Happy Greeting-Card-and-Candy-Industry Commercial Aphrodisiac Day!
Since lots of folks are doing it, I'll join the flock and repost a few of my ficlets written for the Good Omens Anonymous Kink Meme. These aren't the only ones I've done over there, of course.
Due to the nature of the project, all these ficlets are adult-rated.
Crowley/Sister Mary Loquacious, nun fetish. (+other characters watching, if you like).
"In 30 seconds you will wake up," said Aziraphale to the entranced ex-nun, "And you will have had a lovely dream about what you like best--"
In her dream, she was Sister Mary Loquacious again, and she was a Satanic nun, and there were things Satanic nuns had always been promised, but Sister Mary's life with the Chattering Order had proved disappointing (after all, little girls love trying on their mothers' glamorous and pretty evening clothes, but there are reasons those clothes are always in Mum's closet and never on Mum - life's disappointing that way).
"Master Crowley," she said, "Is there anything I ought to be doing for you, I mean, I do realise all that business with Himself and his little toesy-woesies is most important, but that's all been taken care of now, and are you sure you wouldn't like a bit of a nice--"
"Yes, it was all taken care of. Er. Eleven years ago. A nice whatnow?"
"Hadn't we ought to do some...consorting? I would so love to do some proper consorting, just once, just to say I had done, and I've read that it's just not done these days for a woman to go without...you know...orgasms, and..."
Even in her trance, she could see Crowley's jaw drop in something like horror but really more like acute contact embarrassment.
It didn't matter what Mary was really wearing now, or what Crowley was really thinking of it all, because in Mary's dream she is wearing a wimple and a habit hitched up, and Master Crowley is really quite...masterful, and her sensible nun shoes are leaving footprints on the fine black wool of his trousers, which she's opening for him. His eyes glow like coals, like proper demon's eyes, and isn't his...supposed to be cold?
It isn't. It's also disappointingly only a bit above average. "That's all right," she says, "Going native and all, I understand. Can't have a monster in your britches frightening the locals, can you," She winks like a pro, with something stuck in her eye, and Crowley wants to stick something in there but figures something is better applied to her mouth instead. His tongue is forked. She tastes like stale sugar biscuits. She's still trying to talk.
He's thinking the habit and wimple have a certain appeal. It's instinct. The put-upon manner in which he's fucking her becomes a lot less grudging as the things she's muttering into his mouth become actually decently filthy, because she was raised right even if she isn't so zealous anymore, and her legs are tightening around him just right, and she has plump and assertive little breasts pressing against him under black-and-white layers that fall apart artfully for no apparent reason other than pornographic convention.
When she finally arches up and goes shriekingly rigid, she knows she's achieved at least one goal. Master Crowley's too incoherent for even a proper blasphemy, the poor dear.
"Crowley!" barked Aziraphale, utterly affronted. "Well, I never!"
"Instinct," Crowley said, tucking himself back into his trousers and giving the blissed-out ex-nun and ex-sexually-deprived-woman one last exasperated look. "Only way to make 'em stop talking."
"She'll think she dreamt it."
"Good."
Aziraphale was secretly thinking that demonic instincts were something he could stand to learn more about. Perhaps a halo might have a similar effect.
***
Grown-up Adam/Pepper, sex in a church
In Pavlovian fashion, Adam usually got a very quick raging hard-on whenever Pepper wore a skirt.
It wasn't that she looked particularly ravishing in one. That wasn't a word either of them would have used. (Although he did admit to love licking the freckles on her knobby knees).
It was that Pepper was in all things utilitarian, and it meant one thing only -- that she didn't want to have to mess with the inconvenience of pulling off a shoe to pull her jeans far enough to step out of one leg and balance weirdly as she hopped and squirmed until she could spread her legs far enough. When she wore a skirt it was because she wanted the practicality of just being able to hitch it up, pull her knickers to one side, and fuck.
Usually in some hurried, wonderfully wrong place - in the library, in the gravel pit, up against a wall behind the pub. Adam wondered would it be like to play with Pepper in a bed sometime, but she had shown no interest in that.
But this was pushing even a 20-year-old Antichrist's sense of propriety. Which turned him right the fuck on. He found himself sprawled across a narrow pew, first row to the altar, hips grinding on worn-smooth oak as Pepper straddled him, her hands white on either side of his neck, a hymnal under her knee and rocking awkwardly but wildly, barely balanced, her t-shirt lifted so that her little pale--freckled--breasts with their hard pink nipples bounced just in front of his face, and he dodged and grasped at them with his lips like he was bobbing for apples. Her tight little red-haired pussy grasped at his cock with her movements, wet and pulling as she growled and moaned. His hands cupped and rocked her arse. His feet squeaked and slid on the floor. The wind of a storm rattled the old wooden walls, and candles came lit of their own accord as Adam came inside her, hard, still remembering to pulse a finger against her clit the way she liked, and her nails marred the backrest of the pew.
The disapproving plump face of one of the stained-glass angels looked familiar, and Adam was glad he hadn't noticed it until they'd finished.
***
Wensleydale/Brian
Wensleydale's calling the shots and wearing a kilt.
Wensleydale may have always seemed to have been about 42 years old…but there was something in him that seemed even older, and that possibly predisposed him to this geekiest of hobbies.
And while Brian may have harboured fantasies of sweaty warfare, what the secular-religion of historical re-enactment societies did for Wensleydale was the perfection to a spiritual level of his greatest talent: nit-picking.
Every fiber of anachronistic fabric, every improperly forged weapon, every furtive nipping of a dose of tobacco in pre-New World milieus or swig of spirits produced by modern brewing methods earned a look of aristocratic disdain that might have meant someone’s head if this weren’t actually make-believe.
Brian grew to admire that disdain, even crave it. He walked a fine line now between courting that glance as often as he could (to tuck away for future private enjoyment, examining of the debauched possibilities under scratchy sheets in the wool-scented encampment of the Highland regiments). He began to look on glaring historical inaccuracies with an erotic charge. He smuggled a grungy laptop into the camp to watch 'Braveheart' over and over. He read Sir Walter Scott. He insisted his family had its own tartan. He quoted 'Highlander' at every opportunity, and made his own opportunities to burst into “The Skye Boat Song” or, should that fail to get a reaction, tunes from 'Brigadoon.'
And then he found his true calling when he spoke with a dyemaker.
What few modern people understand about woad is that it stinks. In its traditional processing, the plant itself gives off an odor like stale socks and dead sheep, festering in the sun in a blighted cabbage patch and nurtured with the flesh of dead sea things washed up on the beach. It can drop a herd of swine at thirty paces. And it must be mixed with ammonia--not the modern chemical housecleaner, but the natural element found in urine. Brian relished the whole process, burying his hands in the stink and staining his clothes and his hair and his face.
“The Picts did not use woad as body paint, that’s a myth,” sneered Wensleydale, with a very not-period wooden clothespin on his nose.
“How do you know?” said Brian cheerfully, moving close, eager to leave mucky blueish handprints on that very anachronistically clean white skin showing beneath the folds of the great kilt. (Circa 1692, around the time of the Glencoe Massacre).
“It doesn’t cling properly to the skin,” said Wensleydale, ignoring evidence of the opposite all over Brian.
“It does if you add lard,” Brian grinned. “Which I did.”
“Yes,” said Wensleydale, “a texture as pleasant as the scent, no doubt.”
“Aw, c’mon now,” said Brian. “Are you telling me Bonnie Prince Charlie’s boys are more poncy than the Picts? Too soft for a little pig fat ‘at smells of the battlefield?”
“Bonnie Prince Charlie? Off by 50 years!” Wensleydale shouted. “I fail to see how such a flagrant display of primitivism can possibly enhance morale, much less accuracy…”
Brian was, frankly, boggled. How could he not see? If you were going to play-act at war, wasn’t the whole joy of it the squelch and the stench? Mud and blood and horse dung and vulture breath?
Well. Maybe that wasn’t what motivated Wensleydale.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” said Brian with a grin.
“I don’t,” said Wensleydale, crossing his arms stubbornly as the drape of his great kilt brooded on one shoulder and a damp breeze ruffled the marten fur of his sporran. “Show me.”
Something about the pristine lad all puzzled and stern beneath a storm-grey sky made Brian want to push his luck. To wear the woad one had to be wild, or at the very least riled, and he gazed at the crisp white leggings, the only slightly pinker glimpse of knee beneath the tartan, and just wanted to push his luck all the further. And a glance at the sgian dubh, no doubt immaculately sharp and polished, gave him the very opposite of a prudent pause. That was Wensleydale to a T right there - sharp and shiny and clean and precise and purely ceremonial. Never tasted blood.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to convince me,” said Wensleydale, in a rather clipped tone.
Brian rose up from the vat, stinking woad flying from his arms and mud flying from his shoes and knees. He practiced his idea of a wild war whoop while ripping off his t-shirt, skin goosebumping in the damp before he started to anoint his belly with blue grease in the closest he could approximate to very vaguely Pictish spirals and angles.
Wensleydale’s disdain slipped. Just a little, just for a second, but it inspired Brian to greater heights. He picked up a long stick and brandished it, spearlike.
“You need more, I think,” said Wensleydale, maintaining his damnable critical faculties. “Around your chest.”
“Alright then,” said Brian, drawing bastardized tribal eyes around his nipples.
Wensleydale licked his lips.
“And your face.”
“I can’t see what I’m doing.”
“You can’t expect me to touch that.”
“Oh, but I can,” said Brian, challenging. He picked up the “spear” again.
“Not yet,” said Wensleydale, tapping his toe, fidgeting with his sporran.
Brian was thinking that he had to be going regimental. Wensleydale would never wear anything so historically inaccurate as underpants.
“Brian, I am hardly an expert, that’s not my period of choice, but I was under the impression that the Picts had not yet invented the dungarees.”
“Dungarees? No one’s called them that in fifty years.”
“And no one wore them when fighting Romans.”
“Very well, then,” said Brian, stripping off, and being satisfied by Wensleydale’s look of shock when he revealed that he didn’t wear underpants either. Hygienically inaccurate. Continuing to enjoy that look, and enjoying it more the further down it went, Brian began trailing his fingers down his belly and hips and up his thighs, drawing patterns meant to draw the gaze, finally settling at last into a daring pull upon his cock, which was growing long enough to accommodate some fairly elaborate spirals, which were immediately after blurred by the tantalizing motion of his hand, smearing blue blue blue everywhere, and it was all Wensleydale saw.
“It’s warming,” he taunted. “You should try it.”
“Don’t touch me,” said Wensleydale, trembling, horrified and attracted.
“Would I scare you now in battle?”
“Yes,” said Wensley, his voice a high squeak. He caught himself quickly, and deepened his voice forcefully. “I challenge you…to a feat of skill!”
“Caber toss?” leered Brian, even his teeth now looking blue. “Without hands?”
Wensleydale swallowed hard, rocking on his heels, kilt now noticeably tented beneath the fur…”Promise you won’t get any on me!”
“I promise,” Brian lied.
“Then kneel.”
Brian did, wondering where the knighting ceremony came into it. Wensleydale lifted wool and blessed him with a sword.
***
If you enjoyed these, the best way to thank me is to go over there and leave your own little anonymous gift for the fandom. :)
Due to the nature of the project, all these ficlets are adult-rated.
Crowley/Sister Mary Loquacious, nun fetish. (+other characters watching, if you like).
"In 30 seconds you will wake up," said Aziraphale to the entranced ex-nun, "And you will have had a lovely dream about what you like best--"
In her dream, she was Sister Mary Loquacious again, and she was a Satanic nun, and there were things Satanic nuns had always been promised, but Sister Mary's life with the Chattering Order had proved disappointing (after all, little girls love trying on their mothers' glamorous and pretty evening clothes, but there are reasons those clothes are always in Mum's closet and never on Mum - life's disappointing that way).
"Master Crowley," she said, "Is there anything I ought to be doing for you, I mean, I do realise all that business with Himself and his little toesy-woesies is most important, but that's all been taken care of now, and are you sure you wouldn't like a bit of a nice--"
"Yes, it was all taken care of. Er. Eleven years ago. A nice whatnow?"
"Hadn't we ought to do some...consorting? I would so love to do some proper consorting, just once, just to say I had done, and I've read that it's just not done these days for a woman to go without...you know...orgasms, and..."
Even in her trance, she could see Crowley's jaw drop in something like horror but really more like acute contact embarrassment.
It didn't matter what Mary was really wearing now, or what Crowley was really thinking of it all, because in Mary's dream she is wearing a wimple and a habit hitched up, and Master Crowley is really quite...masterful, and her sensible nun shoes are leaving footprints on the fine black wool of his trousers, which she's opening for him. His eyes glow like coals, like proper demon's eyes, and isn't his...supposed to be cold?
It isn't. It's also disappointingly only a bit above average. "That's all right," she says, "Going native and all, I understand. Can't have a monster in your britches frightening the locals, can you," She winks like a pro, with something stuck in her eye, and Crowley wants to stick something in there but figures something is better applied to her mouth instead. His tongue is forked. She tastes like stale sugar biscuits. She's still trying to talk.
He's thinking the habit and wimple have a certain appeal. It's instinct. The put-upon manner in which he's fucking her becomes a lot less grudging as the things she's muttering into his mouth become actually decently filthy, because she was raised right even if she isn't so zealous anymore, and her legs are tightening around him just right, and she has plump and assertive little breasts pressing against him under black-and-white layers that fall apart artfully for no apparent reason other than pornographic convention.
When she finally arches up and goes shriekingly rigid, she knows she's achieved at least one goal. Master Crowley's too incoherent for even a proper blasphemy, the poor dear.
"Crowley!" barked Aziraphale, utterly affronted. "Well, I never!"
"Instinct," Crowley said, tucking himself back into his trousers and giving the blissed-out ex-nun and ex-sexually-deprived-woman one last exasperated look. "Only way to make 'em stop talking."
"She'll think she dreamt it."
"Good."
Aziraphale was secretly thinking that demonic instincts were something he could stand to learn more about. Perhaps a halo might have a similar effect.
***
Grown-up Adam/Pepper, sex in a church
In Pavlovian fashion, Adam usually got a very quick raging hard-on whenever Pepper wore a skirt.
It wasn't that she looked particularly ravishing in one. That wasn't a word either of them would have used. (Although he did admit to love licking the freckles on her knobby knees).
It was that Pepper was in all things utilitarian, and it meant one thing only -- that she didn't want to have to mess with the inconvenience of pulling off a shoe to pull her jeans far enough to step out of one leg and balance weirdly as she hopped and squirmed until she could spread her legs far enough. When she wore a skirt it was because she wanted the practicality of just being able to hitch it up, pull her knickers to one side, and fuck.
Usually in some hurried, wonderfully wrong place - in the library, in the gravel pit, up against a wall behind the pub. Adam wondered would it be like to play with Pepper in a bed sometime, but she had shown no interest in that.
But this was pushing even a 20-year-old Antichrist's sense of propriety. Which turned him right the fuck on. He found himself sprawled across a narrow pew, first row to the altar, hips grinding on worn-smooth oak as Pepper straddled him, her hands white on either side of his neck, a hymnal under her knee and rocking awkwardly but wildly, barely balanced, her t-shirt lifted so that her little pale--freckled--breasts with their hard pink nipples bounced just in front of his face, and he dodged and grasped at them with his lips like he was bobbing for apples. Her tight little red-haired pussy grasped at his cock with her movements, wet and pulling as she growled and moaned. His hands cupped and rocked her arse. His feet squeaked and slid on the floor. The wind of a storm rattled the old wooden walls, and candles came lit of their own accord as Adam came inside her, hard, still remembering to pulse a finger against her clit the way she liked, and her nails marred the backrest of the pew.
The disapproving plump face of one of the stained-glass angels looked familiar, and Adam was glad he hadn't noticed it until they'd finished.
***
Wensleydale/Brian
Wensleydale's calling the shots and wearing a kilt.
Wensleydale may have always seemed to have been about 42 years old…but there was something in him that seemed even older, and that possibly predisposed him to this geekiest of hobbies.
And while Brian may have harboured fantasies of sweaty warfare, what the secular-religion of historical re-enactment societies did for Wensleydale was the perfection to a spiritual level of his greatest talent: nit-picking.
Every fiber of anachronistic fabric, every improperly forged weapon, every furtive nipping of a dose of tobacco in pre-New World milieus or swig of spirits produced by modern brewing methods earned a look of aristocratic disdain that might have meant someone’s head if this weren’t actually make-believe.
Brian grew to admire that disdain, even crave it. He walked a fine line now between courting that glance as often as he could (to tuck away for future private enjoyment, examining of the debauched possibilities under scratchy sheets in the wool-scented encampment of the Highland regiments). He began to look on glaring historical inaccuracies with an erotic charge. He smuggled a grungy laptop into the camp to watch 'Braveheart' over and over. He read Sir Walter Scott. He insisted his family had its own tartan. He quoted 'Highlander' at every opportunity, and made his own opportunities to burst into “The Skye Boat Song” or, should that fail to get a reaction, tunes from 'Brigadoon.'
And then he found his true calling when he spoke with a dyemaker.
What few modern people understand about woad is that it stinks. In its traditional processing, the plant itself gives off an odor like stale socks and dead sheep, festering in the sun in a blighted cabbage patch and nurtured with the flesh of dead sea things washed up on the beach. It can drop a herd of swine at thirty paces. And it must be mixed with ammonia--not the modern chemical housecleaner, but the natural element found in urine. Brian relished the whole process, burying his hands in the stink and staining his clothes and his hair and his face.
“The Picts did not use woad as body paint, that’s a myth,” sneered Wensleydale, with a very not-period wooden clothespin on his nose.
“How do you know?” said Brian cheerfully, moving close, eager to leave mucky blueish handprints on that very anachronistically clean white skin showing beneath the folds of the great kilt. (Circa 1692, around the time of the Glencoe Massacre).
“It doesn’t cling properly to the skin,” said Wensleydale, ignoring evidence of the opposite all over Brian.
“It does if you add lard,” Brian grinned. “Which I did.”
“Yes,” said Wensleydale, “a texture as pleasant as the scent, no doubt.”
“Aw, c’mon now,” said Brian. “Are you telling me Bonnie Prince Charlie’s boys are more poncy than the Picts? Too soft for a little pig fat ‘at smells of the battlefield?”
“Bonnie Prince Charlie? Off by 50 years!” Wensleydale shouted. “I fail to see how such a flagrant display of primitivism can possibly enhance morale, much less accuracy…”
Brian was, frankly, boggled. How could he not see? If you were going to play-act at war, wasn’t the whole joy of it the squelch and the stench? Mud and blood and horse dung and vulture breath?
Well. Maybe that wasn’t what motivated Wensleydale.
“You really don’t see it, do you?” said Brian with a grin.
“I don’t,” said Wensleydale, crossing his arms stubbornly as the drape of his great kilt brooded on one shoulder and a damp breeze ruffled the marten fur of his sporran. “Show me.”
Something about the pristine lad all puzzled and stern beneath a storm-grey sky made Brian want to push his luck. To wear the woad one had to be wild, or at the very least riled, and he gazed at the crisp white leggings, the only slightly pinker glimpse of knee beneath the tartan, and just wanted to push his luck all the further. And a glance at the sgian dubh, no doubt immaculately sharp and polished, gave him the very opposite of a prudent pause. That was Wensleydale to a T right there - sharp and shiny and clean and precise and purely ceremonial. Never tasted blood.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to convince me,” said Wensleydale, in a rather clipped tone.
Brian rose up from the vat, stinking woad flying from his arms and mud flying from his shoes and knees. He practiced his idea of a wild war whoop while ripping off his t-shirt, skin goosebumping in the damp before he started to anoint his belly with blue grease in the closest he could approximate to very vaguely Pictish spirals and angles.
Wensleydale’s disdain slipped. Just a little, just for a second, but it inspired Brian to greater heights. He picked up a long stick and brandished it, spearlike.
“You need more, I think,” said Wensleydale, maintaining his damnable critical faculties. “Around your chest.”
“Alright then,” said Brian, drawing bastardized tribal eyes around his nipples.
Wensleydale licked his lips.
“And your face.”
“I can’t see what I’m doing.”
“You can’t expect me to touch that.”
“Oh, but I can,” said Brian, challenging. He picked up the “spear” again.
“Not yet,” said Wensleydale, tapping his toe, fidgeting with his sporran.
Brian was thinking that he had to be going regimental. Wensleydale would never wear anything so historically inaccurate as underpants.
“Brian, I am hardly an expert, that’s not my period of choice, but I was under the impression that the Picts had not yet invented the dungarees.”
“Dungarees? No one’s called them that in fifty years.”
“And no one wore them when fighting Romans.”
“Very well, then,” said Brian, stripping off, and being satisfied by Wensleydale’s look of shock when he revealed that he didn’t wear underpants either. Hygienically inaccurate. Continuing to enjoy that look, and enjoying it more the further down it went, Brian began trailing his fingers down his belly and hips and up his thighs, drawing patterns meant to draw the gaze, finally settling at last into a daring pull upon his cock, which was growing long enough to accommodate some fairly elaborate spirals, which were immediately after blurred by the tantalizing motion of his hand, smearing blue blue blue everywhere, and it was all Wensleydale saw.
“It’s warming,” he taunted. “You should try it.”
“Don’t touch me,” said Wensleydale, trembling, horrified and attracted.
“Would I scare you now in battle?”
“Yes,” said Wensley, his voice a high squeak. He caught himself quickly, and deepened his voice forcefully. “I challenge you…to a feat of skill!”
“Caber toss?” leered Brian, even his teeth now looking blue. “Without hands?”
Wensleydale swallowed hard, rocking on his heels, kilt now noticeably tented beneath the fur…”Promise you won’t get any on me!”
“I promise,” Brian lied.
“Then kneel.”
Brian did, wondering where the knighting ceremony came into it. Wensleydale lifted wool and blessed him with a sword.
***
If you enjoyed these, the best way to thank me is to go over there and leave your own little anonymous gift for the fandom. :)