American Gods (Wednesday/Laura Moon)
Title: Nights All Nine
Fandom: American Gods
Author: gkingsley
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for necrophilia (it was unavoidable, considering the prompt)
Word count: Approximately 1,200
Prompt: July 16th - 1. American Gods, Wednesday/Laura Moon: going against type - perhaps her darkness was suited to him, to the fire of his hair and the pallor of his skin.
Being a God could get difficult at times, thought Wednesday. Not difficult; that was the wrong word, the wrong concept. The wrong idea; and ideas, as Wednesday knew well, were the source of great power.
Complicated. Yes, complicated was the thought he was reaching for. Difficult was mortgages and car payments and yearly reviews, and Gods most assuredly did not have to worry about those things. Complicated was husbands and wives, which Gods did indeed have occasion to worry about. Wednesday had a wife, although he hadn't seen the old bitch in about 250 years. Complicated was Laura Moon, currently stretched out naked on the cheap hotel bed before him, either feigning or actually experiencing sleep.
It was hard to say, exactly, what Laura Moon experienced these days. Not precisely a corpse, but not alive either, due to the gift her fool husband had given her, she claimed to sleep and even, at times, to dream, although her dreams always left her unsettled.
Husbands and wives. Laura's husband, Shadow Moon, was currently in the employ of Mr. Wednesday. He was asleep in the room next door, which made things a touch more complicated than they were some hours ago. How many hours, however, even Wednesday was at a loss to say.
She'd knocked on Wednesday's door soon after he was done having his way with the skinny Nordic waitress, and he gently rushed the dazed young girl out of his room. He had known, of course, that Mrs. Shadow Moon was walking the earth without the benefit of a pulse. What he had not expected was to see her at his door so soon after Shadow had come to him, unsettled by his own recent conversation with his late, lamented wife. Wednesday hadn’t been terribly sympathetic; what did the boy expect, after gifting her with a coin from the Hoard? That was pure foolishness, and sure to come back and bite him on the ass.
Wednesday didn't ordinarily find himself attracted to darker women; the ones who came from his homeland were more to his taste. But there she stood, in the commingled lights of the moon and the cheap sodium lights over the hotel room doors, and he found himself stirring again. Suddenly he decided to round out his night by fucking Laura Moon energetically, then kicking her out of his bed as well. Perhaps her darkness was suited to him, to the fire of his hair and the pallor of his skin; they certainly looked striking as he took her in his arms. Without speaking a word he led her into the room. As he shut the door behind her, she turned in his embrace and whispered dryly into his ear. "Please, Allfather. Now."
Wednesday laid her down on the bed and quickly pushed up the skirt of her burial dress. He laid himself down on top of her, and she wrapped her cool arms around his broad shoulders. As he slipped inside her, he found himself moving slowly, almost gently, curious as to how it would feel to fuck her. Laura gasped, pushing up to meet him, and he felt - to his everlasting surprise - slickness and warmth envelope him. He thought she would be cold, perhaps dry. But no - it felt good to be surprised, and it felt better to be inside her. The waitress hadn't felt this alive; Wednesday himself hadn't felt this aroused in an age.
Wednesday began thrusting into her, hard and fast. Laura met his every lunge with her own urgency, scoring his back with her fingernails, giving out small, breathy yelps with every stroke as her legs came up and around his knees. He felt her pull him deeper inside her, her body bearing down, squeezing him with her own eminent climax.
With a roar, he came, spilling the seed of a forgotten God into the body of this woman, not quite living but certainly not dead. Laura shuddered with pleasure, and muscles that had been locked in her frenzy suddenly became limp. Wednesday rolled off and away from her, and landed on his feet, standing beside the bed. As she looked up at him, she could faintly see the shadows of ravens on his shoulders, a reflection of the power he must have carried for centuries. He towered over her, ghostly wolves at his feet, and for a moment, Laura Moon was terrified. This was not a man. This was a God. Then he reached for her, slipping one hand between her thighs and taking her breast in the other. He leaned close, looking deeply into her eyes, and quickly stroked her to arousal, lightly grazing her nipple with the rough surface of his thumb. She immediately forgot her fear; for a moment, she forgot everything but the feel of his fingers, pressing insistently, demanding her complete surrender. She closed her eyes and offered up her release, a willing sacrifice to his fury, the madness of his need. When he finally let go of her, she could not recall the vision she’d seen so briefly. She would dream of it later, though, and wake both yearning and frightened.
He intended to kick her out; truly he did. But as always, curiosity got the better of him, (what besides curiosity could have driven him to offer his eye at the spring of Mimir?) He paced about the room energetically, asking her questions, telling her stories. They spoke long into the night, about death, love and insanity. She told him of her life; he talked about his home, left so long ago. Wednesday wondered when he'd last conversed in this way with a woman. Freyja, perhaps, in that other, lost place.
Wednesday lost track of the time. When he looked back on that evening, he would remember talking animatedly for far more hours than should have been contained in one night. He would remember, for the rest of his numbered days, the cool feel of her skin, smooth as glacier ice, and the contrast of the heat when he thrust into her again and again. He would wonder at how he could have possibly taken her, spilling his passion thrice more; and yet, it was as if the images were burned into him. Her touch, fire and ice. Her eyes, blazing with a pale reflection of his power.
When finally she slept, exhausted, he stayed awake and watched her. He debated with himself; perhaps he told Laura Moon more than he intended to? If so, would it further alter the urðr* he was trying to bring about? Probably not. Assuredly not. How could it? Everything was falling into place and, as lovely as Laura Moon was, she had no power to change the plan that Wednesday had been setting into motion for over a century.
Wednesday did not remember falling asleep, but he woke to the light streaming through the cheap polyester curtains. He quickly realized, with a pang of regret, that he was alone in his room. For a moment he wondered if he would ever encounter her again. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, the man, the god known as Mr. Wednesday prepared to face the day.
* Old Norse for fate.
Fandom: American Gods
Author: gkingsley
Rating/Warnings: NC-17 for necrophilia (it was unavoidable, considering the prompt)
Word count: Approximately 1,200
Prompt: July 16th - 1. American Gods, Wednesday/Laura Moon: going against type - perhaps her darkness was suited to him, to the fire of his hair and the pallor of his skin.
Being a God could get difficult at times, thought Wednesday. Not difficult; that was the wrong word, the wrong concept. The wrong idea; and ideas, as Wednesday knew well, were the source of great power.
Complicated. Yes, complicated was the thought he was reaching for. Difficult was mortgages and car payments and yearly reviews, and Gods most assuredly did not have to worry about those things. Complicated was husbands and wives, which Gods did indeed have occasion to worry about. Wednesday had a wife, although he hadn't seen the old bitch in about 250 years. Complicated was Laura Moon, currently stretched out naked on the cheap hotel bed before him, either feigning or actually experiencing sleep.
It was hard to say, exactly, what Laura Moon experienced these days. Not precisely a corpse, but not alive either, due to the gift her fool husband had given her, she claimed to sleep and even, at times, to dream, although her dreams always left her unsettled.
Husbands and wives. Laura's husband, Shadow Moon, was currently in the employ of Mr. Wednesday. He was asleep in the room next door, which made things a touch more complicated than they were some hours ago. How many hours, however, even Wednesday was at a loss to say.
She'd knocked on Wednesday's door soon after he was done having his way with the skinny Nordic waitress, and he gently rushed the dazed young girl out of his room. He had known, of course, that Mrs. Shadow Moon was walking the earth without the benefit of a pulse. What he had not expected was to see her at his door so soon after Shadow had come to him, unsettled by his own recent conversation with his late, lamented wife. Wednesday hadn’t been terribly sympathetic; what did the boy expect, after gifting her with a coin from the Hoard? That was pure foolishness, and sure to come back and bite him on the ass.
Wednesday didn't ordinarily find himself attracted to darker women; the ones who came from his homeland were more to his taste. But there she stood, in the commingled lights of the moon and the cheap sodium lights over the hotel room doors, and he found himself stirring again. Suddenly he decided to round out his night by fucking Laura Moon energetically, then kicking her out of his bed as well. Perhaps her darkness was suited to him, to the fire of his hair and the pallor of his skin; they certainly looked striking as he took her in his arms. Without speaking a word he led her into the room. As he shut the door behind her, she turned in his embrace and whispered dryly into his ear. "Please, Allfather. Now."
Wednesday laid her down on the bed and quickly pushed up the skirt of her burial dress. He laid himself down on top of her, and she wrapped her cool arms around his broad shoulders. As he slipped inside her, he found himself moving slowly, almost gently, curious as to how it would feel to fuck her. Laura gasped, pushing up to meet him, and he felt - to his everlasting surprise - slickness and warmth envelope him. He thought she would be cold, perhaps dry. But no - it felt good to be surprised, and it felt better to be inside her. The waitress hadn't felt this alive; Wednesday himself hadn't felt this aroused in an age.
Wednesday began thrusting into her, hard and fast. Laura met his every lunge with her own urgency, scoring his back with her fingernails, giving out small, breathy yelps with every stroke as her legs came up and around his knees. He felt her pull him deeper inside her, her body bearing down, squeezing him with her own eminent climax.
With a roar, he came, spilling the seed of a forgotten God into the body of this woman, not quite living but certainly not dead. Laura shuddered with pleasure, and muscles that had been locked in her frenzy suddenly became limp. Wednesday rolled off and away from her, and landed on his feet, standing beside the bed. As she looked up at him, she could faintly see the shadows of ravens on his shoulders, a reflection of the power he must have carried for centuries. He towered over her, ghostly wolves at his feet, and for a moment, Laura Moon was terrified. This was not a man. This was a God. Then he reached for her, slipping one hand between her thighs and taking her breast in the other. He leaned close, looking deeply into her eyes, and quickly stroked her to arousal, lightly grazing her nipple with the rough surface of his thumb. She immediately forgot her fear; for a moment, she forgot everything but the feel of his fingers, pressing insistently, demanding her complete surrender. She closed her eyes and offered up her release, a willing sacrifice to his fury, the madness of his need. When he finally let go of her, she could not recall the vision she’d seen so briefly. She would dream of it later, though, and wake both yearning and frightened.
He intended to kick her out; truly he did. But as always, curiosity got the better of him, (what besides curiosity could have driven him to offer his eye at the spring of Mimir?) He paced about the room energetically, asking her questions, telling her stories. They spoke long into the night, about death, love and insanity. She told him of her life; he talked about his home, left so long ago. Wednesday wondered when he'd last conversed in this way with a woman. Freyja, perhaps, in that other, lost place.
Wednesday lost track of the time. When he looked back on that evening, he would remember talking animatedly for far more hours than should have been contained in one night. He would remember, for the rest of his numbered days, the cool feel of her skin, smooth as glacier ice, and the contrast of the heat when he thrust into her again and again. He would wonder at how he could have possibly taken her, spilling his passion thrice more; and yet, it was as if the images were burned into him. Her touch, fire and ice. Her eyes, blazing with a pale reflection of his power.
When finally she slept, exhausted, he stayed awake and watched her. He debated with himself; perhaps he told Laura Moon more than he intended to? If so, would it further alter the urðr* he was trying to bring about? Probably not. Assuredly not. How could it? Everything was falling into place and, as lovely as Laura Moon was, she had no power to change the plan that Wednesday had been setting into motion for over a century.
Wednesday did not remember falling asleep, but he woke to the light streaming through the cheap polyester curtains. He quickly realized, with a pang of regret, that he was alone in his room. For a moment he wondered if he would ever encounter her again. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, the man, the god known as Mr. Wednesday prepared to face the day.
* Old Norse for fate.