To make finding things easier, and because I'm writing more these days, here are my GO fics on AO3:
My entry to the GO Minisode Minibang 2024, The Serpent of the Loch, the story of how Crowley accidentally created the myth of the Loch Ness Monster, with amazing artwork by @piratewinzer.
Antoinette, a Rebecca-inspired Ineffable Wives AU:
Morningstar Abbey, a take on Austen's Northanger Abbey:
Mission: Ineffable, now a series inspired by the Mission: Impossible movie franchise:
And quite a few more!
Not to mention, my original historical fiction Diplomacy is also now posting on AO3, updating twice a week:
This idea popped into my head months ago and I haven't been able to get rid of it since, so now you all have to deal with it too. The fic will be out in two chapters during July over on my AO3; if you'd like a sneaky peak at the scene to blame for the whole thing, it's below the cut:
The bag over his head was itchy and thick, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
The barrel of a gun was pressed into his temple, but that wasn’t the worst of it, either.
No, the worst of it was knowing that if this didn’t pay off, he had no other ideas left to try.
“I thought I was going to see J?” Aziraphale tried. “Perhaps I misunderstood.”
“No one sees J.” The voice came from his left, just behind. The scruffy blond henchman from the car.
“Then what am I doing here?”
“Allowing J to see you, and hear what you have to say.”
“Well, I don’t communicate very well through a shroud,” he said, shrugging as though to indicate the heavy weight of the bag on his shoulders.
A different voice, deeper, to his right. “If J doesn’t like what you have to say, you’ll be wearing that shroud indefinitely.”
“I’m willing to take that chance.” A pause, and the bag was lifted with unforgiving speed.
He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to sudden daylight, and taking in as much as he could. Brightly lit windows to his left, traffic sounds suggested they were two or three floors up. Marble, old wood, leather. A door to his right, and behind him, something which was probably an air conditioning unit. In front –
In front the glare resolved into a figure dressed in black, draped over the seat and arm of a wingback chair like a discarded scarf. Long lines of arms and legs in studied relaxation, except for the chin propped forward onto a hand, and the unreal focus of a pair of – Aziraphale blinked again – bright golden eyes, framed by a tousled auburn bob. This had to be J. Good Lord.
Aziraphale shook his head lightly, and the world settled. The henchmen from the car were standing either side of him, one dark and one very pale, close enough to feel intimidating, not close enough for him to disarm quickly. Something about – or rather, everything about - the person in black gave Aziraphale the strong impression that attempting to gender them would not go well. They leaned forward further, swaying slightly as they put far too much of their spare weight onto their left foot, clad in – were they snakeskin Louboutins? They parted their lips into something almost a smile, almost a snarl.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
To the point, then. “Ah, hello. I need one point five million dollars.”
____
If you remember the 1996 MI movie, you know which scene this is riffing on ;-) First chapter will be out in the next week, to celebrate the release of MI:7 in cinemas, and it will wrap up before 28th July. Hope you enjoy; if the writing process is fun I have plans for a series based on the movies...
I've finally got this fic to a point where I can start posting, so here it is, the premiere of the sequel!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Over a year after he has been reinstated to the IMF, Agent Fell's peaceful vacation is interrupted by a new mission - a fellow agent has gone rogue, stealing deadly pathogens from a secret laboratory, and Aziraphale is tasked with taking him down and stopping the next global pandemic before it can begin. But he won't be able to do it alone... and the clock is ticking.
