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Ahahaha, okay. Attempting to collate orgy of Red Cross ficathon stuff from past two nights, mainly so I can force people to go read some MAGNIFICENT riffs on them by certain co-conspirators. By fandom, then. 
Rome [Marc Antony]
Marc Antony knows what he has become. He feels himself grow soft under fine, white, Egyptian cotton, and only in the flattering light of torches and the polished surface of bronze does the kohl hide the redness, the permanent slight unfocus of his eyes. He is Cleopatra’s pet sybarite, but the world is soft around the edges (as is he), and it is all one to him, now. Cleopatra is not soft, not soft to the touch like Atia or the mouthy, spirited whores of the Aventine; Cleopatra is all hard edges – consort to Caesar, and mother to Caesarion – and when they fuck, it is the closest thing to battle he can still manage. He has no violence left in him now, no true Martial fire. Only a bilious, sodden rage that bubbles up when he is not drunk enough, when he has not had enough of the wine that he no longer mixes with water, too dark to be the colour of blood on the Senate floor.
"Ave," he murmurs to his goblet, swaying on his couch.
"What was that?" asks Cleopatra, over the sound of those hideous Egyptian lyres.
"Nothing, my love," he replies, and slowly tilts it over, watching the wine stain the deep purple band of a toga praetexta across the fine white cotton. Presently, it starts to run down his thighs, sticky and damp in the heat. Rolling over, he beckons to a supple, plucked slave that might be either girl or boy, and spreads his legs.
Rome/Good Omens
De Re Publica
"His hands, Crowley," Aziraphale says, either pale with horror, or white with fury, or both. "His hands."
"Yes," Crowley replies, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I know. I’m – "
He’s tired, is what he is, and he has a headache, Tyro’s wailing still echoing in his ears above the bustle of the street behind him. Caesar only knows what possessed him to come here, where there could be only one thing waiting for him. Here, instead of forgetting the whole thing, instead of heading straight home, where his bed is waiting for him.
He wants a drink. He desperately wants a drink, and Aziraphale isn’t about to invite him in.
"Look," he starts to say, for the sake of saying anything at all, and he’s tired enough that he doesn’t see it coming. The ringing in his ears slides up an octave, and Crowley touches shocked fingertips to the handprint across his cheek.
"Here," he says instead, and shoves his bag into the hand that the angel is shaking the feeling back into.
Aziraphale does not open it until Crowley has left: perhaps wise. Inside, scrolls (De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum; he nearly laughs), and a dozen soft-skinned peaches.
Good Omens/Aubreyad
"Well," thought Stephen, shaking out his breeches with an unusual vehemence, "give them joy of it." He paused, surprised to find himself so curiously out of sorts; curiously indeed, for was not this cabin, this moderately cramped and low-ceilinged cabin off the gunroom, a habitual sleeping-place of his? To be sure, as Jack’s guest, he was normally accorded the coach as a place to berth – a rather more capacious berth, being ordinarily the Captain’s dining cabin – but Jack Aubrey, the creature, was a prodigious snorer, often setting up such a racket through the thin partitions, such a Jovian thunder ("Ha ha," thought Stephen, "I shall tell that to him: a Jovian thunder."), that the Doctor was obliged to sling his cot below in the hopes of sleeping at all. So why then, for all love, did this forced but temporary relocation find him so damnably irritated? True, Stephen was forced to admit, stentorian sleeper though Jack was, his snores were as regular a part of Stephen’s ship-board existence as Sunday divisions, and true, he resented being parted from them by anything but his own volition; but even so, he perceived (being a perceptive man) that this was not all there was to his humour.
Perhaps it was that Jack had not been able to satisfactorily explain why they should take on passengers – passengers that were no sort of envoy, nor of any readily apparent military or naval character. Of course, Stephen was hardly as who should say ignorant of the fact that a man’s official function might bear no reflexions upon his unofficial activities; indeed, something of the reserved, closed manner of one of their charges led him to wonder whether they might be in his own line of work (this, and of course the fact that the man wore coloured lenses in his glasses, just as Stephen himself did when he wished his gaze to remain inscrutable). Still, it disconcerted him: by nature and by long habit, Stephen did not like to be in the dark, and to discover himself so was unpleasant, to say nothing of worrying.
The other of the pair was a different matter: as fair as his companion was dark, he was also as gay and open as his friend was cool and diffident, possessed of something of the irresistible likeability which had so disarmed Stephen when first he had met Jack Aubrey. It was from him that Stephen had attempted to extract information, enquiring discreetly about the nature of their voyage, their business in Gibraltar. But in the chaos of coming aboard, of casting off, of determining where the two passengers should be put (to be regretted extremely, little in the way of space, the dear Surprise being only a frigate, and a small one at that – might Jack offer the gentlemen the use of the coach, a bulkhead to be whipped up in no time at all to give each a cabin of their own; not at all, the gentlemen will not hear of it, habitual travelling companions, perpetually in each other’s pockets, will manage admirably with the coach undivided), the thread had been lost, the conversation subsumed, and then forgotten.
Dinner, however, might be more successful, and even as Stephen pulled on his stockings and wrestled with his neck-cloth, he dismissed the subject from his present mind, finding himself strangely unable to keep a firm grasp on the line of thought even in the relative silence of his cabin. Soon enough, he felt his spirits lift – in part because, having moved on to more general musings on the characters of those occupying the coach, he found it extraordinarily difficult to maintain any real sort of ill-will towards the friendlier of the two. A paederast, Stephen had no doubt, and one whose nature was as badly concealed as La Mothe of Paris, but (like Adhemar de La Mothe) a singularly pleasant one, and (unlike La Mothe) wholly decent. With the blessing, Stephen would not again have to preserve Jack’s innocence from an impossible infatuation. Indeed, he might be relieved of this in any case, but it would be unwise to suppose; although Mr. Fell’s proclivities were undeniable, as to the nature of his companion, Stephen could not say.
Dinner was, in point of fact, a grand success; Mr. Fell, confirming the third of Stephen’s initial impressions of him, was both intelligent and a man of letters, and his amiable way of speaking was very well with the Captain, he having particularly obliged Jack by laughing at a carefully-constructed witticism exchanging 'bark' for 'barque'. But it was the more contrary of their guests who provided the evening’s other pleasant surprise, as it were; Stephen, holding forth on the treasures awaiting a naturalist at their destination, on the fauna of Gibraltar, on those species, those genera which fairly thrived in a warmer climate – the beetles, the birds, and above all, the reptiles – was delighted to find, in the person of Mr. Crowleigh, a marvellously keen herpetologist.
Aubreyad/PotC; or, The Case of the Problematic Natives
Jack is surprised to find that, in spite of his meagre-looking hams and ill-fitting shoes, the shabby little man is perfectly able to keep up with him, flashing over a fallen log and cutting along the strand at a fine pace, wig long since abandoned in the clutches of an importunate creeper. What surprises Jack even more, however – inasmuch as he can spare the time to be surprised, which he cannot – is that he is keeping up as fine a flow of senseless babble as their unforgiving pace and harsh breathing will allow.
"I am shocked," the fellow is saying. "I am astonished. I am laid wholly by the lee, as you might say. I had always understood the inhabitants of these isles to be entirely peaceable, or at any rate no more savage than their neighbours; Queen Puolani, as I recall, was also given to the occasional consumption of human flesh, and yet a jollier and more welcoming host you would not find in all of London town."
How is he doing that, Jack wonders. Aloud, he says, "Somebody’s been," gasp, wheeze, "feeding you the good stuff, Doctor M. Where did you say the boat was, again?"
"Higgins," the other man cries. "Oh, the wicked false treacherous dog. I shall see him – I shall see him clapped in irons, for this, I shall – ahoy the boat."
It is to his very substantial relief that Jack sees the cutter come into view as they round the promontory, and he puts on another burst of speed. He does not need to be swift now, after all – only swifter than the Doctor. Filling his lungs as best he can, he joins in the hallooing. "Ahoy the boat!"
The activity surrounding the cutter – the loading up of barrels, of coconuts, of a single remarkable turtle – peters to a halt. In the prow, a great giant figure of a man (with astonishingly yellow hair) stands up, and calls out in a quarterdeck voice Jack imagines can be heard all the way to Port Royal, "Ahoy, the Doctor. How do you – "
He trails off in dismay however, as well he might, as the horde of screaming natives spills onto the beach behind them.
Rome [Marc Antony]
Marc Antony knows what he has become. He feels himself grow soft under fine, white, Egyptian cotton, and only in the flattering light of torches and the polished surface of bronze does the kohl hide the redness, the permanent slight unfocus of his eyes. He is Cleopatra’s pet sybarite, but the world is soft around the edges (as is he), and it is all one to him, now. Cleopatra is not soft, not soft to the touch like Atia or the mouthy, spirited whores of the Aventine; Cleopatra is all hard edges – consort to Caesar, and mother to Caesarion – and when they fuck, it is the closest thing to battle he can still manage. He has no violence left in him now, no true Martial fire. Only a bilious, sodden rage that bubbles up when he is not drunk enough, when he has not had enough of the wine that he no longer mixes with water, too dark to be the colour of blood on the Senate floor.
"Ave," he murmurs to his goblet, swaying on his couch.
"What was that?" asks Cleopatra, over the sound of those hideous Egyptian lyres.
"Nothing, my love," he replies, and slowly tilts it over, watching the wine stain the deep purple band of a toga praetexta across the fine white cotton. Presently, it starts to run down his thighs, sticky and damp in the heat. Rolling over, he beckons to a supple, plucked slave that might be either girl or boy, and spreads his legs.
- originally posted here
Rome/Good Omens
De Re Publica
"His hands, Crowley," Aziraphale says, either pale with horror, or white with fury, or both. "His hands."
"Yes," Crowley replies, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I know. I’m – "
He’s tired, is what he is, and he has a headache, Tyro’s wailing still echoing in his ears above the bustle of the street behind him. Caesar only knows what possessed him to come here, where there could be only one thing waiting for him. Here, instead of forgetting the whole thing, instead of heading straight home, where his bed is waiting for him.
He wants a drink. He desperately wants a drink, and Aziraphale isn’t about to invite him in.
"Look," he starts to say, for the sake of saying anything at all, and he’s tired enough that he doesn’t see it coming. The ringing in his ears slides up an octave, and Crowley touches shocked fingertips to the handprint across his cheek.
"Here," he says instead, and shoves his bag into the hand that the angel is shaking the feeling back into.
Aziraphale does not open it until Crowley has left: perhaps wise. Inside, scrolls (De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum; he nearly laughs), and a dozen soft-skinned peaches.
- originally posted here
GO READ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
toko's HILARIOUS CONTINUATIONS ON THE THEME HERE: I/II.
Note: for people who haven't seen Rome, his make about a million times more sense out of context than mine.
GO READ
toko's HILARIOUS CONTINUATIONS ON THE THEME HERE: I/II.Note: for people who haven't seen Rome, his make about a million times more sense out of context than mine.
Good Omens/Aubreyad
"Well," thought Stephen, shaking out his breeches with an unusual vehemence, "give them joy of it." He paused, surprised to find himself so curiously out of sorts; curiously indeed, for was not this cabin, this moderately cramped and low-ceilinged cabin off the gunroom, a habitual sleeping-place of his? To be sure, as Jack’s guest, he was normally accorded the coach as a place to berth – a rather more capacious berth, being ordinarily the Captain’s dining cabin – but Jack Aubrey, the creature, was a prodigious snorer, often setting up such a racket through the thin partitions, such a Jovian thunder ("Ha ha," thought Stephen, "I shall tell that to him: a Jovian thunder."), that the Doctor was obliged to sling his cot below in the hopes of sleeping at all. So why then, for all love, did this forced but temporary relocation find him so damnably irritated? True, Stephen was forced to admit, stentorian sleeper though Jack was, his snores were as regular a part of Stephen’s ship-board existence as Sunday divisions, and true, he resented being parted from them by anything but his own volition; but even so, he perceived (being a perceptive man) that this was not all there was to his humour.
Perhaps it was that Jack had not been able to satisfactorily explain why they should take on passengers – passengers that were no sort of envoy, nor of any readily apparent military or naval character. Of course, Stephen was hardly as who should say ignorant of the fact that a man’s official function might bear no reflexions upon his unofficial activities; indeed, something of the reserved, closed manner of one of their charges led him to wonder whether they might be in his own line of work (this, and of course the fact that the man wore coloured lenses in his glasses, just as Stephen himself did when he wished his gaze to remain inscrutable). Still, it disconcerted him: by nature and by long habit, Stephen did not like to be in the dark, and to discover himself so was unpleasant, to say nothing of worrying.
The other of the pair was a different matter: as fair as his companion was dark, he was also as gay and open as his friend was cool and diffident, possessed of something of the irresistible likeability which had so disarmed Stephen when first he had met Jack Aubrey. It was from him that Stephen had attempted to extract information, enquiring discreetly about the nature of their voyage, their business in Gibraltar. But in the chaos of coming aboard, of casting off, of determining where the two passengers should be put (to be regretted extremely, little in the way of space, the dear Surprise being only a frigate, and a small one at that – might Jack offer the gentlemen the use of the coach, a bulkhead to be whipped up in no time at all to give each a cabin of their own; not at all, the gentlemen will not hear of it, habitual travelling companions, perpetually in each other’s pockets, will manage admirably with the coach undivided), the thread had been lost, the conversation subsumed, and then forgotten.
Dinner, however, might be more successful, and even as Stephen pulled on his stockings and wrestled with his neck-cloth, he dismissed the subject from his present mind, finding himself strangely unable to keep a firm grasp on the line of thought even in the relative silence of his cabin. Soon enough, he felt his spirits lift – in part because, having moved on to more general musings on the characters of those occupying the coach, he found it extraordinarily difficult to maintain any real sort of ill-will towards the friendlier of the two. A paederast, Stephen had no doubt, and one whose nature was as badly concealed as La Mothe of Paris, but (like Adhemar de La Mothe) a singularly pleasant one, and (unlike La Mothe) wholly decent. With the blessing, Stephen would not again have to preserve Jack’s innocence from an impossible infatuation. Indeed, he might be relieved of this in any case, but it would be unwise to suppose; although Mr. Fell’s proclivities were undeniable, as to the nature of his companion, Stephen could not say.
Dinner was, in point of fact, a grand success; Mr. Fell, confirming the third of Stephen’s initial impressions of him, was both intelligent and a man of letters, and his amiable way of speaking was very well with the Captain, he having particularly obliged Jack by laughing at a carefully-constructed witticism exchanging 'bark' for 'barque'. But it was the more contrary of their guests who provided the evening’s other pleasant surprise, as it were; Stephen, holding forth on the treasures awaiting a naturalist at their destination, on the fauna of Gibraltar, on those species, those genera which fairly thrived in a warmer climate – the beetles, the birds, and above all, the reptiles – was delighted to find, in the person of Mr. Crowleigh, a marvellously keen herpetologist.
- originally posted here
BECAUSEunravels IS STUPID-AWESOME, YOU ALL NEED TO GO READ THE NOT!SEQUEL TO THIS HERE.
BECAUSE
unravels IS STUPID-AWESOME, YOU ALL NEED TO GO READ THE NOT!SEQUEL TO THIS HERE.Aubreyad/PotC; or, The Case of the Problematic Natives
Jack is surprised to find that, in spite of his meagre-looking hams and ill-fitting shoes, the shabby little man is perfectly able to keep up with him, flashing over a fallen log and cutting along the strand at a fine pace, wig long since abandoned in the clutches of an importunate creeper. What surprises Jack even more, however – inasmuch as he can spare the time to be surprised, which he cannot – is that he is keeping up as fine a flow of senseless babble as their unforgiving pace and harsh breathing will allow.
"I am shocked," the fellow is saying. "I am astonished. I am laid wholly by the lee, as you might say. I had always understood the inhabitants of these isles to be entirely peaceable, or at any rate no more savage than their neighbours; Queen Puolani, as I recall, was also given to the occasional consumption of human flesh, and yet a jollier and more welcoming host you would not find in all of London town."
How is he doing that, Jack wonders. Aloud, he says, "Somebody’s been," gasp, wheeze, "feeding you the good stuff, Doctor M. Where did you say the boat was, again?"
"Higgins," the other man cries. "Oh, the wicked false treacherous dog. I shall see him – I shall see him clapped in irons, for this, I shall – ahoy the boat."
It is to his very substantial relief that Jack sees the cutter come into view as they round the promontory, and he puts on another burst of speed. He does not need to be swift now, after all – only swifter than the Doctor. Filling his lungs as best he can, he joins in the hallooing. "Ahoy the boat!"
The activity surrounding the cutter – the loading up of barrels, of coconuts, of a single remarkable turtle – peters to a halt. In the prow, a great giant figure of a man (with astonishingly yellow hair) stands up, and calls out in a quarterdeck voice Jack imagines can be heard all the way to Port Royal, "Ahoy, the Doctor. How do you – "
He trails off in dismay however, as well he might, as the horde of screaming natives spills onto the beach behind them.
- originally posted here
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And the PotC one is brilliant too! meagre-looking hams = sneeeeerk.
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Actually, once you think about it - or once I thought about it, anyway - the two Ambiguously Gay Duos aren't really all that similar. Or rather, both Crowley and Aziraphale have elements of both Jack and Stephen, and vice versa, if that makes sense. But really, if they aligned perfectly, they wouldn't be half as fun to pit against one another. :D
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No, I agree - Stephen more has elements of both of them, but it all shifts in my mind - one moment he's Just like Crowley, the next he's just like Aziraphale, while Jack stands happy and beaming in the centre of my mind, as stable as a mainmast while the rest swirl around him.
I know! XD I saw a lot of your fics and thought you were really coolin the GO fandom, but I was younger and much shyer, so it has taken me this long, I'm afraid.
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In fairness, Stephen always gets along with them quite well* - but Problematic Disney Natives are another kettle of fish altogether. Oh, Disney. Ilu, but... racial sensitivity: you're doing it wrong.
*Possibly because he does not look very appetising.
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I fully approve of your getting
I still feel very "WHAT. HOW. DO IT NOW." when people tell me they haven't seen Rome. Let's not even talk about PotC!
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Immortality/crossovers OTP.