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readychilledwine · 14 days ago

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Idk if you do requests but holy shit you are amazing but like on the off chance you do I’m feral over this idea you would absolutely kill for cassian or Azriel

I’m dying for a smart ass foul mouthed girl in the dirty book club that’s like half his size to get him all worked up teasing him every time he sees her but when he finally gets her alone she literally was all talk and is clueless and timid and he blows her fucking mind

I talk a big game but it’s all a bit and I have zero confidence to back it up 😂

Bonus points and my first born for…

Dumbification

Big ole size kink

& a praise link to feed the ✨ daddy issues ✨

All For Show

Summary - Cassian has gotten tired of you and your pretty little mouth. He just had to wait for the right moment to correct it.

Warnings - smut, praise kink, degradation, slight dumbification, shy reader x bold cassian, fingering, oral (male and female receiving), implied size kink (little reader x big cassian), public-ish sex, unprotected sex, a hint of Voyeurism, best friend ex dynamic, loose editing, I'm probably missing some to be honest.. oh, gwyriel mentioned. I apologize if it isn't your preferred ship, but it felt right for this fic.

A/N - I've shamefully written this three times because I wanted bonus points while also giving it plot 😅

🗡Cassian Masterlist🗡Master Masterlist🗡

Your mouth was going to get you in trouble one of these days, but you couldn't bring yourself to care as you laughed with the Valkyries.

The 4 of you were deep into your book club meeting, discussing the recent salacious read that had Gwyn’s cheeks matching that shade of red hair you'd grown to love so much. Emerie high fived you, fingers linking together as the newly added Pegasus charms on your woven friendship bracelets made a soft clink.

You were bold, especially with these 3, and your interest in the sex scene you all had just read was immediately noticed. “I mean,” Nesta genuinely laughed, “Who wouldn't want to have sex with their mate in front of their equally attractive friends?”

Gwyn shrieked, “Nesta!”

A deep throat cleared at that, reminding the four of you that you were in an open room of the House of Wind. That Cassian and Azriel were sitting right next to you. Gwyn shrunk further into her chair, Azriel smirking and chuckling at his.. whatever they had decided they were today, meanwhile Cassian had his eyes locked on you, a brow raised as you began to play with that bracelet. Deep pink, deep orange, and a purple-y navy stared back at you, the blend reminding you of a sunset. “Something to say, General,” Nesta looked her former lover up and down. “Y/n isn't interested.”

Oh, but you were, and he wasn't blind to that. “Just think this is interesting, that's all,” he grumbled. “Especially considering, y/n gets flustered when someone so much as touches her hips to adjust her stance.” Your glare shot his way as your friends began to laugh. Azriel hid a chuckle behind his hand. The tension between you and Cassian had been growing, especially due to the private hand to hand lessons he was giving you.

“You grabbed me by my inner thigh,” you retorted, eyes rolling.

“And you turned the same shade of red aa the threads on that bracelet Ness wears,” he stated. “You talk a big game, sweetheart. Someone is going to call you on your shit one day.” If you were a smarter female, you would have realized that was a warning.

Cassian was showing no mercy the next night as he threw you to your hands and knees for the fourth time in your 2 hour session. “What the hell, Cass?!” You were panting as you sat back in your heels. ��Did you not get the memo that I am just a girl?”

His eyes rolled, “Stand up.” The part of you that had never responded to demands well sent him a look, head tilted back to study his imposing frame. The look you gave him was enough to break his calm. He was a General, a commander, practiced and poised, but you were ruining him. The tension between the two of you was ruining him. He had denied himself so much in this life, lost so much more. Why deny both of you what he knew you both wanted?

“You know what,” he muttered more to himself than you. “I can't do this anymore.” A hand found its way into your hair, strands wrapping around strong fingers as he pulled you to one of the benches, forcing you between his legs as he sat. “Show me,” he demanded.

“What-”

“Show me what you brag to your little friends about. Show you these skills you think you have.”

Your flush began immediately, “Cassian-”

"I knew it," he interrupted you, “Admit you're inexperienced.”

“I'm not inexperienced! I'm just shy!”

He studied you, hazel eyes taking in every inch of your skin as if you were some display. Even with your clothing on, you had never felt more exposed under his gaze. “Shy but can run your mouth to Ness? To Gwynie? To Em? Are you shy or do my hands make you shy?”

That furthered the flush as said large hand pulled your hair, angling your head back to look at him. “Cass-”

“I'm so tired of hearing you speak.” His lips crashed on yours then, forcing you into his lap, legs straddling one of his much larger thighs. Even like this, Cassian towered over you, consumed your frame. You had never considered yourself the smallest female, but with Cassian? Every female could feel small with Cassian.

His free hand slid down, tracing the curve of your breast, your waist, your hips before grabbing and squeezing your left thigh, forcing it over his other leg so you were fully straddling him and open to him.

He pulled back, lips still close as you tried to catch your breath, “Good,” he almost seemed to vibrate with his lust. “That's my Good Girl.”

There was no patience as he pulled your training top off, no ceremony as he took your bra off after it. Cassian was a male in need, something you felt every time he moved and his hips ground his covered length against you.

A silent prayer was sent to the Gods, thanking them for Nesta being in Autumn with Eris for the next week. While it didn't promise no one would walk into the training ring on you two, it did promise at least Nesta wouldn't. His mouth moved down your neck, kissing and nipping until he found the spot that had you melting to his form. “That's it,” his voice had grown deep as he licked at your skin. “Relax, sweetheart. Let me have you.”

Maybe it was because your brain stopped functioning. Maybe it was because something in you just seemed to float in his presence, but you didn't remember getting laid back on the mat, nor your leather pants slowly removed inch by inch as he whispered praise. You didn't remember his own clothing meeting the pile of yours somewhere off to your side. But you remembered his kiss bringing you back to him, “So we go dumb?” He forced you to nod. “I bet you just love being cock drunk, don't you, princess,” the nod wasn't forced this time, his smirk growing as he looked to the sky as if to say his own thank you.

His hands and lips explored every inch, the soft gasps and noises you made his consent, the way you squeezed his fingers encouragement. His tongue swirled your nipple, wetting the tender nerves before latching onto it, rolling and sucking. You couldn't help but arch your back, whispering his title, his name.

“You sound like I imagined you would,” he murmured as he kissed his way to your other breast, offering the same treatment as his words shot to your core. He had imagined you. Imagined how you would sound below him, maybe on top of him.

His kisses began to trail lower, paying extra attention to the sensitive spots he found. He stopped at the hem of your panties, eyes glancing to meet yours, “This is your chance to tell me to stop. If I keep going, that's it. It's you being manhandled by me until I'm done with you, understand?”

The whimper that left your throat at that was almost sinful, “Cassian, please.”

“Use your words,” he demanded. “Use that your mouth to tell me what you want done. You like to run it when you think I'm not listening. Talking about how you want to ride cock and be tied up and used like you aren't telling everyone my dreams.”

Another whine as he licked your core, protected from that skilled tongue by thin lace. “Words,” he demanded again.

“Please taste me.” The tear of fabric followed that plea, all caution thrown to the wind as he dived in.

Cassian wanted to taste every inch of your core. His tongue running over the left side, the right, your clit, your wet entrance. Emerie had told you once enthusiastic partners made sex better and you knew why now. Cassian not only knew what he was doing, but it was clearly his pleasure to be doing it. Each plunge of his tongue inside of you was met with him moaning or groaning, lips vibrating the sensitive parts of your body and building the feeling desperation that slowly wanted to kick in. You sat up on your elbows, watching him as he glanced up, hazel eyes dark and watching your face. Each reaction was a reward to him, your heart seeming to tug at the pride gleaming in his eyes at each little noise that escaped you.

No novel compared to this.

No words could describe it.

Your stomach was growing tight, head falling back as he feasted as if you were the most delicious meal he'd had in over 500 years of life. His lips wrapped around your bundle of nerves, tongue making half circle shapes around your far too aching clit as a thick finger ran your core and gently pushing in.

“Cassian,” your body seemed to shutter in pleasure, tightening around that single digit. “Cauldron fry me,” you moaned as he curled his finger up, immediately locating that special spot inside of you.

This was just his finger. Just his finger had you feeling like you were stretching to a limit as he worked his tongue and hand in time, the band inside of you going taunt. He was careful as he added in a second, watching your face as if he knew. As if he could feel that little panic building in your mind.

He washed it away as he changed how his tongue was moving, now giving teasing motions with just the tip directly where your body was screaming to be touched. He watched your eyes close, watched your guard drop as your hips moved, wanting to ride his face and fingers. He would have normally allowed it, but not this time. Not when he so desperately wanted control and to prove you were all talk. Not when he so desperately wanted you to be his. Your walls began to tighten again, his name becoming something you couldn't even finish as your gasps and panting increased.

Then you tumbled. You fell from the edge, squeezing those two fingers so hard he struggled to work you through your high with them. His free forearm pushed down on your hips, forcing you to stay still and at his mercy. He only slowed down when your trembling did, fingers coming out of you so he could lick them clean, his own hazel eyes fluttering shut. He moved up, kissing you again and forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue.

“Off,” you begged, mind going hazy as you tugged his own leathers. Your request was met, Cassian standing over you as you instantly moved to your knees, watching his hands unlace before pulling down. His cock stood hard for you. It was thick, long, veins in places you knew were going to touch the perfect spots inside of you.

Cassian was larger than any male you'd ever been with, and it had been a while since you had been with anyone. He was a challenge, one you were prepared to meet as you felt your mind fully slip away. “Open,” he whispered. His own stomach flipped with excitement when you obeyed, hand grabbing your high ponytail as he moved his hips and your head forward. This was something you knew, mind immediately working on the sole goal of his pleasure as you began to lick and suck, head bobbing. His hips met your pace, not pushing or forcing. “Just like that, sweetheart. Putting that mouth to good use for once,” he groaned. He tasted of something purely Cassian. Of salt and power. “You look beautiful like this,” his hips increased slightly, encouraging you to do so as well. “Mouth wrapped around my cock, looking up at me with those pretty eyes. Such a good girl.”

He wouldn't give you the satisfaction of making him finish like this. No. He wanted that to happen when he was buried inside of you, you ass bouncing with each thrust he would give you. He watched you closely as you sucked him off, tongue and lips wetting him until he was sure he wouldn't last if you kept going.

Whines of protest left you as he pulled you off, walking you the bench and forcing you to crawl with his grip on your hair. “Hands on the bench.” An order you were not dumb enough to deny, positioning yourself as he asked. He kneeled behind you, kissing your spine as he forced a knee up on the bench as well. It wasn't comfortable, but it would be effective. “Breathe.” Another command from the General of the Night Court as he lined up with you and began pushing in.

“Gods!” Each inch of him seemed to knock the air from your lungs, your breathing ragged. “Cassian, I can't-”

“You can,” he silenced you. “Breathe. Breathe like we taught you.” He timed his entrance with each deep breath, groaning once he was fully inside of you. His hand went to the small of your stomach, dirty thoughts about wanting to be big enough he could feel and see himself inside of you.

The first rock of his hips had you almost shouting your moans. He reached places you'd never known. Places no one had ever touched. You were like a vice around him, the stretch burning and adding to your pleasure as he began to move, stroking that building fire with care. It didn't long for the training area to smell like sex. To be filled with the sounds of his deep groans, you gasps and pleads, the sounds of skin hitting.

His hands reached forward, wanting more control of you as he grabbed your arms, holding and forcing them behind your back and making you arch more for him. Helpless. You were helpless.

And that's when the Cassian Nesta had described to you all began.

His thrusts became fast and hard, hitting your g spot over and over. His hand that wasn't holding your wrists found your throat, resting there and giving one squeeze to test the waters. You couldn't even moan his name anymore as that fire grew, all words were lost to you, all thoughts eddied before falling to silence. Your body wanted to feel. And feel you did.

Every drag was a spark, every word he whispered in your ear a kindling. You would burn. You would burn alive if he didn't stop. That tension built again, faster than it had with any other partner.

Cassian was a God. No one could convince you otherwise as those scarred lips pressed against your temple. “I won't last,” he muttered. “You're too warm. Too tight. You have me, princess. You and this pretty pussy.” He smirked as a wanton moan left your throat, the heat of his body sending you into overdrive.

You wouldn't last either.

Frankly, you didn't want to.

His hand squeezed your throat again, his pace becoming less patterned and wild. He was chasing your high like a predator closing in on its next meal, and when you seemed to freeze, body tensing before a scream tore through you, he served himself.

“That's it, y/n. Doesn't that feel so right, angel? Falling apart with me inside of you,” he grunted as he fought off his own high. “You feel like heaven, y/n. So good, baby. So fucking good.” His voice prolonged your high, forcing you into a state of overstimulation. You collapsed against him, body putty to his will as he chased his own orgasm.

“Fuck,” he yelled before you felt him give one last hard push into you, warmth spreading as his spilled inside. His hands moved, one shooting out to wrap around your hips, forcing you to stay down. The one found the bench, stopping the forward motion from you both falling into it, protecting you even as his mind clouded to the feeling of you squeezing around him.

This didn't just feel like heaven. It was heaven.

He moved your leg down once he was done, his hand now finding your chin to tilt your head and kiss you softly. “You did so well,” he said against your swollen lips. “So responsive for me. Felt so good. Was it good, sweetheart?” You only nodded, biting your lower lip as he showered you with more praises. “Let's get you dressed so I can get you in a bath.”

Your arms held his right one once you two were dressed and walking towards the house. He only paused when the door opened, and Azriel sighed, holding Gwyn against him as she blushed and squirmed, “You couldn't have kept going,” Azriel teased. “Gwyn was enjoying the show.” Your face fell, realizing you had been caught and watched. Teal eyes met yours, her own blush spreading out from where Azriel had a hand on her mouth. “Come on, my light,” Azriel purred to her. “Time to go do dagger training.”

Cassian laughed as he continued pulling you in the house, pulling you to his room, to his tub.

You could face the consequences of Nesta potentially finding out later. All that mattered now was the feel of his hand, slipping down your body and below the water for round two.

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addledmongoose · 2 months ago

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Best of 2024 Good Omens Fanfiction

Welcome to my list of the best Good Omens fanfiction I’ve read in 2024! These are my favorites of all the novels, short stories, and series I’ve read this year, and they’re the ones I have or am most likely to read more than once. There’s so much amazing talent in the Good Omens fandom, and I will never be able to read every great story, but I’m happy to have found these fantastic works. (FYI, I added up the word counts of all the stories on this list, and it’s over three million!)

First of all, if you haven’t read the stories on my 2023 Best Of list, be sure to check out the amazing works there. There are a lot of older classics, like Or Be Nice, Slow Show, and Pray For Us, Icarus and some stories written after season two released, like Factory Setting and Married At First Sight.

Secondly, here is the entire list of every recommendation I’ve made in 2024. There are far more great stories than can fit in a single year-end list. I’ll be unpinning that list and pinning up a new one next year.

Last year, I was able to split my list up more evenly into canon adjacent/compliant and human AU. This year, I read a wider variety of stories, many of them quite long, and more series. I’m splitting the list into three categories: canon, human AU, and non-human AU. There's no order or ranking to the list; they were mostly just added as I read them.

There are also no WIPs here; all of the stories are complete. The series are also complete at the time of this list or are a series of standalone shorts that don't need to be read in order. My preferences lean toward funnier, lighter stories and are often heavy on plot. If you’re looking for dark stories with a lot of angst, you won’t find as many here as other blogs might recommend. It’s not that some of these don’t have dark, sad moments or moments of angst, but Aziraphale and Crowley must have a happy ending, and I prefer stories that don’t make me cry or cause a lot of stress.

If you like these stories, don’t forget to leave kudos and comments for the authors!

If you hit that "Keep reading" button, strap in! This is a very, very long post.

Canon

They’re still angel and demon. I’m counting Reverse Omens in this category.

The Seventh Prince of Hell (56K; Rated M) by @evilasiangenius

Reverse Omens. This is actually part of a series, but I’ve only read the first book, so I’m not listing it as a series. Aziraphale is the Seventh Prince of Hell. His animal aspect is the octopus. Crowley is an ordinary angel. Both are assigned to Earth. They have adventures!

Genesis 3:(-7)-5.5 -7 And they assembled all the Lords, the Princes of Hell into a congregation together sometime after the seventh day, but not on a day of rest because even the Dark Council has a day off. -6 When it came to pass that all grew weary of the powerful pointing presentations, Lord Beelzebub spake with a loud voice, saying unto them, One of uzz brotherzz muzzt go to Earth as Hell’s Represzentative and thwart the doings of Heaven; there izz no choice now that the Almighty has created humanzz. Who amongzt uzz shall take up the project? It comezz with a great deal of extra paperwork, much travel, and no overtime pay. And we shall not reimbursze anything and there shall be no per diem. [...] -3 And of the seven Princes of Hell, three stepped forward, and only three; not two nor five, which are the other prime numbers near three and definitely not one, which is not a prime at all but the unit. The first was the Second Prince, who is called Asmodeus and is a demon of lust. The second was the Seventh Prince, who is called Aziraphale and is a demon of collecting stuff. And the third was the Fourth Prince, who is not worth talking about because they only appear in this one scene and for no other reason than to have three characters. I think that Prince is the demon of executive dysfunction or erectile dysfunction or something like that. Maybe both.

***

Nice And Ominous: a reluctant eschatology of the Second Attempt (series) (117K; Rated T/E) by @e-rated-beardo

A three-part, post-s2 series with gorgeous art by the author. Part I is Crowley’s POV as he deals with the loss of his angel. Part II is from Aziraphale’s POV as he tries to stop the Second Coming and deal with the loss of his demon. Part III is the thrilling finale (and the happy ending). Expect a lot of angst but great characters and plot.

It was a shit day. All the days had been shit, and there had been rather a shitload of them so far. Tucked away in a disused corner of a car park in a retail park in Croydon, a lanky man cracked his eyes open and scowled out the side window of his car. There were raindrops hitting the glass and clouds massing towards the eastern horizon suggested a storm was on its way. He had slept uncomfortably across the front seats for a good amount of time (it didn’t much matter what exact amount), and despite the car being a vintage and exceptionally attractive specimen, nobody had paid it much mind—and the few people who had had the idea to come over and have a look at the ostensibly abandoned vehicle had all suddenly realised how much they actually needed to go buy a sofa or something at that Ikea over there, right about now, in fact. Untangling his various limbs, the man in the car—who wasn’t exactly a man, as such, but close enough for government work—reluctantly sat up, his boot brushing against one of the empty bottles on the floor. He had neglected to sober up before going to sleep.

***

Too Hot for Heavenly Handling (2.4K; Rated E) by @hollybennett123

Crowley says yes to returning to Heaven. The two enjoy three fornication-fueled weeks before they’re hauled before the Metatron and the other archangels for a disciplinary hearing. Rating-aside, there’s not any actual sex in this story. It’s implicit; not explicit.

I’ve read this story more times than I can count (ok, it’s seven). I nearly choked the first time I read it, because I was laughing so hard. Every sentence is a gem. The timing of the jokes is impeccable. There’s not a single bad line in this entire piece.

“No angel shall pretend to be of a lower status than their actual ranking,” Aziraphale reads aloud. “What does that have to do with — ohhh,” he says, wide-eyed, remembering their ongoing little roleplay. Crowley, an angel of the lowest ranking in their little game, seeking favour from an Archangel; offering to service him in secret so he might earn a series of Heavenly promotions. It had been jolly good fun, actually. “Misuse of Heavenly furniture,” the Metatron continues. “One count. Again, the actual number is unknown. Quite frankly, no one here is willing to research it further to gather any more evidence than the minimum required to bring you before this Council.” Looking back, Aziraphale’s desk has seen quite a bit of action in recent weeks. And the chair. The walls, too, if they count.

***

Aziraphale’s Diaries (series) (11K; Rated T) by @fellshish

A series of standalone fics written as Aziraphale’s diary entries. They don’t need to be read in any order. All of them are fantastic, but I probably laughed the hardest at “Adventures of a mystery shopper in the bookshop.” Aziraphale decides Crowley must be bored after the Nomageddon and in need of work and decides to “let” him take care of his bookshop while he’s away, but then he worries the demon might sell some of his books.

29 August 2018 I’ve informed Crowley I’ll be going away for about three weeks, to perform an exciting and complicated blessing abroad. In reality, I’ve booked the Ritz for myself, where I’ll be forced to act human and eat breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Anything to keep a close eye on Crowley! 30th August 2018 It’s my first day away. I decided to go by the bookshop in an “old and confused man disguise” so I could look through the window. I was just in time (a three hour window between lunch and afternoon tea at the Ritz) to see him read the letter I’d posted a few days ago so it would arrive just as I’d left. It was cleverly addressed “To the owner or the current guardian of this bookshop”. I used all my knowledge of humans, gathered via the cleverest of ways (a lot of reading), to write it.

***

A Special Place In Hell (50K; Rated T) by @hotcrosspigeon and @mirach

When Adam shifted reality and caused Satan to disappear, the nearest supernatural entity became the new King of Hell. As it so happened, a certain angel was standing just a little closer than his demon.

Aziraphale, while not Falling, becomes the new ruler of Hell and must navigate Hellish politics, find a role for the love of his life, and maybe bring some proper tea time to the infernal realm. I stumbled upon this story purely by accident one night, and it was a pure joy to read. It’s one of those stories I wish was a series, because I could read so much more in this world.

"Hello, Crowley, my dear fellow. I would like to discuss a certain issue with you. You see, I somehow got into a very peculiar predicament..." Aziraphale sighed in frustration, pacing in his bookshop. "No no no, that sounds like I got my hand stuck in the sweets vending machine again." He cleared his throat. "Hey Crowley, what's up? Better sit down because I have some news to tell you... And by some news I mean... errr..." The angel groaned. "Oh Heavens, there's just no proper way to say this. Ugh, come on, Aziraphale, buck up! You just need to get to the point, that's all. Say the things as they are. No going in circles around the matter. Nice and accurate, right. Just tell him..." He turned at the sound of the bookshop doorbell. "Hello Crowley! Nice weather, isn't it?" "Wha..?" Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses, a drop of water running along the edge of his nose. His red hair was plastered to his forehead. He turned to look out the window, jerking a thumb at the onslaught of vicious hail and rain that pelted the glass and plinked against the pane. "Oh, ha ha , very funny. It's bloody bucketing down, angel! I legged it in here before I got clonked on the head with a hailstone the size of my fist." He stopped and frowned at the angel in concern. "Er... you all right? You're looking a bit peaky."

***

Flowers From Hell (42K; Rated T) by @entanglednow

Crowley creates a hybrid demon flower that turns out to be a little more than he intended. This was such a sweet, beautiful story of found family and love, and you’ll absolutely fall in love with Ivy and want to do everything to protect him.

There's a low, quiet rustle from the atrium, where Crowley keeps his finest plants. The beautiful and often terrified rows of them are always so tall and glossy, and fantastically well maintained. Aziraphale regrets that he hadn't taken more of an interest in Crowley's hobbies. It wouldn't have been too difficult, he imagines, to seek out rare specimens to offer the demon. When he's been given so many long sought after volumes, and unpublished manuscripts in turn. Perhaps he could encourage Crowley to open up more, with a few well thought out questions pertaining to his plants, and their various needs. He knows Crowley has been absorbed in a special project recently, he'll make a point to ask about it today. Aziraphale heads into the stretch of greenery, following the tap of feet on tiles, and the quiet swish of foliage. He catches a flash of red hair at the end of the room, behind a messy spray of deep green leaves, then another flash, of what might be the long, pale curve of a shoulder. "Crowley?" The whole room smells damp, thick with fresh soil and crushed plant matter, and it grows stronger the deeper in Aziraphale ventures. He's sure the room wasn't quite so large before, it's clearly been expanded since he visited last, a deep bed of soil is now packed at the back of the room. "Crowley." Aziraphale eases a large spray of damp leaves aside. "I hope I'm not too early, I was -" Crowley is standing by the far wall, carefully touching the valley in the middle of a large leaf with curious, repetitive motions. He's also quite naked. It's - it's unexpected to say the least.

***

Time Marches Forward (129K; Rated M) by @bellisima-writes

While Aziraphale is in Heaven trying to thwart the Second Coming, Crowley is trying to help a frightened 15-year-old Adam learn to deal with his powers. I consider this the definitive S3 (even having written a post-S2 myself), regardless of what the upcoming finale gives us. Every character is wonderfully fleshed out. The plot is intriguing. I read it as fast as humanly possible, barely stopping to do anything else.

Crowley felt the air in the Bentley shift slightly. “What are you doing here?” Crowley jumped in shock, hitting his head on the roof of the Bentley so hard his sunglasses fell off. Adam was suddenly in the passenger seat, studying him cautiously. “Hey! You can’t just come into my car, uninvited,” Crowley hissed, grabbing his glasses and placing them back on his face. He realized he was still slouching, making Adam appear much bigger than he was. He sat up straight and crossed his arms in an attempt to look more intimidating and less drunk. He wondered if it was wise to try and glower at the Antichrist. “He can, actually,” Pepper said from the back seat. Crowley turned and snarled as he noted the three other teenagers in his car. Wensleydale and Brian sat beside her. “He can do anything.” “Yeah well, that may be so but that doesn’t make it right. Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should,” he looked Adam directly in the eyes as he said this, assuming no one else around him would ever be so blunt. “What are you doing lurking around my house?” Adam asked again plainly. Crowley’s glowering was not working. “Ngk. I didn’t come to see you, if that’s what you're asking. I’m as shocked as you are to find myself here. I was asleep for a few days. The bloody car did it; blame it for the lurking”

***

The Last Angel (162K; Rated E) by @bellisima-writes

Crowley's been Hell's Grand Inquisitor for millennia now. Ever since the Apocalypse, he's managed to carve out a relatively cushy life for himself. Hell won the War, Angels were essentially eradicated and all human souls were Satan's. Everything was fine. Until one day he hears a rumor that the Last Angel in the universe was finally captured. Until Beelzebub is suddenly ordering him to get information from said Angel, information that's critical for Hell's survival. Until the moment he first locks eyes with the last Angel, and everything he's ever known starts to crumble around him.

I can’t come up with a better description than the summary. Much like the author’s previous work, Time Marches Forward, this is plot-heavy, exciting, action-packed, and gorgeous. The characters are detailed and realistic. The plot sings. And you won’t see the surprise until it’s already there.

“What kinds of rumors?” he asked, shifting in his seat to properly face Eric. Words were one thing, but body language was another. As Grand Inquisitor, Crowley learned early on to weigh both when evaluating information shared by a source whose reliability was questionable. Eric was a nice kid, sure. But their reliability would definitely be categorized as questionable . Eric’s mood shifted as they glanced around the corridor. Crowley hadn’t realized how quiet the cells had gotten. The bloody humans were eavesdropping again. He dug deep and pulled up a hiss so loud and laced with demonic power that it rattled every cell door in the entire block. Eric motioned with their hand for Crowley to follow them into a corner and out of earshot of everyone else. As Crowley pulled himself up and started walking he sent searing looks down each row of cells around him. They were all going to have a talk about this later. “What?” he asked when he got close enough to Eric. Still eyeing the cells behind them, Eric leaned in closer and whispered, “Hastur finally found him."

Crowley shook his head. Eric’s shiftiness was starting to annoy him. “Found who?” “The one who killed Ligur. Crowley, Hastur’s finally captured the last Angel.”

***

Kidnapping A Supreme Archangel For Fun And Profit (series) (31K; Rated T) by @waitingtobebroken

Mostly outsider POV. Four short stories told mostly from the points of view of Agiel, the Supreme Archangel’s assistant, and Kric (Eric with a K), the Grand Duke’s assistant as they try to figure out why the Supreme Archangel is so unworried about all the times he’s getting himself kidnapped by the Grand Duke. In the meantime, the two assistants find that maybe they have more in common than they would have expected, being hereditary enemies and all.

Being Lord Beelzebub's demonic assistant had been easier than overseeing the third circle of Hell. Just stay out of the way, don't make eye contact, not that Kric could, having been blessed with a distinct lack of eyes, and do not talk to the Prince of Hell, unless it was a 'Yes, Your Highness' or... No, that was pretty much it. You did not go around saying "No" to Lord Beelzebub. And of course, just as they had finally grown comfortable in their position, had even found the perfect time to ask for an assistant of their own... There had been a change in leadership. And Kric had found themself serving Crowley. The Original Tempter, the Snake of Eden, the Earth Walker. Kric was not impressed. Flash bastard. And suddenly, they were expected to be in the throne room at all times. To answer when addressed. Proper, actual answer. None of that automatic 'Yes, your Highness' they were so used to. The first time His Rottenness had held up two sashes, before the monthly meeting between Heaven and Hell and had asked which one made his scales look more iridescent and Kric had answered in the only way they knew how... Well, let's just say that hadn't gone well. They had been sent to something called Fashion Week. To better their understanding of clothes and colour theory, something they could sense had been invented by a fellow demon. Lord Crowley, most probably, judging by the way His Wickedness had grinned when he had told them that.

*****

Human AU

Fully human characters. No supernatural/magical elements.

Waking Up Slow (88K; Rated E) by @themoonmothwrites

After both being exposed to covid, strangers Crowley and Aziraphale wait out their isolation together (there’s only one bed!) at a cottage by the sea. This is complete cosycore fluff with just a touch of angst (and a happy ending) near the end. This gorgeous story has stuck with me for so long. If you want something that’s just plain pleasurable to read, this is it.

“Lovely view.” The voice was low, with the slightest hint of gravel, and right next to Aziraphale’s ear. He made an undignified noise and spun round in fright. “Where the devil did you-?” he started, high-voiced, before his foot caught on a stone and he lost his balance. The stranger was standing so close that Aziraphale toppled right into him, and the pair of them went down together in a tangle of knees and a solid thunk to the forehead. “Ow,” the man said, squinting up at Aziraphale, gaze unfocused, before his eyes fell closed. “Oh no!” Aziraphale breathed. “Oh dear. What do I-?” He’d left his blasted phone at the cottage, now of all times when he actually needed it! With an unconscious man lying before him! And it was all Aziraphale’s doing! “I can-- I can-- I know what to do!” he told himself, attempting belatedly not to panic. The best thing to do was not to think too hard. Tipping up the stranger’s chin, Aziraphale pinched his nose and lowered his face until his mouth closed over the other man’s.

***

The Prince’s Consort (142K; Rated E) by @ineffable-toreshi

Aziraphale is the crown prince of a fictional nation. Crowley is a Lily, trained in one of Lucien’s brothels and kept a virgin for the eventual sale to a wealthy master. Against the brothel owner’s wishes, Crowley is purchased by the prince’s adviser, Gabriel, as a companion for Prince Aziraphale. Aziraphale didn’t want a purchased mate, however, and decides to court his new consort the old-fashioned way.

The description makes this sound like a darker story than it is; it’s actually a really sweet story with only one bad guy (and it’s not Gabriel).

I wrote a much longer review here if you’d like more details.

“I...I was just wondering, my Lord,” Anthony said, nervously nibbling on his lip and twisting his fingers in his lap. “Why did you choose me ?” Gabriel cocked his head to the side. He leaned back, reclining with his arms thrown up over the edges of the bench, and seemed to think about the question. By the time he finally opened his mouth to answer, Anthony was practically vibrating with curiosity. “There were a few factors,” he explained thoughtfully. “I’ll admit that your appearance was the first and foremost. I prefer women, myself, but I know beauty in a man when I see it. And I’ve seen the types who’ve caught the prince’s eye over the years. I’m quite confident that he will find you more than pleasing, from an aesthetic standpoint.”

***

Keep Digging (7K; Rated T) by Appleseeds

After panicking and losing his nerve trying to ask out Aziraphale, the co-worker Crowley has an enormous crush on, he tells a little white lie that ends up completely spiralling out of control since he can't seem to stop digging himself into a deeper and deeper hole. Now he's obtained plans to help him break into a school, inadvertently funded the purchase of explosives, and, knowing his luck, the fake blood will end up permanently staining the tiles. Who knows though, maybe in the end, it'll all turn out to be worth it.

Another one of those stories that are so funny tears stream down my face every time. Even going back through it to find an excerpt had me choking down laughter.

“I actually used to be a music tutor. That was one of the little jokes I liked to tell.” Aziraphale giggled again. Nhhhhh. “Wish you could tutor me…” Crowley muttered under his breath. “Oh! Are you wanting to learn to play a musical instrument?” Aziraphale asked brightly. Crowley’s eyes widened. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. Of course, he wouldn’t have heard it if Crowley had just kept his big mouth shut. “Um. Yeah.” “Wonderful! Which one?” FUCK. How the hell was Crowley supposed to answer that? Whatever he said, he might end up having to get one of said instrument, and he didn’t know much, but he knew musical instruments could be incredibly expensive. There must be something that would be cheap enough to procure if needs be, right? And with that thought, Crowley responded. “The triangle.” Oh Jesus Christ.

***

Temple of the Muses (241K; Rated E) by @ajconstantine

It’s the start of the Season in 1841 Victorian England. Mr Anthony Crowley has left a life of working at a luxurious high end bordello in Paris behind him and is now a courtesan intent on climbing the social ladder in London to increase his status and social connections. After unexpectedly inheriting the title of the Earl of Eastgate, Aziraphale finds himself trying to navigate the complicated world of the aristocracy. Duke Gabriel purchases a month-long contract with Mr Crowley for Lord Fell as a surprise gift to Aziraphale’s astonishment and dismay. He declines to take full advantage of Crowley’s charms but agrees to an arrangement of pretending to be Crowley’s paramour in exchange for lessons on the etiquette and expectations of Society. It’s a practical arrangement, nothing more. Certainly no feelings will be involved...

One of the best, most well-researched stories I’ve read. The historical elements are fascinating, and the world-building is top notch. Set in an alternate 1841 where there’s no stigma on same sex relationships, but same sex marriage is still not allowed. The story alternates between the present time, with Aziraphale and Crowley navigating their growing relationship, and Crowley’s time being trained at one of the most elite bordellos of Paris.

Crowley has a lot of autonomy in this story. He actively chose to become a sex worker. Once he leaves the bordello and becomes a courtesan, he can refuse to sign with a client. And while there are consequences for breaking a contract, a courtesan can walk away from a troublesome client.

“Exactly what position do you think I was hired for?” Crowley interrupted, pulling the shoulder of his robe back up. The Earl looked at him as if he’d asked a ridiculous question. “Valet, of course.” Crowley barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Duke Haven didn’t tell you about me?” The Earl pursed his lips, tilting his head in puzzlement. “Not you precisely. I was at his house last week, and he chastised me when I mentioned that I didn’t have a valet, insisting I needed one even though…” His eyes widened. “Oh no. What… what did you think you were being hired for?” Struck by the absurdity of it all, Crowley fought the strong urge to laugh outright. Instead, he gave the Earl a roguish grin and bowed with a flourish. “Mr Anthony Crowley, at your service, sir. Duke Haven procured a contract for me to be your... courtesan.” Lord Fell's mouth dropped open as he gaped at him in apparent shock. “You— I—” He floundered, at a loss for words as he looked away from Crowley. His eyes landed on the bed. To Crowley’s growing amusement, the Early actually blushed, red staining his cheeks as he swiftly averted his gaze.

***

#RAINBOWROAD (series) (407K; Rated T/E) by @nieded

If you haven’t heard of this one yet, you’re one of today’s lucky 10,000. This is one of the best, most well-written human AUs that anyone has produced for Good Omens (or really, of any romance). It’s a three-book, three-short series set in the world of Formula 1 racing. You heard that right. You don’t need to know anything about F1 racing. You don’t even need to like F1 racing. You just need to want to read one of the best romances ever written to enjoy this series.

Ezira Phale is a rookie F1 driver. AJ Crowley is an F1 veteran and an idol of the 25-year-old racer. Everything changes when Ezira meets and falls in love with Crowley, and the older driver (by about 10 years; there’s not a massive age difference here) seems to return his feelings. I wrote a very long review of the series here, so I won’t go into a ton of detail again except to say, if you love human AU, this should be on your list. The author adds notes at the end of the chapters explaining some of the more technical aspects of the sport, or talking about some of the real racers, and it’s fascinating.

Ezira makes his escape from the after-party after stealing a handful of fig tartlets from the hors d’oeuvres table. He ducks out the service exit before looping back to the front of the hotel. God, he wants to sleep off his tipsiness. It’s significantly cooler at night, and he wraps his arms around his shoulders before slipping inside, making a dash for the elevator. Punching his floor number, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, waiting to be taken to his floor. Then the elevator jerks as someone jabs their hand between the sliding doors, forcing it back open. Ezira lifts his head and glares at the newcomer before his eyes widen, flushing when he recognizes the red hair and black Renault polo. AJ Crowley throws himself into the opposite corner of the elevator and pulls the brim of his hat down. He turns to look at Ezira from under his cap. "Tough luck out there today, huh?" he asks. Ezira frowns and blinks. And because he’s a little drunk and high on adrenaline, he says, "Didn’t you place seventh? I thought that was fucking brilliant." This earns him a snort, and then a bit of stifled laughter. "You can’t say fuck." "You say fuck in almost every interview you do." Not that Ezira has watched every single post-debrief involving AJ Crowley. This makes Crowley laugh harder, and he wipes at his eyes. "You just look like you should be in a painting or something. You’re like a Hummel." Flabbergasted, Ezira stares. His cheeks grow hot when he realizes AJ Crowley is taking the piss. "I don’t even know what that means." Crowley wipes his eye with the back of his hand and then presses his lips together in a feeble attempt to hold back another fit of laughter. "I’m sorry. I’m just very, very drunk, and was not expecting you to say ‘fuck.’ You look like those cherubs from Italy."

***

Lunacy (57K; Rated E) by @snae-b

@snae-b writes some of the best sci-fi GO stories you’ll ever read. This is hardly the only great story of theirs I’ve recommended; it just happens to be my personal favorite. Crowley is the crew chief of a mining operation on one of Pluto’s tiny moons. Aziraphale is a geologist there to study the structural integrity of the moon. But something seems to be alive, something that shouldn’t be there. This is pure psychological horror, the kind of story where you’re never quite sure what’s real and what’s a hallucination. You’ll find definitely NSFW artwork throughout, so take note not to read it around people you wouldn’t want seeing porn on your screen.

Crowley zones out as they continue their conversation. Things had been weird in the mine today. For the past month really. Tech malfunctioning. Batteries draining when they should have been able to hold a charge for days. Half the lights were on the fritz. As if it weren't dark enough in there already. He'd had to trek nearly a mile into Sheol with only the lights on his helmet to repair them. And his crew had their hands full with extraction, so he’d had to do it alone. The darkness really starts to play tricks on you in there. He spent as much time looking over his shoulder as he did working on the lights. Kept thinking that he was seeing something. Something hiding in the shadows. Something that lived in his peripheral vision. As he tugs a beanie on over his head there’s a light rapping on the wall and everyone glances up to the figure in the doorway. “Excuse me, Mr. Crowley. If you have time in your schedule, I really need to discuss the most recent surface scans with you. Could you come by my quarters before dinner?” Crowley sighs as he snaps on his mag boots. “Yeah. Sure thing doc. I’ll be by in thirty.” The scientist only nods before he disappears down the hall. Dr. Aziraphale Fell. He doesn’t wear the standard issue jumpsuits. He wears thick sweaters and wool trousers that look ridiculous with his mag boots. And when he isn’t wearing them, he can hardly get around. Bumps into everything and everyone. He’s never been off planet before and it shows.

***

Miracles on Ice (131K; Rated E) by @henriettarhippo

It’s the “Blades of Glory” AU you never knew you wanted. Crowley and Aziraphale are men’s figure skaters who get banned from the sport after a fight on the podium. Years later, Aziraphale’s coach, Gabriel, suggests the two of them team up to compete in the Olympic’s pairs event. Only problem is, the two skaters hate each other.

This is very much an enemies-to-lovers story, and Gabriel as their coach and sponsor is the perfect combination of asshole and good guy. He genuinely does care for his two skaters, and he’s generous with his money, but he also has that rich guy attitude of being used to getting what he wants, and he’s not afraid to tell them to stop being dumbasses either.

“Hey angel, was that your routine? Because it looked to me like a lot of swanning about on the ice with a few pirouettes thrown in.” The mocking drawl came from the figure making his way towards Aziraphale on a pair of sharp blades. Clad in skintight black velvet trousers and a black turtleneck adorned with glittering red crystals—to match the striking red curls that stopped at his shoulders—Aziraphale’s skating rival Crowley beamed down at him with a malicious grin. “Also, you’re a bit late. They handed out the women’s medals earlier today.” He pulled down the dark shades he always wore to give Aziraphale a wink. Aziraphale bristled and sat up straighter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. That was textbook precision, and I think you’ll find it was the same scores I beat you with last year in Oslo.” “The hotel had a free bar I don’t even remember Oslo,” Crowley said dismissively as he approached the entrance to the rink. He turned back and gave Aziraphale a grin. “But I do remember Boston, and that victory was almost as sweet as the look on your face when you botched that triple loop.” Crowley let out a laugh at the scandalised look Aziraphale gave him. The loudspeakers started up with the first booming notes of a rock song and Crowley hopped up onto the ice and skated away from him before Aziraphale had the chance to reply.

***

Friends Don't (33K; Rated E) by @missunderstoodlyrics

Human AU. Another fantastic enemies-to-lovers by MissUnderstoodLyrics. This is the newest story on this list.

Aziraphale and Crowley are rival advice columnists whose companies are merged. The CEO, Gabriel, tells them they now have to do a joint video podcast together. The snark and bickerflirting are top notch, and this story kept a smile on my face. They have to keep their romance a secret, because the whole schtick of their podcast is their very public rivalry, but it gets harder and harder the closer they become.

Aziraphale attempted to drown his mirth in his wine glass, which was precisely when Crowley decided to position his mouth millimetres from the angel’s ear. “Blair. Have you met him? Worst. Comb-over. Since. Thatcher,” he whispered and then found himself helpfully patting Aziraphale's back as the man choked and spluttered, his cherubic face turning a delightful shade of pink. “Absolute fiend,” Aziraphale managed once he’d caught his breath, but the corners of his mouth were twitching traitorously. Crowley clocked Michaela out of the corner of his eye; she was leaning forward to shush them. Aziraphale escaped her wrath by standing and marching to the stage, his back straight and shoulders squared. He planted himself solidly in front of the microphone and proceeded to destroy what was left of Crowley’s sanity. “I once met a man-shaped snake,” he stated, his gaze firmly locked on Crowley. “Whose snark was taxing to take With swagger and pose He turned up his nose But his wisdom was rather half-baked.”

*****

Non-Human AU

One or both of them are non-human, or have some sort of supernatural abilities (like magic) but aren’t angel or demon. I’m including omegaverse in this category.

Mark of the Serpent (150K; Rated E) by @naromoreau and @summerofspock

Prince Aziraphale is about to be crowned King of Angelhaven when he's taken captive by pirates. When he's sold as a pleasure slave to King Crowley, ruler of the nation readying for war with his, he is forced to keep his identity a secret as he tries to find a way home and keep peace. But not everything at King Crowley's court is as it seems and Aziraphale will have to face machinations of a Royal Court that are far more complex than he had thought. A Captive Prince AU with an omegaverse twist.

The first omegaverse story I genuinely liked, even though Crowley is pretty awful toward Aziraphale at first. Since then I’ve come to enjoy more of them, but this is the one that got me into the genre. This is another one I’ve written a much longer review about here including an explanation for the “extremely dubious consent” tag.

"What about this one?" the omega king asked, eyes fixed on his face, a strange curl to his mouth. "He's an Angel," Hastur sneered. "Pretty, isn't he? We were trying to pick a variety for your majesty to choose from since you didn’t deign to accompany us, but we didn’t find out his origin until after we brought him. He probably doesn't even speak the language." The words manifested in Aziraphale’s mind, and he immediately saw the genius in them. If he didn't speak the language, he could hardly be appealing as a consort to the king. He would be dismissed, sent back to Tracy's, and given time to heal before making his escape. "An Angel?" the king repeated, something passing over his face that Aziraphale didn't like. "What's your name?" "I’m sorry," Aziraphale stammered in Angelic, sticking to his hastily made plan. "I don’t...I don’t know what you're saying." King Crowley smiled and said, in perfect Angelic, "I asked what your name was." "Oh, um, I- you can call me whatever you wish," Aziraphale said, not wanting to risk even a part of his name. The king laughed. "I'm choosing the Angel. Send him to my quarters." "But your majesty-" The omega king turned on Ligur. "You wanted me to choose a pleasure beta and I did. It's done. Were there any other highly important council matters or can I get back to my day?"

***

Saltwater on Skin (186K; Rated E) by @candyqueenblog

Another one with a longer review here. Ezra Fell is an award-winning novelist celebrating the millionth sale of his newest books with his friends and baby brother, Gabriel, on a rented yacht. He falls overboard and washes ashore on an uncharted island, and while awaiting rescue, he gets the strange feeling he’s not alone.

This is a low angst love story between the human and the naga who rescues him, and you’ll fall in love with the island and Crowley’s four sisters. Gabriel is a peach here, much younger than Ezra and very much the caring baby brother.

And if you’d prefer an Ineffable Wives version of the story, you can find that here. I haven’t read it, but I assume it’s equally good.

Ezra couldn’t stifle the flood of tears as he threw his arms over his head with a scream. Then a pair of rough, but blessedly human hands, covered his wrists. “You… scared?” The stranger’s voice was gravelly, most likely from disuse, but to Ezra it sounded more beautiful than all the angelic choirs. He sobbed in relief. “Oh thank heavens! I thought for sure I was going to-” His words sputtered and died when he opened his eyes to look at his rescuer. It was a man… ...from the waist up. The man’s bare torso was thin, but well defined with long arms lean with muscle. His face was all angles framed by a shock of red hair that curled down his back. His eyes were captivating. They were human enough, save for the iris being the color of spun gold and sliced right down the middle by a slit-shaped pupil. That was about where the human similarities ended. From the waist down the man’s skin melded into a massive snake tail that was wider than Ezra’s entire body and covered in black scales with a red underbelly that matched his hair.

***

FAETED (series) (251K; Rated G/T) by @ineffably-good

The only story in this category that’s not rated E. A three-book, one-short series where Ezra, an English teacher at a public school accidentally ends up in the Fae realms and in the hands of the Unseelie king, Crowley. The world-building is fantastic, and the books use some of the side characters so well, especially Hastur and Ligur, two of Crowley’s most trusted advisers. Crowley is good to Ezra, but he’s spent a thousand years ruling over the chaotic and dangerous unseelie fae, and he doesn’t always know how to handle being in love with a human. And Ezra doesn’t understand the difficult and often prickly politics of the fae, so the two have a lot of misunderstandings to work through. It leads to several fights, but they are usually resolved within the chapter.

The stories are heavy on plot, mostly around the world of the fae, which is one of the things I love most about this series. I could easily read dozens of books set in this world.

Lord Crowley watched as Ezra emerged from the coach, curious to see how this strange mortal would react to his first sight of the Dark Court. Would he blanch in terror? Would he be curious? He didn’t know or understand the creature across from him, but he knew one thing— his reactions, to date, were not what the Prince expected. This was oddly refreshing. It had been so, so long since anyone had managed to surprise him. He watched as Ezra emerged, his fluffy golden hair sticking out in all directions above the dark gray travel cloak he’d donned. He smiled faintly and with studious politeness at the horrifying gremlin who helped him down the steps, brushed the nonexistent dust off himself, and took in his surroundings. Crowley was gratified to see his eyes widen as he looked around. They were standing in the center of an immense cavern, almost as if a mountain had been hollowed out inside by an immense blast. The rock walls climbed up above them and came together at an unmeasurable distance overhead and were dotted everywhere one looked with cavernous openings, some of which flickered with the light from a fire further inside. Creatures here and there, too murky to make out fully, hovered near the openings of some of them, peering down at the return of their Prince with eyes he could not read. Further ahead, the floor cracked into a massive chasm which ranged across the rest of the cavern and was crossed here and there by rickety-looking bridges. It was lit from below by the light of flames and the scent of sulfur. Stalagmites rose from the floor at irregular intervals, some of them paired with stalactites dropping from the ceiling like large, rocky icicles. Their surfaces glittered here and there with what looked like mica or gems. Crowley watched as Ezra took all of this in at a glance. “Thoughts?” said Lord Crowley, sidling up to him. Ezra turned astonished eyes the color of blue sky to him. “It’s beautiful! I’ve never seen anything like this.” Crowley searched his face for mockery or insincerity but found only earnestness. The Prince felt a tingle of pleasure at this, at least for a moment, until he ruthlessly slammed that feeling down inside himself and returned to his usual sardonic detachment. He hadn’t brought the human here to be his friend.

***

If He’s Your Cleric, Why Is He Putting Me In His Bag of Holding? (300K; Rated E) by @noodlefrog-omens

I read this twice in a row. Literally. I stopped it and almost immediately started it again. I played D&D 3.5 for many years, and I absolutely loved seeing a D&D adventure played out in the GO universe. Aziraphale is the cleric of an adventuring party that stupidly decides to abandon him in the dungeon (you don’t abandon your healer!). Crowley is a very hungry mimic who ends up nearly dying in Aziraphale’s bag of holding before the cleric rescues him. (Look, if you’re going to look like a fancy book, don’t be surprised when the man tries to steal you).

Aziraphale still needs to find his adventuring party again, and the mimic decides to travel along with him. Along the way they find kobolds, a doppelganger, traps, and the obligate dungeon maze, all the while getting to know each other. Aziraphale recognizes his feelings toward the mimic fairly early on, but it takes Crowley longer to even understand what his feelings even mean.

The porn doesn’t start until chapter 33 (of 40), and only covers maybe three of the remaining eight chapters. You can read the entire adventure and stop once they leave the dungeon if you don’t want any monsterfuckery, or you could skim past the smut to the ending. I don’t know if the author has any plans for sequels, but if he does, I’ll be right there ready.

In that moment, Crowley knew that he had found the right bait to lure this human right to his doom. He waited as patiently as he could while nearly vibrating himself into a puddle, watching as Aziraphale puttered around the room cooing over all the books and scrolls in the room as though they were living creatures. “Just you wait,” Crowley thought to himself, inordinately pleased to have figured out what made this stubborn human tick. “One of them will be.” “There must be centuries’ worth of knowledge collected in just this one chamber,” Aziraphale said in a reverent whisper. Finally, finally he started touching things in this dungeon. He even took his heavy leather gloves off, tucking them into his belt before running a fingertip along the spines of the books chained to the shelves. Crowley watched him take one right off the shelf and thumb through a few of the pages. “We must have walked right by this room. I don’t know why Sandalphon told me there wasn’t anything behind this door. He must not have looked closely enough.” Aziraphale turned his back to the shelves to glance back at the door, and Crowley took his chance to crawl up the side of the bookshelf and arrange himself in front of the chained tomes in pride of place. It wasn’t difficult to change himself into the shape of a book, but this was always about the details. It was an art form. Which books, exactly, had Aziraphale been drawn to? Old ones with leather covers, mostly. Ones with bits of fiddly decoration on the spine. Ones with a bit of mystery. Aziraphale was a cleric, so he was probably interested in talking to the Gods and shite like that, or at least understanding them. That was an angle Crowley could work with. He gave his skin a supple leather texture, inky black and vaguely shimmery in a way he knew would catch the flickering light being thrown out by that sword. Gold edging and lettering crept across his cover and spine, promising divine secrets and cosmic mysteries to anyone who would just reach out and touch. He couldn’t see himself, but Crowley knew that he was a very sexy book right now. Aziraphale would have to be mad not to notice him.

***

Crowley And The Chocolate Factory (55K; Rated E) by @entanglednow

Crowley has to step up for his nephew Adam when he wins a ticket to tour the famous chocolate factories, run by the reclusive and deeply strange Zira Zonka. It doesn't take Crowley long to decide that he wants nothing to do with the man, who's clearly hiding dark and mysterious secrets.

Do you like your Crowley grumpy and cynical? Do you like your Aziraphale weird? Did you think the one thing missing from Charlie and The Chocolate Factory was sex between Wonka and one of the parents in a vintage Bentley? Then this is the story for you!

Crowley doesn’t know what to make of the definitely strange Zira Zonka, but he finds himself drawn to the man nonetheless. The story is set in modern times, but if you know the original (at least the movie version; I can’t speak for the books), you have a general idea of what’s going to happen to the children.

Zonka releases the arms of his partners for long enough to jerk his cane towards the sky, which erupts in a shower of flower petals and candy - a large proportion of which fall on the immediately excited crowd. Crowley's fairly certain he gets hit on the head by a soft fudge. God, this is humiliating. Zonka dances right and then left while the audience cheers in appreciation. He does another circle, separates from the row to do some unimpressive spins while trying - and failing - to find a good rhyme for liquorice. "My candy emporium has so much in store. Just step right up and walk through the door!" Zonka's gold and white cane snaps up into the air again, this time leaving a burst of light and his name written across the sky in sparkling gold calligraphy. It seems to be a dramatic ending, Crowley certainly hopes it's a dramatic ending. "Half of those lines were a stretch," he complains, but quietly and mostly to himself, because the audience seems to have found the whole thing captivating, Adam included. "And there's only five kids, not six, he can't even count." The Erik's all unlink arms, to thunderous applause from the crowd behind him, and Zonka gives the widest grin Crowley has ever seen. His hands flung on his hips, like the world's most enthusiastic children's entertainer. Crowley half expects him to ask who wants to see a magic trick. "How has this man possibly managed to stay out of the limelight for twenty years?" he wonders. "Or twenty minutes."

***

Villainous (217K; Rated E) by @ineffablepenguin

Once Upon A Time… There was a red-haired sorcerer who lived alone in a high tower, and a blond prince who lived in a palace full of people. And they were both of them desperately lonely. The Kingdoms of Empyrion and the Sorcerers of Apollyon have hated each other for hundreds of years, ever since the Great War. They do not interact, other than to occasionally try to kill one another. And they certainly do not make friends. Crow is an exhausted sorcerer who just wants everyone to leave him the hell alone: for the Sorcerer’s Council to stop harassing him to live up to his potential, and for wannabe Empyrion Heroes to stop attacking his tower to try and kill him. Until one day when he meets Prince Azra of the High Fells, who doesn’t behave anything like he’s supposed to…

This is one of those stories a lot of people recommend for good reason. It’s a fantastic fairy tale full of love and romance between two people who seem destined for one another. The writing is gorgeous, the world-building is fantastic, and there’s really great artwork scattered throughout. Some of the artwork is fairly suggestive, and all of it is stunning.

Crow slowed to a stop, and his gaze flickered bemusedly over him. The man was…not tall. Or remotely intimidating. He stood a couple inches shorter than him, even with the thick boots. Wide eyes shone resolutely grey-blue, the precise shade of his doublet, under a tumble of feathery white-blond curls cut a bit too short to be fashionable. And... his stubbornly-set jaw was rather less chiseled than Crow was used to seeing. No conveniently placed scars, no gritty dents or smudges on that immaculate armour. Heroes usually had cheekbones that could cut glass, but this one’s were rounded, and slightly rosy to boot. Cherubic was the word that came immediately to mind, and Crow nearly snorted out loud. He looked to be roughly Crow's own age, and was staring determinedly, if anxiously at him from behind that enormous broadsword. There was a long, tense silence as Crow and the armoured man sized each other up. The Hero spoke first. “Now see here, villain, I don’t want to have to kill you, so just turn about and head right back where you came from.” His voice was precise and educated, nearly fussy, and while self-assured was lacking in the usual bravado. Crow blinked, taken aback, and the flames in his hand faltered. “You don’t want to kill me?” “Well…no, not particularly.” The confidence wavered for an instant, then solidified. “Which is not to say that I won’t! Rest assured I will if you cause trouble!”

***

The Crawly Chronicles (series) (179K; Rated T/M/E) by @theladydrgn and @sylwritesstuff

When Aziraphale Fell, reporter for The Daily Messenger, is tasked with a simple story on smuggling, he isn't expecting to find out that Lightbringer, Inc. has been experimenting on something that could be an animal, an oil slick, or something else entirely. He especially isn't expecting that being to come home with him and change his entire life.

I’m a fan of the Tom Hardy Venom movies, which made this two-book, two-short series perfect for me. The books follow the plot of the first two movies, though book 2 also starts with the sexual relationship between the two characters.

My favorite parts of the story are of the two learning to live together while sharing a body, and Aziraphale trying to figure out how to handle having feelings for a creature he’s permanently attached to who is so completely alien (literally) that he’s not even sure that romantic and sexual love are even an option.

The food the human was making already smelled good enough to eat to them, and they did not want to wait twenty minutes. This time their control of the human's hand was less subtle as they dipped fingers into the leftover batter and brought a generous scoop of the chocolate mix to their mouth. “Nasty human's is what they were.” Aziraphale froze or at least tried to. His mouth seemed to have other ideas, cleaning the mixture from his fingers. “What- Who said that?” he demanded messily, looking around. “I did.” Aziraphale took several steps back, grasping for the cane he'd left leaning against the counter. The voice sounded as if it were everywhere around him or- or in his own mind somehow. “That's hardly reassuring. Who are you? How did you get into my home?” “Got in the same way you did, human.” They grabbed the bowl of chocolate mixture before the human stumbled too far from it, fingers scraping the last dregs of it to not waste a single bit. The cane fell to the floor. Aziraphale tried stopping himself, but he couldn't seem to make his hands do what he wanted them to do. “Stop! How-” What in the world was happening and how did he stop it? “No. I'm hungry.” “That doesn't make any sense! Stop!” he demanded, struggling to keep his chocolate covered fingers away from his own mouth. “Fine.” They still felt so weak that fighting this human for control was a struggle and a challenge that they did not want to have. It was just so much easier to slip out between their cells and wrap a long tongue around their fingers instead.

***

And finally, if you made it all the way to the end, thank you!

I have three Good Omens novels of my own I hope you’ll check out, a post-S2 with an upcoming sequel; a “they never met”/fake marriage adventure; and a reverse omens (a WIP as of 27 Dec, 2024; chapters are released on Fridays, and it should be completely posted around mid-February 2025).

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #best of 2024

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octuscle · 25 days ago

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Teacher's curse and blessing

Mr Thayer was a picture book teacher. He was a passionate teacher. He loved science and he loved spreading knowledge to young people. He didn't work for the money. He had enough money. His grandfather had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth and, with creativity, hard work and the necessary genius, had managed to make an impressive fortune. The money that had founded the school where Mr Thayer taught came from Mr Thayer's grandfather's wallet. Hardly any of his colleagues or students had any idea of his wealth. He was always immaculately dressed, but you couldn't see how many thousands of pounds one of his suits cost. He drove a 20-year-old Jaguar, which was regularly restored at horrendous expense. But most people saw an old used car. And that was also in Mr Thayer's mind.

Mr Thayer didn't really care whether someone was aristocratic or a snob, whether someone was rich or poor, whether someone was descended from William the Conqueror or had arrived in the country three months ago on a rubber dinghy. He differentiated between industrious and lazy and between disciplined and undisciplined. And those who were lazy and/or undisciplined found no favour in his eyes. He had done well with this for decades. He had moulded captains of industry and ministers out of spoilt brats. But now he was confronted with a new enemy: People dumbed down by social media, effeminate and comfortable consumers of state and other services. People who saw it as his duty to ensure that their children got good grades, even if they were stupid, lazy and effeminate. People who put the word ‘resilience’ in every other sentence without knowing what the word meant. Mr Thayer took note of this. Worried. But he didn't change his strategy. ‘After my son came home with a grade five for the fourth time this school year, I'm asking you for a detailed strategy on how to make sure he passes this school year.’ There were five or six mistakes in that one sentence. For that alone, Archibald deserved every single five. Even if his mum had made the spelling mistakes. Mr Thayer called Archibald in. Archibald was a declared enemy. An unathletic young man who was conspicuous for his disastrous academic performance and for the crazy things he spread on social media. Mr Thayer asked why Archibald hadn't explained to his mother that there were no good grades for not knowing anything and being ignorant in class. Archibald only said that he wasn't adequately motivated and encouraged. A phrase he had obviously learnt from his mother. Mr Thayer rolled his eyes. ‘Lecture on the role of the German Empire in colonialism, 45 minutes, next week Friday. If you do well, I won't fail you.’ Archibald stood up, rolling his eyes, and left the office.

The next Friday, Archibald stood at the blackboard and read out something obviously copied from Wikipedia, not even edited by ChatGPT. No use of other media, monotonous lecture, not even correct in terms of content. ‘Due to catastrophic performance in several subjects, I am unable to support your son's promotion to the next school level.’ Hardly any other email had given him so much pleasure recently. Unfortunately, he had messed with the wrong one. That very evening, Archibald's mother cursed Mr Thayer. And the curse hit him hard and immediately.

A murmur went through the class when Mr Thayer stood in front of the teacher's desk the next day and leaned casually against it. He had never shown so little body tension before. But that wasn't the reason for the murmur. Mr Thayer was wearing white tennis socks! The man who had never shown any sign of imperfection! And that was just the beginning. The more alert of his pupils counted three grammatical errors in his remarks by the end of the lesson. And had he seriously said goodbye with a ‘Have a relaxing afternoon!’? After a few days, Mr Thayer was wearing jeans and sneakers. After a week, half the school flinched when he drove into the teachers' car park a quarter of an hour late with a roaring engine in a souped-up BMW. His language became more brash and rough. His lessons seemed increasingly ill-prepared. Now the few sensible parents began to complain about him. The headmaster, who was supposed to take over from Mr Thayer next year, summoned him several times. And finally they were forced to suspend the teacher who had embodied the spirit of the school more than anyone else. ‘Fuck you!’ was Mr Thayer's reaction.

His car, which simply stood out in its neon green paintwork, was seen outside boxing clubs, shisha bars and betting shops. From time to time there were rumours that Mr Thayer had also been seen in these places. But nobody could really prove this. Shortly before the start of the new school year, the school authorities received an email in which Mr Thayer wanted to be transferred. To a comprehensive school in a problem neighbourhood. He wanted to teach technical work and PE there. The letter was full of mistakes. But his wish was granted. It had been no problem to fill his old position. And finding a teacher among the anti-social Scallies had been a challenge. Whatever had got into him, he was supposed to be preparing the half-strength children of immigrants and the unemployed for a future as a bouncer or car tuner.

‘Mr Thayer, nice to have you at our school!’ the headmistress greeted her new colleague in an uncertain voice. ‘Is your new office good enough for you!’ ‘Mr Thayer was my old man, call me Kieran!’ ‘But according to my file, your first name is…’ Kieran scrunched up his nose and snotted on the floor. ‘Bitch, what to call me is my business, got it!’

His boys went through fire and water for Kieran. He taught them everything he knew about tuning and repairing high-powered cars. And about mixed martial arts. And Kieran was damn good at both. And he was convinced that you didn't need to know more than that. Damn it, one of his students was supposed to write a paper about the Krauts and their time with the Kaffirs. Ey, he showed him how to quickly copy it together on the internet. And then they both went to smoke a shisha.

Inspiration by @sdonovan-new

Pics by @ki-kink

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #age reduction #ai image #scally tf #chav tf

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highhhfiveee · 1 year ago

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safety net

pairing: pornstar!mike schmidt x blackfem!reader summary: y/n has a bad date. mike just so happens to be there to catch her. wc: 2.3k tags: fluff? angst? just exposition really. no mentions of porn or sex here! just mike being a hero and reader appreciating him errors in here as usual!

part two: 💸

you didn't really do dating.

you'd tried so many times before to no avail. things would start nicely, people making your laugh float into the air and your heart flutter, but it never got past that. anytime you start to think about these things seriously, the other party pulls away. you're always left in the dust, responsible for picking up the pieces of your heart, gluing them back together, and trying again.

it's exhausting and after your last failure, you're not sure you want to try again.

one chance encounter on a dating app changes your mind. you think it's so foolish how easily you fall into it, giggling and kicking your feet at yet another potential partner, but when your first date is coordinated successfully and the second and the third, you begin to feel safe enough to indulge.

for your fourth date, you've arrived at this fancy restaurant in the middle of the city. you're super done up, wearing a dress that you love but have to return in the morning and your tallest pair of heels. your hair is swept up just the way simon, your date, likes it. you never liked it this way, but he calls you "so beautiful" when he sees you like this, and it makes your blood rush in your ears so you wear it up any time you're around him.

simon was nice, but you didn't have much in common; he was a straight-edge tech guy. he went to bed at 10 every night and woke up at 6 every morning, planning his days out in five-minute increments (he'd excitedly showed you his planner and you had to pretend that you were very very interested 💔).

you, on the other hand, woke up at noon on days you didn't have to work, going to bed at 4 am the night before. you never knew what to do and your apartment was covered in sticky notes donning different tasks: "read book". "wash dishes". "mail off package".

you two managed nice, small talk-ish conversation and he made you feel pretty. the only thing you two had in common was your love for coffee.

you're seated at your table and all goes well up until you receive the check, although you're a little bored. you're picking at your dessert and wondering if the art on the walls is real as simon opens the billbook and slides a card in there.

"i have to go to the bathroom. be right back," he stands, craning his head down to place a kiss on your cheek, and then you're alone, finally tuning into the din of the restaurant. it's busier than you realized.

your waitress takes your bill and leaves to tender you out. simon is still using the bathroom, and at first, it's not worrying. you wouldn't be surprised if he got lost on the way there, but after ten minutes, you start to worry.

the waitress returns to your table and you think you're fine to leave, but she sets the billbook on the table, stating, "did you have another form of payment? it said this card was expired."

you shake your head, anxiously blinking your eyes. "expired?" you open the book to see the $400 total at the bottom of your receipt and simon's card tucked behind the plastic pouch. you take it out and inspect the expiration date. three years gone.

"i--i, uh," you begin to panic. you had no idea what to do. you didn't have $400 in your bank account, $405.72 less than that actually. you didn't have anyone to call to spot you; what normal person had a casual $400 to throw at a friend for dinner? if you called your mom, she would laugh over the receiver the whole time, hanging up on you.

the waitress is staring at you, expectantly, but you can't even meet her gaze. in your alarm, you scanned your eyes around the restaurant and caught simon, in his very noticeable purple suit jacket, speed-walking towards the entrance of the restaurant.

you shoot to your feet, taking off your heels, wrangling up your other belongings and dashing after him.

you hear the waitress shout, "ma'am!" behind you but there's no stopping you. what are you gonna do, pay for the meal?

you're pushing yourself in between other patrons, forgetting your manners. you're hyperfocused on simon, keeping track of his head bobbing through the throng of people.

he's made it outside just a little before you, using a brisk pace to walk down the sidewalk.

"simon!" you yell, watching him speed up a bit until he's a phantom around the corner. "simon!!!"

there are some stragglers outside, just a few eyes on the frantic girl holding her heels and screaming. you're sure they think you're drunk, but you don't care.

you scream simon's name one more time. it's shrill and blood-curdling and something you'd never expect to come out of you. you didn't get upset like this, and you know you're truly upset when you feel a tear hit your arm.

you rarely cried, but here you were, breaking down on the sidewalk outside one of the most expensive restaurants in the state. you take a despondent seat on a bench, trying to catch your breath and stop crying. you take your hair down childishly, and the thought of simon liking it sends you back into tears.

you're a blubbering, snot-covered mess when mike sees you. he's exiting the restaurant, asking for his car from valet when he notices you on the bench, staring blankly into the air.

you're beautiful, and he's unsure as to why you're sitting here in tears. no one else decides to check on you. he takes the initiative.

his hand reaches out to your shoulder and it makes you jump, shouting at him to back away from you. he holds up his hands, muttering, "hey, hey. i'm sorry, i don't want to hurt you. i just wanted to ask if you were okay."

you don't expect the voice that comes out of him. its suburban, syrupy tone doesn't quite match his look; his hair is freshly cut and it feels like there's not a single wrinkle in any of his clothes. they look quality, and expensive. the rings adorning most of his fingers give off the same vibe.

great. one of these guys.

"i'm fine," you snap, wiping at your congested nose with the back of your hand. "i don't need saving, especially not from a nice guy like you."

mike laughs, and you're embarrassed to admit to yourself that you like how it sounds.

"who said i was a nice guy? i just asked if you were okay." you shrink away, avoiding his eyes.

"it's not my fault that you give that off. sounds like a you problem."

mike doesn't stop talking to you, which is surprising. even with all the disrespect, he sits beside you and rummages along the inside of his jacket for something to give you.

you don't admit it, but you're thankful for the small plastic package of tissues. "everyone has problems. there seems to be one plaguing you right now," he leans into your shoulder, eyeing you intently. "wanna tell me what it is?"

you're still cleaning yourself up, taking another tissue out to wipe at your ruined makeup when the waitress marches out of the restaurant with two burly security guards behind her. she points to you with zeal, announcing, "that's her."

the security guards make their way over to you, disregarding mike as he asks, "woah, woah, what's going on?"

"this young lady tried to skip out on her bill." you shake your head irritably, standing to your feet. you're not even half the height of these dudes.

"i didn't, my date did. he put an expired card down to pay and then used the bathroom excuse to get out of it." mike shakes his head. in what world would someone try to escape a date with you?

"makes sense, but you still have to pay for the meal."

"how the fuck am i supposed to do that?" you screech, crossing your arms over your chest. "i don't have any money. i have to return this stupid fucking dress in the morning just so i can pay my rent."

the dress is nice. it's a black satin maxi dress with thin straps and a slit up the side. it's fairly simple, but mike can't deny how well it fits you, and how good you look in it.

"i don't know what you're going to do, but you better do something or we're going to have to call the police."

"fucking call them! i don't care," you retort, and so begins your back and forth with the security personnel.

"you don't care?"

"no."

"are you an idiot? you just don't care?"

"okay, one, i'm not an idiot and two, i really don't. this whole situation is fucking stupid. i can't pay the bill, okay? i don't know what to tell you."

"my mom always said that as a female, you should never be broke. maybe it's time for you to stand on that corner right there in that pretty dress and sell your---" the man is cut off by a sharp "hey, watch yourself. i'll fucking kill you." from mike. he steps to the security guards, who retreat a little when they realize he's not joking.

you don't know this man, not even his name, but he asked you if you were okay then and now, he's standing up for you, even after you accused him of being a nice guy. you make a mental note to apologize to him after all of this.

"i'll pay the fucking bill. how much is it?"

"it's $400, mr. schmidt," the waitress says, her face awash with red. Last name basis? How often did he come to this expensive ass restaurant?

mike looks at you and then back to the waitress, saying, "charge it to my tab. tip the bill." The waitress nods excitedly, echoing, "thank you, thank you, thank you" as she scurries back inside with the security guards. They give mike dirty looks the entire way back, giving up just before disappearing into oblivion.

mike faces you. He's a little disheveled in the eyes, the irritation he holds inside written all over his face. somehow, even his scowl is attractive.

you rub your hands over your goosebumped arms, the chill in the air wildly apparent. mike is instantly shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, giving you a friendly smile. it's warm inside, and smells like the expensive department store colognes you snuck samples of as a kid. for some reason, you feel at ease.

"i'm sorry about your date. he sounds like a dickhead."

"yeah," you agree, biting at your cracked bottom lip. "i guess it's my fault. i really shouldn't have trusted a guy who planned his day by fives."

"hours?"

"minutes."

mike sucks air between his teeth, cringing at your words. "he sounds like a psychopath."

"maybe he was," you hum, using the lapels of mike's coat to pull it tighter around you. "dodged bullet."

"dodged bullet," he repeats, smirking down at you. his hazel eyes sparkle. you don't know why you feel so... positively unnerved yet tranquil in his presence. who was this man?

"mr. schmidt?" a valet worker in all white exits an expensive-looking, deep gray sports car. the interior looks like a spaceship, and you can't help but crane your neck a little further to get a better look.

you're not paying attention as the worker drops the keys into mike's hand and mike hands him a hundred-dollar bill he fished from his pocket. you're just focused on the car, wondering a million things. how much was it? how was its gas mileage? did it take premium gas or something more?

"do you need a ride home?" mike holds the keys up, jangling them in front of your face. you connect the dots and let out a loud belly laugh, completely blindsided.

"this is your car?"

"i...think so?" he teases, watching the happiness fall from your face. a ride home. why would you want to go home to be alone, once again collecting the jagged pieces of your broken heart from the floor?

mike instantly stiffens. "that was a joke," he clarifies, but you dismiss it with a raise of your hand.

"no no, it was fine, funny even. i just...i don't want to go home right now."

"do you want to come back to mine?" mike doesn't know if it's too forward, but it doesn't hurt to try. you needed company, and nothing would ever compel him to leave you here after everything. he catches the way your face twitches and raises his hands in defense again. "no funny business, i promise. just so you're safe, and not alone tonight."

you don't think over it very long. you'd been to plenty of strangers' houses, and this was only one night. you were sure you could trust this man. after your date from hell and nearly going to jail, what was the harm?

"okay, i'll come. thank you," you muse as mike leads you to the passenger side of his car. he opens the door for you, and you crane your head to him before you sit down. you're so close you can see the flecks in his hazel eyes, the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose, every single individual hair that peppers his jaw and mouth. it makes you forget your name.

"i'm y/n, by the way." he nods and smiles at you, wide and bright. suddenly, your legs feel like noodles.

"nice to meet you, y/n. i'm mike."

"mike," you repeat as you lower yourself into his car. "mike."

who knew where this would lead you?

been up all night writing this ayyeeeee, i write SO MUCH! going to work on writing blurbs, i promiseeeeeee. also this is very cute. i'm excited to delve into their story because it will be mostly pwp (for ficlets and blurbs) but definitely more structured for longer fics. can't wait to see where it goes!

#fnaf #fnaf movie #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt #fnaf fic #mike schmidt angst #mike stands up for you & you're like ?????#you can't believe it #you'll fall in love with him instantly #i did #faire is writing stuff #faire’s mike schmidt <3 #faire's (pornstar) mike schmidt <3

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raointean · 3 months ago

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Silmarillion Survey Essay!

My essay was due last night (submitted it with 6 minutes to spare!) and my professor said I could post it to Tumblr if I wanted to. It's divided into four sections, all marked. The first section is the introduction where I explain the point of the survey, who I studied, and why. The second section is the methods I used to design the survey, get answers, record answers, and control for variables. The third section is results, where I highlight several of the questions I thought would be most stratifying and explain what I actually found (it has graphs!). The fourth section is the discussion where I talk about what I found and what conclusions I drew from that.

I'd love to hear all of your thoughts on the results and my conclusions!

Introduction

For this project, I looked into age (and length of time in fandom, in one case) affected knowledge and attitudes about fandom language. I investigated several terms and phrases, both from fandom at large and from the Silmarillion fandom specifically. The group I studied was the fandom of The Silmarillion on Tumblr because I am intimately familiar with that internet space (and could therefore phrase the questions in a way that would be understood) and because the majority of Archiveofourown.org (a popular fanfiction website) users are also Tumblr users.

For the purposes of this paper, I am defining the Silmarillion fandom as a community of practice. The Wenger-Trayner article, “Communities of practice a brief introduction”, defines a community of practice as an entity with three parts: domain, community, and practice. The domain is “an identity defined by a shared domain of interest” (Wenger-Trayner 2). The domain in this case is The Silmarillion. As The Silmarillion is a history book set in a fictional universe, it is incredibly dry at times (there is an entire chapter titled “Of Beleriand and its Realms” which deals mostly with geography) so anyone who reads it by choice is necessarily interested in the work. The second part, community, is made up of “members [that] engage in joint activities and discussions, help each other, and share information” (Wenger-Trayner 2). Most fandoms engage in discourse/discussion, create transformative art (mostly written or visual, but I have seen musical as well) and exchange craft advice to better each other’s creative work, but due to the almost academic nature of the Silmarillion fandom, we exchange background lore knowledge, additions to Tolkien’s conlangs, translations, timelines, and character sheets in addition to the regular fandom activities. Finally, the Silmarillion fandom also has a shared practice, defined as “They develop a shared repertoire of resources: experiences, stories, tools, ways of addressing recurring problems—in short a shared practice” (Wenger-Trayner 2). As mentioned above, the Silmarillion fandom has shared resources (such as tolkiengateway.net, Nerd of the Rings on YouTube, as well as several established “fandom elders” who are happy to answer questions), stories, established characterizations for “only-mentioned-once-in-a-footnote” type characters, settled linguistic debates, and several research-oriented blogs (such as two of my own) that record niche or new knowledge about either Tolkien’s work or the fandom itself. Almost all of the above (with the possible exception of the website and the youtuber previously mentioned) is unpaid hobby work.

When doing this survey, I expected to find a rather steep difference between older and younger members of fandom regarding their knowledge of fandom terminology. I expected the 18-25 age group to be the most knowledgeable of fandom terms with the under 18 group to be only slightly behind them and the 26-30 group a slightly further way behind the under 18 group. For the groups over 30, I anticipated that the rate of knowledge would sharply decline and that older fans would be unfamiliar with fandom terminology for the most part. I was… incorrect.

Methods

There are eight questions highlighted in this paper. The first chart (Figure 1.) is the total percentage of answers that amounted to “I don’t know”, filtered by age. The first table (Figure 2.) looks at the people who did not know the term “Isekai” based on whether or not they were native speakers of English or live in Asia (given that “Isekai” is a Japanese word). The second table (Figure 3.) compares the percentage of people who mentioned that the word “angst” is also present in everyday German, categorized by German speakers and non-German speakers. The third table (Figure 4.) examines attitudes towards the anti/pro-ship terms based on age. The second chart (Figure 5.) examines attitudes towards the term “omegaverse” separated by age. The fourth table (Figure 6.) compares groups of people who could define the difference between “peredhel” and “peredhil”, separated by how long they have participated in the fandom surrounding the Silmarillion fandom. The third chart (Figure 7a.) looks at people who understand the phrase “Fëanor did nothing wrong” as a joke, filtered by age. Finally, the fourth chart (Figure 7b.) shows the percentage of people who used the phrase “tongue-in-cheek” in the 31-40 group as opposed to other age groups (that one was not explicitly asked for in the survey; I simply noticed a steep trend while dissecting the results from the “Fëanor did nothing wrong” question).

I compiled all of these questions (along with several others) in a google form as a three-part survey. The first part was comprised of basic demographic questions, the second of general fandom terms and phrases, and the third of terms and phrases specific to fanfiction of The Silmarillion. The 418 responses were recorded and examined in Google sheets, which I used to filter the demographic information for ease of synthetization.

The group I examined was people who participate in the Silmarillion fandom on Tumblr. I chose this group because I am familiar with them, because they are the most likely to be aware of these terms (due to the large overlap between Tumblr and Archive Of Our Own), and because fandom language is (to the best of my knowledge) not well studied. I was able to isolate this group by only posting the survey to Tumblr itself. Tumblr posts are only viewable to Tumblr users, so even if someone were to post a link to the post elsewhere, the only people able to access the survey would be Tumblr users. I further attempted to control by including several fandom related and The Silmarillion-specific questions in the demographic portion of the survey. Anyone who completed the demographic portion would have been well aware of the nature of the survey by the end, regardless of how poorly they understood the original survey posting. These measures, of course, did not stop everyone. I had a few respondents who submitted only the demographic portion or the demographic and general fandom portions. Luckily, due to the Google Sheets functions, such responses were relatively easy to filter out.

Results

(Figure 1. A chart observing, out of all 16,065 answers, how many equate to “I don’t know?” Under 18: 14.24%, 18-25: 5.9%, 26-30: 7.43%, 31-40: 9.17%, 41-50: 13.63%, 51-60: 7.3%, 61-70: 9.7%)

(Figure 2. A table comparing different categories of people and what percentage of them are unfamiliar with the term “Isekai”; a Japanese term which is most commonly defined as “a trope in which a character somehow travels from the mundane ‘real’ universe into a fictional one.” 23.08% of native English speakers are unfamiliar with the term. 27.07% of non-native English speakers are unfamiliar with the term. 20% of respondents who live in Asia are unfamiliar with the term.)

(Figure 3. A table comparing different categories who mention that “Angst” (defined in fandom context as “dramatic, serious, and sometimes dark”) is an everyday word in German. 12.73% of German speakers mentioned it. 1.38% of people who either do not speak German, or did not mention it in their language background, mentioned it.)

(Figure 4. A table comparing the attitudes of different age groups to the terms “anti-ship” and “pro-ship”. These terms are hotly debated in fandom. Those on the anti side of the debate define anti-ship as “being morally against abuse and pedophilia,” and pro-ship as “excusing abuse and pedophilia in fandom.” Those on the pro side of the debate define anti-ship as “puritanical and chronically online people who can’t separate reality and fiction” and pro-ship as “letting people ship whatever they want and separating reality from fiction.” Those under 18 are 4% anti, 4% pro, and 92% neutral. Those from 18-25 are 2.44% anti, 29.27% pro, and 68.29% neutral. Those from 26-30 are 0% anti, 33.67% pro, and 66.33% neutral. Those from 31-40 are 2.2% anti, 26.37% pro, and 71.43% neutral. Those from 41-50 are 0% anti, 46.15% pro, and 53.85% neutral. Those from 51-60 are 12.5% anti, 37.5% anti, and 50% neutral. Those from 61-70 are 0% anti, 50% pro, and 50% neutral (although, admittedly, there are only two respondents in that group.))

(Figure 5. A chart that shows the rate at which respondents cringed (using phrases such as “please don’t make me define this,” “oh god,” and “Nuh uh. Sorry man. Sweet baby rays good lord.”*) within their responses while defining “Omegaverse” (an erotica subgenre within fandom based on outdated wolfpack dynamics. Very popular, but also very taboo). Under 18: 16%, 18-25: 6.71% 26-30: 7.07%, 31-40: 6.45%, 41-50: 12%, 51-60: 12.5%)

*All real responses I received

(Figure 6: A chart exploring the differences between who can correctly identify the difference between the terms “peredhel” (half-elf, singular) and “peredhil” (half-elves, plural) based on how long they have been in the fandom. Those who have been in the fandom for less than a year are 31.71% correct and 14.63% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 1-2 years are 71.67% correct and 10% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 3-4 years are 74.44% correct and 7.78% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 5-9 years are 65.93% correct and 9.89% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 10-14 years are 73.85% correct and 12.31% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 15-19 years are 76.92% correct and 11.59% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 20-24 years are 69.57% correct and 13.04% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 25-29 years are 100% correct and 0% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 30-34 years are 75% correct and 0% incorrect. Those who have been in the fandom for 35-39 years are 100% correct and 0% incorrect.)

(Figure 7a. A chart observing who sees the phrase “Fëanor did nothing wrong as ironic” divided by age. Under 18: 23.53%, 18-25: 35.77%, 26-30: 36.9%, 31-40: 42.67%, 41-50: 22.22%, 51-60: 37.5%)

(Figure 7b. A chart observing the percentages of age groups who used the phrase “tongue-in-cheek” while answering the above question. 18-25: 1.84%, 26-30: 2.04%, 31-40: 9.78)

Discussion

Observing these results, I can see that, while there is some level of stratification by age and length of time spent in the fandom, it is not nearly as dramatic as I had expected it to be. These results strongly demonstrate the power of communities of practice. These people, across ages and continents, communicate so often and so deeply, that nearly all terms are understood to the same degree by everyone, and nearly everyone has similar stances on divisive pan-fandom debates.

Were I to do this study again, or a similar study in the future, I would probably narrow the purview by a lot. I would ask fewer questions (or at least, only ask questions of a single type), compare them against only one demographic question, and sincerely consider making them multiple choice. That being said, I do not regret this survey having short answer questions. There were several definitions of several terms that I never could have come up with in a million years. Synthesizing the short answers may have taken more effort on my part, but I learned a lot about my fandom.

@proship-anti-discussion (ship debate was mentioned)

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gingersnaptaff · 14 days ago

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It's time for Who do you think is Welsh mythology Arthuriana's most sexy man, lady, God or dubious entity (Part 3 - thr five G's edition.)

First off: Gwydion - Absolute tricksy bastard. Man I legally have to hate or I will perish. Arguably the main character of the fourth branch of the Mabinogi. He proceeds to cause chaos to allow his brother, Gilfaethwy, to rape their Uncle Math's foothold Goewin. How do they do this you might ask? BY STEALING PRYDERI'S FUCKING PIGS. When Pryderi finds out about this - Gwydion had given him dogs made out of magic essentially - he's fuckin livid and declares war on Gwynedd. (As u do.) When the war doesn't work Pryderi and Gwydion have single combat on top of Y Felen Rhyd. Pryderi loses because of [Gwydion's] 'strength and valour and magic and enchantment' and dies. Later - after three years once he and Gilfaethwy are forced by Math to transform into a stag and a hind, a pig and a sow, and a wolf and his bitch (and they also have kids who Math then adopts) - he aids his nephew/possible son, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, in his escapades with Blodeuwedd.

Gwyn ap Nudd - simply the coolest man. Often gets confused with Arawn which I don't get. Brother of Edern, Creiddylad, Lludd and Llefelys. Sometimes has antlers which I mean that's not Gwyn, that's Cernunnos. Best known for featuring in Culhwch ac Olwen where u get the full rundown of his May Day fight with Gwythyr (which yes I imagine gets him fucking battered each year) after Gwyn's abducted Creiddylad. Gwythyr also does the - admittedly unwise - thing and wages war against Gwyn. In the process of this Gwyn 'captured ... Nwython and Cyledyr Wyllt, his son, and forced Cyledyr to eat his father's heart and because of that Cyledyr went mad.' Also, 'God has put the devils of Annwfn in him.' I have to stand. He's also king of the Tylwyth Teg, and once tried to trick Saint Collen. Also wears a blue and red particoloured tunic like 🤷 incredibly fashion forward. Plus he has a cloud white dog called Dormarch and his nose glows red. Djdjddjdjd

Gofannon - God of smithing. Brother of the aforementioned Gwydion and also Aranrhod, Amaethon, and Gilfaethwy. Dôn, u have way too many kids. Sndjdkd He's a bit-part character in all honesty, but he's mentioned in Culhwch ac Olwen as being needed to 'set the plough. He will not undertake work willingly save for a rightful king, nor can u force him.' He also BATTERED HIS NEPHEW, DYLAN AIL DON, TO DEATH IN A PRIME DICK MOVE. 😡😡😡 I want to gnaw his fuckin arms off.

Geraint - pls don't vote for this man. PLS. He abuses Enid and is just The Worst. I can't think of a single good thing he does. Horrid bastard. He was put on this earth to make my life hell, I'm only including him to make up the numbers. DON'T VOTE FOR HIM. I'M PUTTING HIM IN THE BIN. PUSHING HIM OFF YR WYDDFA AS WE SPEAK.

Gwenhwyfar - OG GUINEVERE. MY WIFE. I AM LEGALLY MARRIED TO HER. I HAVE A BOOK I AM (hoping) TO GET BACK INTO WRITING ABOUT HER. I THINK SHE'S THE BEST OKAY?! Her name means 'white phantom' and she's amazing. Either there are three Gwenhwyfar's or one Gwenhwyfar depending on what u read (triads or the Mab) Probably best known as Arthur's queen, she features in the three romance tales - and is mentioned by Arthur in Culhwch ac Olwen where he's like 'yeah my wife is like the seventh thing ur legally not entitled to AFTER PRYDWEN, HIS FUCKIN B O A T (Arthur, get ur fuckin priorities in ORDER. UR WIFE CAN FUCKIN HEAR U.) - she's known as being the cause of Camlann after either her sister Fach slaps her or Medrawd- who Fach is married to - pulls her from her throne and strikes her. There's a ref in a Hywel ab Owain poem about a possible question Arthur had to undertake to get her from her father Ogrfan's hall. I don't know what but like I go CRAZY thinking about it. She's a giantess, she had a cross - Croes Gwenhwyfar- in Llangollen that Edward Lhyud mentions, her son, Llacheu, dies by Gwalchmai's hand, she's honestly so so so so fun and fuck it it's my poll so like VOTE FOR MY WIFE. In my head, she looks like this:

(I can't take the credit for drawing her. @wildbasil drew her for me.)

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fujimomozane · 2 months ago

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"A Star Reborn" Part 1 & 2

Summary: Magister Merlin reappears after being gone for a decade, and is immedtely thrust into a task- to put out the fire in Ryeham and find the arsonist at fault. Coupled with memory loss, fainting, and a sickening sense of deja vu, it's no easy task!

Note: This an intro to my version of Merlin before I post other stuff. This is also available to read on AO3, I have the exact same username as here! It might be easier to read there.

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Part 1- You're Finally Awake! (2700 words)

It was the third time that Magister Merlin had vanished for years and then reappeared in the Mystical House.

It had happened in the early morning. Dolly was only waking up, while Hammie had been studying locating spells all night and was busy finalizing one. Chippy had gone off into Ryeham.

Hammie went into the Magister's room every so often to retrieve his research, but at times, she went in just to sit on his bed and stare at the wall. Some nights she thought she heard his voice.

For the past ten years, she had hoped Magister Merlin would return after having vanished for the fourth time.

Twenty years ago he had left Ryeham to travel all over the world.

Thirty, he had woken up for the third time thirty years ago, after disappearing for even more than... how long? Hammie couldn't quite remember. It must've been decades.

She had a hard time keeping up with the dates. Keeping a journal helped with that.

All she knew for certain was that she missed Merlin to a degree she hadn't thought possible. It never got easier waiting for him. It was like a constant state of withdrawal.

But when a thud came from Merlin's room, no one was in it.

Dolly and Hammie entered it with broom and staff raised. Red flashed in the dark, and a burning smell lingered in the room; it was warm and deep like a wildfire.

And on the table, Merlin laid his head, his glasses askew and his horns not poking out from his hair. He was dressed suspiciously plainly, there was no way he would've dawned something like that on his own. He had a penchant for eccentric fashion.

His iconic hat, which originated the tradition of mage hats, sat next to him. The branch sprouting from its top and most of the tassels that once hung off of it were missing, leaving three red tassels behind, and three Esperian coins on the other side, each hanging by a red thread. Red thread was a charm and warded off evil.

The lack of embellishments on the hat left it puny, and the warm magic that the Magister radiated was weak.

At least Hammie wouldn't need that locating spell anymore. Instead, she'd begin working on a memory recovery spell the next night...

Hammie rushed to him, checking for any injuries, and finding none, she sighed in relief. Her sigh made Merlin stir. His hair, once floor-length, ended at his waist. Hammie would need time to get used to his new look.

"Magister Merlin? Magister, please wake up," Dolly called, hovering over the Magister like a lamp over a book.

"Mirael... be quiet, my dear, I am rather busy," he mumbled. Dolly blanched. Besides having red hair, Dolly was not Mirael or anything like her. Mirael was Merlin's student in the past. Hammie wasn't much fond of her. The girl was troublesome.

Merlin raised his head, his lips downturned and brows drawn into a knot above his barely-ajar eyes. His voice, that strange androgynous tenor, was raspy and stilted from sleep. "Did I not tell you... to stop playing with fire?"

Hammie was awestruck. She knew she'd see her Magister again. Yet, it felt unreal, like the being before her was not the Magister, but a mirage, an oasis in the desert she'd been treading for a decade.

She didn't expect to see the Magister like this, depleted, perplexed, and mumbling to himself like an old man. She should've expected it.

"Hey, Magister. You're finally awake!" Hammie squealed, reaching up to grab Merlin's arm.

The only thing that mattered was that her favorite person in the world was finally back.

Where the fuck am I? Was not a graceful thought to have upon waking up from what felt like being murdered.

Looking around, he was met with a dim, warm room made largely of dark wood and furnished with it. Everything oozed luxury.

The second thing he thought was Who are you? as a white hamster pulled on his arm. Some redhead, perhaps a maid, was gawking at him.

"Do I know you?" he said, creaky as an old door. He hadn't spoken in ages.

"Magister Merlin, it's me, your familiar, Hammie! Your second familiar, Chippy, went to Ryeham. And that's Dolly. She takes care of the Mystical House," said the hamster.

A talking hamster seemed entirely normal to him.

"I am Magister Merlin?"

"You're Magister Merlin Starhawk, a renowned mage known across the world! Everyone knows who you are." The hamster, Hammie, stepped back, her eyes, like two blueberries, looking up at him with much hope.

It hit him who he was. Yes, he was a mage, and a good one at that, and his name was Merlin, and Magister was a magely, esteemed title. Starhawk was a surname.

With each new trigger, a memory hit him. Hammie and Chippy were his familiars that he created, Hammie a mage, Chippy a knight. He didn't know how exactly he got them but Merlin had had them for... forever.

Dolly had been in the Mystical House for a while, too, and the House itself could move on account of being an enchanted house sitting upon... some creature.

"Why does it seem like this has happened before?" Merlin pressed his fingers into his forehead in an attempt to wring the headache out of his skull.

"Because it has. We can explain things later- do you need anything? Water, perhaps?"

Merlin nodded. Dolly scuttered off.

Hammie walked to the window, her walk a little funny on account of her small legs. She gasped. Anxiety sparked in Merlin's chest, cold and common; he was anxious often.

"There's smoke coming from Ryeham! And you know what they say about smoke," Hammie said.

"Where there is smoke there is a fool smoking a pipe inside my house?" Merlin joked, not thinking before speaking. His body didn't feel entirely his. The joke felt oddly personal- someone had done that more than once, but he couldn't remember who.

"... You certainly have a way with words, Magister. I'm just glad you're here. But no, where there's smoke, there's fire! Chippy might be there. We should check on him."

Merlin rose from his chair and immediately dropped as fuzz overtook his vision and hearing. It sounded like he was underwater.

For a moment, his every sense was shut off. Dolly caught him, and he had not felt the impact of hitting the floor, which he certainly had. Pain radiated in his legs.

"I think I fainted," Merlin muttered. His head was ready to burst from pressure. When he was sitting, the pressure and fuzz ebbed enough for him to be coherent.

Deja vu prickled at his fingertips and permeated the air. Everything from the way he fell to the way Hammie rushed to him felt like it had happened before. It left his stomach hollow, saddling him with the strangest sensations he couldn't pinpoint, not in his body or mind.

"You've had issues with fainting before. It has never been this bad." Hammie tipped her little head up at him.

Dolly brought water just in time.

"Let me get ready, and then we can retrieve Chippy."

Merlin stared at his face reflected in the mirror in the bathroom attached to his bedroom.

He was gaunt in the cheeks, his face passing for thirty or so, with not many scars or wrinkles. His face had a few off-colored marks. He picked his skin, didn't he?

His eyes were yellow like a hawk's. Was that the reason for his name?

His eyes were harrowingly tired, the stark black brows above nothing like his silver hair, and his silver hair nothing like his relatively youthful appearance. When pulled and released it it bounced back into a loose curl. Such a texture was bothersome to upkeep and often ended up nest-like.

That explained the endless bottles on the wall-mounted shelves and stained bathtub. Alchemical and potion knowledge often translated to chemical knowledge. The number of potions and ingredients in his bathroom would impress any alchemist.

Not much about himself bothered Merlin. His shorter height, marked as "165" centimeters on the wall (did he leave that in case he forgot?), was advantageous, and his lean build was surprisingly muscular for a mage, acquired from years of carrying the world on his back.

And carrying oversized hamsters.

The only things besides his magically bound chest that he found disagreeable were his ears, as short as a human's and pointed. He ran a finger along them and down to his three earrings. He could move his ears well. On his forehead were two imperceptible bumps where horns would eventually grow.

What was he? Some sort of...

Hammie knocked on the door, and he asked her what he was.

A treesprite and a human, apparently. He couldn't for the life of him recall his parents despite Hammie's words. It seemed that not all of his memory fell into place so easily.

Merlin concluded that he was a strange creature in every way possible and impossible.

He put on a glamor to hide his ears and horns. He knew that these traits of his must be hidden from others.

And while he was on it, he threw in a disguise. Being the most known mage in the world must have meant that everyone would recognize him.

That would be a bother, wouldn't it? He put on some actual clothes that weren't the pitiful tunic he woke up in, putting on some robe that was magely enough.

He put on his hat, and the final addition to his outfit was to change his eyes to an ocean blue, and his long, grey hair to be short and pink. The two gold bands on his hair didn't want to budge, so he was forced to leave them.

The only thing of his that remained was his hat and the wiseness in his eyes.

Ryeham was gorgeous...

Except for the putrid smog.

Finding a hamster familiar wasn't that hard. He was the only non-human around, the cream plume on his helmet bobbing around like a question mark, begging to be caught by a cat.

"Magister Merlin!" He shouted, his mouth falling open. "You're back! I can't believe it!"

"Trust me, I am as shocked as you are, Chippy. We're here because of the smoke." Hammie kept up with Merlin easily. Granted, Merlin was walking at the speed of a turtle with a limp.

"There's a big fire up ahead," Chippy pointed behind himself. The surrounding houses were backlit by orange.

"We came just in time, then."

When they reached the fire, there were troops with stars on their shields. Merlin somehow found that worthwhile to notice.

In the center of the group stood a large, familiar man. He had a brunette beard and shortly cropped hair that had begun to grey.

They were surrounded by fire elementals, and Merlin didn't know how he knew that. That's how it was going to be, nothing was going to make sense to him, all the information that went into him an absurd soup in his brain, sloshing around, whatever was left of his previous memories deep down in that soup.

What Merlin did know was that he had to help. It was another decision he made without a second thought, leaping into battle by casting a shield on himself and his familiars and raining down stars onto the fire elementals. They sizzled as magic zipped through them.

The biggest man yelled "Everyone! Go search for survivors, and leave this to me!" to the troops. Judging by his stature and demeanor, he must've been a commander of some kind.

The troops scattered. Merlin's familiars provided much-needed support to him as he was casting spells with mere flourishes of his hand while the soldiers hacked through elementals.

There were more throughout the village, but they weren't around long before Merlin snuffed them out.

The commander turned to Merlin.

"Magister?" he asked, blinking like he was sure he was hallucinating, or seeing a ghost, a possibility with how pale Merlin was.

Merlin went stiff.

"You're back. I wouldn't have recognized you without Chippy or that hat of yours. Where have you been all these years? Ah, you can tell me later. How about you dispel your disguise so I can see my old friend again?"

Merlin had no idea who this man was, and his warm, welcoming tone and open arms confused the abyss out of Merlin. He pursed his lips in silence.

"I regret to inform you that he's forgotten everything like the other times we told you about. He doesn't remember who you are," Chippy said, wiping at his eyes.

"I have not a clue." Merlin shrugged. The fire was dying down. The screams? Not so much. The village would've been beautiful with its golden fields and cozy houses if not for the ruckus and impending doom.

"I see, Chippy. That's why you're so surprised to see me. I'm happy to reintroduce myself." The man had kind eyes despite his imposing nature. Merlin didn't like looking people in the eyes, but with him, it wasn't uncomfortable.

"I am Hogan, the former leader of the Heroic Order of the Lightbearer Empire and the current magistrate of Holistone."

Merlin felt that deja vu upon hearing Holistone . He tried to grab the memory, but it sank quicker than he could reach out. He'd need a stronger trigger to remember what that was. Perhaps a town?

"We were friends for years before you disappeared. I hoped one day you'd return. I'd love to chat, but this is no time for idly standing by. Look at these fire elementals."

Hogan gestured to the the elementals appearing ahead of them. Merlin frowned.

"They don't belong in Ryeham. How could they just appear out of nowhere?"

"They must have been summoned, perhaps by a mage," Merlin blurted out.

"It seems my instincts were right... This fire was no accident."

"An accident of this scale would lend itself to something truly improbable. It may be the doing of an arsonist, mage or not," Merlin said.

They went ahead, Merlin continuing to put out the fire elementals as they went until they reached the houses where the fire had started. Their tops were blackened and hollow, the fire emanating a suffocating heat, turning half the village into an oven.

"It began on the roof," Merlin said to himself. The roofs were hay and wooden. It was easy to start a fire in such a place.

The goal of putting out the fire was delayed by a hoard of bandits arriving from the other side. They were all rugged and clad in messily cobbled-together armor, a rushed job, or just a cheap one.

They might've thought cornering them into the fire was a good tactic.

Yet, their faces grew harrowed when Merlin threw fire at them.

Merlin put out the flames that might've spread. There was no chance of the affected homes being saved- they were engulfed in the fire, and so he let them burn.

More bandits came in from all directions, surrounding the villagers, who were forced to hide behind fences and in the houses they could reach without having a bow and arrow pointed at them. Merlin's heart beat feverishly.

The amount of bandits greatly outnumbered the troops.

When the fight turned against Merlin, he thought it over. That would be a pitifully foolish end to a life that had essentially just begun. How had he gotten into so much trouble after only coming to? Was it always going to be so?

Someone to his left hit a bandit's sword right out of his hand. The person's speed and agility were immaculate, and with them, the fight went quicker and better than expected.

Merlin could finally work his magic with finesse and not haphazardly throw fire.

Was it an effective tactic? Certainly. But it was like throwing rocks as opposed to shooting arrows.

When it was over, and the bandits had retreated in fear of the mage who could envelop them in vines and the swordsman who moved like a shadow, Merlin could see who had fought at his side.

The sight was a pleasant surprise.

Part 2- Bad Things Happen in Good Towns (2600 words)

"Valen! You just got here now?" Hogan snapped. "Were you deep in your cups again?"

Merlin would've thanked "Valen" for salvaging the situation if Merlin wasn't stunned and catching his breath as though he had run for his life. Had his body always been so fragile?

"That's not fair... I ran into a bunch of fire elementals on my way here. Those guys were really annoying," Valen said. His voice was light, bright, and aloof.

"Anyway, looks pretty grim here... I didn't expect the fire to be this big. This is not normal, General." He didn't spare Merlin a glance, while Merlin stared at the guy intensely enough to start another fire.

He had umber hair with a similar hair texture to Merlin, a dueling scar on his left cheek, and his eyes were lavender purple. The top of Merlin's head reached his shoulders, and Merlin had to tilt his head up to see his face and not his smooth neck, exposed from a white shirt and framed by fur.

He did not know this man and felt no familiarity or deja vu towards him; the lack of such feelings was refreshing. He wasn't bad to look at with the red reflecting off the side of his face like a dramatic sunset.

The image of a fierce warrior did not particularly match Valen's demeanor, but the muscularity of his arms gave his profession away.

"That's right! We think it's arson. The culprit is likely a mage!" Chippy piped up.

Valen leaned down to Chippy like one would to a child.

"Whoa! A talking hamster. You're a familiar, aren't you?" He smiled, the corners of his mouth not quite lining up.

"In that case, this gentleman with the General must be a mage. I've gotta say picking a hamster as your familiar is rather... unique."

Merlin did not want to be acknowledged in such a way. He turned his gaze to the man's belt, bristling, detecting a hint of mocking in his tone. Merlin knew the decision to have Hammie and Chippy as his familiars was a personal one.

Memory loss and mysteries be damned, Merlin was ready to fight the pretty boy with his bare hands for Chippy and Hammie! Hogan reflected a similar disdain.

"I'd normally overlook your banter, Valen. But in front of this Magister, you'd better watch your words."

Valen was visibly taken aback.

"I've never seen the General so defensive. Well, great Magister, I'm Valen of the Heroic Order. How would you like me to address you?"

Merlin desperately searched for something to latch onto as a fake name while avoiding Valen's expectant gaze and perfect face.

Smog? Devastated villager? Crying child? Glimmerblooms, no! His eyes were caught by a fox painted on one of the villager's houses.

"Magister Vulpin," Merlin stammered. He could've chosen a worse name. "Magister Smog" did have a certain ring to it, though.

"Vulpin... Hm, an interesting name. I'll make sure to remember it." He offered a bow, and Merlin sighed in relief. "Forgive my rudeness earlier. I'll be sure to make it up to you once this fire has been dealt with."

"Um, no... It's nothing." Merlin shook his head and flushed at his awkwardness. Every word was a tongue twister, and his tongue had become more twisted than a rope.

The fire, having eaten the two houses, no longer crackled deafeningly, and the smog could begin to lift. The winds would sweep it away soon enough. But first, the winds carried chatter from the other side of the smoldering remains.

"Hogan, I shall go see what the hubbub is about, if you do not mind." Merlin folded his now pink hands into his sleeves. He should have worn something lighter.

"Go ahead, and take Valen with you. Just in case."

Valen's sour face showed he wasn't thrilled at the command.

Behind the remains of the houses stood a woman with hair the same color as the flames. It reached her ankles. It must be uncomfortable to walk with that cape of hair trailing behind you, I cannot imagine having to take care of it, Merlin thought.

Her black dress was graceful, as black as soot, and she stood out from the villagers like Merlin did. She was not from Ryeham.

The familiarity that hit Merlin at the sight of her was strong enough to make him collapse. It was sickening.

"Are you more interested in accusing me of starting the fire than being useful?" the woman with a hat shaped like Merlin's said. She had a star on her chest. She looked a bit like Merlin, and not in the way most mages did.

Her floral perfume dominated over the charred stench.

"I saw ya casting a spell with m'own eyes!" a furious villager shouted.

"A spell to quench the fire, my dear. I'm just trying to help. You could be a little more grateful, you know."

"The Scarlet Sorceress is as beautiful as her fire is dangerous. That's what the rumors say..." The villager crossed his arms, a woman behind him standing with a pitchfork. As if a pitchfork could defend them against a mage.

"I'll take that as a compliment. If this was my fire, you would all be cinders by now."

Merlin could listen to her voice all day. Not like he wanted to. With the way she spoke to the villagers, she struck him as blunt and careless.

Merlin would never. Probably never, he wasn't quite sure yet.

"The Scarlet Sorceress?" Chippy squinted at her. "I've... heard of her!"

The sorceress ignored the insults from the villagers, her eyes flicking to Chippy.

And then, to Merlin.

They both shared a glance that wasn't their first, or even second, and then her eyes moved to his hat. Her gaze was striking along with her face.

"You're..." she said, her sky-blue eyes wide and her vermillion lips twisted. "Nevermind. You reminded me of someone. The cards were right, this morning is awful, and I should not have gone out."

She turned on her heel and stormed off, bellowing "I'm leaving, don't stop me."

A little boy with a stick and a bird on his head stopped her by blocking her way. Merlin debated slinking away while everyone was distracted. He had helped enough, no? The fire was gone... and he could find that knight again some other day.

"You're not going anywhere, Scarlet Sorceress! All my wares are gone! I demand compensation!" he protested.

A fire flickered to life in her hand.

"Get out of my way, young man. I'm not known for my patience."

"Don't you dare try to get away with this! I'll make sure you're held responsi-"

The sorceress put a hand to her ear and shushed the boy.��

"Quiet. Something isn't right. The wind... it's suddenly loud."

Merlin knew exactly what she meant. There was a hiss in the air, a hiss that became booming as a whirlwind of a wind elemental formed in the ruins of the house.

Merlin didn't envy whoever owned the house.

Normal attacks didn't harm the elemental, and the woman's fire only strengthened it.

Merlin knew that that was no way to deal with such a creature. So, he began drawing up as much magic as he could to seal the elemental away.

Amid the sealing spell, he turned to the Sorceress, her eyes even wider than when she first saw him, with a sadness in that blue. With each push of his magic pressure and fuzz built in his head and eyes.

"Do I... know you?" he asked weakly just as the fuzz overwhelmed his senses, sending him under a blanket of nothingness.

He'd taken out himself along with the elemental. He didn't even get to hear the woman respond.

He knew that they'd meet again.

Merlin screamed at the sight of Valen, not because he was scary, but because waking up in some man's arms was incredibly concerning. He had only met Valen a bit ago. What business did Valen have embracing Merlin?!

"Calm down! Calm down! Oh, Dura, I think I'm deaf now," he plugged his ear. Merlin scampered away.

He blushed bright red when he realized he had fallen off some bench near a windmill. The grass and surrounding area were ruddy, carrying a fresh, non-smog-filled scent of soil and hay.

"I... I apologize. You startled me. Where am I?" Merlin stayed on the ground for fear of messing up more than he already had or fainting. Farmers in the fields were already looking at him funny.

"We're still in Ryeham, I was told to take you here after you fainted. How are you feeling?"

His face showed genuine concern.

Take him here? Valen carried Merlin here? Oh dear. Those arms of his weren't just for show.

Merlin got off the ground, dusting himself off. His legs were wobbly as he plopped down next to Valen to not eat some dirt for breakfast.

"I am... fine, I suppose. Are you worried?"

He raised a full brow. "You defeated that huge wind elemental alone, but you fainted before I could applaud." Merlin huffed a laugh. "Anyone with a heart would worry about you."

"You passed out for a while. General Hogan and his men returned to Holistone. He ordered me to stay here and look after you."

That Hogan cares about me, huh? I wonder what I did with him in the past.

" Before he left, he told me to make sure that when you woke up, your memory was alright. What a strange request... Do you often forget things?"

Merlin shrugged. "I do not remember if this has happened before. It possibly has, but I remember everything that just happened. There was that redheaded woman..."

"The suspect, Mirael. She's been taken to Holistone for questioning. You're a Magister, so perhaps you've heard of her, or maybe you know her, because she rushed to you when you passed out. She was identified as the culprit by young master Rowan."

"Rowan?" Who was that? Ugh, he would have to ask that tens of times in the days to come.

"That kid with the huge bag and the duck on his head. He's Rowan, the second son of the wealthiest man in the Empire and head of the Mithril Consortium. General Hogan took him for questioning, too."

"Do you know Mirael?" Valen leaned on his fist.

"Potentially. Possibly. Probably." She sure knew Merlin. And when he asked, he passed out just after.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but you're a strange one, Magister Vulpin."

Merlin sighed. That was undeniable. Being called a fake name felt strange, but, guess what, familiar.

Chippy and Hammie had returned from walking circles across the windmill, running up to the Magister and clambering to get up on the bench. Only Hammie managed as Chippy's armor was too heavy.

"Magister! You're conscious again."

"Chippy checked the village. It's free of bandits and elementals of any kind," Hammie reassured Merlin was a pat on his leg.

"The General is waiting for us in Holistone. We should go meet him if you feel better!" Chippy hauled his sword over his shoulder.

Merlin hummed to distract from how long it took him to answer. "We can set off now."

"There might be enemies on the road, Magister Vulpin. I'll go with you." Valen rose, standing pompously.

Merlin decided that he liked Valen. Despite the slightly mocking tone in his voice and that undercurrent of high-society pompousness, the deja vu plaguing Merlin disappeared around Valen, putting the mage at ease.

The hamsters reflected that attitude. That was a good omen.

"Although, you might not need my protection," Valen tossed his hair, smirking. "If you could handle that thing you can handle a little trouble. I've never seen magic like yours."

"Of course! The Magister is the Me-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Chippy," Merlin cut him off like an axe. "Even though I am capable, I do faint quite often, and it would be a travesty if I did not have someone to look out for me. Your help would be much appreciated, Sir Valen."

Valen's smug expression turned surprised by Merlin's politeness. He offered Merlin a hand, and he took it, getting up carefully.

"Do you always talk like that?" Valen asked.

"Talk like what? I speak rather normally. Do you dislike it, Sir, or is it, perhaps, grating?" Merlin looked up at Valen. He laughed.

"Nothing. I like it, sounds..." Valen was visibly holding back some comment in fear of offending Merlin, Merlin could tell by the way he pursed his lips and glanced away.

"... Courtly?"

Merlin put his hands on his hips.

"Are you afraid of me?"

Valen groaned. "Of General Hogan. He's never asked me to treat even the stuffiest of nobles so carefully, so I'm rightfully cautious. You must be a big deal."

"Do not fret, I do not bite."

Valen quirked a brow and flashed a grin. "Really?"

A wind picked up, allowing Merlin to divert from the topic. He cleared his throat.

"Is it cold, or is it just me?" Merlin hugged himself.

"It's not just you, Magister," Valen said as they passed by seemingly endless wheat fields.

"It is said that Merlin's ward has long protected Ryeham. It's the only reason that people can actually live here.

"But recently, Ryeham's been getting colder. It's almost snowed the past few days. We've come with the Magister to investigate this change in weather," Hammie explained. Valen listened intently. He was keeping his strides shorter to not leave Merlin in the dust.

Merlin, the Magister, had not been aware that he was there to investigate anything besides the fire.

"My apologies, Miss Hamster, I never got your name."

"Yes, we should be introduced. You are Valen. I am Hammie."

"Are all your familiars hamsters, Magister?"

Merlin had forgotten that he was part of the conversation. Processing that he had been spoken to, he owlishly turned his head to Valen.

"Yes," Merlin said, leaving no room for silly comments.

Hammie made the most intimidating face she could manage.

"Chippy told me that General Hogan ordered you to protect the Magister. You must know that serving the Magister is an honor,but it's no easy feat. I've got my eye on you. I hope you'll become a competent retainer." Hammie folded her hands skeptically, giving Valen a once-over.

"Apologies again, but I have to correct you. I'm a knight, not someone's retainer ," Valen said with a hint of offense. "Protecting Magister Vulpin is just my current task. It's not a lifelong post."

If he kept yapping in the wrong direction his current task might last only a few more moments before he takes a permanent vacation, Merlin thought.

"Unless... your Magister is someone like the great Merlin, then I may consider it."

Merlin's stomach was light, nearly empty, at the words. He couldn't say anything. Not a peep! Do not tell him who you are, Merlin! Do not fall for the trap!

"Did I hear that right? Well, the Magister is... OW!" Chippy flinched in pain. "Why did you step on my foot, Hammie?!"

Merlin said everything left unsaid when he side-eyed Chippy.

"Oh, sorry... I got distracted and didn't see where I was going." Hammie fluttered her eyelashes.

"Once you've spent some time together, you'll realize that although the Magister isn't Merlin, he's just as powerful! He's... exactly like Merlin, but he's not," Hammie said, losing steam at the end.

Merlin grimaced. "You don't have to flatter me." And nearly give out my identity. I could have done that myself, you know.

Valen had already seen a sliver of what Merlin could do. With such displays, Merlin couldn't keep things under wraps for long.

"I'll have to wait and see."

So, they headed to Holistone, Valen eager to find out more about the mage and warm up from the uncharitable weather, Merlin set on figuring out the fire, restoring his memory, and proving himself to the knight; the hamsters were just happy to have their Magister back.

And the rest? The rest is history.

-----

Note: Thank you for reading!

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