Happy New Year, everyone!
Title: The Twelve Days of Christmas
By: musegaarid & _serpensortia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the sixth day of Christmas, an angel gave to me, inspiration quite artistically...
Notes: The sixth part of our twelve part holiday ficlet. Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four, Part five.
"All I'm asking," Crowley said slowly, "is if you think you're likely to be... interrupted. In the next hour or so. Or even half an hour. Fifteen minutes, tops."
The angel Sariel didn't look up. Of course he hadn't, really, since Crowley had come into his art gallery, a small shop situated in the trendiest part of town; the angel's focus was on his small sketch pad, where his pen picked out the stark lines of faces, purely from memory. Or perhaps he'd made them up - surely the angel of divine inspiration had to be comfortable with fiction by now.
"Fifteen minutes?" the angel replied. "Are you in quite a hurry, demon?"
"You have no idea," Crowley muttered.
Sariel glanced up for the first time, dark eyes prominent among sharp features. "You see, I was hoping you might pose for me."
"Pose for you?" Crowley arched a brow.
"You really do have nice cheek bones," the angel said, his eyes wandering back to his current work, lingering only briefly over some of Crowley's other nice assets on the way. His pen moved smoothly, ink bleeding into the thick sketch paper.
Crowley slipped off his jacket, getting to his feet. "Where do you want me?" he asked, the casual question dripping with suggestion.
"There's a studio in the back," Sariel replied, getting to his feet as well. "It will afford a bit more privacy, I'm sure."
"Why? Is this the part where you tell me you're only into painting nudes?"
"Our Lord created the human form. It was man who deigned to cover it up."
Crowley blinked. Then, grinning, he set about unbuttoning his shirt as he followed Sariel into the back room.
It looked much like the quintessential art studio, blank canvases piled about, more pens and paint strewn about than stacked away neatly in the cupboards, and of course, perfect white light filtering in from wide windows. Almost every surface was ingrained with stains of color and ink, including the black stool to which Sariel gestured.
Crowley slipped off shoes, socks and trousers quite unabashedly. "You know, the last artist I posed for made quite a name for himself," he said, noticing that the angel was watching him rather intently, head tilted thoughtfully. Sariel didn't seem about to ask who that had been so Crowley continued. "Most people would still call him a genius, really, da Vinci."
"Genius," Sariel murmured, though the demon wasn't even sure he'd been listening. It occurred to Crowley that perhaps all of the years of inspiration and prophesying had left the angel the slightest bit unhinged. Not that the demon blamed him. The most popular prophecies always seemed to go into explicit detail about the end of the world, and that had to be wearing after a while. He wondered vaguely if Sariel had been friends with Agnes Nutter.
The black silk boxers were the last thing to be removed; Crowley reached for his sunglasses, but Sariel's ink-stained fingers closed about his wrist. "Leave them," he commanded gently, and guided Crowley back to the stool.
Once seated, the angel walked a circle around the demon, looking him over. The attention didn't bother Crowley in the least, except that it seemed disappointingly professional. Sariel was murmuring to himself about light and shadow and touched his pen to his lips thoughtfully a few times before he finally said, "Are you ready?"
Bit late for niceties, isn't it? "Ready when you are, angel."
Sariel smiled dreamily.
Crowley had expected him to retreat back across the room, and had rather been looking forward to the image of an angel in a paint-stained smock and stupid beret intently copying his body onto a canvas in light and shadow. It appealed rather delightfully to the demon's ego, after all. But instead, Sariel swept his pen in a graceful arc along the curve of Crowley's shoulder, leaving a black line of ink bleeding into Crowley's skin.
"What are you doing?"
"Making art," the angel replied. "It's not often I have the perfect canvas volunteer..."
Crowley watched as the angel continued the line down his arm, stopping just before his elbow. He then turned Crowley's arm over, exposing the pale wrist, and drew another sweeping curve along his forearm. The dark ink stood out sharply and made Crowley's tanned skin seem pale ivory in contrast. Sariel seemed content with obscure shapes and lines, and rarely did Crowley recognize anything that the angel drew. But steadily, he filled up on arm, and moved around to the flat plane of the demon's back.
The pen was much different than any other touch; it was not gentle, and even stung at times where it dragged on sensitive skin. But the smell of ink filled his senses, dark and warm, and the experience was uniquely sensual in its way. It made Crowley shudder to have Sariel draw on the pillar of his throat, along his inner arm, and the serpentine line that followed his spine.
"It's not about who sees it, you know," the angel said lightly as it worked. "It's not about making your mark and having part of you live forever. Art is like love. It doesn't mean anything if it doesn't come from the heart."
Crowley shuddered, as the angel had chosen that moment to do a sweeping circle around the peak of one nipple. The angel had to have noticed by now that the indistinct sensations of his drawing were having their own rather profound effect on Crowley, but he said nothing of it. The desire ached oddly in Crowley's abdomen: not its usual tight coil, because there had not been enough constant stimulation to trigger it, but the experience of seeing - feeling - his body become the angel's masterpiece was profoundly erotic.
Sariel became oddly silent as he finished the expanse of Crowley's chest and sank slowly downward. The caress of his free hand accompanied his pen now, as though he were feeling out the canvas as much as seeing it. He stroked Crowely's thigh, almost encouraging, and then urged it outward, exposing Crowley's cock and the evident effects of the distinctly downward rush of blood that the demon was experiencing. The angel's attention, however, stayed on Crowley's thigh, his stylistic markings setting Crowley on edge. The demon's hands clamped around the edges of the stool, and Crowley found himself very much on the verge of begging.
Blessed angels with their kinks and their quirks and their damnable timing and why couldn't one of them just -
Almost as an afterthought, Sariel's hand closed lightly around Crowley's cock.
All decorum lost, Crowley gasped, squirming in his seat. He didn't know whether it was the frustration of the past few days or the extended foreplay of ink and art, but he found himself utterly desperate for Sariel's touch.
"I should thank you, Crowley." He could feel the angel's breath on his inner thigh. "You've been a very nice subject for me today."
"Ngk," was all Crowley could manage.
Sariel gave him another of his dreamy smiles. Crowley thought that the moment he felt the angel's lips on the base of his cock, he would lose it, but instead it was a dizzying spiral of sexual tension. Sariel's tongue moved as masterfully over the hot length of Crowley's erection as his pen had across his skin. The demon knew it wouldn't take much for him to finish, and that seemed to give him as much apprehension as pleasure.
Any minute now. A phone call, a page, a message brought by carrier pigeon... dear someone, if he stops now...
But he didn't. Sariel's lips closed around him, warmth and wet engulfing his cock, and every muscle in Crowley's body tensed as one. His hands were locked desperately around the stool now, as though were he to let go, the whole thing would come undone, and he'd be left once more achingly incomplete. The angel was stroking his thighs, fingers smearing the patterns he'd so carefully sketched there, as his mouth moved around Crowley's cock.
In one instant he was pressing deeper into that willing mouth; and in the next, it was too much. Crowley came with a cry torn from his throat by his own (long awaited) release, a feral sound. Without Sariel's steadying hands, he likely would have toppled from his precarious position. But the shuddering waves passed over him gradually, his heart slowing from its reckless pace, and Crowley breathed a satiated sigh.
"Fuck."
This time, when he cursed, it was without an ounce of frustration.
By: musegaarid & _serpensortia
Rating: NC-17
Summary: On the sixth day of Christmas, an angel gave to me, inspiration quite artistically...
Notes: The sixth part of our twelve part holiday ficlet. Part one, Part two, Part three, Part four, Part five.
"All I'm asking," Crowley said slowly, "is if you think you're likely to be... interrupted. In the next hour or so. Or even half an hour. Fifteen minutes, tops."
The angel Sariel didn't look up. Of course he hadn't, really, since Crowley had come into his art gallery, a small shop situated in the trendiest part of town; the angel's focus was on his small sketch pad, where his pen picked out the stark lines of faces, purely from memory. Or perhaps he'd made them up - surely the angel of divine inspiration had to be comfortable with fiction by now.
"Fifteen minutes?" the angel replied. "Are you in quite a hurry, demon?"
"You have no idea," Crowley muttered.
Sariel glanced up for the first time, dark eyes prominent among sharp features. "You see, I was hoping you might pose for me."
"Pose for you?" Crowley arched a brow.
"You really do have nice cheek bones," the angel said, his eyes wandering back to his current work, lingering only briefly over some of Crowley's other nice assets on the way. His pen moved smoothly, ink bleeding into the thick sketch paper.
Crowley slipped off his jacket, getting to his feet. "Where do you want me?" he asked, the casual question dripping with suggestion.
"There's a studio in the back," Sariel replied, getting to his feet as well. "It will afford a bit more privacy, I'm sure."
"Why? Is this the part where you tell me you're only into painting nudes?"
"Our Lord created the human form. It was man who deigned to cover it up."
Crowley blinked. Then, grinning, he set about unbuttoning his shirt as he followed Sariel into the back room.
It looked much like the quintessential art studio, blank canvases piled about, more pens and paint strewn about than stacked away neatly in the cupboards, and of course, perfect white light filtering in from wide windows. Almost every surface was ingrained with stains of color and ink, including the black stool to which Sariel gestured.
Crowley slipped off shoes, socks and trousers quite unabashedly. "You know, the last artist I posed for made quite a name for himself," he said, noticing that the angel was watching him rather intently, head tilted thoughtfully. Sariel didn't seem about to ask who that had been so Crowley continued. "Most people would still call him a genius, really, da Vinci."
"Genius," Sariel murmured, though the demon wasn't even sure he'd been listening. It occurred to Crowley that perhaps all of the years of inspiration and prophesying had left the angel the slightest bit unhinged. Not that the demon blamed him. The most popular prophecies always seemed to go into explicit detail about the end of the world, and that had to be wearing after a while. He wondered vaguely if Sariel had been friends with Agnes Nutter.
The black silk boxers were the last thing to be removed; Crowley reached for his sunglasses, but Sariel's ink-stained fingers closed about his wrist. "Leave them," he commanded gently, and guided Crowley back to the stool.
Once seated, the angel walked a circle around the demon, looking him over. The attention didn't bother Crowley in the least, except that it seemed disappointingly professional. Sariel was murmuring to himself about light and shadow and touched his pen to his lips thoughtfully a few times before he finally said, "Are you ready?"
Bit late for niceties, isn't it? "Ready when you are, angel."
Sariel smiled dreamily.
Crowley had expected him to retreat back across the room, and had rather been looking forward to the image of an angel in a paint-stained smock and stupid beret intently copying his body onto a canvas in light and shadow. It appealed rather delightfully to the demon's ego, after all. But instead, Sariel swept his pen in a graceful arc along the curve of Crowley's shoulder, leaving a black line of ink bleeding into Crowley's skin.
"What are you doing?"
"Making art," the angel replied. "It's not often I have the perfect canvas volunteer..."
Crowley watched as the angel continued the line down his arm, stopping just before his elbow. He then turned Crowley's arm over, exposing the pale wrist, and drew another sweeping curve along his forearm. The dark ink stood out sharply and made Crowley's tanned skin seem pale ivory in contrast. Sariel seemed content with obscure shapes and lines, and rarely did Crowley recognize anything that the angel drew. But steadily, he filled up on arm, and moved around to the flat plane of the demon's back.
The pen was much different than any other touch; it was not gentle, and even stung at times where it dragged on sensitive skin. But the smell of ink filled his senses, dark and warm, and the experience was uniquely sensual in its way. It made Crowley shudder to have Sariel draw on the pillar of his throat, along his inner arm, and the serpentine line that followed his spine.
"It's not about who sees it, you know," the angel said lightly as it worked. "It's not about making your mark and having part of you live forever. Art is like love. It doesn't mean anything if it doesn't come from the heart."
Crowley shuddered, as the angel had chosen that moment to do a sweeping circle around the peak of one nipple. The angel had to have noticed by now that the indistinct sensations of his drawing were having their own rather profound effect on Crowley, but he said nothing of it. The desire ached oddly in Crowley's abdomen: not its usual tight coil, because there had not been enough constant stimulation to trigger it, but the experience of seeing - feeling - his body become the angel's masterpiece was profoundly erotic.
Sariel became oddly silent as he finished the expanse of Crowley's chest and sank slowly downward. The caress of his free hand accompanied his pen now, as though he were feeling out the canvas as much as seeing it. He stroked Crowely's thigh, almost encouraging, and then urged it outward, exposing Crowley's cock and the evident effects of the distinctly downward rush of blood that the demon was experiencing. The angel's attention, however, stayed on Crowley's thigh, his stylistic markings setting Crowley on edge. The demon's hands clamped around the edges of the stool, and Crowley found himself very much on the verge of begging.
Blessed angels with their kinks and their quirks and their damnable timing and why couldn't one of them just -
Almost as an afterthought, Sariel's hand closed lightly around Crowley's cock.
All decorum lost, Crowley gasped, squirming in his seat. He didn't know whether it was the frustration of the past few days or the extended foreplay of ink and art, but he found himself utterly desperate for Sariel's touch.
"I should thank you, Crowley." He could feel the angel's breath on his inner thigh. "You've been a very nice subject for me today."
"Ngk," was all Crowley could manage.
Sariel gave him another of his dreamy smiles. Crowley thought that the moment he felt the angel's lips on the base of his cock, he would lose it, but instead it was a dizzying spiral of sexual tension. Sariel's tongue moved as masterfully over the hot length of Crowley's erection as his pen had across his skin. The demon knew it wouldn't take much for him to finish, and that seemed to give him as much apprehension as pleasure.
Any minute now. A phone call, a page, a message brought by carrier pigeon... dear someone, if he stops now...
But he didn't. Sariel's lips closed around him, warmth and wet engulfing his cock, and every muscle in Crowley's body tensed as one. His hands were locked desperately around the stool now, as though were he to let go, the whole thing would come undone, and he'd be left once more achingly incomplete. The angel was stroking his thighs, fingers smearing the patterns he'd so carefully sketched there, as his mouth moved around Crowley's cock.
In one instant he was pressing deeper into that willing mouth; and in the next, it was too much. Crowley came with a cry torn from his throat by his own (long awaited) release, a feral sound. Without Sariel's steadying hands, he likely would have toppled from his precarious position. But the shuddering waves passed over him gradually, his heart slowing from its reckless pace, and Crowley breathed a satiated sigh.
"Fuck."
This time, when he cursed, it was without an ounce of frustration.