Oh, Angel,” he said softly, looking up and down the slender body before him. “I am going to hurt you,” he promised with relish, as though it were something his lover should be grateful for. Angel closed his eyes in acceptance.

“Yes,” he replied, shivering delicately when he felt Demon’s hands on him.

When he opened them again, they had left the mortal’s small room. He knew that Neal was now alone, and he was so relieved and grateful he almost smiled. But Demon had indeed made a promise. Now he would keep it. He looked up at his lover, who loomed over him menacingly. Angel swallowed.

“Thank me,” Demon ordered expectantly. He lowered himself to lie atop Angel, pulling one of his legs so that it rested over his shoulder and positioning himself.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, in surrender. But however much he submitted in his mind, there was nothing that could keep him from screaming when Demon sheathed himself in Angel’s heat. Demon forced his way inside the virgin body Angel occupied so violently that he couldn’t keep it in.

How could his lover feel pleasure in this? He looked up at Demon in confusion, which of course only made Demon growl in lust. But he saw the answer to his question too. There wasn’t much pleasure in this for Demon – or at least not obvious pleasure. The rape of Angel’s new body was even painful to Demon… but Demon also enjoyed the pain. How, Angel couldn’t say, but he knew he was right, and he knew that this was only a beginning.

“Now scream again, Angel,” he rasped out. “I want to hear you scream.” And with that Demon pulled out of him, only to slam back in again with such force that he moved Angel up the bed several inches. And Angel screamed…

But Demon was right – it was only a temporary reprieve.

Neal whimpered in his sleep, a last vestige of the dream he had still haunting him perhaps. He turned, as if to escape someone, and cried a little. But then the lines of his face softened and he breathed more easily. He smiled then. Somewhere, someone loved him.

Outside, the rain at last began to fall.

To be continued…

Comments and criticism encouraged and appreciated. Thank you for reading.

Original Story - WIP

2007-07-06T09:11:45Z

Ok… here you have something which I have been writing on and off for a while. More off lately to be honest, however a dream the other night has made me take notice again. The next chapter will be posted here soon (I already have most of it), but for now here are the first few chapters of the story.

Author: Pippychick
Pairings: Angel/Demon, Demon/Neal, Angel/Neal, Angel/Jesus, Demon/Jesus.
Rating: NC-17. Please don’t click on the link if you are underage.
Warnings: There will be (in no particular order): Graphic sex, slash, gender ambiguity, BDSM, and a complete lack of respect for all organised (and disorganised) religion. There will probably be many more warnings applicable to this story in time, but I will update you on those as they come around. Expect horror in later chapters.
Disclaimer: They’re mine… all mine! The characters and their universe belong entirely to me. I do not, however, own Jesus. He belongs to God, and no copyright infringement is meant.

This hasn’t been beta read.

The Competition

Chapter One

Angel and Demon were lovers. Their names were not really Angel and Demon of course – they didn’t have names, but for the purposes of this story we shall call the players by name. The names are suitable ones.

Angel was all things – or so he thought. Demon thought exactly the same about himself, and yet somehow they managed to be complete opposites. Their similarities were limited. Both of them grew bored with eternity, and both of them created worlds, but there was a problem. Angel tried hard to ignore the problem at first. He looked down on his creation, and it was beautiful. The sea was blue, as was the sky. The grass was green. And the creatures that lived on his world existed in endless, perfect harmony with each other. In the beginning Angel would smile down on his creation in happiness, and his smile made the sun shine and the sea sparkle. It was perfect. It was Heaven.

But slowly something began to niggle him. He resisted the feeling as long as he could, but in the end he had to admit it to himself – the world was boring. He didn’t know what he longed for. If he had it in himself to know, then it would already be. Angel thought about it over and over, but no matter how much he thought, he couldn’t see what was wrong. So, he sighed softly and began again. But the new world was exactly the same. Heaven.

Demon, meanwhile, had problems of his own. He too was all things, and as such he thought he would create a world. There was nothing wrong with his world either. He looked down on it sometimes, but often he descended into it to watch the pyrotechnics at work. His world was beautiful. The volcanoes were impressive and destructive, colouring the land around them in red and black. The sea was unruly and aggressive, frothing in anger when it hit land. The creatures that lived on his world were wonderful predators, and he watched them too with a kind of self-satisfied pride. His pride spurred the entire world to gain his attention with more and bigger displays. It was perfect. It was Hell.

But soon the fireworks and the blood and the angry sea bothered him. He resisted it for as long as he could, but eventually he had to admit the truth. As stunning as it was, the world was empty in some way. What could possibly be missing? Demon didn’t have the imagination to figure out what was wrong, and the world began to anger him. Almost petulantly, he destroyed it and began again. But the new world was exactly the same. Hell.

Time did not exist for them. So when they noticed each other it became a fact that they had always been lovers. They studied one another, and in so doing they saw their differences. Angel was surprised to find he was not all things. So too, was Demon. And they became fascinated with each other, endlessly circling around each other in the heavens while the universe waited. Eventually they drew close and clashed together, as comets will do after eternities of passing close by. The kiss was inevitable, but that too was as endless as everything else, and in the finite space between their lips a new world was created. It wasn’t Heaven, and it wasn’t Hell. It was a combination of the two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the woods the twilight was bewitching. It was the kind of evening that someone should appreciate, and soon Angel did. He didn’t descend onto the earth, and he didn’t make his form from anything as common as atoms. He came into existence on a sigh and a wish. He was made of bluebells and moonlight, of romantic evenings and log fires. He was himself. He was Angel. He was everything he had given to the world. Angel quite simply loved the fine spring evening. He smiled at the rabbits that were not disturbed by his approach, and wondered why Heaven had not been like this. All of this was surely him.

Angel shivered when one of the last icy winds of winter nudged at him. He pulled his robes tighter around him. His robes were made from lambswool and summer embraces, and as such they couldn’t keep him from the cold at all. The woods darkened, and what had looked peacefully beautiful a moment ago suddenly seemed dark and forbidding. The trees became sinister, their branches starkly outlined against the silver moon. The rabbits that had been playing at Angel’s feet scurried quickly away, chased by a fox that burst from the bushes. He closed his eyes at Demon’s approach, wincing at the sound of the foliage as it shrivelled where he passed. When Demon’s cold hand fell onto his shoulder, Angel wanted to scream, but he didn’t. He was in love with Demon.

“Are you contemplating our union again?” His voice was deep and powerful. It reminded Angel of the furious earthquakes that befell the land, or the raging sea in the midst of a storm. Really! Why couldn’t he tone it down a little sometimes? Angel sighed in his heart, but decided to play Demon at his own game. When he turned to face his lover his smile was as brilliant as the sun in mid-summer. While the robes hadn’t helped him, now his own warmth chased the cold away, and he knew Demon felt it because he shivered in the face of it. He shivers before my warmth. Angel took in the sight of Demon quickly, completely taken aback by his clothing. Demon was dressed all in black leather. It was strangely appropriate. It suited him.

“Why would I do such a thing?” Angel asked with a little laugh as he embraced his lover. “I am love.” Where he was dark, Demon was light, and Angel pressed his lips to his lover’s hair, grateful as he did so that Demon had chosen the more palatable of his preferred incarnations this time. Demon was temptation, all blond hair and large blue eyes. He had lips that begged to be kissed, but he was not innocent, however he chose to appear. Demon’s coldness battled with his warmth in the air around them, and sure enough the familiar thunderstorm soon began. He felt Demon’s lips on his neck as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, and he welcomed it.

“I am lust,” Demon whispered heavily, as a reminder that he was not capable of the finer emotion his lover felt. Angel didn’t care. It was enough. Demon’s lust was as insatiable as Angel’s love was endless. “You have chosen the male form again,” Demon noted with a smile against his throat as the rain soaked his hair. “Is it something you are beginning to favour?”

“Do you favour it?” Angel wanted to know. Demon pulled his lover close roughly, and Angel gasped as the embrace brought their bodies into intimate contact. They were both male, both hot and hard. It made Angel moan. “Let me love you,” he pleaded, knowing that he didn’t need to beg, but wanting to anyway. Demon laughed at him, and drew back to look into his eyes.

“Let me fuck you,” he retorted, and Angel wanted to shake his head, remembering how such altercations usually went, but instead he smiled in answer. Demon liked to see his pain when he was flesh. It was not asking for so very much to please his lover – and Demon was always pleased when Angel hurt. He looked up to the heavens, where he and Demon were still leaning towards each other to share the first kiss. Suddenly being here, in this finite place, was infinitely better.

“Or…” Demon began suggestively. “Maybe I will let you love me this time.” He looked at Angel, his gaze smouldering. “You could tie me up again,” he said deeply, his eyes closing now in desire. “Make me accept you even while I beg and plead for it to stop.” Angel began to shake his head, unable to understand his lover’s needs sometimes, but then Demon’s next words made his heart race. “Imagine how good it would feel to be inside me again, Angel. So slowly as I know you like to do it, making me moan and breathe your name.” It was the perfect thing to say, and Angel suddenly needed that more than anything.

“Oh, yes,” he moaned helplessly, rubbing himself against Demon in longing. “Let me,” he begged. Demon grinned in the form of temptation. He was irresistible, even to Angel, whose love was pure.

“Only if you force me to,” he challenged. Angel groaned, but didn’t make a move to restrain his lover. “Then I think you have decided for us both,” Demon breathed as he laid Angel down on the ground. He looked like a sacrifice to the invented devil, his white robes contrasting with big brown eyes and darker hair. Demon ripped the robes from Angel’s form impatiently; taking in the sight as the warm rain immediately fell on his fair skin, making it wet and luscious. Demon licked the rainwater from his lover’s ribs, feeling him tremble.

“You want to please me, don’t you,” he stated, watching Angel’s dark lashes flutter as he closed his eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Let me please you.” Demon smiled. He was going to enjoy this…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If it was possible for Angel and Demon to have a lover’s tiff, then that is precisely what they were doing. But this argument was special. This had been raging forever. Angel and Demon were endless, and together they had watched while the world they created between them grew. Seemingly all at once there was a brand new kind of animal, something special, something that neither Heaven or Hell had ever seen. This animal was aware. And the argument between them came to have words. Their disagreement was no longer serious. Both of them admitted to their need for each other. But it existed nevertheless.

“You have to admit, they created places like this for me.” Angel stood in the small churchyard looking up at the building and the spire with a smile on his face. He took the building of churches as a compliment. Demon sniggered.

“You think so?” He stood not far from Angel, but his eyes took in different details. The carved stone gargoyles belonged to him, as did the graveyard. And besides, Demon was well aware that without him, there would be no need for a church. “They need me, just as you do.” But Angel wasn’t listening. Demon narrowed his eyes and followed his lover inside the church. One of their creations was in here.

Angel and Demon could choose to be invisible, and they did so now, so as not to disturb the human. Both of them had learnt to their cost that appearing to their creation was not a good idea. Indeed, it had been that very bad idea that led to the invention of churches and Gods.

Angel followed the man as he went about his business, watching as he ensured there was a prayer book for each of the parishioners, replacing some of the candles that had burnt down too low to be of any use. Then the man fell to his knees in the front of the church and prayed. His lips moved silently, and Angel smiled on him, sending him peace.

“They aspire to Heaven,” he said in pleasure.

“My dear Angel, that is only because they have no idea what Heaven is.” Demon looked up to study the life-sized effigy of the man who was bound to the cross, and smirked. He had been fun! But Demon had lost that time. He looked around to find Angel smiling at him, and the violence that was his made him want to hurt his lover. But it would not make any difference to kill Angel while he was in the flesh. It would only make him ignore Demon for a while. Besides, his smile was not the smirk Demon would wear if he had been winning. No, Angel was pure.

“Well, they certainly don’t want Hell,” Angel said helpfully, and Demon raised an eyebrow.

“You think not?” One of these days he would have to take Angel to a cinema. He watched as his lover bent to whisper into the mortal’s ear. Whatever he said made the man smile and clasp his hands together tightly. “What did you say?” Demon asked.

“I love you,” Angel replied softly. Demon walked over to the two quickly and stooped to give the man a message of his own. He watched in satisfaction as the man rose hastily to his feet and all but ran from the church. He laughed. Angel regarded him suspiciously. “Lust again? That’s not very nice, you know.”

“You seem to like it when I show it to you,” he flashed back. “But no, that was not lust. It was pride.” Angel looked back at him questioningly. Demon shrugged. “I told him that you loved him.” Why shouldn’t the man be proud of that? Demon was.

“You still made him run away,” Angel pointed out, and Demon seethed. Yes. The man had run away from his voice as though it was wrong. But they had found the man here. It would be different outside. Again, Demon looked up at the cross.

“I think we should have another competition.” Angel’s head whipped around from where he had been stood leafing through one of the prayer books.

“No. Last time was enough.”

“But things have changed now,” Demon argued. He strode from the church, and Angel followed him with a sigh. “Besides. It’s not up to you. You know you won’t be able to help but rescue the poor thing from me.”

Demon was quite right. He wouldn’t leave any part of this world to belong entirely to Demon, just as Demon would not allow any part of their creation to belong entirely to Angel. “Who?” he asked, capitulating.

From nowhere a clear whistle split the early morning air. They watched together on the steps of the church as a young man emerged from the woods. He was walking backward, looking back down the path. But he turned around again when a big, red, lolloping dog came rushing up the path towards him. He was tall, with long dark hair and blue eyes. In looks he wasn’t entirely unlike Jesus – the Jesus they had known anyway, Demon was surprised how often the artists got it wrong – but Demon thought things might go a little differently this time around.

“Him,” Demon said decisively. Angel nodded. The game had begun.

Chapter Two

Neal was a decent enough guy. He seemed to get on with everyone, unless of course he was drunk. Then he tended to get a little bit belligerent at darts’ games. He would wish you a cheery good morning, unless there was no milk for his coffee. In which case he would grunt in bad-tempered monosyllables until the milkman had been. He was at the magical age of twenty-one, which meant that things were pretty much downhill from here on, but he blindly ignored that fact in the way only the young can.

Currently he was at home. University had finished for the Easter break, and Neal had left his student digs to go and wallow in the luxury of his parents’ house. After a couple of nights out at the local pub catching up, and then later, throwing up, and two days spent making his old room messy enough to comfortably sleep in, he decided to emerge from ‘the upstairs’ and see what there was to do during the day. Immediately he wished he hadn’t.

“Oh, Neal! You’re up!” His Mother chimed brightly from the kitchen. Neal grunted a monosyllable at her until he found himself seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. He gazed blearily through the kitchen window at the darkish blue outside as the sky got lighter. This was a weekday, and so both of his parents were up and about, getting ready for work. Neal vaguely wondered how it must be not to have term breaks, and then slammed an iron fist down on that line of thought. Not yet, he thought. As the noise carried on around him, Neal realised he had another hangover. He cringed at the sound of his Mother shouting shrilly for something from upstairs. He got himself some cornflakes, and then lost his appetite when the sickly aroma of his Father’s aftershave drifted into the kitchen. Neal began to seriously consider going back to bed. He noticed eventually that someone was talking to him, and paid attention.

“Will you take out the rubbish when you leave the house?” He was leaving the house? Neal stared blankly. “When you take Nip out for his walk,” his Mother elaborated impatiently as if she had already told him once, obviously beginning to get stressed. “Your Father hasn’t had the time this morning, and Nip needs the exercise.” Neal sighed and nodded. He nodded again more enthusiastically before his Mother could say another thing.

“Yes, I will. Don’t worry about it.” He wondered what he had just agreed to, but didn’t allow his cluelessness to show on his face as he gave his Mother a warm and reassuring smile. He was proud enough to have been speaking recognisable English at this time in a morning. All he needed to do was see them go out of the door. When it finally fell quiet, Neal groaned and rested his aching head on the tabletop. He stretched his hands out over the table, thanking God that his parents had left, and accidentally knocked the bowl of cornflakes onto the floor.

“Oh, fuck!” He swore, and then jumped up when the dog began sniffing round at the milk and cereal. “No!” He shouted. “Nip! Leave it alone!” The dish was broken, and Neal quickly tidied up the mess, before sitting down and thinking back to what he would do today. His Mother’s voice rang in his head, and Neal groaned. The dog. He stared at Nip.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” he lied, shaking his head a little. From what he had seen the sky was clear. But then, if you couldn’t lie to your dog, you really were in trouble. The giant red setter just looked back at him, not understanding, his big, pink tongue lolling crazily from his mouth. Neal sighed. “It might mean you don’t get to go out,” he furnished. Still the dog stared at him. Suddenly Neal thought. There had been one hell of a storm last night though, hadn’t there? It had been heavy enough to drag him from his alcohol-induced stupor. Damn! That meant it really would be muddy. He tested the dog. “No walk today.”

Neal hadn’t bothered to come home at Christmas last year, he had friends he wanted to stay with, and so the last time he had been alone with Nip was when the young setter was still very much a puppy. He was far from that now. As an older puppy, Nip had still lived up to his name, yapping and dancing around whenever the word ‘walk’ was mentioned. Now, though… Nip sat waiting patiently until Neal stood up, and then reared up to place his two massive forepaws on Neal’s shoulders. He gazed deeply into his Master’s eyes on almost the same level. Shit.

“Ok,” he said slowly, swallowing. “You win.” Neal walked forward and Nip let him go. He would take out the damn dog, then. And maybe after that he would go to the snooker club. See who was around.

He dressed quickly in jeans and a sweater, thinking that he would have a shower when he returned. It looked as though he was about to get covered in mud anyway.

The walk turned out to be better than he had thought. The air was so fresh and clean after the furious storm overnight that it woke him up, and his headache soon vanished. He went further than he had at first planned to, taking the dog all the way through the woods and then back out again. It was overcast by the time they neared the end of the trees, and just cold enough to make Neal long for the hot shower to be had at home. As they exited the woods, he turned around and whistled for the dog, who came galloping at top speed from way down the path. Neal turned back to the road, and fingered the lead in his hand.

He looked casually towards the little church on his right, and a feeling of very real, very deep dread came over him. Neal was taken aback. He must have seen that place a billion times, and it had never made him feel dread in the Christian sense. Mostly, he thought the church was pretty. He had long ago decided that he didn’t believe in any God, and so the feeling currently coursing through his veins made him very uncomfortable indeed. He stood staring at the entrance for a minute, and then without taking his eyes from it, he very slowly knelt down to attach the lead in his hand to Nip’s collar.

“Stay away from me,” he said quietly to no one in particular. Now where had that come from? Neal shook his head to clear it, and decided that he probably shouldn’t have walked so far this early in the morning. His head had begun to ache again, and he felt a little ill. Perhaps he shouldn’t have skipped breakfast either.

“Come on, Nip!” He said with forced brightness, and deliberately walked away from the church. Home lay past the little building, but Neal reasoned that he just wanted to walk around the block before heading back. He definitely wasn’t avoiding it. Not at all. The giant dog trotted faithfully beside him, keeping up with his long strides easily. But Neal now had more than one companion. He just didn’t know that they were there… yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“He was talking to you,” Angel said thoughtfully. “Didn’t you feel like listening?” He and Demon had followed the mortal home, and both of them now occupied his bedroom while Neal was in the shower. Demon smirked.

“Oh, no lying now! He was talking to us both. You don’t have to interfere.”

“But you know I must,” Angel sighed. He joined his lover on the bed, and snuggled into his arms like a lost child. Demon allowed it for a moment, and then suddenly rolled over to trap Angel beneath him.

“I don’t want to fight,” Angel whined as Demon held his wrists down to the bed. “I thought you had enough of that last night.”

“I can never get enough of you. If you don’t want to fight, dear Angel, then I suggest you don’t.” He laughed and stole a kiss that Angel couldn’t help but reciprocate. But then Demon found that he was fighting. He knew they had moved, but he didn’t open his eyes straight away. He moaned tiredly.

“Do you always have to bring me here,” he complained bitterly, then he realised what he was fighting against, and he grinned. He pulled experimentally at the chains that held him still. “Oh, Angel,” he sighed in rapture, opening his eyes at last to the glory of Heaven. He was a little blinded by it, all light and perfection, but he couldn’t fail to see Angel looking down at him. “Are you going to fuck me?” He waited, and wasn’t at all surprised when Angel shook his head.

“No,” he said, frowning a little as he looked down. “Why does it always have to be like this with you?” He fingered the chains that were embedded deep in the rock they lie upon, pulling on them so that Demon moaned at the reminder he was helpless here. He felt his desire beginning to burn. “I have to hold you down to love you,” Angel said regretfully.

“Are you going to punish me for it?” Demon asked hopefully, and Angel narrowed his eyes.

“No.” He rid Demon of the black leather outfit with a wave of his hand, and then began placing gentle kisses on his chest and stomach. “I’m going to do nice things to you,” he whispered against Demon’s skin, “while you lie there helpless to stop me, and you are going to learn to appreciate them.”

Demon tested the chains again, and growled, his eyes closing in lust as the sweet kisses continued. “Nice things?” he asked, whimpering as if the very idea hurt him in some way. “Well, Angel,” he began, but then gasped when the lips moved down to kiss his erection; the light touch was a torture. “That really works for me.”

“I know,” Angel said simply, and Demon looked to make sure he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t. Angel never smirked. Demon let his head fall back and submitted to Angel’s torment. Nice things. The only things Angel ever did to him, and the one kind of treatment that would make Demon want to escape. He grinned again. Damn. A sudden thought struck him.

“I’m not forgetting about the boy,” he reminded his lover seriously. “The opening move is mine, and I will make it.”

“Be quiet, Demon,” Angel said.

“Or what?” A moment later there was something uncomfortably large filling his mouth. “Mmphf!” Demon said. Angel had gagged him! Demon wondered how long it would take before Angel’s gentleness made him really struggle… that was, after all, the best bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Neal turned off the shower and stepped from the cubicle, listening carefully. Had the storm started again? He thought he had heard thunder, but he might have been mistaken. It was difficult to hear under the water. He shrugged and dried himself, before brushing his teeth and having a shave.

He went into his bedroom, and searched among the scattered clothes for something clean to wear. Nip came upstairs and began to sniff curiously at his bed. He chased the dog away, and carried on throwing the occasional item from his backpack until he found something he might be seen alive in. Before he could get dressed, sex crossed his mind. It often did. But he was alone in the house, and nowhere important to be. He shut Nip outside and lie down on his bed, letting the towel drop from around his hips as he did so.

Demon was about to make his first move.

Chapter Three

The bed was unmade, the sheets beneath him were rumpled, and the room was just dark enough with the curtains closed to be gloomy despite the daylight outside. Neal was satisfied. It was perfect. He relaxed back onto the bed, arranging the pillows behind him so that he was half sat up. Outside his room the dog whimpered to be let in, and he tuned it out deliberately, barely noticing the absence when the noise stopped.

Letting the fingers of one hand tease his nipples, he dropped the other to gently cradle the heaviness beneath his still soft flesh. Everything was right. He brought an image to mind – a favourite one – while he watched the dancing of his fingertips as they skimmed over his chest. Trailing the back of his right hand down over the side of his ribs, he sighed. It took Neal less than a minute to get into the right mood. He knew his own body better than any lover, and he teased the right responses from it instinctively, until he was able to take himself in hand and begin the true purpose of it all.

He watched his own hand for a while, moving slowly up and down over his erection, just beginning to feel the build-up, and the relentless momentum that would carry him onwards. Neal let his head fall back at last, and breathed in the clean scent of his own freshly shampooed hair. As before, when he had tuned out the noise, he barely noticed it.

Now all that was important was the feeling. The grip had to be just so, and he moaned on an exhalation in appreciation when it was exactly right. He felt his own quickening pulse, his heated skin, was aware of his breathing as though it was suddenly too loud. The world became eerily still, except for him. Only then did Neal pay closer attention to the vision he had conjured up, when there was nothing else worthy to distract him.

The details of the fantasy were hazy and meaningless; the how, the why and the out-and-out weirdness of the situation. None of that mattered. He was back in the shared house he rented with three other final year students. Neal was drunk and stoned, as were they all, and they had decided to play a kind of game. A sexual game. The cushions of the settee were soft beneath him, and he glanced slowly down his own naked body to meet the darkened liquid gaze of Simon, resting on his knees before Neal.

Neither of them said anything. But Neal continued to watch as Simon slowly took Neal’s hardened flesh into his mouth without breaking the eye contact. He felt what he saw, the incredible welcoming warmth and almost obscene wetness as the head of his cock slipped past Simon’s lips, the sudden shocking sensation when he saw the other man’s tongue flick out to caress the underside of his shaft. Another inch. Now the details were important. Simon’s lips stretched around him as he moved forward, enclosing Neal in the velvety, moist embrace of his mouth.

He moaned and tried to move forwards, desperate to feel it all – but something held him back. The others were holding him to the back of the couch, their hands on his upper arms and hips. The slow forward momentum continued until he could feel the tip of Simon’s nose on his crotch, the eye contact lost as soon as he had closed his eyes to the pleasure. He whispered a heartfelt ‘please’ to those around him, wanting to be free of the hands that held him back. Simon’s tongue wasn’t still, instead moving back and forth restlessly over his length, rubbing at him sensuously.

Despite his closed eyes, Neal could see the way Simon’s cheeks hollowed out, casting perfectly angled shadows onto his face as he sucked rhythmically. And then he cried out when Simon began to pull back, those same reddened lips tight over his skin, dragging softly over his hot and needy length until they were back at the beginning. He wanted desperately to speak, but words were beyond him, and so it wasn’t his own whispered voice he heard. It was one of those beside him. Perhaps Andy.

“When you come, he’s going to fuck you.” It wasn’t a threat but a promise, and the statement was delivered with such heated desire that Neal groaned aloud as Simon’s lips began to cover him again.

“Oh, fuck! Yeah…” Neal was lost to his fantasy, and he writhed a little on the bed beneath his own hand. “Just like that,” he demanded as if there was another with him. He bit his lip harshly, just to feel the pain, his hand beginning to move faster, keeping pace with his ragged breathing.

It would be difficult to say exactly what changed, to know what broke the spell. Perhaps something just didn’t feel right. But Neal became aware of his room again, and his hand doing the work of Simon’s lips. He tried immediately to lose himself once more, closing his eyes desperately to block out reality. So close! But it was much more demanding to recreate the fantasy that it was to invent it.

While a part of him was obsessed with being in the house with Simon, almost demented, another part was cold and analytical. Now it spoke to him. Simon was not Neal’s boyfriend. The guy was just someone he shared a house with. The man wasn’t even strictly fantasy material. The guys he shared digs with were not gay themselves. How did it make any kind of sense? Despite how turned-on he was, Neal began to feel faintly ridiculous.

“Shut up,” he hissed, speaking directly to the voice. It wasn’t Simon’s physical appearance that made him hot, and it wasn’t even really the thought of getting up to these kind of games at their house. If the truth be told, if this ever turned out to be on the cards, Neal would be out of there before you could say ‘Strip Poker.’ But there was something wonderfully freeing and real about a fantasy that involved people Neal saw every day. Something illicit and very private. He loved it, and he wasn’t about to let it go. Ignoring the voice, Neal replayed Andy’s words in his mind over and over, experiencing the sweet torment of wanting to give in, but trying to stay in control.

He became embroiled in his inner world all over again, back at the precise point where he couldn’t hold back any longer, and it wasn’t going to stop. Simon quickened the pace as if to encourage him, and Neal came with a cry, jerking forward into his own hand as strings of white come shot from his cock and landed on his chest, feeling warm and satisfying. He had tensed up, but then he relaxed suddenly as the honeyed warmth of orgasm spread throughout his body. He felt it in his fingertips and his toes. At that point, Neal became still at last, moaning once more completely involuntarily as the feeling faded.

When a couple of minutes had passed, and the world widened again, Neal dropped a hand down beside the bed, and retrieved the towel he had discarded earlier. He cleaned himself up with it, and then sat for a couple of minutes more while his heart regained a more normal rhythm. Then he smiled. He always loved fantasies like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Demon smirked. “He didn’t listen to you, Angel,” he said proudly. He looked towards his lover just as Neal rose from the bed and opened the door before Nip could scratch a hole in it. Angel seemed so lost and hurt, his brown eyes troubled, and Demon thought he looked absolutely delightful.

“No, he didn’t,” Angel admitted honestly with a disappointed sigh. Demon embraced his lover from behind while they both watched the youth dress. The dog walked around him in circles until Neal swore at it in a fit of unreasonable temper. Angel frowned. This was going to be different – Demon had been right. But he let his head fall back against Demon’s shoulder in trust, letting his love show through his actions. His lover’s hands roamed over him possessively, and Angel smiled despite his loss. There would be more appropriate times, times when he would hold sway. “It doesn’t matter,” he said thoughtfully, happy again. Demon chuckled softly into his hair, making him shiver.

“You think not? I endured Heaven for you, Angel, and now there is but one word on my mind. Do you know what it is?” Demon taunted. Angel laughed in genuine amusement at Demon’s games. They never really worked with him. But there was a word – a word Demon had taught him – and it was only fair. Angel was all about fairness.

“Revenge,” he whispered in answer, and he felt Demon’s arms tighten around him in preparation. They were going to Hell.

To be continued... in the next post *g* Click here to read it.

The Flood

2007-06-27T16:08:39Z

The Great Flood

Here is an update on things with me…

You may have seen South Yorkshire on the news recently. We’ve had even more rain. Fortunately, I live on a hill, which means that I’m not knee deep in water, however it didn’t stop my roof from leaking or my mother almost being trapped at work in Brightside, near Meadowhall.

It has meant I haven’t been able to get to work for the last two days. Yesterday I was tired after worrying about my mother, and today the motorway has been closed around us – I’ve never seen so much traffic in our village, and the bus I waited two hours for never turned up. I would have considered going through Rotherham, but by the time I gave up it was a little late considering it’s taking around an hour just to get into Chapeltown. I think maybe I will plan for that tomorrow rather than give that bus another chance, though I think it’s not turned up because the A61 (which is the road it uses to get out of High Green) is shut.

Anyway, I went walking during the rain, and took some videos, which are here:

Chapeltown

Thorncliffe

It got worse after I went home. And in the city centre, the river Don burst its banks. This video is the best I’ve seen.

City Centre

But of course, it’s not just Sheffield. It all of us around here. Barnsley, Rotherham and Doncaster seems to be in trouble today. I have heard the army has been sent in to Donny to help there. Lots of people are still evacuated near the Ulley Dam for fear it might burst. I dread to think what they have to go back to, when they do get back.

And we already have an early warning from the Met Office that there might be more “severe” weather on the way. More rain is forecast for the weekend, and it may well be heavy.

I’m not a football fan, but even I feel angry at the weather now. Sheffield Hillsborough football pitch is two feet underwater and looks like a swimming pool.

Meadowhall shopping centre is closed and will remain closed as they attempt a clean-up operation.

Anything else? Oh, yes… there’s a power plant underwater so north Sheffield is going to have rolling power cuts as they try to share what power we have between us all. I’m expecting it to go off at any moment. We haven’t been turned off yet.

Over and out.

pippychick @ 2007-06-15T09:25:00

2007-06-15T08:29:34Z

We have had a little bit of rain. It started on Wednesday, but yesterday we had torrential downpour right through the night – and it’s still raining this morning.

The news says buses are affected. Roads are closed. There are no trains. Down the road from me people are using sandbags to try and keep the water out of their houses.

And I’m thinking. Ok – how the hell am I going to get to work?

And still it rains.

The Traveline number for my area has given up, and when you ring them you get nothing but a dead tone.

Here is some news on the subject. The picture is taken not far from where I live.

Much more and Celine Dion will be walking the streets singing.

Help me. I'm drowning.

ETA: They're still closing roads where I live. Soon it will be impossible to get out of the village, which leads to another question. If I get to work, how on earth will I get home? :/

The Teacher - Chapter Ten

2007-06-11T15:06:43Z

Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Oropher/Elrond, Thranduil/Elrond, Legolas/Elrond, Elrond/Celebrían, Elrond/OFC
Warnings: Slash, het, graphic sex, bdsm, D/s, bondage, canonical character death
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. I do not own the elves within or middle earth. They belong to Tolkien, and I am just borrowing them for a short while. I make no money from this.
Summary: A fanciful, smutty take on what Elrond’s story might have been through the ages.
ETA: Sorry, I forgot this was a new journal. Earlier chapters can be found here. That is an NC-17 link - please do not click if you are underage.

Author’s Note:

Ok, here you have the next part of Elrond’s story. I hope you enjoy it! :)

Chapter Ten

Elrond took a deep breath before the closed door, quickly glancing around to make sure he was alone. Though it wasn’t unseemly for him to call on an esteemed visitor, he knew he would be embarrassed to be caught. Relieved to find himself alone in the corridor, he raised his hand to the door to knock. In his heart were all the memories he had relived, in his head Thranduil’s letter was memorised, word for word, in his soul uncertainty. Three of them. Elrond swallowed and closed his eyes, knowing it was wrong, but he knocked.

It took far too long for Legolas to answer his knock, and his heart stuttered in his chest. What if the Prince was not even here? Sudden doubt assailed him for his decision, because this was unforgivable. How would he deserve Celebrían’s blessing after this? He was almost preparing to turn and walk away when the door opened, and the Prince stood there looking at him.

“Lord Elrond,” he said, his voice sounding distant and much too polite, as always. “Come in.”

This is an invitation.

The words from the beginning of the letter appeared in his mind as if to taunt him while Legolas opened the door wide and stood to one side to let him pass.

Without speaking, Elrond swept into the room purposefully, only to remain standing seemingly lost in the middle of it as Legolas quietly shut the door and came to stand before him. Wordlessly, Elrond looked into Legolas’ cool blue eyes.

If you could be with me, without actually being with me…

“Have you had a change of heart?” Legolas asked, his composure so perfect that Elrond shook his head slowly, still hearing Thranduil’s words in his mind.

If you could lead someone, whose place in life will be to lead…

Legolas smiled, showing nothing of his thoughts, moving closer, and Elrond stayed still. It took all the courage he possessed not to back away, and yet it was easier like this to begin with. He had wondered how he would encourage Legolas if it came to that.

If you are indeed a teacher…

Closed eyes, hands that gently held his face, fingertips soft and electric. Inexperienced lips brushed against his with a soft sigh of contentment. And Elrond was the one who trembled with his eyes wide open.

“Like this?” Legolas murmured against his lips.

“Yes,” Elrond whispered back, and then, unforgiveably. “Taste me with your tongue.”

Legolas pulled back a little, his eyes opening in surprise. Elrond only stared back, seemingly helpless, captivated by more than the beauty of the Mirkwood Prince.

Will you do these things for me? Will you let him taste you while you dream of me, and of my father? Will you show these things to a familiar stranger with truth in your heart?

Apparently having made up his mind that Elrond was not jesting, Legolas came close to him again, and the aggressive nature of the kiss this time took Elrond’s breath away. His own lips parted willingly for Legolas, and this time it was no tentative touch. Memories of Oropher and Thranduil both came to him, making him as addicted to this as to them. There were echoes of them both in Legolas’ touch.

Be my teacher, my friend, my entrusted… Is there a gift you have left you haven’t given to one of us? Beloved…

Elrond moaned into Legolas’ mouth, feeling his body go weak as the combination of Legolas’ physical presence and Thranduil’s words conspired to dominate him. Even Oropher’s memory hovered in the background, because they had sprung from him.

I would consider it acceptance of my invitation if you touch him in return…

Elrond hesistated, his fingers twitching in uncertainty while he longed to pull Legolas closer to him.

Can you be seduced after all of this time? Can you be tempted by the one that follows me, as I followed my father… as you follow all of us.

As if he couldn’t help it, Elrond reached out and placed his hands on Legolas’ hips, drawing him further forward. Both of them wore formal robes, satin and velvet slid between their bodies, unable to disguise the heat they each generated. Again, Elrond moaned, this time heared a similar muffled sound from Legolas as the awareness spread throughout their bodies.

Our lives and our history are entwined with yours. You know that is true.

At last, the kiss broke, and Elrond was free again. Free to drink in the sight of Legolas with slightly parted, reddened lips, a flush on his cheeks that didn’t come from being outdoors. How was it he could look so lost and distant at the same time? For a fleeting moment Oropher’s visage was superimposed on Legolas, and Elrond closed his eyes. Yes, because Oropher had seemed as fey as the young Prince at times. And hadn’t he been reliving those times?

An amused chuckle spilled out of Legolas’ lips, one that belonged to Thranduil, and Elrond forced his eyes open again as Legolas dragged one thumb over his lips, still wearing that bewitching look as though it belonged to him. He was a combination of them both, but he was not only that.

“Elrond, you look…” Legolas stopped and frowned a little, tilting his head as if to figure out a puzzle. “Different,” he continued at last. “You make me want…” Again he stopped and this time instead of attempting to continue his hips moved against Elrond, disturbing the easy grip of his hands, making his hardness jab into Elrond’s thigh as if to prove his point.

As you give yourself to this, and as I write, know that I am imagining it. How your hands feel on my hips, how you look when you are defeated, how you moan when you are mastered.

At the thought that he was going to give himself to Legolas, Elrond swallowed. He was going to let Legolas possess him. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more… except perhaps one thing. He leaned forward, tucking his head underneath Legolas’ as submissively as possible while he kissed the Prince’s neck, unable to help himself imagining Legolas beneath him, writhing in lust like Oropher would. Still in command but not in control. A tremulous moan came to his ears, and he grinned against the soft skin, using his teeth to nip gently.

“Enough…” Legolas groaned, the vibration of his voice a buzz against Elrond’s lips. His forearms rested on Elrond’s shoulders now and his hands still cradled Elrond close to him.

“You will have to let me go,” Elrond whispered wickedly, half hoping Legolas could not do it.

“No,” he said childishly, and Elrond laughed against the Prince’s throat. “I can’t,” Legolas admitted, “but…”

“But what?” Elrond questioned, slowly licking up towards Legolas’ ear diligently while the young elf trembled. At last they were even then, and Elrond began to feel like the elder, as he should have done from the first.

Legolas stretched out his neck with a little sigh of pleasure. “Do you not think we should lock the door?”

Elrond was away immediately, his robes whispering in protest around his feet as he strode quickly to the door and tested the handle, his heart hammering in fear that they could have been discovered. It didn’t budge. For a single moment he stood staring at the unopened door, not understanding – then he turned.

Legolas was no longer stood in the middle of the floor. Now he was seated at the other end of the small sitting room in a chair of leather and ebony, holding up the key for Elrond to see. As Elrond watched in stunned silence, Legolas put the key on the table beside the chair with a clink and poured himself a small goblet of the miruvor waiting there. That otherworldly, distant look was back, and he looked up and caught Elrond staring at him.

Deliberately, he put down the goblet and his hands moved to untie the sash that held his robes together. He raised one eyebrow inquisitively. “Am I wrong or do you have instructions, Lord Elrond?”

“I…” Elrond began, leaning back heavily against the door, the illusion of superiority taken from him so easily that he wanted to fall to his knees.

I hear you as I always hear you, and I know you ask. What should I do? He is royalty. Kneel before him.

“I have instructions, your highness,” Elrond managed weakly, crossing the room on legs that felt like water as Legolas graced him with that same steady expression.

He fell to his knees awkwardly, hardly able to keep the eye contact. Legolas’ hands moved in quick, jerky movements as he exposed himself, and Elrond licked his lips. He placed his hands on Legolas’ knees, and saw a flash of something that was almost fear in Legolas’ expression but he made no protest.

Unable to keep from looking any longer, Elrond felt his gaze drawn down to Legolas’ hard flesh as the Prince caressed himself with one hand. He eased the Prince’s knees apart so that he could shuffle further forward on his knees, his eyes narrowing in lust for what he was about to do.

He is not accustomed to being worshipped, but you do it so well I think he will grow accustomed to the idea in time.

“Kiss me,” Legolas pleaded, but Elrond didn’t look up. Instead he leaned forward to do as he was bid, placing the first kiss on the tip of Legolas’ shaft as if this was indeed worship. The kiss turned into something more when he tasted the slightly salty fluid that leaked from Legolas and without thinking too much Elrond sighed, sealed his lips around the head of Legolas’ shaft and suckled.

“Ohhh!”

Elrond paid no mind to Legolas’ sudden moan, or to the hands that tangled in his hair as if to pull him closer. All he could think of was what he was doing.

“More…” Legolas demanded, and Elrond obeyed that command gladly, taking more of Legolas into his mouth so that he could slide his tongue against the velvety hardness. He continued to suckle until the fluid couldn’t keep up with his hunger, then lifted his head a little and let Legolas slip from between his lips. Bringing his hand up, he grasped hold of Legolas’ shaft to keep it in place as he dragged the flat of his tongue over the underside, taking pleasure in his service to the Prince.

After the slow drawn out movement he looked up and found Legolas looking down at him with darkened eyes. “Do it again,” he commanded, and Elrond obliged, allowing Legolas deeper this time so that the Prince swore and moaned again, bucking his hips up from the chair slightly. Elrond was aware of their clothing. He was still fully dressed, and Legolas nearly so. Strangely it made the act he was performing all the more exciting and illicit and he moaned as he rubbed his tongue against Legolas, loving the feel of demanding hands in his hair, pulling him further down.

He took a preparatory breath and then flattened his tongue before swallowing Legolas, loving it to be used this way once more by somone who should be a stranger, but somehow wasn’t.

Please me, half elf… give me a reason to moan your name as I write this. Make me miss you… your tender care, your attention to detail, your dedication… Let me use you again...

Elrond tried to moan, but Legolas was too deep and the sound was trapped inside him. To Legolas it must have felt like reluctance and the hands in his hair loosened in sudden insecurity.

“I am sorry, Lord Elrond!” he said quickly, already pulling away. Unable to answer, Elrond lifted the hand that still rested on Legolas knee and placed it over the hand in his hair, pushing down. Legolas either understood or couldn’t stop himself and the hard length in his throat moved forward then back a couple of time before pulsing in orgasm as Legolas cried out in pleasure.

Elrond swallowed around him, pulling back to get the last taste of Legolas on his tongue before it was over and swallowing that too before taking another breath. It had lasted perhaps a minute, probably less, and Elrond looked up only to find a vision from his dreams awaiting him.

It was Oropher who sat there, undone by him, satiated and thoroughly pleased with it. His half-lidded eyes stared at Elrond, dark and inscrutable, and Elrond felt his own lust overtake him.

He grasped hold of Legolas’ knees and pulled him forward on the chair, enjoying the way the Prince inhaled sharply. Strangely, it wasn’t Oropher’s name that came from his lips as he raised himself on his knees to thrust against the soft and willing body before him.

“Legolas,” he groaned, unable to stop, wishing he was unclothed as he felt his own shaft sliding between Legolas’ buttocks, stopped from touching him by layers of silk and satin. “I need you!” he vowed, leaning over as he began to thrust into that welcoming crevice, achieving nothing more than rubbing against the Prince like an animal.

Legolas’ hands gripped the arms of the chair to steady himself, perched dangerously on the edge of it, the very image of Elrond’s lost love from centuries ago.

“Kiss me,” he pleaded again, coming round a little and seemingly understanding. Elrond leaned closer to Legolas’s lips, still thrusting as though he really could take the Prince with all of their clothes still on. “Kiss me, Peredhil,” Legolas whispered as their lips touched, his aggression perfect and unexpected, but so like his grandfather.

Groaning, Elrond came without any further ado, holding Legolas close to him greedily, arms curling around his back as though he were a possession or a doll. Legolas was still kissing him but Elrond couldn’t respond to it and he let Legolas take what he wanted as he came down from the high, finally breaking the kiss so that he could lay his head on Legolas’ shoulder.

“Elrond…” A voice broke into his satisfied state, amused and confident. It made him smile.

“Mmm?” he murmured back, kissing the skin that was conveniently close to his lips.

“You will have to let me go,” the voice suggested, and Elrond sighed.

“No,” he replied, feeling childish, hearing the laughter and smiling at it. He did let Legolas go however, and then sat back on his heels with a sigh.

The Prince stood over him now, looking down regally, his robes closed and tidy once more. He offered his hand and Elrond took it, regaining his feet unsteadily. At Legolas’ constant regard, Elrond looked away, realising how out of control he had been.

“I think that is a beginning,” Legolas noted darkly, finally revealing how much he knew, even if he was inexperienced, and Elrond bowed his head. “You do have further instructions, do you not?”

Some of them flitted across Elrond’s mind now and he shivered in arousal even though he was spent. “Yes.”

“Good.” Legolas began to lead Elrond to the bedroom by the hand, and the elven Lord had no strength left to resist. “We can explore those after I decide whether you are in trouble or not.”

To be continued…

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading, I hope you are enjoying it. Comments/constructive criticism welcome. Please review! :)

Sauron/Maglor, Fanfiction

2007-06-10T04:02:55Z

Author: pippychick
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sauron/Maglor
Fandom: Lord of the Rings/Middle-earth
Warnings: Slash, M/M, explicit content.
Summary: Sauron makes Maglor beg for something…
Author’s Note: Ok, here we go. As if he could make up for that horrific thing he had me write the other day, here is a prequel to Celebrimbor’s murder, featuring Sauron and Maglor.
Disclaimer: None of the characters or their environment belong to me, they belong to Tolkien and I am just borrowing them for a while. I promise that when I have done I will wash Maglor down thoroughly with hot soapy water and then put him back on the beach. I further promise that I will not presume to touch Sauron at all, with soapy water or otherwise.

He could see well in the darkness. There was no need of light for his eyes to see by, and yet he halted just a few steps into the room. A word of command made several torches flare into life on the stone walls. Their flickering light seemed to caress the still form on the bed, casting intriguing shadows and showing off the flawless beauty of his skin. No moonlight existed here, but even if it had he still thought this was a far more appropriate way to view his prisoner. The warm orange light seemed to match the fiery red hair, and Sauron silently crossed the room to lay on the bed beside him.

They were both naked. Sauron did not bother to wear clothes when he came here, and Maglor – well, he had no need of them anyway. Barad-dûr was never cold. The elf slept at the moment, undisturbed, and Sauron tucked his own longer form behind that of his slave, splaying one large possessive hand over the flat, hairless chest. His lips touched the red hair, curved in a slight smile.

It had always been a pleasure for him, taking physical form, but now as he lay on the bed with his plaything, he reflected that he spent far longer in this body than he had before Maglor was his. The thought didn’t make him uncomfortable. Quite the reverse in fact. Should he allow Maglor to wake, then the elf would fall to pleasuring the form he occupied, just as he had been trained to do. Sauron sighed at the thought of it, and his physical body began to burn with desire again.

Moving slightly, he rubbed his thickening shaft again the inviting crease of Maglor’s buttocks, knowing already that the elf was prepared for him. Maglor never forgot. He let his eyes drift closed as he inhaled the scent of his slave’s hair, and though he could not see, he was aware of the world around him. He saw through the eyes of his servants far away from here. It was a new sensation, and one he keenly appreciated.

A single momentary lapse of concentration, and the elf moaned quietly at his touch, pressing against him in sleepy awareness. Quickly, with a harshly whispered curse, Sauron sent the elf deep into reverie again. He did not want the elf to wake yet.

His eyes fell on the cause – the ring he himself had created. The master ring. It was partly him. Mostly it was the part of him that was concerned with other things. The new gold gleamed warmly in the flickering light, the inscription clear to his eyes. It would be the winning of this war, but it had no place here. Sauron slid his other arm underneath Maglor and held him in a kind of loose embrace while he tugged the golden ring from his finger. Due to his movement, the relaxed elf jolted in his arms like a rag doll or a corpse, and Sauron held the forgotten ring in his hand while he dipped his head to lick Maglor’s exposed throat.

After all of the elf’s time here, there was still something addictive for Sauron. Just the scent of his hair, the taste of his skin. Even at the worst – or the best – times, when the elf was afraid for his soul or his sanity, the guilt of his wrongs pressing heavily on his heart. Even at those times he was still an elf. No matter what Maglor had done before this, and no matter what Sauron bade him do; no act was repulsive, destructive or vuglar enough to pervade the essence within. If he told the elf of this, he knew Maglor wouldn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe that he still tasted of purity and freedom. He wouldn’t believe that his hair smelled faintly of flowers he hadn’t seen for centuries. He was an elf, and the elves were a wholesome race, even when their souls were stained with murder, even when their minds were scarred by torture and imprisonment.

With these thoughts floating on the surface of his mind, Sauron reached out and let the golden ring rest on a table beside the bed, along with the warlike part of of himself. He wouldn’t be needing it for an hour, or maybe two. Maglor was his already.

With ease he flipped Maglor to lie on his front and skimmed his large hands over the broad expanse of the elf’s back. There were fading scars from his most recent punishment, but nothing lasting. Nothing ever lasted except submission, slavery and worship. Sauron let his gaze and his hands linger, practising in worship himself for a moment. He reached up and turned Maglor’s head to the side, moving the veil of his hair so that one delicate ear was exposed along with his face.

His arms Sauron moved so that they stretched upwards, resting on the pillows at either side of his head. His legs Sauron parted slightly, so as to look inviting. It didn’t escape his attention that he was arranging Maglor’s body, or that the elf was unresponsive, neither did it bother him.

“There,” he said softly into the silence when he was done, drinking in the sight greedily, feeling almost impatient to begin. “You are beautiful again, mûl nín.” There was no response. Maglor’s eyes remained open and unseeing. Only his chest moved a little as he breathed deeply in sleep, and for a moment there was murderous intention in Sauron’s heart. Then he smiled, and perhaps Maglor was fortunate that he did not see it. “I will never kill you,” he promised the sleeping elf softly.

Against all of his desires, those of the wolf, the vampire and the sorcerer, Sauron stood from the bed and looked around the small cell, wondering where Maglor kept it. There weren’t many places to look, after all, and underneath the table where he had left the ring was a small bottle of oil.

The ring suddenly whispered to him, of other things and other places. Other people that were defying him. He almost stopped to listen, torn between picking up the ring to determine the news it held, and the beauty on the bed, waiting in perfection to be claimed and mastered again and forever.

“Later,” he murmured, his gaze drawn by the elf’s glistening, half-parted lips, the deep blue eyes and the straight, sleek lines of his body. Maglor had lost some muscle since becoming his, but it wasn’t an unwelcome change. He was no longer what he had once been. Now he was more slender and graceful, the straight lines of his body only seeming to emphasize the curve of his calves and his thighs…

“Later,” Sauron murmured again, moving to rest on the bed again and covering Maglor like a shadow, shading his body from some of the torchlight. The oil was not for Maglor, but for him, and he used it liberally, taking a moment to pleasure himself as he thought about what he was going to do.

When he slid into the warm and waiting body, Maglor didn’t move or make a sound, and Sauron found himself enjoying that just as much. For a while he luxuriated in his possession of the elf. When the war was won and he could show Maglor how the world had fallen… Sauron groaned in lust for that moment. How beautiful his despair would be! He controlled the elf’s slow return to consciousness just as he controlled his own movements. Slow, deliberate and measured. He felt the body beneath him begin to clench in tandem with his own, yet relaxed enough that he could slide deep inside again and again.

“Herdir,” Maglor whispered at last, his voice heavy and thick with sleep.

“Hush, mûl nín. Do not speak and do not move,” Sauron commanded as he continued. The elf sighed quietly and laid his head to rest on the pillows again. He knew this game as well as all the others. Play dead.

Sauron continued, steady, endless. His self-control was absolute and it wasn’t really fair to make the elf compete with him, but Sauron did it anyway. Every pulling back was as the wave returning to the sea, every slow thrust inside was a crescendo. His rhythm was faultless, and soon he heard the elf begin to lose the battle between command and sensation. A helpless hitch of breath here, a whimper of arousal there.

With a self-satisfied smile, Sauron reached upward to clasp Maglor’s hands in his own, shushing him again sternly. He almost moaned himself at the way Maglor shivered, but he didn’t lose his place, always the same steady movement.

The elf began to grip his hands more tightly on every upstroke, at the point of deepest connection, and Sauron allowed it. Their bodies were synchronised, matched to each other by something as simple as rhythm. It was almost soothing.

It continued until they were both sweating and hot, sliding against each other, and the elf began to slip. Sauron felt the changes in Maglor’s body, and he sighed.

“I am sorry, Herdir,” Maglor groaned. “I cannot…” He didn’t say what he could not do, but Sauron knew. His body was unable to continue without resolution. The elf’s hands gripped his almost painfully now, and his stuttering breath was an antithesis of the slow movement he himself favoured. Again it occurred to him that it was unfair to put the elf’s self-control in competition with his own. He was, after all, Maiar. But then that was why he did it. What point was there in games unless he knew he would win them?

“No… no… no…” The elf murmured the word to himself, aware he didn’t have permission, and Sauron listened to him as he carried on, appreciating every nuance of desire this body could offer him. One more… Sauron sighed as the pitch of his own desire raised just a little. Another, and he closed his eyes.

“Makalaurë,” he whispered before he was quite aware of doing it, surprising even himself with the sound of tenderness. Beneath him the elf’s body gave up its hold at last, tighening around him in jerky spasms of pleasure. Sauron didn’t stop for it, and he didn’t even fall out of step, continuing the slow lovemaking as surely as the sun rose and set.

It was over for the elf, but not for him. At first Maglor had twitched and moaned in discomfort at the continuance of sensation, but then that too passed, and the elf’s body was so pliant and relaxed now. So warm, and Sauron made a low sound in his throat. Appreciation and pleasure, almost the purr of a cat, if a fearsome and dangerous one.

The elf was whimpering and crying – Sauron could feel the damp of tears against his forearm and it made him moan again. Despite his liberal use of oil, the elf must be feeling sore by now. How long had it been? An hour? Two? Longer?

The oddity of this strange relationship struck him then, and that at last made him falter. Against all the odds, was he the Maiar being seduced by Maglor’s helplessness? Why wasn’t the elf dead already? Why did he continue to allow this?

“Tell me your crimes again,” he demanded in a roughened voice, resuming the slow penetration so that Maglor whimpered beneath him. And as the elf relayed his past glories, telling stories of death and destruction caused by his hand, Sauron saw the potential in him again, and he wanted Maglor to be his, but he wondered.

Was it possible Maglor had been left with him for punishment? He brushed away strands of the elf’s hair to better see his face as he confessed to his wrongs. It didn’t matter. He would never let the elf go. If they wanted him, they would have to come here and take him, and Sauron wouldn’t be allowing that. Neither would he simply give Maglor back to them. The elf would continue to live… forever. With him.

“Shh…” Sauron hushed Maglor from his recollections, still taking him slowly. The elf was hot and trembling beneath him, alive and beautiful. Life was a delicate and fragile thing, Sauron knew that perfectly well, and he knew that he himself was capable of finesse. He moved his own faultlessly steady hand down, until his palm was over the elf’s ribs. He could feel every shaky breath the elf took, almost sense the erratic beat of his heart as it forced heated blood through his arteries and veins. So fragile.

Consciously, Sauron allowed his self-control to slip so that the physical body he had chosen found release, and he pressed his face to Maglor’s neck as he let something of himself flow into the elf. When he came back to himself a little, the elf was still whimpering, whispering his apologies as if this was truly punishment. Sauron smirked. It didn’t bother him. So be it.

“You can never be sorry enough for me to let you go,” Sauron told him maliciously, and Maglor began to sob.

Now that it was over, Sauron pulled back and stood from the bed, his eyes drawn to the ring that still beckoned. He could hear its voice more clearly now that the physical lust was satisfied, and he replaced the ring on his hand without a second thought or a glance to Maglor.

Worlds of thought and perception inundated his senses, almost too much for this body, but not for the sorcerer. Not for the Maiar. For a brief moment, he struggled to make sense of the multitude of voices and points of view, and then he roared in anger. The sound made the stones of his fortress sing, and finally he did look to Maglor. He had never told the elf anything of the outside world. Now he reconsidered.

“You have a nephew,” he stated coldly, and Maglor watched him in silence with wide eyes, not understanding. “By your brother Curufin,” Sauron elaborated, and recognition of his words dawned in Maglor’s eyes.

“He has… disappointed me,” Sauron noted with incredible self-restraint. There were three more rings which he hadn’t known about. Celebrimbor was going to have a visit from his friend Annatar very soon.

“Don’t you want to beg mercy for him, mûl nín?” Sauron asked, and immediately the elf was on his knees before Sauron, a supplicant for clemency for his unknown nephew. The earnest entreaty was beautiful enough to make Sauron feel a little charity.

“Very well, mûl nín. Since you ask it, I shall kill him instead of allowing him to linger. You have earned the release of one prisoner.” He noted the shocked intake of breath, and watched as slow understanding dawned. It was a mery he offered. “As long as you thank me,” he added with a cold smile, “in advance.”

Maglor looked up from his knees helplessly. “Thank you, Hîr nín,” he whispered, and then swallowed. He knew what was expected of him. “Thank you for killing my nephew.”

“Indeed. A less charitable person would say you lack sincerity,” Sauron teased, then laughed when Maglor kissed his feet. He let the elf suffer for a while longer before leaving the room to ready his army. Celebrimbor would die, but he regret his mistake before this was over.

~ finis ~

Translations:
Herdir – Master
mûl nín – my slave
Hîr nín – my Lord

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Comments welcome :)

pippychick @ 2007-06-10T02:40:00

2007-06-10T01:42:57Z

Ok… so at six o’clock yesterday evening I decided to lie down for an hour. I’d just gotten in from work where I’d been convinced to do overtime.

I think you can guess what happened next.

Yes. Now it’s two-thirty am in the morning, and guess who’s wide awake, having slept through her alarm?

*sighs*

Not only did I do this, but I left my contact lenses in to do it and now my eyes hate me.

I think maybe I’ll work some more on the Sauron/Maglor I was writing. Sauron owes me for letting him kill Celebrimbor like that last time.

The nominations for the MPA are over now, so it’s safe to say something. I feel so silly saying this, but also slightly unhappy, and to be honest it does belong in my journal because it’s about how I feel.

I find myself a little disappointed that “Fallen” wasn’t nominated. It just feels odd and depressing. “A Warrior’s Destiny” was nominated last time, and really, that story didn’t get half as much of my attention.

I poured all my heart and soul into “Fallen.” I spent entire evenings with it, editing it. At the time of writing most of the scenes I lived in that story. When I wrote the aftermath of the torture scene I felt sick for a week, and I really hated Sauron.

Like Bastion in The Neverending Story. I was there when Legolas was tortured. I was there when Sauron seduced Maglor. I was there with them when they escaped him. I was with Sauron when he watched Maglor from afar. I was even with Gollum when he fulfilled his part to bring Legolas and 'Athân together.

I know this is just pathetic whining, I know. It didn’t bother me when I got those comments from Henneth-Annun. It didn’t hurt when someone sporked it on Deleterius. But this feels odd… I mean it got such good comments… I really can’t understand it. :/

I guess what I’m trying to say, is that out of all I’ve written, “Fallen” is the story that demanded the most from me. It’s the story that I was happy to give myself to. There’s still a sequel waiting to be written, and I know I won’t be able to stop it. I wrote the first chapter so long ago now, I think it might have been 2004 or 2005. Sad to say that when you read “Fallen” you are looking at what so far has been my life’s work. And by that I mean I don’t know if I’ll ever give so much of myself to another fic.

Anyway, I’m shutting up. But, yes… disappointed is an adequate descriptive.

Horror story/fanfiction

2007-06-04T19:26:50Z

If you’re easily disturbed, please don’t read this. It is without a doubt the most horrible story I’ve ever written.

And it’s horror. There is no smut. There is no temptation. There is no happy ending.

Author: pippychick
Rating: NC-17 for disturbing content
Pairing: Sauron/Celebrimbor
Fandom: Lord of the Rings/Middle-earth
Warnings: Horror, gore, character death, implied rape, implied necrophilia, strong language (in the disclaimer after the cut)
Summary: Celebrimbor is caught by Sauron during the war that destroys Eregion.
Author’s Note: I’m sorry, this didn’t turn into what I wanted at all. I wanted to do something cute with Sauron, but he wasn’t in the mood. This is purely a horror story. The only consolation I can draw is that he must just like Maglor a whole lot.

Disclaimer: None of the characters or their environment belong to me. Additionally, Sauron/Annatar is an evil sick fuck and I take no responsibility for him whatsoever. I make no money from this, fortunately.

Consciousness was not a sudden occurrence for him this time, and that in itself was strange and worrying. Usually awakening was as sudden as stepping from forest to sunlight.

Instead, Celebrimbor first found himself aware of a whispering rattle of breath interspersed with quiet whimpers. He didn’t know how long he had been listening to the sound before he realised it came from him. Shallow, aching breaths in and out – barely breathing – and with knowledge came effort. The fear that the breathing would stop wasn’t a foolish one, he was sure. And though his body had sustained breath for the amount of time he was unconscious, he began to concentrate on it, frightened that in his limited sphere of awareness he would forget and life would leave him.

It didn’t immediately occur to him there was a world outside, but gradually he began to separate other sounds from the background. His breathing was by far the loudest, but like the swell of an ocean, in the distance were sounds of fighting and the screams of the dying. It seemed separate from him. So quiet… far away from him and his fight for life. Celebrimbor concentrated and he was barely able to continue, but he did.

Slowly, another sense began to return to him, and he became aware he was laid on his back. Reflexively, as soon as he realised they were there, his fingers flexed where they lay on his stomach. Something was wrong. His fingers twitched again tiredly, slipping in the wet warmth of his blood where it covered the mortal wound he had sustained. The sound of his breathing stuttered in the near-silence, and he had to forget about everything else again but pulling the rattling breaths in and out of his lungs.

When he had recovered a little, he wanted to move his hand, but such was beyond him and so he continued to lay motionless, unseeing, only a body trying to survive. No thoughts, no memories beyond survival. Little by little, pain made itself known to him, and several times his breathing faltered, wavered as if to match the war in his head between fear and relief.

Over time he felt stronger, and he deliberately took deeper breaths, taking the increase in measurable pain along with the increased awarenes in a kind of abysmal despair. But he saw a little now, and information flooded his desperate mind. The notion of being apart from the fighting was not a delusion. Although his eyes remained fixed in one position, he could see the canvas of the tent. The fighting continued outside – still far away – so that would mean a medical tent.

The knowledge came from nowhere, and vaguely Celebrimbor realised that meant there would be help here. The next whimper that came from his throat was conscious, but it signified nothing. No words. It wasn’t even any louder. Why hadn’t they left him to die? From the corner of his eye he saw himself, and he saw black arrows – more than one – protruding from his body. His fingers twitched against his will and again he whimpered.

His vision blurred and began to fade out. Desperate to keep it, Celebrimbor breathed as deeply as he dared, unable to avoid coughing around the tightness in his chest. The rattling was more of a gurgling now and he tasted blood for the first time. His own blood was on his lips, sweet and hot, not at all like the taste of death. Yet that is what it was.

His gaze had been settled, but now it jumped in a desperate need to signal help and aid, flickering to the side where it stopped again. There, directly in front of him, were the rings. Memory returned suddenly and he remembered what all this was about. The rings! They had to be kept safe! As he lay still and continued to concentrate on breathing, he remembered…

For so long they had laboured, and when the first of the rings were created there was celebration in the streets. Long had the people been silversmiths, but the sense of pride in the forging of the magical rings was absolute and almost hysterical.

Still, it was a good time to be among the people – a good time to live. Something monumental was being achieved, and it made the people happy. It had made him happy too, to see it.

The first sign that something was wrong hadn’t occurred until just before the savage war began. The rings, of which there were by now sixteen in Eregion, had begun to create unease in those who kept them. There were nineteen rings in existence, but three had been sent by his counsellors to certain chosen recipients. Celebrimbor himself didn’t know who they were, but he didn’t care to know. He assumed that the three had been sent to the leaders of the three realms – Gil-Galad, Oropher and Amroth..

Since they were magical, the rings had imparted an impression of that upon anyone who looked at them. It had always been benevolent. Most would view the rings, and walk away with a sense of peace. Some who were more receptive would hear lulling whispers. Celebrimbor had never heard them, until the song changed, and on that day he had realised his mistake.

The rings were kept together, and he had been ready to leave when he heard the first whispers. He couldn’t make it out, but he removed the velvet drape from the glass case that held them, and shook his head.

They looked the same as they always had – beautiful, well-crafted – all different. Some were delicate and decorative, others were simple and elegant in design. All held a stone. The rings tended to inspire feelings of achievement and love. He had heard others jokingly refer to them as children, and at times it didn’t feel far from the truth. This time was different.

Not one of them had changed. Nothing was different, but somehow Celebrimbor began to taste bitter fear. They were silent now, smug-looking. As though they had been talking together and only stopped now because the subject of their discussion was listening.

“Stop,” Celebrimbor said softly, still shaking his head. The rings did nothing.He watched them for some time, until a knock at the door made him jump.

“Coming,” he called out, a little more irritably than the servant deserved. With a last long glance to the rings, he walked to the door, and behind him rose such an immense image of hatred and intent that he almost stumbled. He knew if he turned there would be nothing to see. Still, he felt unprotected, and when he opened the door to speak to the servant his voice was little more than a faint whisper.

“We should prepare. Something is coming.”

As he lay in the tent, struggling for every breath and for every single last moment of life he had, Celebrimbor dared to risk a regretful moan. War had come upon them so fast and with such fury they had hardly been prepared for it. Seemingly for no reason did the dark lord and his servants march upon them, but Celebrimbor knew. He wanted the rings, because the rings had told him. They had whispered to him since that night, of nightmares and blood and murder. Of horrors beyond description that haunted his reverie whenever he lie down to rest.

Never would he forget it when he first heard the sound of the enemy, forever marching. Wave after wave, never relenting, never pausing. Their own pitiable army had been pushed back easily – so easily. The women and children had already been sent away, but in his heart Celebrimbor knew that there was nothing to protect them in all of Eriador should they fall. Should this hastily prepared army fail.

He remembered all of this as he lay gasping, his fixed gaze upon the rings of their destruction, and they whispered.

It was not a true whisper, and never had been. It was a rush of something flickering across the mind. There were no true words, and as he struggled to listen with his heart and soul, Celebrimbor knew there could never be words, for the rings were laughing. More blood settled in his throat, and he swallowed before he could drown in it, certain that another breath was beyond him – but it wasn’t.

There was a sudden, much closer rattle of armour and an impatient voice demanded, “Does he still live?”

Celebrimbor closed his eyes upon hearing that voice, and his hearing dimmed so that he didn’t hear the answer. Now there was the sound of canvas being roughly pushed out of the way, and footsteps approached him where he lay. His eyes opened again, as thought to keep them shut was an effort, and a hand covered his, forcing his body to move from it’s half twisted position so that he was resting on his back looking straight up at the face of someone who had once been his friend, but he was a friend to no-one.

“Do you live?” Celebrimbor drew in another painful, guttering breath, staring upwards, hearing the rings proclaim the truth. As if to confirm it, his gaze dropped down over bloodstained armour and weapons to the hand, where a single golden ring adorned his visitor’s finger.

He tried to speak his name, but ended up coughing, feeling the blood trickle from the corner of his mouth. The hand left him, and his companion turned his back, stalking over to the glass cabinet that contained the rings as if he could no longer look. But Celebrimbor understood now, and when Annatar reached out to unlock the cabinet, he twitched on the bed, as close as he could come to attempting escape.

“Do not bother,” Annatar noted without looking around, and selected one of the rings seemingly at random. Celebrimbor made a gurgling, desperate sound of denial when Annatar walked back to him. Amazingly, he managed to shake his head when Annatar took his hand, and his eyes were wide, beseeching mercy though he knew it was hopeless. Annatar smiled coldly.

“This is going to hurt me far more than it hurts you,” he declared, and as Celebrimbor watched, Annatar slid the selected ring onto his bloodied finger. It was a mockery of a marriage, and Annatar’s lips quirked as if he heard the thought. But then there was no time for further delirious impressions.

It was like being touched with fire, and Celebrimbor managed to scream as his body arched up from the bed. This must be the end, and yet it wasn’t. He settled back in place still breathing, watching as Annatar stumbled back from the bed, clutching his hand to his stomach as if in pain, the gold of his own ring blazing brightly as it caught the light of the candle.

Annatar laughed breathlessly as if he enjoyed it, still clutching himself as he backed into the material of the tent, leaning his head back to the canvas. The fire raced through Celebrimbor’s body and he writhed, unable to watch anymore as fiery blood spread through each artery and vein, repairing and healing him faster than even his own elven body should.

There was a balance between life and death, and only when it began to move into the favour of life did Celebrimbor understand precisely what was happening to him. He had never truly understood his own elven nature until that very moment. Never in all of his long life had he truly realised what connection meant. Connection to the world and to Arda. To the Valar and to Ilúvatar himself. Now, too late, when the connection was severed – he did.

He screamed again because he could, because his soul was lost in darkness, like a single candle against the night. Every tendril of his mind was in touch with it, like a cancer. It made him recoil, but there was nowhere to go. He felt like a lost child as Annatar recovered and walked towards him, absently caressing the ring he wore with his fingertips. It made Celebrimbor shiver delicately, feeling the ring he himself now wore respond to the touch.

With a sudden burst of clarity, Celebrimbor moved his hands together, to get rid of the ring and free himself from its devastating effect.

“Stop.” That one word was louder than thunder, though he knew Annatar only spoke it, and he covered his ears instead of removing the ring.

“Now,” Annatar began, moving an unseen stool close to the bed and settling upon it, apparently completely unharmed. “Let us see about these arrows.”

“Stay still,” he suggested, his voice once more carrying all the command of physical law as he studied the arrows that still protruded from Celebrimbor’s body. At a spoken signal that sounded ugly to Celebrimbor’s ears, an orc entered the tent. A few more of the gutteral sounds later and Celebrimbor was screaming again as the arrows were pulled from his body.

No one could survive this, and yet he did, his body only healing enough that he was not close to death, the wounds remaining perhaps simply to cause him pain. Annatar had revealed whom he was now, and Celebrimbor had known it from the moment the rings began to speak to him, but still a part of him hoped. He hated it that he hoped, but he could not help it, and he knew that his fate would be worse now than if he had been allowed to die.

Still, he felt disconnected from everything he had known before, unable to touch anything of value with his mind, and he whimpered when Annatar looked at him.

“Celebrimbor,” Annatar said with a soft sigh. “You have disappointed me.”

“I defy you,” he spat out in fear and fury. “I will be used no longer.” He felt it in the blackness surrounding his mind before he saw or heard it. Outside the tent was a commotion. Shouting and jeering that came closer until the perpetrators must be right outside. Against his will he stared at the blank canvass of the tent, and he smelled the burning of the torches. A lone, angry voice called out – an elvish one – and Celebrimbor started. Annatar placed one hand on his and he settled back helplessly.

The mob was outside now, and it must be a sizable one. The light from the torches shone onto the canvas, and shadows emerged, the light outside being brighter than the single candle that shone inside. A solitary, slender figure, surrounded on both sides by darkness.

“What are you doing? Why do you all watch me? Attack!” A clear voice called out, and Celebrimbor’s heart almost broke. He shook his head, but watched as if commanded as the lone figure turned from one side to the other in bewilderment. Instead of going to either side, suddenly hands pressed against the canvas of the tent, just shadows.

“Antael,” he murmured, not meaning to be quiet but somehow unable to raise strength for the moment. Annatar looked sharply at him, and he smirked.

“Where are the three other rings?” he asked pleasantly. Celebrimbor shook his head and outside the warrior he had fought alongside grunted in pain when a larger shadow approached and made a sudden suggestively violent movement.

“Where did you send them?” Annatar questioned again, and this time Celebrimbor shook his head in disbelief. And again his friend paid for his silence.

“Don’t!” He looked to Annatar now and saw only Sauron. The childish hope that had been within him died, and closed his eyes. “I do not know,” he admitted quietly. “Please…”

Annatar laughed softly, and outside Antael paid for his admission. “How unfortunate for him,” he noted.

The sick game went on and on, and the confusion of the warrior outside soon passed into indignant screams and demands for an honorable death, and then, eventually, broken pleas for mercy. Celebrimbor listened, and he sobbed for the one outside. Some time ago he had passed from telling the truth, to telling Sauron whatever he thought would sound best, but that hadn’t ended it.

Outside now it was quiet, and had been for some time. There were still suggestive grunts and movements that Celebrimbor felt sickened by, and in his heart he wished Antael’s soul peace and healing with Mandos.

“He still lives, I believe,” Annatar said, watching him, reading his mind, and Celebrimbor shuddered. As if to prove Sauron right, a single gasping pain-filled groan passed through the thin barrier to where they were. This was quickly followed by words in that ugly, gutteral language and some slight jostling. “While he lives his body will still be warm,” Annatar taunted.

Regardless of the pain and his injuries, Celebrimbor surged to a sitting position and leaned over to grap Annatar’s shoulders. “I do not know!” he shouted. “I can not give you the answer because I do not know!”

“Of course you do not know,” Annatar replied with a raised eyebrow, and grasped Celebrimbor’s hand. “If you had known this would not have been so enjoyable.”

Disgusted, Celebrimbor watched as Sauron held his hand – the one with the ring – and unthinkingly caressed the silver circlet. The blood on his hand had dried, and as the ring slid from his finger, it flaked away from his skin and he watched as if entranced.

“Your pain has been enjoyable, but it is time for me to return it to you,” Annatar whispered confidentially. “I was only borrowing it for a while.” The pain… Celebrimbor remembered it, but after what he had seen he had no wish to beg for his life. Annatar smirked, and for a moment longer he let life remain.

“Did you not know that the thought of it is forbidden to your kind?” he asked, referring to Celebrimbor’s willingness to die, and then slid the ring from his finger.

The elf fell back down on the bed as the semi-healed wounds suddenly blossomed with fresh red blood. It was quite an enchanting sight, almost beautiful, and Sauron watched for a moment as the elf died, his breath coming once, twice – he waited for a third breath that never came and then shrugged.

“I release you,” he said with a mocking bow of his head and stalked outside to the orcs and the elf that lay broken, bleeding and violated on the ground. Celebrimbor had been like a father to this one – that he had picked up from the elf’s thoughts easily. He fingered the ring in his hand thoughtfully, looked to the orcs, then the the body inside the tent, and lastly to the elf at his feet.

“Does he still live?” he demanded of his servants quickly… and Antael did – for a little while longer.

Fiction

2007-06-04T13:53:26Z

Ohh... God :/

Well, I have finished the fic... I hate Sauron. I really, really hate him.

It's so horrible there's no way I can post it. I really hate him.

This is a horror story, pure and simple. And it's so bad I just can't post it.

He'd better give me something more pleasant to write soon :(

*goes to have a shower to rid herself of nasty Sauron stuff*

Writing probs...

2007-06-04T11:18:30Z

Ok, so I’m off work today, and I’m putting together a little fic which will be my last post on LJ. ForbiddenFic posted a challenge for all writers in response to the Strikethrough and I just couldn’t resist.

Now, I’m used to writing ugly things, so I thought it would be easy. I mean, all you’ve got to do is get Sauron involved, right?

I’m having a problem. And I’ve noticed this just lately. I start out with all intention of writing something bold and bad and completely irreverent that will make canon-nazi’s froth at the mouth… but I keep finding myself writing about events from canon… and… *grimaces* forgetting about smut.

But the real problem is – this has happened for the ForbiddenFic piece and I’m a little worried that a study of Celebrimbor and his reaction when he realised that war was coming to them in the second age is not going to count as forbidden.

*sighs*

I guess I’ll wait until Sauron makes an appearance, but it doesn’t look good. When I need him to save me, he generally takes delight in watching me suffer. I don’t come off any better having him as a muse than someone having him as a Master. :/

I can’t force slash in there. If it doesn’t come naturally I don’t know what to do next. I mean, I like writing nasty things – but only when they’re a bit tempting. The idea of writing something that doesn’t belong will not fulfill me at all, even if it does fulfill the requirements.

First post

2007-06-03T07:40:05Z

Ok… so I have also moved here to Insane Journal, and it’s beginning to feel more like home than GJ. With that in mind, it’s time I posted, I guess.

There’s not much to say that hasn’t already been said, and so I think I’ll make a list of things I need to do.

1. Decorate.
2. Tidy up my website.
3. Write fiction, including a story for Esteliel’s birthday involving Glorfindel, Haldir, Legolas and some enforced femininity. A story for Pie with Glorfindel, Thranduil and Namo. Finish A Warrior’s Destiny. Finish The Teacher. Get on with the sequel to Fallen (the prequel can wait).
4. Continue with the original work so that Esteliel can get in on it again.
5. Edit the Running With Dreams story once again so that we can approach Torquere Press and others with it.
6. Remember back on how you promised to look at the code of the Interactive to see if you could sort the chapter numbers out past 50.

Right. Just looking at that list makes me feel tired. I owe so many things to so many people it isn’t funny. Touch typing is not going to help me *gulps*

Ah, well… before all that – work.

At least I wrote some fic for the move to GJ, and maybe I should post it here too. This definitely feels more like home – even if no one else comes here.

I didn’t like this when I wrote it, but maybe it’s Ok. I don’t know. It feels entirely predictable and formulaic. Anyway, if you read, I hope you enjoy it! :)

Pairing: Oberon/Puck
Rating: R/NC-17
Warnings: Frighteningly bad slash, BDSM

His body was still running. Even now, when he was caught. A light covering of clean sweat gleamed on his skin like oil, and the cool, sweet air was pulled in and out of warm lungs, misting slightly in the air before his lips.

“Delight me…” a voice whispered, deep and masculine, too close to his ear, and he twisted away from it, his eyes opening enough to register the way the vines had grown to encircle his wrists. He was held between two trees by nature herself. All were his slaves, after all. And he himself was experienced at delight – it wasn’t an impossible request.

In spite of that fact, his lithe rebellious limbs twitched and moved in their confinement, which only encouraged the strange plants to grip him more tightly.

“I do love you when you resist,” the voice murmured suggestively. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he continued to struggle – but it was only to hold back the laughter. That would be out of character for this game.

The lips that had been hovering close to his ear made contact with his skin now, slightly parted, brushing gently against the back of his earlobe because those lips knew exactly where to tease him. He sighed and fell still at last as warm hands encircled his waist, the fingertps moving over his ribs. This was never an unwelcome closeness.

“Mischievous sprite,” the voice murmured again, and he moaned under his breath as if in acknowledgement. The hands had moved. Instead of holding him tightly they roamed, and now the fingertips danced over his hip bones. “You played games this night on purpose, did you not?”

He hadn’t, but the simple expectation in the tone of the voice made him want to lie. He was good at lying.

“I did, Master.”

“Good.” It was either an observation or an accusation. He was unsure which, and after all perhaps it was both. What happened next would be a reward and a punishment. He writhed a little, impatient for it to begin, and the voice of his tormentor laughed.

“Hold still, Robin. You cannot escape me when I wish you to be a prisoner.”

“Then begin, Master,” he demanded suddenly, even though the way the hands had settled on the front of his thighs made him glad the vines held him, for the touch of those hands infused his body with a strange weakness, not unlike the drinking of spirits.

There was no answer and only a slight movement. His Master moved closer to him, close enough that as well as the teasing lips and sure hands, he felt the press of the body behind him, the robes he wore that didn’t cover nakedness, but were as sheer and cool as flower petals. The King’s body was strong, muscle touched against his back, not the softness of a mistress. “Please,” he said then, forgetting to be defiant in the face of sudden desire and his Master relented, stepping back so suddenly that Robin moaned in regret at the loss of his touch.

The whip when it struck him for the first time was a living thing – the King had probably had the forest provide it. But as a living thing then it became his Master’s touch, so he did not have that to reproach him with.

It was not truly violent or truly damaging, but just cruel enough for the pleasure of it to be wrong in the eyes of the world. He bore it in silence with closed eyes, his hands twisting in their binding as he rubbed his fingertips against the bark of the trees he was held to.

“Tenderly,” he begged as the whip fell onto his unprotected skin over and over, just the certainty of each stroke enough to keep him tethered to his body and not lose himself in delerium.

But at last it did stop, and the King stepped up close to him again as though he were an offering, those same hands sliding up and down over his sides.

“You forget, Robin, that while you showed me this method of playing with you – I have been watching the mortals far longer than you have.” With that he sensed the King move and suddenly warm lips were brushing over the welts raised on his back. A tingling healing touch, and he almost wept.

“Harshly,” he begged then, and a soft laugh answered him, a warm puffing of breath over his exposed skin that made him shiver and jerk in awareness.

“What do you teach the faeries of seduction, Robin?”

“Seduction, Master?” he asked innocently, but in his head he remembered what he had done before, and he knew the King had to see it too. A sudden image of lust and wet, luscious pleasure. “But I was only instructing,” he began hesitantly, as a kind of excuse. The body behind him moved again, and he felt those hands on his buttocks and then the backs of his legs. A gentle outward motion passed the King’s wishes to the forest and soon he was spread out before his Master.

He didn’t realise Oberon was knelt behind him until he felt the first touch of the King’s lips on the back of one thigh. He gasped and tried to move forward, or move at all, secretly overjoyed to find he was completely at the King’s mercy.

“Are you going to make me beg?” he asked breathlessly, closing his eyes in pleasure as the caress of the lips continued over his sensitive areas, causing a sweet ache to make itself known to him.

“Oh, I think not, Robin,” Oberon answered at last. “I don’t intend to free you. Not even to be on your knees before me.” There was silence then, filled with the sound of Oberon’s hands gliding across his legs, further upwards. Robin moaned when a tongue licked a line upwards over his spine, the cool air settling on the cooling saliva so that he shivered in arousal.

“Touch me,” he whispered, his need and ache a fiery thing now, the welts and the punishment forgotten. And they probably were gone, Robin thought, remembering the healing sensation.

“You are going to plead for that,” Oberon noted.

“Please!” he cried out, mistaking the words.

“And for more.” The King carried on as though he hadn’t said anything.

“More,” Robin groaned in obedience as he felt a hand wrapped around his lengthened shaft. To his surprise the King laughed and stood up again behind him.

“Ah, I cannot seduce you! You are too easy!” Robin felt indignance flare to life within him.

“I can be difficult!” he insisted, pulling at the vines again.

“You are always difficult, Robin. Even when you are easy,” Oberon noted in amusement, the soft deep voice seeming to caress his ear again. Robin sighed but smiled with his eyes closed as Oberon teased and sweetly continued to caress his needy body.

The robes his Master wore were not to cover nakedness. They just hung from his shoulders and so when Oberon pressed against him again, he felt the hot hardness against the small of his back, and his eyes narrowed in lust.

“Robin…” Oberon’s voice seemed strangely helpless now, and he pressed back against that hardness without mercy.

“I am yours,” he said quickly, the words seeming to have been implanted within him – but he could not stop himself speaking them. “I am your servant, to do with as you please.”

“So you are.” The darkness in Oberon’s voice was back, but with it was movement, and Robin whimpered as he felt the rod of flesh piercing his body, invading him mercilessly. It hurt, and he opened his eyes to the forest around them, almost unseeing as he gasped and instinctively tried to move away.

“You are mine, Robin,” Oberon reminded him, the voice now little more than a low growl of warning.

His eyes saw again, and he saw how the darkness of night retreated. The light was little, just a greying and a return of colour but it was there. The mist that hovered over the ground would soon turn to dew, and then they would be gone. Only the little ones played in the sunlight. He and Oberon were night creatures, though he supposed Oberon could stay, if he wished it.

“Hurt me,” he said, again the words not really his own. “Punish me.” The mortals he had watched never played like this. Although sometimes they might dream of it, if he stood near them in sleep. As he intended, Oberon picked up on that thought and he began to move, thrusting and hurting until there were tears in Robin’s eyes.

But then a hand wrapped around him again, stroking him, and he moaned rebelliously.

“No!”

“Enjoy it,” came the command and he was helpless. Completely helpless. His blood would obey even if his mind wouldn’t, and he began to enjoy the pain and the taking, until he was simultaneously begging for more and for it to stop.

When he felt Oberon reach completion he assumed it was over and his body trembled in shock at the King’s use of it. The connection was lost when Oberon pulled away from him, yet still the hand moved over his hard flesh, stroking slowly, the fingers teasingly light.

“It is near daylight!” Robin gasped desperately, feeling himself become light and insubstantial as he spoke.

“Then you should come with me,” taunted the King, the hand moving even more lazily, to deny him.

“When I awaken, I shall have to seduce a faery or two,” he said, pouting a little because he knew he was to sleep without satisfaction. To his surprise Oberon laughed again.

“Good fellow,” he said, “I will need to punish you again afterwards.” And Robin laughed too as his form broke and scattered, the dissolution as inevitable as Oberon’s acceptance of him.