Oh God. Narnia fic.
Title: Paean, in White and Gold
Pairing: Satan/Jesus Jadis/Aslan
Rating: NC-17
WARNINGS: Bestiality, blasphemy, references to incest and pedophilia
Notes: Written for the Porn Battle for the prompt Jadis/Aslan, Ancient
Summary: PWP + weird theological musings
The tent flap swishes shut behind them, but the stoic bravado doesn’t fade from his eyes. No matter how often they do this, he always pretends to cling to his righteousness. She’d think it was adorable, if it didn’t make her sick. She slides a hand under his golden chin, her sharp nails rucking up trails of hair against the grain and slicing his hide so that a thin line of blood oozes out but doesn’t drip, frozen into tiny, spiky crystals at her lingering touch.
“It’s good to see you again,” she murmurs. “I’ve missed you, little brother.” He growls softly, a weak pretend-warning, as if they don’t both know she likes it, likes the deep vibrations and the sight of his long teeth bared. “I’m a little hurt, you know,” she mock laments. “I wait around in this lovely world for ages and ages and you never come to see me until there are children involved - you ought to be more careful, you know, or people will start to think you’ve a perversion for -” He rears back, the massive frame of him rising in fury, a rampant on a crusader’s crest, then plunging down. He forces her onto her back, paws the size of dinner plates crushing her chest, claws cutting through robes and piercing her salt-white skin.
She smirks and the piles of white fur, mink and hare and seductive-soft satyr skins, melt off her because she wishes it. She arches a leg over his haunches and pulls his weight onto her, rubbing against the shorter, sleeker fur of a warm-weather mammal. He takes the whole of her bared neck into his mouth, predator’s teeth pressing against where her veins would be, if she had blood to spill. She shudders at the heat of it - usually her element, but not this time, and she covets it as she covets everything about him.
“Well?” she asks, letting the rising of her torso, the fluttering of her throat tease them both.
He releases her throat and nuzzles at her hairline, rumbling reproachfully,
“I preferred you in red.”
She laughs and kisses his nose, letting her teeth drag a little as he moves into her, massive and rough and animal-hot. She writhes, wanton and pinned under the weight of him, her hands buried in the coarse, wild glory of his mane, undulating to match his low, heavy thrusts. His half-spilt blood is thawing as their pace increases, fast but not frenzied - there is no urgency here, in this thing they have done for millennia, will doubtless get away with for millennia yet - the sticky red rivulets are smearing over her own bloodless cuts, the first blush her breasts have ever shown.
He pushes into her harder and harder, letting go in a way he only ever can in this form, as if he can blame it on the animal, instead of on visceral connection between them since the beginning of time, on the magnitude of pain the Emperor has dealt both of them, from His lofty citadel beyond the sea.
The only difference between them, she told him once, amid the smoldering ruins of another world, where she was green and he had feathers, was that she recognized His cruelty and fought it, while he remained the perpetual fool, returning for more abuse. He retorted that abuse was what he always came back to her for.
They’ll get to that bit later.
And it will be the Emperor’s rules and the Emperor’s table but her knife and her hands and Adam’s traitor, so who’s really to blame anyway?
No matter.
She will enjoy that almost as much as this, as his heaving flanks and his roar reverberating in her bones while he quakes and pours inside her. She shrieks and flails, trying to hold herself together when she wants to let whole chunks of her ice fall away, like a glacier calving in the summer.
She gasps and clutches his ruff, laughing; the lion shall lay down with the lamb, after all, and what has she ever been but a wolf-bitch in sheep’s clothing?
She lets the queen-shape fall away, caressing him with dry smooth coils, her scales gliding past each other as she slithers over and around him, curling about his neck like a lover’s arm or a noose. And then she is the queen again, straddling his back, which still quivers from exertion. She pets his side softly, and he vibrates under her, shakling with the profound satisfaction of his purr. He’s panting, and she let’s her forked tongue flicker out, two slim tines tracing the abrasive rasp of his cat’s tongue, before drawing it reluctantly back in.
“I take it,” she concludes smugly, “You’ll give yourself to me at the table, then.”
He simply stares at her, with those huge, enchanting eyes, their gold all the more exotic slashed with the cat's slit pupils.
“Jadis,” he breathes, and she worries briefly what he means that she does not hear. “Always.”
Pairing: Satan/Jesus Jadis/Aslan
Rating: NC-17
WARNINGS: Bestiality, blasphemy, references to incest and pedophilia
Notes: Written for the Porn Battle for the prompt Jadis/Aslan, Ancient
Summary: PWP + weird theological musings
The tent flap swishes shut behind them, but the stoic bravado doesn’t fade from his eyes. No matter how often they do this, he always pretends to cling to his righteousness. She’d think it was adorable, if it didn’t make her sick. She slides a hand under his golden chin, her sharp nails rucking up trails of hair against the grain and slicing his hide so that a thin line of blood oozes out but doesn’t drip, frozen into tiny, spiky crystals at her lingering touch.
“It’s good to see you again,” she murmurs. “I’ve missed you, little brother.” He growls softly, a weak pretend-warning, as if they don’t both know she likes it, likes the deep vibrations and the sight of his long teeth bared. “I’m a little hurt, you know,” she mock laments. “I wait around in this lovely world for ages and ages and you never come to see me until there are children involved - you ought to be more careful, you know, or people will start to think you’ve a perversion for -” He rears back, the massive frame of him rising in fury, a rampant on a crusader’s crest, then plunging down. He forces her onto her back, paws the size of dinner plates crushing her chest, claws cutting through robes and piercing her salt-white skin.
She smirks and the piles of white fur, mink and hare and seductive-soft satyr skins, melt off her because she wishes it. She arches a leg over his haunches and pulls his weight onto her, rubbing against the shorter, sleeker fur of a warm-weather mammal. He takes the whole of her bared neck into his mouth, predator’s teeth pressing against where her veins would be, if she had blood to spill. She shudders at the heat of it - usually her element, but not this time, and she covets it as she covets everything about him.
“Well?” she asks, letting the rising of her torso, the fluttering of her throat tease them both.
He releases her throat and nuzzles at her hairline, rumbling reproachfully,
“I preferred you in red.”
She laughs and kisses his nose, letting her teeth drag a little as he moves into her, massive and rough and animal-hot. She writhes, wanton and pinned under the weight of him, her hands buried in the coarse, wild glory of his mane, undulating to match his low, heavy thrusts. His half-spilt blood is thawing as their pace increases, fast but not frenzied - there is no urgency here, in this thing they have done for millennia, will doubtless get away with for millennia yet - the sticky red rivulets are smearing over her own bloodless cuts, the first blush her breasts have ever shown.
He pushes into her harder and harder, letting go in a way he only ever can in this form, as if he can blame it on the animal, instead of on visceral connection between them since the beginning of time, on the magnitude of pain the Emperor has dealt both of them, from His lofty citadel beyond the sea.
The only difference between them, she told him once, amid the smoldering ruins of another world, where she was green and he had feathers, was that she recognized His cruelty and fought it, while he remained the perpetual fool, returning for more abuse. He retorted that abuse was what he always came back to her for.
They’ll get to that bit later.
And it will be the Emperor’s rules and the Emperor’s table but her knife and her hands and Adam’s traitor, so who’s really to blame anyway?
No matter.
She will enjoy that almost as much as this, as his heaving flanks and his roar reverberating in her bones while he quakes and pours inside her. She shrieks and flails, trying to hold herself together when she wants to let whole chunks of her ice fall away, like a glacier calving in the summer.
She gasps and clutches his ruff, laughing; the lion shall lay down with the lamb, after all, and what has she ever been but a wolf-bitch in sheep’s clothing?
She lets the queen-shape fall away, caressing him with dry smooth coils, her scales gliding past each other as she slithers over and around him, curling about his neck like a lover’s arm or a noose. And then she is the queen again, straddling his back, which still quivers from exertion. She pets his side softly, and he vibrates under her, shakling with the profound satisfaction of his purr. He’s panting, and she let’s her forked tongue flicker out, two slim tines tracing the abrasive rasp of his cat’s tongue, before drawing it reluctantly back in.
“I take it,” she concludes smugly, “You’ll give yourself to me at the table, then.”
He simply stares at her, with those huge, enchanting eyes, their gold all the more exotic slashed with the cat's slit pupils.
“Jadis,” he breathes, and she worries briefly what he means that she does not hear. “Always.”