(no subject)
A few days ago musegaarid, clearly knowing that I am suggestible in all things fandom related, offered to produce some Aziraphale/Crowley fic as written by Adam Young, if I'd write Crowley and Aziraphale's responses to learning of said antichrist authored fic. Thus it was that Adam Young AKA average_adam unleashed his first NC-17 rated A/C smutfic upon the internet; and I was forced to fulfil my half of the bargain.
Aziraphale gasped when he saw the list of users appear on screen. This ‘search interests’ function really was a mine of surprises. He really hadn’t expected his name to generate so many results. “Remarkable,” he said. “How on earth could they have heard of me?”
Crowley, who’d been spending the afternoon introducing him to the wonders of the internet, shrugged. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but there seemed something a little too deliberate about the gesture for it to seem genuinely casual. “Probably somebody famous with the same name. Look, now that we’ve got you online, don’t you think we should be setting off, traffic’s going to murder this time of night?”
“The concert doesn’t start for another two hours.” The angel’s eyes scanned the list of user names, some were self-explanatory, some clever, some unfathomable and a few obscene. One name however stood out above all the rest. At first he thought that it had to be coincidence; there were after all a great many people with that name in the world. But when he clicked on the link marked average_adam the user info proved quite conclusive. “I didn’t know that he had one of these livejournals.”
“I didn’t either until yesterday,” said Crowley, paling slightly and shifting in a rather uncomfortable fashion. “Look, there’s this really great community for restaurant recommendations, maybe we could have a look at that.” There was something about the demon’s tone that smacked of ‘desperately trying to change the subject’.
“In a minute Crowley, I’ll just have a look at what he’s written in here. I wonder if he mentioned us at all.”
Crowley mumbled something under his breath. Aziraphale thought that he caught the words ‘voyeurism’ and ‘little bastard’.
There were numerous entries in the journal; most seemed relate to his life in Lower Tadfield. As he scrolled down however something caught his eyes. “Oh look,” he said, smiling. “He seems to have posted a story. A story about us no less.” He frowned slightly as he read the summary. “Graphic sex! One would have hoped the boy might have resisted the temptation to pander to that horribly modern demand for gratuitous detail. Though to be fair I suppose that if he’s writing about your diabolic exploits gratuitous could be the only honest way to go.”
“I, er, really don’t think you should look at that, Aziraphale.” Much to the angel’s surprise Crowley’s voice seemed to have taken on a pleading nature. “Could lead to, er… computer viruses and stuff like that.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “Really my dear, don’t be absurd.” Without hesitation he clicked to see what was concealed behind the cut. The first couple of lines sounded reasonable enough, as did the third fourth and fifth. The sixth made him pause for thought. But the seventh… well, that had him gaping open mouthed. He knew as soon as he read it that the sensible thing would be to click on the x at the top right hand corner of the window and never speak of it again, but morbid curiosity is an urge that even angel find near-impossible to resist.
Fifteen minutes later he was still gaping, face mysteriously vacated of all colour.
“I did tell you not to look,” the demon said, weakly.
“What on earth do you think could possess him to… to…?”
“Write about us fucking.” Crowley supplied. “How in the name Milton Keynes should I know?”
“Does he think that we’re really doing things like that?”
“Who can tell?”
“And I’ve no idea where he got his information about, um, ‘that sort of thing’ from. I hardly think that somebody putting their finger there could cause one’s wings to pop out.”
Crowley muttered something inaudible.
“My dear?” Aziraphale queried, slightly annoyed that the demon didn’t seem prepared to let him launch into a prolonged denouncement of the state of antichristal knowledge of angelic anatomy.
The demon’s cheeks seemed to flush slightly. “That is, er, sort of true… for demons at least.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened a little more. “What?”
“Well, I’m just saying that it’s happened to me once or twice.”
“You never told me.” Aziraphale knew that the words sounded far more accusatory than was warranted (after all he knew that Crowley had developed quite a taste for the pleasures of the flesh over the millennia), but he was still in a state of shock and couldn’t help but feel that a piece of fascinating information had been wilfully kept from him.
Behind his sunglasses Crowley rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think that it was something that you’d particularly want to know.”
“I’m sorry my dear,” Aziraphale said, at once feeling a tad flustered. “I suppose I’m just in a slight state of shock at the moment. I just can’t understand what’s got into Adam; surely he can’t think that it’s right or proper to go around posting these tawdry untruths on the internet.”
“He’s probably just young and confused about his sexuality, or whatever it is that the psychoanalysts are saying these days.”
Aziraphale gave a small sigh. “What really worries me is the thought Him upstairs watching, not to mention him downstairs.”
“Yes, but it’s not as if we’ve actually done any of those things to each other, is it?” said Crowley, in an irritating reasonable voice. “Look, why don’t we both do our best to pretend that we never saw Adam’s little creative endeavour and carry on as usual.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Aziraphale, nodding weakly. He was skilled in the art of denial and knew well the power of ‘carrying on a usual’. “Let us never speak of it again.”
“Agreed,” said the demon, looking relieved. “Now can we please get going, if I stay here much longer my clothes are going to start irreversibly stinking of book dust and old libraries; and this is a new suit.”
A few minutes later they were in the Bentley and about to set off for an evening of Mozart. Crowley however couldn’t help but feel that Aziraphale was still looking a tad pre-occupied.
“You’re still thinking about the thing with the wings, aren’t you?” he said, resisting the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel.
Aziraphale, shamefaced, cast his eyes downwards. “I’m sorry my dear, I just can’t seem to get it out of my head.”
Crowley gave an exasperated sigh. “What the fuck do you want, a bloody demonstration?”
For several moments the angel said nothing. “Actually,” he said eventually, “I think I would.”
It was Crowley’s turn to gape.
A few hundred miles away, in rural Cambridgeshire, a guilty yet grinning young man did his level best not to observe what his two immortal godfathers were getting up to.
Aziraphale gasped when he saw the list of users appear on screen. This ‘search interests’ function really was a mine of surprises. He really hadn’t expected his name to generate so many results. “Remarkable,” he said. “How on earth could they have heard of me?”
Crowley, who’d been spending the afternoon introducing him to the wonders of the internet, shrugged. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but there seemed something a little too deliberate about the gesture for it to seem genuinely casual. “Probably somebody famous with the same name. Look, now that we’ve got you online, don’t you think we should be setting off, traffic’s going to murder this time of night?”
“The concert doesn’t start for another two hours.” The angel’s eyes scanned the list of user names, some were self-explanatory, some clever, some unfathomable and a few obscene. One name however stood out above all the rest. At first he thought that it had to be coincidence; there were after all a great many people with that name in the world. But when he clicked on the link marked average_adam the user info proved quite conclusive. “I didn’t know that he had one of these livejournals.”
“I didn’t either until yesterday,” said Crowley, paling slightly and shifting in a rather uncomfortable fashion. “Look, there’s this really great community for restaurant recommendations, maybe we could have a look at that.” There was something about the demon’s tone that smacked of ‘desperately trying to change the subject’.
“In a minute Crowley, I’ll just have a look at what he’s written in here. I wonder if he mentioned us at all.”
Crowley mumbled something under his breath. Aziraphale thought that he caught the words ‘voyeurism’ and ‘little bastard’.
There were numerous entries in the journal; most seemed relate to his life in Lower Tadfield. As he scrolled down however something caught his eyes. “Oh look,” he said, smiling. “He seems to have posted a story. A story about us no less.” He frowned slightly as he read the summary. “Graphic sex! One would have hoped the boy might have resisted the temptation to pander to that horribly modern demand for gratuitous detail. Though to be fair I suppose that if he’s writing about your diabolic exploits gratuitous could be the only honest way to go.”
“I, er, really don’t think you should look at that, Aziraphale.” Much to the angel’s surprise Crowley’s voice seemed to have taken on a pleading nature. “Could lead to, er… computer viruses and stuff like that.”
Aziraphale shook his head. “Really my dear, don’t be absurd.” Without hesitation he clicked to see what was concealed behind the cut. The first couple of lines sounded reasonable enough, as did the third fourth and fifth. The sixth made him pause for thought. But the seventh… well, that had him gaping open mouthed. He knew as soon as he read it that the sensible thing would be to click on the x at the top right hand corner of the window and never speak of it again, but morbid curiosity is an urge that even angel find near-impossible to resist.
Fifteen minutes later he was still gaping, face mysteriously vacated of all colour.
“I did tell you not to look,” the demon said, weakly.
“What on earth do you think could possess him to… to…?”
“Write about us fucking.” Crowley supplied. “How in the name Milton Keynes should I know?”
“Does he think that we’re really doing things like that?”
“Who can tell?”
“And I’ve no idea where he got his information about, um, ‘that sort of thing’ from. I hardly think that somebody putting their finger there could cause one’s wings to pop out.”
Crowley muttered something inaudible.
“My dear?” Aziraphale queried, slightly annoyed that the demon didn’t seem prepared to let him launch into a prolonged denouncement of the state of antichristal knowledge of angelic anatomy.
The demon’s cheeks seemed to flush slightly. “That is, er, sort of true… for demons at least.”
Aziraphale’s eyes widened a little more. “What?”
“Well, I’m just saying that it’s happened to me once or twice.”
“You never told me.” Aziraphale knew that the words sounded far more accusatory than was warranted (after all he knew that Crowley had developed quite a taste for the pleasures of the flesh over the millennia), but he was still in a state of shock and couldn’t help but feel that a piece of fascinating information had been wilfully kept from him.
Behind his sunglasses Crowley rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think that it was something that you’d particularly want to know.”
“I’m sorry my dear,” Aziraphale said, at once feeling a tad flustered. “I suppose I’m just in a slight state of shock at the moment. I just can’t understand what’s got into Adam; surely he can’t think that it’s right or proper to go around posting these tawdry untruths on the internet.”
“He’s probably just young and confused about his sexuality, or whatever it is that the psychoanalysts are saying these days.”
Aziraphale gave a small sigh. “What really worries me is the thought Him upstairs watching, not to mention him downstairs.”
“Yes, but it’s not as if we’ve actually done any of those things to each other, is it?” said Crowley, in an irritating reasonable voice. “Look, why don’t we both do our best to pretend that we never saw Adam’s little creative endeavour and carry on as usual.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Aziraphale, nodding weakly. He was skilled in the art of denial and knew well the power of ‘carrying on a usual’. “Let us never speak of it again.”
“Agreed,” said the demon, looking relieved. “Now can we please get going, if I stay here much longer my clothes are going to start irreversibly stinking of book dust and old libraries; and this is a new suit.”
A few minutes later they were in the Bentley and about to set off for an evening of Mozart. Crowley however couldn’t help but feel that Aziraphale was still looking a tad pre-occupied.
“You’re still thinking about the thing with the wings, aren’t you?” he said, resisting the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel.
Aziraphale, shamefaced, cast his eyes downwards. “I’m sorry my dear, I just can’t seem to get it out of my head.”
Crowley gave an exasperated sigh. “What the fuck do you want, a bloody demonstration?”
For several moments the angel said nothing. “Actually,” he said eventually, “I think I would.”
It was Crowley’s turn to gape.
A few hundred miles away, in rural Cambridgeshire, a guilty yet grinning young man did his level best not to observe what his two immortal godfathers were getting up to.