#I should not be allowed to read epic fics

[forgthetheaterkid]

I just read a fic where Odysseus gets hit instead of Polites and I’m in so much pain

[finalfrontierpublishing]

So it's been a while since i posted any books - mostly because i've been hiding my progress like a little sneak.

I just finished this bind last night of The Desert Storm by @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, or really it's volume 1 out of like ??? 15, maybe. Please take whatever i say with a pinch of salt (I have had 0 sleep for more than 24 hours, and that tends to make me a little very sleep-deprivation drunk a.k.a. unhinged). Okay, on to thoughts! The Desert Storm was foisted onto me by @celestial-sphere-press who told me under no uncertain terms that I WOULD FUCKING LOVE THIS SHIT. Well, I did. This more than 1 million word epic about Ben Fuckin' Kenobi is pretty much god-tier fanfiction. It reads like a goddamn novel. I can never think of canon again without thinking that this good shit should be canon. I read it and then consumed half of it within a week, and I have zero regrets. @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, i absolutely love you and love your writing. It is the best thing since sliced bread. It is better than sliced bread.

I also had the benefit of @celestial-sphere-press saying, hey would you want to use the typeset? MY GOD, i am grateful. I love this fic, i would have typeset it if it hadn't been typeset but Des did such a beautiful job that i am absolutely in awe and thankful that she and the author allowed others to use it. Look at it - it's so beautiful. I only had to think hey, i just gotta design the cover and et cetera and so the book happened.

Please also check out @celestial-sphere-press 's amazing post here and here, who is the only person i know who's started and is almost complete in fanbinding this epic, and is also making an author a copy of the entire series.

Some stats, if you will.

96215 words || 380 pages

Title font: Ghaomiec

I took some inspiration from starblight bindery's lovely desert scape as well as this amazing cover of Dune which i own. I love that the landscape emanates Dune vibes while being oh so Tattooine - just sand and heat, relentless loneliness and melancholy. This fic centres around Obi-Wan Infinite Sadness Kenobi so it needed SAD VIBES TM, which i tried to deliver in desolate landscape form.

Also thank the heavens for Renegade members, who in a masterful stroke of Group Buy Saves Money, managed to source extra-out-of-production colours of Colibri and help a fair number of us get really cool limited edition versions of bookcloth. I am now a proud owner of a lorge stash of Duo and Colibri of which i am now sitting on like a shifty dragon with a hoarding problem. Good luck getting your bookcloth now, Folio Society, ha ha (gloating)! This particular bookcloth is Colibri Copper which has been wholly stashed for The Desert Storm series. I am leaning on transitioning to Malachite for Rise and Fall when I get to it.

The front cover design was done with a stock image and converted to a PNG, which i then fiddled with and did some HTV magic with. It was remarkably easier to weed than expected. I tried something new and ironed the design on the naked bookcloth first before gluing it to the boards, which was a new challenge in making sure everything was aligned.

Endpapers are marbled endpapers (Renato Crepaldi) which I got from Hollanders, which perfectly fit the colour scheme of the bind. The only hiccup was as I was cutting, I realized the sheet was running in the opposite direction of his usual papers and half the size, and only yielded 3 A5 size endpapers and so my heart went noooooooooo. oh well. i guess i will use it for quartos.

Endbands are my favourite - silk in 3 colours in the french doublecore style (as i was binding this i did not have the mental capacity to handle the difficulty of 4 strands). the truth is i usually only can do 4 when I have higher brain function and am willing to spend 80% of my time unraveling it from getting tangled.

I also forgot to mention I had mild fuck-ups, I got glue on the front endpaper which I had to hastily remove with wet cloth, and the back square is preposterously bad but I'm ignoring it for now.

Anyway, i've actually managed to complete a few other binds which have not been mentioned here as they've all been gifts/ surprises or event books in some form. I am SO EXCITED, also because I am travelling in the latter half of July to San Diego and L.A. and I get to meet some bookbinding friends in the flesh. Renegade is fucking amazing y'all. I am ready to embrace these crazy lads who have enabled me for the last 1 year, even when i'm the solitary (1) weirdo from my country of origin in the server. Also... potentially bookbinding trip early next year??? I am enthused.

[strangerthingsfanworkrecs]

Artist Highlight: Jo-Harrington

This week, we're highlighting @jo-harrington! All recs this week will be for her work. @jo-harrington writes for the Stranger Things Fandom, with a special focus on xOC, and xReader fics. She's also a great beta-editor and design all the graphics for her fics! We're highlighting Jo for her incredible world building and strong OCs.

You should check out her Store Manager Verse fics for some great fluff and top-tier retail angst Jo answered some questions about her creative process and her work under the cut

Why Stranger Things?

I’ve been an avid ST Fan since the beginning. My old Store Manager and I watched the first episode in the backroom of our store while folding t-shirts and rest was history. Fic-wise, a certain Metalhead Dungeon Master brought me out of a fanfiction posting hiatus and I haven’t looked back since.

What's your favorite ship (platonic or romantic) to create for?

Platonic is always going to be the Hellfire Club boys. I love writing their adventures. Their friendship is epic and deserves to be explored and celebrated. Romantic…EddiexOC or EddiexReader. I mean, I’ve been an xOC girl since my first fandom. xReader is new for me but it’s almost an extension of xOC. I always joke that I’m allowed ONE epic borbo obsession love of my life per decade and I’ll give them one canon pairing but the rest are OCs.

What's your typical writing process like?

I have an idea, I write it down, I get sick of working on a chapter, I don’t edit, I post. (Which is funny because when I beta, I am a lot more detailed. But for my own work I just need it out of my head.) It might not be the best. It could probably read better or have less typos or mistakes. But it’s always from the heart.

How do you come up with your OCs?

I sit there for a long time and figure out how I can put a part of myself into a story. Oops was I not supposed to say that? Sometimes you think of a character that you just can’t help but want to write. But even if they aren’t a manifestation of your physical self or your personality, they almost always end up being an extension of you in some ways, or something you aspire to be. You also need to add some attributes you hate into them, so that they’re not too perfect and you can throttle them around and make them suffer and not feel too bad/let it become a self hatred thing.

What has been your favorite project so far? Why?

Store Manager Verse. (EMxReader) Retail is who I am and who I’ve always been. I had a mall romance irl that went south. So it was a way to rewrite my past with my comfort character…and also give said comfort character a happy ending as well.

What has been your hardest project so far? Why?

As Above, So Below. (EMxOC) It is a passion project, it is a beast, every chapter takes an emotional toll on me and it takes a month—if not more—to recover. But it has been the single most fulfilling project that I’ve worked on in the 20 years I’ve been writing fanfiction. I've been working on it for about 2 years now. 3 more chapters til the end…I’m gonna be very sad when it’s over.

Have you ever had a creative block? How did you get over it?

My brain is just a beehive that I shake every now and again to get the bees angry. Honestly, the bigger block I get into is self-doubt. I have no problem finding the words, it’s the courage to put them to paper I struggle with at times.

Is there a big source of inspiration for you? Books? Art? Games?

Yes all of the above. But in all seriousness, life experience is the best inspiration. There’s only so much research you can do. Truly for me, the canon characters are the source of inspiration. Then I take from things I’ve done, things I’ve read, places I’ve been in order to take an idea to a fully formed plot.

Is there an upcoming project you're particularly excited about?

Eddie Munson Big Bang. I know you’re gonna hear that a lot. I love creating really ambitious AUs and I think this one is really testing my abilities as a writer. It's a crossover fic, in a way, but with a lot of original plot folded in. I hope I do both fandoms/universes justice.

Is there anything we didn't ask that you'd like to add?

I’m from the Midwest, so thank you for listening to all of my long-winded answers. Haha.

[glaxis]

This is a killer shitpost guys…

(I don't even know)!Ellie x sexworker!Reader.

Content warnings??: no smut but im open for this to be multiple parts? So smut incoming should I say...

Awaiting the next client you pick at your nails, phone leaning on your shoulder cupping your ear whilst you’re legs are sat up holding the laptop, where you have the client registration up.

Other than required registration, listless. No preferences have been listed or requirements, sometimes callers will even ask for specific variations of lines but no, nothing.

The line clicks and you greet the caller with a seductive welcoming, “Hey,”

…

You clear your throat. No, this is going to go well. Manifestation required. You've only been working for 8 months? For all you care, rent is due and the job pays well for what it is.

“I like when my callers are nervous, if you’re interested..”

..

Fuck.

Then suddenly,

You hear the caller mumble what sounded like a curse, “You know, I'm a big fan of dinosaurs.” They say.

Uh.

Mustering up the courage, like a professional you go along with it, “Oh yeah? Big dinosaurs?” You whisper. Is that a kink?

“Nuh no, not like that. I'm just a big fan of their work ya know.” She says, “I honestly think humans are kinda similar to dinosaurs in a morbid way, like they’re vicious but I think they’re pretty epic.”

“Ok.”

“What about you?”

“They’ve been pretty dead for awhile.”

“Facts.”

Sigh. If this is a prank caller, this must be them popping their rebel cherry... You go along with the bit? Yes and? You've heard stories of groups of guys calling in to take the piss and for all you know this could be just that.

She sounds young, your age, give or take.

“What do you want me to call you?” You ask breezily, although thoroughly weirded out by the gaul of this person.

…

“Look, you’re paying me $100 an hour, honey, I’m saying this now, if you’re worried i’ll judge you, I'm a literal sex worker.”

“Well that's not very progressive of you.”

“Being a sex worker?”

“You said ‘if you think i’ll judge you, I'm a literal sex worker.’”

Maybe they get off on conversation, “It was more to say ‘i do sex as business, Ive seen some crazy stuff’,” you reply quickly, but curtly and you hear the client chuckle

“Am I pissing you off?”

“I guess I didn’t put conversationalist in my bio.”

"I read your bio, that shit was fucking crazy dude."

Ahem, "Do you actually want my services or are you lonely?" You ask, usually you're not allowed to judge clients which was what you were initially going follow up prior statements with but honestly, this caller is kind of, different?

"I'm lonely."

...

"Buuutt, you must be pretty lonely too?"

Wat.

"OK, no. You just said you read my bio." You chuckle, or guffaw? You're not sure of the nature of this conversation anymore. This caller seems pretty genuinely lonely.

In a cute way?!

"Gah, I did say that." She replies, "But girls who can bounce on it with no hands are all pretty lonely."

"Hmmm-" "What about astronauts? You like em'?"

----

K thats all for now you horny losers ! (I mean it truly <3)

I currently have a pretty flashy fic in the works and this is my first official go at writing something neat and poetic so.. like and subscribe.

[callmearcturus]

anyway your tdf "harry the accidental wyldfae lord" fic lives in my brain forever

i reread that and the bakery au and the Big Massive Epic AU and while my desire to edit and rewrite were strong, I was surprised at how much I still liked them

you know what's frustrating about TDF? all the frustrating shit. I mean, obvsly, but like if Jim Butcher wasn't THE most fucking cishet repressed boring male author (a field with a lot of competition) there'd be such a good core here.

on paper, so much of TDF is like a perfect formula for serial storytelling (and y'all know my ass loves serial storytelling)

i would love a redo on the whole thing with some tweaks. I would more explictly position Murphy and the CPD as the Bad Guys (bc boy howdy the series already did a good job of that without even trying, remember that time Murphy roughed up Harry while arresting him and chipped his fucking tooth? i bet i rmember that more than Butcher does)

I would love to have Harry and Marcone meet pre-series, before Marcone's rise to power, and have some kind of friendly relationship, passing familiarity with each other, before the Vargassi blowup goes tits-up and Marcone takes over the Outfit, that would make the complicated morality of "organized crime boss who is Clued-In on magic and thus is often a better option" even better

I would rework the entire Carpenter family bc I dunno what Butcher's intentions were with them, but the elevation of Michael and Charity as Can Never Ever Do Any Wrong Ever while also being direct representatives of Literal Christian God sure did get fucking uncomfortable over time, huh

i think instead of the hyperfocus on Winter vs Summer, I'd work with smaller, more modern court structures. the Neon Court, the Guild of Stone and Hands, stuff like that jockeying for position. that would allow for more power escalation without getting into the problem the series had, where EVERYONE you introduce somehow has to be even MORE powerful than the last person. that leads to dead-end storytelling imo.

BASICALLY what if TDF had the nuance and creativity of Matthew Swift. what if the Death Of All Cities came to Chicago. what of instead of magic and technology being mutually exclusive, you had practitioners who specialized in fiber optic and phone lines.

what if there were better recurring Arc Words and touchpoints.

ANYWAY I HAVE READ LIKE 25 CLASSIC TDF FICS IN THE PAST WEEK AND I'M MAD because I had two seconds of "should I just reread the books" then had to remember absolutely fucking not because they're terrible.

[mariyekos]

On the one hand the inconsistency/retcons in the DMC timeline frustrates me because I usually like having canon ages. On the other hand it allows me to play around with ages in fics more than I usually do, so it's kind of convenient.

...Although to be fair, I've done that in other fics. In my uh. 50k word, basically abandoned but not abandoned in my heart Estimeric longfic, I aged Heustienne up several years both for the convenience of the fic and also because I feel like she should be older in canon. She'd be like 15 at the start of the fic which wouldn't work, so I just made her 23 or something. I don't quite remember. It's been uhhh. 3 and a half years since I started that fic or something. I don't want confirmation right now because it still bums me out. It was supposed to be this epic fic and I didn't even get a quarter of the way through before I lost steam because I got worried about whether people would read a fic with an OC as a main character and tried to write him out of it before deciding no, I like him, and *I* read fics with OCs as main characters so why not.

But anyway back to DMC- Decided to go with the older side of the Deadly Fortune novel even though I normally prefer the old canon of Nero being Dante/Vergil's age in DMC4 (19) plus my HC of Nero being born within days of the Temen-no-gru. Unless I'm mixing things up, Deadly Fortune puts Verigl as having been 16-17 when he visited Fortuna, and Nero being the same age during DMC4. So for longfic wip #3, I'm going for Vergil having been 17 when he visited Fortuna and Nero being born when he's 18. DMC4 would then happen when he's 17...if I even get there. I have plans for it, but that might be sequel material. We'll see. I have 2 other longfics with higher priority, but for the sake of NaNo I want to try to get to 50k on this one if I can. I'll supplement with other fics if necessary but if I could get 50k in a single story that'd be pretty cool.

[doonarose]

Precarious, But Worth It

Rating: Explicit, nsfw, no minors

Summary: Aziraphale returns to the bookshop, more cynical and in need of Crowley’s help after months of frustration and failure in heaven. They have the fight they need to have, shouting a lot of the stuff that they probably should have said quite pleasantly to each other several centuries ago. Crowley pries a love confession out of Aziraphale and then one thing leads to another and that thing is exactly what you think it is: finally getting off together against the desk.

(Un)rationale: I tried to write a quick little fight and fuck fic based on all the wonderful headcanons floating around about Aziraphale and Crowley really just needing to scream at each other for a bit and then make out like teenagers.

It grew into an 8000 word fight and fuck epic that still achieves exactly what I set out to do, it just took over my life for 48 hours. Which is fine, I haven't committed smut in almost a decade.

You can read and see the warnings at AO3 of just read the fic under the cut.

Aziraphale returns to the bookshop at three in the morning on an uncommonly warm summer night. He tries to barge straight in and upon finding the door incomprehensibly locked, expends more energy that appropriate yanking on the doorknobs until the planks of wood are shaking in their frames. Aziraphale assumes he can swan right back in, but he can’t. The door doesn’t even unlock in response to a particularly demanding miracle because Crowley is on the other side, sprawled in his armchair, urging the doors with every ounce of available willpower to remain impervious.

Crowley flicks his wrist and an old, dusty pair of sunglasses wriggles out from under some papers on the desk and fly into his hand. He slides them on with a sigh that’s just a little bit shaky.

Finally, Aziraphale relents, and it goes quiet for a moment. Then he starts pounding, fast, heavy, hard-fisted knocks against the wood. “Crowley, I know you’re in there! Let me in! This is my bookshop!”

Anger boils in Crowley’s blood, anger and shock, that Aziraphale could even think for a moment that he would just come back and walk in and start up whatever again. Because that’s why he’s here, he needs help, or he got bored, or he decided it was time to come back. Crowley allows the front door to swing open but maintains the invisible barrier that protects the entire space from anything outside that he doesn’t want coming in. He doesn’t bother getting up and is extremely careful not to even look in Aziraphale’s direction.

“Not your bookshop, not anymore,” Crowley says, voice snaking from low in his chest, quiet and oh so dangerous.

Aziraphale seethes, “Let me in.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley tips his head back and sinks further into the armchair.

“How are you even keeping me out?”

Crowley stares at the ceiling to stop from looking at him, he wonders exactly what Aziraphale is looking at, he wonders how he can look and not implode. “Not your bookshop anymore, not a heavenly embassy, it’s mine,” is the only explanation he offers.

“Well, you still can’t keep me out.” And Aziraphale moves to step over the threshold in a flourish of his new angelic light grey overcoat which sparkles with its silver embellishment. Now Crowley watches, as fascinated and cruel as a schoolboy with a beetle under a magnifying glass, as Aziraphale’s body shifts into the door frame only to be bolted back with a flash of white lightning that burns hellish hot through him, making him yelp.

Crowley doesn’t move, remains expressionless behind the glasses, holding still even as Aziraphale cries out and recoils. But now he’s looking at him. Aziraphale’s not wearing anything Crowley’s ever seen him in: beneath the long grey overcoat is a crisp white shirt and a necktie and slacks of muted slate grey. Even his white hair has been brushed flat into carefully controlled waves. It’s sterile and exactly what Crowley imagined. Even the embroidered pattern on the overcoat looks meaningless.  

Eyeing the threshold again, Aziraphale whines, “Crowley, you have to let me in.”

Crowley chuckles darkly. “Done that one too many times, I reckon. Fool me once and all that.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Second coming, I’ve heard.” He’s had enough, Aziraphale is back because he needs help, which doesn’t matter because there was never any reason that would have make him coming back now okay. Not after months of being gone, not after he left in the first place. Crowley stretches like a cat waking up, teases the idea of getting up and then settles back into place. He watches as Aziraphale notices for the first time the state of the bookshop, the dust and the scattered books and the dozens of lush green plants sitting atop them.

“That’s heaven’s plan, isn’t it?” Crowley says. “God’s judgement for all, erased to non-existent oblivion if you’ve ever stolen some bread, or used Her name in vain or any sin, really.” He grips the arms of the chair to stop from propelling himself up and over to Aziraphale, form saying it an inch from his face so he might actually listen. Too late for listening. “Any moment of pride or laziness or gluttony and you’re done for. Seems fair,” he says with a sardonic hiss. “Seems right.”

“Crowley, invite me in, I need to talk to you.” Aziraphale’s pleading but Crowley isn’t falling for it, acutely aware it’s a ploy, a manipulation, just the trickster angel employing the needy tone of voice he’s used for millennia to get Crowley to do his bidding.

“Absolutely not. How dare you even deign to return.”

“If you weren’t waiting for me to come back, then what are you still doing here?”

That makes Crowley pause because he’s worked very hard not to think about that, not to ponder how many centuries he will mope around the bookshop before he flings himself into some far-off corner of space – definitely not Alpha Centauri. He lies: “I wanted to be here when you realized just how catastrophically you fucked everything up,” he bites every word out, letting them trip bitterly off his tongue.

Aziraphale doesn’t look even the slightest bit bothered and Crowley hates him for that. No shame or embarrassment or regret, chin in the air, defiant, which just makes Crowley’s blood boil in his veins.

“You’ve being juvenile about things.” How dare he use that singsong, playful tone with him now. After everything.

He can’t sit still anymore, propels himself up and stalks the half a dozen steps to the door to say it: “Oh, fuck you. You destroyed everything; I’m allowed to be furious about it.”

Aziraphale looks around pointedly, leaning in as close to the bookshop as he dares. “Everything looks quite fine here, although you could have taken a moment out of your wallowing to dust.” It’s cutting, how easily Aziraphale swipes at him. 

Low and warning, Crowley just says it again because it’s easiest now to just stay angry. “Fuck. You.”

Except for just a moment, Aziraphale’s countenance fails, his hands fidget in front of him and Crowley sees past the shimmery white-grey outfit, the flattened white hair, and he clocks the fear and uncertainty in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley thinks he looks astoundingly anguished with his pursed lips and his deadened, defensive eyes, looks like he’s on the brink of collapse, and then that’s gone.

“If you don’t let me in both of our names are going to be scratched from the Book of Life, it could happen any moment now.”

That is a serious threat, but Crowley is still so angry. “Frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“Liar.”

They stand in stalemate, Aziraphale now leaning against the doorframe, waiting, until Crowley asks, “Why would they want to scratch you, Archangel Supreme, Effervescent Warrior-Chief of the Angels, from the Book of Life?” But he is a liar, he does give a flying fuck, perhaps not about himself, but even in his darkest, most wretched hour, he never wished Aziraphale never existed. Just the thought twists tight around his heart and chokes the breath out of him. Never seeing Aziraphale again was awful, but he had made his peace with it. Never having known him at all was unfathomable. Crowley knows immediately that he’s going to give in and help, he doesn’t have a choice.

He clicks his fingers returning the bookshop threshold to normalcy and turns to walk back into the room, trying to get his heart and his skin and his face back under control and hoping Aziraphale doesn’t notice. “Tell me what you’ve done?”

***

The anger simmers just below the surface as Aziraphale explains the second coming and heaven and why he’s back. Crowley sits with his arm across the back of the sofa, skin turned overly warm even though he’s in his thinnest jeans and just a woollen turtleneck. Aziraphale sits primly, still dwarfed by the grey overcoat that he chooses to keep on, in the armchair pulled back from what used to be his desk.

Crowley’s still angry at him for leaving and now also for coming back, he’s livid that he’s being drawn back into something worse than life and death, but that’s nothing compared to how furious he is to have to care about Aziraphale again. He keeps circling back to the idea of him never having existed, that Crowley would never have known him, wouldn’t even know to miss him.

Perhaps, most of all, he’s angry that it’s becoming abundantly clear, that Aziraphale gets it now. He’s returned from heaven cynical and candid, no longer speaking about that place, or the people in it, with any sort of adoration or wonderment, rather like it’s all gone sour on the back of his tongue. He only shows any sort of respect for God Herself, and even that is fleeting and wholly immaterial to their predicament.

At the end of all the exposition, all Crowley can offer is a drawn out, “Wellll…” and then “We’re fucked, basically.”

Aziraphale huffs and silence falls between them. Crowley should just kick him out; the situation is dire, but he has as much chance of fixing it on his own as he does with Aziraphale there. The minutes tick over, the grandfather clock’s second hand audible in the stillness of the room.

Aziraphale’s voice cuts through, quiet and careful, “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt sooner?”

“Excuse me?”

��Why did you wait until I had to leave to say what you said?”

Crowley fights the urge to throw a punch, or at the very least the hardest backhanded slap he can muster. He grips the back of the sofa with one hand and his own thigh with the other and stares Aziraphale down from behind the glasses. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

“Was it because you were scared?”

Crowley stares at him harder, eyes locked, Aziraphale unflinching even though he must be able to feel the crackle in the air, the threat of bodily harm if he continues.

“Was it because you knew that if we started something it would get back to our respective head offices and there would be consequences – ”

Crowley cuts him off with a sneer. “They would have discorporated both of us in an instant, and then hell knows what the punishments would have been. Eternal torture for me, I reckon. And perhaps something worse waiting for you in heaven.”

Aziraphale just nods and folds his hands in his lap. “And then after Adam, when we finally had our own side and no head offices, what about then?” He gives Crowley the chance to answer but he doesn’t. Then, “Were you still too scared?”

It’s like Aziraphale’s needling at him on purpose and if Crowley’s entire being wasn’t burning up he might stop to wonder why. He holds his voice remarkably level: “Fuck you Aziraphale, and I really, genuinely mean that. Was the point of this whole night to come back here and mess with me? World’s ending, book of life, blah blah blah, last chance to go and mock the snake? Has heaven turned you that cruel, that quickly?”

Aziraphale looks taken aback, as though that wasn’t what he was going for at all, but that’s certainly where he hit. “I’m simply asking why you chose to do what you did when I’d already told you I had to go to heaven – ”

“Because when else was I going to get the chance to say it? I wanted to speak first – not that it would have made a difference – because you’d already made up your stupid little mind, chosen heaven, and you were leaving.” Crowley clamps his mouth shut, presses his lips together and casts his eyes up; Aziraphale does not get to see him hurting.  

“And I was wrong,” Aziraphale says softly. “And I – I apologise, I’m very, very sorry Crowley. But I’m back now.”

Crowley keeps staring at the ceiling, hating that he can feel his eyes growing wet. He’d sooner scratch them out than start to cry. He keeps the crack out of his voice, “Don’t suppose any of it matters now. We’ll both pop out of existence sometime soon and this entire conversation won’t have ever happened.”

That should be reassuring, in a way. The pain and misery and heartache are all going to have never existed; no point crying over something that never happened. Crowley levels his gaze back at Aziraphale and presses back harder into the softness of the couch.

Aziraphale looks upset, angry, even, as though he expected something else from Crowley. “I really hate that you left us the way you did,” he says.

And the anger wells up again at the cruelty of him. “If you hate me you can leave. Again. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“That is so unfair – ”

“What’s unfair is that you left me, I told you the truth, and you chose heaven over facing up to that. You chose that shithole and all those arseholes and their bullshit instead of choosing me, instead of staying with me!”

“Because I had to,” Aziraphale snaps. “It was the only way to protect you and I thought, I thought, it was a way we could finally be together. And yes, I was wrong, but staying here, I knew Michael would end up in charge and Michael hates me almost as much as she hates you. If I was up there, I thought maybe I could fix things.”

“You thought you could fix me!” That’s enough, Crowley’s face burns with the shame of it and it’s only made worse when Aziraphale’s face morphs into pity and he reaches for him, shifting forward in his chair and reaching out. Crowley jumps to his feet and stalks straight across the shop floor, between the shelves, hiding pathetically, at least long enough to rake his hands back through his hair and slide his fingers behind his glasses to swipe away the tears that keep welling up and threatening to fall.

Aziraphale follows him, around the back of a shelf and appearing in front of him just as Crowley presses his glasses back against his eyes. “What are you even talking about?”

Crowley wheels around again, turning away with his shoulders hunched up high as he fights the urge to throw himself into the fight of it all. He only takes a few steps forward, into the centre of the shop, poised between the stairs up to his right and the door out to his left, both options promising a billion miles of space to run in any which direction. Except Aziraphale needs to admit his part in this, so Crowley turns back to him, stumbling backwards when he’s right there, brow furrowed and mouth set in a frustrated frown. “You just wanted to make me an angel again, all this time and the first opportunity to make me into precisely what I’m not and you thought that was right.”

“What? I didn’t – ”

Crowley speaks over the top of him, “Oh you did, you said, I’d be restored. That for all you cared for me, needed me, you could get heaven to fix me, to forgive me my sins. That’s what you meant when you say you wanted to save me. You didn’t even want me to be me, and instead of… You just forgave me.” It’s too honest an admission, too much, a weight lifted but just more anger settling in its place. When Crowley blinks, he feels the tears spill, catching in his eyelashes and gathering moist behind the glasses.

“That is not…” Aziraphale takes another step towards him and Crowley stumbles on the edge of the rug as he steps back, now trapped in the alcove with the desk and the armchair and all of Aziraphale’s dusty books. “I didn’t say that.”

“That’s exactly what you said.”

“But I didn’t mean it like that. I wanted you with me to help me. I wanted you with me so we could be us, together… And I didn’t know what you wanted me to say, you were so angry, you just gave up and – ”

“I wanted you to say you accepted me as is,” He didn’t want to have to admit that bit out loud but how could Aziraphale still not know? “I wanted you to choose me, I wanted you to say you loved me. Not that you forgave me, I’m a demon.”

Finally, realisation flickers across Aziraphale’s face, albeit, once again quickly replaced by anger. “But you must know that I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t want you to come to heaven and turn into one of them – “

“Now that you know what they’re like,” Crowley sneers.

“Yes, I mean, no, even before, I wasn’t trying to change you. You knew how I felt about you, and… and honestly, Crowley, I don’t know how many times I can apologise when you are being so wilfully obtuse – ”

“Wilfully obtuse?! And you haven’t even apologised for that particular mistake!” Crowley shouts. “And what am I meant to think, angel? I put all my cards on the table, I’m ready to spend forever with you, but instead you offered to make me your second in command for the literal end of everything and when I said no – for extremely good reason – you fucked off to heaven, anyway. And now you’ve only come back because everything’s gone to shit.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” Crowley snarls. “You’re just back here because you want someone to talk to, someone to solve your problems. You hate that I was honest, that I kissed you, which is just fine because I hate you for leaving me.”

Aziraphale is practically shaking with barely contained rage, defiant in it but also seemingly about to stomp his feet and start screaming for the sake of it. “I do not hate that you were honest, or that you kissed me, and I do hate that I left you, but I am back now and I don’t know what else you bloody well want from me.”

Crowley laughs, miserable and half caught in his throat. “You still can’t even admit you love me!” he challenges, driving the knife into his own heart some more.

Aziraphale roars back: “Well, technically, neither can you!”

That stops everything in its tracks. It’s nonsensical to Crowley for a long moment – of course he loves Aziraphale, of course he does – and it’s unclear what Aziraphale is even getting at. It’s that delay in logical thought that lets Aziraphale say it, voice going soft, still angry, and fiercely honest, “I do, though, I do love you and I think it’s more than anyone has ever loved anything or anyone in over six thousand years. It’s… a lot.”

It punches the air right out of Crowley, square in the guts like a freight train; even though he knew it to be true, he’d given up on ever, ever hearing it. Eventually he takes in a shuddering breath. It doesn’t change anything, though. “I knew,’ he admits, as quiet as Aziraphale now. “I know.”

The anger remains, just beneath the surface, frustration at the world, at heaven and hell and God, pooling and mixing with the abject fear of non-existence and what comes next which provokes the tiniest, most pathetic glimmer of some sort of hope.

Aziraphale watches him, hands balled into fists at this sides. “Do you know, though, really?”

Crowley nods, “I do,” of course he knows but somehow Aziraphale doesn’t seem to believe him, his head shaking just slightly from side to side until it’s not, and he’s nodding to himself, like he’s made up his mind.

"You don’t.” And then Aziraphale’s on him and it’s too much, too fast, and it’s everything.

Aziraphale’s mouth, hot and wet and pressing so insistently at his, hard enough to feel the teeth through their lips and to know he’s stopped breathing. Aziraphale grabs him, rough scratching handfuls of the wool at his chest pulling Crowley into his body and then pushing him back against the desk, catching him there, and then not stopping, pressing up hard and close and Crowley’s forced to slide back, arse on the edge, wood digging into his thighs when Aziraphale step into the gap between them and is covering him completely.

Crowley’s hands searching blindly for purchase on the desk, three books and the plant perched on top of them tumble to the floor and then it takes a split second for Crowley’s body to give in completely and utterly. And then only a second beyond that for Crowley to consciously decide that if this is the moment they’re burned from existence, at least it’s at the very top of their game.

He kisses Aziraphale back, a hand into his stupidly coifed hair, intent on ruining it, and the other wrapping around the middle of his back, hand grabbing at the softer-than-it-looks velvet – he discovers – of the stupid angelic overcoat.

Aziraphale is licking at his lips, increasingly wet and demanding, and not very angelic at all. Crowley chases the touch and closeness, mouth falling open and he can’t help but moan at the feeling of Aziraphale licking inside, searching out the inner heat and slick of his top and then his bottom lip, back again and again and then inside, across Crowley’s teeth and then darting up behind. Aziraphale tastes and smells the way he’s meant to taste this close, the disinfected, bleached smell of heaven dissipating as it’s overwhelmed with earthy, sweet, Aziraphale.  

They kiss raw and open and messy, without any finesse and there’s still a recess in Crowley’s mind that holds onto the anger, and another stuck cornered by fear. Any moment… any moment he won’t just lose this, it will never have happened.

The thought and Aziraphale’s teeth closing around his bottom lip, biting and sucking, pulls a pained whimper from him that he’s never heard himself make before and Aziraphale pulls back, eyes wild, a question there. Are we really doing this?

And Crowley drags him back down. More warm, flushed, heady kisses, too much spit and too many little sounds of surprise and surrender. Aziraphale’s hands eventually find there way up Crowley’s chest to his neck, dipping inside the turtleneck to skirt a thumb over his Adam’s apple, to scratch fingernails across the nape. Around his jaw and into his hair, angling him and guiding him until Aziraphale can pull his lips from Crowley’s mouth and kiss across his cheek, still too sticky-wet and remarkably tender as Aziraphale tilts his face to kiss and then nuzzle at his temple, sucking in the smell of his hair through his nose even as Crowley pants against his neck.

Aziraphale’s hands find Crowley’s glasses and tentatively, he slips them off to reveal Crowley’s amber irises, ignited, glaring, defiant and turned on, his lashes wet and clumped and the skin just beneath his eyes still tear-stained. A soft, gentle, “Oh,” escapes Aziraphale’s lips as he holds Crowley’s face in his hands. “Oh, I never, ever meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry I…” He presses his mouth to Crowley’s temple as Crowley’s eyes flutter closed. Azirapahle presses three small kisses, moving in towards the hollow of his eye socket and then down, ever so careful, kissing at the salt and his eyelashes. Aziraphale’s thumbs press and knead at Crowley’s temples and then he kisses up his nose, from the tip to the bridge to his forehead, and then across each closed eyelid. He traces that path again and again, soft and tender, until Crowley’s left clinging to him, a heavy, hunched weight in his arms, face upturned and revelling in the affection.

When Crowley smiles, easy and open, as his eyes glowing, Aziraphale takes it as his penance served, and returns to Crowley’s mouth. He kisses him deeply, pouring such heart into it that Crowley can almost feel his eyes welling up again. But then, Aziraphale tilts his head, and shifts to kiss from the other side of Crowley’s face, and very quickly, it all stops being tender and soft, and shifts to urgent and hot and desperate.

The unmistakable press and pull of Aziraphale’s tongue in and against Crowley’s, rhythmic and insisting, sets them on the course for more. It bolts straight down Crowley’s spine, out to his fingertips, and into his cock which was already half-hard, but now gives a twitch that he feels reverberate into his thighs. Even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined… Even twelve seconds ago, he thought he would take his chance to kiss Aziraphale until their lips were numb and the sun was high in the sky and then that would be it. That or they’d kiss until they stopped existing.

Aziraphale’s mouth has found his jaw again, no longer content just with wet, warm kisses, he’s biting, raking his teeth along the bone there and then stopping to suck until the blood vessels burst and blossom into marks. It’s pulling needy, downright embarrassing noises from Crowley but he doesn’t have the cognizance to care right now. Instead, he twists his neck to try to give Aziraphale the best access, choking on a moan as his eyes flicker open to catch Aziraphale throwing him a smirk before he latches back on to the spot just below Crowley’s ear and sucks.

Tugging the neck of the turtleneck down, Aziraphale murmurs something displeased, unable to get to enough of Crowley’s skin with the scratchy wool caught between his chin and the column of Crowley’s throat.

As Aziraphale bites another mark into Crowley’s jaw, he murmurs, “You don’t know how much time I thought about this in heaven,” and Crowley arches beneath him.

Crowley had been aware that he was fully hard in his jeans, straining against the denim and dribbling a wet spot into the cotton of his underpants, and now, with the forceful push of Aziraphale’s hips in to meet Crowley’s arch, inching him forward on the desk, he can feel the unmistakable pressure of Aziraphale’s own Effort. It’s equally hard, hot and over-whelming, and, still tripping over thoughts to respond to Aziraphale’s confession, it drags a plea from Crowley, “Fuck, Angel, really?”

Aziraphale kisses the underside of Crowley’s jaw. “I hated it there, almost as soon as I arrived. I missed you. And you’d just kissed me. And so I thought of this, of us.” He tries to kiss down beneath the turtleneck again and growls his frustration into Crowley’s ear when the wool gets in his way. “I wasn’t sure if they would know but I couldn’t help myself.”

Aziraphale’s hands race over Crowley’s shoulders, down his arms and his back, feather-light even through the wool, over his ribs and down to his waist. The material has already ridden up, escaped where Crowley’s jeans have slipped dangerously low around his hips, and there’s a strip of pale naked skin there. Aziraphale’s fingers find it before he pulls all the way back to watch as they caress across, from hipbone to the teasing line of flame-red hair just above the belt buckle. Crowley doesn’t breathe but somehow his belly still trembles, he wonders if Aziraphale can see that the hair grows thicker the further down he goes, that it’s ticklish and painful and burning hot all at once when Aziraphale scratches his nails through it, catching ever so slightly. Surely the unmistakable bulge in his trousers is obvious, too. And he just wills Aziraphale to touch him.  

“I want more,” Aziraphale says, both hands petting back and forth across Crowley’s skin.

“Anything,” Crowley manages.

His hands slip instantly under the wool of the turtleneck, flat to Crowley’s stomach but not wasting any time. Aziraphale pushes them up, over Crowley’s chest and Crowley raises his arms obliging so that the garment can be slipped easily over his head.

Dropping it to the side, Aziraphale looks positively ravenous in the moment he takes to rake his eyes over Crowley’s chest – pale and flecked with red hair, dusky red nipples, and really nothing Aziraphale hasn’t seen before – and then press his whole face into Crowley’s neck.

Biting, licking, blowing cold air just to watch the stretch and tilt that Crowley reacts with, to listen to the sounds he can drag from him. He takes his time but works quickly, finding the spot where he can feel Crowley’s pulse against his tongue before he descends to mouth across one clavicle and then the other.

“My turn,” Crowley growls, only when it’s become a mantra in his head and he can’t stop himself. Aziraphale looks startled, like he was lost in the skin under his mouth. But Crowley doesn’t wait, both hands going to that dreadful, over-starched tie, ready to yank it free and drag it from Aziraphale’s neck –

“Hell, that’s a clip-on!” he’s utterly repulsed and Aziraphale laughs at him.

“I tried to get them to give me a bowtie, or even just a proper tie, but they said this was more practical.” Aziraphale pouts, his lips kissed red and slick, his hair increasingly back to the twisted curls and tufts that Crowley loves. “I think it’s ghastly.”

“Well fuck that then,” Crowley says and then yanks the offending item away, flinging it halfway across the shop. He then sets to work on the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt which he instantly finds over-starched and the buttons, frustratingly, just a little too big for the buttonholes. Two buttons down though, and he can get a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck that draws a sigh of delight. More buttons and he can lean down his chest, burying his face in the white curls and breathing in before he bites across a pectoral muscle and closes his mouth around a pretty pink nipple.

“Jesus,” escapes Aziraphale, all high pitched and breathless as his hands thread into Crowley’s hair and twist.

That hitches Crowley’s breath and he rewards it with his teeth, gently nipping at the skin just beneath. “Blasphemy,” Crowley teases and then shifts to lick across to the nipple on the other side. In some dim corner of his mind, he really can’t believe he’s doing this, that Aziraphale is letting him do this.  

Rather, Aziraphale is asking him to do it, because his hands are still racing tracks across the planes of Crowley’s naked back and his chest and his belly, rougher each time through the descending line of hair there, scratching lines across his belly button on the next pass, and then teasing at the belt with his thumb. And he’s babbling, still coherent and overly verbose, but clearly struggling: “Crowley… Crowley dearest, I… uh – I need you closer.” He pulls his face up to his and kisses him off-centre on the mouth. “I need – ” he keens as Crowley cuts him off with a bite to his lip. “I need all of you.”

“You have me,” Crowley admits, against his better judgement and all rational thought, and as Aziraphale’s hands drop to his belt with clear intent, Crowley’s own start to push back Aziraphale’s already hanging open shirt and the heavy velvet monstrosity of a jacket that lays on top of it.

Except he simply can’t get the garments off Aziraphale while Aziraphale still has his hands on him. Suddenly, the belt buckle springs open and the leather strap that encircles Crowley’s waist is being yanked all the way free and getting to Aziraphale’s shoulders stops being a priority. Crowley’s hands race to the clasp of Aziraphale’s trousers: another blaster button, then another and then a zip. It’s a race with only winners and a scramble of fingers and fabric and Aziraphale’s still trying to kiss him through it.

Then he gets his hands inside Aziraphale’s trousers, pushes his pants down his thighs, letting Aziraphale’s cock fall into his palm and it’s hot and hard and so very right. They should have been doing this for six thousand years. And then Aziraphale’s hand, hot and slick with spit or sweat – it doesn’t matter – has slipped under the waistband of Crowley’s pants and wrapped around his aching erection.

Aziraphale strokes maddeningly slowly from base to tip and Crowley groans out an, “Oh fuck,” as his own grip tightens around Aziraphale.

Aziraphale continues to stroke, too slow and not quite tight enough but still better than any feeling Crowley’s ever experienced. Crowley’s mouth hangs uselessly open in a permanent gasp and so Aziraphale gives up trying to coordinate kissing him and just rests his head against Crowley’s shoulder. Together, they stare down at the complete lack of space between them, trousers still caught, clinging to their hips, their cocks and hands shades of red and pink and pale cream, coarse curls of starkly contrasting hair scratching against each other. “I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmurs, all wonderment and potent pleasure. “I’ve always got you.”

He lets his hand leave Crowley’s cock to twitch between them, catching against the backs of Crowley’s fingers where they’re still wrapped around Aziraphale. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hips and pulls him forward, right to the edge of the desk and it instinctively makes Crowley’s hands loose from Aziraphale’s cock and hip, flung out to grab onto the wood so he can steady himself. His legs come up of their own volition to wrap tight around Aziraphale’s hips. His stupid jeans are still on though, the waistband across his ass cutting into the skin as it’s pulled tight and low, the cold sharpness of the undone zipper framing his dick, uncomfortably tight just below his balls and Crowley has to silently will more give into the material to let him stay like this, wrapped around Aziraphale.

Then their cocks catch between them, lined up perfectly, caught between bellies and scratchy hair and the heat of it all. Aziraphale gives an experimental rock of his hips and it’s glorious if entirely not enough and too dry and at an awkward angle.

And perhaps it’s all too much, too fast. Crowley had given up on ever seeing him again only half an hour ago, had despised him enough to want to never see him again even more recently. And now… now they’re this. Everything and raw and vulnerable and Aziraphale has him.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you for leaving,” Crowley says and somehow he thinks maybe it will come off playful and teasing, but he still regrets it as soon as the words spill out. He’s baiting Aziraphale and for what?

Aziraphale pulls back but his hips remain tightly pressed into Crowley’s, holding him up on the desk. A flash of hurt crosses his vulnerable face and Crowley feels it prickle at his heart.

He wants to take it back, but he can’t, so he just tilts his hips down, rolls them and grinds and tries to get the leverage from his grip on the desk to make them both feel good in some sort of tactile, sybaritic apology.  

Aziraphale chokes on a soft, mewling, desperate sound and then asks, “Do you love me, though?”

Crowley blinks, frozen, feels the heavy breaths being drawn deep into Aziraphale’s belly against him, the coolness of the sweat across his own chest, the thrum and thump of the blood in his veins, all the way down through his cock and right up against the heartbeat of Aziraphale.

He knows. He must know.

“Because you’ve not, technically, actually said,” Aziraphale says.

Oh. “Oh, yes. Yes, I – yes completely – ” He still hasn’t said it, and when he does it’s more matter-of-fact, less romantic than what Aziraphale probably wants. “I love you. I love you entirely, all-consumingly. I’ve loved you since… A long time. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.”

Aziraphale kisses his lips, simple presses, messy and hot with everything that’s come before. “We can work on the forgiveness stuff later then?” And Aziraphale breathes, reaching in between them, hand wrapping around them both and stroking again from root to tip.

“Yes,” Crowley hisses, head falling back for a moment, lax in his relief but his grip on the table and around Aziraphale’s waist still tight, straining. Aziraphale continues to stroke, both of them hard and in hand, haphazard and the pressure relegated more to one side because he can’t possibly make a proper fist around the weight and the heat of them but it doesn’t matter. “Yes, just like that,” Crowley encourages as he brings his mouth back to Aziraphale’s.

Another dirty kiss, sumptuous and slow, just tongues and heavy breathing, grunts and moans as Crowley tries to angle up just right, and Aziraphale tries for the right kind of friction. Unbidden, Aziraphale confesses into the corner of Crowley lips, “I really want to get my mouth on you.”

It draws a new, higher pitched keening cry from Crowley and he’s too close, that could be the end of it except he still wants more. “Next time,” he mumbles, “Next time, I promise,” and he wills that reality into existence.

Aziraphale grunts and his hand retreats, Crowley arches to maintain the friction, lets go of the desk for a moment but almost topples, and then whines to try to convince Aziraphale to touch him again. Aziraphale’s lips leave his and Crowley chases, eyes still closed as he tries to narrow in on the growing pleasure between them – that’s what he wants and he’s gluttonous for it, lusting after it, happily sinful if Aziraphale would just give it to him.

But instead it’s Aziraphale’s fingers on his lips, pushing inside, three of them, and Crowley’s eyes open with a start. “Suck,” Aziraphale says, low and rough in a way that makes Crowley’s balls tighten and his cock throb, a heavy drop of precome pulsing out onto their stomachs.

He sucks, diligently, wetly, refusing to swallow anything until the spit is dripping down his own chin and Aziraphale’s wrist and Crowley’s watching him look absolutely rabid with it. When Aziraphale wraps his hand around them again, it’s slick with precome and Crowley’s spit and from the drag of that first blissful stroke, Crowley wonders if Aziraphale’s miracled up even more slick than he could take from his mouth.

Lips against his, the squeeze and stroke of their cocks together is certainly too much now and Crowley can feel his spine turning to liquid. He can’t kiss, can only breathe and chase the touch with the tilt of his hips and the low, guttural groans escaping his lips.

Aziraphale remains strikingly coherent. “Tell me about next time, Crowley?” and he gives a devilish smile that Crowley can sense against his cheek. “What will we do?”

“Everything,” Crowley manages as Aziraphale’s hand catches just below the head of his cock and twists.

Aziraphale hums against his cheek, begging more.    

“Anything you’ll let me,” Crowley confides, biting the inside of his cheek and then at Aziraphale’s neck to hold himself together.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale says and his thumb slicks across the wetness right at the tip of Crowley’s cock, pressing in on it and swirling it around and then grinning delightedly at the little, involuntary buck of Crowley’s hips.

Crowley breathes out, squeezes his legs around Aziraphale’s waist and he’s so close, he could come if Aziraphale would just let him. “Angel,” he warns.

“I’d let you do anything,” Aziraphale tells him and finally the crack in his voice gives away just how close he is as well. “I want you to take me apart.”

That would have been the end of him except Aziraphale grips the base of them both and then stills. As though he can feel just how close things are, and still wants to drag it out, he unwraps his hand and then and then dances his fingertips up along the damp line of hair to Crowley’s bellybutton. “Tell me about next time,” he demands.

Crowley leaves the mark he’s bitten into Aziraphale’s neck, knowing they can miracle it away afterwards but hoping desperately, that they won’t. He just wants and if Aziraphale wasn’t holding him up against the desk, Crowley’s sure he could have Aziraphale up against a wall or a bookshelf or on the floor. That’s next time, and his hips rock up at the thought. He grabs handfuls of Aziraphale’s arse, his grip under the overcoat but over the fabric of his trousers, and grinds hard against him.

“Next time, everything,” he says and Aziraphale scratches down his chest and grips their cocks together again. He doesn’t move though, stares at Crowley, eyes locked, waiting for the assurance, for a promise.

Crowley licks his lips. “Next time, you’ll let me fuck you, won’t you, angel?”

Aziraphale’s lips fall open and he nods. He starts to stroke again and immediately they’re both shuddering into it, half-aborted spasms of their hips as they both hold taut and try to make the moment stretch but now they really are too far gone, they’re going to come just like this, on a desk, in their bookshop, half dressed, and frantic and not quite forgiven.

Crowley wants to make him come first, though, wants to watch him fall apart, wants that small victory and he can see what his words are doing. Unfathomable reactions from his imperfect, beautiful angel, even as Aziraphale touches him like sin and presses him hard enough into the edge of the desk to leave bruises.

“Next time, you’ll let me open you up with my fingers, you’ll let me take my time, you’ll let me use my tongue.” Aziraphale moans and thrusts up into the fist of his hand, along the length of Crowley’s cock and it makes him stutter. “Or… or maybe you can do all that to me? Next time, or the time after – ”

Crowley doesn’t know how’s he’s still in one piece, the steady leak of liquid from his cock, from Aziraphale’s and now it’s almost too wet, too slick, too hot, too much, the sharp tug and drag of Aziraphale’s hand bordering on pain because he’s been holding himself back for too long, but he needs to take Aziraphale, need to see him fall apart, needs to know it’s just as bad for him.

Crowley arches back, forces his eyes open so he can see Aziraphale, sweating and breathing stop-starting and heavy, chest and cheeks flushed, and one hand working fast over both of them even as the other continues to hold on to Crowley by the back of his neck.

“Look at you, you’re gagging for it,” Crowley reveals before he can stop himself and Aziraphale’s eyes snap open and up and instead of being affronted, he just grins lascivious and shy in equal measure. “My angel and all you want in the world right now is to get those pretty little lips wrapped around my cock so you can swallow me whole and – ”

Aziraphale’s eyes fall shut and he clings to Crowley, hand tightening around them both as his cock spasms and he rocks hard into Crowley’s hips. He breathes out an almost silent ‘Fuck!’ as he starts to come.

And Crowley feels the throb of him, sees him spilling, pearly white, warm and viscous, between them with a look of such deep concentration and bliss painted across his upturned face, and that’s all it takes to push him off the precipice.

Precarious, but worth it, he lets go of the desk with one hand and wraps it over the top of Aziraphale’s, fingers sliding between his and grasping where they’re hard and blood-filled and intimate, tight and hot and sliding as everything inside him breaks like a wave crashing on rocks.

Crowley shudders and chases every last pulse of pleasure, every last twitch from either of them, the back and forth of friction and reaction dragging it out while Aziraphale breathes hot and hitched against his ear and Crowley finds skin to dig his teeth into. They hold there until their hands still, and then their bodies, and finally their breath. Then it’s just Crowley’s hand interlaced with Aziraphale’s around their softening, over-sensitive cocks, and an ungodly mess of spit and sweat and come.

They disentangle slowly, fingers refusing to leave each other’s and their linked hands settling clasped somewhere between their chests. Crowley’s legs unloop from Aziraphale’s back and his feet find gravity and support on the floor even as his jeans slip immediately down to his knees when Aziraphale takes a half a step backwards to give him just enough space to stand in. They lean forehead to forehead and Crowley debates what to do about his pants, about the mess, about the fact that he’s still thinking about Aziraphale’s mouth on him and that that feels like it’s making his blood change direction in his veins.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupts his train of thought which is probably for the best. “I’ll clean us up?”

He mumbles something, finding his tongue heavy and not quite correctly connected to his brain yet, but it must sound affirmative because with a flick of Aziraphale’s wrist, everything is clean and dry and, even though it’s disgusting, Crowley instantly misses it. His jeans have even inched their way back up his thighs, to the point where they can’t make any further headway because Aziraphale’s still pressed too close to him.

With an obvious look of reluctance, Aziraphale steps further back and Crowley catches his jeans and hikes them back up over his hips.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “I think… I hope…. Well, I think we should probably save the earth. And if not the earth, at least ourselves.”

The hanging dread of everything comes crashing back in, but something in Crowley is defiant in having at least experienced this before he’s wiped from existence. Some romantic, irrational part of him even begins to think that the enormity of his love would survive him never having existed. “Yes,” he says in answer to Aziraphale’s hopeful, beaming face, still flushed and his lips kissed red, a scattering of red marks across his neck and chest and two that are already purple. Aziraphale hadn’t cleaned any of that up and it makes Crowley feel ambitious. “But probably the earth as well. I know you like it here.”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says. “And then I think we should talk.”

“Of course.”

Aziraphale’s tucked himself back into his trousers and done up both buttons. His hands find Crowley’s again, clean and smooth, their fingers interlacing and tugging. “Just… I think we can figure this out. I think one day you’ll forgive me, and I promise I won’t ever try and forgive you again.”

Crowley huffs at that, but it’s a foregone conclusion. “I can do better as well,” he admits. “And we will work this out. This and the Book of Life bollocks.” He brings one of Aziraphale’s hands up to his mouth to kiss across the knuckles, immediately turned on again to find them still, ever so slightly smelling and tasting of them both together. Metallic and bitter and filthy and he knows Aziraphale left that there, either for Crowley or for himself and his eyes go wide with the unexpectedness of it. “Just please, please promise we can do this again…” He sucks on a knuckle and looks at Aziraphale through his lashes as he does it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes out. “Yes, most definitely.” Crowley moves to suck at another knuckle but before he can be too drawn into it, Aziraphale’s pulling his hand back with a pout. “Book of life, my love.”

Crowley thrills at the new pet name and tries to keep from preening. “Stop the second coming, save the world, and then lunch at the Ritz?” he asks, shifting to focus on the enormity of the task ahead even as he tries to draw one more smile from Aziraphale.    

Aziraphale gives him a look, a soft little grin and an arch of his eyebrows, a playful warning. “I believe you already know what I’ll be putting my mouth around once all this is taken care of and it is most certainly not lunch at the Ritz. Best get on with it!”

And even though in that moment Crowley’s balks, a choked laugh escaping him as Aziraphale grins, they do get on with it. All of it. Everything.

[willesworld]

angst! angst! angst! fic recs

Okay, so as I was curating my kinky fic recs, I came across a bunch of angsty fics in my bookmarks. So, of course, I decided to create another rec list just for some of my favorite angsty fics. Enjoy!!

Can We Just Pretend? by Scissorsandstone (E, 9.1k)

Summary: He knows that should he be able to keep functioning once this is done, he needs his head to stop. He needs to be rid of this uncontrollable, traitorous emotion that welled up within him that he knew he shouldn't be allowing himself to feel. He tries, futilely, to push it away, all the while knowing deep down that addiction is a disease and right now, the last thing he's looking for is a cure. He wants to be sick. If this is a sickness he would infect himself over and over just for the feeling of letting his body succumb.

A reimagining of the scene where Simon goes to see Wille in his room in S2Ep5 except Simon is a lot more conflicted in this version and things are much less resolved between the two of them.

R/N: Oh my god this fic is SO angsty. I know this is an angst rec list, but this one is epic. My stomach hurt the entire time I read it. It HURTS.

create a storm and bury it deep by paintersong (M, 9.7k)

Summary: The phantom touches haunt him as he tosses and turns, torn apart by the twin flames of grief and anger. Simon’s fingers curled around his waist, tracing trails of light onto his scalp, trembling from his temple down to his neck. The memories burn at the once-holy places on his skin, dragging matches in the wake of Simon’s touch until it’s red and blistered with the pain of what he’s lost.

Wilhelm knows he needs to change. He just needs to figure out how.

R/N: This is such a brilliant, masterful, and heartbreaking character study of Wilhelm over the winter break. I mean, it is so perfect. It perfectly encapsulates how he changes, his motives, and feelings. It is so tragically sad, but also so incredibly beautiful.

a palm to my mouth, I said it, almost by MyArtificalFlowers (M, 35.5k)

Summary: What if August never told Wilhelm he knew Simon was going to the police? In doing so things changed enough that Simon never ended up pulling Wilhelm aside to tell him he loved him. And Wilhelm never changed the speech.

R/N: When I tell you this is one of my favorite fics, I truly mean that this is one of my FAVORITE fics. I adore it. It is so, so angsty. I mean, so angsty. Please read the tags before diving into this one. But it is absolutely incredible and so worth reading.

The Thing in the Mirror by fandom_commitment_issues @zee-has-commitment-issues (G, 3.4k)

Summary: Wilhelm stares at himself in the mirror on the morning of his twenty-second birthday and fights every thought that comes into his head in a losing war. None of them are particularly helpful. None of them make him feel good. He’s pretty damn sure nothing would. Not at this point. They collect in his head and tighten his throat and make him feel sick. - - - Wilhelm turns twenty-two.

R/N: Gah!! The feelings! The love! The hurt! This fic is a delightful exploration of grief years down the road after Erik's death, and how Wille deals with it with Simon at his side. So beautiful.

losing a friend is the hardest part by pysanky (M, 34.6k)

Summary: “Wilhelm, we’re fighting because you won’t listen to me. Everything still has to be on your terms; you haven’t learned how to compromise. And I can’t, I won’t, keep killing myself trying to do everything the way you think it should be done just to keep us together.”

Wilhelm said nothing, just stared at him with a lost expression as the rims of his eyes began to redden. He sniffed quietly and Simon felt his heart break even more, but he didn’t take back any of what he had said. He wouldn’t allow himself to.

(or: in which Simon suggests that he and Wilhelm “take a break”)

R/N: I would not suggest reading this if you're not ready to bawl your eyes out throughout the entirety of the fic. It is GORGEOUS. It is HEARTBREAKING. Simon and Wilhelm have so much development in this fic, and it is truly hard to read and also truly and devastatingly beautiful.

my twisted knife, my sleepless night by paintersong (M, 11.4k)

Summary: Wilhelm was filled with so many things, fear and helplessness, and something new: electric, twisty and dark like an eel, a slithering, sparking anger burning the lining of his stomach, anger that he had never felt on his own behalf, because how fucking DARE they do this to Simon.

Wilhelm hasn’t spoken to Simon in nine months when Simon shows up outside his window in the middle of the night.

R/N: Um, yes, this is such a gorgeous version of what could have happened after season 1. It's actually so good and realistic. Possibly even more realistic than what happened in canon season 2 bahahah?!?!?! Soooo wonderful and ouchy.

Make Me Feel Something by photographer_of_thoughts (M, 25.7k)

Summary: After losing Erik, Simon and his mother - all in various ways - Wilhelm falls into a deep depression. He goes to school. He performs his Crown Prince duties. He breathes and sleeps. But he’s numb. And the possibility that Simon might be falling in love with someone else makes everything worse.

Or, the boys have to go through a whole lot of hurt and healing before they can find their way back to each other.

R/N: Another one of my ABSOLUTE favorite fics. I reread this constantly. Simon and Wilhelm care so much about each other in this fic that it hurts, but it's not enough to save either one of them. And just, the whole story and the relationship between the two of them hurts so good.

she didn't tell me to stop. by fishscalesky (M, 1.6k)

Summary: “I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, so quietly, after his mother left. “It was an accident.”

The words weren’t for her.

R/N: Sigh. So ouchy good. Is it terrible that I love reading depressed Wille??

-

Eh... YES. I love angst. I hope you find something on this list to enjoy!

[adrift-in-thyme]

I know I already posted a fic today but I was on a roll and ended up finishing this one too.

It's my first EPIC/The Odyssey fic yay

Set in the universe of @silvercaptain24's AMAZING fic Son of Poseidon, Child of the Sea (if you're an EPIC fan and haven't read it yet GO READ IT IT'S SO GOOD). Tysm for letting me write this, Silver!!

Fic beneath the cut

CW for descriptions of injury, blood, and death

Water is like a mirror.

He has seen them before, these shards of captured prism. They have lain on the beaches of countless islands, after countless storms of his own making. They have lain there like discarded beads, shining back up at him in the mocking colors of the rainbow. 

Sometimes, they are splattered with the crimson gore the ocean didn’t have a chance to wash away. Sometimes, crystal clear, glinting with blinding strands of bejeweled sunlight.

No matter how damaged, no matter how sullied, they are all the same. Reflecting. Always reflecting.

That is what the sea does too. It traps the images that flit above it, ensnares them, paints them in traitorous color. 

He matches them, those waters he is crafted from, that cover him in foamy waves of silken fabric and bleed into his aching irises. 

Those waters that he breathes and consumes (that consume him more and more each day, that chase away the earthen shades of his hair and eyes — those steadfast browns and streaks of age-adorned silver, that devour his salt-torn flesh, sear his broken mind like ravenous flame).

The leafy emeralds, and stormy grays, and midnight blues, the hues that balance gracefully in between all these — they are the shades he is composed of now. When he looks at the sea, the sea looks back at him.

And he despises it.

It is odd to be certain. The Son of Poseidon should never fear the waters of the vast deep, much less abhor them. Then again, he has never truly been that volatile deity’s offspring, has he?

No, since his awakening in this strange world of familiar unfamiliarity, of mysteries and pain, he has known that this is not where he belongs. 

He feels them often. Memories, recollections of a past he cannot obtain, a past belonging to the nameless, faceless person he knows he once was. They plague him all throughout the burdensome light of day. Only occasionally do they disrupt his sleep. Those vulnerable moments when his eyes slip closed, when his mind relaxes and his will along with it…those moments belong only to Poseidon. The god whispers into oblivion, words he can seldom comprehend, murmurs of plots and plans, shouted commands. Every utterance sets his feet moving…though often not by his own choice.

But the memories, these torturous wonderful things, they haunt every moment he is allowed freedom. They gather at the back of his mind, crowding in, hissing, then screaming that he notice them. That he…

Remember. 

He reaches for them again and again, even while they slide out of reach like scaly fish, shimmering tantalizingly as they slip away.

Remember, they screech, taunting and kind, excruciating and lovely. Remember what you have lost. Remember them.

A babe without a face, beloved, beautiful. His giggles are like the songs of early morning, joy spilling over in rivulets of precious gold, as tiny, chubby hands grasp at a short beard.

A queen with blurred form, graceful and loving and sharp as a blade, more striking than a goddess. She looks at him with a sorrowful smile. He aches to caress her and wipe away her tears.

A woman with the weight of living carved in rivers upon her flesh and hair the same color as his own. A woman with worn hands and a caring touch. 

A man with circular spectacles and eyes that smile. The Son of Poseidon cannot see his face, but he knows that he is kind.

And another man, a brother, stalwart, bold, and strategizing. Fierce is the way he loves. Cold and unyielding are the paths of his intelligence.  

These people, this kingdom of ruin, he knows them. And yet they are as foreign as his own two hands, as unfamiliar as the eyes that gaze back at him from within a haggard visage. 

Their voices pierce him like the pointed ends of a trident, whirl around him like the waves on the sea. Their cries suffocate him, rend him into pieces. 

In their wake, he is nothing.

Not a son of a god. Not a warrior or a princely ruler of this yawning emptiness Poseidon claims is their own. 

He is nobody. Nobody. Nobody. As dense and unsubstantial as the emerald liquid that rushes forward at his beckoning to plunge men into its eager jaws.

It is better, he supposes, better than how he feels when Poseidon invades his mind. For beneath his clawed grasp, he is dangerous, fickle, unrestrained by unspoken rules of mercy and kindness. He becomes someone…but that someone is a sadistic pawn.

He is well accustomed to being the pawn of those more powerful than he. That does not make it any less of a burden to bear.

A weapon and a wraith — those are the roles he fulfills. At least, for the majority of this mindless thing they call life.

With the young boy, with Telemachus, it is different.

Telemachus is unlike anyone he has ever met. He is as gangly and eager as a newly sprouted tree, shooting up toward the sun without heed to where it will go once it breaks through heaven’s gates. His hazel eyes, so similar to those the Son of Poseidon has beheld somewhere, somewhen in the past, are speckled with sorrow well beyond his years. But they are alive, bursting with determination, with youthful fervor and boundless emotion.

He is a garden of bursting bloom, rushing past its careful borders. He is a foal, daring to gallop, a hatchling plunging into the coursing tides. He is a mighty wolf pup, playing at being fearsome, but with a heart as soft as a silken carpet of moss. 

When he comes close, when he touches the Son of Poseidon, when gods forbid he embraces him with that foolish, foolish, and wholly complete trust, he feels, oh he feels.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is more than what his father has made him, his mind has made him. He has a name, wrong though it may seem; he has a purpose, punishable though Poseidon deems it; he has hope, daunting though his tentative embrace of it may be.

Suddenly, terrifyingly, he is loved.

He does not know what he has done to deserve it, if anything (if he is even correct in his assumption about the emotion he detects in those sparkling eyes). But he treasures it. He holds it close and he wraps it in layer after layer of armor until none can take it from him.

Not even the God of the Seas. 

He takes that love and, clumsily, awkwardly, fiercely, he offers his own in return. 

He shouldn’t, though.

Your love is dangerous, something whispers, a part of himself not even a deity can bury. Your love is deadly. 

Anyone who gets close to you is a corpse walking.

And so he tries to restrain it, tries to quash it, hide it from the light in which it flourishes. But then, Telemachus will come, all smiles and laughter and will point out the stars above them, or boast of his mother’s strength, or tell tales of his “harrowing” adventures with the family dog. 

He will come and he will stand close, so close their shoulders touch. And a smile will tug on the Son of Poseidon’s lips. His heart will soften anew.

“You remind me of him, Zael,” Telemachus says, one day when they are resting on the deck of Diomedes’ ship staring up at the constellations. “Sometimes, I look at you and I see him. Or what I think he looks like.”

Telemachus lifts his head from where it had rested on his shoulder and turns to him. In the boy’s eyes is that same vulnerability he has seen in those shards of glass. Something precious, something perilous, something lovely. 

“I look at you and I see Odysseus. My father.”

The other words are clear as crystalline waters. Yet, the name ushers from his lips slurred and nearly incomprehensible. It burns all the same, burns like Poseidon’s fury, like the blood that coats his hands, like the memories that vie for his attention and never come forward to receive it.

“I am not him.” 

The words come out and the Son of Poseidon hardly realizes that he speaks them. He can feel nothing save for agony and horror. Fear that Telemachus has just done something he shouldn’t have, jostled a thought that should never be touched. A thought that is sharper than his father’s trident, more broken than the bodies of those he has slaughtered.

“I’m not your father. I beg of you not to place false hopes on someone such as I.” He thinks a tear slides down his cheek, its trail harsh and heated. It is difficult to tell. All liquid feels the same. “I am no one, Telemachus. Believing me to be someone would only lead to disappointment.”

“Of course!” Telemachus nearly sets a hand on his arm, then seems to think better of it. He pulls back. “Of course, you aren’t him. I know that! I wasn’t trying to…” He shakes his head, seeming to attempt and compose himself. “I apologize. I should’ve kept that to myself.”

The worst of the pain slips away, carried by a mighty wave. Remnant aches cling to him, like ghostly strands of seaweed. The Son of Poseidon heaves a sigh. 

“Think no more on it.” He grasps Telemachus’ hand, tries for a smile. “You did not cause any harm.”

The shattered grin the lad gives him in return hurts almost as much as the sound of that name. 

…

It takes a bit for Telemachus to relax again, even longer for him to drift off. When he does, he is slumped on the man whom he named after the sea, mouth slightly agape, cheek moving up to crease his eye. The Son of Poseidon spreads his cloak over the boy’s shoulders. He brushes his knuckles against his cheek. And he wonders why that action feels infinitely more familiar, more real, than those words of defeat had when they left his mouth.

[masteremeraldholder]

rant of epic proportions below

i have been reading reviews for old(er) books that deal with queerness, and so many ppl, primarily young(er) ppl, have the ideology that "we should just forget this book bc it uses outdated terms, is explicit about sex, is vulgar, and/or is not how queer folks express themselves now." and!! i'm appalled by the blatant privilege and lowkey ignorance y'all have!! putting y'all whole chest in it too!! like yr opinion is yr opinion but god would it kill you to, idk, try and put yrself into the sociopolitical context the author wrote the work in? a context that probably still exists today but you chose to ignore in your privilege. essentially, have reading comprehension!!!!!

something i've been thinking about a lot lately is that purity culture is going to make ppl so.. illiterate and unable to read books critically. bc in yr mission to boycott all works that are "problematic" or "bad", you'll create a populace that can't talk about these issues for fear of being cancelled. for fear of being deemed "problematic" and "bad".

you can even see it in fandom!! purity culture is fucking rampant in fandom!!! and i'm not gon lie and say i wasn't guilty of it at some point. it's weird to say it, but i have matured from the kid i was in the past. matured enough to see the purpose of explicit works in fandom, to even be someone who reads it and (poorly) writes it. same for dead dove fics. like, really sit and think about it. just how freeing it is!!! and i find it greatly ironic that on the anti-censorship, pro-liberal site that you guys are some of the most restrictive butthurt policing mfs outchea!!

ex. "i like THIS ship not that one bc that one is abusive and problematic and if you like it you are a terrible human being and i hope you fall off a cliff and die." yes. you can be harassed over something that is not real, and they'll tell you to kys in the process bc "think of the children!!!" y'all sound like conservatives, deadass.

but then, i can't say i agree with how many ppl blindly support ao3 and continue to throw money at them while ignoring other sites like wikipedia and internet archive that are just as important. esp when ao3 can't even make a firm statement on AI use in fics--WHY!!!!!--or crack down on the many racist/slave fics i've encountered. the good folks at "stop-otw-racism" have a simple enough fix; a warning for racist content akin to warnings for violence and rape/non-con. but this is very difficult to do for some reason 🤨

on that note, tagging is such an important part of ao3, allowing ppl to curate their experiences, and i'm shocked that some people just do not use them? how do you expect ppl to find yr works!! let alone filter them if they're not what someone wants to read.

phew. word vomit. this was supposed to be about reading comprehension!! idk what happened 🙃

[alectoperdita]

Hey Alecto, I was wondering if you had any fic recs for me! I saw some puppyshipping art before where Seto was an emotional wreck/breaking down and it has me in a chokehold. Do you know any good fics that have something like this? 👀👀

Hi, sorry this took a bit! I had to scour my memory and AO3 bookmarks and tags for a while. But I've returned with a handful of fic recs that fit your request here! These are all puppyshipping fics since that is 99% of what I read, hahah.

(And I'm guessing the fanart you saw was @ladydraculena's recent art. Either way, y'all should check it out because it's gorgeous!)

So here is a list of fics featuring Seto breaking down in tears as an, at least somewhat, significant part of the plot. Mind the warnings on some of these.

---

Love Dares Greatly by Lafeae [Rated T, post-canon]

A hit and run leaves Jounouchi comatose, with the fear that he may not regain consciousness. Kaiba, at the same time, is in the middle of developing a new game device that allows for interfacing between players when they are asleep. The suggestion is made that he could use it to pull Jounouchi out. But for two years, Kaiba has managed to keep everyone from saying a word to him about Jounouchi Katsuya. Two years since he has argued with Mokuba, forbidding even his little brother the utterance of the name in his presence. Two years since he has moved on from a messy and public break-up. Will this new circumstance pull them back together?

I cannot recommend this enough. I cannot recommend any of @lafeae's fics enough! This one is epic-length, 100k+ words, so the breakdown moments are sprinkled throughout the fic, but believe me, it's worth every moment of your time.

---

Preferable Reality by Lafeae and MistressArafax [Rated T, post-canon, *major character death* and suicidal ideation]

Life is fragile. Delicate. The daily routine can change in an instant, shaking the foundations of the world, leaving those left behind fragmented and broken. When tragedy strikes, how can Kaiba cope? How can he move on? How can he possibly mend his shattered reality?

A somewhat ensemble fic, but Kaiba's grief over Joey's death is a major part of the narrative.

---

Their Hearts Were Soldiers Who Never Found Their Way Home by Five_seas [Rated M, post-canon, *character death but it's not Kaiba or Jounouchi*]

Defying death shouldn't be easier than living as your true self. And yet, somehow, it is.

Kaiba grieves the sudden death of an old friend, and Jounouchi is there at the right place and time to help him through it.

---

Limits Approaching by BDEblueyeswhitedragon (BDEblueyes) [Rated T, post-canon]

It took years to get them together. Only months to break them apart. Can one night solve all their problems?

Kaiba and Jounouchi's marriage is going through a rough patch. Just as Jounouchi has finally gathered the courage to propose divorce, he sees something that might change his mind.

---

Roses & Starlight by BDEblueyeswhitedragon (BDEblueyes) [Rated T, post-canon]

It's Mokuba and Shizuka's wedding reception. Kaiba needs a moment to himself. Jou follows.

Short and sweet. Kaiba breaks down a little after Mokuba and Shizuka's wedding.

---

This list is by no means complete. If anyone knows of any other fics that fit this criteria, please send them to the OP!

[actuallysaiyan]

* this is an accurate full representation of current state that has fallen upon this poor desperate hopelessly romantic person *

B a c o n Dearie ! (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠) ♡

I had finally the chance (thank goodness) to read your beautiful, astonishing Mafia!Toshi x Reader and OH MY HEAVENS ! I was elated, giddy, happy and then crying copiously after getting back to a state of joyous bliss ! In the pit of Despair!

To resume this state of ascension and descension throughout your beautiful writings, delicate description of scenery and emotions, I went from the Highest of Paradise to the Pits of the 9 Circles of Hell (that Dante so much prides about in his epic poem), in three Chapters! How dare you ?!? Someone will have to pay my therapist for this damage of skillfully woven story, your brilliant talent and imagination !

You nuked me !

I haven't words enough to describe how this made me feel, I just wanna run over to that tall hunk blonde of a man and punch him ! (with my lips of course).

Oh my Dearie this is seriously devastating beautiful! How could you make me fall for another blonde man ! The audacity of this ! I am head over heels with their love (a tad jealous too, but oh well).

Bless you laddie for writing this !

* Another graphic accurate description of poor me, if you allow me to virtually hug you. Yes me Gimli version hugging you and saying these exact same words. *

I suggested myself I should imbibe copious quantities of alcohol after this. Jk. But figuratively I am mentally doing that.

Thank you so much for sharing your Wonderful stories and soul with us ! Thank you for being here. (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

A little flower bouquet for you too !

Hail Bacon ! ✧⁠*⁠。

I don't even have the words to say how much this makes me so happy. My heart feels so full right now. Truly, I am blessed to have you as a friend.

Writing the Mafia Toshi was so much fun. It just started out as this little blurb in my mind since me and @kentocalls talked about it a lot(you should check out her mafia Toshi fics, they are sooooo good!!) we discussed it so many times and really I just had this little idea and it sort of evolved from that point on.

And I kept listening to some very inspiring French music and it was all just playing out in my head and the more I wrote, the more I was having fun with it. It was the first fic in a long time that I wasn't really writing for anyone but myself and yet I am so so so so so happy it was able to touch others.

Thank you dearly for your sweet words. I'm so so so so sooooo happy you liked it this much. And I promise, this isn't the end for the Mafia Toshi. Believe it or not, but I've got a few more ideas rattling around in my mind for those two!

[creativewoodelf]

Introduction Post: CreativeWoodElf 🏹

(⚠️BEFORE YOU READ: If you are here to ask for donations, I am unable to donate and I will not answer any asks/messages/comments/reblogs etc. nor will I follow any accounts related to donations)

(Now with that said and done...)

Greetings, fellow traveller of Tumblr, it seems your searches have brought you to my little cove of the internet

My (pen)name's Dairenyl, but you can just call me Dai if that makes it a bit easier - I know the name's a bit unusual, so it doesn't bother me if you prefer to shorten it. My Tumblr is the home of my art - I am both traditional and digital, but you're more likely to see digital here.

DNIs

Before we continue, allow me to list the DNIs before continuing. Nothing too strict (I would hope).

| Sexists | Racists | Homophobes | Pedophiles (Or Pedophilic Shippers) | Porn/Sex Blogs | Just Assholes Overall | Under 13s (You should not be on Tumblr in the first place) |

If you do happen to fit one of these categories, take this as your cue to leave now. If you choose not to listen, well, don't blame me when you wind up blocked. If you don't fit one of these categories, then you are more than welcome to continue :)

Some Miscellanous Info About Me

I'm an Aries

I like to read (Both Original and Fanfiction)

I'm a fanfic writer on AO3

I'm a shorts editor on Youtube

I'm an Irish/Australian

My Sona is a Wood Elf

I'm Panromantic (Asexual)

I'm genderfluid

What Will I Answer from my Asks Inbox/Messages?

I suppose the easier way to answer this question is what I won't answer from my asks inbox/messages:

| Requests for Donations | NSFW | Writing Requests Revolving Your/Other People's OCS | Child/Animal Gore |

Not too many, really, but if I do find something else that I don't want to see in my asks/messages, I will add it here. But if it isn't listed above, there's a good chance it's okay 👍

What are my Fandoms?

📜Elder Scrolls (Oblivion + Skyrim)

⚔️EPIC: The Musical

🍕Five Nights at Freddy's

❤️‍🔥Hellaverse

🐉How to Train Your Dragon

🕸️Spiderverse

You may also occasionally see content from other fandoms such as PJO, Arcane, TADC and (when I finally watch it) Murder Drones. Additionally, I may post some of my own original characters from time to time.

One thing I will say about my art/fics is that they will not always be 100% accurate to original lore. I am aware of this already - do not point this out me. I'm here to have a good time, not to make everything as accurate to lore as possible. (This applies mostly to my EPIC, FNAF and Elder Scrolls designs)

I do not mind polite criticism to an extent, but I draw the line when you attempt to correct my designs and tell me how my art is meant to be done. You don't like the way I draw/design characters? There are plenty of other blogs here on Tumblr

What Are Some Other Favourites of Mine?

Some Favourite Characters:

| Telemachus | Hermes | Tiresias | Bonnie the Bunny | Glamrock Freddy | Circus Baby | Husker | Lucifer | Stolas | Asmodeus | Inigo the Brave | Valka | The Night Lights |

Some Favourite Music Artists:

| Alessandra Mele | Jorge Rivera-Herrans | MICO | Troy Doherty | POESY | Janani K. Jha |

Some Favourite Youtube Creators:

| CrazyCae | Clawed_Beauty101 | Matt Rose | Tiaandherfairytale | EnchantedTalesByMe | Fabyx_ (I_ship_Stolitz) | Tw!sted_Creat!ons | Aulith | JustMeegz |

Where Else Can I Be Found?

AO3 📖

Youtube ▶️

Wattpad 📚 (I don't post here anymore, I've only left the link here in case of the coincidence you somehow run into me here so you know I'm not fake)

Well, this is starting to get long, so I'll leave it there for now. If something changes, I'll be sure to update here. If you wish to continue scrolling through my blog, go right ahead. If this is where you'd like to stop or leave, I understand, too. Have a good timezone, and remember to drink water - believe it or not, it tastes good 🌊

(Any and all dividers/headers used in my posts are made by @saradika-graphics unless specified otherwise)

[athena-xox]

Hi! I've been wanting to send asks for a while but couldn't think of a good question until recently.

I have three questions (or perhaps I should say headers).

One: How's your rewrite progressing? At what stages is cannon altered? Are there going to be concepts/characters ignored entirely?

Two: I've seen your (humorous) plea for long/multi chapter eah fics what are some of the favorite's you've read already? Any chance you have an idea of your own outside the rewrite? long or short (chances are yes, for literally anyone in this fandom but it bears asking).

Three: What fairytale(s) would you

A: Like to repeat

B: Could functionally thwart if you had to live through it.

C: Die in, or flee the land to avoid at all cost's.

Omg love the questions. I will admit I’m a bit to brain dead to fully comprehend all the questions so if I answer I different question that what you intended feel free to correct me.

With that being said, the first chapter of my rewrite is done and basically fully edited I believe it’s around 6000/7000 words. Chapter two hadn’t been edited but it’s kinda a weird one so it doesn’t really need to be edited and it’s only around 2000 words.

Chapter 3 I’ve written a bit of it and it’s also a short and I have a layout for it. And chapter 4 is going to be on the longer side probably 6000-10000 words. But after those are done and edited hopefully I’ll publish the fic!!

So that’s the progress, for what parts of canon are being altered, I think a lot of characterization. Bunny, Alistair, Crystal, Milton Grimm, Snow White & EQ are all characters who were either portrayed as good or morally grey that I’m going to make evil (whoops spoilers) and then also kitty isn’t really going to have a redemption arc like she did in spring unsprung, she’s just going to continue to chaotically be herself.

And then just every plotline / character will just be slightly more mature and in depth. And it depends on how you see canon because the rewrite is going to be a mix the tv series + the books which vary a bit on canon. And then obviously a lot more queer representation.

I wouldn’t necessarily say that the epic winter arc is being disgraced but it’s going througu many changes. I’ll probably get ride of the whole through the woods concept because it doesn’t really add anything to the plot (although I am adding a musical that doesn’t really do anything for the plot except allow be to geek (theatre kid) out and give us some cute dizzie moments).

I really want to include her but I don’t think there’s going to be any room for Bella sister. Other things from canon that I’m not including is darise, Meeshell being a horrible singer, DARABELLA, Maddie having visions, the snow king, cupids crush on dexter, the revealer rays, probably lots more but I can’t think of them.

Onto the next question I definitely have some fic recs. I’ll probably make a separate post for it but my top 2 are rewrite ignite restart and a legacy of brambles and thorns.

I think the reason why I’m actually commuting to the rewrite is because it’s really the only eah fic I want to write since I plan to hopefully cover all the characters and ships I like. In my past fandoms I’ve had like 20 different fics I wanted to write but I never got a around to all or them.

Oh wait actually I guess I have one idea but I doubt I’ll ever write it since I want to focus on the rewrite. But during my transition stage from the mlb fandom to the eah I was thinking about an au. Either the eah characters with miraculous’s in the real world or mlb characters at ever after. 

Okay and for the last questions im assuming you’re asking which fairytales I’d like to 1. Be a part of 2. Don’t want to be a part of and I could stop it 3. Would have to run away from ?

1. When I was little I had the yearbook thing that had you create your own eah character and I always wanted to be a princess so I made myself goose girl

2. Definitely wouldn’t want to be like Jack in the beanstalk so I just wouldn’t take the beans

3. Sleeping beauty was my fav when I was younger so I definitely wouldn’t want to have Faybelles destiny. Or be an ugly sister, that would kill my self esteem (no wonder Bella and Brutta ran away)

For the last 3 questions I wasn’t sure if you were asking all abt me or if any were for my rewrite.

Anyways tysm for the ask !!

[seyaryminamoto]

Fic-to-Art #35: Sokka leads the charge into Ba Sing Se

Here's my monthly artwork! The prompt this time was a scene that excited the readers quite a bit, and it seems that Sokka's big campaign on Ba Sing Se was the idea everyone liked best! This isn't really the best rendition I could've hoped to do, but unfortunately time constraints didn't allow me to go much further. Hope it's good enough like this anyway!

I still don't particularly thrive in drawing animals, but we needed Foo-Foo in this artwork, haha. I hope he looks as cool as he should! As for Sokka and his cool helmet, I'm sorry, I have a hopeless case of forgetting-the-helmet-itis so I never seem to recall to put it on his head. Oops :'D

Anyway! I'm not even sure what else to say, haha. Hope you guys like some epic Sokka!

If you'd like to be part of the creative process behind these pieces, a $1 pledge on Patreon makes you eligible for suggesting and voting on monthly art prompts, as well as reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before the next chapter is released!

[solsticelosthermind]

"10 people I'd like to get to know better!” tag game

Tagged by the lovely @lalaurelia

Last song: you're going down by sick puppies

Fav color: Is black a cop out? I tend toward black, silver, blues, greens, purples.

Last book: Last 'real' book I think was Red White and Royal Blue tbh, but the fic I'm reading right now is still The Path to Paradise by roadtripwithlucifer. I should maybe get back in the habit of reading not-fic, huh?

Last movie: The stop motion Rudolph.

Last TV show: I really don't watch things lmfao so—BSD. Uh. Like a year ago? I should rewatch…

Sweet/savory/spicy: ah, I like sweets and then savory, although I'm doing better with spices. That might be because I can't really fucking taste a solid half of the time. Weird side effects of the Lyme meds, apparently.

Relationship status: Been with the same person for 20 years. Fully intend to annoy him until we die simultaneously because he's not allowed to leave me alone lmao

Last thing I googled: Clint Barton's height bc I couldn't remember how tall he is past Too Fucking Tall.

Looking forward to: when the kids' "we have new video games" obsession scales back enough for me to play the paper mario game they gave me without getting epic sad eyes for using the damn screen

Current obsession: Shin Soukoku. Just. Putting them in my teeth like they're made of taffy.

Tagging, if they'd like to play: @roadtripwithlucifer @aconfusedkitten @frankenjoly and whoever wants to join, don’t let a tag keep you out! <3