hsavinien

Title: A Problem with Euphemism
Author: H. Savinien
Rating: PG-15
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Disclaimer: They belong to Pterry and Gneil, I intend no disrespect to the original authors, and I derive no monetary gain from the creation of this derivative work.
Wordcount: 300
Author's note: A gift for

vulgarweed , on the occasion of her birthday.
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are having a little bit of trouble with words...
***

“Well, I’m sorry if you think it sounds clinical, but that’s what it’s called! From the Greek posthe. How about membrum virilis?” He patted it fondly.

“Angel—“ Crowley struggled for words. “An etymology lecture in bed may have just made the front-runner’s spot as the biggest turn-off I have ever encountered.”

Aziraphale sniffed fussily, crossing his arms and scooching around on the cushions to fit more comfortably on the bed. “Well, what would you suggest, then?”

“My Rod of Lordly Might?” Crowley said half-hopefully.

“…oughtn’t you have been smited for that?”

“It’s not meant to invoke, you know, Up There! It’s from a game,” Crowley snapped, flopping back on the bed (but gracefully, always very suavely). He was quickly becoming put out with the whole business. Even pleasures of the flesh were not worth this kind of bother over terminology. “You already vetoed prick, dick, cock, tool, shaft, yard—“

“Vast hyperbole,” Aziraphale murmured unrepentantly, gazing at the ceiling.

“That’s the…the point!” Crowley shook his head. “…staff, sword—“

“I had the sword, if you recall, my dear.”

The demon sighed, flinging one arm across his face. “And I refuse to let you refer to any part of my body as a pecker, member, length, or phallus. Pride is obviously out. What, exactly, does that leave us?”

Aziraphale regarded his counterpart calmly for a few moments, letting his eyes drift along the pale expanse of so-human looking skin. Then he sat up decidedly and flexed his back to let his wings slip out and stretch, the misty gold expanse of feathers somehow extending beyond the rough walls of the small dormer room. “Well,” the angel mused, turning and clambering a bit until he settled again, seated across Crowley’s legs. “We might start doing something about it instead of talking.”