Suzie Shooter

Everybody had them. Whether it was reading crap romantic fiction in the bath or indulging in a huge slice of extremely gooey chocolate cake or something far more sinister, everybody in the world had there own guilty pleasures.

But this? This was theirs and theirs alone. This slow, soft slide of skin against skin. Too many people in a bed that's far too small and somehow still fitting. Warm breathes on glowing skin and panting moans as touches turn from gentle and tender to almost fierce and possesive. Whispers of love and affection and ownership.

Guilt that's almost over-powering because of what would happen if it all came out, the careers that would be in tatters, the marriages that would be ruined.

But over-ruling it all, the pleasure. The pleasure of spending time with the only 2 people in the world who truly understand what it's like to be who they are. The stolen moments behind porta-cabins, the fleeting touches where the camera can't see, the secret smiles that allow them to pretend to be three good friends doing the best job in the world.

The guilt is almost over-whelming sometimes but, for the pleasure they bring each other, it's worth all the guilt in the world.

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ohhhh I like that! very much! that's wonderful!

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Oh, I'm so glad! It's the first thing I've written in quite a while and I wasn't really sure if it worked. I was going to work on it some and smooth out the rough edges but decided I quite like the slightly disjointed style of it (even I'm not completely happy with the ending).

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...I wrote one myself. Is that cheating? *sniggers*
----

They moved in a world of definites. Black and white, good and evil. Doctrine set in stone. Literally.

But six thousand years is a long time in anyone's Book. Time for the edges to - if not blur, then at least soften, slightly.

Crowley beheld the shadow of the angel's wings, and the darkness of his anger, at the world and its cruelties. Unleashed, an angel's rage is a terrible, consuming thing.

Aziraphale watched the demon, watching him. Beheld the light that burned so brightly within him, the love Crowley kept hidden from all but him.

And when the fit fell finally from him, it was Crowley's arms waiting to hold him. And the light, and the dark, blurred into one.

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madmogs.livejournal.com

I like!

*has no inspiration today, so will have to content self with squeeing.*

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all squeeing is much appreciated, LOL

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Oh wow!!!!

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*grins* you likey?

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Me likey muchly!

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Mmmmmn.

(I really need to get a GO icon, don't I?)

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and I should re-upload my Black Books icon, heh.

a few GO icon links, if you're interested:

http://community.livejournal.com/itokonoarts/17709.html
http://community.livejournal.com/midnighticons/14651.html
http://community.livejournal.com/iconicaly_hales/13155.html

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Ooo! Thank you!

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suggsygirl.livejournal.com

Jeremy watched his youngest colleague talk to a fan and felt detached from his body - light and floaty and entirely surreal. A tilt of Richard's head, a gentle, well placed touch to the woman's arm, carefully calculated to woo without - of course - giving the wrong impression. Jeremy had no idea what the wrong mpression was, didn't know what went on in the younger man's head even after all the years of knowing him.

If only everybody could see Richard as he really was, fierce, dirty and all Jeremy's then maybe he wouldn't have to keep watch; eyes always following his lover, scanning the horizon for the person who would take him.

Everything in both their lives was smoke and mirrors until they were together and then nothing mattered, the world fell away and time stopped.

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awww *squishes them*

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dracothelizard.livejournal.com

"I thought you'd be better prepared in case of emergencies, May," Jeremy said. The lights had gone off a few minutes ago, and after realising that nothing electrical worked, and that all the houses in the street were dark, Jeremy had stopped claiming it was all James' fault.

"I have a torch!" James protested feebly.

"Without any batteries," Richard reminded him.

"Yes, well, I probably needed them for something else," James muttered, while Jeremy started rooting through the kitchen cupboards.

"Haven't you got any candles?" he asked.

"What would I want with candles?" James replied, frowning.

"I don't know, to have some light?" Richard said, while Jeremy shut the cupboards with an annoyed huff. "Also, it's getting rather cold, or is that me?"

"No, you're right, the heating won't work now either," James said. "And no, Jeremy, we're not going to set fire to books so we can keep warm and have light."

"I would never suggest that," Jeremy said, failing to look innocent. "My first thought was that clearly we should keep warm by going to bed together."

It was the best plan considering the circumstances, and so they did.

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I approve of that plan. Thoroughly. :D

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jazzy-fay.livejournal.com

They were the perfect pair. One inky, sooty black; one gleaming, pure white. One angelic, but not particularly nice; one demonic, but not particularly evil. They were balanced. Perfectly.

That was what scared Crowley the most. He knew, in the way that one comes to know things after centuries, nay millenia, of quiet observation, that it is always the things that are so carefully, perfectly, balanced that have the greatest risk of falling.

He had fallen twice so far. First from Grace, then for Grace. Or at least for Grace's chosen representative on Earth. The second fall terrified him more than the first, but he survived them both. It didn't surprise him. It was true that he had picked up a few tricks from the humans over the years, but when it came right down to it, he was built of angel stock, and he had been designed to Fall, had done so without even meaning to. Twice.

But the angel... Crowley had been the last of the angels to fall. He had watched from On High as the rest plummeted, the Light extinguishing from each and every one of them. They had survived, or at least some shell of them had, and now they reigned in Hell. But Aziraphale...

Crowley wondered with a morbid fascination what would happen to his angel. Would his Light ever go out? Would either of them survive if it did? Crowley prayed he'd never find out.

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this is perfect, I love it!

He had fallen twice so far. First from Grace, then for Grace.
that's such a wonderful line.

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jazzy-fay.livejournal.com

Glad you liked it. It's actually my first attempt at a GO fic (and at slash of any sort).

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really?! it's great!

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jazzy-fay.livejournal.com

Thanks! It was surprisingly easy to write. Must be a sign...

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yes! that you must write more immediately! *nods*

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--

There had probably been some logic leading up to them deciding to make their own wine, but unfortunately it had been Bernard and Manny's. With the kind of reasoning that made bacon sandwiches using an iron, the old bathtub in the middle of the shop floor (half full of water, a few handfuls of grapes and half a loaf of bread) probably made sense.

Bernard stirred the mysterious pinkish slop with the broom. He nodded at the bathtub and told Manny, “Well then, get treading.”

Manny, legs freshly shaved at Bernard's insistence, stepped hesitantly in and gave a tentative hop. He wasn't very good at squashing the grapes, possibly because they floated about in the tub like croutons in consommé.

“I think we might need more grapes than this,” he suggested, standing on one leg and flailing about with the other.

“I told you to buy all the grapes in the shop!”

“I did!” Manny retorted.

Bernard considered this. “We'll have to put more of the other stuff in to make up for it then.”

“Does wine have much other stuff in it?”

“Of course it does, “ Bernard said derisively, “it's got, grapes and, and-” he fluttered it hand in the air, grasping for a word, “-stuff. The colour stuff that makes it go red or white or pink.”

Manny looked slightly doubtful. “Are you sure that isn't just the colour grapes they use?”

“Grapes are green and purple- how're they going to make white or pink from that?”

They thought about their problem for a few minutes, Bernard slurping on his drink thoughtfully while Manny made speculative squelching noises.

Manny broke the silence. “Hey! We've got a lot of blackberries growing in the garden.” He pointed out the back of the shop.

Bernard looked at him askance. “Aren't those a kind of fruit?”

“Ye-es. But you can make wine out of fruit. My parents used to.”

“Your parents, among other things, raised you. I don't think we can really trust whatever other bizarre practices they indulged in.”

“I've seen it in shops.”

“Hmm.”

“There's quite a few out there- if you get the mace and we can make it past the Wendy house and the mannequin nest, then it'll be easy!”

Bernard chewed his lip. “And we can definitely make wine out of them.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure you can make it out of all sorts of fruits and flowers.”

“What?” Bernard looked aghast. “You mean to tell me there's an actually use for the damn things?” he grabbed Manny's arm and dragged him, almost falling over, out of the tub. “Get out there and get picking!”

--

Fran called over to the shop early the next morning and almost gagged on the stink. There were trampled daisies and buttercups on the floor and a dark splatter that had crept half way up the walls. A tape of flamenco dancing was still playing on repeat.

Feeling kind, she emptied the tub's contents down the toilet and left the bottles of wine she'd brought for the boys in it, before leaving again for her job interview.

--

The next time she called over there were three bathtubs cluttering the shop floor, Manny hopping manically between them like some gigantic swamp-frog-beast while Bernard tried to tell her about their amazing discovery

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*scares cat with insane laughter*

Manny, legs freshly shaved at Bernard's insistence, stepped hesitantly in and gave a tentative hop.

I can just *see* that!

“Your parents, among other things, raised you. I don't think we can really trust whatever other bizarre practices they indulged in.”

oh Bernard, I love you

if you get the mace and we can make it past the Wendy house and the mannequin nest

the idea of a mannequin nest is truely terrifying *g*

this is utter genius!

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Thanks. :D I was feeling a tad guilty that I hadn't written any Black Books for a while.

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Technically Aziraphale was a Principality*, but people made jokes about that these days. [Good Omens]

--

It had been a particularly good lunch, and Aziraphale was musing more on the memory of the delicate salmon mousse that taking much notice of his surroundings. He therefore reached the Bentley before noticing that Crowley was no longer at his side.

Looking round in confusion, he realised the demon had stopped in the middle of the pavement, and was staring skywards with his mouth hanging open.

Aziraphale looked up.

Above the rooftops, great wheels of fire** were spinning in an intricate pattern, sparks raining down upon the oblivious crowds below. He noticed that whenever a spark hit someone, they immediately looked like a metaphorical lightbulb had gone off in their heads, and started moving more purposefully. Mostly towards arts and craft shops. Some were actually singing.

He winced.

"What are They doing here out in the open?" he grumbled.

"Well it's not like anyone else can see them," Crowley said, leaping suddenly sideways to avoid a shower of inspiration.

"But Thrones? It never does anyone any good to be that close to pure creative impulses. I mean, it's not as if they're giving out talent with it," fumed Aziraphale, getting into his stride. "All it does is produce a swathe of sudden bizarre hobbies that result in deformed toby jugs littering the shelves of charity shops nation wide. It's 1983 all over again."***

Crowley smirked. It always amused him when the angel started complaining about Upstairs, because eventually he'd remember who he was talking to and look embarrassed.

"Let's get out of here, before I develop the urge to take up basket weaving," he called, and they ran for the car, whereupon Crowley proceeded to display his own particular creative flair in choice epithets for the people that got in his way.

They drew up a little way from the bookshop, and eyed the figure standing impatiently outside the door.

"Is that what I think it is?" said Crowley, uneasily.

"A Domination,"**** agreed Aziraphale. "Oh fffff....." he spluttered. "Iddlesticks."

"Uck." said Crowley.

"Thanks."

Crowley grinned. "I think I'll be off if you don't mind. Wouldn't want to get you a detention for consorting with demons."

Aziraphale sighed. It had been rather much to hope that Crowley would come in with him, under the disapproving glare of what was essentially God's most self-important milk monitor.

"I've never consorted in my life," he declared instead, climbing out primly.

Crowley waiting till he'd closed the door before murmuring "Maybe you should. Bit of consorting, do you good." He pushed the sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose, and slammed back into the traffic.

------
* A protector and regulator of earthly boundaries, also charged with the preservation of religion. As opposed to, eg, Monaco. Aziraphale had a finely honed glare he reserved especially for anyone making Prince Albert jokes.

** Thrones express God's Divine Will via constantly flowing waves of creativity and appear as a fiery wheel with four faces.

*** When a badly judged emanation resulted in the entire Borough of Hammersmith taking up rag rugging.

**** The Dominations regulate the duties of angels. A Domination can generally be identified by its permanent look of disapproval, and the clipboard it will be holding.

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THIS IS GENIUS!

Aziraphale bitching about upstairs! The lickle comic footnotes! Crowely finishing the angel's swearing for him! (N'aww!)
Rag rugging??!?! *sporfles*

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*squees* glad you like it!
heh - rag rugging, and other dubious euphemisms...*snerk*

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liquorishflame.livejournal.com

As I eyed the gnarling gnashing thing in front of me, I reminded myself that I could not drop my guard when in the Nightside. One did not saunter, meader or sashay. One crept or nervously jogged. Running was also another good option. But no John Taylor, you had to just swagger around like a bloody tourist.

'I'm sorry, what was the question?' I asked politely of the (man/woman/creature) in front of me, even though my heart was valiently trying to stove in my ribcage.

'Yurmonee oryerliiifeee!'

'Pardon?' I said, blinking.

It waved a (claw/sword/obsidian shard) at my face.

'Yur-monee- or yer lifeee!' it anouciated horribly. I tried not to imagine being masticated inside those terrible broken glass jaws. Understanding dawned.
This was a hold up.

'Am I being mugged?' I almost felt nostalgic. I hadn't been mugged in nearly a decade, not since Tin Smith had tried to relieve me (unsucessfully) of my fathers old pocket watch.

The Highway...thing grinned at me and I gave an inward shudder. Outwardly I smiled. After all, I did have a reputation to maintain.

'I'm just not sure I have the right currency. Do you accept copper Thrones? They're from the Elven Kingdoms, guaranteed to last for at least twenty four hours.'

It let loose a vicious roar that blew the sour smell of abattoirs and slauterhouses into my face, the warm and wet smell of violent death. I wiped the warm spittle calmly off my face, and shoved my shaking hands into my pockets.

'I'll take it that's a "no". Well all right, this was going to be my secretary's birthday present but...'

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the most exquisite crystal humming bird. It was so beautiful that Da Vinci would have wept to see it and Van Gough would have put out his eyes in envy. The creature leaned forward, mesmerized by it's shinning perfection.

Which is when I let loose my spell. Clutching the glistening sculputure in my hand I muttered a quick word 'Oboedire!'

The Highwaything's eyes never blinked. I breathed out with a relieved sigh. The Domination spell had worked. It was now under my command.

'Well this is going to work out after all. It'll be much easier to rescue the Bird Women from the Bush Dogs of the apocalypse now that I have you on my side, ol' chum.'

As we walked down the street, I chuckled.

'What do you know? I guess a bird in the hand is worth two with the Bush.'

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