sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:02 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-06 01:02 am
Entry tags:
GOOD OMENS: Commandments; PG-13, C/A
Summary: It wasn't as though Upstairs actually frowned on actual sex.
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: please enjoy this short Good Omens fic in the grand tradition of Going Nowhere and Doing Nothing on a Saturday Morning. It would have been longer but I ran out of words and have not been to the store to buy more yet.
***
It wasn't as though Upstairs actually frowned on actual sex.
Reasonably speaking, sex had been created for a purpose, whether it was the perpetuation of the species or just to keep university students out of more mischevious things (it was always the celibate ones Aziraphael had been forced to keep an eye on during his brief decades as a religions professor at Oxford in the 18th century). So sex, Aziraphael knew, was more or less okay, in the appropriate time and place.
Even two men having sex didn't ruffle the wingfeathers of the Heavenly Host, and Aziraphael had gone through the Bible very carefully regarding this, ignoring the erroneous translations and the fact that with a book this long, you could find something to say anything if you took it out of context. He did rather wish, when he'd been correcting proofs back in the early days of mass-publishing, that he'd thought to work in something along the lines of "Do not judge thy fashion-conscious male neighbours, nay, nor the women whose children have two mothers, for who when his flock is happy will throw stones at sheep?" but he hadn't, and so now he'd have to deal with it.
He did note that there was nothing in the Ten Commandments about this kind of thing; in fact he felt he was committing a sort of inverse commandment, because he wasn't just not coveting his neighbour's wife, he was actively not coveting her. He wasn't killing, stealing, adultering, lying, disrespecting anyone, coveting goods or wife, taking His name in vain (though perhaps he was taking Crowley's? He made a note to look into it) and he always kept Sunday sacred by dining at the Ritz.
He did worry, in off moments, about false idols, but really -- he knew each and every one of Crowley's flaws, and they often bickered about them, so he felt he was safe in that regard for the time being.
"You're thinking too much, Angel," Crowley said to him, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Crowley had taught him the simple pleasure of warm blankets on a cold morning, and Aziraphael no longer found himself surprised that Crowley had sauntered, rather than falling in flame -- there was still too much of the angelic about him.
Crowley wasn't breaking any commandments either, after all, so long as he was curled under the thick layer of blankets, dozing with his head against the angel's hip.
"No," Aziraphael answered, propped up on the pillows with an old book resting on his knees, "I'm thinking just the right amount."
END
Warnings: None.
Author's Note: please enjoy this short Good Omens fic in the grand tradition of Going Nowhere and Doing Nothing on a Saturday Morning. It would have been longer but I ran out of words and have not been to the store to buy more yet.
***
It wasn't as though Upstairs actually frowned on actual sex.
Reasonably speaking, sex had been created for a purpose, whether it was the perpetuation of the species or just to keep university students out of more mischevious things (it was always the celibate ones Aziraphael had been forced to keep an eye on during his brief decades as a religions professor at Oxford in the 18th century). So sex, Aziraphael knew, was more or less okay, in the appropriate time and place.
Even two men having sex didn't ruffle the wingfeathers of the Heavenly Host, and Aziraphael had gone through the Bible very carefully regarding this, ignoring the erroneous translations and the fact that with a book this long, you could find something to say anything if you took it out of context. He did rather wish, when he'd been correcting proofs back in the early days of mass-publishing, that he'd thought to work in something along the lines of "Do not judge thy fashion-conscious male neighbours, nay, nor the women whose children have two mothers, for who when his flock is happy will throw stones at sheep?" but he hadn't, and so now he'd have to deal with it.
He did note that there was nothing in the Ten Commandments about this kind of thing; in fact he felt he was committing a sort of inverse commandment, because he wasn't just not coveting his neighbour's wife, he was actively not coveting her. He wasn't killing, stealing, adultering, lying, disrespecting anyone, coveting goods or wife, taking His name in vain (though perhaps he was taking Crowley's? He made a note to look into it) and he always kept Sunday sacred by dining at the Ritz.
He did worry, in off moments, about false idols, but really -- he knew each and every one of Crowley's flaws, and they often bickered about them, so he felt he was safe in that regard for the time being.
"You're thinking too much, Angel," Crowley said to him, burrowing deeper under the blankets. Crowley had taught him the simple pleasure of warm blankets on a cold morning, and Aziraphael no longer found himself surprised that Crowley had sauntered, rather than falling in flame -- there was still too much of the angelic about him.
Crowley wasn't breaking any commandments either, after all, so long as he was curled under the thick layer of blankets, dozing with his head against the angel's hip.
"No," Aziraphael answered, propped up on the pillows with an old book resting on his knees, "I'm thinking just the right amount."
END