#I know another Bastille post

[massivestudentkitty]

No matter how sad Bastille songs are, they always feel like home.

Ampersand feels like a warm summer night. It feels like a drive in the car with your windows down. It feels like the hug of your favourite person. It feels like the laugh of your best friend after you tell a joke. It feels like rain on a hot day. It feels like coming home.

[vidavalor]

Thinking about how Crowley won't call on a higher power or curse in one's name but Aziraphale will and what a fun inversion of expectations that is...

Crowley can't believe it when he accidentally says "for heaven's sake" and stumbles over the choice of it in another scene, winding up just being like "slfkjewkljwle for SOMEBODY's sake". He has a scene in which he avoids saying "what the devil" in The Bastille by using a common substitution for it, asking Aziraphale: "What the deuce are you doing locked up in The Bastille?"

In the same scene as that, Aziraphale is all

Aziraphale is out here-- a literal *angel*-- with an euphemistic calling on the Almighty. "Oh, good lord" in the sarcastic, "you've got to be kidding me?" sense is what that would be *if not for the eyes raking over Crowley and the general "do me" vibe of the situation*. It's one thing for Aziraphale to appreciate the beauty of God's creations but he is literally tagging God in post here all "oooh Lord, this demon you made is fiiiiiiine"...

... and a demon being a being who was thrown out of God's grace and favor and heaven. Even if Aziraphale believes in a religious kind of redemption, I'm still pretty sure his angel lessons never included the idea that lusting after demons was a-okay... since, you know, if it had, the show would have been a lot shorter?

...I also love this for Crowley. You know, Anthony JAnthony "Unforgivable. It's what I am." Crowley gets flirted with by the complicated angel he adores in a way that's basically blasphemous.

Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing and all that.

Later on, Crowley enjoyed himself the moment that Aziraphale referenced the devil in Tadfield. Crowley himself avoids doing that but Aziraphale did it casually, with a little mischief.

Aziraphale is more daring than he thinks he is, in a lot of ways, and Crowley is more traditional than he seems in some ways.

[orth82]

Michael Sheen=the greatest.

Despite how exhausted he was after Thursday's performance (he was on FIRE that night) he still took the time to see all of his adoring fans at the stage door and make loads of people's day.

Friday's stage door was truly magical, and the energy in the crowd was off the charts. Loads of hardcore fans and talented fanartists were there and it became a spontaneous mini Ineffable Sheen Convention of sorts.

Everyone was interacting and supporting each other like the fabulous family we are. One girl was so nervous she almost threw up. Another adorable fan had a full-on breakdown of the most joyous and beautiful kind after meeting their hero. Shy and trembling fans were gently encouraged and helped by the complete strangers next to them (as well as MS himself).

An international delegation of Sheenie fans comprised of some of the loveliest and most talented people on earth, all brought together by our adoration of this beautiful man.

So many hugs, happy tears, stories and wee handmade gifts were exchanged. I am so grateful to have been lucky enough to be a part of it all.

And yes, that's his handwritten bratty Bastille Azi quote on my collarbone, freshly tattooed this morning in Soho (he kindly wrote it on a post-it note for the specific purpose).

Oh, and then this happened. Irene, you are a cinnamon roll and we all think you're just the bee's knees ☺️

Toward the end of my third magical stage door encounter I finally had the wherewithal to ask for a photo. Still not brave enough to request a hug but my hand went straight for his glorious tummy of its own accord. My brain ceased to function at that point and I am now deceased 💀

There are no words to describe how grateful I am to Michael, the phenomenal cast and the best fandom on earth for this unforgettable experience. I genuinely hope MS knows how loved he is and how much we appreciate all he does. This world is a better place because of him 🖤

(btw that adorable Nye kewpie doll is the creation of the talented @buzzinglarrieee and the Nye watercolour was a gift to MS made by @dennissima)

[laurashapiro-noreally]

Looking for something to read?

Oh look, it's another recs post! This time I'm featuring two stories per author. These are writers I always make time for, whose work stands out as unusually hot, clever, funny, or smart -- sometimes all of the above.

I'm gonna start you out strong with two by @werpiper: After Hours takes Aziraphale and Crowley to the baths after their oyster supper, and all sorts of interesting pleasures are there for our angel to sample. Piper's Crowley is one of my favorites: always evaluating the situation, not quite aware of what his own heart is doing but feeling it anyway.

Fitting In is a new story, still a WIP, but I am utterly tantalized by Muriel's first taste of love -- and tea. This is already rich in detail, soft and fragrant, and I can hardly wait for the action to get going in earnest. The pairing seems surprising but when you think about it for ten seconds of course it makes sense. Sex workers help the curious, the awkward, and the inexperienced every day, bless them.

If you enjoy these, check out @werpiper's back catalog -- they have done a ton of ineffables-through-the-ages, and their series Miracles and Heresy is worth many delightful hours of your time.

I love what @copperplatebeech has been doing lately:

He's Not My Friend is a T-rated story that explores Aziraphale's constant refusal to acknowledge his relationship with Crowley, and Crowley's mirror of that, and how things glacially shift over time. It is subtle and yet specific, it will make you ache and smile.

All Of The Above, also T-rated, is a warm and fuzzy alternative to that, a hilarious celebration of true friendship that made me laugh out loud and still got me right in the feels.

@copperplatebeech can do everything, from quiet, gentle, and romantic to devastating plotty AUs to extraordinarily horny established relationship to absolutely ridiculous humor. Do dive in if you haven't already.

Next up, @cumaeansibyl, master of kink:

better living through technology manages to shove everything I want in a dirty story into less than three thousand words: uptight Aziraphale reduced to sodden wreck, Crowley gleefully showing him what he's been missing, character-driven erotics, and exceptionally funny dialogue.

indulgentiam peccatorum nostrorum is somehow all that and more, turning the "I was wrong" dance into a kink (something I can't get enough of, recs welcome). This one is post-Bastille so it is extra-juicy. Mind the tags!

@cumaeansibyl has a gift for established relationship one-shots, which readers of mine will know are my entire jam. They also have a mind-meltingly hot inverse!omens AU that features different variations of angelic/demonic Crowleys and Aziraphales for our ineffables to play with.

A new-to-me author, Calico, has me hanging by a thread with their Ineffable Romans series. If you want to remember that your ineffables aren't human, that they are inordinately clever but very stupid, that the feelings they have for each other are truly beyond what anyone alive has ever felt, Calico may be the writer for you. This stuff is deep. Also hot af.

Sub Rosa reads like a nasty shag at Petronius', but there's so much more going on here. It is Extremely Queer, driven by power dynamics, and Crowley is fully demonic here and absolutely in control...or is he?

The Intemperance of Liber Pater continues on this theme, with dialogue-driven smut that reads less like a seduction than an inevitability. There's another story in this series, unfinished, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

Last but not least: two short pieces by @ineffabildaddy. I stumbled on their stories just this week and I absolutely love their approach, which I've not seen done quite this way before.

take me as your wife has a tight first-person perspective as Crowley meets Aziraphale for a meal and imagines (or is it his imagination?) that Aziraphale is suggesting Certain Things about how they might occupy themselves later. Indeed, is he suggesting even more? Something about their relationship? Or is it all in Crowley's head?

Only in Dreams is kind of a companion piece, from Aziraphale's point of view -- though hundreds of years later. This one's set after the events of S2 and although just as romantic as take me as your wife, it also offers an ineffable take on the ol' glory hole concept. Just in case you thought I was getting soft. 😏

@ineffabildaddy has a whole series of poems and ficlets like these and I can't wait to explore them all.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello^^

I was wondering if there were any fics where Aziraphale purposely gets himself into trouble so Crowley would rescue him?

Thank you!

Hi. Here are some fics where Aziraphale gets himself in trouble so Crowley will rescue him...

A Thoroughly Unreliable Narration by Devilbaby (G)

Aziraphale has a danger kink and keeps getting himself into dangerous situations on purpose because he knows Crowley will show up and rescue him every time.

In Distress by KaytheJay (G)

Aziraphale has gotten herself in quite the pickle and needs rescuing. However, the first knight who comes to save her is not the one that she wanted to see.

Chain Me to the Wall by HipHopAnonymous (E)

What kind of an angel gets himself locked up in the Bastille during a revolution? A very naughty one. Crowley can hardly believe Aziraphale would be so brazen and so stupid. And all for some naive attempt at flirtation. The demon will just have to take the angel in hand to teach him a very thorough lesson about tempting danger. But perhaps the angel isn't quite so naive after all.

We'll always have Paris by Kitty_Kat_Undercover (E)

Crowley knew right away the Angel was in trouble. Of course, he had no idea he'd put himself there on purpose. ___________ Post Bastille rescue and luxuriant Crepe lunch, Crowley and Aziraphale both discover another appetite. Who would have thought it was the Angel leading the Demon back to his place? Not the love-struck Demon. ♡

"Barely counts as a miracle" by Becci Barnes (E)

1793, Paris. When Aziraphale set off for France he had a detailed plan in mind. Getting himself captured was only phase one, leading up to the much more enticing and long-awaited phase two. Unfortunately, he struggles to clue Crowley in on this plan. After living through many awkward attempts and a demeaning dance, Aziraphale has to resort to more desperate measures. Or: Aziraphale plays the Damsel in Distress and eventually gets Crowley to punish him properly.

- Mod D

[rvzcvx]

I see your post we're you bored and idk what to write so another Idea :

Can you do Tom x(dom) m! Reader or non-gendered is not important (I prefer x m! Reader because I'm a guy obviously )During the 14th of July and we arrive in the evening at the time of the fireworks and Tom is really scared about firework (IDK LMAO, no judgment.) and reader tries to reassure him Fluff and maybe bonus where reader and Tom had sex because Tom can't calm down! As you wish

BYEE,LOVE YOU 💋

ANXIETY

pairing: tom kaulitz x male reader

warnings: smut

a/n: idk if thats what you meant, but i hope youre gonna like it!! its kinda long but I hope it will be a good to read!! you can send me more requests if you want me to write something

As the sun dipped below the horizon, we were walking through the crowded streets of Paris, my heart racing in anticipation of the evening ahead. Tom and I had planned this trip months ago, carefully timing our visit to make it in time with bastille day. But as we made our way towards the seine, where the crowd had gathered, Tom's grip on my hand tightened, and I could sense his growing unease.

We arrived at a place near the eiffel tower. People were everywhere, their excitement palpable. Tom's eyes darted around nervously, his usual confident demeanor replaced by an nervous tension. I squeezed his hand gently, hoping to provide some reassurance.

"You okay?" I asked, my voice low enough to be lost in the crowd. Tom forced a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed. I forgot how crowded it gets here."

I knew it was more than the crowd. Tom had never been comfortable around fireworks. The loud, unexpected bursts and the lingering booms always seemed to unsettle him. It was something he rarely admitted, but tonight, as the first rocket flew into the sky, I saw him flinch.

"It's gonna be fine" I whispered, pulling him closer. "We'll stay back here, away from the thick of it."

He nodded, but his body remained tense. The fireworks began in earnest, vibrant explosions of color and light that painted the night sky. Each burst was met with oohs and aahs from the crowd, but Tom's reaction was a stark contrast. His jaw clenched tighter with each boom, his eyes squeezed shut as he tried to block out the noise.

"Hey" I said softly, turning to face him and gently cupping his face in my hands. "Look at me, not at the fireworks." Tom's eyes fluttered open, meeting mine. "I'm trying" he muttered, his voice strained.

"Focus on my voice, on my touch." I ran my thumb soothingly over his cheek. "You’re safe. We’re safe."

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he concentrated on me. "Thanks" he said, his voice barely audible over the people around us.

I kept talking, sharing random stories and memories, anything to distract him from the noise. Gradually, his breathing steadied, and some of the tension got off him. As the grand finale approached, the fireworks intensified, the sky a chaotic symphony of light and sound. Tom winced, but he didn't look away from me.

When the last firework faded, I could see the relief on his face. "Let's get out of here" I suggested, threading my fingers through his.

We walked back to our hotel, the cool night air a welcome change from the crowded riverbank. Tom was quieter than usual, his earlier anxiety still lingering. Once we were inside our room, I closed the door behind us and turned to him.

"Sorry I wasn't much fun tonigh" he said, flopping onto the couch. "Don't apologize" I replied, sitting next to him and placing a hand on his leg. "I knew fireworks weren't your thing. I just wanted to be with you."

He gave me a grateful look. "You always know how to make me feel better."

I leaned in and kissed him gently, letting my lips linger on his. He responded eagerly, his hands finding their way to my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, and for a moment, all the stress and tension melted away.

"I don't know what I'd do without you" Tom murmured against my lips. "You don't have to find out" I whispered back. "I'm not going anywhere."

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten. Eventually, Tom pulled away slightly, his eyes searching mine. "Can we just stay here tonight? Just us?"

"Of course" I said, brushing his thick dreads from his face. "We can do whatever you want."

He smiled, a real smile this time, and pulled me down onto the bed with him. We lay there, holding each other, the faint sounds of the city outside a distant hum. Tom's breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely for the first time that evening.

"I love you" he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I love you too" I replied, kissing his forehead.

We lay there in comfortable silence, enjoying the peace of the moment. The anxiety from earlier seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by a deep sense of contentment. Tom's hand found mine, our fingers intertwining as we simply enjoyed being together.

After a while, I felt Tom's lips on my neck, his breath warm against my skin. "You make everything better" he murmured, his voice low and husky.

I shivered at his touch, my body responding instinctively. "I try" I said with a smile, turning to capture his lips with mine.

We kissed slowly, savoring each moment, the tension from earlier completely forgotten. Our hands roamed over each other, exploring familiar territory with renewed intensity. Tom's touch was both soothing and electrifying, a combination that never failed to drive me wild.

As things heated up, I felt the urgent need to be even closer to him. We moved together in perfect sync, our bodies responding to each other's every move. The connection between us was intense, fueled by the events of the evening and the deep love we shared.

Eventually, we paused, breathless and flushed, our foreheads pressed together. "Let's take this to the bedroom" Tom suggested, his eyes dark with desire.

I nodded, my heart racing in anticipation. We stood up, still wrapped around each other, and made our way to the bedroom. I pushed open the bedroom door, my heart racing with anticipation.

I laid him gently on the bed, placing my weight on his body. "You're so beautiful" I murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips. He responded eagerly, his arms winding around my neck as he deepened the kiss.

I could feel the heat radiating off his body, and I knew that he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his jaw and neck, peppering him with kisses as I went. He tilted his head back, giving me better access, and I couldn't help but grin at his eagerness. "You like that?" I asked, my breath hot against his skin.

"Yes" he moaned, his voice ragged with desire. "Don't stop."

I continued my assault on his neck, my hands roaming over his chest and stomach, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath my fingertips. I could feel his cock, hard and throbbing, pressed against my thigh, and I knew that it was time to take things to the next level.

I pulled back, my eyes meeting his, and I saw the hunger and need in them. I reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head, exposing his toned, muscular chest. I couldn't help but let out a low whistle as I took in the sight of him.

"Fuck, you're so hot" I said, my voice filled with awe.

He blushed at the compliment, but I could see the pleasure in his eyes. I leaned down, capturing one of his nipples in my mouth and sucking hard. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as I teased and tormented him with my tongue and teeth.

I moved my attention to his other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and he moaned and writhed beneath me. I could feel his cock leaking precum, and I knew that he was just as turned on as I was.

I stood up, my eyes never leaving his, and stripped off my own clothes. He watched me, his eyes dark with desire, as I revealed my own hard, throbbing cock. I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between his legs, and I leaned down to capture his lips in another searing kiss.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around both of our cocks, and I began to stroke them together. He moaned into my mouth, his hips bucking up to meet my movements. I broke the kiss, my lips trailing down his chest and stomach as I made my way to his cock.

I wrapped my lips around the head, swirling my tongue around it, and he cried out, his hands fisting in my hair as he held me in place. I took him deeper into my mouth, my throat working as I swallowed him down.

He was moaning and thrashing beneath me, his hips bucking up as I sucked and licked at his cock. I could feel my own orgasm building, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to hold back much longer.

I pulled off his cock with a pop, my lips wet and swollen from his abuse. I looked up at him, my eyes filled with lust and desire, and I saw the same need reflected back at me in his gaze.

"I need you inside me" he gasped, his voice desperate.

I nodded, reaching for the lube and condom that I had stashed in the bedside table. I quickly sheathed myself and slicked up my cock, my eyes never leaving his.

I positioned myself at his entrance, my cock throbbing with need. I looked up at him, seeking his permission, and he nodded, his eyes filled with trust and desire.

I pushed inside him, my cock sliding in easily, and he cried out, his hands reaching up to grip my shoulders as I filled him up. I began to move, my hips pistoning as I drove into him again and again.

He was moaning and writhing beneath me, his cock hard and leaking as I fucked him. I leaned down, capturing his lips in another kiss as I continued to thrust into him.

"You feel so good" I murmured, breaking the kiss. "So tight and hot."

"Yes" he moaned, his hips meeting my thrusts. "Harder, m/n. Please."

I increased my pace, my hips moving faster and faster as I drove into him. I could feel my orgasm building, my balls drawing up tight against my body.

"I'm close" I gasped, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Me too" he moaned, his nails digging into my shoulders.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around his cock, and I began to stroke him in time with my thrusts. He cried out, his back arching off the bed as he came, his cum spurting out in hot, sticky ropes.

The sight of him coming, of his body trembling and writhing beneath me, was enough to send me over the edge. I groaned, my cock twitching as I came, filling the condom with my hot, sticky load.

I collapsed on top of him, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me close. I took off the used condom and threw it somewhere, wrapping my arms around him too.

"I love you Tom" I said, resting my head in the crook of his neck. "I love you too" I heard him say and I smiled, feeling myself fall asleep after a while.

[rindecisions]

Something's Coming...

Join me!! 🤍

The AO3 collection is already live for you to post anything you make based on my work from now until forever

Join my Discord for more information and community. It's also the easiest way to get in contact with me.

Below are some scenes and ideas to give you jumping off points if you need them but I'd prefer you to use YOUR favorite!

Includes Sneak peeks!

(These were so hard to pick)

The Devil of Hawkins

I'd love to hear theories on this fic

First Kiss

Ceiling 69 🔞

Give Me Fuel, Give Me Fire

The Sunroof🔞

Stranger Tales

Something to go with the next chapter (Sneak Peek)🔞

You Know Where to Find Me

Something to the song Another Place by Bastile would be great. It's just such a fitting song for this story.

Their first goodbye

From Hell and Back

I'd love to see what one-shots you could come up with for my shapeshifting Demon Eddie

Mini Eddie

Tentacles🔞

A New Arrangement

What song should I base the next instalment on?

The teased kiss

Kiss in the rain

Steve's New Obsession

I'm torn on continuing this one. If I did what would you like to see happen?

Steve watching Eddie at the Hideout🔞

Beneath the Watch's Band

Where would you see this fic going?

Their first kiss

Billy 'The Freak' Hargrove

What do you think their other escapades looked like?

The proposition

Nectar

I bet you guys could come up with some impressive one-shots for plant cryptid Steve.

First kiss

Come and Get Me

To be released on March 20th. It's part of the @strangerthingsreversebigbang and will be accompanied by the incredible artwork of @waldos-art

A peek at one of my favorite scenes

The WIPs

These will be released on May 1st

Evil Things🔞

From Trashed to Treasured

Been working on this one with @madaboutmunson

Here's two scenes from the first chapter.

The Target 🔞

VERY DARK - DEAD-DOVE - READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Demositter

What Next?

Unnamed Sex-Pollen One-Shot

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.   

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?    

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.   

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.   

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”   

“Only because you insisted.”   

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.” 

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”  

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.” 

“Bollocks.” 

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”   

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.  

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above. 

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”   

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”    

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”   

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.    

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”    

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”   

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”   

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands. 

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”  

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”  

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”  

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”    

England glowers. 

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.   

It's the food, of course. Just the food. 

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late. 

...Should be safe enough, then.  

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold. 

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.” 

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh. 

“Get off,” he groans.  

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”  

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”   

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares. 

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”   

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?” 

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!” 

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux. 

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once. 

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over. 

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?” 

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?” 

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.” 

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.” 

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?” 

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous. 

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.” 

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck. 

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.” 

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure. 

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.  

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs. 

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.   

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back. 

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease. 

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

  —

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds. 

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon. 

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last. 

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise. 

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.  

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.  

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.  

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.  

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

[wildgreentide]

Good Omens Historical Fic Recs!

While I'm waiting for my favorite authors to write their new post-s2 stories, I'm revisiting some of my favorite older fics and wanted to share some recommendations! More than anything else I've been craving stories that explore Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship throughout history. If you have a favorite historical fic that's not on here, please feel free to share!

All Seasons, by rfsmiley (20k, M)

Set in Tudor England, this story has Crowley becoming an advisor to Henry VIII and befriending Thomas More. Achingly good.

The blood of Christ, or, Is that any way to speak to your mother?, by doomed_spectacles (528 words, gen)

A brief Biblical story, in which Aziraphale attends the Wedding at Cana. Perfectly Pratchetty.

Communing with the Dead, by acommontater (927 words, gen)

Another Biblical story, but very different in tone: Crowley says the mourner's Kaddish for Judas Iscariot. Powerful.

Gods in the Gaslight, by anti_kate & rfsmiley (12.5K, T)

Aziraphale embarks on a career as a stage magician in Victorian London. Entrancing, atmospheric, heartbreaking.

knowing this will I reach for you, by Aria (24.6K, E)

A dozen or so scenes throughout history, starting with Eden. I absolutely love this story for a number of reasons, but one is that it explores Crowley's anger at God and Heaven after the Flood, which I think explains a lot about his state of mind during the Job story in season 2. It is also (so far) the only fic on AO3 with the tag "Crowley Doesn't Fall in Love He Saunters Vaguely Downwards."

A Letter from "Crawly" to Azirapil, by mostlydeadlanguages (486 words, gen)

Set in Mesopotamia, tiny but brilliant.

The Parting Glass, by equestrianstatue & omnishambles (16.8K, gen)

Seven scenes throughout history, from the dissolution of the monasteries in 1539 to the present day (well, 2019), by two of my favorite authors. Drily funny with just the right amount of angst.

Your Mirror, by equestrianstatue (28.2K, E)

Going backward and then forward in time, this story explores all the ways that Crowley and Aziraphale come together, drift apart, misunderstand each other, and still long for each other throughout the millennia. There are so many great little details in this story, plus *fans self* some extremely hot scenes.

The Weight of Well Tailored Clothes, by reserve (5K, E)

Speaking of extremely hot scenes, my bookmark comment for this one just says "Good lord." Crowley helps Aziraphale undress after he rescues him from the Bastille.

You, Soft and Only, by thehoyden (9.4K, E)

Starting in Mesopotamia with a kiss of convenience, and continuing through ancient Rome, a medieval monastery, Renaissance-era Florence, and more, this story is absolutely swoony.

[houseofhyde]

another man; the playlist.

it's finally here: the official another man playlist ! the playlist is divided into two sections ( side a; aemond & side b; aegon ). i'm always looking for new music, so please feel free to comment or send me an ask with any song you'd like to see added <33 ps. the order of songs is intentional & correlates with the progression of the story ( both published & currently un-published chapters. ) fic masterlist. ao3 link. spotify link. youtube link.

side a; aemond.

aengus' fool by sleep walking animals.

say yes to heaven by lana del rey.

sexy to someone by clairo.

picture you by chappell roan.

what a feeling by one direction.

guilty as sin? by taylor swift. ( reader submitted )

champagne coast by blood orange. ( reader submitted )

touching yourself by the japanese house.

we'll never have sex by leith ross.

hotel toothbrush by caiola.

july by hozier.

the boy is mine by ariana grande.

sailor song by gigi perez.

seasons & narcissus by bastille. ( reader submitted )

my home by myles smith.

birds of a feather by billie eilish.

i know by fiona apple. ( reader submitted)

tejano blue by cigarettes after sex.

die first by nessa barrett.

be my mistake by the 1975.

i love you, i'm sorry by gracie abrams.

i know the end by phoebe bridgers.

i bet on losing dogs by mitski.

fortnight by taylor swift ( feat. post malone. )

promise by laufey.

about you by the 1975.

green light by lorde.

side b; aegon.

july by noah cyrus.

labour by paris paloma.

tolerate it by taylor swift. ( reader submitted )

little freak by harry styles.

high infidelity by taylor swift. ( reader submitted )

blue by billie eilish.

my tears ricochet by taylor swift.

[butchhamlet]

a scene-by-scene playlist for macbeth--one song for each scene. you know the drill by now. track list with rationale under the cut; special thanks to @blackcatarts for help with the selection :3 happy halloween season, y'all.

track list + rationale

act one

1.1 (the witches enter) - Everybody Wants to Rule the World (Lorde Cover) (feels self-explanatory, plus the vibe of it feels like panning in over a foggy battlefield)

1.2 (duncan finds out macbeth slayed) - Aneurysm by Nirvana (found this one on this macbeth playlist a while back and it has remained a macbeth song to me forever and ever; the manic energy fits the battlefield fervor here)

1.3 (macbeth and banquo meet the witches) - They by Jem (“and it’s ironic too // ‘cause what we tend to do // is act on what they say // and then it is that way… who are they? where are they? how can they possibly know all this?”)

1.4 (duncan names malcolm his successor) - Money Money Money by ABBA (he’s plotting! he’s planning! stars, hide your fires! look just trust me on this one)

1.5 (lady macbeth reads the letter & reunites with macbeth) - She’s Kerosene by the Interrupters (every lyric of this song is about lady macbeth.)

1.6 (lady macbeth welcomes duncan to her castle) - Silver Platters by Les Gold (“no need to be cordial // you could be immortal // if you take the risk // could you take the risk?” + “step out on the dance floor // this is what you asked for // such a pretty face // what was it underneath the mask for?”)

1.7 (the macbeths argue) - Fight For Me by AlicebanD (macbeths song of all time!!!)

act two

2.1 (dagger scene) - Disturbia by Rihanna (the supernatural begins to bleed into the world! will someone please direct a macbeth where this comes on during this scene) 

2.2 (post-murder argument) - Prowl Great Cain by The Mountain Goats (very macbeth song. placed here for “and i feel guilty, but i can’t feel ashamed!” & mention of sleepwalking & betrayal & prowling [cf. his line about tarquin in 2.1])

2.3 (porter scene, duncan’s death comes out) - Daniel in the Den by Bastille (“felled in the night by the ones you think you love // they will come for you” + “and for every king that died // they would crown another”)

2.4 (hey. don’t cry. duncan’s horses ate each other) - When He Died by Lemon Demon (literally a song about the world getting fucked up after a guy dies what can i say)

act three

3.1 (banquo gets suspicious) - Aha! by Imogen Heap (entire song about people pretending to be better than they are, including an actual serial killer. + “cost you to keep me quiet” with banquo…)

3.2 (the macbeths are fracturing) - The Horror of Our Love by Ludo (EXTREMELY MACBETHS SONG. here because this is the scene where they start to switch places, with him the one buying into violence as the answer & telling her not to worry about gory details)

3.3 (banquodeath) - Bury A Friend by Billie Eilish (rdj meme voice: he has murdered his friend)

3.4 (banquet scene) - Bird Song by Florence + the Machine (song about killing the witness and then being haunted by that witness and completely losing your shit trying to shut their ghost up…)

3.5 (hecate) - Hecate by Wendy Rule (i don’t give a shit about this scene i’m sorry. interpolation boooooo)

3.6 (lennox talks politics) - Dark Doo Wop by MS MR (foggy apocalyptic ones. “it’s all gone to shit // it’s out of our hands”)

act four

4.1 (double double toil & trouble) - Hot Knife by Fiona Apple (i’m a hot knife i’mmmm a hot knife i’m a hot knife he’s a pat of butter… you’re just gonna have to trust me on this one. my school’s macbeth had heavy drumming all through this scene and it’s associated with this song to me forever)

4.2 (macduff’s family is murdered) - Pretty Little Things by the Crane Wives (songs about pretty/fragile things being destroyed because of men’s betrayal… thinking about how lady macduff blames her husband for abandoning her to the wolves :( )

4.3 (malcolm and macduff) - All or Nothing by the Dream Masons (songs that are about both malcolm and macduff. the first verse especially is very malcolm, as a young prince stranded among enemies; the chorus is especially macduff-deciding-to-kill-macbeth-or-die-trying)

act five

5.1 (lady macbeth sleepwalks) - Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song) by Fiona Apple (LADY MACBETH GUILT SONG! “those boon times went bust // my feet of clay, they dried to dust // the red isn’t the red we painted, it’s just rust” w her imaginary bloodstains, + “i’m either so sick in the head i need to be bled dry to quit // or i just really used to love him // i sure hope that’s it”)

5.2 (the scots and english gather) - Marked Man by Mieka Pauley (songs i considered for 4.3 as well. they are coming to Get His Ass)

5.3 (macbeth preparing to fight) - For the Departed by Shayfer James (songs about knowing you’re about to get got but what does it matter when you’re already damned)

5.4 (the fucking wood is moving guys) - Kingdom Fall by Claire Wyndham (songs i almost put on the prior scene, for “i’d rather watch my kingdom fall // i want it all or not at all,” but eventually i placed it here because… well, we are watching the kingdom fall, my guy)

5.5 (tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow) - Drowning in the Sound by Amanda Palmer (okay, this is kind of because of “sound and fury,” but also it’s soooo macbeth act 5. “and the body is a temple but the temple is a prison and the prison’s overcrowded and the inmates know it’s flooded and the body politic is getting sicker by the second” + “do you ever feel like this should be officially the end? // and that you should be the one to do the ending, but you can’t?” + the inevitability…)

5.6 (scots + english arrive) - Lion’s Teeth by the Mountain Goats (song about trying to kill a powerful and tyrannical figure. also sounds like a fight scene)

5.7 (macduff and macbeth come face to face) - Bury Me Face Down by grandson (so obsessed with how firmly this guy would rather go down fighting than do literally anything easier)

5.8 (macbeth’s head presented, malcolm crowned) - King of the World by WAR*HALL (a new king is crowned after one dies by violence. fleance is still out there somewhere. the cycle of violence continues. this one doesn’t work unless you imagine the witches watching pityingly/sinisterly in the background)

[massivestudentkitty]

No matter how old that song is, when Flaws starts to play I am happy. That song is pure seratonin.

[hyperfixating-rn-brb]

its time for me to shout about more obscenely good omens coded songs that aren't written by queen or hozier to spice up your playlists, here we go!

(oh, and you can see my general fictional characters (but 98% good omens) and ineffable divorce playlists here-- always being edited so send me more recs!)

Another Place- Bastille

Cabo- Ricky Montgomery

No One Knows Us- BANNERS

Silent Film- Sparkbird

You Could Start A Cult- Niall Horan

Dear Sam- TROY

Part Time Lover- Nicky Youre

Perfectly Broken- BANNERS

Some Girl- Andy Grammer

Sinner- Andy Grammer

and that's the audio limit! I'll definitely be making more posts like this because while I very much love queen and hozier, it's fun to add to the playlists with some other stuff sometimes :)

[sophiethewitch1]

hey sophie! ive been listening to the www playlist a lot lately and was wondering if you could bust out ur playlist thesis? however much ur cool with sharing!! would love to hear your thoughts hehe. also, are there any bonus tracks we can listen to from the big og playlist?

i want you to know that for this entire post I was doing this

absolutely constantly. raving maniac mode. under the cut so i don't make everyone hate me for all the bullshit im about to spout and like some cough cough future hints. No actual spoilers but like... vibes and things that are obvious. Me telling you there will be yandere things in the yandere story, shock horror. These songs are the trailers/animatics in my head so uh. It's kind of hard to explain them without that (which is why I literally CAN NOT) for a couple of them lol. Oh!!!! And I've also got some other songs that really should've made the playlist but I just didn't add for some reason. Laziness or whatever. One's literally called birthday party. I uh. Don't think I need to explain that one.

But also I just like, whatever who cares if some of the songs on there aren't ones I 100% associate w what we want so here's the full playlist live your dreams. Most of them I associate at least a moderate bit. BUt under here is the fucking essay I've somehow written lmao I lost my mind somewhere along the way.

WHAT YOU GONNA DO??? By Bastille and Graham Coxon is first on the playlist for a reason. It's sort of like, similar to the rocking feeling of what being cramped on the subway was like to me? And it's a song that's pretty obvious with the lyric comparisons. The 'you' in the title IS you! What are you gonna do? You have us (Gotham, the world, the batfam) listening, so what are you gonna do with it? And it matches readers future response quite well I think. And it feels like something that a superhero would have in the background, which certainly helps.

Keep You Mine by NOTD and Shy Martin was actually just one of those songs you were listening to on loop at the time you were doing a thing, and then became intrinsically linked to that thing, but it still represent WWW quite well! It matches more so the later acts of the story, where you and the boys will have some issues staying together with eachother. But it's still poppy and romantic in tone!! Because you guys and your relationship, despite everything that'll happen, you want to keep each other y'know? And reader's like possessive and jealous in a cutesy way to offset how absolutely psycho bonkers the guys will end up being... But I also feel this too matches the superhero vibes? Somehow? The fight on of it... You must keep fighting, for each other!

Tinfoil Hat by Dolo Tonight is like,,, about the frustration of being a Gotham resident I suppose (or anyone living in late stage capitalism with a mental illness) but especially you! Since you totally fucking got ripped from one universe to another and um, i don't know if you've noticed this yet but... there seems to be some issues with readers idols??? Seeing as you love the waynes but hate the bats. Please duck under the comically large chekov's gun and come this way. Also because reader for a little bit does geniunely think she's crazy and need to go to the psychiatrist but obviously thinks that is the worst idea ever because the gotham mental health system is really just prison. and it's a prison with her nemesis. not the place to be.

Live, Learn, Die by Lavin is pretty obvious too, but in a much sadder tone. Reader as a character has at this point come to a conclusion that I'm sure many of us do in their lifetime (I know I have at least) which is that... things suck, and then you die. She doesn't want to die, but she doesn't really particularly actually want to live, she's just so damn focused on survival she's never actually even had the time to realise that. This other version of her who didn't have 24/7 adrenaline running in her body was obviously significantly worse off and seemed... off. If everyone you love is dead, is surviving for them even worth it anymore? She's still learning, so maybe she'll learn something different this time...?

Next song is a spoiler so skipping it <3! Lmfao interpret this however you'd like

Thelma + Louise By Bastille is a song about a scene that I am so damn eager to get to which unfortunately is in act fucking 3 which is my favourite but like. Suffering I am suffering :) Anyways I can't tell you too much about it because of but I will say that it's a road trip between you, Dick and Jason! It's very fun and absolutely no complex feelings are involved whatsoever. You meet Lucy the giant elephant (actual roadside attraction in new jersey lmfao). This song is Dick Grayson coded in like... mostly sunny vibes. Like the warmth the song gives, that's how you make him feel.

Temper Temper by LimeCordiale is a song that is about... you and Jason... and his poor poor habit of enabling you. 'Me and my girlfriend that I let do whatever she wants to me because shes hot' core. Bruce sees the two of you in the landing and gets immediate d10 psychic damage it's impressive. Anyways if anyone ever angers you (which I'm sure they never ever ever will :)) he's probably going to be there to back you up, because 'you know that that's what I like'. That video of you punching George is private time material frankly.

Next song is ALSO a spoiler which um. cough. 😳 let's not look too deep at this one actually folks

Werewolf By Quinn XCII. Ah yes, the yan in the yandere story. This one is ALSO about Jason but this is the most Jason coded song. I will say that this also features in the story at some point (you, Molly, Dick, Jason and some very poor suffering grunts). It's the lyrics. I've always said Jason is a loyal dog and I stand by it till the day I die. He also feels like a feral animal that constantly kind of wants to swallow you whole which is romantic I think <3 <4 But geniunely put that thing on a leash for the betterment of mankind. I mean you make them all feel like starving monsters Jason's the only one who has any self awareness unfortunately, which is why this is HIS song. Also because he'd be a werewolf, case close your honour. Dick'd be a vampire it's LITERALLY canon. WHat was I talking about

Ghosts by The 1975 got on here because I heard the first line and went 'hA!' because it really do just be 'You... You always seem to get what you want.' and also the "You seem to get better" is fuckin. IT'S SO GOOD MAN! That's EXACTLY what the guys are thinking when the next few chapters start coming around which. Really were supposed to be out by now whoopsie but yknow like. Anyways you ARE gonna start working on things!!! You're gonna talk to Molly!! You're gonna get more flowers!!!!! God damn it, you're gonna get what you want!!!!!!!!!!!!! (at least this first bit oop)

Next two are spoilers again, but this time you absolutely won't be able to guess because they're both animatic inside my own brain so take that! And I mean you REALLY won't be able to guess they're great scenes can't wait for you to see em. I can't wait either tbh why am I writing these stupid filler scenes lmao. why can't i skip to the end of my 200k enemies to lovers slowburn just to write the final chapter (did this to herself)

Together We're Screwed By Robotaki and Nevve is a song I've loved for ageeessssss bro because there is (to me at least) nothing more romantic than being a terrible horrible unredeemable person with the one you love. Hand in unlovable hand baby! That's like... the fic I guess, together the five of you are screwed. And it just matches that same earlier mentioned vibe of like... poppy kinda techno-y kinda superhero-y kinda loser-y. Listen to me, listen to me... This fic is about many things and I'll say it again and again and everytime it's true in a different way and this time it's true in this way. This fic is about being about being a loser and bad at everything and still managing to get what you want. Actually that might be what this fic is actually actually centrally about. 'We're both a mess, we just can't get it right. Together we're screwed. I'm looking at you, I'm looking at you~' like, be a mess!

And now we're at the exciting new

Birthday Party by AJR is like the equivalent of what would be a canon event for this au. Your birthday HAS to happen and it HAS to suck ass and all your family HAS to die on this day for some reason or another.. Some people told me when they had their birthday they thought of my fic and I was like damn bro who hurt you? /jk but really reader's birthday is kind of a reflection of... you know, everyone has at least one of those sucky as birthdays. And you've gotta paste on a brave face and pretend you don't want to cry and that it's all not too much and that for some reason you're disappointed and that the trudging march of time scares the shit out of you and that you haven't achieved anything this year and- You know? 'And that's just how it is.'

Okay I've run out of videos I can add but there are only two songs left so!! Ima finish this anyways.

Inertia by AJR is a song where again the lyrics speak for itself. Before you woke up in a slightly different world where everything was just slightly different, your life was stagnant. You were stuck, absolutely. Despite trying to break out of poverty, out of your circumstances, fortune simply wouldn't smile on you. And again, that other you seemed to reflect that stagnancy. She wasn't going anywhere either. In my head I see the two of you dancing like marionettes alone on your stages alone, unable to fight against the strings pulling at you. It's only till you start dancing with eachother, till the strings start tangling that you start getting any freedom. That you're able to start getting anywhere. Maybe being set off course was the best thing that could happen to both of you?

Something Just Like This by The Chainsmokers and Coldplay is a song that both me and my mum love, and also one very fitting to the superhero theme! And it's how ALL the guys feel about you!! You're really just a civilian, you're not that important in the grand scheme of things... But why do you like them? It's for such stupid reasons. It's because of the way Damian reads romance novels and Jason never properly tapes his nuckles and Dick has a stupid bleeding heart so he keeps taking too many hours at the Bludhaven pet rescue and Tim always fucking sends you the new york wordle, connections, crossword and spelling bee first thing in the morning and then asks if you want any help when he knows you want to do it on your own and- Every single moment of you is done with such love and sincerity and heart and they can't help but fall in love again and again and again. 'I want something just like this' is a phrase they'll say to you and you'll say to them too.

[aedesluminis]

26 for the ask game （╹◡╹）

26. Forgotten hero everyone should know about

This could have been a perfect occasion to talk about Claude-Antoine Prieur again, but given that I plan to devote him many future posts on my blog, I thought it would have been more appropriate to use this ask to share my knowledge about an important and unfortunately still rather unknown STEM personality, who truly inspired me when I was a young student. I'm referring to Sophie Germain.

Born in Paris in 1776, Sophie was one of the rare mathematiciennes of the 18th-19th century. She had her first approach with mathematics during the days of the storming of the Bastille, when it was too dangerous for a young 13 years old girl to go outside. To pass the time, she turned to her father's library and a book named "Histoire des mathématiques" by Jean-Étienne Montucla captured her interest. The story of Archimedes narrated in the book fascinated her deeply, eventually leading her to start studying mathematics on her own through the works by famous mathematicians like Euler, Newton, Cousin. Her interest and dedication to the discipline was so strong, that during winter, when her parents denied her warm clothes and a fire in her bedroom to prevent her from studying she kept doing it anyway despite the cold; at the time maths wasn't considered appropriate as a studying discipline for a woman.

When the Polytechnic school opened in 1794, women couldn't attend, but the policy of the school allowed to everyone, who asked for them, notes of the lectures. She requested them under the pseudonym of Antoine-Auguste Le Blanc, a former student who had dropped out. Given that, as a student of the Polytechnic school, one was expected to send written observations about the lectures - a sort of homework - Germain wrote and sent hers to Joseph-Louis Lagrange, one of the teachers and renowned mathematician. The latter was so positively impressed by her essays that requested a meeting with the brilliant student LeBlanc, who unexpectedly had improved so much. She was then forced to reveal her identity. Lagrange was pleasantly surprised to realize Monsieur Le Blanc was in reality a young and talented woman and decided to support her, becoming her mentor.

One of her most noteworthy contribution to mathematics was in number theory, where she proved a special case of the so-called Last Fermat's Theorem (1), which has remained one of the hardest mathematical theorems to prove for more than three centuries and whose final proof was actually found only in 1994 by Andrew Wiles. Other important works of hers include treatises on elastic surfaces, one of which, Recherches sur la théorie des surfaces élastiques, awarded her a prize from the Paris Academy of Science in 1816.

Although she often faced prejudice for being a woman, Germain was praised and also supported by various well-known mathematicians of the time. Some of them include the aforementioned Lagrange, Legendre, who thanks to her work on the Fermat's theorem, was able to prove it for another special case; Cousin himself, Fourier, who managed to grant her the permission to follow the sittings held at the Paris Academy of science and last, but obviously not least, the great Gauss, who after Germain's death advocated for giving her an honorary degree in mathematics.

Notes

(1) In short, the Last Fermat's Theorem asserts that for n > 2 there are no integer solutions to the following equation:

with a, b, c being positive integers. Sophie Germain proved the theorem for all numbers n equal to a prime p, so that 2p + 1 is also prime. The whole thing is much more complex that how I explained it, my aim was to write down a simple intoduction. If you want to read more about that I recommend you this link.

[aaronstveit]

On the subject of song lyrics, there is a question I have been wanting to ask about your playlist: Every single song goes perfectly with deep end (and honestly holds me over until the next chapter lol). I’m curious about what comes first - did the lyrics inspire some of the scenes, or did you write the scene and then dip into this vast well of musical knowledge that I am so jealous you have? (I will never listen to Little Lion Man again without thinking about your Enjolras).

oooh such a fun question <333 i love the deep end playlist dearly and could talk about it forever and ever

the short answer is that some songs inspired feelings or concepts i wanted to include in deep end, but actual scenes themselves were not (consciously) inspired by songs!

the long answer is that a lot of the songs on the deep end playlist and/or that i use for chapter titles are songs i already associated with exr or at least the individual characters. little lion man, for instance, has been on my enjolras playlist forever! (fun fact: weep, little lion man was one of the titles i considered for deep end before settling on throw me in the deep end, i'm ready now to swim.)

most of the chapter titles are associated with a specific event in the chapters themselves. a lot of the chapter titles came before i wrote the chapters, but i knew generally what i wanted to happen when i named them. and a lot of the chapter titles have also changed from draft to draft! for example:

chapter 6 final name: not a flower on the wall (emotion by carly rae jepsen)

chapter 6 original name: take this pink ribbon off my eyes (just a girl by no doubt)

chapter 10 final name: pressure points, they pressure you right back (hate that you know me by bleachers)

chapter 10 original name: tracing an old pattern (drawing the lines from where i am and where i want to be) (i can change by lake street dive)

chapter 11 final name: some things i never expect (halloween by phoebe bridgers)

chapter 11 original name: i didn't know i was lonely till i saw your face (i wanna get better by bleachers)

chapter 17 final name: and whatever we had locked up now is free (lipstick covered magnet by the front bottoms)

chapter 17 original name: all the hope i had when i was young, i hope i wasn't wrong (dream of mickey mantle by bleachers)

i've also just very recently changed the name of chapter 24, which i'm pretty excited about! i won't tell you the new name, but the old name for chapter 24 was "my moodboard is just pictures of you (but i'm not sad anymore)" from the song fake out by fall out boy <3

there are a lot of songs i listened to on repeat while writing that probably subconsciously inspired parts of deep end. some of the big ones that are definitely going to end up on my spotify wrapped because of this fic are:

lucid dreaming by alice kristiansen

spit of you by sam fender

into your room by holly humberstone

surrender by walk the moon

close to you by gracie abrams

like a river runs by bleachers

an ego thing by lizzy mcalpine

admit defeat by bastille

thumbs by lucy dacus

anywhere with you by maggie rogers

there are a lot of specific lyrics that really spoke to me while writing that i'm gonna talk about in another post but i hope you enjoyed this answer <333 as always, thank you for asking!!