#and if you guessed that I finished the lowest effort fic first?

[ineedlelittlespace]

Volescu attends a pre-survey farewell dinner, gets an award he wasn't expecting, and takes a walk with a friend he expected even less.

Guess who had time to write a little bit again? :D

[robo-dino-puppies]

sooooooo... s2 of good omens is coming out soon and I’m hyped (but nervous! but also hyped!). I’ve stayed away from most promotional material so aside from knowing about some new characters I’m going in pretty blind.

I don't really consider myself a writer ... I've never posted anything anywhere, or really shared anything ever. I don’t read a ton of fanfic bc for whatever reason the stars have to align just right for me to be into it, and that doesn’t always happen even for my most beloved fandoms (like star wars - love Luke to bits, can’t stand to read practically anything about him. and yet I can read Rebels and Clone Wars-era fic just fine. idek). buuuuuuut after s1 of good omens I did devour several months of other peoples’ fic, and start (and never finish) a thing myself, and I kind of wanted to post the very rough first draft snippets I had for... posterity? I guess? or... as a push for me to try writing more? so. be warned if you click the readmore it’s gonna be a giant text post.

I feel a little sad that I never did more with it, and a little sad that now with s2 it will be firmly AU instead of... whatever you call canon-compliant things that continue on after canon has ended, but also excited because maybe s2 will spark more ideas, since I kind of ran out of inspiration and drive. anyway!

working title was Fire Above the Tideline, and it follows a surveillance demon (Kri) and a filing angel (Elstael) and what plans Heaven might have had after the failed apocalypse.

if you’re reading this (why? haha) snippets are separated by ‘--’s and some might make sense in sequence, but some others have big timeskips with no context.

--

Kriddar watches. Surveillance and intelligence are far too sophisticated words for Hell's work, she thinks, after a few years of doing it. She just... watches. Things, people, places. High-valued souls ready to stumble. It's not exciting work, particularly. She's never there when things go down, as the humans say, if the things in question ever do, in fact, go down. Her rank is unremarkable - not the lowest of the low, but whatever happens at the top is far beyond her paygrade. (Not, of course, that she's ever been paid.)

Watching Earth isn't considered a desirable position. She gets jeering laughter and sneers when she tells other demons her job (although to be fair, that’s a common reaction from other demons about anything). You had to be stuck on Earth, after all, and spend a lot of effort avoiding getting too noticed by the humans. But Kriddar finds she actually likes it. Earth has air that isn't stagnant, humid, and choking with bitter ash. It has climates that aren't sweltering or freezing. Even in crowded cities, which remind her of Hell quite a bit, people tend to respect as much of a personal bubble as they can. In Hell, her fellow demons go out of their way to purposefully elbow everyone they can in a crowded hall. There are a lot of humans, but Earth is quiet in a way Hell could never be.

After the Armageddon-that-didn't, Kriddar is afraid that she's going to be called back to the home office as upper management figures out what to do. But she hears nothing for three days until she she gets her new assignment out of a tinny smartphone speaker. The kid in possession of said smartphone is annoying the very limited good graces out of a whole car of New York subway riders with a loud video of another child who is opening a toy for the camera. The level of discontent and malice being directed at both kid and parent from the rest of the commuters is truly breathtaking (to use a human turn of phrase) and would probably fuel the bubbling sulfur pools Downstairs for several millennia to come.

"DEMON KRIDDAR." The video-kid's obnoxious, ear-shattering voice gets a definitely demonic undertone that no one can hear but her. "YOU ARE BEING REASSIGNED."

"Mm?" she says to her book. Although people talking to themselves are not exactly an uncommon sight on the train, it's enough to draw people's attention when she doesn't want it, so she concentrates a little harder on being unremarkable. She's told them time and time again not to call her in public, but do they listen? No, of course not.

Nothing to make her job easier.

"LONDON. WATCH THE DEMON CROWLEY. MONTHLY REPORTS."

"Mm-hm." She flips a page. Watching a demon is unusual, but if this is the same Crowley that was mixed up in the botched apocalypse it makes sense. She's heard some rumors.

"FIRST REPORT DUE BY MONTH’S END. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Mm-hm," she repeats, and casually closes her book. The video goes back to being the shrieking kid, who is now screaming with laughter, and the palpable fury in the car ratchets up another notch.

Kriddar sighs and twitches her fingers against the creased paperback cover of her book. The smartphone miraculously flashes and spits a cloud of acrid smoke. The kid drops it with a yelp, and then starts crying. The murderous miasma that had settled over everyone in the car slowly starts to dissipate. Wet snuffles and wailing aren't actually much better than the previous noise, in her demonic opinion, but at least she's fairly sure that now the humans aren't going to pull out a weapon and commit homicide. That would have necessitated police, who would have asked everyone questions, which would have meant delays. Kriddar wants none of those things.

Now that she has a new assignment, she's got a plane to catch.

--

London feels much the same as the last time she'd been there, although that had been forty years ago. Of course, it looks different. The cars, the buildings, the people... She hangs around in Heathrow for a bit, watching the humans bubble about in the messy, harried, angry soup of emotion that is any international airport. The clothing isn't all that different from New York, of course, so she leaves her appearance as-is and gets on a bus heading toward Soho.

She's got a slip of paper in her pocket with the demon Crowley's last known whereabouts. A bookshop, apparently. This makes her smile. Kriddar likes books. They give her plenty of plausible cover when she's sitting around waiting for something to happen. For a while, that's all she'd used them for. But then, out of the boredom visited upon her by a target who refused to do anything reportable for days on end, she'd actually tried reading them, and... well. Humans were fascinating. She's read books about what they think Hell is like (all inaccurate, on the whole, but some parts they'd imagined are startlingly worse than the reality), on Heaven (she can't remember Heaven enough to judge their accuracy, but she figures they'd done about as well as they had with Hell), on human history (shockingly inaccurate considering they were the ones who had lived it), and everything in between. She likes fiction the most - imaginary humans doing imaginary things. Sometimes imaginary not-humans. It's like they’d invented their own plane of existence, drawn in it ink and stuffed it into the space between fragile paper pages. Creation on par with the Almighty Herself, if Kriddar felt like being blasphemous (she did).

The bookshop is on a corner, painted brick-red, with light stone columns framing a wooden door. She walks up to read the sign in the window, reaching for the handle, and immediately pulls her fingers away and hisses. She takes a step back. Something is awful about the door - no, not awful. Good. It's radiating... the whole place is steeped in... in angelic energy. She scrubs her tongue against the roof of her mouth and makes a face. Well, no new books for her, then. Anything coming out of that shop would reek of goodness and light. Entirely off-putting.

"He's closed," someone on the street says.

Kriddar winces. The shock of the bookshop's aura must have made her don't-notice-me glamour slip. She slowly gathers it around herself again as she turns. "Oh?" she says mildly to the human.

"Yeah, been closed since Saturday, I think. Some people around here swear the place was on fire then, but... well, looks fine to me. He keeps daft hours anyway."

"I'll try later, then. Thanks," she says. Her glamour should take care of it, but it never hurts to be polite when interacting with the humans, if only because they're less likely to remember her that way. With a final metaphorical tug she secures the I'm-unremarkable compulsion around her and watches as the encounter dribbles out of the human’s mind like water squeezed from a sponge. He continues on down the street as if he'd never stopped.

She retreats from the shop and finds a place to settle in and watch, and to check the paper in her pocket again. No, she definitely has the right address. The thing is, she just can't understand how a demon could be inside such a place for any length of time. It would have her tearing her corporation’s hair out. Perhaps it's the right address, but Crowley is no longer there? As she hides herself behind a newspaper, she reaches out with senses honed by centuries of observing. And yes, there is unmistakably one demon inside that shop. As well as one angel.

--

Four days later she sees the door to the bookshop finally open into the bright late-summer morning. Two figures come down the steps: Crowley is easily recognizable from his description, so the other must be the angel she'd heard about. They're smiling, arm-in-arm, and positively joyous. They both circle a shiny, black, illegally-parked car, and Crowley opens the door for the angel before sliding into the driver's seat himself. The car rumbles to life; he drives away with an unlikely effervescent laugh and a speed that the other humans on the road don't appreciate.

It should turn her stomach.

But there's something about them that is intriguing, pulling at her mind much like an unexpected plot twist in a book. Despite the positively heavenly vibe of the bookshop, the angel hadn't been throwing off holiness and Grace like the few other angels she's had the misfortune of meeting during her stint on Earth. And Crowley - for all that people said he was Satan's favorite, that he's been working temptations and wreaking havoc among the humans since Eden - was more of a mild, mosquito-like buzz of evil rather than a maelstrom of it. She folds up the newspaper and taps her fingers against the soft crinkled pages before dropping it on the sidewalk.

Now that Kriddar has the sense of him, she can follow his energy across the city. It's (unfortunately) not as easy as how the humans plug an address into their clever handheld computers and have it spit out a flag on a virtual map, but it's far better than trying to find him by sight alone.

It takes her a while, but she finally ends up at a restaurant. Going inside is far too risky - it's hardly two tables across, no corners to surreptitiously peek around, not even a leafy ficus near the door to lurk behind. There's a window, but the odd pair isn't seated next to it. She grumbles to herself. Outside will have to do.

She walks up and down the sidewalk on the other side of the street to judge her options, picks a spot, and waits.

They're just visible inside the shop - two figures seated opposite each other, plates and cups on the table between them. The angel tends to gesture enthusiastically; Crowley, on the other hand, is nearly motionless, leaning toward him with his chin propped on his hand and an expression on his face she can only describe as besotted. Every once in a while she can see that he speaks and laughs, but the angel clearly carries most of the conversation. Over an hour later they finally emerge. Again smiling and happy, again Crowley opening the door for the angel. His hand lingers on the angel's shoulder as he settles into the car's leather seat. They share a look of such overpowering fondness that even across the street, Kriddar sneezes. And then he gets into the other side of the car and speeds away.

She puts down her book and stares after them. This is not, she thinks in bafflement, at all what she expected.

--

The sign on the bookshop's door has not been changed to open, but she can see movement inside the windows. It's not him, but the angel. He walks around the shop, talking, picking books off shelves and tables, then walking out of her view. A little while later, he repeats the process. This goes on for long enough to force her to choose a different spot if she wants to stay in the shadows.

Finally the doors open again.

"Just think of it this way," Crowley says, stepping out. "Now you actually have some books to sell."

"I've sold books before," the angel insists, coming to the door and watching Crowley saunter to the car.

"Mm," he says. He opens the driver's side and leans against the frame casually. "How many? One every decade? One every two decades?"

"Oh, hush," the angel says, and they both laugh.

Kriddar barely holds in the sneeze this time.

Crowley slides into the seat. "Be back before dinner."

"The Ritz?" The angel's eyes light up.

"Whatever you want, angel," he says, and drives off with another unbearably fond look.

She waits until the angel has gone back inside the shop and she can no longer see him in the windows before following the trail of Crowley's energy. It leads her to a block of expensive flats in Mayfair. The car is parked outside and he is nowhere in sight. It presents more of a challenge, snooping-wise, than the bookshop had. There's far less cover.

Eventually she decides to use the roof of a neighboring building. It's short work to miracle the locked lobby open and take the stairs to the top floor. Another miracle and she's through the door to the roof.

Crowley's flat is a penthouse, and she's got a great view of it from her new spot. She immediately sees motion through one of the windows, although she can't see him, exactly. There seems to be a great deal of vibrant green vegetation in the way. She settles into a seated position and props her chin on her hand.

--

The unexpected whump of seriously strong demonic wards materializing out of nowhere nearly knocks her sideways. For a panicked second she is sure he's spotted her and she's going to have a fight on her hands, and Kriddar is terrible at fighting.

But nothing comes, and when she gathers her courage to probe at the wards, she finds them neatly contained by the walls of the flat. She can no longer sense his presence behind them.

"Well fuck you too," she grumbles. First the assignment turns out weird - demon and angel, somehow involved in the failure of Armageddon, apparently best of... friends? - and now he has to go and make it difficult on top of that?

She climbs to her feet, feeling suddenly exposed without her supernatural senses being able to pinpoint him. The ward even seems to block her human vision though the windows, because they've turned both strangely flat and excessively reflective at the same time. It's enough to give her corporation a headache.

The roof is no longer a good vantage point, so she goes back down the stairs and reinforces her don't-notice-me enough that she hopes it will work even with on demons. There's a good view of his car through the lobby windows, so that's where she parks herself, doing away with any pretense of books or newspapers.

She can feel the second he leaves the flat and pops back up on her metaphysical radar. She holds perfectly still.

He doesn't even glance around as he saunters out of his building and climbs back into the car. A pedestrian has to dodge him before she loses sight of the car to traffic.

--

It's already getting easier to track him, now that she knows some likely places he'll go. She travels rather confidently back to the bookshop, pleased to see the car parked carelessly outside it, but she freezes as she gets closer. The same dark wards that he'd put up at the flat are here, too, as well as a shimmering angelic protection that floats outside the whole building, looking like a soap bubble if she stares into another dimension. She grumbles.

--

What Kriddar doesn't realize is that Heaven has sent another angel. It's just that they're as astonishingly good at their job as their previous colleagues have been bad at it.

The don't-notice-me around them is so intense that it takes her five whole days to, well. Notice. When she does, it's just the tiniest itch at the back of her brain. Like a toothache that your tongue couldn't leave alone, she imagines, if she'd ever have had a toothache. Her eyes keep wandering away from Crowley to a particular bench, then she scolds herself for getting distracted and looks back at Crowley. But then her brain says, hey, wait, there's something... and she looks back to the bench. It's nearly ten minutes of this before she sees the angel, sitting upright and still, and it's a minute more before her brain can comprehend that she's seen the same angel for four days in a row, but just not noticed them.

"Well, damn," she breathes to herself. She's never been aware of being on the receiving end of a misdirection before. It's unsettling and impressive at the same time.

She gets up and walks over to the bench. It's a risk, she supposes, but she's so curious. This angel is clearly different from the others.

--

[cw: uhhhhh violent “death” (discorporation) lol - nothing too graphic I think]

"Remove your hand from me," the angel says coldly.

Kriddar blinks and does so. Then she steps back onto the sidewalk and shrugs, palms up.

"Do not presume to touch an angel of the Lord," they say, and walk on.

Unfortunately, straight into the path of an oncoming red double-decker bus.

Tires screech, as do humans, and a fragile flesh-and-blood corporation goes flying. Kriddar slides her hands into her pockets and surveys the grisly scene with no small amount of amusement. The angel's corporation isn't getting back up, that's for sure. It gives a few wet, pained gasps before going limp as the humans scream and flutter about.

"Watch out," she says, with the mild air of someone commenting on the weather. "There's a bus."

The angel, floating ethereally above their former corporation, sends a blistering metaphysical glare in her direction.

"You might want to learn how traffic works," she suggests. "Otherwise you were doing great. Top notch, really. Much better than your colleagues." She gives a jaunty wave and picks her way through the stopped cars, around the vaguely human-shaped smear and the unhappy mortals, to the other side of the street. She can practically feel the glare on the back of her neck before she hears the whoosh of the angelic energy leaving the earthly plane of existence. She allows herself a laugh and continues on to the Soho bookshop.

Two days later they're in the park again, and so is a certain angel.

"That must have set a record, getting the paperwork for new corporation through so fast," she says, coming up behind the bench and dangling her arms over the back of it.

The angel doesn't respond for a few long minutes. Kriddar doesn't mind. She watches Crowley instead, noting the way he leans into Aziraphale's shoulder and how their fingers brush together as they toss peas to the ducks. Don't presume to touch an angel of the Lord, indeed.

"You were trying to warn me," the angel says.

Kriddar gives them a sideways glance. "I was."

"Why?"

"We were having a conversation, weren't we?" She shrugs. "Terrible way to go, anyway. Happened to me once, back when cars were newer and traffic wasn't so... regulated. By the way, you read up on that yet? Traffic?"

"I... yes." If she's not mistaken, the angel looks sheepish. "I believe I underestimated the dangers of this plane."

Kriddar laughs and leans closer. "Oooh, yes, lots of lovely ways to die here. Humans are very creative."

"It's amazing that they survive against such adversity."

"Suppose," she says.

They fall into silence, watching their respective targets. They finish with the peas and lounge against the fence for a while, watching the ducks. The sun floats lower, painting the pond with autumnal gold light. That's a sight you wouldn't get in Hell, she thinks. And probably not Heaven, either. Nothing holy about it, after all, just... Earthy.

"I like this one better, anyway," the angel says, apropos of nothing.

Kriddar blinks, and wonders if she’s missed the angel saying something before. "Sorry?"

"This corporation." They look down at themselves, stretching long fingers out above their knees, sticking their feet out too, as if to examine them. They're taller than the last time, obviously taller than Kriddar (most people are). Their features are less masculine, although not what she'd consider particularly feminine, either. Too strong a nose and too sharp of a jaw for that. Their skin is darker than Kriddar's, sort of a latte-ish color (Kriddar likes lattes, especially from a particular American chain of coffeeshops - there's a bitterness in them that's not entirely from the coffee that is a delight to her demonic tongue), and their hair is a dark brown halo of curls.

"Well, better try to stay out of traffic, then," she says.

For the first time, the angel cracks a smile. Just a tiny one, just a little lift of the corners of their mouth, but it sparks something inside Kriddar. Hell isn't the place to trade jokes. Derisive laughter, sure, but not friendly amusement. And that's what it feels like - friendly. It's a new feeling. She's surprised to find that she likes it.

"Do you like yours, ah, Kree- Kree..."

"Kree-dar," she enunciates. "My body?" She wiggles her fingers. "Sure, I guess. A bit short, but nice enough. It does its job."

"Kriddar, sorry. I'm Elstael." The angel holds out an elegant hand.

"Thought I wasn't supposed to touch you?"

The angel looks... embarrassed. "I apologize for that. I misjudged you."

She takes their hand and gives them a sharp smile. "You really didn't. I could've stopped you getting run over by the bus if I'd tried."

A flicker of uncertainty crosses their features, but they don't drop her hand for another second. "And I could have researched Earth more thoroughly and not assumed the worst of you. But here we are."

"You should assume the worst of me. I'm a demon."

The angel folds their hands on their lap. "I suppose that's true."

But they say it with another twist of their lips, like they're sharing a joke, and for some reason Kriddar doesn't feel like pushing the issue.

--

She thinks about the exchange later, staying out of the rain in dragonfly form as she watches Crowley's flat. The angel - Elstael - had unintentionally shortened her name, as if it were a nickname. She is... unused to the idea. If you got a nickname in Hell, it wouldn't be a nice one. Kriddar wasn't her original name, of course, but it was the only one she could remember. It had never felt right, not exactly, but it was what she had.

Except.

Except she had heard that after the fall, Crowley had been called Crawly, and he had chosen the name Crowley for himself some time later. "Flash bastard," they'd said, scornful. But just like that, he’d picked a new name, and kept it. And most demons called him Crowley now.

"Kreeeee," she says to herself. "Kri."

It sounds interesting. Fun. Different.

She thinks she'll keep it.

--

"Kriddar," the angel says the next time they see each other.

"Actually, it's Kri now," she says.

The angel raises their eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah. You messed my name up the other day, but I like the way it sounded. So. Kri."

The angel presses their lips together and frowns. "Can you do that? Just... change your name?"

She shrugs. "Why not?"

Silence falls as the angel - Elstael, she figures she should call them, since they don't seem to be going anywhere - considers this. Crowley and Aziraphale share lunch at a cafe, their legs tangling under the little table. A cup of steaming coffee and a single plate with half a sandwich sits in front of the demon; there's a much wider spread in front of the angel - pasta, a salad, a few half-eaten appetizers. As she watches, Aziraphale offers some of the pasta to Crowley, who leans across the table to bite it off the fork. He licks his lips and smiles, says something, and Aziraphale smiles back.

She doesn't feel the urge to sneeze, anymore. Perhaps she's become immune.

"Do you understand this?" Elstael asks, after they're done with their meal.

"Understand what now?"

They wave a hand at the scene in front of them. "The whole... That."

"Nah," she says. "Not my job, anyway. I'm just supposed to watch and report."

"But..." They rub their fingers against their crisp dove-grey trousers. "Don't you wonder?"

She smirks. "Careful with wondering, your celestialness, that's dangerous for angels."

"I’m not entirely sure it is, though? If that," they gesture to the cafe, where Crowley is gazing nothing short of adoringly at Aziraphale, who is returning the gaze in kind, "isn't enough to cause him to Fall, I don't think that wondering about it is either."

They have a point, there. Crowley is her job, not the angel, but she has to admit she’s through about it. Why hasn't the angel Fallen? It must be a sin to... to do whatever they're doing. Angels and demons don't mix. They're like poles on a magnet, aren't they? They should push each other away. They shouldn't be able to touch.

Aziraphale slides his arm around through Crowley’s. For a fraction of a second, she thinks Crowley actually blushes, which shouldn't be possible for a demon, should it? Then he smiles easily, brightly, and they walk down the street.

Before they get too far away, she and Elstael rise from their bench and start to follow.

"I kept track of his file," they say out of nowhere.

"You know," Kri says, "you really need to work on your conversational rhythm."

"Sorry. Aziraphale's file, in Heaven. With all of the records we had on him. Centuries of travel records and photos. He shows up a lot."

"He shows up in his own file, does he? Shocking."

"No, I meant... the... the demon." They hesitate before saying quietly, "Crowley." As if his name will summon him.

Kri frowns and looks over. "'Shows up a lot' meaning...?"

"Frequently," Elstael says.

She makes a face and lets her head fall back in exasperation. Conversations with the angel are a bit like taking a tapestry apart thread by thread. Painstaking and excruciating, but she wants to know what will happen if she tugs at a strand, so she keeps on doing it.

"I meant," she says, with a patience that surprises even herself. "How. Frequently."

They look at her, hesitating, as if they've just realized that perhaps they shouldn't be sharing this information. She uses her experience with human interaction to look open, friendly, nonthreatening. To her surprise, it seems to work just as well on the angel, and they continue. "At first, not often. Then every few centuries. Then every few decades. Quite frequently, in this last millennium."

"Heaven knew this and didn't do anything?"

Very intriguingly, the angel looks uncomfortable. "Well, I was in charge of the file."

Pick, pick, pick. Kri pulls at the thread. "You mean, you knew, and didn't tell them?"

"I didn't know anything." Elstael sounds, if anything, regretful. "I didn't- he was just around. They were enemies, weren't they? They would meet sometimes. Er, in that capacity."

"But...?"

They don't answer right away, because their targets have stopped. There's a little food cart selling frozen desserts. Aziraphale orders, hands over the bits of plasticky paper the humans value so much. Takes ice creams from the vendor, passes one to Crowley.

"You ever had ice cream?" Kriddar asks.

"Of course not," they answer, immediately.

"Afraid it would tarnish the holiness of your ethereal person?" Kri thinks the pair has moved on enough, so she steps into the line. Elstael joins her.

"No, I've never eaten anything before. I told you this is the first time I've been to the physical plane."

"Oh." They wait, the angel looking over her head toward Crowley and Aziraphale, who have stopped to peer in some shop windows. "You want one, then?"

Elstael doesn't answer until she's next in line. "I suppose."

"Two vanillas, one plain, one with sprinkles," she orders, holding out some rather confused pound notes that had seconds before been unsuspecting scraps of paper in her pocket. "Loads of sprinkles."

Elstael eyes the money suspiciously, but says nothing. They take the plain cone in hesitating fingers and examine it as if looking for a hidden grenade.

"Either convince it not to melt or eat up quick," she says, taking a messy lick of her own and getting sprinkles on her face. Elstael looks satisfyingly horrified at her lack of manners.

They continue on down the street. It's hard to keep an eye on Crowley when she really wants to see the angel's reaction to ice cream, the first thing they'll ever have eaten.

Elstael takes a breath like they're bracing themselves for pain. Then, gingerly, stick their tongue out and touch the ice cream.

"It's cold!" they say, as if taking offense.

"Ice cream," Kri says, not holding in her laugh.

"Ah." They take a tiny bite off the top of it. "Hm." They swallow. "It's.. sweet."

"That's the point. It's dessert."

They're silent again for a while (Elstael may find it strange at first, but has no difficulty finishing the ice cream) as they pace behind Crowley and Aziraphale. The angel miracles their fingers clean and disposes of the wrapper neatly in a trash receptacle. Kri catches their eye and drops hers on the sidewalk.

"No!" they scold, and retrieve it with a glare. Kri grins and shrugs with her hands out, sticky fingers and all.

"Was it any good, then?" she asks.

"Don't litter," they say. "Yes, it was actually quite nice. Is all food like that?"

"Not at all. You got your sweet, your sour, savory, salty, spicy. Or any combination."

"How interesting."

"Yep, humans are fascinating. So back to the files," Kri says, unable to let it lie any longer. It's like a book she can't put down, fingers drawn to turning the pages until she finds out what happens. "You knew they'd been meeting, but...?"

"Ah. It just seemed - well, I was only a clerk, after all. I didn't have anything to do with collecting the information. No one asked. So I never brought it up." They pause again as their targets do. "I thought it was strange, though, an angel meeting a demon like that. I kept track, whenever I had to add anything to the file. And I suppose..."

Kri waits, the weft slipping out of the warp slowly, tortuously. Don't make me pull more, she thinks.

"I suppose I thought they were happy."

She quirks an eyebrow.

"I know it seems strange. They shouldn't be, should they? They’re opposites. But look at them." They gesture to the pair, standing at the base of the wide steps leading up to a museum. "They are happy, aren't they? Despite... everything."

"It appears so," she agrees.

"I didn't think it was wrong. And then after... well, what happened..."

"The failed apocalypse?" Kri supplies.

Elstael gives her a little sideways look. "Well, no. I mean after."

"What about after?"

The angel looks startled. "You don't know?"

This puts her ill at ease, that the angel knows something she doesn't. But she doesn't let that show. "I know what happened in Hell," she lies confidently.

"Well, I don't know about down there, but I heard Aziraphale was, er, escorted to Heaven to face his punishment, and he was able to stand in a hellfire inferno without it so much as singeing a hair out of place."

Kri feels a chill go down her spine. She had heard rumors to the same effect concerning Crowley, except with holy water, but she'd dismissed them as wild hyperbole. Demons couldn't survive holy water. And angels couldn't survive hellfire. Those were just facts.

But apparently they weren't. Not anymore.

"So that's why they want to keep an eye on him," Elstael finishes, not noticing her discomfort.

"Obviously," she says.

"But he hasn't done anything since then, has he? Neither of them have. They're just..." Here the angel sighs. It's a delicate, almost longing sigh, and it makes Kri's lip twitch in distaste. "Well, they're in love, aren't they?"

"Yeah, and my sinuses don't thank them for it." The two are going up the steps now, into the museum. She starts to follow them, but the angel stays put.

"Wait, won't they see us?"

Kri laughs. "They already know we're around. If they wanted their privacy, they should have tried harder to lose us. We know they can if they want to."

Still Elstael hesitates, so she shrugs. "I'm doing my job, featherbrains. See you later."

She leaves the angel at corner of the street and jogs up the steps.

--

The place is full of art. It is, in her opinion, staggeringly uninteresting. She would think that as a fellow demon Crowley would share said opinion, whatever company he was keeping these days, but he seems to be as engaged as Aziraphale. They trade quiet comments, laughing sometimes, silently observing at others. Some of Crowley's thoughts on the artists are properly unkind, which she approves of, but then sometimes Aziraphale agrees with him and adds his own biting, decidedly unangelic commentary as well, which is unsettling.

...stood in a hellfire inferno, they'd said. But Kri can feel the holy presence of him all the way across the exhibit hall. He's no fallen angel, and Crowley is still definitely a demon. The shiver revisits her spine and she thinks, the world really is different now, isn't it.

She loses them about halfway through the museum. Fair's fair, she decides, and starts to head back toward the entrance, when a hand clamps around the lapels of her jacket and throws her against a dimly lit wall. Her useless breath escapes her lungs in a squeak.

"You're following usssss," he hisses, and she presses herself back against the wall.

She's been trailing him for over a month now, and she's never been this close to him. She's seen him laugh, and make a ridiculous number of besotted faces at Aziraphale, and drink coffee and wine and eat ice cream and feed the ducks at the park. The only demonic thing she's really seen him do were the wards around his flat and the bookshop, and they weren't even nasty ones. The impression she had formed, given what she had observed, was that for being the Serpent of Eden he was seriously off his game, and therefore harmless.

She is hastily revising this opinion.

Back when she had first clocked him coming out of the bookshop, she had expected him to be a maelstrom of evil, but she'd thought he was more like a mosquito. Now, here, with one of his hands twisted in her jacket and the other planted by her head, slitted snake eyes just visible over the top of his sunglasses, he puts her more to mind of the fire in a forge - banked, but ready to be stoked to an inferno within seconds. She's not afraid of his rail-thin corporation, or even what he could do to her in a fight, but rather the concentrated, determined intensity of his occult aura. It's not vicious or hateful like some of the more powerful demons she's met, it doesn't make her want to cower like the one time she'd had to give a report to Lord Beelzebub, but he wasn't off his game, not in any way that mattered in a confrontation like this. If anyone were off their game, it was her. She doesn't think she's ever misjudged a target this badly.

Slowly, she raises her hands, empty and placating, and tries to keep her voice calm. "Just doing a job," she says.

Her honesty seems to surprise him. He narrows his eyes further. "Oh, that'ssss it, is it?"

"It is. Observe and report. That's all."

His poison-yellow gaze travels across her face. "Hm," he says, twisting his grip tighter. "And what if we don't want to be followed?"

She coughs. Bargaining has been a successful tactic for her in the past. "Discorporate me and they'll just send someone else. Maybe someone who won't back off if you give them the slip around exhibit hall C. Devil you know and all that."

His lips twitch. "Not a terrible offer," he says. "But you're asking me to trust a demon. That rarely works out, in my experience."

"I've got nothing against you. Or him," she adds. "This is a nice assignment. Nice city. Trust that I'm lazy and selfish." And scared out of my fucking wits right now, she doesn't say.

Gradually, the fingers on her jacket loosen, and he gives her a wry smirk. "You've got a point there."

She keeps her hands up even after he lets go.

"I doubt Downstairsss will be very happy if they hear I caught you." he says, pushing the sunglasses up his nose. "I'd keep your reports short and sweet."

"I'm not stupid," she says. "Told you I wanted to keep the job."

--

Elstael stops to read some advisory signs before descending onto the beach. Kri waits, because she knows if she doesn't that she'll be called back to hear what they're about and it's easier to get it all over with in one go.

"It's a marine protected area," the angel says after finishing one of them.

"Good for it," Kri says.

A group of young, brightly-clothed, slightly raucous people approach the stairs and stop at the top of them as they shuffle various belongings among themselves for some reason. A woman dressed rather more plainly comes up behind them and frowns that they're blocking the path. She's wearing an expression that would be a perfect textbook example of "local resident observes tourists and is Very Tired of it" had any language possessed a word for such a thing.

"No fires above the high tide line?" the angel reads. "What does that mean?"

Kri shrugs - she's not planning on starting any fires - but the woman answers them.

"There's not much sand here, usually," she says. "It's mostly rocks, and underneath the rocks there's driftwood, even though you can't see it. So if you start a fire where the high tide won't put it out and it starts the driftwood smoldering, you could catch the whole beach on fire."

"Oh!" Elstael looks distressed. "Has that actually happened?"

The woman nods. "Yeah, in the seventies, I think. Some teenagers started a big one down at the other end."

Elstael tries to look down at the beach, but the view is blocked by the cliff and the young people. "And where is the high tide line?"

"This time of year, it's right at the bottom of the rocks, on the sand. You can see where it leaves a line of seaweed and stuff. In the winter it's practically up to the base of the cliff." She frowns harder at the group, who have finally started their descent. "But hardly anyone visits in the winter."

"Bit wet for sightseers?" Kri asks. She's had assignments in this part of the world before, and remembers what the winters are like.

"A bit," the woman agrees.

"Thank you," Elstael says to her, and she gives them a mild smile and nod before disappearing down the stairs.

The angel takes a few moments to finish reading the fire sign. Kri waits for them to move before following.

The woman had been right about the amount of rocks. There are at least fifty feet of grey, round-tumbled stones in a messy slope down to the sand. They're mostly on the large side, some as big as a human head, and they both have to be careful to not turn their corporations' ankles on them.

It's windy closer to the ocean. Before too long Kri feels her skin getting salty-sticky and her hair tangling with itself. Still, the sun is just the right temperature and the constant hiss and crash of the waves is soothing. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"What do you think?" she asks Elstael after a few beats of silence.

They turn their face into the wind. "I like it," they say. "It's very different from London, though."

"I'd say," Kri laughs. "Lots of places are different from London."

They turn bright, curious eyes to her. "Oh?"

"Well, yeah. Pretty much everywhere is different from everywhere else. Big cities tend to share some things, and small places do too, but everywhere is... unique."

"I didn't know." They start walking along the edge of the wet sand. "Heaven is more or less the same all over."

Hell isn't, Kri thinks. Hell is all sorts of uncomfortable differences - hot and cold, generally crowded but sometimes achingly desolate, dank, parching, filled with agonized screams or vicious whispers. It goes without saying that she tries not to think about it at all.

Instead, she points out a purple snail shell a little bit further on, and the angel inspects it curiously.

"This was an animal," they say, almost scandalized.

"Yeah. It was a snail." Kri points out the empty space inside the shell. "Not anymore."

"How sad," Elstael says, and they sound genuinely distressed about it.

"Circle of life, innit?" She shrugs. "You didn't kill it."

"I suppose," they say, bending to put the shell back on the ground.

"You can keep it," Kri says. "Take it as a souvenir. That's what people do at the beach."

The angel hesitates, the shell still pinched delicately between their fingers.

She chuckles at their indecision. "The snail isn't gonna want it back."

"It is beautiful," they say, straightening up.

Kri grins. They continue on down the beach, until they reach an outcropping of rock that stretches all the way into the water. There are tidepools there, and they inspect them for a while. A (living) relative of Elstael's shell leaves a squiggly trail in the sand in one, and intensely - almost neon - green anemones wave short tentacles in another. "Nice color," Kri compliments them. It's nothing compared to electric blue, but still a good effort.

As they peer closer at the other inhabitants of the rocks, the tide sweeps up unnoticed behind them and surges in around their ankles. They both yelp and leap away from the chilly water. Elstael looks around to see if their embarrassment was observed by anyone else, and Kri starts laughing. The angel joins in after a second.

Slowly, shaking waterlogged feet every few steps, they make their way to the sun-warmed rocks safely away from the waves. Kri sits and stretches her legs out in front of her, decides not to waste a miracle, and toes off her shoes to help them dry. Elstael copies her after a moment.

It's silly and simple and rather human, nothing either of them would have the chance to do in the course of their jobs, normally. But it's nice.

The sun sinks lower and paints the sky in fiery colors where it strains for the horizon. Above, the view into the firmament is all cool purples and blues, desaturated, soft. They are alone in the little corner of the beach, saltwater evaporating from their trousers and leaving behind crystals in the weave of the fabric and on their skin.

"The sign got me thinking of something," Elstael says, apropos of nothing, as per their usual.

"Marine protected area?" she asks, although she can't imagine what that would have to do with anything.

"No, no. About the fires."

Kri looks over at them. "What about the fires?"

The angel spreads their hands out, splaying their fingers across their knees. "The woman said the driftwood underneath the rocks, the stuff that you can't see, is the real danger."

Kri hums.

"It's sort of like us, isn't it?"

She blinks, frowns. "How so?"

"Ah, well..." They clear their throat. "Understand I'm not trying to insult you. But. You're not someone who's very important, er, Down There, are you?"

"I'll have you know that I'm quite insulted, Feathers." Kri makes a face of mock rage, and the angel laughs. "But yeah, I'd say that's fair."

"And I'm no one of import in Heaven. There are lots of other angels like me, just doing small jobs. Menial tasks, really. Are there lots of unimportant demons? Menial tasks in Hell?"

She blinks again, and thinks that she sees where this is going. "Yeah."

"And we were expected to fight, in the war with the Antichrist."

Kri remembers the sick feeling in her unnecessary stomach when she'd heard the call to arms, her travel orders to Meggido, and the guilty tsunami of relief she'd had when the whole thing had been called off. "Mm-hm."

"They need us to fight, even if they ignore us otherwise."

"I'd think so."

They reach down and crunch some salt out of their trousers. "But we don't want to."

"Not me," Kri whispers, almost afraid to say it aloud.

"Nor me." They lean their chin on their first, elbow propped on their knee. "We're already aflame with these ideas. So what if we catch some other unseen things on fire?"

Kri is silent for a long time, and Elstael lets her be. What they're saying... it's dangerous. More dangerous than what they've been doing, shirking their jobs and sending off half-fictional reports to their respective superiors. They're taking about rebellion, about revolution. About treason. Does the angel even know how dangerous that is? She glances over, sees the slight crease of skin at the edges of their eyes and between their brows. But of course they would.

"Would that... work?" Kri's voice is hushed, just audible over the susurration of the waves. "Are there angels who would, ah, catch fire?"

"There must be," they say firmly. "Look at me. And... him." They turn their head toward her, burnt-sugar eyes molten. "Aren't there demons who would? Look at you."

"And him," she echoes. She thinks of other demons in Hell, how she has never liked them. But now she wonders if that's by design. Hell is unpleasant, even for those who revel in its unpleasantness. It's really no surprise that its denizens aren't the best company. She'd be hard pressed to name someone who does actually enjoy their job, aside from the perhaps demons at the very top. She wonders what would happen if she showed them a little bit of Earth. A little mundanity, as a break from the exceptional torture that was the kingdom of the damned.

--

Kri doesn't quite understand what's going on when she gets there. There's a whole lot of people frozen in place, shimmering darkly with a demonic compulsion over them, and a very heavenly aura pulsing somewhere ahead of her, behind one of the doors. She can hear voices, a familiar rhythm of back-and-forth bickering, although it's more strained than normal. Then, loudly, "Where did you get that?!" overlaid with "Oh, no!" and a second later, the sharp retort of a handgun.

"FUCK!" Crowley spits, loud and agonized, and the compulsion vanishes like smoke. The people around her start to move, confused, angry. "FUCKING shit shit shit bloody hell-"

A flash of an angelic miracle makes her flinch, and Crowley continues to swear.

"Where is the Virgin?" one of the people asks. There are quite a lot of them, and the tenor of their minds sets her on edge. They are feverish with belief, zealous. They start toward the doors as a mob.

She thinks of several things in the space of hardly a second: Elstael, gingerly tasting an ice-cream. A demon and angel, hand in hand on the seashore. The wide sky and the quietness of a meadow, a yellowing paperback open on her knees. The oppressive weight of an infernal pen, searing words into decades of endless reports. Fog on the Thames. Shave ice melting in the bright Hawaiian sun. We should go someday. I'll show you.

She snaps her fingers, and the mob freezes.

The gravity of controlling so many minds at once makes her knees buckle, and she braces her hands on her thighs to stay upright. It's staggering, the determined force of the humans' consciousnesses, and she sucks in an unnecessary breath through her teeth. Her forte is not influence and control, not like this. She's all about indirectness, about deflecting glances like rain bouncing off an umbrella and easing human suspicions with a unremarkable smile. This is direct. Aggressive. They're fighting her, and she can think of nothing to soothe them. She's out of her depth.

Please hurry, she thinks. Whatever you're doing, hurry.

Another angelic miracle, stronger than the last, tasting like petrichor in the air. The cry of a child. "You won't remember this," Aziraphale says kindly, softly, but his voice is exhausted. "You'll wake up and all will be well."

"C'mon, angel," Crowley says. He sounds even worse. "We gotta hurry."

They step out of the middle door. Aziraphale is cradling a bundle in one arm and trying to support Crowley with the other. Crowley is leaning heavily on him, one hand mangled and bloody clutched to his chest. They freeze when they see her.

"Go," she rasps. "Go, go!"

They don't need telling twice. They start moving again, weaving their way quickly but unsteadily through the frozen bodies. As they go by, Aziraphale says, "Thank you so much, my dear, thank you," and she feels as if something brushes her shoulder though there's nothing there to see. A wing, she realizes, breathing in the passing ethereal energy almost against her will, glowing warm like sunlight, smelling like lilac and clover and ferns and running water. She feels stronger, the burden of the human minds lighter, and she gapes in amazement as they rush out the door.

She holds the humans for as long as she can, backing out of the room around them in an awkward shuffle as she tries to concentrate on both the metaphysical task of keeping minds still and the physical one of not running into bodies. She makes it out, lets go of the control and uses a much simpler miracle to lock them in. Almost immediately they start rattling and banging on the door.

The air outside boils molten with righteous fury.

Behind her, there is the well-tuned growl of a sports car. A woman is driving, not young but striking, with dark hair and dark eyes. Aziraphale bundles Crowley into the passenger seat, and Kri meets the demon's stare behind his sunglasses.

I understand now, she thinks. I understand.

He rolls down the window. "Get outta here!"

She gives him a sharp nod. The sky is starting to roil with bruised clouds, pregnant with divine lighting, and Aziraphale pulls the back door shut behind him. The woman peels out, and Kri starts running in the opposite direction. She thinks she hears someone call "good luck!" before they're gone.

She runs as fast as she's ever run before, but she's still close enough to feel the crack of the sky splitting and Heavenly wrath pouring down to Earth.

What did I do? Oh God, what did we do?

She is running so blindly away from the furious angelic presence behind her that she doesn't notice the one in front of her. Except it's not furious, it's Elstael.

"Kri?" they say, gripping her arms to keep her upright. "Kri, what-"

She has a plan. The beginnings of a plan. Well, less of a plan and more of an idea. But it's something.

"Can you-" she gasps, "can you smite me without actually, you know, smiting me?"

"What?!"

"Just singe me a bit. Or lop off an arm or something? Without killing me? C'mon, c'mon, quick!"

"I- uh, think so, yes," they answer. "But-"

"Do it!"

Elstael stares. There are angry voices coming from the direction of the building, angel and human. Kri thrums with impatience and panic.

"I don't want to hurt you," they say.

"It's fine," she says. "It's fine. It'll work out out. Tell them you chased me and fought me. You nearly got me, but I got away, right?"

"I don't want to hurt-"

"I let you get hit by a bus, fair's only fair."

Still they hesitate.

Kri twists her arms so her hands are mirroring Elstael's, resting just below the angel's elbows. "Trust me, please," she says, and means it.

Slowly, finally, they nod. Kri steps back, steeling herself for whatever smiting feels like. She's not sure - never experienced it, quite obviously - but it has to hurt.

Elstael lets their hands fall out to their sides, palms up, and raises their eyes, a picture of angelic holiness. They start to glow.

"Begone, demon," they say, and reach out to wrap elegant fingers around Kri's bicep. The glow immediately vanishes, but they keep their hand there.

It burns, but not like Falling at all - a clean, sharp, perfect fire that bites into her skin, muscles, bones, slicing like a million razor-sharp papercuts through her mortal corporation all the way down to her demonic self, a wave of holy pain rippling out from the angel's hold on her. She hears herself scream and Elstael's grip tightens. The burn stops advancing, but it smolders, from shoulder to fingertips. A good sign, that, she thinks. If her fingertips hurt it means she's still got fingertips, right?

"-sorry, sorry, sorry-" she realizes Elstael is saying, repeating it like a mantra.

"-'s'fine," she slurs. "Great. 'S great. Good job. Now. Just." She pushes herself upright, shaky, but determined, and also determinedly not looking at her arm. "Just tell 'em you chased me, right? You w're tryin' to protect the... the... the thing, 'n we... fought. 'N we'll meet back up wh'n'ev'r this blows over, right? 'Kay?"

"Yes, okay," they say.

She forms her un-smited hand into a thumbs-up and tries to smile at the angel. She probably looks wretched, but Elstael gives a watery laugh and smiles back.

"See y'later," she says, and lets herself sink into the ground that cracks apart to swallow her up, lets herself fall back into Hell.

--

The pain gets easier, Downstairs. She doesn't truly need her corporation down there, and with all the infernal energy around, it's easier to heal. All that said, an angelic near-smiting is nothing to sneeze at. She's still letting her arm hang limp when she's called to give her report. It goes over about as well as can be expected.

"How was I to know they were trying to steal the new Messiah or whatever blessed stunt they were trying to pull off?" She glares, covering the lie with indignation. Rightful indignation. "No one gave me any new info! I was just following him! That was my job!"

"You got yourself noticed by an angel," Regish scolds.

"Kinda hard not to, they were bloody everywhere," she mutters.

"And you lost him."

"Well I'm sorry I couldn't pay closer attention while I was being smote," she says, snappish. She has a risky thought - one that could help her, but potentially endanger everyone else. They're going to have to put the baby somewhere - either that, or disappear, and she doesn't think they'll do that. There are any number of places they could go on Earth, or even off Earth, unlikely as that would be. She just hopes she doesn't guess right.

"I think I heard the angel say something about Siberia."

Regish raises his eyebrows. "Which angel?"

"Which do you think? Crowley's... pet." She gathers all the disgust she feels at her current surroundings and infuses it into that single word. It seems to work, because Regish gives her a look that could almost be called commiserating.

"Siberia? You sure?"

"I heard him say the word Siberia, I don't know what he meant by it," she says. "That's all I got. But I can track them down again. Just send me back up."

He eyes her skeptically. "You want to go back?"

"To do my job, yeah! We can't let 'em get away."

Her artifice seemed to have worked, because three days later, when her arm is no longer stinging with holy fire, they send her back up the escalator and into London.

--

She goes straight to the bookshop. It won't look suspicious if they're watching her - obviously Crowley spends time there, so she's safe claiming she's looking for clues. It's still warded, and the windows still opaque to her eyes, so she lurks very obviously outside it until the door finally opens.

Aziraphale stands there inside the wards, looking cautious.

"You didn't send it to Siberia, did you?" she asks, not glancing at him at all, trusting that with his powers he can hear her across the street. "I'm not asking where, you don't have to trust me, just, I told them to look in Siberia. So if you sent it there, sorry, you've got a problem."

"Not Siberia," he says very quietly.

Her shoulders slump in relief. "Good. Great. Okay." She starts to move on - she'll go to Crowley's flat next, then the cottage, then back to LA - but his voice freezes her in her tracks.

"Thank you again for what you did. Would you, ah," he turns for a moment, looks over his shoulder. "Would you be so kind as to come in?"

She glances around. It's unlikely Hell is watching her - she's given them no reason to doubt her work, as far as she can tell. Still, the invitation feels enormous.

"Crowley says it's clear," Aziraphale reassures her. "But hurry, please."

She crosses the street and walks up to the door.

The bookshop still feels eye-wateringly good, but it provides no barrier to her entry. The angelic ward passes over her like a blanketful of static electricity, all sparks and crackles, and the demonic one slows her steps for an instant like she's forcing her way through mud. But then she's through, and she can finally see the inside of the shop.

There are books stacked everywhere - on proper shelves, on tables, on the floor. The place is all warm browns and golds and creams, like a box full of chocolate truffles, the kind that have the hard shell and the white chocolate drizzle and bits of actual gold leaf to make them fancier. She thinks maybe she can smell cocoa over the sugary-musty perfume of old paper and faded leather covers. It's wonderful. These aren't her kind of books, but she loves it all the same.

Absorbed as she is by finally seeing the interior of the shop, it takes her a moment to realize there are other people inside. Elstael is standing by a little round table, and Kri doesn't even try to hide the smile that stretches her face when she sees them. The angel smiles back with so much relief that Kri can practically taste it in the dusty air. Crowley, of course, is there too, sprawled across a plush chair and eyeing her with caution, and some of the humans that she's seen in Tadfield - the witch and her companion, and the former Antichrist.

"Er, hi," she says.

Crowley gets out of the chair, unfolding like some terrifying articulated origami, and starts to stalk toward them. "You sure we should trust this one, angel?"

"Yes," Elstael says firmly as Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer. They lift their chin bravely when Crowley shifts his gaze toward them.

"Well, no offense," he says, eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses, "but you don't have all that much experience with demons, do you?"

"With her I do." Elstael swallows nervously at his increased scrutiny but keeps their head high. A warmth like hot coffee spreads through her, but unlike coffee it doesn't stop at her stomach. It gets all the way to the tips of her fingers, she swears, and she grins in what she expects is a rather stupid way. For the moment, she can't care.

"Crowley, you saw what she did to help us," Aziraphale says as Crowley comes up to them. She notices that one of his hands is wrapped in a bandage, and she remembers the sound of a shot, and the bloody mess he'd been holding to his chest.

"She could be working for them, still."

"'She's' right here," Kri says, perturbed. "And I'm not. Working for them, I mean."

"Well, er." The human man next to the witch raises his hand slightly, as if he's in school asking a question. The witch gives him a withering, but fond, look, and he drops the hand. "That is, no offense, but... isn't that what you'd say that if you were?"

He has a point. She shrugs. "Dunno what I can say to convince you."

"What's your reason?"

She blinks. It's Adam, the former Antichrist, who has spoken. "I'm sorry?"

He's sitting in a rolling desk chair like it's a throne, the afternoon light making his curly hair glow. The effect is unsettling. "Why do you want to help?"

"I..." She doesn't answer right away. He's staring at her with a haughty sort of intensity, and she can't look away from his eyes. She takes a breath before launching into it, not because she needs air but because it gives her another second to collect her thoughts and she's always thought it gives the following words a bit more gravity. "I spent most of my time Downstairs, after... after the Fall. And it was... fine. Not good, obviously, it was terrible, but... it was what I had, so it was fine. And then about fifteen hundred years ago, I get my job up here. And it's way better than fine, up here. There's... there's sky, and weather, sunsets, trees. Animals that don't drool acid, rivers that aren't sulfur. And the humans are so... they're just so clever, aren't they? Making all sorts of things. And writing stories. Good and bad. Wonderful and terrible. I just... I like it." She feels like that wasn't coherent enough, like she's made a rambling mess of it all. "Er. I don't want it all to go down - or up - in flames, Earth. It's... well. It’s nice. I guess it's selfish, but, y'know. Demon."

"But it is true, isn't it?" Aziraphale says. He beams at her, and she feels, shockingly, pleased that he's pleased, and then quite unfortunately he claps a hand to her shoulder - the same one that had started healing in Hell but wasn't quite done yet.

She nearly falls over. Pain shoots down her arm and she lets out a choked wheeze, the ability to vocalize apparently punched out of her along with the ability to stand. In a fraction of a second Elstael is beside her, holding her up, and Aziraphale is apologizing profusely, hands fluttering about like a pair of agitated birds.

"It's fffffffine," she breathes, only the rough shape of the words and none of the voice behind them. At least, she hopes that's what comes out of her mouth - she's not too sure. "Just... not quite... hhhhhealed yet."

"Oh dear," he says, now twisting his hands together. "My dear, I'm so sorry. Healed from what?"

She takes a moment to compose herself and tilts her head questioningly toward Elstael. "Y'... didn't tell 'em?"

Elstael shakes their head. With a start, Kri realizes their hands are clasped around hers, fingers interlaced, both of Elstael's surrounding her own despite her black nails that she is convincing very hard right now not to be chitinous claws. It's warm and soft and... Well. Nice.

"After what happened with the Messiah, when I found Kri running away. She told me to smite her, and to tell Heaven that we had fought, to keep my cover." They grip her hand a little tighter. "’Just singe me a little or lop off an arm without killing me,’ I think you said."

Kri shrugs her uninjured shoulder. "Worked, didn't it?" Thankfully her voice has returned.

"Oh my," Aziraphale says. "That was... very dangerous."

"Not half," Crowley says, sounding a bit impressed.

"I figured it would be better to keep up appearances. Hell would believe I'd been caught by an angel, and Heaven could commend Elstael for nearly getting a demon."

"And it was quite a good idea," Aziraphale says. He smiles at her, still apologetically. "If we're going to do this, it will be invaluable to have inside information. Especially since Crowley and I, er, no longer do."

--

[rockitmans]

Thanks for the tag, @cerriddwenluna

Rules: List your "top 10" (or up to 10 if you haven't written that many) fics ranked by kudos on AO3. Are you surprised by what's most popular to your readers? Then, under a cut, provide your ranking of your personal top 10 fics (with explanations if you want!), and then tag a few fellow writers!

Spinning Out, 56k

Blaine Anderson Vs. Valentine's Day, 12k

No Take Backs, 10k

Witch Wanted, 24k

Ellipsis, 1k

#1 absolutely makes sense. Spinning Out was a labor of love and the fic that made me confident enough to start sharing my work. The Valentine's Day one being second is a little weird to me because I felt like a duck with my feet frantically paddling beneath to get it finished and I guess I'm surprised it came out well enough to be second, especially as it's also my most recent (bar Ellipsis).

No Take Backs is not my usual sort of story at all but I'm proud of how it came out. Quality wise I would argue it's better that #2 but less fun so not surprised it's third. Which takes us to Witch Wanted. My baby. Such a personal story that wasn't going to work for everyone. And clearly Did Not 😅. Still it's a niche set of tropes to begin with and the ending was... controversial so the ranking makes sense.

And Ellipsis is just a lil ficlet I wrote in a few hours and posted yesterday and has already been around Tumblr once so no question of being lowest.

My ranking:

Spinning Out

Witch Wanted

No Take Backs

Blaine Anderson vs Valentine's Day

Ellipsis

Ellipsis being bottom doesn't really reflect how I feel about it. I'm actually really proud of it but also it is just something short and sweet and didn't require the same level of effort as the other fics.

Otherwise my ranking reflects my personal enjoyment mixed with how well written I think they are. Witch Wanted is very special to me. I even got a lovely message from someone saying how it really helped them realise and challenge some of their own ableist views and I think that's absolutely the kind of stories should help with. As well as being enjoyable of course!

It could almost be first in the list but Spinning Out is also tied up in the feeling of finding this community and meeting some wonderful people like none of that would have happened if I hadn't just impulsively posted Spinning Out one day. Also I genuinely love it, it's the one I'm most likely to reread though I haven't currently reread any of my own fics.

And I think I've kind of covered my thoughts on the other two! No Take Backs is better written and a more emotional and thoughtful story but BA vs Valentine's Day is infinitely more fun and silly and joyful so it depends on the mood of the day.

Tagging: @bitbybitwrites @ericdooley @heartsmadeofbooks @hkvoyage if you want/haven't been tagged already

[ghastigiggles]

Well!! The support was overwhelming so here it is!

I’ll be honest, it’s really just a lot of wordy nonsense because I’m still gaining confidence, but it’s also soft and most definitely gay. (It’s not something I write unless it’s gay, sorry. read it and weep.) In which Guy’s observation pays off and the I-Am-Am-I relationship reaches a new level of trust.

( SFW tickle fic, reader beware. Written in semi-platonic and fluffy way. Mild hints towards canonical events soooo spoilers, sorta? But I purposefully kept it vague, so if you haven’t finished the first season yet, you should be fine! )

It was fair, honestly, to say that Guy was quite comfortable in Sam's presence, after everything had transpired. It was the same the other way around, quite shockingly to himself; perhaps it shouldn't have been, considering how even throughout their mishap of an adventure Sam had been the obviously more clingy and touchy of the two. Still, despite the reconciliation afterwards, Guy couldn't help feeling some mild shock when Sam jumped back into squeezing and snuzzling his friend as much as possible every yipping minute of the day, even after he said what he did. 

At the very least, he figured, they'd reached their lowest points already; it could only go upwards from there. And indeed it had, their days often spent in chaotic collaboration on new schemes (honestly, Sam had picked up quite a knack for technology the longer he spent around Guy, though he never boasted on it) with a diner brunch of green eggs and ham and a dinner often spent with Michellee and E.B., Sam regaling the group with some wild tale he made up about his past while the ladies listened in a mix of amusement and skepticism. Guy would just listen with a smile all the while, and the day would end reasonably early for the girls, whom had schedules to stick with, and reasonably late for the Briefcase Buddies, whom had the luxury of taking their time. All in all, it was frankly stellar, and Guy wouldn't change the routine for anything. 

All that said, however, the two of them still found ways to break new ground in their relationship. Guy would get more bold, with a hand on the smaller's shoulder or a brief snuzzle during a cuddle that he would deny consciously doing; Sam would find ways to be a little more serious or genuine than usual, and Guy would listen with tenderness, every day grateful that he could help Sam break down his walls when the enthusiastic little criminal had spent so much time doing the same for him. It was mutually beneficial; companionship for the sake of benefitting the other. But more than that, the more Guy thought about it, they both needed it. 

However, character analysis is not the driving force behind this story. 

With the boundaries of their relationship slowly growing more lax, they both began to discover quirks and interests of each other that they hadn't before noticed; Guy actually feeling inclined to engage with animals more frequently than whos or knoxes, for instance. Sam getting small nervous tics and covering his mouth when he was guilty of something, and so forth. Guy found himself growing especially perceptive of Sam's, watching for every little hint he could pick up for unspoken words, things the little who would never confess or express with a phrase and would rather hide with some parable he could come up with on the fly. 

It was with that learned attention to detail that he realized something he never had before. The first instance was at the dinner table, funnily enough; Sam had made a joke at Guy's expense, sending both E.B. and Michellee into a soft fit of chuckles. Guy, not to be made fun of in front of his interest and, how to put it, gatekeeper, had reached across the table to silence Sam with a pinch to the side. Predictably, the who had laughed and leaned away, chiding Guy for the action, but the entire response had felt so… Halfhearted. (And Guy would certainly know the difference between "genuinely don't yipping touch me or I'll bite you" and "haha nooo stop…", for he was usually the former.) At the time, he stowed the information away for later, resolving to keep an eye on it the next time he happened upon such a scenario.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long. An opportunity quickly presented itself just days later, whereupon Sam nearly fell facefirst into a puddle - and Guy, determined not to let his best friend meet the same fate he did on the day they met, saved him by swiftly picking him up; Sam's usual luck had certainly rubbed off on him, allowing him to easily jump the puddle rather than falling down in turn, and they were safely on the other side in the blink of an eye. The who had offered praise on Guy's quick reflexes, but the praise had quickly been lost to giggles, his prior carelessness being punished by quick scritches through the fur on his belly, Guy scolding him the whole time for not paying enough attention and nearly soaking the both of them. It did not last long; after all, puddle or no puddle, he didn't want to publicly humiliate Sam, but still… He took note of how the squirms and the pushes weren't nearly desperate, how his pleas consisted mostly of "Guy!" and "No!" and "I'm sorry!" in giddy tones rather than "Please stop!" or "Enough already!". 

And finally, the nail in the coffin. Ashes on the ground were the only remains of some invention Guy had found the inspiration to make an hour prior, the knox himself absolutely miserable over yet another failure. Fortunately, his obnoxiously peppy assistant and Briefcase Buddy refused to let that last, and pounced from the side when a pep talk failed to return Guy's smile, scribbling across the knox's sides and summoning up laughter with ease. Guy didn't let it last long, quickly (and easily) turning the tables by grabbing Sam's arms and pinning him down in return. For a heartbeat, he regained his breath; for a heartbeat, Sam stared up with that dumb and enamoured look on his face he tended to get when Guy made a display of dominance. 

Then the heartbeat passed, and Guy exacted his revenge, ruining that glossy-eyed expression by turning it into a gleeful beam, split open by peals of genuinely happy laughter that made the knox feel softer than he ever remembered being. He didn't bully Sam long - maybe a few minutes, if that - but still Sam didn't once protest or make any proper effort to stop him. When Guy finally pulled away, Sam's face was all delight, save for the slightest flash of disappointment in his eyes as they opened.

That drove it home. Really, it should have made sense from the start; Sam-I-Am was so incredibly touch-starved from years of solitude, obviously preferred feeling happy, and most definitely trusted Guy. Still, Guy had wanted to be sure before he put the question on his friend, else Sam would find some way to counter it. 

Herein lay the next problem; finding the appropriate time to ask. 

Once again, the I-Amuel luck seemed to spread. Sam had picked up the trail, and they were off on a new adventure, briefcases packed to the brim with supplies courtesy of Michellee and promises of stories and souvenirs given to E.B.. A shared room on the train allowed the perfect setting; it was afternoon, most other travellers were in other cars, they were alone - and locked - in their own, where they simply snuggled against each other for the time being, comfy in the lower bunk. It was one of those rare moments where Sam lay almost eerily still, the only movement betraying his living status being his breathing. 

Guy almost felt worried about ruining this moment, but if he was right (and he was quite confident, for once), then Sam likely needed something like this - considering the fact that the conversation they'd shared before arriving in their car had been about what they might find at their destination, or if it might be a good thing at all. Serious conversations tended to do a number on Sam, he knew; a pick-me-up might be appreciated.

So, he shifted to look down upon his little friend, running a hand through his fur and keeping his own tone soft as he broke the silence.

"Sam?"

There was a moment of silence; for a moment, Guy worried that his friend had actually been sleeping, but the slightest shift assured him otherwise. The who opened one eye, looking back up with a soft smile that held nothing but contentment.

"What's up, best friend?"

"Nothing important," The knox replied, continuing his gentle stroking. "I just remembered I have a question for you - if you're awake enough to answer."

"Mmh." Sam shut his eye again, letting out a melodramatic sigh and replying with humour in his voice. "I guess, if I have to be…"

Guy chuckled, then took a breath. Here goes nothing.

"Do you like being tickled?"

Sam's reaction was immediate, and Guy might've laughed if he wasn't worried that would injure the who in some way. His eyes snapped open immediately, and he stared up at Guy for a second, opening his mouth as he blushed under his fur. Then he looked away entirely, sitting up after a moment with his legs dangling over the edge of the cot.

"Gee, Guy, that's… Quite the left-fielder," He laughed, countering the question in his typical fashion. Guy merely shrugged, ready for it this time.

"Well, you know. I noticed you were acting a little more meh than normal, and tried thinking about what to do to cheer you up, and it occurred to me that you haven't once asked me to stop when I tickled you before."

Sam was absolutely silent throughout Guy's reply, the red in his cheeks almost glowing through his fur. Guy continued;

"And it's also hard to miss those sad pandog eyes you make every time I stop."

The who's head jerked up quite abruptly at that, and he gave the slightest nervous - but somehow, still amused - grin. "I don't make pandog eyes!"

"Oh, I beg to differ, Sam-I-Am," He retorted, propping himself up on his elbows to better face his friend. "I can almost hear the music from that shelter commercial play in the background!"

Sam laughed in reply, looking away again and shaking his head. Once again, silence took over the room. Sam swung his legs, and Guy didn't take his eyes off the smaller, tilting his head just slightly to the right. After about three minutes, he tried again.

"So? Do you like it?"

"Do you?"

Once again, Guy anticipated the counter, and he shrugged, laying back. "Not usually," He replied, a coolness in his voice that he hadn't expected in the face of the topic at hand, but he was grateful for. "Not unless it's from you or Michellee." 

"Oh."

Sam's frame seemed to relax just slightly with that information, and Guy smiled, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to dance around it, Sam," he said, "it's okay if you do. I'm just asking so I know what's okay with you." 

There was only the slightest hesitation left from Sam, but he lost it quickly when they locked eyes, trust and certainty filling his gaze - even though he visibly grew flustered, and had to look away once more before he spoke. 

"I do. Like, uh, those. That. But - but only like you do," He added quickly, "from, um, folks I trust." There was another pause, and Sam shot him a sideways glance before tacking on, much more softly; "From you."

"Would you like me to do it more often?" Guy asked, running his fingers through the fur on Sam's back as a reassurance. Sam, evermore overwhelmed but still visibly comforted and delighted to have such a compassionate friend, nodded wordlessly, finally settling back into his comfortable position next to Guy and pulling him close for a hug, face buried in his chest. Guy chuckled in response, continuing his stroking for a moment more before pausing again.

"Would you like some tickles now, Sam-I-Am?"

Sam's frame tensed a little, but he still managed to grin and look up, his sass getting the better of him as he delivered his answer.

"I don't know, would I?"

"Oh, you smug little…"

It's a good thing the train made their housing cars soundproof, because their small room was filled with the brightest, loudest laughter Sam had ever given for hours to come, Guy more than happy to indulge him with snuzzles and tickles until the who'd had enough; and even when they finally stopped, they slept snuggled up together, confident that there were enough hours left in their journey to do so again whenever they desired. 

Sam couldn't have asked for a better best friend.

[chromecutie]

Not A Ghost - part 13

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst  @ra-ra-rasputiin  @holamor ​  @empressme-bitch  @marvel-is-perfection  @hazilyimagine ​ @marvel-forever-17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash ​ @whitewitchdown ​ @master-sass-blast ​ @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

-------------------------------------

Wade insisted he wanted to play games, and Pictionary was the lowest effort game they could get him to agree to with the least chance of him inflicting property damage or bodily harm. And, as it happens, Piotr and Rhonda were absolutely unbeatable at Pictionary. Piotr could convey complex ideas quickly, with his honed skills, and Rhonda knew well enough how he thought that he usually didn’t even have to finish his sketch on the big dry erase board before she guessed correctly. Rhonda herself wasn’t much of an artist, and though her inelegant diagrams were inscrutable to Wade and Cable, they were very clear to Piotr.

For Rhonda, playing a game felt nice, but a little strange and uncomfortable like slipping into old clothes from when her tastes were very different. Recreation in the Icebox had been limited to fighting rings, giving or receiving tattoos, and making and hiding the most extreme shivs. Of course she remembered all the times she enjoyed playing Pictionary with her husband, but she also couldn’t shake the last few years being dangerous to focus on anything without also checking over her shoulder every second.

Wade and Cable made a chaotic team. No matter what he was supposed to be drawing clues for, Wade mostly drew penises and added different clothes or props to them. The correct answers for all of Wade’s drawings were a stretch -- several penises with biceps were supposed to be the Summer Olympics. A group of excessively hairy penises was supposed to be the Amazon rainforest. A penis wearing a beard, a sweater vest, and a Rage Against the Machine tattoo was supposed to be a political science professor. And so on.

Rhonda shook her head with a quiet laugh, despite herself. For a long time, she was the most mischievous person Piotr would keep close in his life, and Wade was orders of magnitude more impish than Rhonda had ever been - even counting the time she smuggled in some weed brownies to eat with Ororo and Ilyana. As Wade drew a penis with insect wings that was supposed to be Jeff Goldblum, she thought he was an unusual choice of friend for Piotr. But then, Piotr had also started dating a telepath, so maybe he had a few changes himself that she didn’t understand.

Cable huffed, “That’s it. I wanna switch teams.”

“Fine,” Wade said, voice completely level, “but I get Colossus.”

Cable and Rhonda exchanged a cold glare, before the four of them rearranged on the sumptuous leather couches according to the new teams. Her chest was tight and it was getting harder to stay calm as she gripped the dry erase marker. Her hand absently found her neck and rubbed where the collar used to sit. Cable drew out his stick figure diagrams - he had precise geometry with perfect circles and straight lines. It took Rhonda a few guesses, and time almost ran out for their turn, but she eventually guessed correctly.

Piotr’s turn was next, to draw for Wade. He had only roughed in a few simple shapes before Rhonda was sure the correct answer would be Claude Monet, but Wade seemed determined to guess everything but the correct answer. Piotr had practically recreated one of the water lily paintings before time ran out and Wade shouted his last guess, “JURASSIC PARK!”

“NO!” Piotr barked, frustrated.

Rhonda looked at her prompt while her husband argued with his friend. She carefully considered the best strategy to draw this out in a way Cable would correctly guess. They set the timer going and she quickly got to work making a rough representation of a werewolf fighting a vampire. Cable floundered through some guesses that weren’t even close, so she slashed a big line through the first one. In another corner of the board, she made her best drawing of Hades from the Disney version of Hercules, with fire around him. She looked over at her teammate and saw his brows knit together so tightly he could hold a half dollar coin in the furrow.

Time was running out. Rhonda twisted her hand in a circle, urgently encouraging him to keep guessing. She started a third drawing with some blocks to represent a city street with skyscrapers, and an arrow pointing under the street, with a lot of crude dollar bills. When she felt the push in her mind, an unwelcome other-ness like sticky fingers crawling along her spine, she froze.

“Underworld,” Cable finally said with complete confidence, two seconds before the timer started beeping.

Rhonda clenched her jaw and capped the marker. She snarled, “Stay out of my head, telepath,” and hurled the marker straight at Cable’s chest.

The marker halted, frozen in space with Cable’s telekinetic ability. He plucked the marker from the air and stood, gently setting it on the coffee table. His gaze fixed on Rhonda in a hard stare. One eye flared with bright orange-gold light.

Rhonda couldn’t stop the fight-or-flight rising in her chest. He looked just the way he had when he came into the Icebox and started shooting up the place. He looked like every other inmate or guard who had set eyes on her with murderous intent.

She shifted her stance and some whispers of lightning laced over her clenched fists. They both ignored Wade chattering about the movie Underworld and how it was a cinematic masterpiece.

Piotr moved quickly to get between them, throwing an arm in front of his wife in case she lunged. He shook his head at the silver haired soldier, “Please, Cable, don’t press her. Leave my wife alone.”

Cable’s brows quirked, then softened. “You’re scared of me?” he asked, but it didn’t sound much like a question. He eased a step backward. “You’re scared of everyone,” he said with more certainty.

“STOP IT!” she yelled.

She flicked her hand. Wade cocked a handgun. Cable shifted and raised his fist, ready to deflect.

Piotr caught her around the torso, immobilizing her, and raised his voice, “Wade, Cable, no!”

But instead of a bright streak of electricity arcing through the air, only a few paltry sparks flew and died no more than eight inches from her fingers.

Cable was never in any danger from her.

Wade giggled, smirking, “What is that, a warning shot? Or are you about as vicious as a nine-volt battery?”

“Drop it, Wade,” Piotr was desperate to de-escalate. It was so unlike Rhonda to lash out like this. He regretted putting her in a room with his friends when he knew she was uncomfortable with Cable, and Wade could be an abrasive jackass who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. This was a mistake.

Rhonda tried to wrench herself from her husband’s grip, only managing to bruise her ribs against his arm. “Let me go,” she growled.

“[No fighting. Relax,]” Piotr rumbled in Russian close to her ear. He kept his tone calm with her.

She lashed out with her legs, trying in vain to squirm out of his arm. “[Take your hands off me, now!]”

“[Not until you relax.]”

Wade raised his gun, but didn’t point it. “Uh, should I…?”

“No!” Piotr and Cable said at the same time. Cable took a few steps backward, palms up.

Rhonda huffed, winded from struggling against a giant vice grip.

“I promise it’s airsoft!” Wade said indignantly, “Look.” With a soft hiss, a small plastic pellet hit Cable in the chest. Cable grunted and before anyone could respond, Wade puffed his airsoft pistol again and shot Rhonda in the forehead.

The sting was enough to startle and stun her, and she halted her struggle against her husband’s grip. Still, he didn’t let go until she mumbled through a clenched jaw, “I’ve got an appointment with Hank. I should go.”

Finally, Piotr released his hold around her torso and gave her space. She took a deep breath, wincing at her sore ribs. The floral paint on her right arm had cracked all over from the motion, and was flaking off to reveal the Xs lurking underneath. Without looking anyone in the eye or saying another word, she stalked off, snatching her cardigan off the couch on her way out.

Cable watched her go, and when the door to the lounge shut, he turned to Piotr. “That’s all she’s got, isn’t it? The sparks. There used to be more.” It wasn’t quite a question. He knew. He had read her dread and humiliation and disgust and heartbreak.

Piotr swallowed and forced himself to speak evenly, “The power dampening collars in the Icebox.”

Wade shrugged and crossed to a shelf that had a bowl of mints. He picked through them until he grabbed a half dozen that were shaped differently from the rest. “Hellooo my little friends! Daddy needs some Percocet!”

Piotr looked at the candy dish in horror. He quickly set to laying into Wade for hiding pharmaceuticals in the candy; Wade insisted it wasn’t a big deal since it was in an adults-only room, and he was probably doing the X-Men a favor.

Rolling his eyes, Cable politely excused himself and headed for the infirmary.

--

Rhonda’s follow up with Dr. McCoy went well enough. He didn’t ask her why she had shown up so early, nor did he prod her about seeming agitated. “Take things as slowly as you need,” he reminded her, “Your relationships with your friends, with yourself...it will all come back.” Hank gave her a reassuring smile.

She nodded, but her jaw didn’t relax. Her gaze set on the paper bag full of medication for injuries and infections that hadn’t quite healed on their own. The paper crinkled in her fist. “Thank you,” she forced herself to speak.

Pointing at her arm, Hank said, “This looks nice. Piotr?”

Her expression flickered brighter when she followed his gesture to the flowers on her arm. “Yeah, we were playing with paint this morning,” she explained. “It was gorgeous when it was fresh.”

Hank watched her smile fade and fidgeted with his stethoscope. He went to the supply drawers and took out the spare lightbulb from a few days ago. “Try this again,” he held it out to her.

Rhonda heaved a sigh loaded with hesitation. “No.”

The doctor’s encouraging smile didn’t falter. “Why don’t you take it with you, then?” He set to putting it back in its flimsy cardboard box. “That way you’ll have it whenever you’re ready. When you can light this bulb, we’ll move on to other things. How does that sound?”

Crinkling the bag and letting out another slow breath, Rhonda begrudgingly took the boxed lightbulb. “It feels like I’ll be like this forever.”

Hank saw the chance to get her to elaborate, “Be like what?” When she gave him a pointed look, he didn’t push. “It will feel like that sometimes,” he conceded, “even when you know you’re doing better. I think it helps to remember you have a lot of people who love you, no matter what you’re able to do.”

Rhonda returned a weak smile. “Thanks,” she said, “I’ll try.” She gestured a loose salute with the lightbulb, and backed out of the office.

She almost backed right into Cable, but he sidestepped her and cleared his throat. Startled, she spun, ready to drop her things and throw punches right for his gut, but he took another step back and raised his palms.

“I want to apologize,” he began.

Her jaw worked, chewing on her emotions as she tried to remember she was home and to keep her manners. Rhonda took a moment to study the opulent wallpaper over Cable’s shoulder before meeting his eyes. “And?” she prompted.

“I have a...condition,” Cable gestured with his left hand, which was metal, but a little darker and less polished than Piotr’s steel. All the way up his arm and over his shoulder, the metal crept up his neck, where his skin puckered and pinched as it gave way to the metal. He continued, “I use my psionic powers to keep it from getting worse, and sometimes that makes it harder to control my telepathy.” He lowered his hands and let them rest on his belt. “I’m sorry I got in your head. There’s...some heavy shit in there. It’s harder to avoid than most people’s thoughts.”

The tension in Rhonda’s shoulders eased just a hair. “Most people can’t feel a telepath poking around,” she warned, “I can.”

Cable nodded, “So it’s hard for you to trust us.” At Rhonda’s sharp inhale, he added firmly, “That part’s obvious, ma’am, I don’t have to pull for it.”

“Ma’am?” she scoffed, trying to force herself to loosen up.

“Just tryin’ to be respectful,” he took a step to the side, starting to edge away. “And maybe,” he added, fumbling for words, “Try practicing to music.”

Her brows twitched together and she tilted her head. “Okay?”

Cable shrugged, “Just something my daughter would probably say if she met you. She used to say music made everything better. A lot of good advice.” He gave a warm smile that didn’t show any teeth, but made him look years younger and with half of whatever worries he carried now.

They exchanged curt nods and went their separate ways. With her meds and the lightbulb in hand, Rhonda headed to her room. She shook her head wondering why, as a dancer, she hadn’t thought of practicing to music herself.

[the-council-of-new-york-vampires]

Another priyamy fic please

Out of Character:

This is basically a continuation of the last one. It’s so sweet! 😭 Enjoy!

This time, it was Amy who opened the door. “Hey.” Grinning, she gave Priya a kiss - on the cheek. The lips seemed strangely intimate; after all, they weren’t dating. (Yet…)

“Hiya.” Priya seemed unusually neutral, letting the kiss happen. Quickly, she looked down on Amy - and gaped. “What are you wearing?”

That’s right, Amy had put herself into comfortable clothing. It was all part of teaching Priya intimacy. Calmly, she explained, “I am comfortable around you. That means, I can show you my vulnerable self. The way I really am.”

Priya’s eyes were so wide, her mouth so open, as if she had never seen sweatpants in her life before. “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to change into something more comfortable too?”

“No??”

“That’s fine.” With a smile, she invited her in. “I thought we could order pizza?”

“Uh…” For a moment, Priya considered this. Not the pizza, but the actual meeting. Yet, something, whatever it was, it made her stay. “Fine.”

They sat down on the couch, Priya looking around the house as if she was sitting inside an actual dumpster, and Amy ordered on the phone. Having finished, she put the phone away, her focus completely on Priya. She looked at her, admired her, and said, “You’re so beautiful.”

Priya grinned. “I know.”

“There’s something vulnerable in your eyes.”

“What?”

She repeated, “There’s something vulnerable in your eyes.”

“Okay??”

Amy showed Priya a sad smile. “You don’t want to tell me what it is?”

Priya scowled. “I legit have no idea what you’re even talking about.”

Obviously, Priya was more reserved than she pretended to be. So, Amy tried something else. “Do you like reading?”

“No.”

Regardless, she reached out for a novel, presenting it to her guest. “This is my favorite book. It’s about a girl who acts super cold and distant. People don’t like her. But as someone finally dares to get closer, they discover a new side of her. She’s vulnerable at heart.”

“’Kay.”

Amy smiled. “Boring?”

“So boring I thought about leaving.”

For a moment, Amy just looked at Priya. Then, she reached out for her, caressed her upper arm. “Please don’t,” she mumbled, whispered.

“Name me one reason not to.”

Amy’s eyes were on Priya’s. “Because you mean a lot to me.”

“That makes no sense. You made no effort.”

Amy explained, “I feel comfortable enough with you to let you into my life. I trust that you won’t judge me for my looks or my interests. I want to be real with you. And that’s why I didn’t dress up or decorate or anything. I think this expresses more love than what you call ‘making an effort.’”

For a long while, Priya just looked at Amy. Then, she shook her head. As if she didn’t understand it.

“What did you think when I invited you?”

“Well, not that.”

She gifted her a smile. “I’m always good for a surprise.”

“I thought you’d prepare a session or something.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “A session?”

“BDSM.”

“Oh…” She faced the ground, thinking. When looking back up, she stated, “I don’t think sex has to be rough. I don’t think someone has to be in control. Or that someone has to get hurt or punished.”

Priya just said, “Vanilla is boring.”

Amy looked into Priya’s eyes, deeply. “Have you ever… Have you ever just lied down with someone and… made love? Actual love?”

“I guess?”

“Sorry to be personal, but… Who was it with? Were the two of you in love?”

Priya rolled her eyes. “Why the hell is everyone so obsessed with ‘love’? What’s so great about it?”

Amy was surprised. “Were you never in love?”

“Ugh… ‘In love’… I love myself.”

“Self love is the most important love.”

Finally, Priya agreed. “True.”

“But loving someone… Being loved by someone… That’s wonderful.”

“Who do you love?”

For a moment, Amy felt her heart skipping a beat. Never had she thought that Priya would ask something like that, that she’d show genuine interest… “I…” Amy decided, “I’ll only tell you if you tell me what happened.”

Priya raised an eyebrow. “Well, what happened?”

“To you. I can’t imagine someone… I mean… The way you live. You’re over 150 years old, I get that. You want to have fun and you love passion and sex and adventure… I get that so much. But you have literal sex slaves who you… degrade. Only men. And you enjoy it. I refuse to believe that just… happened.”

“I value myself,” Priya said. “And I get myself everything I want.”

“Why do you like degrading them?”

“Because I like taking control.”

“And why men?”

“Because they deserve it.”

And that was the point. Amy needed to know - and asked. “What did they do to you?”

For a moment, Priya was quiet. Then she said, “Men think they’re entitled to women. But they’re not. I’m not an object and I refuse to be treated as such.”

“But you treat others as such.”

“Not my problem.”

There was a silence.

Amy could feel Priya’s coldness. She realized that talking didn’t help. Instead, she pulled Priya close, hugged her… and whispered, “You need so much love.”

Priya didn’t move.

Amy’s lips explored Priya’s face, felt the softness of her cheek, her perfume, her makeup… and gave it a kiss.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll be right back,” Amy whispered. Then, she got up and left, making a point not to look Priya in the face. She got the pizza… and could not forget just how intimate these moments had felt. A simple kiss on the cheek had felt more intimate than all their nights together. Was their love growing?

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Amy gaped. “What?”

“I thought pizza was a joke, and you were gonna order lobster or something.”

Amy was perplex, slighty saddened. She looked back up to see that Priya was grinning.

“Just kidding.”

Amy smiled brightly. For the first time, she felt that her heart was smiling too, as well as her eyes. “Not funny.”

“It’s not like you can afford it.”

“Maybe someday I can.”

“Doubtful.”

She placed the pizza on the table, and said, “Maybe someday when I’m married to a rich fashion designer.”

Priya laughed. “In your dreams.”

Amy sat down next to Priya again. Both of them were facing the table, but somehow, no one could focus. It was strangely obvious that neither of them were thinking of the pizza. Instead, they faced one another - and finally kissed.

Amy’s hands cupped Priya’s cheeks. They made their way down, exploring her curves, caressing her in a way that was nothing but gentle. As the kiss had ended, Amy whispered, “I wanna make love to you…”

Priya barely reacted.

Amy kissed her cheek, then her neck. Her lips made it down, kissing her collar bone, the upper part of her chest… until the fabric of Priya’s crimson dress was in the way. She whispered, “Do you want me to take it off?”

Surprisingly, Priya whispered back. Her voice wasn’t impatient or rough or horny. Instead, it was calm, curious… gentle. “Yeah. Take it off.”

Slowly, her hands made it to the zipper on the back. Amy unzipped the dress, and gently took it off, yet revealing only Priya’s chest and belly. The young woman took her time. She caressed each breast ever so gently with her fingers. hands and lips.

Eventually, Priya lied down on her back.

Amy left a trail of kisses on her belly as she moved her head down further. She stopped as soon as the dress was in the way, kissing the lowest part of Priya’s belly several times, whispering, “You’re beautiful…”

It was then that Priya grabbed her dress and pushed it off.

Amy whispered, “Do you want me to go down further?”

“Of course,” Priya answered, her voice quiet.

“I would never want you to feel forced.” She placed another kiss on Priya’s belly.

Her reaction, though, was direct. “Do it.”

Amy went down lower, and kissed Priya’s skin. She made a point to explore and kiss everything between Priya’s legs. Then, finally, she used her tongue…

Priya’s moans were unusually quiet. It was unlike her, but it was sweet.

Amy kept going. She kissed and licked and caressed Priya everywhere pleasurable for what felt like hours. Whenever she came, Amy gave her time to cool down, but kept going as desired until, after numerous orgasms, her jaw was hurting quite a lot.

Soon, Priya felt Amy by her side, as she had moved back upwards, the two of them lying on their sides, facing each other.

But instead of talking, Amy kissed her.

Surpringly, Priya pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around Amy, tasting herself inside her mouth, and stuck her tongue inside her mouth.

Amy had french kissed Priya before and it had felt heavenly alike. Yet, somehow, these kisses felt less… dominant. For the first time, it felt as if Priya wasn’t kissing her to dominate her, but to tell her ‘thank you’.

After minutes of kissing, the two pulled away. The tip of Amy’s nose met the tip of Priya’s nose and they enjoyed that intimate moment, until Amy placed tender kisses on Priya’s neck. At the same time, she was feeling her curves, caressing her body.

Still breathing rather heavily, Priya enjoyed each sensation. This felt unfamiliar - but beautiful. She closed her eyes… and thought of a world in which pain didn’t exist.

Amy kissed her cheek, her breasts… and realized that Priya was tired. She sat up, eyes on the pizza that had to have gotten cold by now, and grabbed a blanket.

It was then that Priya felt her body being covered, coated in warmth. Exhaustedly, she opened her eyes just enough to see Amy.

She caressed Priya’s body even under the blanket and whispered, “Do you remember when you asked me who I love? I’m no longer afraid to answer.”

There was a silence.

Then, she said, “I love you.”

[seasaltmemories]

1, 9, 13, and 15 for Pretty Lies and Their Brutal Truths?

What inspired you to write the fic this way?

Hmm, “this way” is an interesting qualified so I guess I’ll specify more the dark, sexual tone

Well, first it started off as nothing more than a one-shot exploring an arranged marriage au bc I am a sucker for those, while tense, that oneshot was still mostly potential and could have gone off in multiple directions, that was part of the fun, but then I got a crazy amount of support for the fic and requests to expand on it, I didn’t know the exact direction I wanted to go with it, but i did have one semi-fleshed out scene in my head, their wedding night, so wanting that validation, I banged out my first sex scene figuring that it would be a one-time thing, but aside from the continued positive reception (and a lot of fans of the smut lol) mostly vague ideas kept carrying me until chapter 4, 

it was then the plot had to get a lot more grounded, it was also the first time we got Alm’s POV which upped the darkness level a lot, there were multiple factors to this shift, first of all, I have written plenty of dark stuff in the past, I’d still call PLBT my darkest but to make sure I wasn’t just retreaded old ground, I wanted to dip my toe further, second I had finished Revolutionary Girl Utena around that time, which both spoke to my then aesthetic and has further shaped my current one, and the biggest inspiration for PLBT was the fact that you got to see characters and their lowest and most repulsive but they still maintained a humanity that made you want to follow them, third, in my efforts to keep Alm from seeming OOC, he was kinda a weak antagonist, while the audience knew on an intellectual level that he had done some shady things, on the page he had been accommodating and almost meek, he needed more shades of gray and so right after betraying Celica, him revealing what fucked up desires he had been hiding kinda made him betray the audience as well and kick him out of the ‘nice guy’ box he had been floating around in

So yeah looking back the transition was probably wild for readers and if I could do it again I would prefer to make it more tonally consistent to make sure I hadn’t strung along any readers into darker waters than they had planned for, but from my ramblings it must be pretty obvious I find it all fascinating to reflect on 

Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Ever as a fleshed out idea? No, but like I mentioned above it took a while for the fics identity to come together, at first it was intended to mostly be like chapters 1 through 3, a sandbox sorta approach to Celica trying to maneuver around Alm in different scenarios, but as I tried to figure out the details of this world, the politics would be so heavily altered that to leave out the full impact would be to blunt the effects of the Rigelian invasion which would in-turn make Celica’s reaction seem overblown (pretty sure a reviewer had already called her a bitch by then) so if I wanted the stakes to feel real, I had to follow the plot threads I had set up which led to it snowballing into its current incarnation

What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

I make playlists for writing projects less to listen to when writing, but while going about my day to get ideas rolling, that monster has 20+ songs (and when the fic is finished I play to compile a fanmix that is shorter and can have spoiler songs) so to keep this post relatively brief

Paramore’s album After Laughter overall captures the tone: Rose-Colored Boy being specifically fitting

The Violence by Rise Against could the OP if this was a show and consequentially I used it for a trailer of the fic, captures the greater-scale continental wide aspect of the conflict

Sex Yeah by Marina and the Diamonds is a runner up in the OP department, more focusing specifically on how the leads view and are affected by sex, and how that later defines their goals

Opheliac by Emilie Autumn and Big God by Florence + The Machine really fit Celica’s mindset, Opheliac emphasizing her relationship with Rigel and Big God her relationship with Zofia (and might hint at later trajectories of her character)

What did you learn from writing this fic?

I feel like I am still in the middle of it, so I can’t do a full reflection, but it’s given me a lot more courage to pursue the specific inspiration that comes to me even if I don’t feel 100% confident in them, and I think I’ve gotten more confident to tackle more plot-heavy works with a variety of actors

[eriexplosion]

Fic Game

Thanks @demon-of-the-ancient-world for the tag and the excuse to ramble a little :3

Favourite fic title: Probably Just One Thing the Martyr Wants to Say which is... probably cheating because it's your typical song lyric title, but it gave me the whole story image just from hearing it, so I have a Huge Fondness. If song lyrics didn't want to be titles they should stop being so good for it. Shout out though to The Man With All The Teeth which is only a tiny little thing but gives me haunting vibes every time I look at the title.

Favourite fic: Honestly my favorite is probably Held Enthralled, which is only two chapters in but is the first idea I ever had for the fandom, even though I wrote Let Them Wait first. It lets me fill out my headcanons for Floki in detail, and also lets me build up Floki as a future foil to Athelstan by having them come into Ragnar's life in a similar way while having exact opposite reactions to it. It's also let me work on some fun little writing exercises (Floki doesn't get named for two fucking chapters and it's around 17k so that was Interesting) too so that's been a joy to work on. And of course, second is Dragged into the Undertow even though it's being kind of a problem child right this moment in actually getting written. But writing it has been delightful, I've gotten some fun little side OCs that I can work with in future ideas (you know, the ones that don't get sentenced to death via canon happenings) and get to have a document on my desktop called 'Athelstan's No Good Horrible Very Bad Boat Trip' which makes me giggle every time I look at it. It also branched off into Sated, which is one of my favorite oneshots. Pure smut, but one of my favorite oneshots.

Favourite character/fandom to write in: Since I pretty much exclusively write Vikings fic about Athelstan or Floki or both I think it's pretty obvious. I went three full years completely able to write more than a dozen words at a time, and these two Fixed my ability, so I owe all of those words to my Complicated Feelings About Vikings The TV Show. (Honestly if Vikings hadn't taken a turn in season 3 that I didn't care for, I probably wouldn't have so much urge to write about it. That fix-it urge is STRONG. My boys deserve the world so I GUESS I GOTTA GIVE IT TO 'EM.)

An Underrated fic of yours: Held Enthralled probably has my lowest hit ratio given the amount of effort put into it, and I'm sure it's because Athelstan is a more popular character than Floki and he doesn't show up at all in this one, but damn it I love this fic and I think it's good. *shakes it at people aggressively*

Favourite fic by another author: A big one is Carrying Your Love by @thesylverlining and not just because it was a gift for me. The character interactions are Excellent and sweet and every chapter makes my whole heart swell with Adoration. I've also been really enjoying If I Don't Get Some Shelter I'm Going to Fade Away by @demon-of-the-ancient-world for that excellent Athelstan sick-fic. More that I'm definitely not thinking of right off the top of my head.

A fic you're currently working on: The final two chapters of Dragged into the Undertow are currently kicking my ass - I'm on the climax portion and trying to tie all the strings together and it... hard. This is only my second long-ish fic, and I want to make sure to pull everything in together like it deserves, so I've been poking at chapter 8 for months making concerned noises at it. My other big in progress fic is of course Held Enthralled, which is entirely planned out, but I want to finish Undertow before digging back into it. I've got a whole document of ideas too, though god knows how long it will take to get to them.

Tagging: Anyone interested, and tag me because I love to see people talking about their fics, high key favorite activity

[allyinthekeyofx]

Small and mighty 2/2

Part one can be found here

NSFW

Notes :

Smut is not my forte but I still like to write it.  Thankfully the libido is a shitty judge of literature ;) @today-in-fic

Small and mighty 2/2

For just a second I see a flicker of uncertainty cross her face, a slight frown that mars the delicate perfection of her brow, but it is fleeting and without substance; replaced almost instantly with a flare of arousal that darkens her eyes as the very tip of her tongue darts out to rapidly moisten her lower lip which now glistens in the muted half-light that surrounds us.

She crosses her arms, fingers reaching for the hem of her tank in order to pull it over her head and I actually surprise us both I think when I stop her.

“Not yet Scully.”

Her hands drop away though, her expression a curious mix of mild embarrassment and guarded amusement.   Because this is pretty much uncharted territory for both of us and as enthusiastic as we have both been in recent weeks in the exploration of our new-found intimacy, introducing a third party – so to speak of course – is a new one on both of us.

I haven’t much experience with sex toys it has to be said – or at least beyond the realms of those videos that for years I insisted weren’t mine – but I do have plenty of experience of Scully and since I’ve always prided myself of being a fast learner, I’m fairly confident that we won’t be disappointed.

She pads over to the bed, bare feet making no sound on the carpeted floor as she bridges the gap that separates us, placing first one knee and then the other on the mattress before gracefully folding her body so as to lay half on her side, facing me.  I never cease to be amazed at how tiny she is and when she is like this, her legs curled slightly, she seems even smaller.

I’ve always felt protective over her – it’s the nature of our partnership I guess – and I refuse to feel even a shred of guilt for my feelings because I know, that despite her small stature, she feels exactly the same toward me.  I once told her she had saved me a thousand times and in the years that followed she has continued to be there to catch me when I start to fall.

Right now though I have no intention of falling anywhere other than in to her and so I reach up to touch her face, lightly trailing my fingertips across her skin, past the contours of her jaw to caress the softness of her neck before turning her slightly toward me to press my lips to the point where neck becomes shoulder, grazing her lightly with my teeth with enough pressure to taste her but not so as I will leave a mark so high up on her body.  My other hand holds the vibrator, now switched on to the lowest setting and which thrums pleasantly against my palm.  

Slowly, gently, I settle my hand between the vee of her legs, a slow smile spreading across my face as she arches slightly towards me, a sudden shiver as the vibrator makes contact against the soft jersey fabric that still covers her and as I drop my head once again I notice the goose bumps that have formed a trail that follows exactly the path that my lips just took.

Her breathing is a little faster, a little shallower than it was a couple of minutes ago and I am unsurprised when, as I slip my free hand beneath the hem of her tank to settle atop the curve of her breast, feeling the nipple instantly harden in to a tiny fleshy nub against my  palm, she stops breathing altogether and emits a gasp of pleasure.

I adore Scully’s tits and in fact, I spent years fantasising over exactly what I would do with them should the opportunity finally arise and it took a surprisingly short amount of time for me to figure out exactly how she liked them to be touched, to be suckled, to be licked and I know, that a broad first contact where I strafe them with my chin, or the palm of my hand, or even the flat of my tongue, is how she prefers it but as she becomes more aroused, so she expects my touch to become less aggressive and more reverent; right now though she is leaning in to my palm as I make circular motions against the soft flesh whilst still keeping the pressure of the vibrator against her pubic bone.

Her eyes are heavy and as she regards me lazily through half closed lids, I am suddenly aware that as aroused as she is becoming, she is also relaxed – that the mix of sensations are combining in a most delicious way for her. It’s an expression I haven’t really seen before and one which transfers straight to my rapidly hardening cock which twitches against my pants to remind me it’s still there.  Not that I’m in any danger of forgetting, especially considering the fact that my state of arousal earlier in the evening was markedly unfulfilled.

I increase the pressure of the vibrator, still set only to the lowest setting and as I slide it slowly across the soft mound of her mons pubis, teasing her through the fabric of her shorts, stopping just short of her clit, as I track it slowly upwards again, the action eliciting a small hiss of frustration from her and I can’t help but laugh as she arches her back off the mattress once more in an attempt to increase the contact.

“How’s that no-sex rule working for you right now Agent Scully?”

And I swear she actually growls at me, grimacing slightly as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth for just a second, all propriety abandoned with barely any effort on my part, pushing my hand away from where it still covers her breast, reaching for the hem of her shirt again and pulling it over her head roughly, mussing her hair in the process and reminding me of the way she looks first thing in the morning when she wakes me with a kiss.

Her pupils are dilated, her eyes liquid blue and darkened with desire, her whole focus centred on me and not for the first time I am entranced by the fact that she drinks me in with her gaze as though I hold the answers to the universe in my hands, that I am the answer to every question she ever asked.  And as always I fight the feeling that this is all just an illusion; that one day she will wake up and realise that I in no way match up to her expectations of me; that she will one day look at me and find me wanting.

Because she is sheer fucking perfection and when I manage to push away the insecurities that have plagued me for much of my life, I know that I would die for her; that she would die for me.

And I release my hold on the vibrator, letting it roll away from her body so I can free my hands, sliding them beneath her and drawing her forwards so she is resting against me.

Her breath is warm on my face; Scully’s life-force that in turn gives me life and like a switch being flicked, she is suddenly kissing me with an intensity – a hunger – that literally takes my breath away, her fingers entwined in my hair as our mouths join, the taste of her heightening my senses because kissing Scully literally blows my mind. I think maybe it’s because I waited for so long that I kind of developed a fixation for her mouth – the daily torture of watching the tip of that fleshy pink tongue dart out to moisten her plump bottom lip when she was wrestling with some case-related problem and knowing that she was off limits, forbidden fruit that over time I became desperate to taste.

Of course now, I have implicit permission to taste that mouth pretty much as often as I like but it doesn’t make the experience any less intense.

She breaks the contact first, running the tip of her tongue lightly over my bottom lip before trailing kisses along the slight stubble on my jaw line, reaching the lobe of my ear and pausing to nip it lightly with her teeth.

“I think maybe we are in danger of breaking the no-sex rule Mulder.”

And all thoughts of parrying her assertion with one of my patented Mulder-quips are banished when she smiles wickedly and wraps one of her small hands around the base of my cock which is now causing the soft flannel that confines it to tent in a fairly uncomfortable manner, twitching almost painfully as those strong, capable doctors fingers squeeze lightly, teasing me as the friction from the material against the sensitive skin almost sends me in to orbit.

Because she knows exactly how to touch me; when to touch me and how much pressure to exert at any given time almost as if our bodies have always known each other and even on that first wondrous night we finally gave ourselves over to each other, it was as though our joining together had been pre-destined, a dance of desire that finally reconciled us and which put everything in to alignment for us.

I can’t explain it and I try not to analyse it too deeply but we are good together; so damn good that I find it hard to fathom how we ever allowed ourselves to wait for so long.

She releases her hold and uses both hands to pull the waistband of my pants away from my body, sliding them down my hips carefully, never breaking eye contact with me as she allows her fingernails to lightly rake my skin, raising her eyebrow in unspoken question when she is unable to stretch her arms any further and I don’t need to be asked twice as I scramble to my knees and finish the job for her, removing the offending garment and tossing it to one side even as she raises her hips from the bed to allow me to return the favour for her and slowly, reverently, I dip my head and begin to kiss my way back up her smooth, slim legs, pausing just once to inhale her scent.  Because now that she is laid bare before me, the heady evidence of her arousal assails me and as always, I allow myself to savour it.

A combination of the light floral perfume she wears, of freshly washed skin and of the heavy, almost animalistic musk that together, make up the essence that is uniquely Scully.

And as always, I need to taste her, to bring form and clarity to the sensory bouquet that beckons me like a moth to a flame.

So I slide my hands beneath her, revelling in the feel of her beautiful ass beneath my fingers, a perfect combination of softness and strength as her muscles contract at the contact, her hips opening as she raises herself slightly, flexing at the knees as she opens herself to me.  I feel her shiver slightly as I reach the soft skin of her inner thigh, a reaction to the stubble that I know is now scratching her lightly and almost unconsciously I think, she entwines her fingers in my hair, pulling me toward her centre, the heat of which I can feel emanating from her, her small gasp of pleasure as I finally reach my goal, using the flat of my tongue to strafe her from perineum to clitoris as scent transforms in to form and I claim her once again as my own, drinking her in, rejoicing in the salty tang of her that is pure nectar to me.

Her fingers tighten in my hair then, as I begin to circle my tongue almost lazily around her clit – teasing her with tiny movements as I purposely avoid any contact with that tiny bundle of nerves that sits at the top of her sex, and she is wet; so fucking wet for me in a way that if I live to be a hundred years old I will never tire of because it represents to me that this amazing, intelligent, compassionate woman, the centre of my world and a light that has endured through my darkest hour actually wants to be with me, wants to love me; wants to give herself to me over and over again.

And it terrifies me at times because I can’t help but feel afraid that I will someday prove to be unworthy of her;  unworthy of these gifts she has chosen to bestow upon me.  But as always I refuse to let my own vulnerability cloud all that we share; closing my eyes briefly to dispel the doubts that I think will always linger and instead concentrate again on her, feeling her tense as I slip first one and then two fingers inside her, sliding them in to her as I finally allow myself to close my lips over the hood of her clit, pulling the engorged nub of flesh in to my mouth and holding it there, an action that elicits an instant verbal response from Scully as she spasms beneath me.

“Jeeeeeeeeesus Mulder….”

The words reach me on the back of a sigh and by the tremors that are beginning to build as she tenses her thighs, I know she is close.  So with my free hand I grope blindly behind me, desperately searching for what I had discarded so carelessly a few minutes earlier, following the increasing vibration until finally, I lay my fingers upon the object I seek, deftly twisting the base to increase the intensity before releasing my mouth from her and raising my head just enough to be able to watch her. Because a delicious realisation has slammed in to me that I have never seen Scully come from this position – because let’s face it, usually my attention is wholly focused elsewhere; and while this isn’t quite oral induced, it’s probably as fucking close as I will ever get.

Her head is thrown back, exposing the length of her slender neck, ligaments straining against the soft creamy flesh that shrouds them.  Her eyes are closed, intense pleasure playing across her beautiful face and as her tongue darts out of her slightly parted lips I swear to God that I almost come right there and then.  And I never take my eyes off her as I press the tip of the vibrator hard against the swollen flesh of her clit, feeling her begin to contract around my fingers that are still inside the hot, wet heat of her.

And even as she is falling over the edge she is reaching for me, sliding her hands from my head in one fast movement as she hooks her arms over my shoulders, pulling me urgently towards her as she raises her hips to meet mine.

I don’t need asking twice, taking my cock in my hand, which frankly, is so fucking erect right now it’s almost painful and with one fluid movement, I am inside her, any attempt at restraint completely abandoned as she pulses around me, riding each other on the back of her orgasm and it is so fucking good.  Mind blowingly good in fact.  

I wish I could say I lasted the distance, but frankly, the pressure has been building for far too long and I find myself fucking her harder than I ever have before, thrusting fast and deep in to her, feeling the head of my cock bumping against her cervix on every upstroke and by the way she wraps her legs around me, pulling me even deeper in to her as she clutches at the muscular planes of my back, clawing at me with hooked fingers that scratch and mark I know she expects nothing less.  And it’s such an exquisite combination of pain and pleasure so intense that I can’t hold back any longer, feeling myself tightening from within,  every thought, every feeling merging together.  A swirling vortex that empties my mind of everything but her, because she is the only thing that means anything to me anymore, this woman beneath me who has given me everything and asked little in return, a woman, who has made it possible for me to feel alive again, for me to finally accept that maybe, just maybe I am worthy enough to be loved by someone.

And as always, it is her name I scream as finally, the world explodes around me and with one final, desperate thrust, I empty myself in to her, barely able to draw breath as I collapse atop her, my heart hammering as she gentles me with her hands, kissing every inch of skin she is able to reach and finally, I recover sufficiently to prop myself up on one elbow, lifting my weight from her but staying inside her, wanting to keep the connection between us for just a little while longer.  Wanting to look at her; to imprint this moment forever on my psyche to join all the other memories I have of her, memories I know I will rely on when things get bad.

Because she is beautiful, so beautiful and even more so when she smiles at me, her flushed skin almost luminous in the half light and for the thousandth time I silently thank whichever higher power brought her in to my life, my throat tightening with emotion as I feel the tears that inexplicably suddenly gather to film my eyes.

And then the feel of her palm resting against my jaw, her thumb tracing circles on my skin.

“Hey…what’s wrong?”

Her concern is so evident but I just don’t have the words to adequately explain to her all that she means to me, all that she makes me feel.  So instead I stick to safer territory, chasing the tears away with a smile as I drop a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m fine.  But we need to rethink these rules of yours Scully.  Because they don’t seem to be working out too well.”

End

[delineative]

writing year in review

i was not tagged but i've wanted to do this meme for years, and FINALLY this year i wrote more than 2 fics, so here i am at last!

total number of completed stories:  

ao3: 15 (+1 unrevealed)

tumblr: 3

overall: 18

total word count:  

ao3: 46 302

tumblr: 1 881

overall: 48 183

fandoms written in:

7 seeds

boku no hero academia

haikyuu

mystic messenger

pokemon go

yugioh arc v

looking back, did you expect to write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected? way more. way, way more. to put it into perspective, i wrote 11 572 words for 2014-2015 combined. i can't believe i somehow managed to write nearly 50k this year, particularly considering how busy i was with school… it's not much in comparison with other writers, but i'm a notoriously slow and unproductive writer, so i'm very proud of that wordcount!

what’s your own favorite story of the year? a tie between 'a girl of routine', which i'm ridiculously fond of despite the pacing problems, and 'the snow covers us', which i think hit the balance between pretty prose and intensity of emotional impact. they're not perfect, but i really love them!

incidentally, least favourite would be 'all the choirs in my head' and 'all of those better days' because i'm not happy at all with the characterisation (i've kicked them both onto a pseud).

did you take any writing risks this year? quite a few! i signed up for hqhols for the first time, wrote treats for the first time (1 in hqhols, 3 in yuletide), broke 10k on a fic for the first time in 'A History of Storms', published a fic on the same day i wrote it, and tried out epistolary for the first time! i did quite a lot of experimentation with my writing style, going from super dense and flowery ('an outline of shapes i used to know', 'the dimming divide') to more relaxed and subtle ('a girl of routine', 'i won't say it') and ending up somewhere comfortably in the middle.

do you have any fanfic or profit goals for the new year? next year i enter the Hell Zone of school so honestly, i'll be happy if i can finish just one fic. i'm going to try signing up for yuletide again (even though it's right in the middle of my exam season) as well! this year i spent a lot of time working on dialogue and narrative flow, and next year i'd like to work more on pacing and plot. i'd also like to figure out how to strike the balance between authentic narrative voice and my writing style.

best story of the year? 'A History of Storms', definitely! overall i think it's my best work in terms of plot, pacing, characterisation, prose and general narrative construction, and i'm very happy with how it turned out.

i'm also very proud of 'emerge in the telluric light', which i feel was a sort of turning point re the quality of my writing--it was the first fic i'd written that i felt didn’t have any glaring errors in flow/pacing/characterisation/dialogue.

most popular story of the year? 'i won't say it', which is sitting on an incredible 630 kudos and 24 comment threads! the reception to this fic has really blown my mind. i wrote and published this the day the team leader designs were released, and i suspect getting in early (creating the blanche/candela tag, no less!) played a big part in this fic's popularity… thank you pokemon go fandom!

story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: i'm not generally surprised when my fics don't get much reception, because i tend to write rarer fandoms/ships/characters, but that being said i think 'how the sky looked after they left' is still a pretty nice story. it's a short gen character study of a minor female character, though, so i understand why it hasn't gotten as much attention as my other fic.

most fun story to write: all of my 7 seeds fics were a blast to write, but particularly 'show some entrepreneurial initiative'! shoutout to my best girl mayu for having such a fun pov to write in, and for the general weirdass hyperspecific summer a narration style.  

story with the single sexiest moment: um… i think the scene where candela kisses blanche's hand in 'A History of Storms' is very sexy. there is also a wound care scene in the unrevealed fic which is pretty hot, imo.

i don't think the actual pwp has any sexy moments.

most sweet story: i think the most straightforwardly sweet story i've written is 'tell me we'll never get used to it' which is pretty much just 1.3k of domesticity with slight edges, but even that dives a little bit into the oikawa talent narrative. maybe 'show some entrepreneurial initiative' if taken purely at face value and ignoring canon etc?

”holy crap, that's wrong, even for you!” story: n/a nothing is wrong for me, this year it finally hit me that i don’t owe anyone anything and i can literally write whatever i want, which i did.

but i guess i did venture past a soft T rating for the first time and write something slightly more explicit than my usual fare of 'thinking about holding hands'/'intense eye contact', so that's something.

story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: i began 'the snow covers us' with a vague but earnest enthusiasm for minor female characters in general and finished the fic as fuyumi's #1 fan. i have so many thoughts about her position as the eldest child in a family like the todorokis (and all the failed expectation that comes with that), and her relationship with her youngest and most powerful brother. i wish someone else would write an epic fuyumi biopic so i won't have to!!

most unintentionally telling story: all… of them… but i projected particularly hard on blanche in 'the dimming divide', and jaehee in 'heart wide as the sea'. something about that imposter syndrome and repression of feelings. you know. the sudden shift in tone to optimism in the endings is pure wish fulfilment.

and i didn't realise it while i was writing it but 'a girl of routine' was absolutely me setting out one of my biggest fantasies ie being able to step away from something you've devoted a huge chunk of your life to so you can evaluate how you feel about it from a safe distance, and then reengage with it on your own terms, surrounded by a support network, without any fallout or consequences for leaving in the first place.

hardest story to write: i started 'an outline of shapes i used to know' last year and it took me half a year to finish because i really wanted to do oikawa's character justice and acknowledge as many different facets of his personality as possible! i was also working through a lot of personal stuff re his natural talent vs hard work arc and publishing the fic was definitely kind of cathartic.

biggest disappointment: pokemon go fandom at the height of its hype really spoiled me with my first two fics, so i'm a little bit sad that the kudos count on 'A History of Storms' doesn't really reflect how much effort and energy i put into it ;v; especially considering that it's my best and longest piece by far! it isn't the fic with the lowest kudos count--that would be 'antebellum' and 'all of those better days', both on 3 kudos--but since those are for small fandoms like yugioh arc v i'm not too disappointed by that!

biggest surprise: still not over that word count?!?!? also, breaking 100 kudos for five different fics when i'd never managed to do so before (my shock when 'all the choirs in my head' and 'i won't say it' broke 100 kudos in like a day…)! and the fact that people have offered to translate three of my fics, which i will never be over. honestly i will probably never, ever be over the fact that people like my fic at all, so if you've ever read/kudosed/commented on/recced anything i've written, thank you from the bottom of my heart ❤️