New Tricks
Title: Revenge
Rating: NC-17, smut
Word Count: 2117
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, Hastur, Ligur
Timeline: several months after the abortive Apocalypse
Summary: This contains very graphic rape. The author in no way condones the actions that takes place in the story. If you think the subject content will bother you, or be too intense don't read it; I felt half sick writing and editing the damned thing.
THIS STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC RAPE and is not suitable for minors, or anyone else for that matter.
The characters here-in belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and have been used without permission, and at no financial gain of the author.
“We been lookin’ for you,” a sinister voice sneered as rancid breath crawled across the back of Crowley’s neck. Before Crowley could react his upper arms were seized by two different sets of hands. One pair had coarse black hairs stuck out across the broad back of it and the other was made up of crazed joints that looked as if they were barley contained within taut skin and apparently belonged to a much taller individual. Both pairs had an iron grip and kept Crowley immobilized between them.
“Yeah. We want a word with you,” Ligur said and Crowley swiveled his head to look at his captor. That meant the gaunt set of hands had to belong to Hastur, and Crowley knew that he was severely fucked.
“H-hey, guys,” Crowley said with a barely perceptible falter. He mustered up a voice meant to placate, the one he reserved to deal with homicidal fiends, and craned his neck to look up at Hastur. “You’re looking particularly repulsive tonight, going out to paint the town red? I know a few good-” Crowley’s teeth snapped shut as Ligur gave him a hard shake and cut off his attempts at pleasantries.
“With your blood,” Hastur drawled out the words with obvious pleasure, his tongue licked at spittle that had gathered in the corners of a gruesome grin. Crowley shuddered as the plump, moist organ captured his gaze with the consummate ease of a snake charmer. Crowley’s obvious horror prompted Hastur to fist one of his hands in Crowley’s dark hair and he snapped Crowley’s head to one side while his other hand didn’t kept its grip on his arm. Then, with unbearable slowness, he dipped his head down to the crook of Crowley’s neck and slid his tongue up to the junction of Crowley’s jaw, it left a thick trail in its wake.
He help his lips to that hollow, as a lover might, as he whispered, “You have forgotten the might of Hell, Crawly. You have tried to rise above yourself, pretending immunity to its wrath.” Hastur’s lips caressed Crowley’s ear lobe as he spoke and Crowley found it impossible to twist himself out of reach. There were limits to what even his spine could do, particularly with Hastur’s fingers still knotted in his hair.
“I’m going to enjoy teaching you otherwise,” his tone promised dark, visceral things. Hastur finally unfolded his lanky frame and wrenched his hand away from Crowley, a hank of hair still in his fist.
“We been watchin’ your humans, Crawly,” Ligur chimed in. “Want you to know, we learned some things since you been topside.” With that cheery thought the two demons flung Crowley to his knees in concert. Crowley instinctively threw his hands out to try and catch himself. He never hit the white carpet beneath him; instead he found himself falling, tumbling through scorching hot air until his body slammed into unforgiving bedrock.
Before Crowley could scramble to his feet or attempt to escape a foot planted itself firmly on the back of his neck; it effectively pinned him to the ground.
One of them raked wicked talons down his back side and rent clothing and flesh alike. Rough hands pulled the remains of his garments from him. One tattered cuff clung to his ankle and his nude form began to shake in spite of the intense heat in the cavern.
“Guys, we don’t have to do this,” Crowley said, strove to keep his voice as even and as persuasive as he possibly could. “Ligur, you’re right as rain now, you meant to do worse to me, so no hard feelings, yeah? Just let me go, and we’ll put this behind us.”
“Trouble is, Crawly, we want to do this,” Ligur’s voice almost sounded regretful, and it was just as well that Crowley couldn’t see his gleefully grotesque grin that stretched across his broad face.
“Yeah, Crawly. Ages. We been plannin’ all the details just for you. You don’t want to miss out on all the fun we have in store, do ya?” Hastur’s voice came from directly above him so Crowley deduced that it was Hastur’s foot that pressed down harder and ground the side his elegant face into sharp rocks. Crowley was unable to give any answer as the weight on his neck constricted his vocal cords.
Hastur’s foot suddenly lifted, only to return in the form of a vicious kick. Crowley’s body twisted with the impact and his sunglasses, frames bent from where the pressure of his face against the ground had been too much, skittered across the floor. He felt more exposed than he could ever remember as he stared up at his tormentors with unshielded yellow eyes.
Crowley shook off vertigo and leapt up to run with a burst of speed. He wasn’t quick enough and Hastur’s long arms wrapped around him from behind and hefted him with ease. Crowley‘s feet dangled inches from the ground.
“Oh no. You can‘t leave yet,” Hastur whispered, mouth once more at Crowley’s ear. “We haven’t even started.”
Crowley suddenly found himself facedown on the remorseless ground and clawed fingers dug into his hips to lift them; he was brought to his knees while the other demon pushed down on his shoulders and contorted him into the position Hastur wanted. Ligur’s face dropped to the ground beside his and just looked at him for several long seconds while he drank in the terror that danced in Crowley’s slitted pupils.
“You think he’s going to let you get away with this?” Crowley gasped out, desperate.
“Your angel and your human antichrist ain’t got no dominion here. I think we can do whatever we want here.”
With his attention on Ligur was taken by surprise and Crowley couldn’t hide the pain and fear when Hastur abruptly forced himself into Crowley. The full length of his cock buried deep inside of Crowley Hastur continued to bear down with his hips and forced Crowley’s back to arch further. Hastur stayed like that for several seconds as he savored the tightness of Crowley’s ass before he began to violently thrust in and out.
Crowley clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached; shut his eyes tightly against Ligur’s hungry visage and tried to convince himself that this was not happening. He strived to keep his expression blank, to keep silent under the barrage of brutality, determined not to give them any satisfaction.
Crowley had almost successfully willed his mind to go to another place, to ignore the atrocities being played out on his body, when Hastur stopped moving inside of him. Crowley briefly entertained the idea that the demon had climaxed and that they would be finished, but the continued hardness buried in his flesh gave the lie to that idea.
“You ain’t got enough flesh on your bones,” Hastur complained. “Not like that angel of yours.” Crowley’s mind reeled at the suggestion that Hastur and Ligur had thought to try these games on Aziraphale, so much so that he didn’t comprehend the Duke of Hell’s next words. “I need somethin’ to hold onto.”
“His wings’d be good for that,” Ligur offered up, as though this was some novel new idea and they hadn’t planned beforehand. Still focused on images of Aziraphale being caught by the pair Crowley didn’t respond to the prompt.
“Oi! We’re talkin’ to you!” Hastur yelled, as his claws dug deeper into Crowley’s muscles. “Put ’em out.” Crowley shook his head mutely, not sure what he meant. “Your wings, put them out, put them out now,” Hastur snarled out his command, his voice distorted with fury.
“No.” It was a weakly voiced protest, but Crowley meant the denial with every fiber of his being.
“Let me do it,” Ligur’s voice was breathy with excitement. Crowley didn’t hear Hastur concede but his heart sank as Ligur rose to his knees, hunched over Crowley’s upper body. Ligur produced a sinister blade from raw firmament and began to carve it into Crowley’s back. “I’ll find them,” he chanted gleefully. “I’ll find them.”
The blade burned with icy fire and demonic taint seeped through Crowley’s soft tissues, etched into his bones. Crowley tried to tell himself that as long as the two brutes were occupied with him Aziraphale was far from their minds, and initially it was enough to sustain him. He didn’t cry out in pain as the knife cut runnels in his bones, he didn’t scream as chunks of flesh were torn from him. As Ligur’s power began to snake into him with a delicacy he wouldn’t have imagined and couldn’t appreciate thoughts of the angel and altruistic efforts oh his behalf were driven from his mind.
Crowley tried to buck his body, tried to force them away but Hastur was an immovable force behind him, and Ligur seemed delighted that Crowley only impaled himself further.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Ligur said in a sing-song voice as more power oozed from him and a discordant scream burst from Crowley’s throat as his wings were painfully forced into being.
“There we go,” Hastur said adoringly, the warmth in his voice added a new high note of grotesque to the proceedings.
His pride vanished and whimpers escaped Crowley’s throat as two pairs of hands savaged his wings. Feathers were pulled out in clumps; Ligur etched apocryphal symbols with his tainted knife while Hastur wrenched them at obscene angles as he drove his hips forward with depraved slowness and lingered between thrusts. Crowley despaired at the pace; how long would it last?
Ligur tired of his knife and threw it down, the merry jangle horrifically out of place. Crowley’s head was jerked from the floor and he scrambled to get his elbows underneath him. Ligur knelt in front of Crowley, naked.
“No,” he whispered, throat bone dry, and then repeated it louder, an unanswered prayer for absolution. “No, no, no.”
“Oh yes,” Ligur drawled huskily. “And if you bite me I will personally pluck your feathers out. One, by one, by one for my pillow ‘fore I rip the wings right outta your bleedin’ back.” Crowley continued to shake his head ‘no’ until Ligur firmed his grip on Crowley’s jaw, forced him to stillness. “If you ever hope to see daylight again, you better do a good job of it.”
“No, no, no, please no.” Ligur’s cock bobbed in front of Crowley’s face and a drop of fetid pre-cum collected on the glans at his unholy arousal of Crowley’s supplication. Ligur impatiently shoved his short, but thick cock into Crowley’s mouth, his furred thumbs jammed in as well to force Crowley’s jaw to remain open.
Sobs tore at Crowley’s body and his tongue writhed on its own volition, his body’s futile attempt to disgorge the foreign object. Ligur didn’t object, he enjoyed the choppy, frantic movements, enjoyed it when Crowley began to gag, and he grunted with pleasure when Crowley vomited with him still thrust deep in his throat.
Bile burned inside of Crowley’s mouth and throat, chunks of food collected in the corners of his lips and on his chin and more threatened to come up as Ligur continued to pump in and out of his mouth. If he had been able to speak Crowley didn’t know whose name would have spilled forth from him. Aziraphale, who couldn‘t help him? Adam, whom he had trusted to take care of things after the abortive apocalypse? The god who continued to forsake him during this new torment that equaled what he had experienced when he had fallen?
Hadn’t he helped? Hadn’t he gone against everything he was supposed to be to help protect that damnable race that had begun his downfall? The same race that had taught the two demons every torment they played out on his body! What had he ever done to deserve any of it?
Crowley didn’t know how long Ligur and Hastur continued. It couldn’t have been any less than an eternity. His mind wasn’t capable of coherent thought, just the desperate wish for it all to stop.
Ligur climaxed first, purulent ropes of semen spurted onto Crowley’s tongue, the rancid taste brought Crowley’s mind back to his body. Ligur withdrew from Crowley, who promptly vomited a second time. He was still caught in the throes of dry heaves when Hastur finished. As Hastur found his own rapture he raked his claws through Crowley’s wings, cleaved through tendons, ligaments and flesh alike.
Crowley howled as pain shot through him and it was a long time before he quit screaming; his voice ran out long before the agonized whistling sounds that escaped his damaged windpipe ended.
They kept him there for three days.
Rating: NC-17, smut
Word Count: 2117
Characters/Pairings: Crowley, Hastur, Ligur
Timeline: several months after the abortive Apocalypse
Summary: This contains very graphic rape. The author in no way condones the actions that takes place in the story. If you think the subject content will bother you, or be too intense don't read it; I felt half sick writing and editing the damned thing.
THIS STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC RAPE and is not suitable for minors, or anyone else for that matter.
The characters here-in belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and have been used without permission, and at no financial gain of the author.
“We been lookin’ for you,” a sinister voice sneered as rancid breath crawled across the back of Crowley’s neck. Before Crowley could react his upper arms were seized by two different sets of hands. One pair had coarse black hairs stuck out across the broad back of it and the other was made up of crazed joints that looked as if they were barley contained within taut skin and apparently belonged to a much taller individual. Both pairs had an iron grip and kept Crowley immobilized between them.
“Yeah. We want a word with you,” Ligur said and Crowley swiveled his head to look at his captor. That meant the gaunt set of hands had to belong to Hastur, and Crowley knew that he was severely fucked.
“H-hey, guys,” Crowley said with a barely perceptible falter. He mustered up a voice meant to placate, the one he reserved to deal with homicidal fiends, and craned his neck to look up at Hastur. “You’re looking particularly repulsive tonight, going out to paint the town red? I know a few good-” Crowley’s teeth snapped shut as Ligur gave him a hard shake and cut off his attempts at pleasantries.
“With your blood,” Hastur drawled out the words with obvious pleasure, his tongue licked at spittle that had gathered in the corners of a gruesome grin. Crowley shuddered as the plump, moist organ captured his gaze with the consummate ease of a snake charmer. Crowley’s obvious horror prompted Hastur to fist one of his hands in Crowley’s dark hair and he snapped Crowley’s head to one side while his other hand didn’t kept its grip on his arm. Then, with unbearable slowness, he dipped his head down to the crook of Crowley’s neck and slid his tongue up to the junction of Crowley’s jaw, it left a thick trail in its wake.
He help his lips to that hollow, as a lover might, as he whispered, “You have forgotten the might of Hell, Crawly. You have tried to rise above yourself, pretending immunity to its wrath.” Hastur’s lips caressed Crowley’s ear lobe as he spoke and Crowley found it impossible to twist himself out of reach. There were limits to what even his spine could do, particularly with Hastur’s fingers still knotted in his hair.
“I’m going to enjoy teaching you otherwise,” his tone promised dark, visceral things. Hastur finally unfolded his lanky frame and wrenched his hand away from Crowley, a hank of hair still in his fist.
“We been watchin’ your humans, Crawly,” Ligur chimed in. “Want you to know, we learned some things since you been topside.” With that cheery thought the two demons flung Crowley to his knees in concert. Crowley instinctively threw his hands out to try and catch himself. He never hit the white carpet beneath him; instead he found himself falling, tumbling through scorching hot air until his body slammed into unforgiving bedrock.
Before Crowley could scramble to his feet or attempt to escape a foot planted itself firmly on the back of his neck; it effectively pinned him to the ground.
One of them raked wicked talons down his back side and rent clothing and flesh alike. Rough hands pulled the remains of his garments from him. One tattered cuff clung to his ankle and his nude form began to shake in spite of the intense heat in the cavern.
“Guys, we don’t have to do this,” Crowley said, strove to keep his voice as even and as persuasive as he possibly could. “Ligur, you’re right as rain now, you meant to do worse to me, so no hard feelings, yeah? Just let me go, and we’ll put this behind us.”
“Trouble is, Crawly, we want to do this,” Ligur’s voice almost sounded regretful, and it was just as well that Crowley couldn’t see his gleefully grotesque grin that stretched across his broad face.
“Yeah, Crawly. Ages. We been plannin’ all the details just for you. You don’t want to miss out on all the fun we have in store, do ya?” Hastur’s voice came from directly above him so Crowley deduced that it was Hastur’s foot that pressed down harder and ground the side his elegant face into sharp rocks. Crowley was unable to give any answer as the weight on his neck constricted his vocal cords.
Hastur’s foot suddenly lifted, only to return in the form of a vicious kick. Crowley’s body twisted with the impact and his sunglasses, frames bent from where the pressure of his face against the ground had been too much, skittered across the floor. He felt more exposed than he could ever remember as he stared up at his tormentors with unshielded yellow eyes.
Crowley shook off vertigo and leapt up to run with a burst of speed. He wasn’t quick enough and Hastur’s long arms wrapped around him from behind and hefted him with ease. Crowley‘s feet dangled inches from the ground.
“Oh no. You can‘t leave yet,” Hastur whispered, mouth once more at Crowley’s ear. “We haven’t even started.”
Crowley suddenly found himself facedown on the remorseless ground and clawed fingers dug into his hips to lift them; he was brought to his knees while the other demon pushed down on his shoulders and contorted him into the position Hastur wanted. Ligur’s face dropped to the ground beside his and just looked at him for several long seconds while he drank in the terror that danced in Crowley’s slitted pupils.
“You think he’s going to let you get away with this?” Crowley gasped out, desperate.
“Your angel and your human antichrist ain’t got no dominion here. I think we can do whatever we want here.”
With his attention on Ligur was taken by surprise and Crowley couldn’t hide the pain and fear when Hastur abruptly forced himself into Crowley. The full length of his cock buried deep inside of Crowley Hastur continued to bear down with his hips and forced Crowley’s back to arch further. Hastur stayed like that for several seconds as he savored the tightness of Crowley’s ass before he began to violently thrust in and out.
Crowley clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached; shut his eyes tightly against Ligur’s hungry visage and tried to convince himself that this was not happening. He strived to keep his expression blank, to keep silent under the barrage of brutality, determined not to give them any satisfaction.
Crowley had almost successfully willed his mind to go to another place, to ignore the atrocities being played out on his body, when Hastur stopped moving inside of him. Crowley briefly entertained the idea that the demon had climaxed and that they would be finished, but the continued hardness buried in his flesh gave the lie to that idea.
“You ain’t got enough flesh on your bones,” Hastur complained. “Not like that angel of yours.” Crowley’s mind reeled at the suggestion that Hastur and Ligur had thought to try these games on Aziraphale, so much so that he didn’t comprehend the Duke of Hell’s next words. “I need somethin’ to hold onto.”
“His wings’d be good for that,” Ligur offered up, as though this was some novel new idea and they hadn’t planned beforehand. Still focused on images of Aziraphale being caught by the pair Crowley didn’t respond to the prompt.
“Oi! We’re talkin’ to you!” Hastur yelled, as his claws dug deeper into Crowley’s muscles. “Put ’em out.” Crowley shook his head mutely, not sure what he meant. “Your wings, put them out, put them out now,” Hastur snarled out his command, his voice distorted with fury.
“No.” It was a weakly voiced protest, but Crowley meant the denial with every fiber of his being.
“Let me do it,” Ligur’s voice was breathy with excitement. Crowley didn’t hear Hastur concede but his heart sank as Ligur rose to his knees, hunched over Crowley’s upper body. Ligur produced a sinister blade from raw firmament and began to carve it into Crowley’s back. “I’ll find them,” he chanted gleefully. “I’ll find them.”
The blade burned with icy fire and demonic taint seeped through Crowley’s soft tissues, etched into his bones. Crowley tried to tell himself that as long as the two brutes were occupied with him Aziraphale was far from their minds, and initially it was enough to sustain him. He didn’t cry out in pain as the knife cut runnels in his bones, he didn’t scream as chunks of flesh were torn from him. As Ligur’s power began to snake into him with a delicacy he wouldn’t have imagined and couldn’t appreciate thoughts of the angel and altruistic efforts oh his behalf were driven from his mind.
Crowley tried to buck his body, tried to force them away but Hastur was an immovable force behind him, and Ligur seemed delighted that Crowley only impaled himself further.
“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Ligur said in a sing-song voice as more power oozed from him and a discordant scream burst from Crowley’s throat as his wings were painfully forced into being.
“There we go,” Hastur said adoringly, the warmth in his voice added a new high note of grotesque to the proceedings.
His pride vanished and whimpers escaped Crowley’s throat as two pairs of hands savaged his wings. Feathers were pulled out in clumps; Ligur etched apocryphal symbols with his tainted knife while Hastur wrenched them at obscene angles as he drove his hips forward with depraved slowness and lingered between thrusts. Crowley despaired at the pace; how long would it last?
Ligur tired of his knife and threw it down, the merry jangle horrifically out of place. Crowley’s head was jerked from the floor and he scrambled to get his elbows underneath him. Ligur knelt in front of Crowley, naked.
“No,” he whispered, throat bone dry, and then repeated it louder, an unanswered prayer for absolution. “No, no, no.”
“Oh yes,” Ligur drawled huskily. “And if you bite me I will personally pluck your feathers out. One, by one, by one for my pillow ‘fore I rip the wings right outta your bleedin’ back.” Crowley continued to shake his head ‘no’ until Ligur firmed his grip on Crowley’s jaw, forced him to stillness. “If you ever hope to see daylight again, you better do a good job of it.”
“No, no, no, please no.” Ligur’s cock bobbed in front of Crowley’s face and a drop of fetid pre-cum collected on the glans at his unholy arousal of Crowley’s supplication. Ligur impatiently shoved his short, but thick cock into Crowley’s mouth, his furred thumbs jammed in as well to force Crowley’s jaw to remain open.
Sobs tore at Crowley’s body and his tongue writhed on its own volition, his body’s futile attempt to disgorge the foreign object. Ligur didn’t object, he enjoyed the choppy, frantic movements, enjoyed it when Crowley began to gag, and he grunted with pleasure when Crowley vomited with him still thrust deep in his throat.
Bile burned inside of Crowley’s mouth and throat, chunks of food collected in the corners of his lips and on his chin and more threatened to come up as Ligur continued to pump in and out of his mouth. If he had been able to speak Crowley didn’t know whose name would have spilled forth from him. Aziraphale, who couldn‘t help him? Adam, whom he had trusted to take care of things after the abortive apocalypse? The god who continued to forsake him during this new torment that equaled what he had experienced when he had fallen?
Hadn’t he helped? Hadn’t he gone against everything he was supposed to be to help protect that damnable race that had begun his downfall? The same race that had taught the two demons every torment they played out on his body! What had he ever done to deserve any of it?
Crowley didn’t know how long Ligur and Hastur continued. It couldn’t have been any less than an eternity. His mind wasn’t capable of coherent thought, just the desperate wish for it all to stop.
Ligur climaxed first, purulent ropes of semen spurted onto Crowley’s tongue, the rancid taste brought Crowley’s mind back to his body. Ligur withdrew from Crowley, who promptly vomited a second time. He was still caught in the throes of dry heaves when Hastur finished. As Hastur found his own rapture he raked his claws through Crowley’s wings, cleaved through tendons, ligaments and flesh alike.
Crowley howled as pain shot through him and it was a long time before he quit screaming; his voice ran out long before the agonized whistling sounds that escaped his damaged windpipe ended.
They kept him there for three days.