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angelfeast2012-02-13 11:59 pm
miscellanium) wrote in angelfeast2012-02-13 11:59 pm
Entry tags:
porn battle xiii fills
three out of four fills - the fourth (gabe/sam) has developed a plot, ha, and will be wanting a beta before it goes up properly.
collected here in the order they were written/posted, with some tidying-up done; can also be found on ao3.
Title: Song 5:4-5
Pairing: Uriel/Anna's grace tree
Prompts used: glory, sufferance, lush
Rating: R
In the state of Kentucky there is an oak tree. Its roots coil through the ground, raising dirt and grass above them like rumpled sheets; its trunk is large enough for three people to circle, fingertip to fingertip, with bark broken into stuttered columns; its many branches reach over 100 meters tall, fanning upward and outward in a way that verges on fractals, like they're unreal—and in a way, they are. The tree is less than thirty years old.
Early one November morning a few years ago an angel visited this tree, walking across the dew-wet grass and leaving a dark, dry trail behind. The body was borrowed, expanding into middle age with an ill-fitting suit, but Uriel never had been one to appreciate human differences. To ou, all flesh was equally useless. The tree, though—it pulsed with a life not of this earth, and Uriel could hear the song of grace humming from each green leaf. (Glory, glory, glory, came the feeling-words, like ou was home once more and nobody fallen.)
The tree was a manifestation of God's true greatness, an oasis in this desert of creation; it was almost a shame, then, that Uriel was tasked with returning the grace within to its rightful place. But ou would not share such a thought—no, that was not part of ou's duty. Anael had set a poor example, forsaking rather than enduring; now it was Uriel's chance to correct ou, to humble ou under the mighty hand of God.
Uriel reached out a hand and touched the bark, that rough contour of Anael's grace, and here the boundary was almost too thin for such coarse physicality; an electric shock, so cold as to be hot, set ou's fingers thrumming. There was some pain, yes, but what was pain to an angel, a warrior of Heaven? Ou laid the palm of ou's hand flat against the trunk and pressed.
The bark parted around Uriel, slow and tight, edges gripping ou's wrist. This was no exploration of a soul but a touching of pure grace; such power burnt the skin as quickly as Uriel could heal it, sent every nerve ending into overdrive. Ou had the storage vial, warded and ready, in ou's other hand against the bark, but the grace was slippery and aware—pulling out ou's fist with every last strand of grace contained proved difficult.
So, time and again, Uriel pushed in, the tree accommodating ou's fist easily as ou picked up speed; ou knew divine patience, to be sure, but ou also knew divine frustration. As the vial filled the unnatural give of the bark began to fade, scraping skin from Uriel's wrist—ou yanked out ou's fist for the last time, the sap-sticky pop of it seeming to echo in the quiet air. Anael's grace was contained, every last remnant of it, and while the tree's leaves still spread green and sensuous they had gone silent.
The gears of Heaven's plans grind exceedingly slowly, but nonetheless they grind, thought Uriel. The sun was higher now, and—a shifting of perception, a straining of limited flesh—miles away, a black car was approaching. Its passengers would not find Uriel in the field, not with footprints faded and grass long since sprung back upright.
In the state of Kentucky there is an oak tree, lofty, verdant, and empty.
---
Title: the convert
Pairing: Dark Yuugi/Seto Kaiba
Prompts used: soul, leather, skin, breathplay, real
Rating: R
Warnings/notes: takes place shortly after Kaiba's mind crush, and there are dominance/consent issues tied to that.
They thought he was alone. And in a sense, he was; his soul was turned inward and to look at him was to see an empty body. But he was there, in the deepest parts of himself, sifting through what had been ripped apart. The other Yuugi had done this out of some ancient idea of mercy, a darkness weighing his voice down as judgement was delivered.
Here, with no physicality to ground him, Seto Kaiba felt everything: pride, love for Mokuba, the sound of a window shattering, a suggestion of the other Yuugi's breath on his neck. And then, it wasn't a suggestion—the other Yuugi was there in front of him, in that school uniform with the sleeves a bit too long and that thick leather collar showing. Kaiba reached out, touched his chest, and it was warm, firm. After all their struggles, for him to just show up in this most private part of the self—Kaiba shoved him, smiling at the heavy thud when the other Yuugi hit a (vague, undefined) solid surface beneath them.
"This isn't the way," the other Yuugi said, but Kaiba knew it didn't matter because he wasn't really there, couldn't be.
Kaiba was still wearing the same Chinese business suit from his last duel, the pressed white fabric now run through with wrinkles; with nobody else in his mind, after all, what reason was there to change? But the other Yuugi—under the thin cotton of that button-down, pressing against the seams, Kaiba could see a dark vest with buckles and studs like a piece of armor. It had to go. But first, the shirt. It tore easily, almost too easily, the leather straps beneath rubbing against his knuckles.
Only—this Yuugi wasn't just other, but darker. He blinked, slow and dangerous, and when his eyes opened they flashed red. Kaiba inhaled sharply, the air sticking in his lungs; no, this was his space, his rules and Dark Yuugi would not, could not—
"You need to learn some control, Kaiba." That voice, low with the confidence of far too many years—Kaiba couldn't help but drop to his knees before it, throat tight and chest throbbing with fury. He was six feet to Yuugi's five, but god, look at them now, at Dark Yuugi with his hands around Kaiba's neck and a grin on his face.
From here, even with his nose pressed into the join of Dark Yuugi's legs, Kaiba could smell the leather enriched by the salt of skin, the tang of it musty in his mouth. His tongue felt thick, full, and there was a pressure building behind his eyes, a throbbing in his groin—
Dark Yuugi let go. Half-dizzy and gulping down air, Kaiba let himself imagine he could still feel Dark Yuugi's fingertips over his Adam's apple, sharp tender points against his flesh; there would surely be bruises if they were doing this with their bodies, and maybe there were bruises back on the outside, who knew? Kaiba's cock rubbed up against his trouser fly, the layers of fabric tight against his flesh, but when he reached for the zipper Dark Yuugi kicked his hands away.
"Do you understand yet? Say you will atone," murmured Dark Yuugi, his thumbs pressing into the base of Kaiba's neck.
"Like hell," Kaiba said, his voice rough. Dark Yuugi smiled and squeezed, cutting off all his air.
Kaiba gasped, his vision sliding out of focus—two Yuugis bent over him, their hands gentle, un-callused, and strong, so strong—and, fuck, his head was pounding but his body (mind?) was thrumming. Things were going black, shadows creeping in, and Kaiba tried to raise his hands, tried to pull Dark Yuugi off, but all he could do was hold on.
Dark Yuugi raised one foot. "Do not think that this means your penalty game is over." He touched Kaiba's groin with the sole of his shoe, loosening his hands right as he pushed down just so—
When Kaiba could see again, could breathe again, he opened his eyes and saw that he was alone.
---
Title: don't take your love to town
Pairing: Ruby/Sam
Prompts used: ride, demon, knife play
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/notes: also has pegging, blood drinking, and problematic consent tied to sam's addiction.
Sometimes Ruby wonders what it would have been like before, in another body. Oh, this one with the dark hair is good, and Sam responds to its touch eagerly (desperately), but the blonde had felt more hers somehow. Maybe just because it was more familiar, like an old car; settling into a body, learning its flesh and its responses, takes time and patience that neither of them have.
All Sam really wants is the contact, the fantasy of a human touch—and the blood. That's easy enough for Ruby to give, leaning over him, pressing the knife handle-first into his hands. But he has to work for it, she tells him with eyes death-black, has to show he can handle it. And Sam, dear dear Sam, so needs it that he says yes and lets her pull him down. He's tense at first, used to keeping everything out or in, but she kisses him slow and deep until her lube-slick fingers (first one, then two, three) slip through.
He has his arms over his face, both to wipe away the sweat and to hide his eyes, until Ruby reaches up and pulls them down. "Don't hide," she murmurs. "If you can do this..."
So: Sam holds her gaze, hazel to black, as she places the tip of her strap-on at his entrance and begins to push. It isn't large, but it isn't small either, this dark silicone cock that gradually widens out; Sam, on his back with legs spread before her, takes it in with hissing breath and a white-knuckled grip on the sheets.
"Relax." Ruby bends down, smiling, and touches the knife still clutched in Sam's hand. He shifts, eyes slightly unfocused, and rises up on his elbows—the movement shoves his hips up against Ruby's, drives the cock deeper—to push the sharp edge of the blade against the soft skin of her inner arm. She holds his shoulders as blood wells up from the cut and Sam starts to drink, warm tongue lapping in short wet strokes across her borrowed skin. Before long Ruby seals up the cut, pushes Sam back down—his eyes are bright now, his skin flushed—and cants her hips, pulling out until just the tip's left inside.
Ruby puts a hand on his cock, feels the hot pulse of it against her palm, and says, "I think it's time for the real fun. What do you say?"
Sam grins and nods, his hair sticking to his forehead and his lips bloody. He grinds into her hand, closing his eyes at the pleasure of it—only to snap them open again when Ruby slams her cock back in, balls deep. His toes curl, his voice breaking up into moans that caught in his throat, as she keeps up the pace, riding him like he's made for it—made for being spread wide, stretched open—and in a sense, he is.
It's both too long and too soon before he can't handle it anymore, Ruby's cock slipping in and out of him, her hand squeezing his cock as silicone balls slap against his ass—he chokes as he comes, muscles throbbing tight around Ruby's cock—
Later, as they're lying in bed, the sheets damp with sweat, Sam pulls Ruby to him, her back soft against his chest. "Ruby, I..."
"Me too," she says.
collected here in the order they were written/posted, with some tidying-up done; can also be found on ao3.
Title: Song 5:4-5
Pairing: Uriel/Anna's grace tree
Prompts used: glory, sufferance, lush
Rating: R
In the state of Kentucky there is an oak tree. Its roots coil through the ground, raising dirt and grass above them like rumpled sheets; its trunk is large enough for three people to circle, fingertip to fingertip, with bark broken into stuttered columns; its many branches reach over 100 meters tall, fanning upward and outward in a way that verges on fractals, like they're unreal—and in a way, they are. The tree is less than thirty years old.
Early one November morning a few years ago an angel visited this tree, walking across the dew-wet grass and leaving a dark, dry trail behind. The body was borrowed, expanding into middle age with an ill-fitting suit, but Uriel never had been one to appreciate human differences. To ou, all flesh was equally useless. The tree, though—it pulsed with a life not of this earth, and Uriel could hear the song of grace humming from each green leaf. (Glory, glory, glory, came the feeling-words, like ou was home once more and nobody fallen.)
The tree was a manifestation of God's true greatness, an oasis in this desert of creation; it was almost a shame, then, that Uriel was tasked with returning the grace within to its rightful place. But ou would not share such a thought—no, that was not part of ou's duty. Anael had set a poor example, forsaking rather than enduring; now it was Uriel's chance to correct ou, to humble ou under the mighty hand of God.
Uriel reached out a hand and touched the bark, that rough contour of Anael's grace, and here the boundary was almost too thin for such coarse physicality; an electric shock, so cold as to be hot, set ou's fingers thrumming. There was some pain, yes, but what was pain to an angel, a warrior of Heaven? Ou laid the palm of ou's hand flat against the trunk and pressed.
The bark parted around Uriel, slow and tight, edges gripping ou's wrist. This was no exploration of a soul but a touching of pure grace; such power burnt the skin as quickly as Uriel could heal it, sent every nerve ending into overdrive. Ou had the storage vial, warded and ready, in ou's other hand against the bark, but the grace was slippery and aware—pulling out ou's fist with every last strand of grace contained proved difficult.
So, time and again, Uriel pushed in, the tree accommodating ou's fist easily as ou picked up speed; ou knew divine patience, to be sure, but ou also knew divine frustration. As the vial filled the unnatural give of the bark began to fade, scraping skin from Uriel's wrist—ou yanked out ou's fist for the last time, the sap-sticky pop of it seeming to echo in the quiet air. Anael's grace was contained, every last remnant of it, and while the tree's leaves still spread green and sensuous they had gone silent.
The gears of Heaven's plans grind exceedingly slowly, but nonetheless they grind, thought Uriel. The sun was higher now, and—a shifting of perception, a straining of limited flesh—miles away, a black car was approaching. Its passengers would not find Uriel in the field, not with footprints faded and grass long since sprung back upright.
In the state of Kentucky there is an oak tree, lofty, verdant, and empty.
---
Title: the convert
Pairing: Dark Yuugi/Seto Kaiba
Prompts used: soul, leather, skin, breathplay, real
Rating: R
Warnings/notes: takes place shortly after Kaiba's mind crush, and there are dominance/consent issues tied to that.
They thought he was alone. And in a sense, he was; his soul was turned inward and to look at him was to see an empty body. But he was there, in the deepest parts of himself, sifting through what had been ripped apart. The other Yuugi had done this out of some ancient idea of mercy, a darkness weighing his voice down as judgement was delivered.
Here, with no physicality to ground him, Seto Kaiba felt everything: pride, love for Mokuba, the sound of a window shattering, a suggestion of the other Yuugi's breath on his neck. And then, it wasn't a suggestion—the other Yuugi was there in front of him, in that school uniform with the sleeves a bit too long and that thick leather collar showing. Kaiba reached out, touched his chest, and it was warm, firm. After all their struggles, for him to just show up in this most private part of the self—Kaiba shoved him, smiling at the heavy thud when the other Yuugi hit a (vague, undefined) solid surface beneath them.
"This isn't the way," the other Yuugi said, but Kaiba knew it didn't matter because he wasn't really there, couldn't be.
Kaiba was still wearing the same Chinese business suit from his last duel, the pressed white fabric now run through with wrinkles; with nobody else in his mind, after all, what reason was there to change? But the other Yuugi—under the thin cotton of that button-down, pressing against the seams, Kaiba could see a dark vest with buckles and studs like a piece of armor. It had to go. But first, the shirt. It tore easily, almost too easily, the leather straps beneath rubbing against his knuckles.
Only—this Yuugi wasn't just other, but darker. He blinked, slow and dangerous, and when his eyes opened they flashed red. Kaiba inhaled sharply, the air sticking in his lungs; no, this was his space, his rules and Dark Yuugi would not, could not—
"You need to learn some control, Kaiba." That voice, low with the confidence of far too many years—Kaiba couldn't help but drop to his knees before it, throat tight and chest throbbing with fury. He was six feet to Yuugi's five, but god, look at them now, at Dark Yuugi with his hands around Kaiba's neck and a grin on his face.
From here, even with his nose pressed into the join of Dark Yuugi's legs, Kaiba could smell the leather enriched by the salt of skin, the tang of it musty in his mouth. His tongue felt thick, full, and there was a pressure building behind his eyes, a throbbing in his groin—
Dark Yuugi let go. Half-dizzy and gulping down air, Kaiba let himself imagine he could still feel Dark Yuugi's fingertips over his Adam's apple, sharp tender points against his flesh; there would surely be bruises if they were doing this with their bodies, and maybe there were bruises back on the outside, who knew? Kaiba's cock rubbed up against his trouser fly, the layers of fabric tight against his flesh, but when he reached for the zipper Dark Yuugi kicked his hands away.
"Do you understand yet? Say you will atone," murmured Dark Yuugi, his thumbs pressing into the base of Kaiba's neck.
"Like hell," Kaiba said, his voice rough. Dark Yuugi smiled and squeezed, cutting off all his air.
Kaiba gasped, his vision sliding out of focus—two Yuugis bent over him, their hands gentle, un-callused, and strong, so strong—and, fuck, his head was pounding but his body (mind?) was thrumming. Things were going black, shadows creeping in, and Kaiba tried to raise his hands, tried to pull Dark Yuugi off, but all he could do was hold on.
Dark Yuugi raised one foot. "Do not think that this means your penalty game is over." He touched Kaiba's groin with the sole of his shoe, loosening his hands right as he pushed down just so—
When Kaiba could see again, could breathe again, he opened his eyes and saw that he was alone.
---
Title: don't take your love to town
Pairing: Ruby/Sam
Prompts used: ride, demon, knife play
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/notes: also has pegging, blood drinking, and problematic consent tied to sam's addiction.
Sometimes Ruby wonders what it would have been like before, in another body. Oh, this one with the dark hair is good, and Sam responds to its touch eagerly (desperately), but the blonde had felt more hers somehow. Maybe just because it was more familiar, like an old car; settling into a body, learning its flesh and its responses, takes time and patience that neither of them have.
All Sam really wants is the contact, the fantasy of a human touch—and the blood. That's easy enough for Ruby to give, leaning over him, pressing the knife handle-first into his hands. But he has to work for it, she tells him with eyes death-black, has to show he can handle it. And Sam, dear dear Sam, so needs it that he says yes and lets her pull him down. He's tense at first, used to keeping everything out or in, but she kisses him slow and deep until her lube-slick fingers (first one, then two, three) slip through.
He has his arms over his face, both to wipe away the sweat and to hide his eyes, until Ruby reaches up and pulls them down. "Don't hide," she murmurs. "If you can do this..."
So: Sam holds her gaze, hazel to black, as she places the tip of her strap-on at his entrance and begins to push. It isn't large, but it isn't small either, this dark silicone cock that gradually widens out; Sam, on his back with legs spread before her, takes it in with hissing breath and a white-knuckled grip on the sheets.
"Relax." Ruby bends down, smiling, and touches the knife still clutched in Sam's hand. He shifts, eyes slightly unfocused, and rises up on his elbows—the movement shoves his hips up against Ruby's, drives the cock deeper—to push the sharp edge of the blade against the soft skin of her inner arm. She holds his shoulders as blood wells up from the cut and Sam starts to drink, warm tongue lapping in short wet strokes across her borrowed skin. Before long Ruby seals up the cut, pushes Sam back down—his eyes are bright now, his skin flushed—and cants her hips, pulling out until just the tip's left inside.
Ruby puts a hand on his cock, feels the hot pulse of it against her palm, and says, "I think it's time for the real fun. What do you say?"
Sam grins and nods, his hair sticking to his forehead and his lips bloody. He grinds into her hand, closing his eyes at the pleasure of it—only to snap them open again when Ruby slams her cock back in, balls deep. His toes curl, his voice breaking up into moans that caught in his throat, as she keeps up the pace, riding him like he's made for it—made for being spread wide, stretched open—and in a sense, he is.
It's both too long and too soon before he can't handle it anymore, Ruby's cock slipping in and out of him, her hand squeezing his cock as silicone balls slap against his ass—he chokes as he comes, muscles throbbing tight around Ruby's cock—
Later, as they're lying in bed, the sheets damp with sweat, Sam pulls Ruby to him, her back soft against his chest. "Ruby, I..."
"Me too," she says.