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This Week's Topic:
Hi!
Question: How long does it take after you've edited and posted a fic to be able to re-read it without feeling like you're going to throw up?
(I'm seriously emetophobic, so typing the words 'throw up' is very hard for me, but no other phrase comes close to expressing my feelings on this matter.)
Question: How long does it take after you've edited and posted a fic to be able to re-read it without feeling like you're going to throw up?
(I'm seriously emetophobic, so typing the words 'throw up' is very hard for me, but no other phrase comes close to expressing my feelings on this matter.)
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Their tongues met before their lips touched, which dismayed Schuldig, his body giving in before his mind could make sense of his position. And then, it no longer mattered much because he knew this script and there wasn’t anything light left about it.
There was no one – and Schuldig had examined and sampled every specimen he ran across – that could kiss him senseless like Crawford. He ground against Crawford’s hip until the only thing holding Schuldig up was Crawford’s knee wedged between his legs, and the hard wall.
Crawford’s fingers made short work of his shirt, tugged his belt free; his hands reached behind, slipped down against the wall, pushed Schuldig’s open pants down to his hips, where they caught and bit into his skin, legs spread too wide for gravity to do the rest, and gripped Schuldig’s ass to pull him closer.
Schuldig had just began to fumble with the buttons of Crawford’s shirt when everything stilled, Crawford’s hands on his ass, Crawford’s mouth on his mouth, the distant voices in the other rooms. The constant murmur and chatter died away, like the silence in the eye of the storm, an eerie calm. Schuldig muttered unintelligibly against Crawford’s lips, tried to push him away, but the silence opened up into a greater silence and Schuldig’s fingers loosened their hold on Crawford’s shirt, quit pushing and reached up to tangle in Crawford’s hair, held him in place and drank him down straight.
Schuldig had never known quiet, not like this. There had to be a period of his life before the voices started, but he had no conscious memories of what it had felt like. Schuldig’s walls were exceptional, the best, as noted in his files, the organization had seen few telepaths who constructed them so well, but this silence made Schuldig’s walls seem incomplete, like the half-wall separating the hallway from the restaurant down below, a wall of whispers and light, transparent but effective. Crawford’s wall, as Schuldig was eagerly discovering, were thick enough for them both.
He’d had tastes of Crawford’s mind, bitter spoonfuls offered seldom, resentfully, but those instances had been constructed for a specific purpose, for they bore no resemblance to unfettered access to the whole thing.
Schuldig moaned and tore at Crawford’s mouth as he reached deeper into the silence. He didn’t search for images or thoughts, though he could sense them, orderly and contained, within the vault. What he craved was the composition, the design of Crawford’s walls. The perfect hiding place.
Half in, half out, he drew back and searched Crawford’s face, reached to remove his glasses so he could see him, really see him. But Crawford beat him to it, moving away to place the glasses on the table and reclining on the bed, waiting to see what Schuldig would do next, say next, just waiting.
Schuldig found it difficult to move away from the wall, pinned against it, another specimen. “How do you do it?” he asked, because no one had figured out how to lock themselves up that tightly, no one that Schuldig knew and he had been given every resource to train himself how to be the perfect machine. But walls like Crawford’s were a liability, if the organization ever became aware of them.
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“I’ll show you sometime,” Crawford said, and patted the bed. Schuldig didn’t move. “I’d rather not show you tonight.” Crawford laughed and the sound broke Schuldig’s blank stare and forced his feet into motion. Stumbling over his pants, abandoning them along the way, he threw himself onto the bed like an over-anxious puppy.
“How? I mean you don’t have to show me tonight, but who taught you?”
“Do you want to fuck or talk, or both? Wait – don’t answer, my memories too long.” Crawford had sense enough to realize they’d be locked in this neutral state of anticipation until he gave some answer. “The categories and the various levels came naturally. They taught me to organize the walls, same as they taught you, but I never let them know there was a basement, a hidden room.”
Schuldig straddled him and started to work again on his shirt. “So no one knows?”
“Leave this on,” Crawford tugged the sleeve of Schuldig’s own shirt. “Just you.”
“They can’t hear us here, can they?”
“The terrain doesn’t offer any obstacles, but it’s too remote and our job here is too small for them to have any need to monitor our actions. And we’ve proven ourselves; they’re not watching you like they were last year.”
“Why me?” Schuldig leaned down for a kiss that went on a little too long before he drew back to hear Crawford’s answer. He also hoped the quality of the kiss would improve the quality of the response.
Crawford searched his face again, deliberated, considered, for so long that Schuldig was certain the answer would be profound, complete. Instead, Crawford said, “I have no idea.” And flipped Schuldig onto his back. Before Schuldig could waste time with another unanswerable question, “I think you have an uncategorized talent for wasting time,” Crawford said and bit Schuldig’s mouth lightly before getting mixed up in the same too-slow kisses as before.
Schuldig slid into Crawford’s perfect quiet, and he remained there as Crawford played his desires, weary of pushing any thoughts into that white room, the time wasn’t right, not yet. He was still a visitor in that strange place and he wanted to know it well before he made us of it.
Crawford’s thoroughness, his carefulness, was no longer surprising; they were stuck together now, like it or not. They couldn’t get away from each other alive, not with their shared knowledge, because Crawford’s silence revealed Schuldig’s questions and neither trait was beneficial to their employers.
Crawford’s slick fingers sought out and Schuldig’s body took. When they finally got around to the actual fucking, it was like an afterthought of an already realized goal.
“What now?”
“We’ll figure it out as we go.”
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p.s. write more
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But in order for me to know for certain I would have to see some, oh, I don't know, kink bingo? Because AS THE TOPIC OF THE WEEK SHOWS -- fic is only good if it's not one's own fic.
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