applecameron (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
applecameron) wrote2004-01-17 01:24 am
applecameron) wrote2004-01-17 01:24 am
Entry tags:
The Sins of the Lion (Brimstone, Zeke/Devil)
Figgered I'd better copy this here (y'know, just to be thorough). I like to know where my fic is.
"The Sins of the Lion"
by Apple Cameron, December 2003, for While We Tell of Yuletide Treasure
Brimstone
Zeke/Devil
"The Sins of the Lion"
Lower Hell. The Infernal Traditionalist, the demons called him when Zeke would find himself suddenly immersed in the River of Blood.
On Earth, now, Zeke just shook his head at the memory. Maybe, if he shook hard enough, all the memories would fly out. Son of a bitch.
The torments of Hell are many and varied but The Fallen One had an undeniable flair for drama. Zeke had read part of Dante's Inferno, a lifetime ago, and the Violent and Bestial would sink into blood at The Fallen's literary whim. Everything would ripple, and the varied demons that were the instruments of torment would transform into centaurs with bows and arrows. Because that was how Dante wrote it, the violent against their neighbors were punished, wallowing in boiling blood forever, each according to the degree of his guilt, while centaurs patrolled the banks of the river, ready to shoot any sinner who raised himself up.
The blood was hot, but the Devil's breath in his ear was hotter.
Time didn't pass in Hell, not time as he knew it, but the blood on his skin, pulsing, Gilbert Jax's blood, Zeke's own blood, the blood of all those he chased, the blood of all those he'd failed, would drown him, each droplet adding up to a greater and greater weight of time that was impossible to bear, until the next droplet, the next moment, and still he was there in Hell, bearing it.
I want your every waking moment consumed...
He placed the palms of his hands over his eyes, pressing on them hard enough to make strange colors spark, his head pushing into the thin mattress of his bed. Pressed hard, but not hard enough to be sent back.
Zeke had drowned in blood, had run for ages down endless corridors with the sound of his wife's cries coming from just around the corner, had his guts pulled out through a hole in his navel, and watched them eaten by his tormenters, always, always blood on his hands. Murderer. The Violent and Bestial.
Every waking moment consumed by his guilt, consumed with paying the price.
Every waking moment was still consumed by it, no matter what happened.
The Prince of Lies just enjoyed being infuriating.
#
Earth. He was getting out of the shower, for Christ's sake, one fist holding his towel closed, but the Devil popped in whenever he felt like it. The theme of their conversation was always the same. Zeke the murderer, who took God's justice into his own hands. Pride and wrath and self-righteousness. His second chance, returning Hell's escapees. Blah-dee-blah-blah.
It occurred to him that The Infernal One loved his work, making sure Zeke didn't accidentally enjoy any of his sojourn on Earth.
His voice was almost happy. "You murdered Gilbert Jax."
Zeke shot back, "You rebelled against God."
The response was swift. Zeke didn't need to breathe, but he did it anyway.
The Devil, the Prince, pinned him to the wall with one finger on the back of his neck, right against the spine. Hot finger, but a chill down his spine nonetheless.
"Think, Ezekiel."
"Just another suit covering his ass, up here." It wasn't the first time he'd said something along those lines. It wouldn't be the last, either.
Hot air ruffled past his ear. "My...parishioners must be returned home, Mr. Stone." He heard a rustling movement. "But the journey is also an end in itself. Don't you think?"
Hands cupped his naked buttocks and that voice dropped half an octave, "whose ass am I covering now?"
Zeke couldn't stop. He couldn't, it was what made the Devil so damned infuriating. Damned being the operative word.
"If you wanted to bring them back, now, you could just do it. You don't need me."
"Au contraire, mes amis." Those hot hands parted his cheeks. The towel rack in the tiny bathroom was already broken, Zeke had gripped it too firmly before stepping into the shower. Might be dead, don't have to smell. Seemed like a useful motto at the time.
He could smell sheetrock, soap, and brimstone. And maybe now, that particular tang he recognized as gunpowder. The gunpowder and muzzle flash that had sent him to Hell.
He couldn't move. Arms spread like a crucifixion, that one finger had pinned him permanently, butterfly soul on the tacky bathroom wall.
Hot against his back. Hot pressing into him, dry, raw, the pain nothing compared to Hell, nothing compared to the Devil's silver tongue, dripping words into his ear.
He spoke again. "You don't need me. You said it yourself, it's your game."
"You know," at this, Zeke shut his eyes, half-pierced by The Infernal Traditionalist, listening. "There are twists, and then there's ignoring the game completely. What you don't know, Ezekiel", Zeke groaned, slowly being filled, "could fill a library."
I think you like having someone who talks back, Prince of Maggots.
The Devil tsked. "Murder, mayhem." Cheerful. Fucking cheerful. "The things you humans do for love."
They were fitted together now, Zeke's body moving with his master's thrusts, his cock stiff in the hand of the Devil.
Who knew exactly what to do with it.
Zeke's back arched and he flailed, starbursts shattering behind his eyes, those windows to the soul. His fingers dug into the wall. "Ah, Jesus."
One hand reached up to cover his mouth. "Don't blaspheme, Ezekiel."
#
Zeke Stone lay on the bed, fully dressed, waiting for daylight.
Consumed.
Still, he was, here on Earth, bearing it.
THE END
"The Sins of the Lion"
by Apple Cameron, December 2003, for While We Tell of Yuletide Treasure
Brimstone
Zeke/Devil
"The Sins of the Lion"
Lower Hell. The Infernal Traditionalist, the demons called him when Zeke would find himself suddenly immersed in the River of Blood.
On Earth, now, Zeke just shook his head at the memory. Maybe, if he shook hard enough, all the memories would fly out. Son of a bitch.
The torments of Hell are many and varied but The Fallen One had an undeniable flair for drama. Zeke had read part of Dante's Inferno, a lifetime ago, and the Violent and Bestial would sink into blood at The Fallen's literary whim. Everything would ripple, and the varied demons that were the instruments of torment would transform into centaurs with bows and arrows. Because that was how Dante wrote it, the violent against their neighbors were punished, wallowing in boiling blood forever, each according to the degree of his guilt, while centaurs patrolled the banks of the river, ready to shoot any sinner who raised himself up.
The blood was hot, but the Devil's breath in his ear was hotter.
Time didn't pass in Hell, not time as he knew it, but the blood on his skin, pulsing, Gilbert Jax's blood, Zeke's own blood, the blood of all those he chased, the blood of all those he'd failed, would drown him, each droplet adding up to a greater and greater weight of time that was impossible to bear, until the next droplet, the next moment, and still he was there in Hell, bearing it.
I want your every waking moment consumed...
He placed the palms of his hands over his eyes, pressing on them hard enough to make strange colors spark, his head pushing into the thin mattress of his bed. Pressed hard, but not hard enough to be sent back.
Zeke had drowned in blood, had run for ages down endless corridors with the sound of his wife's cries coming from just around the corner, had his guts pulled out through a hole in his navel, and watched them eaten by his tormenters, always, always blood on his hands. Murderer. The Violent and Bestial.
Every waking moment consumed by his guilt, consumed with paying the price.
Every waking moment was still consumed by it, no matter what happened.
The Prince of Lies just enjoyed being infuriating.
#
Earth. He was getting out of the shower, for Christ's sake, one fist holding his towel closed, but the Devil popped in whenever he felt like it. The theme of their conversation was always the same. Zeke the murderer, who took God's justice into his own hands. Pride and wrath and self-righteousness. His second chance, returning Hell's escapees. Blah-dee-blah-blah.
It occurred to him that The Infernal One loved his work, making sure Zeke didn't accidentally enjoy any of his sojourn on Earth.
His voice was almost happy. "You murdered Gilbert Jax."
Zeke shot back, "You rebelled against God."
The response was swift. Zeke didn't need to breathe, but he did it anyway.
The Devil, the Prince, pinned him to the wall with one finger on the back of his neck, right against the spine. Hot finger, but a chill down his spine nonetheless.
"Think, Ezekiel."
"Just another suit covering his ass, up here." It wasn't the first time he'd said something along those lines. It wouldn't be the last, either.
Hot air ruffled past his ear. "My...parishioners must be returned home, Mr. Stone." He heard a rustling movement. "But the journey is also an end in itself. Don't you think?"
Hands cupped his naked buttocks and that voice dropped half an octave, "whose ass am I covering now?"
Zeke couldn't stop. He couldn't, it was what made the Devil so damned infuriating. Damned being the operative word.
"If you wanted to bring them back, now, you could just do it. You don't need me."
"Au contraire, mes amis." Those hot hands parted his cheeks. The towel rack in the tiny bathroom was already broken, Zeke had gripped it too firmly before stepping into the shower. Might be dead, don't have to smell. Seemed like a useful motto at the time.
He could smell sheetrock, soap, and brimstone. And maybe now, that particular tang he recognized as gunpowder. The gunpowder and muzzle flash that had sent him to Hell.
He couldn't move. Arms spread like a crucifixion, that one finger had pinned him permanently, butterfly soul on the tacky bathroom wall.
Hot against his back. Hot pressing into him, dry, raw, the pain nothing compared to Hell, nothing compared to the Devil's silver tongue, dripping words into his ear.
He spoke again. "You don't need me. You said it yourself, it's your game."
"You know," at this, Zeke shut his eyes, half-pierced by The Infernal Traditionalist, listening. "There are twists, and then there's ignoring the game completely. What you don't know, Ezekiel", Zeke groaned, slowly being filled, "could fill a library."
I think you like having someone who talks back, Prince of Maggots.
The Devil tsked. "Murder, mayhem." Cheerful. Fucking cheerful. "The things you humans do for love."
They were fitted together now, Zeke's body moving with his master's thrusts, his cock stiff in the hand of the Devil.
Who knew exactly what to do with it.
Zeke's back arched and he flailed, starbursts shattering behind his eyes, those windows to the soul. His fingers dug into the wall. "Ah, Jesus."
One hand reached up to cover his mouth. "Don't blaspheme, Ezekiel."
#
Zeke Stone lay on the bed, fully dressed, waiting for daylight.
Consumed.
Still, he was, here on Earth, bearing it.
THE END