i kiss the rain

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 03:28:21 GMT

Title: Taking Five
Pairing: Dave Micklejoen/Liv Finn
Word Count: 824
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2; 'versaryverse
Summary: Echoing the previous fic! If Liv Finn were Sara Paxton and Dave Micklejoen were Bob Bryar, this is probably what their interaction would be like. For citharize's birthday! ♥

"This movie is such bullshit," Deliverance Finn muttered under her breath during a break between filming scenes, looking between the university set and her script and trying to decide which was more worthy of derision at this particular moment. "Call me when you need me," she called over her shoulder to the director, who was talking something out with one of the professors; he nodded to her quickly before turning back to them. The ups of not being one of those tightly-leashed Disney darlings -- her fame (relatively speaking) gave her a slight edge she would never get tired of taking advantage of.

She deposited her script on the first available chair she found -- she'd be happy to lose the goddamn thing, but unfortunately it'd probably be returned to her -- and dodged the horribly-costumed extras as best as she could (seriously, what the fuck was the makeup budget for this movie? She really needed to get some decent work in the industry at some point, or just stick to music instead), nodding absently when she had to force a greeting and didn't want to be too rude. (The production crew could be bitchy, but fellow actors could always be contacts -- Liv may have been fairly apathetic about people, but she wasn't stupid, especially not when it came to her job.)

She had made her way past her brother shamelessly hitting on the three villainous sisters (something about his wand providing all the magic this movie would ever need; the lead girl looked disgusted and the twins halfway between scared and bewildered) and had to bodily restrain herself from interfering and putting all of them out of their misery, preferably with a punch to Eliot's jaw, before she stood on tiptoe and glanced in the opposite direction. There -- that was the telltale head of blond hair, height, and solid build she'd seen earlier and had come to look for. Liv dropped back down for a moment, turning her attention to the vital task of tugging the neckline of her sweater down a little more.

This accomplished, she wasted no time in stalking towards the place her eyes were trained on and all but throwing herself at her boyfriend, Dave Micklejoen, drummer for Unapologetic Apathy. "Boyfriend" was, of course, the label the press had stapled onto the relationship; Liv never really thought about what she wanted to call him, mostly because she tended not to spare much time for thought in the middle of mindblowing sex.

"Mmm," she said against his mouth -- her attack had been welcomed by arms going firmly around her waist and lips meeting hers like they'd been apart for years and not just a month. "You've got some balls," she added after a moment, as sternly as possible when she was arching her back into the hand cupping her breast. "This is a fucking Disney set."

"No kids around, though," Dave returned, as cheerful as he ever sounded; he settled, though, for giving a firm squeeze before letting his hand return more decorously to her hip. "Is everyone gonna keep staring like that?" he asked next, tugging her closer almost protectively as he glared down a few of the tech workers (who quickly glanced away). "It's fucking creepy."

"They're just trying to fix into their minds how hot the piece of ass that they're not getting is," Liv replied placidly, biting his earlobe and tugging firmly. "So you're in town tonight?"

"Mmhm." Dave tilted his head into her careful examination of the area around his ear and neck, letting his fingers trace carefully up her spine in retaliation. "Show at the stadium nearby, hotel tonight. Rehearsal's out early -- Dio probably wants to fuck his new boy too -- so I'm all yours now."

"You had me at 'hotel'," Liv reassured him, fingernails digging into his shoulder as his hand briefly traced up her shirt. "And fuck, seriously, I don't want to get fired, save some of it for there. How long before your sound check?"

"Long enough", really the only reply that Liv required, came out of Dave's mouth mere seconds before he was lifting her up and firmly hoisting her over his shoulder, companionably patting her ass as he settled her there. "Sadie's parked right off the set."

"I'm taking five," Liv informed the closest crew member, rather unnecessarily; he gaped at her for a moment, then nodded, scurrying off.

"'s that really all you think we'll need?" Dave asked once he was out of earshot, arching an eyebrow at her as best as he could given their positions.

Liv snorted quietly. "All I said was five," she replied, all innocence. "Minutes, hours -- I can't really be assed to specify, can I? Not like the fucking movie revolves around me or anything."

Refraining from mentioning that this tended to happen when one was the star of a movie, all Dave did was pat her ass again and quicken his pace towards the car.

Questions are shot to the heart of hell.

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 03:16:36 GMT

Title: Untitled
Pairing: Spike Hawke-Next/Sammy Crowley
Word Count: 5538
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2; 'versaryverse
Summary: If Spike Hawke-Next were Conor Oberst and Sammy Crowley were Jason Mraz, their courtship might go something like this. For rhombal's birthday. ♥
Warning: PORN. LOTS OF IT. NEVER SAY I DON'T WARN YOU.

You could say what you liked about the decay of modern sound or the decline in quality of recent concerts -- as far as Samuel Crowley was concerned, the outdoor music festival was still one of the best things to happen to music.

Concerts were just so similar a lot of the time, and even if you had a difference in the main band and the opening acts, there wasn't enough variety. Open-air festivals, though -- even when they were in the same general genre, the bands that took the main, side, and local stages were always different enough to make each new band sound like a fresh start. Sammy had always craved variety in the music he listened to -- his tastes were truly eclectic, often downright strange -- and spending time listening to new and diverse groups was his favourite part of performing at festivals like this.

Of course, it helped that he was plain-looking enough to keep his not-famous-enough-to-be-easily-recognized status, something he liked to hang onto while he could. He'd take passing for the average guy over preferential treatment any day, so he smiled cheerfully at the middle-aged woman who sold him a lemonade (poured into a large plastic cup, as no one was allowed to handle glass bottles), choosing to pay the rather overpriced fee instead of just getting something backstage, and turned back to the main stage he was to grace later in the day.

There was some sort of band that was popularly labeled "indie", Sammy thought (he was never too good with labels, popular or not), currently playing, though it seemed like the focus was on the young man about his own age at the center of the stage more than anyone else. The song didn't sound familiar, but the general sound and what Sammy could see from the screen near the lawn were more so; he retrieved one of the small lineup cards from the nearest drink stall and glanced down at the time. Yes, there it was -- Bright Eyes -- he had heard of them, if only vaguely.

They were pretty good, though, as far as he was concerned; the guy's voice was good, earnest, just barely loud enough, even with a microphone, to carry out over the crowd. It sounded interesting, distinctive, with the usual obscurely poetic lyrics that seemed to characterize this sort of music. Sammy had started listening near the end of the song -- soon, the audience was cheering and he could see the singer's grin on the screen, saluting them as he stepped forward.

"One more, I think," he said into the microphone, speaking voice as pleasant as his singing one, laughing at the audience's loud objections to this. "Sorry, guys, not my show. I'm not about to monopolize the stage and there's some great guys coming on after me, am I right?" The fans of the next band in the audience cheered obligingly; the singer grinned again. "All right, this is a love song." Pause for more cheering. "I don't know if you guys are into love around here or what, but..." And another laugh as they cheered again, then he shrugged. "I don't know, it's pretty rad." More cheering, then the singer gave an almost sheepish grin that Sammy found he had to mirror. He wandered a little closer, watching the stage as the song started, finding himself genuinely anticipating it.

The song was, in all honesty, surprisingly pleasant -- it had a happier sound and more optimistic lyrics than the other Sammy had just heard. The audience seemed to approve of it as a final song; he noted that a lot of them were just mouthing the lyrics along instead of singing them, as if it were important to let the singer do this one on his own. And he was doing more than enough on his own, Sammy thought. "But I'd rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery," he was singing; it was a surprisingly simple, earnest sentiment, and it was possibly more so than anything else what decided Sammy absolutely in his course as he made his way towards the backstage area as the deafening applause followed the band off the stage.

Sammy grinned at one of the security guards, digging his VIP pass out from his pocket and flashing it at him; he nodded, stepping to the side to let him through, much to the consternation of the knot of girls gathered at the very limits of the public area. Sammy gave them a sheepish, apologetic smile before heading off on his quest.

He found the singer talking to one of the other guards nearby, having just walked off the stage, holding a plastic water bottle and gesturing with it as he talked. "Not that I don't love our fans," he was saying confidentially, "but seriously, it's hot as hell out here and I'd really rather not deal with autograph-signing and all that right now, I kind of just want some anonymity, y'know?"

"Hey," Sammy said from behind him, offering a wave he knew he couldn't see.

The singer actually jumped a little before whirling, looking startled before relaxing into a grin, looking a little sheepish. "Oh. Oh, hi," he offered, returning the wave; behind him, the security guard took his chance for an escape.

"That was good timing," Sammy continued ruefully, giving him a grin in return. "Sorry to ruin the whole anonymity thing, but -- "

He was waving it off, though, shaking his head a little before taking a drink from the water bottle. "Don't sweat it," he replied firmly, then grinned again. "'Sides, I know who you are. You're playing later. Sammy Crowley, right?"

Sammy nodded, trying not to show his surprise. "You've heard of me, really? I mean, I'm huge in Europe, but as far as here goes -- "

The singer was laughing now, and it seemed like that genuinely friendly grin was probably not going far from his face. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure we're a little bigger than you, but give you time. I got your first album for my birthday a few years back and I really liked it." He hesitated, as if unsure about saying something, then leaned in conspiratorily to add, "In fact, don't tell anyone, but I've got two posters of you in my room at home. One's on my ceiling."

Sammy blinked, then had to grin. It wasn't often that he met people with a quirky sense of humour that he could easily play off of, so it was only natural to clasp a hand to his heart. "Really? I was going to tell you that I had three of you and that makes the news so much easier to impart now that I know it's mutual." He hesitated, then continued, more sheepishly, "Of course, when I pictured telling you this, I also knew your name."

It was the other boy's turn to blink, then laugh; the laughter continued for another minute, maybe too long to have been polite did he not seem so good-natured about it. "Spike," he offered along with his hand once he'd managed to stop, giving Sammy a grin that was half amusion and half apology. "Spike Hawke-Next."

Before he knew it, Sammy was walking around the sidewalks of the fair with Spike, enjoying himself far more, he suspected, than he would have on his own. Spike had retrieved a large-brimmed hat and sunglasses from backstage -- "protection," he'd explained with a rueful grin, setting them on, "the really determined fans'll still recognize me, but most of them are either nice enough to let it go or sane enough for me not to mind" -- and asked Sammy if he could buy him a drink. So they wandered, drinking (another, in Sammy's case) lemonade, catching sounds from the local and side stages, commenting on the music, offering up bits of information about one another.

"Can we stop here for a bit?" Spike asked after maybe half an hour, when they were approaching the main stage again. "My brother's band is on now and I'd like to hear at least some of his set -- "

"Yeah, sure, of course," Sammy agreed right away, looking a little sheepish. "I didn't mean to distract you from listening to him, either."

Spike laughed, for a moment giving Sammy a look that he couldn't quite read before simply grinning. "I'm sure he'd understand. And don't tell anyone, but I can't really take too much time listening to their music. They kind of make me want to dress in bright colours and mismatched patterns and join the circus."

Sammy couldn't help laughing in turn -- it was mockery, but of a good-natured sort. "That bad, is it?"

"See for yourself," Spike replied darkly as they reached the stage, standing near the lawn where the music was more audible over the screams of the people in the seats (they had, judging by the fading of sound and the loudness of the crowd, caught the band near the end of a song). "It's really not," he relented after a moment, grinning. "It's just -- not really my thing. The genres are pretty different. But they're successful and I'm proud of him."

Sammy peered at the screen nearby, now focused on the slender young man at the center of the stage, outfitted in a rather strange red suit and coat and a large top hat, odd makeup designs under his eye. He looked familiar, though, and as the next song started up (to the cheers of the crowd), Sammy snapped his fingers. "That's right. I've heard of them. Panic! at the Disco, right? Your brother's name is -- Anton."

Spike nodded, looking proud despite himself. "That's him. He's apparently become a sex symbol or something ridiculous like that." He wrinkled his nose in mock horror. "Spare me the very thought, I say. But they've been doing really well. Basically out of nowhere, but look at their fanbase. Huge. They'll be calling me 'that kid from Panic! at the Disco's big brother' soon."

"What does the exclamation point mean?" Sammy asked curiously; it was something that had vaguely nagged at him since the first time he had seen the band's name.

Spike's brow furrowed a little. "Honestly?" he answered after a moment. "I have absolutely no idea. I think it might actually just be a typo. It's the sort of thing Anton would find cool and keep for no reason at all, but I don't think they meant to even have it in there. Seems to work for 'em, though."

"He doesn't look too much like you," was Sammy's next observation as a close-up of Anton crossing the stage as he sang flashed across the screen.

"I know," Spike sighed, shaking his head. "Not all of us can be gifted with my dazzling good looks. Adopted," he added, grinning at Sammy, something slightly odd lingering in his expression (or maybe Sammy was imagining it). "Both of us are. But I don't think I could love him more if we had all the blood relation in the world."

The last sentence had been said in a slightly quieter tone, more serious than anything else Sammy had heard from Spike, and he glanced back at him to give him a quick smile. "I could tell."

They stayed silent for another few minutes while the song wrapped up, just standing next to one another and watching the stage, taking absent sips of their lemonade. The silence, Sammy thought, felt as easy and companionable as their earlier conversation had and he was oddly glad to have even that much.

Two songs later, Spike quirked an eyebrow over at Sammy and asked, "Aren't you on after them? Shouldn't you be getting ready?"

Sammy's eyed widened as he glanced at his watch, knowing Spike was right -- he'd just completely lost track of time. He'd be lying if he said he were usually completely punctual about arriving to his sets, but he'd rarely ever utterly forgotten about them. "You're right," he murmured, glancing back at the stage with a faint frown. "Damn. I really need to go, then."

Spike's hand brushed his elbow before he'd even moved; when he turned back to him, there was an unusual sort of hope in Spike's eyes. "Let's do lunch sometime, okay?" he asked, tone almost deliberately casual. "Or -- dinner. Or breakfast. Or something."

He seemed nervous, for reasons Sammy couldn't quite guess at, but it wasn't as if he were planning on turning him down. "I'll have my people call your people," he replied easily, grinning, and thought as he rushed backstage about how strange it was to see how much Spike had lit up at that answer. He'd probably had a bad or boring few days to be looking forward to something so simple that much; there was no other reason for being that pleased to hear it, right?

A few months later saw the pair of them wandering a small mall in a small town where people either hadn't heard of them or were too discreet to care, wearing large sunglasses and even larger hats and mirroring one another's grins, which -- as far as Sammy could tell -- were threatening to dwarf both hats and sunglasses.

Thankfully, neither of them had been touring for too long after the music festival; Sammy had had a few more local dates and Spike had gone around a few states for the next few weeks, but Sammy had kept tabs on the tour and made sure to, as promised, have his people call Spike's people once he was back in the area. They'd had lunch a few days later, as planned, and somehow they'd both ended up simply spending more and more time together. Sometimes they bounced song ideas off of one another -- Sammy once wrote a song with lyrics composed solely of every other sentence Spike had spoken to him the day before and Spike had nearly fallen out of his chair laughing when he heard it -- and sometimes their conversations turned serious -- plans for the future, thoughts on politics or the meaning of life -- but for the most part, they just felt free to discuss whatever was on their minds or going on around them. They just clicked in a way Sammy had experienced with few other friends and he was pleased, even happy to have found someone with whom he got along so well.

He was aware that there were rumours surrounding them, of course, but Spike seemed to dismiss them, so Sammy did the same. It wasn't as if he'd ever been in the middle of anything particularly exciting before, so it was almost interesting to hear about them. He knew Spike was gay, of course -- it was practically impossible to miss, as he didn't bother to closet himself in any way. Naturally, their spending so much time together in the face of that particular obvious sexual orientation was going to be cause for talk. And maybe there were times when their hands brushed together and they'd still, or maybe sometimes their gazes caught for just a second too long -- but that was totally normal, Sammy thought, wasn't it? He was barely even aware of it; he just had rarely spent so much time in the company of one person that he'd forgotten how weird constant proximity to a good friend could be. He was pretty sure this happened with everyone.

And now, Sammy mused, watching Spike laugh at some ridiculous joke or another he'd finished telling a moment ago, they were actually shopping together, in a mall, no less. They hadn't bought anything yet, but it was the thought that counted. The rumour mills would, if they were spotted (which he was all but counting on), go insane the next day.

"Here," Spike said suddenly as they passed a small designer clothing store, tugging on Sammy's sleeve to stop him. "We can try some of this stuff on."

Sammy quirked an eyebrow, surveying the store thoughtfully. "I dunno," he replied slowly, voice concerned. "You know this is probably the most expensive place in the mall; we might not be able to afford anything from it. Are you sure it's within our budget?"

Spike grinned before forcing a more serious face -- they'd done their best to pretend to reject items on the basis of their being too expensive, when of course they could have afforded anything they wanted to buy (though they were both laid-back enough not to take advantage of this very often if at all). "We'll just have to splurge. I love their jeans, seriously, I could live in them. C'mon."

And so Sammy found himself being dragged into the store, which really would have been far more than what they could have afford were they not both as famous as they were but which did have remarkably comfortable-looking jeans. He waited patiently as Spike collected things off of the racks and shelves, curiously glancing at some of the hats in the meantime, and put up with it patiently when Spike shoved a few pairs of jeans into his own arms, firmly proclaiming how good they'd look.

He was, however, a little startled to find Spike dragging them into the same fitting room; thankfully, they were fairly spacious with cushioned seats and a full mirror, and when Sammy quirked a questioning eyebrow, Spike explained, "I am going to be the first to see you in these jeans so that I can be the first to witness how they changed your life. Just remember that, young Crowley." Sammy had to laugh at that, tossing back a reply, and the ease was established with banter despite the new environment.

Still, as Spike stripped off his old jeans like it was nothing and Sammy moved to do the same with his, he couldn't help but feel as if the room seemed smaller than it did originally. Why else would their hands have brushed when they reached towards the pile of jeans that had somehow gotten mixed up together? Spike aimed a sheepish grin at him at that and Sammy could have sworn his face suddenly felt a little warmer than usual. While Spike tried a pair of new jeans on quickly, Sammy glanced towards the mirror to see if he was actually blushing; the answer was, thankfully, no (there was no reason for him to be, after all), but then he felt Spike's hand touch his shoulder, maybe a little too lightly (and why would it have been too light, anyway?).

"Your turn," Spike was saying with a grin, moving to strip off the current jeans but not bothering to put his old ones back on, for whatever reason. Probably he meant to try on more new ones too, Sammy thought as he properly pulled his own pants off and reached for one of the new pairs of jeans.

He fastened the jeans and, after a quick once-over in the mirror (they looked, to him, like jeans -- maybe tighter than usual, but more or less ordinary jeans), turned to Spike for approval, managing a mostly relaxed faint grin (and when had that become difficult?) as he spread his hands in question. "Well? What's the verdict?"

Spike, for whatever reason, was looking just a little distracted as he studied Sammy. "Mm," he said after a moment, thoughtfully, then nodded without looking at him. "They're great," he said, but even his tone sounded a little off as he took half a step closer. "They -- I mean it, they look really good on you. I thought they would." And before Sammy could quite comprehend what was going on, almost as if moving against his will, Spike had let his hands hover at Sammy's hips, shifting just close enough to hook his thumbs into his belt loops, using the hold to tug him a little closer still.

"Spike?" Sammy asked hesitantly, meaning to make it a simple, confused query, but for whatever reason it came out just a little quieter and more breathless than he meant it to. Spike was closer than he'd expected, too, enough that he could see how his eyes were a slightly darker brown in the center and clearer around the edges, how his lips were parted just barely, and how uncertain and hesitant his own expression was. He could hear that he seemed to have a bit of trouble breathing and it made the situation all the stranger.

"Hey," Spike was saying, voice lower than Sammy had expected with a bit of a catch to it, like speaking was an effort for him. "Stop me, okay? I mean -- if this is -- I'm not even sure if -- if this isn't, if something's -- I'm sure that we could -- we could get past it and be okay again if this doesn't -- but you have to tell me now. Please."

Sammy honestly wasn't sure if he would know how to respond to whatever Spike was saying even if he'd been able to understand it. All he knew was that he had absolutely no idea what was happening -- he found himself having trouble breathing as well now, he couldn't seem to move either, and Spike was there, right there, closer than he'd ever been -- or maybe it just felt that way because it was somehow more meaningful than any proximity between them had ever been.

"Sammy," Spike all but breathed, an odd urgency in his voice, sounding more pleading than anything else, shifting close enough for Sammy to feel the word against his lips, Spike's hips bumping briefly into his, making him shiver, and he suddenly thought, oh.

"Yes," he said as soon as it occurred to him, trying to take a deep breath through the sudden tightness in his chest, "yeah, it's okay," and he barely finished getting the words out before Spike was shifting even closer than before in order to kiss him.

Sammy couldn't help a muffled sound almost a gasp into the kiss, because even knowing it was coming it was still almost a shock -- so startlingly hot, so startlingly good -- his next sound, though, barely a few seconds after that one, was closer to a moan, low in his throat, of enjoyment as he relaxed and let himself lean into Spike, giving himself over to the kiss.

Spike seemed to be holding nothing back now that Sammy had given permission for it, he thought dazedly, feeling himself being pushed back against the mirror with a muffled thud; "sorry," Spike was pulling back just enough to murmur, sounding somewhat dazed himself, "sorry, didn't mean to -- " And then he was kissing Sammy again, deeply and with more heat than Sammy would have believed possible from him, entirely gently but almost intently, and it was so appealing that all Sammy could do was kiss back, not even thinking about making it good or what he was feeling or anything but the sensation of pressing closer, trying to take in as much of this as he possibly could.

Spike's hands were on Sammy's hips now, thumbs still hooked into his belt loops, and there was less space between them than expected because Spike was still wearing only a shirt and boxers and so there seemed, to Sammy, to be even more heat between them because of this. He reached to press both hands against Spike's chest, tracing them slowly downward almost instinctively when Spike gave a low sound into the kiss, pressing into the touch. It seemed like it had been hours of feeling Spike's hips bump into his, his hands on Spike's chest and shoulders, kissing more deeply and intently than he ever had before, when he felt Spike pull away just barely, not enough for him not to feel Spike's hot exhale against his lips.

"Sammy," Spike murmured, seeming to almost relish the way it sounded; Sammy knew that he, for whatever reason, was suddenly enjoying hearing it more than he ever had before. "I -- fuck." He laughed quietly, sounding sheepish now as his hands slid lightly up Sammy's sides and he shifted a little closer still. "I've wanted this for -- a while now. A pretty long time."

"You have?" Whatever Sammy had thought Spike might say, that certainly wasn't it; the situation was beyond anything he might have expected, honestly, but the thought that it could have happened long ago, if Spike had acted on it sooner (Sammy wondered, briefly, how he would have reacted to that) -- well, surprised didn't even begin to cover his reaction. Sammy was amazed his voice didn't shake any more than it already did and that it still held even a small amount of breath.

Spike laughed again; Sammy could still feel the sound of it against his lips. "Yeah, I have. I'm not as obvious as I thought?"

"I -- had no idea," Sammy managed. Speech was still difficult this close to Spike -- everything was happening almost too quickly to process, but he wasn't sure at all that this was a bad thing.

"I guess that's something." Spike met Sammy's gaze and despite the fact that there was a faint, crooked grin on his face, Sammy saw the anxiety in his eyes and knew for sure that Spike was just as nervous and uncertain as he was. "I'm -- pretty sure you can tell now, though."

All Sammy could do was nod, a little sheepishly. Talking like this might have been awkward -- it was a little bit still, he supposed -- but somehow, knowing that he could fit a little of their old dynamic into this new, strange thing just made him feel a little more relaxed and at ease about the whole situation.

Then Spike shifted just barely closer and his knuckles brushed the front of Sammy's jeans, and his expression turned more earnest as he murmured, "Can I -- ?" and just like that, the nerves were back again.

"Can you -- ?" Sammy echoed hesitantly, and in illustration, obviously gathering his courage for it, Spike dropped to his knees, eyes never leaving Sammy's.

Sammy's eyes widened a little as it sunk in; he couldn't stop the flush from spreading across his face. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he nodded.

Without looking away from him just yet, Spike started to undo Sammy's pants, carefully sliding the jeans and his boxers down past his knees; Sammy felt himself flush a little darker, but with the appreciation on Spike's face so clear even from where he was standing, he didn't feel nearly as embarrassed as he should.

And then Spike's mouth -- well, it was just there, suddenly hot and wet and overwhelming and feeling like it was everywhere at once, and Sammy couldn't help letting out a sound halfway between a gasp and a moan, finding the wall necessary to keep himself standing all of a sudden. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, hands pressing against either side of the wall, hips arching forward almost of their own accord. He couldn't move, he couldn't think -- all of him seemed focused on one small spot where Spike's tongue was tracing up and down the length of his cock and he kept drawing Sammy further into his mouth, his hands gripping Sammy's hips a little tighter, and Sammy just closed his eyes more tightly and let out a longer, louder moan, losing himself in the sensation completely.

It didn't take long for Sammy to start shuddering more heavily; it could have been the way his own body was shaking, but it seemed like Spike's hands on his hips were trembling a little too. Almost before he knew it, Sammy was tensing, his eyes closing even more tightly, hands balling into fists, hips arching forward so suddenly it felt nearly painful -- and then he felt a moan work its way out of his throat like it couldn't be held back anymore and he was coming, and it was so, so much better than every single other one of the handful of times Sammy had done this before.

He barely had time to catch his breath, relaxing helplessly against the wall, before he felt Spike's mouth working more gently against his cock -- swallowing, he assumed, and shuddered a little again. He took another few long, shaky, deep breaths before managing to open his eyes (a task that seemed infinitely harder than it had only a few minutes ago).

Spike was still kneeling, looking up at him with an expression that was almost startlingly hopeful. Sammy realized, in somewhat dazed surprise, that Spike had wanted this so much and was so nervous about it that even now, he was afraid that something could go wrong and Sammy would end up, for some reason, not really wanting this. And that decided him, for whatever reason, that he had no doubts about the fact that he did want this.

What Sammy really wanted to do was open his mouth and say something witty and casual to diffuse any lingering tension and make everything fine between them. What actually happened was that Sammy opened his mouth and managed a breathless, slightly awed, "Wow."

Despite it being not quite what Sammy had planned, it seemed to work, judging by Spike's vaguely uncertain but undeniably relieved crooked grin. "Wow?" he echoed, getting to his feet if not moving too much further away from Sammy. "That's definitely a good endorsement if I've ever heard one."

Sammy's returning grin was more than a little sheepish, if more easy this time. "It was -- definitely meant to be one."

"Good." Despite Spike's still-present grin, the word was a little more serious, and for a moment all either of them did was look at one another, the only sound in the stall one another's quiet breathing. Then Spike shifted a little, looking uncomfortable for a moment, before aiming an embarrassed grin at Sammy. "Sammy," he said, voice suddenly a little more breathless, hips pressing forward a little. "Can you -- not if you don't want -- "

It took Sammy a moment to realize what he meant, but he felt colour flood to his face once he did. Still, it wasn't as if it was a difficult decision to make; almost before he knew he'd consciously made it, he was shifting closer and tugging Spike's boxers down.

This seemed to last less time than before, for whatever reason; there was no contact between them, apart from the occasional accidental brush of bodies, except for Sammy's hand wrapped clumsily and a little awkwardly around Spike's cock. Spike's eyes were closed, but Sammy couldn't look away from him -- his head was tilted back, his lips parted, and every time he squeezed or started stroking more quickly, Spike would shudder and let out either a low, strangled moan or some hoarse words along the lines of "yeah -- yeah, that's it, God, Sammy," that would make Sammy shudder harder in turn and press a little closer to him.

It seemed like so much less time -- maybe it really was, Sammy had ceased paying attention long ago -- when Spike suddenly shuddered harder, letting out a lower, longer moan as his hips jerked forward -- and Sammy felt himself flush, automatically wiping his hand on his jeans before remembering they weren't his and flushing darker still.

"I probably have to buy them now, don't I," he said ruefully and felt more than heard Spike's low, hoarse laugh in reply.

"Yeah," he replied, a little breathlessly still, shifting back just in order to stretch; Sammy took the opportunity to step back and put the pants back on properly. "We christened them pretty well, huh?"

"They'll be our jeans from now on," Sammy intoned solemnly, eliciting another laugh from Spike that abruptly broke off.

Sammy turned back to him, quirking an eyebrow; Spike was grinning, faintly and tentatively, and offered him a hand after a moment. "Our," he said almost shyly. "I guess that means there's a we? Or -- an us, I guess, depending on how grammatically correct you want to be."

Sammy considered this, for maybe less time than he might have expected to before, but soon he was just nodding slowly, reaching to take Spike's hand and squeeze it lightly. "Yeah," he confirmed, eyes not leaving Spike's - which gave him a good chance to watch his expression soften as the last traces of doubt melt away into something that resembles far too strong affection. "We're -- an us, or a we. Whichever. Both."

Spike's grin was so bright that Sammy couldn't help but mirror it. "This was -- not exactly how I imagined it going," he confessed, seemingly unable to resist lifting Sammy's hand to brush his lips across his knuckles.

Sammy tried to fight a faint flush; failing, he just resorted to the usual standby. "That bad, was it?" he offered, grin going a little wry.

Spike had had to let go of his hand in order to reach for his pants to put them back on, but at that, he looked back at Sammy -- and for some reason, standing there, hair still messy and cheeks still flushed and one leg still only half-in his pants, he looked more appealing than he ever had before. "Even better," Spike said firmly, and Sammy simply couldn't help another grin.

For forty days and forty nights, the law was on her side.

Sat, 05 Apr 2008 07:35:16 GMT

Title: ...I have been writing this for three months, plz don't expect me to title it too.
Word Count: 10602
Pairing: Dies/Xathanael Hades
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next/angel/demon canon)
Summary: Nothing here for now because it's a surprise! >__> For peridium, because she's been patient for so long and also we talked about this extensively, so. ♥

If he could say nothing else about his life, Dies, the god of sex, had always been able to say that he was happy.

Sure, his life had its downs (often they translated into being quite literal "downs" -- he was the god of sex, after all, meaning he usually required it for his happiness, but it wasn't as if he ever really lacked it). He had times when he was genuinely unhappy. But for the most part, he managed to retain a positive enough outlook on life and a healthy enough balance of everything in it to make his own truly bad moods extremely rare. (For the most part, his dark spots were brought on by poor moods of people he loved; the people he loved were numerous enough that it happened often enough and he loved them enough for sadness on their behalf to be inevitable.) After all, what did he possibly have to complain about? He got all of the sex he wanted, he was in love just like he'd always wanted, one parent of his genuinely cared about him, very few people in his family had even indifference towards him, let alone dislike, and he was extremely lucky to have a large collection of good friends, to boot.

One of said friends, he liked to think, was Xathanael Hades. He was fairly sure that Xathanael did like him -- he knew, in a purely factual and far from arrogant way, that it was difficult not to like him -- despite his frequent protests to the contrary. Dies didn't mind those; it was a comfortable dynamic for them, the good-natured teasing from Dies and the indignant protests from Xathanael. He would have felt guiltier about it were he not also fairly sure that Xathanael enjoyed it more than he let on.

They had a good friendship, Dies thought. No matter how much Xathanael sulked and flailed and scowled at him, Dies knew that he could always go to him should he need comfort or someone to listen (and he had provided this service before). And no matter how much Dies teased and provoked and mocked, he always made sure that Xathanael knew that he genuinely cared and would always be there for him (this, too, had been tested before). So it all worked out to the satisfaction of both, the bickering and the depth of the friendship, and it was, on the whole, entirely pleasant.

Or, at least, it did until the day that Dies looked at Xathanael and thought, with sudden but unavoidable clarity, I want him.

It had, much to the god's chagrin, happened more or less exactly like that. They had been bantering back and forth as usual and Dies had said something so outrageous that Xathanael had had to break his indignant façade to laugh, a long, genuinely amused laugh that was strong enough to last a good few moments. He'd turn to aim a grin at Dies when he was finished, a true grin that was brightened by the amusion of the laugh still lingering in his eyes, and Dies had been hit with a stab of pure desire so strong he thought, melodramatically enough, that it might actually split his heart in half.

It wasn't as if Dies had never wanted anyone before. He could find something attractive in almost everyone and would never have slept with someone he didn't find attractive enough to genuinely want -- but he had felt this before too, the sudden, almost inexplicable desire that made one unable to focus on anything but how appealing the person before one suddenly seemed, how much one wanted nothing more than to be under (or on) them and feel them in every way possible. It was something he was less prone to than the average person, of course, but he'd met his share of people who were so attractive and charismating and overall stunning that had he been mortal, he likely would have been literally stopped in his tracks at the sight of them. The god of sex wasn't immune to the almost painful pangs that lust could bring.

It didn't usually matter, though. The person in question would either be someone with whom Dies could easily get sex (the average single, amenable-to-casual-sex stranger was never anything but flattered to receive attention from Dies, of all people) and thus satisfy the desire or someone he could get away from quickly (it had happened a few times with straight men or lesbians, or people who were in solid relationships) and thus forget about the desire (someone whose sexual orientation he though he could get around was sometimes game for real seduction; people in relationships never were).

But he'd never, never felt so attracted to someone he considered a good friend, someone he saw on a daily basis, someone he'd known was attractive before but never to this degree. He'd never been struck so suddenly by desire for someone he'd seen many times before without the same effect. As overdramatic as it sounded (Dies was finding that the situation seemed to call for more and more melodrama by the minute), he'd never felt it so strongly for someone he knew he couldn't have.

And it wasn't just his looks, either -- it would have been easier to ignore if it were, even for Dies. But there weren't many ways in which Xathanael wasn't appealing, which, of course, was even easier to notice after the desire had made itself known, too strongly to ignore. He was cheerful, for one, something Dies was always drawn to; he maintained a healthy level of nonsense and quirkiness which just happened to balance Dies's own perfectly and probably was a large part of why they were such good friends. For all of his bouncy cheer and often complete lack of sense, though, he was a genuinely good person, willing to give comfort without a second thought should it ever be needed and with an obviously strong set of morals. This was important to Dies as well (though one might have thought otherwise, given his twin, boyfriend, and maternal brother); it was rare that someone managed to balance goodness, cheer, and silliness quite so perfectly. The addition of the quirks specific to Xathanael -- the apparently superfluous and slightly out-of-place eyeliner, the obsession with practically ancient music, the all-but-gay-crush on Elvis Presley -- only served to make the whole even more appealing. Dies already loved him as a good friend, already felt perfectly at ease and comfortable in his company, already viewed him as one of the most important people in his life -- the presence of a suddenly strong appreciation for just how attractive he was (especially when he smiled and especially when he smiled at Dies) made the god painfully aware of just how poorly this could end should he let his thoughts continue in that direction.

It wasn't as if this realization meant that he suddenly didn’t love Tan anymore, either -- Dies was fairly certain that would never happen. It was just the fruition of something he'd always been afraid might happen; he'd made his heart big enough for one person never to be able to fill all of it, for there to be room for someone else to slip in through the cracks and stay there. Dies loved Tan, truly and wholeheartedly, with the sheer force with which he felt everything and with the added enthusiasm of first love; he made him happy, the sex was amazing, and few things could make Dies's heart leap as much as the frequent (surprisingly so, to anyone who knew Tan), faint smiles he got from Tan did, even after a year and a half.

Unfortunately, Xathanael's smiles (brighter, more genuine, and given with far more cheer and regularity) were edging closer and closer to becoming one of those few things as well.

Dies didn't tell anyone about -- whatever it was, this thing that he couldn't name, whatever thing made him sometimes slip into absent daydreaming about nothing more than the last time he'd talked to Xathanael, made him wonder what he would think of something were he there, made him miss him when he wasn't there, made him take glances that lasted just a split-second too long at his eyes, his hair, his smile. He never showed it, either -- his specialty might have been increasing sex appeal, but he could damn well dampen evidence of it too, so he never gave even the slightest hint of feelings past friendship (as if he could define what exactly these feelings even were). And it wasn't as if he ever wished Tan were -- well, not himself, or if he ever let other thoughts intrude on their time together; it was just that he wasn't always with Tan and it was far too easy to let his mind wander when he wasn't.

And letting his mind wander was all he could do. Even if Xathanael hadn't had a girlfriend (which really cemented Dies's conviction not to do anything about it, as if it needed cementing), he was straight. No matter how much Dies teased and mocked, he knew this was true. (He hadn't at first; he'd been genuinely surprised to learn it. Sometimes Nature just got its wires crossed with Idea and some people's orientations didn't end up what they should have been. Dies was certain that in every other universe, Xathanael would have ended up at least bisexual; it was practically written on his face that it was how he should have been and it wasn't fair to confuse him that way, especially not now.) And that was something that simply couldn't be changed.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. Yes, sexuality was in its own way fluid, but most people, when firmly decided on it, tended to stick to it for most of their lives -- and yet, Dies was used to being the exception to the rule. He had always been secure in the knowledge that he could work his way around even the tightest of sexual orientations; it wasn't something he did often, as it usually tended to disorient people, but he had enjoyed meetings with experimenting college boys or lesbians who'd never been attracted to men before. He'd always been certain that, should he need to, he could seduce anyone; he didn't choose to seduce most people, but he knew he could and he took pride in that.

This was different. It wasn't that he didn’t think he could do it if he tried -- for all his protestations, Xathanael didn't have enough experience with sex to be able to even begin to resist if Dies unleashed his best onto him. But the identity crises (of varying size) that tended to follow finding an exception to previously watertight sexuality wasn't something Dies would have ever wished on Xathanael. It would have made him feel confused and helpless and would almost certainly have damaged their friendship for good; Dies would never have been able to live with himself if he'd let that happen.

So he never thought about trying to force the hand; if Xathanael was happy with what they had, Dies was too. The friendship meant too much to him to try to change even if he'd wanted to -- and he didn't want to. He had Tan, Xathanael had someone, and nothing could ever had happened anyway. Dies always contented himself with what he had and now was no exception; he was happy enough and there was no use wishing for anything else because it was impossible.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't.

It had happened that suddenly, too. One day, Dies was trying to force back the thoughts he could never let himself dwell on for too long and the next, for all intents and purposes, they had every appearance of being reciprocated.

It took him a while to realize it, just because it was something he had never expected. He'd thought something was strange about Xathanael -- he'd never looked quite so pleased to see Dies before, nor quite so embarrassed about that, and when they'd sat down on the couch, he'd seemed to take a few moments of figuring out if he should scoot a little closer or a little further away. Weird, Dies had thought, but didn't know what to attribute it to. Maybe he wasn't feeling well.

This seemed more and more likely when Dies noticed that after ten or so minutes of casual conversation, Xathanael would go slightly pink whenever he made one of his usual offhand comments with vague innuendo. This, combined with the fact that he seemed to be listening more closely to everything Dies said while not quite looking away from him (all right, maybe he should have noticed it sooner after all), was what finally prompted him to remark, "Hey, are you feeling okay?" before reaching over to lightly rest a hand at his forehead with a faint grin.

Xathanael immediately turned a colour that couldn't have been called anything but red and the "'m fine" that emerged was practically squeaked out. And that was when Dies peered at him a little more closely before it hit him.

He wasn't straight. Dies didn't know how it had happened or how he hadn't noticed it before, but there it was. Unexpected, impossible, and completely out of the blue, obvious if he'd taken a moment to really look at it, but somehow it had happened.

He was so surprised by this revelation that it took him another few seconds to realize what accompanied it. Well, that he should have seen coming too -- most people of his acquaintance were at least attracted to him even if that didn't constitute basis for actual deeper feeling. Still, this sort of awkwardness didn't spring from simple attraction; feeling like a bit of a voyeur, Dies let himself probe just a little deeper into Xathanael’s mind, just past the new sexual orientation, and found that he was right.

Well, damn. That certainly changed things rather a lot.

"Holy shit," Dies murmured after a moment, letting his hand drop as he studied Xathanael; he watched as his expression flickered into what might have been very brief disappointment at the loss of contact, quickly followed by hastily suppressed worry (he must have known Dies would find out, after all). After a moment, Dies realized a little belatedly that he should give some sign of how he was reacting to this news, but he wasn't even sure how he was reacting himself; as he tried to figure this out, he saw Xathanael relax a little and realized that he'd given a faint, unconscious grin while he was thinking.

"That's interesting," Dies managed, as neutrally as he could (despite that still-present slight grin), and got a slightly strangled laugh in response.

"'s probably stupid to try hiding anything from you, right?" Xathanael was saying, rather sheepishly and self-deprecatingly, not quite meeting Dies's eyes. "Especially this -- something like -- I mean -- yeah." He trailed off rather ineloquently with a meaningful gesture, the faint flush on his face darkening a little.

His expression, somewhere between embarrassment, genuine nervousness, and vague hope, all but melted Dies's heart; it was all he could do to resist reaching to touch his cheek or look at him as tenderly as he suddenly wanted to. He let his voice go a little more gentle, at least, when he replied, "Yeah, it doesn't tend to work." Giving in to the impulse to touch him, Dies restrained himself to only curling two fingers lightly under his chin and carefully tipping it towards him. "Let me look at you, okay?" he asked quietly, hoping he wasn't imagining the slight hitch in Xathanael's breath as his gaze shifted to meet Dies's.

He only squirmed a little under Dies's scrutiny, to his credit; his eyes had gone just a little wide and he seemed almost frozen in place by Dies's gaze. Dies wouldn't admit it, but he was looking for some sort of physical sign that things were different, almost as if he couldn't quite believe this sudden turn of events wasn't all in his head without tangible confirmation of the world's sudden, drastic departure from what he knew to be reality.

He found nothing, though, unsurprisingly, and so he turned back to probing Xathanael's mind a little further, mentally excusing the violation of privacy by firmly asserting that, well, he had to find out what was going on here before he knew what further action to take, didn't he? This quite obviously concerned him and if pure, selfish, almost hopeful curiosity motivated him as much as a need for clarity did, well, he didn't necessarily have to admit that.

It didn't take much poking past the initial layer of change to realize that one of Dies's relatives was responsible for it. He couldn't tell who (though he had a few guesses), and either way it didn't really matter; one god couldn't undo what another god (or demigod or two-thirdsgod, whichever the case may be) did. Even if this was Dies's domain and he would have been quite within his rights to reverse it, it was still seriously frowned upon and barring extreme cases of necessity, not something he should have been doing.

It could have been argued, Dies supposed, that this was an extreme case, that it would cause too much shame even if he would reverse it now -- but he wasn't sure if that would fly if put under strict scrutiny (Greek gods hardly had a history of caring about the shame of mortals, after all) and if one wanted to be painfully honest, a small (all right, maybe not quite small), selfish part of him didn't want to reverse it.

Probing a little deeper, Dies discovered that not only was the change absolute, but it carried the consequence of Xathanael holding no memory of his girlfriend. That should have done it -- that should have convinced Dies that taking advantage of this would be selfish and stupid and something he would regret for the rest of Xathanael's life, if not forever. And under any other circumstances, it might have been enough.

But, by every god on Olympus, every god he could think of, it wasn't. It wasn't enough to cancel the pangs of longing that were suddenly sharper than Dies had ever felt them before. It wasn't enough to give him the strength to pull his fingers back and walk away. It would be something he would wonder about forever -- how often would he get a chance like this? Never again, in all likelihood. He would always regret not trying it and seeing how it felt if he let it go now. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was stupid, but Dies couldn't bring himself to care.

It would change everything; Dies knew that much. He wouldn't be able to lie about what had driven him to take action later, wouldn't be able to go back and pretend everything was all right. And even knowing this, even with his conscience squirming with how firmly it was being suppressed, even knowing it was the closest to deliberate cruelty he'd ever be, Dies threw caution to the winds and closed the distance between his lips and Xathanael's.

He felt rather than heard the quiet intake of breath from Xathanael at the motion, felt the slight shudder go through him, imagined his eyes briefly widening in surprise; to his immediate and rather pathetically strong relief, it only took a moment before the surprise was mastered and Xathanael was kissing back, with less skill but obvious earnestness that melted Dies's heart a little more. He was shifting a little closer and Dies moved closer to him in turn, fingers on his jaw gentle, not letting the kiss be too deep or heated just yet (though he suddenly found himself more tempted by it than he’'d ever been before) -- letting it stay careful, slow, almost experimental, because even when he was being selfish, he couldn't completely disregard what Xathanael might need.

He didn't let it linger too long, either; after he'd satisfied the start of his curiosity as to what this would be like (though he found himself even more curious now that he'd had this much), he pulled back just barely, fingertips still brushing the edge of Xathanael's jaw, close enough to feel the quiet, slightly shaky exhale of breath from the other boy's lips.

The moment of silence following the kiss went on just a little too long; Dies was beginning to feel an unfamiliar coil of nervousness settle somewhere near his heart when Xathanael spoke, in a vaguely awed breath more than proper speech. "Wow."

All of Dies's nerves evaporated then and he sat back just a little, fingers dropping for now, laughing quietly. "I should probably take that as a good sign, right?" he asked, faint grin just a little crooked, forcing it not to be too hopeful.

Xathanael half-opened one eye, gave a slightly sheepish grin in turn, and then opened both, chewing on his lower lip a little. "Yeah, definitely. I mean -- you're you, so I probably should've figured that -- that even that would be so -- yeah," he finished meaningfully, seeming to be struck by rather inconvenient inarticulacy again.

Dies didn't mind it -- he was used to inspiring the reaction in a good deal of people and it was gratifying, in a silly selfish way, to see it in Xathanael after so much time suppressing the temptation to cause it. "Learn something new every day, huh?" he replied easily, his next grin a little more confident. It was confidence he didn't quite feel, though -- he was trying to figure out what he should do next, how to go from here.

Xathanael was fidgeting a little, his nerves more obvious; Dies felt a strong burst of sympathy that nearly made him regret his selfishness. It must have been exceptionally confusing for someone that had always been so firm regarding his sexuality to have it so strongly and suddenly overturned.

"I always thought," Xathanael finally started, studiously examining the pattern of the couch somewhere between himself and Dies. "I mean. If -- I'd been thinking about this before. I would have figured that it'd be -- y'know -- more. Not that this wasn't great," he added quickly, flushing faintly as he glanced back up at Dies. "It was, trust me. It really, really was. I just figured there'd be -- more. It'd last longer." His colour was now certifiably defined as "red".

Dies found, impossibly, that at this particular moment, the urge to pull Xathanael into his lap, wrap both arms around him, and never let go was stronger than the urge to tangle a hand in his hair and demonstrate exactly how a kiss should be executed. Forcing back both the affection and the desire, he quirked an eyebrow. "You're trying to tell me that that's what you want?"

"Yeah," Xathanael replied, quietly but with surprising fervor. "Since -- it feels like it should maybe be weird, y'know? Since -- we've been friends for so long and I know I've been all -- " He gestured vaguely, as if to put aside the minor problem of his previous orientation. "But -- it's not. I don't think it is, anyway. It's really -- nice. More than nice. Great. And -- I know it could be better. I know it could be -- amazing. And I think -- I know I want it to be."

It took some amount of effort for Dies to keep his expression as level as possible at that; he knew his faint grin was showing more affection than ever before, but he couldn't help it. Even letting himself show only that much was an effort. "Let me get this -- let me make sure I have this right," he corrected himself quickly, not wanting to get into the awkwardness poor word choice might bring about. Not now. "You -- want me to kiss you again. Properly. And if that goes as well as you think it will, you want -- more than that."

Xathanael flushed darkly at that, but after a moment that Dies could almost sense was less hesitation and more simply mental confirmation (or maybe that was just wishful thinking), he nodded, firmly. "Yeah. That's pretty much it."

Well, if anyone had faced a greater temptation in their life (and they probably had, honestly, but it didn't feel that way at the moment), Dies would've very much liked to hear about it.

Honestly, his own decision was made as well -- obviously when deciding to be terrible and selfish and completely disregarding everyone but himself for once, he had insisted on going all-out. He just needed a moment to properly think about it, to let the repercussions settle, to accustom himself to the idea that he was changing everything, that he wouldn't be able to turn back after this. And to ask himself if he really wanted this enough, if he thought it was worth it -- and the answer was such a strong yes that there could be no room for doubt in his mind anymore.

After a moment, Dies let himself nod a little. "If you're totally positive," he added, perhaps unnecessarily considering that Xathanael had brightened noticeably at the gesture -- not too much, but enough to make his eyes light up a little, his grin go a little more relaxed and genuine. And it was selfish, utterly and completely so, because it was only the external influence that made him so pleased, but Dies would have lived his entire life selfishly just to keep seeing how that decision made Xathanael look.

He shifted closer, not letting himself hesitate, gratified to see the slight, shy response of Xathanael leaning in just a little in turn. His fingertips carefully and lightly traced down Xathanael's jaw before he let his hand cup his cheek, unable to help the slightest of shivers in response to the shudder that went through Xathanael at the touch. Leaning in a little, he murmured, a little teasingly, "Last chance to change your mind" and Xathanael replied, a little breathless but obviously insistent, "Come on, Dies," and he couldn't help but oblige.

Dies let their lips brush together just barely at first, still willing to tease a little, and the slightly startled exhale emerging from Xathanael made it impossible for him to wait any longer; he fully closed the distance between them, letting his tongue slip properly between Xathanael's lips this time, shuddering a little at the low, almost startled sound escaping from him now (his self-control was surprisingly precarious, more so than before), and as he shifted closer to deepen the kiss, he let himself stop thinking at all.

It was something he'd wanted for so long, it almost felt like forever now that he was finally getting it, and he never wanted to forget a minute of it -- Xathanael's tongue sliding carefully against his own, growing more confident with every second the kiss lasted, Xathanael's hand on his shoulder, his hand on Xathanael's cheek feeling every little shiver and shudder that went through him. Dies himself was unable to help the occasional quiet, encouraging (or less purposeful) sound or the slightest of shudders; this was already affecting him more than any other kiss he'd ever had, because it felt like a long time coming and this was Xathanael, one of his best friends, someone he thought he'd never have this with, someone attractive and funny and sweet and amazing, and Dies suddenly felt, when he finally pulled away, not far enough away for their lips not to be touching, that he might be in just a little over his head.

"We probably need a bed," he murmured after a moment, mostly just to see the flush immediately spread over Xathanael's face. He laughed quietly, tipping his chin up to kiss him again, quickly, before -- keeping a light hold on his chin -- their surroundings melted away into that of a spacious, comfortable bedroom; the two of them were seated on the large, soft bed.

Xathanael shifted away a little, and Dies almost instinctively felt vague panic rise in his heart before reminding himself that he was just looking around, he was only startled at the change in surroundings, he wasn't rejecting him or thinking better of it. His stupid, selfish heart felt like it couldn't take another second of strain, and the feeling eased away a little when Xathanael gave him a faint grin after a moment.

"It's great," he said, a little hesitantly, and Dies responded by shifting closer to kiss him again.

Xathanael was a little more confident still this time, arm going around Dies's neck to pull himself closer, and Dies shuddered as he let a hand move to his hip to hold him there. The kiss wasn't as deep as the last one, but it was a little more intent, almost purposeful, and Dies chanced to let a little more heat into it, far too gratified to feel Xathanael's slight shudder in return. He had the feeling that each movement, no matter how slight, and each sound, no matter how soft, would feel like a novelty to him now.

Once they pulled away, even Dies's breath coming just barely quicker, the god inched his hand a little higher so that his fingers could lightly curl around the hem of Xathanael's t-shirt; quirking an eyebrow at him, he tugged lightly. Xathanael looked a little blank, then understanding, flushed darkly -- he did nod, though, just barely, looking vaguely embarrassed, and Dies, sitting back a little, let the shirt vanish.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting -- Xathanael's shirts weren't exactly loose, but they were far from form-fitting, and he'd contemplated what was beneath them more often than he would have ever admitted, but nothing he'd imagined, in his mind, came close to the reality. It wasn't something that people would have considered universally attractive -- too slender for some people's tastes, not muscular enough, and certainly not anything that anyone would have claimed to be the most attractive shirtless male chest they'd ever seen.

It was obvious that Xathanael wasn't expecting the highest of praise, from his still-present dark flush and slightly awkward expression. Dies shifted a little closer, tracing his fingertips lightly from Xathanael's collarbone to his hip, and he glanced back, looking a little embarrassed, crooked smile seeming braced for the worst. Dies suddenly found it absolutely necessary to shift close enough to speak the words "you're gorgeous" softly but emphatically against his lips.

Xathanael's eyes widened a little and his flush darkened. "Shut up," he murmured, embarrassment creeping across his features again. "I am not."

"Hey," Dies asked in the same tone, expression going mock-serious as he let their noses touch, completely failing to suppress the quiet spark of joy at the faint smile on Xathanael's face, "who's the expert here? Me or you?"

The smile turned into a slightly sheepish grin as Xathanael nodded slightly. "Guess I should bow down to your superior sex god knowledge, huh?" he asked, and Dies nodded with another grin. After a slight hesitation, Xathanael moved to touch his fingertips lightly to Dies's chest, expression determined if vaguely shy. "Fair's fair," was all he said, with a faint, crooked smile.

Dies grinned, nodding a little as he moved to pull his own shirt off -- this felt a little more important to do slowly. He focused on Xathanael's face as the shirt came over his head; his expression had shifted from surprise and vague anticipation to something like awe. His eyes had gone a little wide and there was a faint flush on his face again, and Dies really should have been used to this reaction -- would have said he already was if asked before -- but getting it from Xathanael flooded him with an odd sort of warmth he was sure he’d never felt before.

"Wow," Xathanael murmured after a moment, not looking away from him, and had Dies had a fraction less self control at the moment, he might have actually blushed. "I feel -- even more inadequate than I did five seconds ago," Xathanael was confessing, looking as if he almost desperately wanted to touch Dies but was still too shy to do so.

"And why is that?" Dies asked, suddenly feeling almost indignant on Xathanael's behalf. "There's no reason you should ever feel inadequate. And -- dammit, stop that." He shifted closer, letting his fingers curl gently under Xathanael's chin again, tipping it up so that their eyes could meet. "Now. What's this crap about feeling inadequate?"

Xathanael looked a little indignant himself past the darkening of that flush. "It's not crap. There's just -- you're so -- " He gestured vaguely at Dies, seeming frustrated by the inadequacy of words (that warmth was spreading through the sex god again). "You're -- " He trailed off helplessly, seeming genuinely at a loss for what to add on.

Dies felt his expression soften a little, watched the faint answering smile on Xathanael's face. "And you're gorgeous," he murmured in reply, firmly. "I mean it. And you have the added advantage of not being predestined to be the god of sex, so it's on your own terms."

Xathanael's smile grew just barely brighter, edged with shyness again now and vaguely embarrassed, and it still warmed Dies's heart far more than anything else ever had. Still, he looked not quite convinced, but before Dies could say anything, he broke in, voice a little halting but determined enough. "Still, I -- you're -- I hadn't really thought about it -- well, much," he added hastily, colouring rather darkly again, "but -- if I had -- no matter how I would’ve pictured you, you're so -- just -- so much more. I really can't -- describe it and it's not just -- 'cause you're the god of sex and all, it's -- 'cause you're you. So you should know that -- that I really mean it," he finished quickly, flushing a little more darkly still, looking as if he wanted to glance away but was forcing himself to keep looking at Dies, halfway between nervous and hopeful.

Dies was absolutely certain, in that moment, that the sex wasn't even necessary -- that nothing could make him feel closer to Xathanael right now than that confession had. To know that Xathanael found him attractive for his personality rather than appearance -- well, it wasn't as if he had never heard it before, or as if he would have expected shallowness from him, but it still warmed his heart more than he would have believed anything had the ability to. It made him want to pull Xathanael into his arms and hold him closely enough to feel his heart beating right against his own, to know if it was beating just as quickly as his was right now, to press his lips to Xathanael's hair and murmur silly, inaudible endearments for hours.

But that would've given him away far too soon, and he thought that he was maybe doing a decent job of hiding just how much his heart wanted to burst out of his chest right now, so he chanced a smile, hoping it wasn't too silly or smitten, hoping it conveyed just the right amount of warmth and gratitude without too much affection or stupidity behind it. "Thanks," he said quietly, hoping his voice didn't shake, knowing the word was hopelessly inadequate but knowing he couldn't manage more than that before he had a chance to let his hand slide to cup Xathanael's cheek, maybe imagining the warmth there caused by his blush (which had darkened a little again). He shifted closer, took a quick, deep breath, and added, "I mean -- really. I appreciate it -- a lot, I mean it. It's -- I'm pretty sure not many people really mean it like that."

"I mean it like that," Xathanael put in, quickly and earnestly, as if to make sure Dies hadn't forgetten it. As if he could possibly forget it.

Dies couldn't help a quiet laugh, shifting to kiss the corner of Xathanael's mouth, equally helpless against a faint smile as even this gesture caused him to brighten a little. "I know," he murmured, firmly, with as much affection as he dared to chance. "And now -- you're going to let me touch you, okay?"

Xathanael's eyes widened a little, but he nodded right away, flush still on his face but expression oddly solemn. "Okay," he acquiesced quietly.

Shifting closer, Dies took another moment to just look at him, marveling at how he could find someone obviously imperfect (though most people were imperfect compared to him, in all honesty) so attractive, beyond any measure of reason. And then, because he wasn't only human but he couldn't be expected to resist, he reached to trace his fingertips lightly from Xathanael's collarbones down to his hips, unable to help a faint, distracted grin at the slight shudder this elicited. He was suddenly fascinated, as if this initial touch was fuel to a flame, like he wouldn't ever be able to get enough after this first feeling; his fingertips traced back up, then down his sides, skimming lightly across his stomach, lightly outlining the lines of muscle in his chest. Xathanael kept shuddering at each instance of contact, eventually letting out something like a muffled "Dies," which made the god laugh and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth again.

"I'm just learning my way around," he murmured there, unable to help that faint grin just at being able to say that -- to be here, to touch him like this. "Give me a minute, okay?"

Xathanael nodded, a little impatiently, and Dies went back to his task, relenting as well as giving in to the urge to feel more of him, now using both palms to trace down Xathanael's chest slowly and deliberately (the quiet sound Xathanael let out under his breath at this made Dies's own breath catch in his throat for a moment). He let his thumbs carefully outline Xathanael's collarbones, let his fingertips painstakingly trace up each inch of his spine, let his hands linger at each inch of skin as if needing to memorize how all of it felt. Some part of him, small and rational and ignored for the moment, was reminding him that this would be the first, the last, the only time he’d ever get a chance to do this, so he had to make every moment count, had to make it absolutely unforgettable, something he could hold onto long after this was over.

He got bolder then, let his thumbs briefly graze over Xathanael's nipples, and from the sharp shudder and quiet sound this drew from him, he was encouraged to let his thumbs keep circling, lightly but persistently, shifting closer almost helplessly. He let his thumbs circle a little quicker at another protesting sound from Xathanael before moving close enough to murmur into his ear, "Y'know, you’re totally encouraged to touch me too."

Xathanael flushed (this time Dies knew he felt that rush of warmth against his own cheek), but nodded a little, reaching to hesitantly lay a hand flat against Dies's chest. And Dies had had contact that was almost electric before, kisses and touches and fucks that had nearly made him jump just from sheer sensation either through tension or attraction or both, but he'd never in his life felt it so strongly from such innocent contact before, and it was all he could do to keep from letting the low sound at the back of his throat veer more towards encouraging than helplessly wanting.

Seeming to be encouraged by this, Xathanael was now letting his hand trace down his chest; Dies shifted just enough to be able to see his expression, both vaguely startled and fascinated, like he'd never done this before (which, well, he hadn't, to be fair) and was surprised by how good it could be -- or at least, Dies hoped. The opinion seemed validated when Xathanael murmured "Wow" as he saw the shudder an accidental brush of nail against collarbone caused, and Dies laughed a little hoarsely as he pressed closer still.

He felt, for a long time, like he could spend his entire time like this, exploring how Xathanael felt and shuddering under his own explorations, just reveling in each new sensation brought about by both Xathanael touching him and his touching Xathanael, occasionally letting his lips brush Xathanael's ear or his jaw, but he only had so much patience, after all -- he was in his element here, almost more so than ever before, he felt -- and so eventually he let his hands trace down past Xathanael's hips, hook into the belt loops of his jeans, and pull down ever so slightly.

Xathanael at first simply shuddered a little again, so used to sensation that this felt like only another new one -- then the implications of it hit him (Dies could practically see the thought occurring to him; he was close enough to count Xathanael's eyelashes, let alone read his expressions) and he flushed, darker than before. Dies suddenly felt a spark of nervousness, aware that it was probably silly but wanting this far too much to risk doubt.

"This is -- what you want, right?" he murmured into Xathanael's ear, keeping his voice gentle and level. "You're totally sure? I can -- we can -- "

"Yeah," Xathanael all but breathed in reply, hand tracing up Dies's chest a little more decisively than before, "when the god of sex offers, I'm -- totally about to decline. Ew, who could ever want -- the greatest sex in the world? Gross."

Dies had to laugh quietly at that, completely unable to resist the urge to gently take his earlobe between his teeth and tug lightly, grinning faintly at the slight shudder this elicited. "Just checking," he spoke there, letting go to kiss his ear. "You could've changed your mind."

"No chance of that," Xathanael replied, immediately and firmly enough to warm Dies's heart again. "And not just because you’re the god of sex, but -- 'cause you’re you. So there," he added, taking Dies's hand and squeezing it lightly as if to punctuate this, smiling faintly and almost shyly when Dies pulled back enough to look at him.

Dies was pretty sure that he was failing miserably at keeping his expression anything but helplessly smitten, but he was past caring right now, because all he could do was nod, leaning to press his lips lightly to the corner of Xathanael's mouth. "All right, I get it," he murmured there, then hooked a finger into the waistband of Xathanael's pants and made them disappear.

He wasn't close enough to feel Xathanael's flush this time, but he imagined it was firmly in place -- had to imagine, because it was impossible to look away from him. Something about this final cover being removed, of having him only a few inches away and completely naked, suddenly made the whole thing more appealing than before. Of course Dies had been attracted to him before -- even now, he'd been more attracted to him than he thought possible -- but now, for a moment, even the emotional attraction seemed to pale. He felt the want more strongly than he had at any point before, just because it was finally sinking in exactly what he was going to do and exactly how much he'd been suppressing the desire to do it before.

Dies was sure that it took him a good few minutes before he was able to raise his head and look Xathanael in the face again -- a few minutes' worth of simple staring flowing into careful examination ending with hands tracing down his sides to his hips before his eyes turned up again -- but it could have been as little as a few seconds, as long as a few hours. The look on Xathanael's face when it was over -- embarrassment, shyness, and a hope that was almost painfully strong -- was close enough to heartbreaking that Dies was more tempted than ever before to disregard everything else and simply hold him forever.

But for more reasons than he could name, he couldn't do that. So all he did was shift closer, enough for their noses to lightly touch, and murmur, "You're -- " But that was, he found, all he could manage in that breath before his voice caught. Letting it drop a little, go quieter so it wouldn't shake, taking a slow, deep breath before attempting further speech, he tried again. "You -- you are gorgeous. So -- gorgeous, hell, I told you you were."

Xathanael flushed even darker than before, but he seemed helpless against a faint, embarrassed smile. "That's -- definitely not -- "

Dies silenced him with a quick, firm kiss, managing to put as much heat into it as he could, balancing it with the hint of affection he couldn't hide. "What did I tell you about arguing with me?" he demanded, softly if mock-sternly.

Xathanael wrinkled his nose, which Dies found impossibly endearing even under the circumstances. "Fine, fine," he conceded reluctantly. "I'll give in to your insanity for now." And, after a moment's hesitation, he determinedly reach to tug lightly on the waistband of Dies's own jeans.

Unable to resist the urge to kiss him again quickly before shifting back, Dies had a faint grin on his face as he let his thumbs hook into his own belt loops, too tempted to tease to stop himself. As Xathanael watched, still rather flushed, Dies lightly eased his jeans down over his hipbones, aiming another, more deliberate grin at Xathanael before just getting rid of them altogether.

Xathanael's eyes, predictably, widened a little at the sight; Dies figured he should give him a minute to get used to it. He was almost never self-conscious about his own inevitable attractiveness, but this was, he knew, the closest he'd ever get to it -- it was more important than ever before that Xathanael find him acceptable now. Dies knew he'd never done this before, and it was even more important to him that everything go well because of that -- he'd never have this again and he wanted it to be perfect, and so Xathanael had to be calm and as confident as possible, he had to be all right at the very least, if not outright happy. As long as Xathanael was satisfied, everything would be fine.

There was a silence that seemed, to Dies, too long; he glances up after a slight hesitation, almost afraid of what he'd see once he did. Xathanael's eyes were still fixed on him, looking distinctly awed, obviously appreciative, and Dies realized after a moment that he was actually genuinely struck speechless. Maybe it was too much for him -- the surprising surfacing of feeling, the swift progression of events after it, Dies's own appearance -- but whatever it was, it made it absolutely impossible for Dies to resist reaching a hand to gently cup his cheek, thumb lightly drifting across the flush still on his face.

"Lie down?" Dies found himself murmuring, almost before the words had crossed his mind, and Xathanael nodded, a little dazedly, moving to do so.

Had Dies thought about it beforehand, he would have said that of course he would have wanted to draw this out -- to extract every sensation possible from both of them, to make sure that they felt everything that it was possible for them to feel, to be saturated with enough sensation to make the experience completely impossible to forget for either of them. But now that he wac actually here, actually about to do this, he found himself helplessly impatient. No, not even impatient -- it just seemed like a fact of life to him. He had to have this, had to make it feel as good as possible but had to make it soon, needed it like he would have needed air or water were he mortal; he still wanted every other sensation, but he wanted this so much more than they paled in comparison, and he knew that Xathanael wanted it too, and that fired him more than anything else ever could.

He took a moment, once Xathanael had properly if a little awkwardly positioned himself on the bed, to look at him again, to marvel that this was actually happening -- it seemed like it might never sink in -- to trace his fingertips lightly from Xathanael's shoulder down to his thigh, smiling faintly and distractedly at the shudder this drew. And then he found it impossible to resist shifting close enough to carefully straddle his hips and kiss him yet again, letting it linger a little longer this time, as he let his hand slowly wrap around his cock.

Xathanael tensed for a moment, then let out a low sound almost a moan into the kiss, making Dies shudder -- and maybe it was less urgent than he'd thought, because now he couldn't seem to resist breaking the kiss just to trail lighter, more teasing kisses down his jawline and neck, to his shoulder and collarbone and the hollow of his throat. Xathanael at one point, as he shuddered and pressed into each touch of Dies's mouth, turned his head just enough to brush his lips lightly against Dies's ear, and it made the god smile because he could understand the urge for contact, some contact, any contact, and knowing that Xathanael might feel it too warmed his heart far more than he could give voice to.

He found that, much as he wanted the sex, it was absolutely imperative that he trace the tip of his tongue lightly across Xathanael's collarbone (he shuddered, bit his lip, and tangled a hair gently in Dies’s hair) as he started stroking, fingers gently sliding up and down the length of Xathanael's cock, feeling each shudder and low sound, halfway between insistent and pleading. He found it necessary to let his tongue flick lightly over a nipple as he squeezed lightly, stroking speeding up a little, grinning faintly as Xathanael's other hand settled at his shoulder, hid a far too helplessly silly smile in the kisses he was trailing down his chest. He was unable to help a light bite to his hip, though he made it gentle and almost affectionate, and utterly helpless against resisting withdrawing his hand to press a kiss to the head of his cock, though he made it as fleeting as he could -- now, there, he was starting to feel the urgency again, the necessity of doing this now, feeling it now, not letting anything else stop him.

Xathanael let out a quiet sound of protest far too close to a whimper for Dies's sanity as Dies shifted back, but he quickly moved to silence it with another kiss (he could have done that forever if given the chance, he thought, just seeing the variety of kisses that they could share), giving him a quick, slightly dazed grin that was meant to be reassuring as he sat back again. With one hand, he carefully nudged Xathanael's thighs apart just a little, watching the flush spread across his face again as he realized what was happening, the anticipation and nerves overlaid with an odd solemnity (and each of his expressions could hurt his heart in an endless variety of ways); he squeezed the thigh his hand had settled onto just for reassurance, then willed two fingers of his other hand coated with the necessary lubrication before slowly and carefully working them in.

His hand slid up to Xathanael's hip as he felt the slight, instinctive tensing under his grip; he shifted up to look at his face, expression concerned and vaguely nervous, not moving his fingers just yet despite the slight shocks of pleasure this alone was already giving him. "Hey," he murmured, voice low and gentle, carefully keeping any note of tension from it, "are you okay? Is this okay? Should I -- "

"Yeah," Xathanael broke in right away, and Dies almost panicked before he quickly added, "Yeah, it's okay, I mean," and the breathless note of his voice was now obviously due to enjoyment; Dies could feel him relaxing a little under the sensation, almost squirming a little towards it already (which was reassuring -- Dies could never completely eliminate the pain, but he knew it was much less noticeable with him than with anyone else). "And no, no, you shouldn't, don't -- " And then he broke off abruptly, eyes widening and voice catching in his throat, as Dies let his fingers curl inward a little, deliberately, watching as Xathanael's eyes fluttered closed and he shuddered, biting his lip, hips now pressing forward almost helplessly. "Fuck," he breathed, barely audibly, and Dies found himself shuddering just as heavily at that word alone.

Carefully, painstakingly, Dies slid a third finger in, and let his breath out in relief as Xathanael's tensing lasted barely a few seconds this time, seeming like no time at all before he was relaxing, breathing a little shakily as his hips pressed into the touch. Still, Dies forced back his own anticipation and focused on accustoming Xathanael to the slow, deliberate slide of his fingers in and out of him, pushing them in as deeply as he could, then withdrawing them almost completely, speeding up just barely in response to the low, urgent moans each slide drew from him but not letting it go too quickly yet. As he curled his fingers in again, Xathanael gave another quiet whimper, shuddering helplessly, and Dies took a moment to gently brush his hair back, the gesture at odds with his fingers' deliberate motions; still, the faint, dazed smile that this elicited was more than enough to make him lean over, quickly kiss the corner of his mouth, and murmur there, "Should I -- " and more than enough to make him laugh quietly to hide his shudder at the fervent "yeah" of a reply.

So he withdrew his fingers, making sure Xathanael's eyes were open in time to see him carefully lick them clean (he wasn't above a little revenge -- Xathanael had inspired shudders and longing looks like that from him simply by existing, after all); and then he carefully settled himself above Xathanael's hips, one hand moving to brace himself at his thigh again, free hand moving to touch his cheek in a silly, utterly necessary gesture, and he almost felt like he could have melted into the bed at the sensation of (finally, finally) entering Xathanael.

It said quite a lot, Dies thought rather dazedly, that he initially barely even noticed Xathanael tensing under him due to the overwhelming sensation of being inside him, being surrounded by someone he thought he'd never have, someone he was sure he wanted far too much, someone who could stop his breath with his looks and make his knees grow weak with his smile. He could barely think now that he was finally here, feeling every inch of him, that he wanted this as much as Dies did, and for a moment -- a blissful, almost blindingly pleasurable moment -- he could forget that this was the only time he'd ever be doing this, that he'd lose it and change his life for good once this was over, and that was the most precious thing about those few almost agonizingly perfect seconds.

And then he relaxed his hold on the moment and let the rest of reality seep in, and he realized that Xathanael was still a little tensed, and he immediately turned towards him, hand on his cheek turning into a caress, lips pressed anxiously to his temple. "Okay -- is it okay?" he managed, voice sounding rather helplessly dazed even to his own ears. "Just -- relax and it'll be -- "

"'s -- fine," Xathanael cut him off, voice shaky and breathless and just a little strained, but underneath that was a definite note of enjoyment, and it made Dies relax a little. He'd been afraid, even then, that it might be too much, that Xathanael might change his mind -- but no, he only needed a moment, he needed consideration and gentleness, and soon he'd enjoy it just as much and Dies could be even happier than he had just been because he'd be causing the same reaction in Xathanael. "I just -- I just need -- it's great," he managed, voice a little more breathless still, sounding almost awed at the inadequacy of words to describe the moment, and a warmth that had nothing to do with physical pleasure started to spread through Die's heart again.

"Don't stop," Xathanael pleaded after another moment's silence, breathless and determined, and Dies needed no further encouragement.

He traced his hand back down Xathanael's chest to fit at his hip along with the other as he pulled back just enough to start thrusting, not too deeply yet, slowly and carefully -- as much of an effort as it was, it was almost for his own benefit as well as Xathanael's. He wanted to draw this out as long as he could -- he wanted it to last forever. He wanted to remember every second of this -- the way their bodies fit together, Xathanael's breath coming quicker with each thrust, the way he strained to press closer to Dies, the way his body finally accustomed itself to the rhythms of the sex, every little way he shuddered and moaned, every time he grew bold enough to relax his hold on Dies's hair to trace a hand down his spine or up his chest just for the sake of feeling him. He wanted to remember all of it and he was certain that if his mind didn't have room for every memory, his heart would be able to hold more than enough.

It felt like he was existing just for sensation after a while -- his lips on Xathanael's jaw, Xathanael's hand at the back of his neck, his hands tracing up Xathanael's chest, Xathanael's hips pressing determinedly up into his, his hand wrapping around Xathanael's cock again, Xathanael's lips almost insistently finding his own, losing himself completely in the kiss, already feeling so full that he knew he could sink into the feeling and never emerge. And, of course, above all, thrusting more quickly and deeply with each minute, sinking into warmth and bringing himself closer to Xathanael with each thrust, feeling like inertia was guiding him to simply never be able to stop and knowing he wouldn't object to this at all. He knew that his own low sounds and moans were coming unchecked now and he couldn't summon the energy to control them, just let them out against Xathanael's lips, mingling with his own, thinking that maybe if he kept going, eventually he'd forget where he ended and Xathanael began and being absolutely certain that it was the best thing he could hope for.

It seemed so natural to be where he was already -- thrusting more quickly and deeply if not quite roughly, stroking to the rhythm of his thrusts, kissing Xathanael like he'd been born to do that and nothing else -- that it felt like a mere extension of their position when Xathanael suddenly shuddered more prominently, pressed closer with a little more urgency, and breathed a choked "Dies" into his mouth, so Dies squeezed firmly before sliding his hand back up to his hips and murmured a slightly strangled "yeah, yeah" in reply, and he knew that Xathanael was coming first, but he was sure that he wasn't too far behind, and then he had no more room in his mind for any thought at all.

Contentment so strong it was blanking his thoughts out completely crept over Dies, and he was sure he would have been happy to stay where he was forever were it not for the sensation of Xathanael's lips grazing his temple; he shifted back at that, with an enormous effort, to see the dazed but unmistakably happy grin on Xathanael's face, and that was absolutely a sight worth moving for.

"Hey," Dies whispered, feeling as if the moment called for some degree of silence, shifting to kiss Xathanael's nose, delight flooding him at the way the gesture made him light up.

"Hey," came the slightly sleepy but earnest reply. "That was -- that was -- wow." Xathanael broke off with a quiet, almost sheepish laugh, closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath. "Really -- really amazing."

Dies knew, with a sudden, striking sensation that was simultaneously buoying and sinking, that he would never again, not for the rest of his immortal days, be as happy as he was right now. Firmly suppressing anything that might intrude on this happiness, such as thoughts of its impermanence, he found it necessary to nuzzle Xathanael's nose simply to elicit another smile from him. "What, you expected less from me?" he asked, then without waiting for a reply, shifted off of him and stretched out to the side. "C'mere. Sleep with me."

"What, again?" Xathanael murmured, obligingly shifting close enough to lean his head against Dies's shoulder, Dies finally giving in to the desire to wrap both arms around his waist and pull him close enough to feel his heartbeat (steady, a little quicker than usual, relaxing into its normal rhythms). "You really overestimate my stamina."

"Dork." Dies kissed the top of his head, feeling him snuggle a little closer and relax a little more, and had to close his eyes to restrain the surge of emotion stronger than he'd ever felt it. "Sleep, okay? Have awesome dreams."

"Night," Xathanael replied a little incoherently, muffled from where he was speaking into Dies's shoulder, relaxing against him completely. "I know I will."

Dies closed his eyes, closed off a part of his mind, and let himself sink into sleep and happiness that was too strong, too overwhelming to last him through his next period of consciousness.

When he woke up, he was proven right. He was alone in the bed.

It was what he'd expected, but upon sensing that his arms were empty, Dies still had to shut his eyes tightly to fend off the worst of the pangs attacking his emotions. There was regret, yes, both for losing this and for a certain loss of friendship that would follow it (or a loss of ease, at the very least), there was sadness at both the enormity of keeping this secret from Tan or the extent of his reaction (which wouldn't approach any definition of "good"), and there was something so inexpressibly, unspeakably painful that he could only classify it as heartbreak.

Eventually, Dies managed to rein in his emotions enough to open his eyes -- yes, he was alone on the bed, it was late morning, and there was a note next to him. He reached for it automatically; it was a sheaf of loose paper, folded in two, a quick, messy scrawl across one half -- Sorry. I'm really sorry.

It was unsigned. It didn't need to be signed. (Had he thought what he felt before was heartbreak? This, now, this was what it really felt like, and he'd be sure to remember that.) (He wondered at all that had gone unsaid here, how he could even begin to acknowledge it later, how it could possibly be enough, how he must have known it wouldn't be enough but hadn't had anything else to offer.) (The ambiguity was the worst of it -- sorry for his actions? Sorry for how it would hurt Dies later? Sorry for how things between them could never, ever be the same anymore?)

This time, Dies closed his eyes in order to replay every moment of the night before, every single, perfect second, to remind himself of why he had felt it would be worth it.

I sat on a rug, biding my time, drinking her wine.

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 02:52:44 GMT

Title: Five Places Mikey Wants To Visit Most
Word Count: 1195
Characters/Pairing: Mikey, mentions of Ishmy and Decca; Decca/Mikey.
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (angel/demon canon, with mentions of one Thursday Next-verse character)
Summary: For lyotto once more! ♥ They are probably far, far more emo than she bargained for, but that is the price one pays when writing about Mikey. >____>

1.
Rome is her brother's place, will always be, but that is part of why she wants to be there.

There is a gulf between her and her brother now, something that cannot be breached no matter how close they still are. The simple fact is that they are on different sides now, something that can only be changed by something Mikey would never want. They are different now, more so than ever before, and she had never realized before how much she misses the similarity.

In Rome, she would walk his streets. She would see his sights. She would breathe simply to take in his air and his memories and his very being, and perhaps they will be closer still now than they were before, perhaps the difference neither of them can mention will matter less. Mikey wants this -- she wants it more than she can express and more than might make sense. But it makes all the sense in the world to her; she wants to be close to her brother again and perhaps through this, she can feel that she is, and that is all.

2.
Blue skies. White sand. Warm weather.

There's much more than can be described. Water a perfect shade of turquoise and so clear you can see down to the bottom. Palm trees, green-leaved, silhouetted against the cloudless sky. Long, lazy days outside, on the sand, in a hammock, in the water, only noting the passage of time by the rising and setting of the sun. Sand melting into water, water and sky the same colour on the horizon. But there's a simpler way to sum it up. Blue skies. White sand. Warm weather.

Those hold the happiest memories for her now; she can't yet think of places other than Earth without pain. She thinks of him and she can be happy, so she longs to see every place like this with him.

3.
There are no words in any language for the heat of Hell.

For demons, it becomes second nature. No place on Earth is too hot for them because the heat of their home is permanently branded into their skin, their flesh, their very bone. They grow used to it after a time, as one grows used to a healing bruise, but this wound never heals -- it spreads across their body and always hurts, always, but they learn to ignore the hurt, push it to the back of their minds during everyday existence.

Mikey has not yet reached this point. Being in Hell is not quite too painful to bear anymore, but it will take her at least half a decade to be able to face it without showing all of her pain, at least twice that long to be able to successfully hide it from everyone. She could become used to Hell if she lets herself -- she could advance far, become a power of her generation -- but she will not, because she cannot let go of who she is, as most demons have.

She will not let go, and she pays the price for this in pain. She hides away in her own corner of Hell -- she can hide herself from those who would cause her harm and those stronger than she are not interested in her yet -- and she feels.

The heat rolls over her skin in waves, burning the scars on her palm, scorching the empty joint of the leg she is missing, digging into every orifice and staying there. It blisters her exposed skin, but leaves no marks. It starts tiny fires underneath her nails, at the base of her scalp, the surface of her eyes. She imagines the burns that would spread across her face were she human, living and purple, bruised, blistered, burning off her eyebrows and eyelashes, disfiguring the fair skin and delicate features, and when she touches her face to feel that it is unchanged, she almost wishes it would.

She wishes for cold, to be someplace where the wind all but burns, because being burned by cold is a change she would welcome. She wishes for weather so frigid as to finally sink around her burning bones and give them relief for a moment. She wants nothing so much as to emerge into such weather without a coat, during a snowstorm, to stand and let the flakes fall and wind rush around her, to fall back into a foot of snow and sink into it, fluffy and wet and cold, and laugh.

4.
There are hundreds of thousands of demons in Hell, but the space is big enough for one of them to wander for days without seeing another. Still, the atmosphere of Hell is oppressive and every minute is rife with the possibility of confrontation, and so often, Mikey has to get away.

When she does, she longs to lose herself in a crowd -- it is all she asks for. She is desperate to be only a face among millions, a large city where no one will look twice at her or be able to tell that she is different from anyone else in the crowd. In Heaven, she thought she wanted a name for herself, but in Hell, knowing the pain that notice can bring, all she wants is anonymity.

5.
She dreams of endless fields, forests, rivers, perfect scenery as far as the eye can see.

The greenest grass that one can imagine, coupled with a sky so brilliantly blue it hurts to eyes to see. The clearest water imaginable, too, lakes and rivers always gloriously and perfectly still. Beautifully formed trees, as far as the eye can see, perfect weather, calm and peaceful, the sweetest air it is possible to take in should one decide to breathe. Surrounded by similar-looking similar-featured figures, all radiating the contentment and peace of true, unconditional love, or alone and feeling a presence so strong that it all but makes the air and one’s bones hum, strongly and powerfully and inescapably.

Heaven. It's, by definition, the most perfect place to ever exist, and that is simply it. It is impossible to forget and impossible to completely let go because it is pure perfection.

Mikey dreams of it, and they are nightmares.

She can't sleep anymore because of it. She used to like sleep despite not needing it, and now she fears it. It isn't the dream itself that causes this so much as the moment she wakes up, the split-second before full wakefulness when she still believes she is in Heaven and the inexpressible plunge into depression that follows. The dreams are beautiful, but the pain they bring her is nothing short of nightmarish.

She misses it, so much that it literally hurts every day. She wants to be there more than anywhere, but she never will again.

The worst part isn't the agony of that worst of homesickness or the pain of the new divide from her siblings. The worst part is not knowing where Decca will end up when he dies, and the worst part is voluntarily wishing him to the place where she would never see him again because she would never condemn him to where she is now.

One thing I can tell you is you got to be free.

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 01:35:25 GMT

Title: To Run
Word Count: 852
Characters: Rosslyn Carroll, Mark Carroll, Ken Carroll
Fandom/'Verse: Metropol
Summary: Thiiis is sort of a prequel to the story about Rosslyn that will honestly and truly and for serious be added to the Metropol collection at some point. It takes place about nine and a half years prior to it -- here, Mark is thirty-two, Rosslyn is twenty-seven, and Ken is twenty-five. I wrote this in the morning for my fiction workshop, and it is not very good, but they're so, so fun to write, so despite this having the ability to be muchmuch better, I will leave it at this for now. :D

"I miss Mark," Kenneth Carroll said reminiscently as he leaned back in the spare chair of his sister's small office, tugging at his dark red tie until it was loose around his neck. "I haven't seen him in ages."

Rosslyn turned from her desk just enough to arch an eyebrow at him. "You spent a week with his family last month."

"Which is ages for siblings, Ross," he returned rather overdramatically, grinning at her. "You only don't understand because you're cruel."

"I don't understand because you're constantly in my office bothering me," Rosslyn replied calmly. "And don't call me that," she added, taking a quick but deep breath as she scooted her chair over to make room for Ken next to the telephone.

"You never did tell me what this was all about," he murmured, reaching to tug on a lock of dark hair that had come loose from her ponytail. She simply batted his hand away before flicking on the speakerphone and pressing the third button.

The phone on the other end rang a few times before a pleasant male voice answered, "Senator Carroll."

"Hi, Mark," Rosslyn said, her face relaxing into the faint smile that talking to her older brother could most easily bring about.

"Rosslyn, hello." Mark's voice had gone a little warmer, sounding surprised but not put off. "You don't usually call at this hour."

The hour he meant was the time slot right before lunch breaks for senators; it was usually the busiest time of the day as everyone tried to get appointments in, not too early but making sure they would catch them before their breaks. "I'm sorry," Rosslyn replied, taking a moment to carefully tuck stray hair back into her ponytail. "I thought this might be the most appropriate time and -- "

"And she's taking me into consideration like a good big sister should," Ken put in helpfully, leaning closer to the telephone. "Now hurry up and ask her what’s going on, I'm liable to explode of curiosity if I don't find out soon."

The amused smile was practically audible in Mark's voice. "Hello, Ken. I see she hasn't pulled out any stops."

"If I may?" Rosslyn murmured pointedly, surreptitiously jabbing Ken just under the ribs with a slim finger before turning back to the phone, taking another quick, deep breath. "I want to run for president, Mark."

There was a sound halfway between one of disbelief and one akin to choking somewhere to her left.

To his credit, Mark only gave a moment of startled silence on the other end of the line before replying quietly, no emotion apart from contemplation audible in his voice, "I see."

Ken had finally recovered enough to splutter, "What? Ross, you -- you can't -- "

Ignoring him, Rosslyn spoke directly into the phone, studiously not looking at Ken. "I'm qualified. I know I am -- I already have more experience than most candidates get. And I wouldn't start off running for president, either -- I'll apply to be vice president for the next election. There must be someone running whose campaign I can support and who would be grateful to have the Carroll name and money. But -- I have the drive and the ambition and, most importantly, the ideas to make the campaign good. If I go through a race, I can see how they work and I can improve even more. I'm popular enough here and I can go to the capital and improve things there. I know I can, Mark. I can do this."

There was a slightly longer, thoughtful silence from both brothers after that, then there was a quiet sound from the phone that seemed to indicate that Mark was nodding slowly. Rosslyn glanced over at Ken, out of curiosity -- as she had expected, he was mirroring the gesture she was sure Mark was making.

"You haven't told our parents yet, have you? Or Grandmother?" Mark asked, then let out another affirmative sound at the "mm-mm" from Rosslyn. "And you're telling me first because -- "

"Because everyone expects it to be you," Rosslyn finished, eliciting yet another affirmative sound from Mark. "You're the older one, the favored one, and everyone knows that if there's going to be a Carroll in the capital, it'll be you. Or they think they know."

"That's partially because I'm the only one old enough to run next year," Mark replied wryly. "But you will be for the next election -- and you will. Of course you will. I never wanted to be President, Rosslyn, and you know that. I won't lose anything if you run and I know I'll gain a hell of a lot. We always said that you'd be the one of us to change the world, you know."

"We did," Ken put in, surprising Rosslyn with a light squeeze to her shoulder.

"Go with my blessing, Rosslyn," Mark finished, and Rosslyn was certain that he was smiling again. "The country needs someone like you."

Rosslyn bowed her head, both in deference to the gravity of the decision and to hide the bright smile inevitably spreading across her face. "I know."

Here's how I play, here's where you stand.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 18:31:11 GMT

Pairing: Raphael/Meg Hades
Word Count: 824
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Thursday Next/Greek mythology/angel/demon canon)
Summary: Written for salophile for the 2008 Hades fic exchange. RaphRaph is hers.

It took Raphael, sprawled almost sideways across a chair and idly flicking a lighter on and off in front of his face, a moment to notice the girl watching him.

She was tall, slender, dark-haired and dark-eyed, dressed in more conservative black than he was, and her eyes were fixed on the flame of the lighter. Raphael gave a slow, faint smirk at her obvious fascination, though he was somewhat put out by the fact that it very much looked as if she didn't see him at all; still, he obligingly kept toying with the lighter, making the tiny flames leap a little higher just to watch her eyes follow their path. Finally, he stopped, keeping the lighter off for a good few minutes; eventually, reluctantly, the girl's eyes shifted to rest on his face, looking blank if mildly put out. Upon seeing his expression, the gaze turned into one of vague wariness.

"So, you answered my mating call," Raphael said lazily, a broad grin spreading across his face as he looked her over. A little too thin, maybe, and not quite as well-endowed as he usually preferred, but the air of power around her gave her away as at least partially immortal and the set expression on her face gave her away as a challenge.

Her expression went a little more blank. "What?"

He gestured slightly with the lighter, grin broadening just barely. "What, you don't really expect me to believe that you were only checking out the fire on this thing, do you?"

Now it looked closer to vague outrage; her voice had gone a little more steely. "That's exactly what I expect you to believe, as it happens to be the truth."

"You think I only believe the truth?" Raphael scoffed, shaking his head. He focused on the lighter again, turning it on one last time, and the flames suddenly leapt nearly a foot before sinking down slowly, circling the lighter, and burning themselves out.

Raphael glanced back at the girl. She looked fascinated and vaguely impressed despite herself.

He had stood and walked over to her before she noticed. "The truth," he continued casually, noting with amusion how she didn't pull away as he leaned in but did it as if it were an effort, "is a slippery, oft-overrated thing, my dear. And something which usually has several dimensions, most of them undesirable. For instance," he continued, lifting a lock of her hair and being greeted with a glare of such venom that he nearly dropped it, "I don't think you expect me to believe that you don't have a taste for danger, either. Girl like you, watching fire, must be something more to it, mm?"

The indignation was back on her face, but Raphael managed to catch her wrist even before she was done raising it. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but he shifted both hands to her upper arms, grip tightening, and leaned in to stop her.

Even before his lips covered hers, she had grown hot to the touch -- her skin's sudden heat shot through her shirt and jacket and right into his palms. It was nothing compared to the heat of Hell, of course, so Raphael held on, pressing closer to her, deepening the kiss even as it felt like his tongue was blistering from the concentration of heat in her mouth. It stole through his clothing until he felt it practically warming him from the inside, but he was almost positive that she was returning the kiss (it was difficult to think when it felt like being pressed against the fire itself), so he didn't let go until he was good and ready.

When he did pull back, it was only to study her expression carefully before letting go; whether it was out of startlement or bravado, she didn't step back and her gaze didn't waver. Raphael leaned in to brush fingertips carefully across the almost invisible flush on her cheek (which, appropriately, felt as hot as if her face had been red) and murmured against her lips, low and heated, "Next time, I'll make sure to turn your blood to fire."

Her voice didn't waver when she replied, just as heated in its ferocity, "Next time, I'll make sure to set your blood on fire."

Raphael actually laughed, quiet and hoarse, letting himself be the one to step back, but not before leaning in to offer, "Is that a threat or a promise?"

The burn was sudden enough that he registered the heat before the pain, and all of it only a split-second before he saw her drop the lit cigarette and vanish. He absently crushed it under his foot, eyes fixed on the place she'd been standing a moment ago, a faint smirk once again on his lips. After all, there had to be some significance in the fact that she'd chosen to let the cigarette burn his lower lip.

I finally turned on the lights and turned into a man.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 18:23:36 GMT

Pairing: Tyler Reese/Deianeira Pendergast
Word Count: 1234
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Thursday Next/Preston&Child)
Summary: Written for lyotto for the 2008 Hades fic exchange. Tyler is hers. This is also my very first second-person fic ever, and I think it's pulled off pretty well.

You notice his dog before you notice him.

You think that this might be a regular occurrence, since he doesn't seem to be the type who draws attention to himself readily. The dog isn't either, but she at least looks up when she sees you.

(You know it's a she because there's intelligence in her eyes. Unsurprisingly, male dogs never show this. You wonder why.)

It takes you a moment to realize why he doesn't turn to look at you until the rustle of his dog standing up catches his attention. You haven't met too many blind people and the ones you have met have been male, so you've never seen much point in talking to them. You're sure they wouldn't have much to tell you.

But now he's looking at you, or he would be could he see from behind the sunglasses perched on his nose, and you've already disturbed his dog a little so you suppose you have to be polite. It isn't pity that leads you to sit next to him, simply a feeling that perhaps he has less of a chance to be superficial because he can't see. And he isn't begging for company, anyway -- you suppose you can sit and introduce yourself, enjoy the day and maybe pet his dog.

He introduces himself and the dog. You return the favour. Not much else is said and to your surprise, it's fairly comfortable.

You see him again a few times, over the course of weeks. It almost seems as if he starts to recognize the sound of your walk -- you suppose it's necessary for his hearing to be sharper than most other people's -- because he always turns just a split-second below you speak, face beginning to slip into the odd, slightly more than polite half-smile he usually greets you with. It's a slightly awkward expression, almost as if he isn't sure if he should let himself be happy to see you or not; to your surprise, you find that it looks strangely natural and you're almost pleased to see it after a while. It starts to occur to you that maybe he's simply doing it because he doesn't know what a smile looks like and he's giving the closest approximation to it he can; it's a startlingly sad thought and you try not to contemplate it.

Still, he treats it lightly enough. You don't delude yourself into thinking for one minute that he would ever hesitate to accept if offered his sight back, but you learn, through listening both to his words and to the things he doesn't say (it's easier to read someone who can't read you, after all), that he has his own view of the world, his own picture of what it looks like, and sometimes you wish, for brief, fleeting moments, that you could see into his mind and pick out this vision of the world. You sometimes think, wryly and just a little bitterly, that it might be better than the real thing, and though you certainly don't envy him his lack of sight, sometimes you envy him this.

He's rather intelligent and his personality is surprisingly tolerable -- mild, but not so much that you would dismiss him as simply one of the masses. You don't mind his company, which is also surprising, but you don't think about that. You don't think about the fact that it's no effort to keep up conversation with him, you don't think about the fact that falling into silence with him feels just as comfortable, you don't think about the fact that, while you don't exactly miss him, you find yourself almost looking forward to seeing him when you know it'll happen -- and if it's difficult not to think about any of this, well, you don't think about that, either.

It's the day, That Day, the day filled with so much melodrama that a television producer couldn't have improved upon it, the day with such significance that you can't help giving it capital letters in your mind. And it's followed by Another Day, the worst possible double strike that leaves you both violently furious and strangely hollow, flaming and aching, vision turning red and heart feeling empty. In the aftermath, long enough for the ache to start dulling but short enough for the pain of anger to be just as sharp, you don't want to see anyone but you want to talk to someone, you have to let it out or you know you'll burst, and that's when you find him.

You weren't looking for him, you wouldn't have wanted to see him if you had a choice, but he's there, and he can all but sense from your presence that you need to talk. He doesn't push it, which is more consideration than you think you deserve, because he seems to know how conflicted you are. You don't know how he knows and you don't know if you want to know, but somehow, it happens to be what you need, and so you talk.

You tell him about your family, the background of your father and uncle, using the former for the latter and the latter for the former because that was what you used to think they were. You tell him how you found out the truth, that your father is your uncle and your uncle your father, and you tell him how it seems as if your family lied to you your entire life, keeping something from you that you had every right to know. You tell him, trying not to let your voice shake, how it feels that you've been living in confusion and doubt your entire life, that you always wondered what you'd done to make you different from everyone in your family, and that all this time, the difference was through no fault of your own and you never knew this, that you spent so much time wondering how you could fix yourself to fit in when you never needed to. You tell him that you feel like you're a completely different person.

He listens, and he doesn't interrupt, and when you finish he says, very quietly, enough so that you almost miss it, "You'll have to explain it to me, if this means you look any different now. I can't tell."

You stood up and walked away when he said that. You tell yourself you aren't sure why, but you know exactly what the reason was.

He knew exactly what you were afraid of and he knew exactly what you needed to hear. Not the sympathy you wanted, but the reminder that this wasn't the end of the world that you needed. He delivered it gently enough that it took a moment to sink in, with a pointed reference to his own misfortune to remind you that you aren't the only one with problems to overcome, with life-altering revelations to battle. He did all of this with a simple sentence, cutting through the mire of your self-pity and your rage, and though it wasn't what you wanted to hear, had you stayed, he might have given you what you needed without hurting your pride or making you angrier.

Cliched as it is, despite being blind, he sees through you more clearly than anyone else ever has. And that is why you leave without looking back, and you never speak to him again.

I don't care what you tell the other guys.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 18:16:18 GMT

Pairing: Rob Hades/Seraphina Hades
Word Count: 466
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Thursday Next/angel/demon canon)
Summary: Written for dizmo for the 2008 Hades fic exchange. Rob is hers.
Warning: Uh, cousincest so mild as to barely be there.

"Unless I'm gravely mistaken -- and modesty aside, I rarely am -- we're related."

When your last name is Hades, this sentiment's far from unusual. Rob was no exception; he glanced up from the magazine he was flipping through to quirk an eyebrow at the young woman addressing him. "I'm sure I'll be shocked and amazed to hear that we are."

"Prepare for shock and amazement, then," came the reply, almost bright despite its wry humour. "Again, unless I'm gravely mistaken -- again, a rare occurrence -- you're -- Robert, I believe?"

"Mm. Got it in one." Rob leaned back in his chair, looking her over -- she was tall, dressed in black, a few locks of dark hair falling from her bun, unusually bright blue eyes watching him just as carefully. "And you're reportedly the only smart one with angel blood. Seraphina, is it?"

"Ding ding ding, we have a winner. Give the boy a cookie." Seraphina strode over to Rob's chair and perched on the table next to it, crossing her legs; for a moment, she looked as if she was planning to prop her feet up in his lap, but the look he gave her apparently deterred her from getting on his bad side at this point. "So."

Rob arched an eyebrow again, leaning back in his chair a little more still. "So?"

"So, isn't it a shame, darling cousin, that we're part of the same big happy family, we've heard of one another, and yet we've never met?" Seraphina replied conversationally, withdrawing a knife from her sleeve and twirling it absently, dividing her attention between the glint of light on the blade and Rob's face.

"Some might say that the reason the family stays 'happy' is that most of us have never met," came the rather dry response. "Especially considering it might take the better part of most of our lives if we bothered with proper introductions."

"Oh, and a sense of humour," Seraphina murmured, taking a moment to stick the knife firmly into the table, a blow likely strong enough to have done serious damage had it been animate. "It really is a shame we haven't met before."

"We have now," Rob pointed out, eyebrow arching higher again, as if in question as to why exactly this might matter.

"That we have." In one smooth motion, Seraphina had withdrawn the knife, sheathed it, and slid it back up her sleeve; in another, she'd hopped off the table and stood beside Rob. "But don't let this be the end of it, sweetheart. I absolutely insist that we do lunch one day. In the spirit of the family, yes?" And with a quick kiss to Rob's cheek, either accidentally or purposefully rather close to the corner of his mouth, she'd given him the slightest of waves before walking away.

I need to run far away, can't go back to that place.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 18:08:30 GMT

Title: Five Reasons Why Ky Picked An Albino Wallaby, Of All Animals
Word Count: 1275
Characters: Ky Hades, April Hades, Diomedes Hades, Dies, and Calypso Hades. (And Mars and Gemma.)
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next)
Summary: For lyotto because, yes, she wanted it ages and ages ago and I hope it helps her otherwise fairly sucky days. ♥ Caly is hers, Dio is peridium's. Takes place about three years ago; no, I have no idea how it ends. I assume it was successful.

1.
"I want a pet."

April and Dio groaned as if on cue, rolling their eyes towards their brother; the sound check for the show was over and the club was filling up quickly. It was just like Ky to bring up a subject he'd been mentioning -- always in that distant, almost wistful tone -- minutes before they would have to take the stage.

"Granddad's sake, Ky," April muttered impatiently, peeking out at the crowd from backstage, "you're an adult -- hard as it is for us to believe half the time. If you want a pet, why the hell not just get one?"

There was a moment of utter silence; April glanced back over her shoulder to see Ky's arrested expression. "You're right," he practically breathed, eyes suddenly all but glowing. "I am an adult, aren't I? Dad couldn't care less, Da won't mind if it doesn't eat the ferrets -- I can do practically anything I want!"

"Oh, great," Dio murmured under his breath, not looking up from a last-minute tuning of his guitar. "You've created a monster."

"I'm going to get a pet," Ky rather dramatically informed his siblings, who were watching the crowd more closely than listening to him. "And it's going to be the best pet ever."

2.
"I want something -- fuzzy."

Dies quirked an eyebrow at Ky, who was rubbing noses with the little tamarin perched on his shoulder. "Compelled by this little guy, huh?"

"How could I not be? Look at his little face." Ky wrinkled his nose at Mars, who gave him a quiet, almost affectionate screech in reply. "You're a good boy, aren't you, Marsie? Want to go back to Daddy now? Remember your uncle Ky loves you, okay?"

"You're going to be either an awesome dad or a crazy person one day," Dies predicted with a grin, holding out an arm for Mars to hop back onto.

"Respectively, hell no and what do you mean 'one day'?" Ky retorted, grinning back as he watched Dies stroke Mars's tiny head with a fingertip. "But seriously, your little guy's adorable. I need something like him. I want something fuzzy that'll be warm when I snuggle it."

"Get a tamarin" was Dies's immediate helpful suggestion, batting Mars's tail out of his face (the tamarin had climbed onto his head).

"You just want to get Mars a girlfriend," Ky replied wryly, unable to help looking amused at the little monkey climbing all over his half-brother.

"You'd love to see little tamarin babies everywhere!" Dies shot back unrepentantly. "Come on, picture it. They'd take over the world with sheer fuzziness."

Ky had to laugh. "Hey, sounds like a fun way to take over the world to me."

"Be afraid," Dies intoned solemnly. "Be very afraid."

3.
"You should get a dog."

Ky shook his head. "You've said that like twenty times, Prilly."

"Do not," April said firmly, leaning over to land a solid punch on her brother's shoulder, "call me that. And you said you wanted a pet approximately fifty billion times, so I have a lot of catching up to do, thank you."

Ky grinned, rubbing his shoulder. "Fifty billion?"

"Give or take a few billion," April replied placidly. "I'm serious, though."

"Why don't you get one, if you're so eager to see one around?" Ky inquired, leaning back in his chair.

"I wish I could," April muttered, glancing around her room balefully. "The flat could use some intelligent life. Whenever Da's not around, the only other signs of it here are the cats, and that's debatable."

Ky wrinkled his nose. "Brynne lives here too, doesn't she?"

There was a pause, then April repeated stonily, "Whenever Da's not around, the only other signs of it here are the cats, and that's debatable."

The obvious animosity between his sister and her father's ward was excessive enough that all Ky could do was laugh. "Don't you think you might not be giving her enough credit?"

"No," was the immediate, forceful reply. "And we're not talking about that now."

"I don't want a dog," Ky replied, easily settling back into the previous conversational topic. "I want something more -- I don't know. Exotic."

"You talked to Dies and his monkey, didn't you," April said, sounding almost resigned, eyes narrowing.

"He's getting another one!" Ky exclaimed brightly. "A marmoset. Can you believe that? Isn't that awesome?"

"I'm looking forward to seeing how this turns out," his sister sighed, a hand covering her eyes. "Really. I am."

4.
"I've got it!"

Dio quirked an eyebrow up at his brother's enthusiastic entrance from his spot on the floor with his guitar. "Dare I ask?"

"I'm going to get a kangaroo," Ky announced brightly, beaming irrepressibly.

Dio blinked, expression going faintly incredulous; even used to Ky's crazy impulses as he was, this was a little too much. "You're what?"

"Getting a kangaroo! Kangaroos are awesome." It was difficult, sometimes, to remember that Ky was twenty-two; now, when he was looking like nothing so much as someone half his age on Christmas Day, was no exception.

"Ky," Dio said patiently, setting his guitar to the side. "You can't get a kangaroo. Where the hell would you put it?"

"We'll find a place!" Ky gestured expansively, still grinning brightly. "This is Mount Olympus. There has to be somewhere!"

"Ky," Dio said again, barely managing not to make it a groan. "I know that this is usually hard for you, but try to think about this reasonably for a minute?"

Obligingly, Ky stopped, expression going more thoughtful and almost serious; after a moment, he nodded, slowly and reluctantly. "You're right, it's probably a little impractical." Before Dio could reply, though, the grin was back on his brother's face. "But I'll think of something else, never fear!" And with that, he all but bounced out of the room, leaving Dio to shake his head and pick his guitar back up.

5.
"There! That! That's it!"

Caly started slightly at her brother's outburst, glancing in the direction he was pointing with some bewilderment. "What's it, dear?"

"What I want! My future pet! That's the one!" Ky looked so excited that Caly expected him to start bouncing at any minute; he grabbed her hand, pulling her to one of the zoo's displays and gesturing proudly. "There!"

Caly blinked through the glass, peering at the animal inside. "What on earth is that?"

"It's an albino wallaby!" Ky looked utterly delighted, beaming at the little white animal, innocently nibbling at its food inside the enclosure, with an almost paternal pride.

"I see," Caly murmured, tilting her head curiously at it. "It is rather sweet," she conceded after a moment with a slight smile.

"She," Ky corrected. "And she's sweet and beautiful and perfect and I have to have her."

"I know a handful of girls who'd be thrilled to hear you say that about them," Caly replied wryly. "Why this one? Why not a normal wallaby?"

"Oh, they're cute enough," Ky said a little distractedly, now watching as the albino wallaby hopped around the enclosure. "But they're so -- I don't know, ordinary. She's special. It has to be her."

"Whatever makes you happy, Kydoimos." Caly patted his shoulder. "I'm sure we can find a place willing to sell you an albino wallaby."

Ky turned to give her an eloquent scowl, an expression of pure indignation. "You're not listening to me, are you? I said I wanted her."

Caly blinked again, then quirked a cautious eyebrow "Do I even want to ask how you're planning on accomplishing that?"

Ky grinned now, bright and almost expectant, just a hint of mischief lurking behind it. "Just leave it all to me."

I'm following my heart in this amazing crazy world.

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 19:32:38 GMT

Pairing: Dies/Diomedes Hades
Word Count: 2550
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next)
Summary: Written for peridium for the 2008 Sex And Porn Day fic exchange. Dio's hers.
Warning: UNDERAGE INCEST HERE! WITH THE -- UNDERAGENESS AND THE LOTS AND LOTS OF PORN AND THE -- INCESTUOUSNESS. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

It wasn't as if anyone needed an excuse to have sex with Dies. He was gorgeous, of course -- he wouldn't be much of a god of sex if he weren't -- and he was incredibly good at it (another given of the job). But his personality was also almost overwhelmingly positive, his kindness and regard for everyone else all but unique on Olympus (and the rest of the un-angelic world, for that matter); it was sometimes easy to forget just how sensual he could be when faced with how truly, genuinely, almost endlessly nice he was, and it was sometimes easy to forget just how much he loved everyone when faced with the sensation of forgetting everything but the fact that he was touching you and his cock was inside you and he was, more likely than not, kissing you better than you'd ever felt it before.

Dio had first slept with Dies when he was fifteen and Dies sixteen. It had been barely a couple of months since his proverbial first time, with (as so many of his half-siblings' had been) Ares -- not exactly what someone would want to get meaning out of, not something particularly memorable, but enjoyable enough, which was mostly what Dio had thought to expect, anyway. Not disappointing (it was difficult to disappoint someone with very few expectations), but not exactly encouraging or uplifting in all but the most basic of physical senses.

Dies, however, must have somehow sensed this and in his own roundabout way wanted to set about improving it; or maybe he wasn't thinking that way yet and he was just being himself when he all but bounced into the room Dio was using, threw himself onto the couch next to his half-brother and flashed him his customary bright grin. "Hey, Dio, can I try something?" he asked without preamble.

Dio quirked an eyebrow, fingers pausing in their place on the neck of his guitar; in the next moment, the guitar was gone and Dio was nodding, just a little cautiously (Dies's ideas tended to be unpredictable, but it was still impossible not to trust him).

Dies grinned at him again and Dio noticed that it was tinged with something else -- something he couldn't quite name, something he hadn't seen often enough to identify -- and then he'd shifted closer, one hand moving to rest against Dio's cheek, and he was kissing him.

Dio relaxed a little at feeling it -- almost everyone in their family had kissed Dies at some point and it was familiar, almost comfortable, the way Dies's thumb drifted across his cheekbone, the way he let out a soft, approving sound that Dio almost felt more than heard when his own fingers moved to grip Dies's collar, the ease with which his tongue slipped between Dio's lips and the warmth and heat immediately generated between their mouths as the kiss lingered and went on.

Eventually, Dies pulled back, just enough for Dio to still feel the light brush of his lips against his own; he let his fingers keep a light grip on Dies's collar and shuddered a little at the feeling of Dies's fingertips drifting gently across his cheek. Not opening his eyes yet, Dio murmured, "What are you trying? We've done that before, Dies."

"Uh-huh," came the reply, and Dio didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Dies was grinning. "But we haven't done this."

Dio didn't need to open his eyes to know that they were suddenly someplace else, either, but he did anyway; they had moved to a bedroom, were sitting on a bed, and Dies's grin was a little less distracting than the fact that he suddenly wasn't wearing a shirt.

Dio slowly quirked an eyebrow, watching as Dies's expression turned a little sheepish. "Dies?" he asked promptingly after a moment, unable to help taking that moment to let his gaze skim briefly across his chest, noting yet again just how attractive his half-brother was.

"Dio?" Dies offered brightly, then laughed quietly as Dio arched his eyebrow a little higher, apparently taking this as a cue to shift closer to him. "Sorry, probably should've given you a bit more warning. But -- I want to try this."

"Sex?" Dio asked bluntly and Dies laughed again.

"Well, yeah." He looked almost sheepish for a moment, running a hand through his hair. "Last time I went through the family with this, you were still a virgin, so I figure if you don't mind -- " He shrugged, giving him another bright grin. "It'll be really good. I know it will."

"You would," Dio murmured, letting another one of Dies's laughs coax a slight grin out of him. He took a moment to think about it -- he supposed it didn't really matter, but Dies seemed to find it important enough to ask with genuine feeling, so he figured he might as well briefly consider it.

Dies had started properly coming (pun not intended) into the full span of his abilities as a sex god recently, barely two or three years ago; his first instance of sex (with Ares, of course) had been followed by months of everyone being able to tell where he was based on the waves of pure sex appeal that had followed him from what was certainly miles around. Dio couldn't count the number of times he'd been talking to siblings only to break off, seeing their faces suddenly shift into the expression he knew was on his own face as well, betraying the sudden, uncomfortable arousal that heralded Dies's imminent arrival into the room.

It was impossible not to be attracted to him, especially when he was directing the force of the appeal at one specific person, shirtless, with that ridiculous grin of his, all but bouncing up and down a little on the bed, giving off the air of being unable to hold in all of the energy he wanted to direct towards other pursuits. It didn't take long for Dio's faint grin to be inevitable; he nodded a little, watching as Dies's grin brightened even more.

"You won't regret this," he promised, and suddenly his hands were on Dio's shoulders, pushing him back gently, and he was kissing him again, but it was different than any time they'd ever kissed before, and then Dio's shirt was gone, too, and it was difficult to think at all when Dies was on top of him and they were skin to skin and all Dio could taste was his half-brother's tongue exploring his mouth with a familiarity he'd never felt before.

Dies was kissing him more intently and with more heat than before -- he wasn't quite skilled (Dio assumed, somewhat dazedly, that that would come with time), but there was an enthusiasm, a nearly painful amount of what could almost be called passion there, so much that Dio could do nothing but shudder and moan, letting his lips part further, arching closer to Dies as his half-brother's hands slowly traced up his chest, the heat that his palms generated seeming to spread throughout Dio's body and gather (already) between his legs.

When Dies finally broke the kiss, Dio was breathing heavily, shuddering again as he felt Dies's hands trace back down his chest. "F-- fuck, Dies," he managed, voice far too breathless, though he was amazed that he could even speak. "How -- don't take this the wrong way, but -- but you've gotten really good at this."

Dies laughed, quietly and huskily, kissing the corner of Dio's mouth as he let a hand trace down his chest to his hip. "Practice makes perfect?" he offered in a quiet purr against his jaw that made it impossible for Dio to process the actual words.

It took only a few moments of Dies carefully tracing kisses from his jaw down to his neck for Dio to realize that he wasn't doing anything apart from shuddering and trying to stifle low, choked moans; almost experimentally, he let a hand trace up Dies's spine and was rewarded with an almost startled shudder. Encouraged, he let both hands trace up Dies's chest, carefully feeling every line of his body even as he was shuddering in turn from the feeling of Dies's tongue tracing across his collarbone.

When Dies drifted lower and flicked his tongue lightly across a nipple, Dio couldn't help the broken sound at the back of his throat being followed by an almost embarrassingly hard arch of his hips; Dies let out a sound that sounded almost like a laugh and both pairs of their pants were gone in the next minute. "I'm kind of impatient too," he murmured into Dio's chest, glancing back up at him to give him a slow grin that seemed, impossibly, to heighten the sensation of his hand tracing past Dio's hip to wrap firmly around his cock.

As Dies gave slow, deliberate strokes to match the pace of his tongue circling around Dio's nipple, the younger demigod was finding it difficult to focus on making sure that he was doing something. His fingertips were skimming across Dies's shoulder, his hand tangling tightly in his hair, his nails drifting lightly down his back, and his motions had become almost frantically quick when he felt a gentle but firm grip on one of his wrists.

He half-opened one eye to find that Dies's grin had gone less seductive and more gentle; his half-brother was practically radiating concern born of genuine feeling. "Relax, okay?" Dies murmured against his palm, quickly kissing the inside of his wrist. "You don't have to do anything. It's nice if you do, but don't push it. This is about you." And before Dio could protest or offer anything, Dies had let go of his hand and shifted down to replace his own hand with his mouth, and Dio could think of absolutely nothing but the fact that he was utterly positive in this moment that nothing, nothing in his life had felt better than this.

After a blowjob so incredible that Dio was sure his vision (and vocal cords) might not ever properly recover, it was all he could do to smile faintly when he felt Dies's lips briefly brushing his temple. "Spread your legs," came the slightly hoarse, intent murmur (that still somehow managed to sound affectionate) right into his ear, and Dio didn't have the mental capacity left to be embarrassed by just how quickly he moved to comply.

He was shuddering in anticipation by the time he felt something enter him, but all he could do upon glancing at Dies and seeing that it was just his finger was let out a low, impatient sound, hips arching forward hard again. Dies grinned briefly at that, carefully sliding another finger in, and Dio groaned "Dies" at him, squirming as he felt a third finger slide in and out as well. As he shuddered harder, he felt his half-brother's lips brush his ear before murmuring there, free hand moving to briefly press against his heart, "Shhh. Be patient, okay? This'll -- this'll be amazing. Don't worry."

The slight breathlessness in Dies's voice made Dio relax just a little -- it was good to know he wasn't entirely unaffected, after all, because it felt fucking incredible already -- but he had enough brainpower left to know that his low moan when Dies withdrew his fingers should, again, be one of anticipation and not protest. And when he felt the space being replaced by Dies's cock, he felt every muscle of his body straining to press closer to him as he shuddered and managed to exhale a breathless "Finally."

Dies's hips were arching forward hard right away, deeply and quickly if carefully enough, and Dio was even more convinced of the fact that nothing better than this could exist. He would probably relent once he could think clearly enough, but for the moment, in the way Dies's hips were rocking into his own and their bodies were pressed together, their hands tracing across each other's chests and backs, Dio managing to catch Dies's earlobe between his teeth and shuddering at hearing his low purr before Dies shifted to kiss him, more deeply and heatedly and urgently than before, their moans mingling as their tongues slid together -- for the moment, he couldn't think of anything that could have felt better.

It took Dio a moment, once Dies broke the kiss, to realize that he'd only done so in order to all but breathe into his ear, a little hoarsely, "Dio -- hey, Dio?" When he managed a breathless, questioning sound of his own in reply, Dies murmured, lips brushing his ear, "I love you, okay? Remember that. You're my brother, and -- and I love you, and that's why I want to make this amazing."

His hands were tracing up Dio's chest now, but there was more affection than intensity in it and his touch was gentle, almost as if he was trying to infuse it with more genuine warmth than heat now; when his lips brushed the corner of Dio's mouth, it felt more like a gesture of love than a heightening of sensation. And as he kept thrusting, deep and deliberate and careful, until Dio couldn't resist coming, biting down on Dies's lower lip to muffle his intent moan, it somehow seemed that each gesture of his was trying to be infused with deliberate feeling, until it was almost as prominent as the sensation. Dio couldn't quite think about what this meant until he felt Dies shudder against him as he came in turn, lips pressed to the corner of his mouth again, and rolled off of him in order to murmur into his ear, "Sleep, Dio"; he was drained enough to listen right away, barely able to feel Dies's arm around his waist pulling him closer.

It was a frequent occurrence over the next few years, the sex -- both of them got steadily better and better at it (though even Dio would admit right away that he could manage to be as good as Dies). And if asked, Dio would reply that of course he fucked Dies because he was incredibly good at it, but the truth was, Dies had been the first one to show Dio that sex didn't have to be simply an exchange of physical actions focused solely on emotionless physical pleasure. Dies always, always made Dio feel loved before, during, and after the sex; he always did this, of course (he was Dies, he all but radiated love for everyone, especially his family), but when he was in his element, while no one could be more appealing, no one could be more affectionate, either.

The person who used Dio for sex most often was Ares, who was violent and rough and while no one could deny he was good at it, there was never any feeling. But Dies more than made up for that with affectionate endearments and gentle touches, even as he knew exactly how to move to get the most reaction out of Dio, and for someone who needed all the love he could get in his life, it was nothing short of a blessing. Even after they stopped giving one another any but the most chaste of affectionate physical contact, it would always be something Dio would never forget.

I don't think that I could take another empty moment.

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 19:26:14 GMT

Pairing: Demosthenes Pendergast/Tori Hades
Word Count: 2400
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Preston&Child/Greek mythology/Thursday Next)
Summary: Written for rhombal for the 2008 Sex And Porn Day fic exchange. Demosthenes (and the mentioned Ryan) is hers.
Warning: HERE THERE BE PORN. LOTS AND LOTS OF PORN. THAT EVEN I WILL ADMIT IS KIND OF HOT.

It could have gone very differently.

Demosthenes's first instinct when Tori kissed him was to return the kiss; he could taste the alcohol on her lips and tongue and she was obviously rather uncertain, but it was still good, as good as Demosthenes would have expected to be had he spent much time thinking about kissing Tori.

Not that it hadn't occurred to him before -- he was only human, after all, and no one could deny how attractive Tori was. He just usually made a habit of not lusting after his family's girlfriends (unless they happened to be really, really exceptionally attractive); though it was obvious that Ryan and Tori had problems (they hadn't had sex in a year despite her wanting it, for fuck's sake, how much more evidence of a problem did they need?), taking advantage of that was not something he would ever want to do.

"Fucking hell, Tori," he managed when he finally pulled back from her, trying to force himself not to see how genuinely confused she looked. "Christ, I can't even start to tell you what a bad idea this is."

Tori looked at him plaintively, expression going pleading with the gravity of the very drunk. "Why?" she demanded, grip on his collar not loosening. "It was nice and I'm sad."

She was drunk, but she seemed so earnest that Demosthenes was almost tempted to relent. Still, he forced himself to take a deep breath and replied, "Because as much as you're fucking frustrated with him right now, kissing me -- which I usually encourage," he added quickly, "so don't think for a fucking moment that I don't want to -- is definitely one of the worst things you could do." He shook his head, slowly and regretfully; he wasn't used to being the voice of reason, especially in situations like this. "Shit, I can't believe I just said that."

Tori was studying him surprisingly intently, still not releasing his collar, and there was something focused in her expression, as if she was reaching for a difficult decision past her drunkenness. After a long moment, she stepped back just a little -- grip on his collar not loosening --and took a deep breath, closing her eyes, standing up a little straighter, seeming to relax a little.

Demosthenes's expression was uncomprehending until she raised her head to look at him again. Her eyes were clearer, her own expression almost set, and while she still looked a little unsteady, she looked more so than she had the entire night.

"There," she murmured, voice a little lower. "I'm sober. Well -- mostly. But I'm not drunk anymore, is the point." And before Demosthenes could say anything, she had stepped forward and kissed him again.

If Demosthenes had doubted that she suddenly felt better, the absence of the taste of alcohol in this second kiss rid him of it. Before he knew what he was doing, he had let both hands settle at her hips and was pulling her closer even as she moved herself, kissing her back more firmly this time. It took him a minute to properly realize what exactly was going on, but despite everything, he forced himself to finally break away, though he didn't let go of her.

"Tori -- " he began, but she cut him off before he could say anything else.

"Demosthenes," she said, voice going low again, just a little more breathless. "I got rid of the alcohol. I'm thinking clearly. Or -- close enough." She shrugged with a faint, self-deprecating grin. "But -- I know what I'm doing. I know what I want." Her expression went more serious, though there will still an edge of pleading there. "I want this. I know I do. Please, Demosthenes."

Demosthenes let his breath out, slowly and shakily, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head a little to clear it. It shouldn't have been a difficult decision to make -- Tori was Ryan's girlfriend, no matter how attractive she was or that she was asking for it. She was far from the most charismatic, good-looking, or appealing girl he'd ever met, either. She did have a good dose of all three, though, and they got along well; Demosthenes was pretty sure that if he let himself, he could have developed some sort of deeper feelings for her and they could have been reciprocated. In fact, from the way she was looking at him now, it was difficult to remember why he was letting anything get in the way of this.

Her expression was distinctly expectant now; he sighed again. "You're a real damn danger to my health, you know that?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Is that a yes?"

He shook his head again, almost disbelievingly. "This is a really fucking terrible idea."

"Is that a yes?"

"Tori -- " he tried again, but this time she cut him off with a finger pressed to his lips.

"The next word out of your mouth," she informed him firmly, "is going to be 'yes' or 'no'. I'm leaning towards 'yes' myself."

Demosthenes laughed quietly and a little breathlessly around her finger; a hint of a wry, questioning grin tugged at Tori's own lips. He gave a quick nod and Tori dropped her hand. "All right," he acquiesced, just a little reluctantly; seeming to catch it, she quirked an eyebrow again.

"What, am I really that bad?" she asked, her grin almost self-deprecating. "I mean, I know I'm coming off as kind of desperate, but it'd be really sad if my impression of myself as pretty hot's been wrong all -- "

Demosthenes was the one to cut her off this time, a hand moving to the small of her back to pull her closer as he kissed her, free hand moving to the back of her neck to tilt her head properly (down just slightly -- she was nearly two inches taller than him). She responded readily, bracing her hands against his chest as she kissed back, shifting closer in turn until she was lightly pressed against him, the contact making both of them shudder just slightly. His hand pressed flat at her back before tracing slowly up her spine and her back arched into the touch even as her own hands were skimming lightly down his chest, bringing them closer together still.

Demosthenes broke the kiss after a few minutes, giving them both a moment to catch their breaths, then grinned when Tori let out a protesting sound as he stepped back. "What, you don't agree with my assessment that it's about fucking time you had some sex?" he asked innocently, grinning again when he saw the rather obvious anticipation lighting her face; he took her hand, pressing a quick, mock-gentlemanly kiss to the back of it before heading off in search of a bedroom, demigoddess in tow.

They were barely inside the first one they found before Tori's fingers were closing over the collar of Demosthenes's shirt again and she was pushing him against the wall, kissing him more fiercely now, almost urgently; he let an arm go around her waist to pull her closer as he kissed back for a moment, then broke it in order to give another soft, breathless laugh. "A little impatient, are we?"

"I haven't had sex in over two years," Tori replied, expression completely serious despite the faint flush that was now staining her cheeks. "My sex drive leads me to want sex at least twice a week. I have missed out on about two hundred and eight instances of sex and if it were possible, my vibrators would all -- yes, all of them -- be worn down to the core by now. Yes, I'm just a tiny fucking little bit impatient."

Demosthened laughed again, a little more huskily this time, letting his thumb briefly drift over her lower lip. "Well, shit, that's understandable. Let's not waste time, then."

There wasn't much more conversation as Demosthenes steered Tori back towards the bed, hands at her hips, her own fingers unbuttoning his shirt with surprising ease despite how distracted she kept getting by kissing Demosthenes (which he couldn't quite not approve). In turn, Demosthenes was rather distracted by kissing Tori's ear, jaw, and neck, until they finally reached the bed and she sat down on the edge, laughing helplessly, and managed to protest "Stop," shifting away from him just enough to pull her own shirt off.

Demosthenes took a moment to admire Tori's form underneath the bra she was also unclasping before pulling his shirt off properly, stepping back to undo and remove his pants; out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Tori doing the same. When she finished and noticed that he had as well, she grinned, faintly and coyly, shifting further back still on the bed and beckoning him closer with a finger.

He didn't need much more prompting than that; quickly crossing over to the bed, Demosthenes set both hands at Tori's shoulders to push her back. Once he was properly settled onto her hips, he couldn't resist the urge to look her over properly. She was slender, but he could feel the strength of her muscles from the spot where his hands rested on her upper arms, the flare of her hips beneath his, and the weight of a breast as he slid a hand across her chest to cup it in his hand with a low, appreciative sound. She squirmed a little at the touch, shuddering as her back arched, eyes half-closing; he thought with a faint, slightly distracted grin that she was probably remembering the sensation of something she hadn’t felt in over two years and he liked to think he was better at this than most.

He shifted down in order to kiss her, a little more urgently now as he let their bodies press together, shuddered as he felt her legs twine with his and her hand tangle in his hair as she kissed back, almost insistently. He let his hand squeeze her breast, thumb brushing lightly back and forth over the nipple, and she let out a protesting sound at the back of her throat, hand moving to cover his and pull it down to slide between her legs.

Demosthenes had to break the kiss in order to laugh at that obvious display of impatience, but he obediently slid both hands down Tori's sides and pushed her legs apart carefully. She let her hips arch forward deliberately as he did, letting out a low, husky, insistent sound; at that, he couldn't help a shudder and his intent of at least trying to go slowly all but disappeared. He slid into her in one quick, deep motion, unable to help a slightly hoarse moan as he felt her muscles clench around him, shuddering as he felt her hips buck into his and hear the louder, almost relieved moan coming from her, including something that sounded like a breathless "thank Christ."

Demosthenes would have liked to draw it out, to let both of them drink the full potential of how incredible their sex could have been, make sure that it was an experience to remember -- unfortunately, Tori had other ideas. He supposed that after her drought, she wasn't about to be picky, so no matter how he touched her, fingertips grazing over her sides and back and breasts and clit, she would always make sure that his focus was on the place where he was inside her, her hips arching forward hard at each thrust of his; and he let himself follow her rhythm, which didn't take much time to get quick and urgent, her lower lip caught firmly between her teeth in her attempt to stifle just how close to pleading each moan leaving her mouth was.

It wasn't as if Tori was refraining from exploring, though -- her hands had memorized the feel of his chest, Demosthenes was certain, from how many times they'd traced across it. Her thumbnail had brushed a nipple lightly and Demosthenes had had to bite down on his own lip hard to stifle a rather choked sound of his own; he let both hands move to cup and squeeze her breasts, firmly, and bent to stifle any protests she might have made with a fierce, intent kiss, letting himself thrust quicker still as she muffled another moan into his mouth.

The intensity that had built in the short amount of time caught up to them soon, and Demosthenes couldn't resist coming on a particularly deep thrust, letting the kiss deepen a little more as he did; barely moments later, he felt Tori shudder underneath him as she let the kiss deepen, then he felt her slowly relax, going limp, and knew that he was doing the same. He let the kiss linger a little more, then broke it, catching his breath as he heard Tori's heavy exhale; it made him grin, briefly and faintly, as he rolled off of her to stretch out on the other side of the bed.

Tori was stretching as well, eyes closed, looking rather dazedly pleased; Demosthenes couldn't help a smug grin when she glanced over at him, expression a little distant but distinctly content. "Pretty fucking good end to that time of your life, huh?" he murmured and she laughed quietly, closing her eyes again and looking as if she'd like nothing better than to melt back into the bed.

Demosthenes had turned onto his side to watch her, for some reason almost fascinated by the way she'd gone still -- she was almost always in motion in some way when standing up, but now she looked like she'd be content to stay where she was for days. To his surprise, she rolled over after a moment to burrow against his side, back to his chest, tugging his arm around her waist. He was too startled to do anything but comply, pulling her closer and curving himself around her, hearing her slightly hoarse, contented sound as she leaned back against him.

Before she dropped off to sleep, he heard Tori murmur under her breath, almost absently, quite possibly half-asleep already, "Y'know, I'm not sure -- I think I might've picked the wrong Pendergast."

Maybe, Demosthenes found himself thinking, but all he did in reply was drop a kiss to the top of her head before letting himself drift off to sleep as well.

You're my secret hiding place where my private thoughts are safe.

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 19:13:13 GMT

Pairing: Judith/Delilah
Word Count: 900
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Samaria)
Summary: Written for soloecal for the 2008 Sex And Porn Day fic exchange. Judith's hers.
Warning: As mentioned, uh, sex! Porn! Naked sisters! Don't say I didn't let you know.

From the first moment that the soft white expanses of feathered wings brushed over bare skin, the air was charged with a new sort of tension that practically seemed to crackle out loud.

Judith, feeling how Delilah had tensed from her position straddling her sister's hips, smiled faintly, reaching to smooth a bit of Delilah's hair back. It was a rare moment of Delilah allowing her younger sister to take control of a situation, deferring to her as the expert in a matter and giving herself over despite her misgivings, and Judith, who could rarely ever be described as tender, was settling into the role with surprisingly gentle regard. "You're all right?"

Delilah, whose eyes were half-closed as she forced her breathing to go even again, nodded just a little, tersely. Her expression was just as tensed as her body was, not even relaxing at the brush of Judith's fingertips carefully tracing up her sides. It was obvious that she was forcing herself to move past her own mental block before she could do anything else about this.

Delilah had never had intimate contact with any angel but one, and the experience had left her both deeply depressed and with an inherent distrust of all angels. Of her siblings, Judith was the only one who seemed able to overcome this -- Delilah had never shown any reluctance to treat her as a sister, whereas the differences between herself and Jemuel seemed an unbridgeable void. So it had been Judith that Delilah had turned to when she was ready to share the story, and it had been Judith who had come up with the crazy, awful idea that might actually help her sister.

As Judith spoke, Delilah had listened incredulously, shaking her head in disbelief, and slowly, eventually let herself be talked into the plan. It would work, Judith had insisted with surprising calm, because Delilah couldn’t let herself trust anyone else so much – it would take too long for her to become invested in anyone else – and she couldn’t very well allow herself intimacy with someone she didn't trust.

It had been strange at first, but not quite unpleasant. There was just the slow, careful, experienced slide of Judith's mouth against her own, almost curious in its explorations, a long, almost hesitant kiss as Judith let herself test the waters and Delilah forced herself to become used to something she’d been certain she'd never want again. Eventually, she had let her lips part for Judith's tongue more readily, relaxing a little even as her sister's hands on her upper arms made her shudder, and Judith had pulled back enough to tug lightly on the hem of her shirt in prompting.

There had been almost something like anticipation in the air as both sisters removed their clothing, and then Delilah had lain back onto the bed at a light, prompting touch to her shoulder from Judith, and Judith had followed, carefully straddling her hips, and then she had spread her wings across Delilah's body and the first touch of feathers on skin had returned all of Delilah's tension tenfold.

Judith's hand traced up her sister's torso, carefully cupping a small breast in a slim hand. She leaned over to speak against the corner of Delilah's mouth, "Relax, D. It's all right. You trust me, don't you?"

Delilah nodded, just a little, almost shakily; her entire body was trembling just a little and it was an effort for her to keep her breathing level. Judith kissed the corner of her mouth, letting her hand lightly squeeze the breast as her other hand braced itself at Delilah's hip. "I've never done this before," she confessed almost absently, as if it didn't particularly matter that this was a true first for both of them.

"Comforting," Delilah managed, quietly and wryly, giving her sister the slightest hint of a smile, the gesture betraying both her nerves and her slight relaxing.

Judith laughed quietly, thumb now brushing over her nipple. "It shouldn't be so difficult. It'll be good, D, I promise." Her voice had dropped a little lower now, gone just a little huskier almost unconsciously -- letting herself sound seductive like this was practically second nature to her. "You don't have anything to worry about. You trust me and you know I won't hurt you. It'll be good -- I promise it'll be good, just as long as you relax."

The tension slowly eased out of Delilah's body as Judith spoke, her thumb tracing light circles over her nipple, her breath hot against her mouth, the tips of her feathers gently teasing Delilah's skin, her other hand carefully tracing past Delilah's hip and thigh to slip between her legs. Delilah tensed briefly again at feeling that, but Judith kissed the corner of her mouth again, wings wrapping around them carefully, and murmured low reassurances that seemed to follow the rhythm of their bodies more than they were genuine and heartfelt.

Delilah didn't care, though -- she knew how well they were meant and that was more than enough for her. So in the shelter of her sister's wings, with Judith's mouth on hers and Judith's fingers slowly and skillfully slipping in and out of her, she felt her sister shiver as her own hands brushed her wings and skimmed up her back, closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, completely gave herself over to someone else.

Even if I could hear what you said, I doubt my reply would be interesting for you to hear.

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 06:40:14 GMT

Title: Five People Dies Never Slept With
Word Count: 1820
Characters: Dies, Nyx, Omnia, Erebus Hades, mentions of the other Nyxspawn, Rhadamanthos Hades, Tantalus Hades, and Xathanael Hades.
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next, more or less)
Summary: The title's rather self-explanatory. For dizmo, because she asked for it. About five months ago, but better late than never? ♥ Tan is hers, Nyx and Omnia are soloecal's, Rhad is salophile's, and Erebus and Xathingy are peridium's.

1. Nyx

She had been the first person he'd sensed, from the instant he'd first had a consciousness with which to sense anything. He had first known darkness and somehow known that she was inherent in the darkness itself, as he knew it to be now, as he knew he’d been a part of her then. His first smile, given within minutes of his birth, had been for her and he'd known, before he knew much else, that she was in some way important, very important, that she would always be that important to him. He knew by the end of his first day of life that no one would ever be able to replace her in his heart.

In some ways, it was strange that Dies had never entertained the thought of sleeping with Nyx as something he could or would do. It wasn't as if she had any moral objection to incest (his half-brother's namesake could attest to that) and he certainly had no problems with it, but it was different than that. It wasn't any kind of reason that Dies could have, if asked, put into words, but it was what made Nyx the one person he would have been actively reluctant to sleep with if she'd, for some reason, asked.

It was because Ares, the parent with whom Dies did have sex regularly, was not really a parent to him, would never truly be a proper parent to anyone. He used the children he could; that was what the sex was, and they all knew it. Nyx, on the other hand, while distant, loved her children; she could be counted on to be a true mother to them and Dies, whose capacity for caring was all but endless, loved her beyond what words could say.

If they were to come together intimately as Dies and Ares so often did, it would be something Ares and Nyx had in common. Even their soon, good-hearted far beyond what either of them could ever manage, acknowledged that Ares wasn't, could never be a proper father to him; Nyx, though, was his mother, so they had to be separate in some way. Sex would link Dies's relationship with Nyx to his with Ares and important as his mother's love was to him, he wouldn't let that happen.

2. Omnia

With all of the people in the world who'd earned Dies's love simply by existing and even more who'd earned it by being of his blood, there simply weren't terms strong enough to describe how much Dies loved his twin sister.

She was everything he wasn't -- cold, impersonal, inclined to violence (though viewing more than enacting it herself), entirely chaste. People found her difficult to like because she made no effort to be likable; she was blunt, often verging on downright bitchy, and thought nothing of leaving her element in her wake.

Dies adored her. She was his favourite person in the world -- always had been and always would be. She was the first one he would share good news with, the first one he would go to for comfort. He was the only one who could draw warmth from her; she smiled for him and he smiled the most for her. They were twins -- they would always be closed to each other than they could ever be to anyone else.

There was never any but the most innocent of physical contact between them -- fairly frequent, maybe, but never objectionable. It could have been different, maybe, were it not for the fact that Omnia was practically a vacuum of sexuality in the way that Dies radiated it. It could have been different had even Dies wanted it, for Omnia could never have denied him anything.

The reason it wasn't was simple. Omnia had never had sex and Dies knew better than anyone how important one's first time was. He firmly believed that everyone's should mean something in some way, should be with someone they loved (even if he knew it could be good otherwise, he liked to be idealistic) -- and though he would always be sure that no one could love Omnia more or better than he did, it was still different when it came to sex. It was something he wanted for everyone, so for his sister, his twin, his other half, he wanted it more than he ever would for anyone else. Until it came true or until she wanted otherwise, it would never be different.

3. Erebus

Dies had no shortage of half-siblings, of course -- Ares was to blame for that. He did his best to know all of them, but it was impossible for him to even name all of his brothers. Erebus, though, was the one he would always remember; he was Dies's only half-brother from his mother's side, and for someone who put as much importance in family as Dies did, that was important.

Erebus was one of few relatives who shared Dies's perpetual cheer, enthusiasm, and sheer unprejudiced love for everyone, no matter what. He manifested it differently, of course; Dies couldn't imagine hurting people the way Erebus did and tried not to think about it too often. Still, they had more similarities than Dies could claim to most of his brothers and the thought usually made him happy.

If Erebus had ever shown any interest in incest, things might have been different. It would have been amazing, of course -- Dies knew this, naturally. And there might not have even been any awkwardness at all -- they loved one another too much to let anything ruin that.

But Dies had never slept with another child of his mother's. This was because none of them had ever displayed interest in it -- most of the time, he waited for his siblings to approach him before instigating anything -- but he had lived his entire life without overtures from other children of Nyx, and so he had become accustomed to this. He had multiple sisters from Nyx, as well as a not-quite-sister, but he only had one brother -- a unique relationship, one he could never bring himself to sacrifice by doing anything to jeopardize the status quo that had happily existed between himself and his mother's other children.

It was possible, even probable, that it would have changed nothing. It was possible, even probable, that their joining in that way would have done nothing but bring them even closer. But there were some things that even the god of sex didn't know and there were some things that even Dies wouldn't risk.

4. Rhadamanthos

It seemed to be inevitable. No one would have faulted Dies for fantasizing about someone with his boyfriend's face and a far more pleasant demeanor; it seemed almost impossible, even, that he, of all people, wouldn't have done so. Few people found Tantalus more agreeable or easier to like than Rhadamanthos, after all -- smiles tended to be more attractive than scowls. One would have thought that only Rhad's heterosexuality would have kept Dies from sleeping with him and not his brother; nothing should have really prevented him from even fantasizing otherwise.

Dies knew better, though. He wasn't about to argue that he wouldn't have slept with Rhad had he been willing, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to claim that he would have wanted things to be different had he had the power to change them. He knew, as no one else truly could, how Tan complemented him; he wouldn't say that he could never be with someone too much like himself, but he would never claim that it would be better. He had never been in love before and he wouldn't have changed a thing about how he felt now. He knew he brought out the best in Tan as well, and that would always be more than enough for him.

Besides, Dies valued Rhad as a friend more than anything, and while friendships had never ruled out sex for him, he was beginning to find that celibate friendships were, in some way, even more fulfilling. It wasn't as if he was lacking for sex, after all, and he could always use another person with whom he could laugh over the same silly things. He was perfectly happy with things as they were -- Rhad as his friend, not his lover -- and he wouldn't have dreamed of wanting things any other way.

5. Xathanael

He was straight.

That was, when it came down to it, the only reason. There were relationships on both sides of the equation, of course, which were important, and perhaps even willingness not to risk a friendship by taking even the slightest of chances further. But the basic reason, more or less the only real reason that Dies had never considered sleeping with Xathanael was that Xathanael was straight.

It could have been different, of course. Dies had been single when they met; if Xathanael had been as well, there could have been a way to make it happen. Dies knew better than anyone else that sexual orientation was a tricky and complicated thing, but that when one's mind was firmly set to it, it could be regarded as more or less static -- he also knew, however, better than anyone, that he was, in perhaps 99.9% of the situations he faced, the exception to the rule. He had yet to meet anyone not related to him who didn’t experience even the slightest trickle of subconscious attraction to him; if he put his mind to it, he could expand that trickle into a full-blown flood in almost anyone. It would have been that way for Xathanael too -- no matter how straight he believed himself, Dies was utterly confident that he could have worked around it, and who knew? Something more could have come of it.

However, Xathanael believed himself to be straight firmly enough that had Dies done anything without the intent of making it lasting, it would have caused an identity crisis he never would have wished onto anyone, let alone someone who had become one of his closest friends. The point was made moot by the fact that he was already in love, something Dies never would have dreamed of intruding on. And then Dies fell in love as well, making it a further impossibility.

It wasn't as if relationships lasted forever (though both hoped that theirs wouldn't end anytime soon), but it seemed to be an official turning point to something neither of them knew existed. It didn't matter that Xathanael was probably the person Dies would have clicked with best had it not been for Tan; it didn't matter that he could have been the exception to Xathanael's sexuality. All that mattered was that they were firmly set to be friends, possibly for life, and it never would have occurred to Dies, even if the possibility of an alternate outcome had come to him, to regret this.

Everybody wants to know their true love is true.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 06:50:40 GMT

Pairing: Tace/Mikey
Word Count: 1000
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (angel/demon canon)
Summary: Written for lyotto for the 2008 New Year's fic exchange. Tace's hers.

He sits in the middle of the room, cross-legged, guitar in his lap, plucking out absent, formless chords for now, the thoughts in his head not yet finding a way to the strings. He seems both ignorant and hyperaware of the girl near the doorway. Her posture is a little awkward as she leans against the doorframe, but not enough to be able to tell that she's missing a leg; her eyes are bright blue and her hair a slightly darker blonde, but not enough to be able to tell that she's a demon.

There's silence apart from the guitar, neither demon partaking in the superfluous act of breathing. The girl is fidgeting a little, looking somewhat awkward; the boy is completely calm, eyes on his fingers and the strings. They could almost be living in different worlds, independent spheres happening to coexist in the same room. She could have had one foot (her only foot) in the past while he looks forward to the peace of the future. It is a miracle that the conflicts in their being (or appearance, at least -- who knows what conflicts lie beyond his calm?) do not cancel one another out, that they may still be allowed to exist in such a confined space.

She speaks at length, quiet and awkward. "I ate cookies with your brother." She seems to find it an appropriate conversation opener.

As does he, apparently. He glances up, briefly, as if surprised by her speech (though he isn't). His only response is a simple "I know" before he tilts his head downward to his guitar again.

After another moment, she says (she obviously feels the need for conversation, where he does not), "I know your sister, Al-- "

"I know," he replies again, still quiet, this time simply cutting her off. She doesn't seem to understand how unnecessary he finds the conversation -- or perhaps she does and won't admit it, perhaps she can't handle the moment unless her own standards are imposed onto it.

Still in this vein, she begins to speak after another minute of silence passes. "I'm -- "

This time, he raises a hand to silence her.

She falls silent right away, fidgeting a little again; barely a beat passes until he is tilting his head a little in invitation, still not looking up at her again. She walks over to him, the grace of her movements obviously aided by divine power, and sinks down to the floor (a little awkwardly this time) nearby, looking curious.

He doesn't turn to look at her. Instead, he plays, suddenly and without preamble. The music is almost heavenly in its harmonies, each note soaring one above the other, coming quickly and lightly enough that one might imagine that an orchestra is playing along with him, that it is coming from an array of instruments rather than a boy with a guitar. It is peaceful and melodic and lovely and pure, and it stops just as suddenly as it began only moments (or perhaps it simply seems that way) earlier.

The cessation is not one of all sound, but rather that particular brand of music. Darker, richer chords are sneaking in now, melodies in a minor that can only be described as sinister. They weave insidiously around the mind, sinking their claws into one's heart -- these are notes with a bite and their character is starkly different than the gorgeous purity that was emerging from the guitar simply a few notes before. One can barely believe that the notes are coming from the same instrument, save that the dark melody seems to last far shorter before the serene, beautiful chords return.

They are not the same anymore, though. Barely a few chords in, notes are missed -- or might seem as if they are missed on their own, but together with a few others, form the strains of the dark melody. It is invading the glorious clarity of the light melody, digging in with teeth, hooking claws into the holes of each chord and dragging themselves up, pulling the other down. Soon even the lightest chords are turning ugly, almost melodious in their discord, a lovely sort of cacophony that could almost be celebrated in its chaos. The structure of the melody crumbles completely and gives way to the triumphant cackle of the dark minor chords, striking out boldly as they lay claim to the other notes.

The other melody is not yet vanquished, however. It is still poking its head through the canopy of the dark chords, but it is different now. Gone is the light clarity, gone is the purity of sound, and in its place, simply the same notes. Now, they are turned minor as well, but without the darkness that masks their surroundings -- rather, they are simply sad, mournful, aching in their difference from the surroundings. They simply refuse to give up, but their little moments of glory only make the overall defeat sadder; and so the melody declines, shifting into resolution with the rich chords overlaying the true tragedy of the melody beneath them.

The music seems to go on forever, or perhaps this is simply because the crescendo comes so slowly as to be imperceptible -- or perhaps it is because by the time the music dwindles enough so as to be barely audible, the air is still rent with sound, this time from her sobbing. The chords come more sparsely, the notes more softly, and she is crying, head bent and mouth open and eyes shut, sobbing out broken words that make no sense, long-lost names, anything as long as she makes a sound. The music dies down into silence and the choked sound of her tears escaping replaces them, their dissonance more stark and painful and real than the musical interpretation of them could ever be. The song is finally over and her pain is not, her pain may never be, so he sets the guitar down, draws her to him and lets her cry.

So what if you can see the darkest side of me?

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 06:21:00 GMT

Pairing: Monroe/Phleggytheangel
Word Count: 321
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Good Omens/angel/demon canon)
Summary: Written for dizmo for the 2008 New Year's fic exchange. Monroe is hers.

They were both images of the stereotypical angel, though in very different ways. One was obviously younger, peacefully seated in a chair and absently flipping through a book; the other, walking by, had less easy serenity and seemed prepared for anything that would come his way. They would, had the younger stood, been about the same height, though the former was slight and the latter more solidly built. The younger's eyes were a paler blue and his hair, while the same shade of blond, was a little longer and less well-kept; the elder's eyes were brighter and his hair short and neat. The former was closer to an image of soft angelic grace and peace; after one look at the latter, one would have no difficulty believing that "heavenly wrath" was an entirely appropriate term.

The younger eventually set his book down upon sensing someone else in the room; the other gave him a brief, polite nod. "I don't believe I've seen you before."

He shook his head, sitting up to offer him a hand. "You're right. Hello."

"I'm Monroe," came the clipped introduction as he shook his hand.

The younger angel quirked an eyebrow. "An unusual name for an angel."

"What's your name?" Monroe asked evenly.

"Phlegethon," he admitted reluctantly, looking a little sheepish.

The conversation continued for a few minutes, explanations of why they had never met despite both being children of very prominent archangels and disbelief over one another's parentage ("Gabriel and Raphael?" "Michael and a demon?"), the usual pleasantries, and finally farewells and leaving one another to their previous pursuits.

One would think that not much had been accomplished in such a brief (if pleasant enough) conversation. The next morning, however, as the dawn broke over the scenery surrounding the mansion in a new year and Phlegethon took to the sky, wings catching the pink and orange light of the sunrise, it wasn't long before Monroe followed.

The streets are full of anything you want.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 06:08:15 GMT

Pairing: Jonathan Sinclair/Grace Pendergast
Word Count: 634
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Gabriel's Bride/Preston&Child)
Summary: Written for rhombal for the 2008 New Year's fic exchange. Grace is hers (as are the briefly mentioned Tristan and Ryan).

Grace Pendergast was seated on a couch, legs elegantly crossed underneath her, skimming absently through a book of German poetry she'd read at least half a dozen times and contemplating the merits of at least making a brief appearance at the New Year's party going on downstairs (Tristan was certain to be doing something ridiculous and it was entirely possible Ryan had had some alcohol as well) when she spotted the young man in the hallway.

He was tall, thin, and dressed more elegantly than Grace had ever seen most men dress, even for special occasions, and he appeared to be rather lost, peeking quickly into rooms as he walked down the hallway. Grace slid her bookmark into the book, leaned over a little, and asked, "Are you looking for the party?"

He started, looking surprised, then relaxed a little upon seeing her, giving a faint smile as he walked towards the room. "I am, actually. I wasn't certain if I wished to attend or not, but at least visiting seemed to be the politest course of action. Would you happen to know -- "

Grace smiled, the perfect mix of friendliness and politeness, though it came more genuinely than most of her smiles did -- she was surprised by how genuinely polite he seemed. "Of course. The staircase is down the hall and to the left, and the party's in one of the rooms right off of it. You won't be able to miss it once you're there.' He gave a grateful smile, but before he could thank her, she added, "I like your suit."

He flushed faintly, looking rather embarrassed as he glanced down at himself. "The fashions of this time are far more comfortable than my own -- I'm from the nineteenth century," he added by way of explanation. "But I find myself still very attached to my own, so when the occasion calls for it, I take the excuse to dress like this."

"From the nineteenth century?" Grace was immediately intrigued. She'd seen a few people here who didn't seem to quite belong in the modern scheme of things, but never someone specifically from a different time, unaware of where they had ended up when they arrived. "That would explain it, then." She sat up properly, giving him another smile as she offered her hand. "I'm Grace Pendergast, by the way."

He bowed, low and elegant, taking her hand and kissing it lightly, as she'd expected he would. "Jonathan Sinclair. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Grace couldn't help another slight smile. He was going through the motions his society would have expected, of course, but there was something genuinely nice about it -- as if he really did think her worthy of enough respect to merit the best bow he could make, as if he really did believe it was a pleasure to meet her. She'd never met anyone whose courtesy seemed so genuine. She would file this information away -- it might end up serving her well to remember who the kind, innocent, completely guileless inhabitants of the mansion were.

"Are you attending the party as well, Miss Pendergast?"

She started slightly at the question, then tilted her head in a considering way. "I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "I was just thinking about whether I should at least look in or not, but I hadn't decided."

Jonathan offered her his arm, a faint flush on his face again, the smile he gave her almost hopeful. "If you decide to, perhaps you might allow me the honour of escorting you there?"

Then again, Grace thought as she stood decisively, giving him another smile (and watching as his own brightened a little) as she tucked her arm through his, maybe she would just enjoy it for as long as it was directed at her.

Don't stop the moment and let the incredible happen.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 05:54:46 GMT

Pairing: Thaddeus/Apphia
Word Count: 1412
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Samaria/Good Omens)
Summary: Written for salophile for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Thaddeus is hers.

"Um, excuse me?"

Startled by the note of the voice addressing her, Apphia turned towards the rather helplessly awkward-looking boy fiddling with his sleeve. Her expression, she knew, was probably bewildered -- as far as she could remember, no one had ever seemed as afraid of her as this boy did. It looked as if it had taken him all of his inner strength and conviction simply to interrupt her wandering.

She promptly decided to get him comfortable around her as best as she could by giving him the friendliest smile she could give without it being overwhelming or intimidating. "Yes?"

It didn't seem to work; he was now flushed faintly as well as looking awkward and his words seemed to come out with even more difficulty. "I -- I was just -- um -- did you -- could you maybe show me -- where I could, um -- get some food here?"

This was completely absurd. No one was nervous around Apphia -– not only did she always do her best to always exude friendly cheer, but she was far from being intimidatingly attractive. She decided even more firmly that she was going to get him comfortable around her if it was the last thing she did -- there was no point in being half-angelic if she couldn't use it to properly put people at ease.

Apphia promptly strode over and tucked her arm through the boy's, giving him another sweet smile, secretly even more bewildered by the colour which flooded his face, followed by vague panic. "You must be new here. Why don't I just show you?" she asked sunnily, patting his hand. "My name's Apphia, what's yours?" she added as she started to steer him towards the kitchen.

"Th-- Thaddeus," he managed to stammer out, eyes widening a little at how quickly what little control of the situation had slipped away from him under Apphia's cheerful smile.

--
"Hand me that wrench."

"That -- what?"

Apphia let her breath out in mock exasperation, turning out from underneath her car to wrinkle her nose at Thaddeus. "What on earth use are you? You might as well not be here." At his flush, she added quickly, smiling in apology, "No, no, I didn't mean that, I was teasing. I like having you here, I can retrieve the tools myself."

Thaddeus's smile was faint and hesitant, but oddly sweet (or so Apphia found herself thinking with vague pride). "You do?"

She returned the smile brightly. "Of course I do. You're quite nice company when you let yourself talk. Teasing again," she added hastily with a quiet laugh, noticing another flush spreading across his face.

They had spent a surprising amount of time in each other's company after Apphia had shown Thaddeus to the kitchen, mostly due to her determination not to leave the room no matter how many awkward silences or pleading looks towards the door she had to endure. (She did appreciate that he was too polite to just slip out of the room as long as she showed no interest in leaving his company.)

It had taken some time, but Thaddeus had finally opened up a little; he relaxed after some time, his speech seeming more at ease, volunteering more about himself and his world, something Apphia found fascinating. In turn, she explained the religious order she fit into on Earth, and soon the conversation was flowing better than she'd expected.

Eventually, she felt the need to take Thaddeus outside and show him her pride and joy; he'd been awed by the car and even more so by her working on it, which she'd also insisted he watch -- it was one of the few things she was good at and she found herself with a very feminine urge to show off.

They had been this way for some time, enjoying a brief silence that was much less awkward than their previous ones had been, when Thaddeus reached for one of the tools and handed it to her. "Here. This -- is it, right?"

Startled, Apphia took it automatically, frowning faintly. "...yes, it is,""she murmured, glancing back at him, expression still a little confused. "How did you -- you picked up on that so quickly, we've barely been out here for -- how?"

Thaddeus shrugged, somewhat self-deprecatingly. "Just -- from watching you, I guess."

Apphia felt the faint flush colouring her face and reflected that it might have, for some reason, been one of the best compliments she'd ever received.

--
"This is your home?"

Thaddeus smiled, a little more confidently than he had before, almost proudly, and simply nodded.

Apphia couldn't remember ever being so delighted with a new place. Samaria was large and, from what she had heard, full of rather different areas, but to her eye, Monteverde was one of the most beautiful places she'd ever seen. Everything she'd seen so far in this world had felt more pure than the world she'd grown up in, almost as if the air itself was untainted by the technology and vast absence of faith on Earth. And, of course, the scenery of the hold itself held unparalleled loveliness. She was absolutely enchanted.

"It's so -- green," was the first intelligent comment she could manage, eyes wide and thrilled. It actually evoked a soft laugh from Thaddeus.

"That's why they call it Monteverde," he replied, the sentence tinged with the slightest hint of wry sarcasm; Apphia lightly smacked his shoulder and had opened her mouth to start on another question when the shadows crossed over them.

She was effectively rather completely distracted; from so far below she couldn't make out the features or even the forms of the angels, only two tall, slender bodies cruising slowly on the wind and the vast wingspan of brilliantly white expanses of feathers briefly blocking the sunlight. As she stared at the sky, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a few more angelic forms flying slightly less majestically in the distance, as well as an angel landing to converse casually with a mortal only a few dozen feet away.

Having been raised in both a world of angels and a world of mortals (and other non-angelic beings), worlds that rarely intersected and almost never so dramatically, Apphia was completely awestruck.

"It's amazing," she whispered, and she could practically feel Thaddeus smiling next to her. "It -- makes me wish my wings were more than basically simply ornamental."

It was a painfully selfish thing to say, especially to the mortal son of the leader of the hold (she'd been told about the Samarian angelic hierarchy). But Apphia had told him about her own woes regarding her angelic heritage and she simply couldn't help it slipping out just then, when the urge to take his hand and fly into the endless blue of the sky was so strong it almost hurt.

The silence lingered for another few moments before Thaddeus spoke, softly enough that she might not have been meant to hear. "If I had wings, I would give them to you."

Apphia did hear, though, and the sudden tightening of her heart, strong enough that it did hurt, a little, was enough to tell her that this was the best compliment she had ever received.

--
"Apphia?"

The faint, almost automatic smile was crossing Apphia's face before she'd even turned towards Thaddeus. She'd grown to love to hear him say her name; it was almost a personal triumph, that the boy who had once had trouble even approaching her now spoke her name like it was a precious jewel. "Yes?"

His smile was a little more shy than it had been around her recently. "It's -- a holiday for you today, isn't it?"

She was oddly touched that he'd remembered, though she knew they'd both devoured details on one another's respective worlds and would remember everything about them. "It is. Christmas. One of my brothers' favourites -- it's an angelic thing, I suppose."

Thaddeus nodded as he took an almost hesitant step closer; when he stayed silent for another moment, Apphia tilted her head a little, promptingly. "I hope you have a good one," he finally said, fingertips brushing across her cheek before lightly gripping her chin as he leaned in to kiss her, quickly and gently and sweetly.

Apphia was smiling when he pulled away, brightly and happily and, she was sure, likely a little stupidly. "That," she said quietly, finally threading her fingers through his and squeezing gently, "was the best present I could have ever hoped for."

You'll find that I'm just like you and I do the same things you do.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 05:47:03 GMT

Pairing: Diomedes Hades/Leo Pendergast/Jordan
Word Count: 603
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next/Preston&Child/Samaria)
Summary: Written for peridium for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Dio's still hers.

It began simply.

It began with the small, dark-haired angel, all but hiding his wings, smiling faintly but with enough confidence, so quiet and unassuming that Dio could hardly do anything but genuinely like him. It began with words exchanged over the passion they shared for music, knowing that they understood one another completely. It began with a kiss backstage, literally sleeping together, the gift of a guitar, a kiss under the mistletoe, and a shared flight. It began with a shattering of innocence and the healing process, and the bonds that were created by clinging together for it. It began with firsts, the first emotion and the first real wanting as lips brushed together and feathers brushed skin. It began with slow but certain, new but powerful emotion, and it was nothing less than love.

It began subtly.

It began with the slim, blond boy seated on a couch, absorbed in his work, willing to be distracted by someone new. It began with conversation that had quickly turned strangely absorbing, discussion of family and the realization that a stronger bond than expected had developed as they talked. It began with dinner, lunch, a concert, intelligent and witty and far-ranging conversation resulting in freer smiles than either of them often gave and an even more prominent attachment. It began with sharing passions and interests, slowly introducing one another to every aspect of their lives, and eventually a trust that couldn't be broken or denied. It began with the culmination of that trust, coming together in every way, finally willing to let one another become a part of each other completely. It began with unexpected connections, a surprisingly deep feeling that ran stronger than either of them would have ever expected, and it was undeniably a love that would last.

It began with Dio, who had always found it difficult to let himself get close to people, let alone connect with them so deeply, realizing that he suddenly felt whole as he never had before around not one but two people. It began with knowing that he required both of them for it, that no matter how happy he was with each of them alone, that something was missing, that he could only be completely whole if he could have not only the slight, musical angel but also the tall, brilliant Pendergast. It began with his uncertainty over how to reconcile this with their never having met.

It ended the day Dio walked into a room and stopped in the doorway upon noticing that it was occupied. Jordan's flute was to his lips and his back against Leo's shoulder; both pairs of eyes were focused on the movement of Leo's fish. Their postures were both completely relaxed and the expressions on their faces were more than enough evidence of the ease that existed between them.

It ended with the smile that hesitantly but helplessly crept across Dio's face as he saw the people he needed to be truly happy enjoying one another's company with no effort. It ended with Jordan raising his head and brightening as he set his flute down, with Leo's eyes lighting up as they turned to the door. It ended with their fingers twining together as they both turned to face Dio and extended their other hands to him. It ended with Dio's smile widening a little as he stepped closer to them, taking their hands and squeezing tightly before letting go in order to sink to the ground next to them and gather both of them into his arms, pulling them as close as possible.

It ended with love.

Run with me if you can -- I can feel you near.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 05:19:54 GMT

Pairing: Cooper/Spike Hawke-Next
Word Count: 434
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Angels On Fire/Thursday Next)
Summary: Written for lyotto for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Cooper's hers, yes. Written as a sort-of sequel to this.

Surprising Cooper was both ridiculously easy and exceptionally difficult to do, depending on the state Cooper happened to be in. Usually, he might notice whatever was going on around him out of sheer curiousity, but it was also entirely possible that he would be wrapped up in something trivial so much that he would miss completely obvious things in front of him.

The latter happened to be the case when he was focusing on the best way to attach a bit of tinsel to his guitar without actually affecting the sound; it took him a few minutes to even notice the weight of the paper on his forehead, let alone to realize what it was. Once he did, he peeled the Post-It off of his forehead and was unable to help a grin as he read the two words of messy, spiky capitals: "REMEMBER ME?"

Cooper glanced up, still grinning, to the chair opposite his couch; the boy he recognized as Spike was seated there, giving him a friendly wave as their eyes met. "Yeah, I do," he offered as a reply, watching an answering grin spread across Spike's face.

"Great." There was a pause; Spike's grin went a little sheepish. "I didn't really have anything to say. I just wanted to make sure I was memorable. Um, Merry Christmas?"

Cooper had to laugh. "Merry Christmas to you too. Of course you're memorable, though you look a little less emo now. Still fuzzy, of course. The hat's a nice touch, I have to say."

Spike glanced up to where the fluffy brim of the Santa hat was pulled almost to his eyes. "Like it? I don't know why I felt the need to wear it. I guess I'm pretending to be festive or something."

Cooper grinned. "Totally in the spirit of the holiday. You're lucky you don't have a boyfriend in the sofa cushions, he'd probably object to all of the ho ho hos the hat must draw."

To his credit, Spike didn't groan at the horrible pun; instead, his expression went serious. "Oh, I've gotten one since last we met. You're sitting on him as we speak."

Cooper couldn't help it -- he took the opportunity to shift back a little on the couch (the movement depositing even more of his hair into his eyes than usual) and look down.

The next thing he felt was a hand was gently pushing his hair back; when he looked up, Spike was grinning at him again, a little more subdued this time but no less genuine for it. "Made you look," he murmured, and kissed him.

Every night and every day, a little piece of you is falling away.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 04:35:06 GMT

Pairing: Jeff/Joanna
Word Count: 634
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Good Omens/Samaria)
Summary: Written for dizmo for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Jeff is hers. Takes place two or three years in the future of dfgen2-time.

"Jeff?"

"Yeah?"

"I..." Joanna hesitated, pulling back a little, both hands still braced lightly against his chest, still flushed from their last kiss. "I -- don't know if this is working."

Startlement flicked across Jeff's face, followed by an expression that might have been vague relief; his response, though, was careful enough. "Oh. Um. Really?"

Joanna nodded, expression a little sheepish. She didn't say anything else for the moment, just watched Jeff with a faint smile, running a hand through his hair (which elicited one from him as well). After another pause, she shifted enough to rest her side (careful of her wings) against his chest, still sitting on his lap, letting her head drop to his shoulder; he let an arm go around her waist, kissing the top of her head, and they stayed that way for a few minutes, enjoying the companionable silence.

Finally, Joanna spoke again. "You know that -- well, you should know," she corrected, sounding a little sheepish again, "that -- I want this. I really do. Especially with you," she added, tilting her head up enough to smile at him, sweetly if almost a little shyly. "I mean, it's been a while, and -- well, I always have." She shrugged. "That hasn't changed."

Jeff flushed faintly, reaching to absently wind one of Joanna's blonde curls around his finger to distract himself from the conversation. "Yeah. I've -- um. Been able to tell."

Joanna laughed quietly and unashamedly, letting out a contented sound as she snuggled a little closer to him. "I'm not really quiet about it. But -- " She hesitated, chewing on the inside of her lip, clearly trying to figure out how to put what she wanted to say into words. "It isn't that I don't -- like you, not at all, because I do, very much. You should really know that by now."

"I -- like you a lot too," Jeff replied, a little awkwardly but with genuine feeling; even after two years, expressing any feeling more than a very strong like was taking them some time.

Joanna smiled up at him again, shifting to kiss his cheek. "And -- that's why I don't want to do anything stupid to ruin this. It's something I've always wanted, to -- have something I think is as wonderful as what my parents have. And I don't mind how slow we've been taking this, to everyone's surprise." She gave a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.

"I'm glad," Jeff murmured, unable to help another smile in turn. "Not that -- I don't like you a lot either, since -- um, like I said, I do. And I don't mind that -- I've never done anything like this before, since -- like I said, again, I really like you. But, uh, considering –- my experience with much more -- "

"Don't tell me," Joanna interrupted, raising a hand to forestall further comment, like she always did. "I don't want to know. Anything you say about your parents will make me never want to take this further."

"Sorry," Jeff said sheepishly, tucking her hair behind her ear as a peace offering.

"All I'm saying," she continued, giving him another quick smile, "is that -- given your, er, experience and my relative lack thereof, and that both of us like each other enough for it not to matter right now -- we're okay the way we are until we're completely comfortable being otherwise. I think."

Jeff's smile was more relaxed and comfortable than it usually was, even around Joanna. "Agreed," he said firmly, kissing the corner of her mouth before adding, "Oh, uh, guess what."

She tilted her head a little in questioning; he pointed up, flushing faintly. "We're sitting under mistletoe."

Joanna's smile went even brighter in turn. "Well, then," she murmured happily, shifting close enough to let their noses touch, "I suppose we'll have to put it to good use."

There's always room for something when nothing's next to you.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 04:25:06 GMT

Pairing: Samuel Crowley/Leo Pendergast
Word Count: 933
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Good Omens/Preston&Child)
Summary: Written for rhombal for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Sammy's hers.

Without warning, the boy's eyes went wide and his lips parted to let a quiet gasp of shock; clasping a hand to his chest, he staggered back, expression slowly shifting from surprise to understanding to horror. His hand tightened into a fist just above his heart and this step back took him falling back, onto a (conveniently placed) couch with a muffled thud. He let out a quiet, horrified sound, then a slightly choked gurgle; his body tensed sharply, he shuddered for a few moments, then slowly went limp, hand dropping off the side of the couch, letting out one final shudder as his eyes closed.

Barely a moment later, he opened his eyes and grinned broadly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. "Well? What did you think?"

The boy on the other couch across the room looked slightly blank. Sounding almost faintly amused past the obvious bemusion in his expression, he replied, "All I did was ask you your name."

The other grinned again, a little more sheepishly this time, getting up and striding forward overdramatically. "I know. But I'm trying to get into character for one of the plays I'm doing for Christmas this year -- obviously it's been a little too much if that's my immediate reaction to being asked for my name.

"Then again," he added solemnly, gathering himself up to his full height (which wasn't terribly impressive, though this may have had more to do with his completely innocuous and vaguely awkward-looking presence), "as actors say, you can never get too much into character. But, as Samuel Crowley says," he concluded, letting himself fall back onto the opposite end of the other couch with far less fanfare this time, "hi, my name is actually Samuel Crowley, or Sammy if you'd like." He finished off with another bright, genuinely friendly grin and offered a hand.

There was no possible response but a laugh and taking of said hand. "Leo Pendergast," came the reply, followed by a smile that was a little fainter but no less friendly. "It's -- well, it's mostly been interesting to meet you so far. But it's been the good kind of interesting, if that helps," he added at Sammy's rather sheepish look. "And -- if you don't mind my curiousity, I don't think I've ever heard of a Christmas play with a death scene -- or whatever that was -- quite like that in it."

"My final bow," Sammy intoned, eliciting another smile from Leo. "One of the community theatres near me is trying something new this year -- some kind of 'historical' play." He made sure to put airquotes around "historical". "Honestly, I really doubt any sort of king who actually led this kind of life really existed, though I guess stranger things have happened, even in recent years. Still, though -- " He broke off suddenly, glancing over at Leo as if it had just occurred to him that perhaps someone he'd just met might not be too interested in the life of a more-likely-than-not fictional king he would be playing the next day.

Leo, however, looked unashamedly interested, so Sammy gave a brief overview of exactly what the play was about before launching into a detailed account of the king's life. It was full of rather over-the-top pursuits, both of the noble and of the distinctly less-than-savoury sorts, and he pitched his voice to appropriately depict the tone, whether calling for drama or deadpan wryness; it made Leo either nod along solemnly or be unable to help himself from laughing quietly. (The latter would, of course, make Sammy aim a reproachful look at him, which would make Leo look apologetic and go silent right away -- which would, of course, result in both of them simply starting to laugh again.) He eventually finished with the king's rather gruesome (and, naturally, far from plausible) death and concluded with, "I think the moral is supposed to be that even if you're larger-than-life and a great and powerful king, if you do questionable things, you're still doomed to a pretty violent death. Great moral for Christmas, huh?" He continued after Leo's amused look, "But now you see why they picked me for the king. He has to be charismatic, strong of character, have an exceedingly powerful voice -- " Sammy had shot to his feet by now, making Leo stifle quiet laughter again. "Exude likability, be a brilliant leader, and of course, be devastatingly handsome."

Leo had to laugh again, especially at the grin Sammy aimed at him, clearly attempting to make it as charming as possible. After a moment, though, his voice went a little more quiet and more shy as he gave his reply. "Well, believe me, you have plenty of -- all of that. If that's all it takes, you're very well suited for the role."

Sammy looked a little startled, then something that might have been a faint flush spread over his face. "Er," he said, seemingly not quite able to say anything past that; Leo took that as a gesture of thanks and returned it with a faint smile.

Suddenly, Sammy burst out, trying to make it sound as casual as possible, "Look, I know this is kind of sudden, but -- we aren't sold out or anything and tickets are fairly cheap, they give out much more than I could ever give away -- so I think I could manage to get one more, if -- "

Leo's smile brightened a little, a brief expression that was nothing so much as genuinely pleased crossing his face. "Yes," he replied firmly, his smile still in place. "I'd love to go."

I can see my life flashing before my eyes.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 04:07:47 GMT

Title: A Bridgerton Family Christmas
Word Count: 1772
Characters: The Bridgerton family, namely Miles and Charlotte Bridgerton.
Fandom/'Verse: The Bridgerton books
Summary: Written for soloecal for the 2007 Christmas fic exchange. Charlotte and Algernon are hers; the first generation Bridgertons and spouses (along with Violet) are properly of Julia Quinn, the second generation ones as mentioned here are pure speculation.

"I knew I would find you here."

Fifteen-year-old Miles Bridgerton arched an eyebrow at his sister from the corner of the hallway just outside the ballroom he'd claimed for his own shortly after dinner had been served. "I find that very difficult to believe."

Charlotte lifted her chin with all of the self-righteous primness that only a ten-year-old girl could muster. "And why, Miles Bridgerton, might that be?"

"Because I refuse to believe that you didn't start looking for me the very minute you noticed I'd been gone longer than was proper," Miles replied, expression blank (despite the amusion visible around his eyes), "and I've been here for nearly two hours and forty minutes."

Charlotte deflated a little, though -- in true Bridgerton fashion -- she refused to reveal it much. "I don't like your tone," she said a little sulkily, evoking a real smile from her brother, though it didn't seem to stop her from plopping down next to him, barely remembering to be careful of her skirts.

After a moment, Miles turned to quirk an eyebrow at his sister. "Well?"

Charlotte mirrored the gesture; it was moments such as those that brought out how much they resembled one another. "Well what?"

"Were you not," Miles asked patiently, clearly finding not just blurting this out a serious effort, "going to ask exactly what I was doing here in the first place?"

Charlotte smiled at him placidly. "No, I don't believe I will."

Miles blinked, then tried not to gape at her. "But -- you came to find me, didn't you? Why on earth would you not -- "

"I'm not going to ask," she continued calmly, "because I already know."

This time, Miles did gape. "How could you possibly know?" he all but spluttered. "You're only ten, you know nothing about the way my mind -- "

"You're halfway between childhood and adulthood," Charlotte interrupted again. "Not quite old enough to be considered a man just yet, but far past the years of true youth. You feel constrained by your family and society and you aren't certain if you can be your own man yet or not, if you're ready for the responsibility or if you simply don't know where to start. And because you can't find a way to express yourself considering your position now, you wish to be alone when it becomes overwhelming."

" -- works," Miles finished lamely, now staring at his sister in shock; she beamed at him, looking distinctly pleased with herself. "How -- "

"I," Charlotte replied smugly, "am wise beyond my years. And I heard Mother discussing it with Father when you stormed out of the room after dinner last month."

Miles wrinkled his nose at her ferociously; her beatific smile seemed completely unaffected. "Fine," he admitted grudgingly, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Perhaps -- you might be vaguely approaching something resembling understanding the way my mind works. On horseback. From miles away."

Charlotte wrinkled her nose in turn. "Would you stop being such a man and tell me exactly why you're here? And before you ask," she put in as he opened his mouth, "you should do so because I will pester you mercilessly until you do, and you should be very much aware that I have far more energy and determination than you do."

Miles let his breath out again, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. He was silent for a moment, but it was loaded enough that Charlotte managed not to interrupt, just watching him with the wide, surprisingly serious brown eyes that all three of the siblings had inherited from their father.

Finally, he spoke, voice more quiet and subdued than usual, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. "It's -- so very difficult to be a Bridgerton sometimes. I love everyone, of course," he added hastily, "it would be impossible not to. And it isn't as if -- it's ever possible to forget that we are a part of a unit so large, but -- it all just seems so much more overwhelming when all of us are here in one place. It's really mostly -- on occasions such as this that I'm not at all certain where I'm meant to fit."

Charlotte frowned faintly. "What do you mean?"

Miles shrugged, fiddling with the elaborate cuff of his sleeve. "All of the cousins who are close to me in age -- David, Oliver, Charles and his brothers -- even Thomas and George, to a degree -- they all either look up to Edmund to an absurd degree or are too young to even try relating to. Aunt Daphne's daughters and Amanda can only speak of the newest Society happenings. The girls your age, you and Violet and Agatha and Penelope and Georgiana, all manage to sound more like Grandmother than they ought to -- ow!" Miles glared at his sister, who had elbowed him firmly in the side. "If you abuse me while I'm spilling my innermost secrets," he informed her with dignity, "I won't bother."

Charlotte gave him a reproachful look; he rolled his eyes and went on. "It's just so very easy to get lost when you're the second oldest of twenty-two cousins. Charles has two younger brothers, David is an earl, Edmund is -- perfect, more or less, the ideal son and a wonderful big brother, of course, and Oliver -- well, it isn't as if that really counts when he isn't -- "

"Stop right there, Miles Bridgerton."

Surprised by the sudden ferocity in his sister's tone, Miles turned to face a surprisingly furious scowl on Charlotte's face. "Don't you dare continue in that vein a moment longer," she continued, "because I think you were about to say that he isn't really a Bridgerton."

Miles blinked, then shrugged a little, surprised by how awkward and vaguely guilty he suddenly felt. "He has only been a part of the family for seven years, and we didn't grow up with him or -- "

"And what," Charlotte put in, now raising her voice a little as she got to her feet, "does that have to do with anything? Have Mother and Father taught you nothing?" Her hands were on her hips and she was the picture of righteous indignation. "He is Uncle Phillip's son, Aunt Eloise's son, and even if he isn't a Bridgerton by blood, he's a Bridgerton all the same.

"You know what your place is?" she continued, voice going a little more quiet and yet surprisingly fierce. "Your place is to be a Bridgerton, too. Because a Bridgerton is someone who is always surrounded by family and by love, by the most loving family in the world. A Bridgerton is someone who always knows just how loved they are because each of us have wonderful parents and wonderful siblings. A Bridgerton is someone who wants for nothing because they know just how much having this and knowing they will always have it means. And once you are a Bridgerton, you are always a Bridgerton, and no one will ever question you again because you are a part of the best family in the world, and I should hope that you of all people wouldn't have survived fifteen years of life without knowing this."

Miles stared at his sister for a moment, blankly, then got to his feet in order to step forward and pull her into a quick, tight hug.

Charlotte squirmed a little at it, patting his shoulder before stepping back, frowning faintly. "What?"

"You're right," Miles replied simply. "Of course you're right. And most of the time, I do know this. I'm just going to be completely insufferable for the next few years and I require the brilliant mind of my beloved little sister to light my way."

Charlotte quirked an eyebrow. "What on earth do you mean, 'the next few years?'" She couldn't help a smile, however, and it was happier than it was smug.

Miles laughed quietly, gently ruffling her brown curls. "It's time to go back inside, I believe."

They seemed to have chosen an opportune moment to return; they were just in time to see tiny Isabella and only-slightly-taller Algernon falling off of the back of their mother's dog, Newton Junior (named for the pet that had died before Charlotte was born) and Isabella's mother (followed quickly by her father) hurrying over to make sure they were all right before heartily scolding her daughter for even trying such a thing.

"But it wasn't my fault!" Isabella was protesting, blue eyes wide, expression a picture of almost angelic pleading. "Algernon wanted to, I simply went along with it."

At that moment, there was a rather startled-sounding squeak from Algernon's direction; Newton Junior had moved to lick his hand and taken by surprise, the boy had pulled back quickly enough to fall over again, blinking owlishly as he sat up.

Hyacinth arched an accusing eyebrow at her daughter; behind her, Gareth was clearly attempting to stifle laughter. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that, Isabella?"

The girl tried for another smile, then deflated, looking rather sheepish and shaking her head. Miles and Charlotte exchanged a faint, knowing grin as they parted ways and let themselves mingle among their family.

Two hours later, there had been exactly eight instances of the elder Violet bemoaning the fact that Francesca and Michael had found themselves completely unable to attend (though she managed to look as if she was thoroughly enjoying herself apart from that); six instances of Penelope Bridgerton and Penelope Crane getting confused (and the entire family having a good laugh at the former actually turning guiltily when Eloise had admonishingly called to her daughter regarding the amount of sweets she was eating); two heated (mockingly so, as they most often were with the Bridgertons) arguments between Kate, Sophie, and Daphne over which of their fourteen-and-fifteen-year-old sons was tallest (it was surprisingly touching, really, or would have been were they not all precisely the same height) while their husbands shook their heads slowly and mournfully, the sons in question mirroring the gesture perfectly; and one very memorable moment of young Shelton discovering his heavily pregnant mother fast asleep in a chair, baby Richard with his head on her shoulder winding one blonde curl around a small, chubby hand. (Gregory had taken this as his cue to gather his two small children, tired wife, and beaming baby and excuse his family from the party for the night.)

And all Miles and Charlotte could do amidst the typical insanity was catch each other's eyes across the ballroom and smile, she knowing and he simply content in the knowledge that yes, this was what being a Bridgerton was truly about.

Never wait around 'cause every minute counts.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 03:34:44 GMT

Pairing: April Hades/Hypatia Hades/Ryan Pendergast
Word Count: 311
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Greek mythology/Thursday Next/Preston&Child)
Summary: Written for lyotto for her birthday. Tia's hers and Ryan's rhombal's.

Most normal people would be something approaching terrified, or at least suitably unnerved, if both demigoddess sisters from either side of their girlfriend's family were to sit down on either side of the couch they were on.

Few people in the world would claim that Ryan Pendergast was normal in any way, shape, or form.

"Hi there," April said pleasantly from his left, giving him a smile that could have been mistaken for friendly did one not know April. "How's it going?"

Ryan quirked an eyebrow.

"We're only here for the formalities," Tia continued, then added wryly, "I would tell you not to fear, but that would be silly and you don't appear to be doing so anyway."

"Inside I'm quaking in my boots," Ryan replied; to call his tone dry would be like calling the North Pole chilly.

"As it should be," April shot back brightly, choosing to overlook the sarcasm (a skill well-honed by speaking to her father). "The point here is, we're not entirely certain you're doing as well by Tori as you could be in..." She paused for dramatic effect. "Certain areas."

There was a brief beat of silence; Ryan glanced over at Tia, who had a meaningful look on her face. "And you're planning on testing it yourself?" he asked, looking back at April.

"Oh, absolutely," she purred in reply, expression almost intent for a moment until she scowled, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Except that's a horrible idea, thank you, I'd never even consider such a thing."

"Unfortunate," Ryan replied without missing a beat. "I would."

His expression was blank; both girls were fairly sure he wasn't serious, but it was impossible to tell. They exchanged a glance. "I think our work here is done," Tia murmured, patting Ryan lightly on the shoulder as she got up, followed by April.

His expression went, for a moment, faintly amused.

If you got the time, I'll take it.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 03:14:16 GMT

Pairing: Nicholas Hades/Brynne Sedgewick
Word Count: 302
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Thursday Next)
Summary: Written for lyotto for her birthday. Nich's hers.

"I can't do this, Nich. I can't."

Nich let his breath out quietly, closing his eyes for a moment and opening them again to Brynne's vaguely panicked expression. "You said -- " he reminded her gently.

"I know I did," she interrupted, biting her lip. "I just -- I -- I don't like death."

"Amazingly unusual, for someone raised by Uncle Lethe,""Nich murmured wryly; it coaxed a faint smile from her. "You knew this would happen, at least. You've had time to prepare."

Brynne nodded, still chewing lightly on her lip, glancing away from Nich at the sterile hospital hallway. "It's still -- it's not easy," she sighed quietly. "I've never -- watched someone die before. Especially not someone I've sort of gotten to know. I don't -- know what I should do or if I'll even be enough or -- "

"Brynne." Nich's hand settled at her shoulder, cutting off the nervous babble that her speech had started to edge into. His voice was quiet and calm, his expression understanding and faintly, vicariously sad. "You've been visiting him for weeks and cheering him up when he had no one else. You went from a snarky stranger to being the closest thing to family he has anymore. He's not bitter about dying, but he needs someone else to be there, to be strong for him. You don't need to be anything but some courage by the side of his bed. You owe it to him to be there when he dies."

Brynne was quiet for another minute, clearly making an effort to hold back even the start of tears; finally, she gave a slow nod.

Nich's hand went from her shoulder to her hand, taking it to give it a brief, light squeeze; she gave him another faint smile before letting go to walk into the hospital room.

You've been bought, you've been sold, you've been locked outside the door.

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 03:06:08 GMT

Pairing: Evander/Apphia/Bianca
Word Count: 486
Fandom/'Verse: dfgen2 (Good Omens)
Summary: Written for peridium for her birthday. Ev's hers, Bianca is dizmo's.

Apphia knew it wasn't quite right to hate your siblings (not that she hated them anyway, and not that they were her real siblings), but she couldn't help it; she mostly managed to favour the angelic side of her parentage, but this was one concession she could never make.

Adrian was bearable sometimes, but that was only because she could understand him a little better. He was the youngest and thus most inclined to be bratty and stubborn, and he would always back down before he went too far; she could also occasionally cow him (temporarily) if her glare was strong enough. Evander, though, was often impossible -- she couldn't begin to understand his motivation for annoying her. Surely he was more mature than Adrian, but conversations with him always had an edge; with Adrian, she always understood that he was mocking her or baiting her, but Evander sometimes seemed almost pleasant. Apphia was always on edge around him, less for her own sake and more for her brother's; she could hold her own better than he could and she could never forgive the two male triplets for tormenting him the way they did.

Bianca, at least, was sensible, intelligent, and not inclined to do anything but talk pleasantly to her half-siblings; she was always willing to defend the others against the idiocy (as she put it) of her brothers. Apphia genuinely enjoyed talking to her and considered Bianca a true sister like she couldn't consider either of the boys her brothers; while she often felt guilty, sometimes almost painfully so, for this, she couldn't help liking Bianca much more than either of the other triplets.

That was why it came as such a shock to Apphia when she happened to stumble onto Evander and Bianca on a couch one day, far too close together; they were kissing, the horrified realization came only moments before she let out that soft, breathless gasp. Evander's hand had been tangled in Bianca's hair, but he pulled away at hearing it; Bianca's hand had been on the couch for support, but she withdrew it and scooted back at seeing Apphia's wide eyes. She was flushed faintly, looking caught between apology and embarrassment; Evander, on the other hand, was grinning and extending a hand to her.

At first, Apphia was repulsed, but then she hesitated; Bianca hadn't seemed unwilling, though she was sure it had taken persuasion to get her where she was. For so long, it seemed that only Bianca stood between her brothers completely running over Apphia and Asher; if she could learn to be that close to one of them, surely it wasn't a great feat for Apphia? Maybe if she got used to it, it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would make up for how guilty she felt all the time for not considering them true family.

Biting her lip, Apphia stepped closer and took Evander's hand.