(no subject)

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Date: March 25, 2001
Setting: John's Bedroom
Status: Private- Crowley, John, Kit
Summary: Crowley has a nightmare




Hands.

Large and bloodied.

Gripping, tearing.

Claws.

Sharp and sinister.

Shredding, slicing.

Pain.

Crowley awoke in a cold sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, breathing heavily. Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he tried to push the images - memories - out. He wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.

With a groan, the demon rolled out of bed, throwing on his trousers and a white collared shirt, but not bothering to tuck it in or even button it all the way. Hair tousled, eyes uncovered, and feet bare, he padded through the bathroom toward the only person who could help right now. He pushed open the door.

"John?"

Comments

[anthony-crowley.livejournal.com]

Probably more aware of the undercurrents and sharply drawn lines in the room than either of the two humans, Crowley allowed himself to be pulled nearer, but didn't try for more. In the end, Kit was John's and John was Kit's and he was only privileged to be able to share a bit. It was more than he'd had in a long while and he was genuinely grateful.

Crowley had never taken a turn as an incubus, but one hears things around the water cooler, so to speak. Instinctively knowing that he wouldn't be allowed to touch John the way he wanted to or be more intimate with Kit than he had been

(undercurrents and sharply drawn lines)

the demon finessed the energies of the room a bit; not enough to really be noticeable, but to just enhance the pleasure of his companions. He would let that be his contribution as he wrapped his arms around both of them, kissing the back of Kit's neck and shoulder, and frotting against her sweat slicked skin, eyes half open to watch John's face.

[dangeroushabits.livejournal.com]

There wasn't a whole lot to be seen on John's face at the moment--certainly nothing that resembled alertness or awareness of anything but hot and tight and slick and the sight and smell and feel of her, of Kit, his Kit, and if Crowley thought for one moment that John didn't know what it was like to fall from grace or to live in Hell then he was wrong, because this right here was Heaven and he had believed with all his heart that he would never, never find his way back again. If all his body's energy hadn't been focused so intently on the matter at hand, he'd have wept. As it was, the catch at the end of his ragged moan sounded very like a sob.

Even without Crowley's subtle influence, he wasn't going to hold out very long, but he tried, imposing some control on his body as it strained to thrust too hard, too fast. Didn't want to let her down again. Didn't want, truth be told, for this to end at all, ever. His mind and heart and body were for once in perfect accord, and the note they sang out in ecstatic harmony was Kit.