#hands galore

[spookky-aint-spooky]

Debating on finishing this

before you ask nO IT IS NOT A SHIP

[annaberunoyume]

(Lets myself be embraced by those big soft hands)

hey man

[sun-snatcher]

Your take of Círdan being an old man who enjoys pestering people is my absolute fave bc yeah if I was the oldest elf alive I'd be a little shit half the time too for funzies

( credits to the lovely @peregrintook for this beautiful gifset ! )

✵ — WATER-DAMAGED!

summ.  Elrond arrives at Círdan’s workshop. He finds his heart instead. or:  The Herald and the Artisan fall in love. pairing.  elrond peredhel / f!reader  w.count.  1.2k (a lil baby!) a/n.  set in s2e1, friends-to-lovers kinda , fluff galore , mutual pining , Círdan being a thirdwheel (but highkey enjoying it because he’s a little shit like that)

       YOU’RE QUICK TO attempt to bundle Elrond up like a child when he’d arrived. 

Frantic, almost, at the sight of Lindon’s renowned Herald— drenched to the bone, head-to-toe, and dripping river water from his mess of curls, leaving puddles and a wet track wherever he went on the stone of the workshop.

“He’s not here yet,” is what you’d said, when he’d urged you for Master Círdan. The shipwright had gone off to appraise proper timber for the frames of the vessels prepared for Valinor, now that High King Gil-Galad has decreed preparations to set sail. 

“But he should return by nightfall, latest. So will you please sit down, Elr—”

“I cannot,” he overrides, wholly unconvincing through the chatter of his teeth. “You’ll be at risk if I stay.”

You blink. “…From who?”

“I—”

In the distance, a horse whinnies. 

Elrond tenses instantly.

“…Are you— hiding?” you realise, as he springs to his feet to make headway for the sidedoors. “Elrond, wait!”

“Thank you, truly, for your kindness, but I cannot allow the King’s Guard—”

“That was just Silef,” you say incredulously, muscling the door back shut and stubbornly standing in his way. “My mare, remember? From the stables just uphill?” 

A pause. 

He listens with pricked ears: gates of a stable door squeaking; hooves clopping from paddock ground onto pasture grass; the sound of grain and feed being chewed on, after a moment's pass. A notable absence of marching Elven armour and feet stamping its way downhill towards him. 

Just Silef. You’re right. He’d been paranoid. 

“Á quildessë, Elrond,” comes your quiet voice, gentler now as you chase to meet his anxious gaze. “I will make sure no one comes into this workshop, unless it’s Master Círdan himself,” you assure, resting your hands on his forearms. “Just please, sit down. You’re shaking.” 

…He is. He hadn’t even realised. 

It might have been adrenaline, or the bite of the cold from wind and water— but he’s trembling, nonetheless, like a leaf. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, much, much later, when you’d stoked the coals of the workshop hearth to life, and set him upon a wooden seat beside it.

From the open foyer of the atelier, the sea-reflected hues of the setting sun does little to hide the tentative worry in your features. Your voice is as gentle as the lap of tidewater. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I shouldn’t have… barged in.” 

I shouldn’t have involved you in the first place, and put you at risk for treason for harboring a dissenter.

The firelight paints your face in soft, flickering licks of ochre as you tenderly dry off the dampness in his hair, the water trickling down his face. “You were afraid,” you reason generously.

(You don’t tell him that he looks adorably… pitiful. With eyes like that of a kicked puppy, almost. Even worse that he looks half-drowned.)

Elrond doesn’t argue. You’ve always been a kind friend to him. So, so kind. Ever-ready and steadfast to extend an olive branch, impervious to tactlessness, or even offence, from the sheer tenacity of your patience. Elrond has always admired you for it. Elrond has always—

Liked you. Cared. Loved.

(Too much to allow himself to let you get caught in this tangle he’s been forced into.)

He lays a hand over yours, and you pause mid-wipe of a droplet down his lined jaw. His eyes are shut briefly, as if falling into the comfort of your touch— candid indulgence. It makes your heart stutter.

That you’re allowed a quiet moment to admire him this close, so much so you can see the rings of sundering blue in his eyes; or to touch him this affectionately, so much so you could feel the very change of temperature on his skin— 

You think you’ve been blessed with a handsome vision by the Valar themselves.

“You must be curious,” he says, voice a low murmur. His palm swallows yours entirely. His fingers are warm by now. (You shouldn’t notice such details— but you do. You’re an artisan, after all. Or perhaps hopeless romantic is a better suited term?) “But this is beyond even me.”

He slides your hand down, much to your dismay, and uncurls the pouch he’s been clutching onto since he arrived. Now that it’s infront of you, there’s a pull to it you can’t quite understand.

You reach, almost too keenly— 

—but you close his fingers around it instead.

If Elrond had shown any surprise, you didn’t notice. 

“Must be why you’ve sought out Master Círdan,” you muse, looking up at him. “If it’s beyond you, it’s most certainly beyond me, a mere shipwright’s apprentice.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” Elrond adds quickly, realising how he must have come across. 

“I know,” you laugh, before he can take off into a tangent. (It’s bright and musical to Elrond’s ears— thinks if he could drown in its sound, he would have done so willingly.) “You forget I know you.”

Not entirely, he doesn’t say. You don’t know how much my heart sings to be near you. How much your presence— or the very thought of you, even— have always brought comfort to me. 

You don’t know how much I’ve been resisting the urge to kiss you since you first sat me down by the fire.

He feels a little smile coming, the kind he couldn’t help, that would light his whole face whenever he cast his gaze on you. “You do, don’t you?” he whispers, voice sinking into something almost— nostalgic, at the sudden unravelling of old memories shared with you throughout the age.

“Well, when it comes to Kingdom politicians…” you shrug teasingly. “As much as I’m allowed to be privy to.”

He barely laughs, too busy looking at you with rapt, reverent attention. It curls a timidness in your heart. “You are allowed all of me. Always.”

Something takes wing in your chest. Butterflies, maybe. Doves taking flight in your ribcage. 

As are you, to me.

At least, that's what you would’ve said, had your ears not caught the distant clop of hooves headed downwind towards the river edge. “Master Círdan is here,” you say instead, diverted. You recognise the huff of his steed anywhere.

You watch Elrond perk up and tune into the approach: the rustle of saddle and stirrups, the shuffle of robes and footsteps. When the doors squeak open and shut, the Kingdom’s shipwright finds the Kingdom’s herald standing in the heart of his own workshop.

“Elrond,” he says, by way of greeting. There’s naught a hint of surprise in his voice— Círdan had felt a call louder than the sea long before he’d arrived, and now he can understand it’s carried in the herald’s charge. “Have you come to seek a certain apprentice of mine?” he asks, regardless.

It’s playful. Knowing.

“He seeks you, Master Círdan,” you answer politely, rounding from the corner where you’d grabbed your spare pelerine cloak to pass to Elrond. “Here, to keep warm.”

“Thank you.”

You bow your head to them both. “I shall be at the lighthouse just across.”

Your fingertips brush against Elrond’s hand as you leave. It tarries; merely a millisecond— enough, however, for Círdan’s keen eyes to catch— before he watches you depart through the sidedoors to give them the privacy they needed. 

Elrond's hand flexes reflexively. Longingly.

A beat passes.

“…Are you sure it is still me you seek?” Círdan muses, brows shot to his hairline.

The tips of Elrond’s ears burn. 

[cry-ptidd]

"And she had brown eyes like a lamb, innocent and golden"

[drh-j3kyll]

And you'll be WONDERFUL too!

Lil sneak peak at the full page of fanart I'm doing for @h7jfangirl 's tgs wonderland au grahhjugvjhf💥💥💥💥💥

[mrghostrat]

raarrraaaaar i'm real excited for the next chapter of bnf with more ace talk 😭 i share all the ace and intimate scenes with another ace friend for sensitivity, and even they're a bit 🤯 over the way crowley's described some things about himself, so i can't wait to see how y'all find it (allosexuals and especially all the folks commenting '......huh i might be ace'), and if there's anything you can take from it!

[galaxiar]

speedran this in 18 mins

got a lil lazy with mallow but it's like 11pm I'M TIRED OKAAAYYY

[jalapainio]

As I've been reading Comics, I've slowly been assembling a Batman readthrough Timeline, which encompasses the full scale of Batman. So far, I have only gathered the first ten years. I put the canonized Comics in Trade Paperbacks, as they sometimes throw in an extra issue or two of another comic run and it is easier for me to keep track of them that way.

Here it is! The ultimate Batman Timeline (years 1-10)

Batman Year 1: 21 year old Bruce (first of many soft head cannons) becomes Batman. Many early villains of Batman pop up, including Joker, Catwoman, Mad Hatter, Riddler, and Calendar Man. Canonized Comics include Batman: Year One, Batman: The Brave and the Bold, and Batman: Zero Year.

Batman Year 2: This year is dedicated entirely to the Long Halloween, which also introduced Poison Ivy, Solomon Grundy, and most famously, Two-Face. Canonized Comics include Batman: The Long Halloween.

Batman Year 3: Much like Year 2, Year 3 is dedicated to its sequel, Dark Victory. In it, a new serial killer known as the Hangman has started killing cops in Gotham. This year sees the end of the classic Mafia in Gotham, and ten year old Dick Grayson being taken in by Bruce Wayne. While he does put on the Robin colors and even goes out with Batman, he is not Robin just yet. Canonized Comics include Batman: Dark Victory.

Batman Year 4: This year gives the main focus towards training Dick. We can also assume that the Justice League, or at least a version of it, has been formed during this year. In addition, Killer Croc is introduced. Canonized Comics include N/A (seriously, I need something here. Anyone rec a solo Batman story that might fit in here?)

Batman Year 5: While most of the year is like the one above, a calm year for Batman, at the end of year, 12 year old Dick wears the Robin suit for the technically second time. He is the one who makes his suit, angry at Bruce for forcing him through constant training as a stall to prevent Dick from going out. Canonized Comics include Robin and Batman.

Batman Year 6: Dick goes through his next big villain during the spring of this year, facing off against Two-Face. After a brief moment when he is fired as Robin, he returns to the Cape, this time with a new perspective on his role. Canonized Comics include Robin Year One.

Batman Year 7: Dick, while working with Batman, notices Bruce's strange behavior. Collaborating with his other teen heroes he met in Year 5, he figures out that the entire Justice League is acting weird! Together, the five (Robin, Speedy, Kid Flash, Aqualad, and Wondergirl) team up and work together to take down the Justice League! They called themselves the Teen Titans. Canonized Comics include Teen Titans: Year One

Batman Year 8: Barbara Gordon, 17 years old and an accelerated graduate of College (she has to be not on a normal track, or else her entire relationship with Dick would just be so weird) puts on a bat themed costume to spite her father, and ends up going against Killer Moth. Batgirl, as she's newly christrained, is supported by Robin (but not Batman) to become a superhero. Firefly takes up the costume with Killer Moth, and Batgirl takes them down. Canonized Comics include Batgirl: Year One

Batman Year 9: Batman and Superman work together to defeat the Devil Nazha, which ends up with Dick being stuck in time. Bruce rescues him, and the rest of World's Finest goes on. Canonized Comics include Batman/Superman World's Finest: Devil Nazha, Batman/Superman World's Finest: Strange Visitor, and Batman/Superman World's Finest: Elementary.

Batman Year 10: 17 year old Dick and the rest of the Teen Titans fight off a rabid cult of fans! Canonized Comics include World's Finest Teen Titans.

[ginoeh]

Dancer!Dream from @delta-pavonis ' fic Find Me in Your Rhythm on AO3! The gold bangle shirt was inspired by this post from @karalynlovescake

(Got a tiny bit derailed while trying to learn how shading works. So worth it lol)

[vasiliquemort]

"Fell deeper, then – gentian gaze flickered out of sudden, and by tracing ravenously gardens and the depths of sunfull mists he was so birdlike, and, as looking far aways, one moment turned back to me. His hand found mine and grasped – strangely, it was of longing and of distance both, frost-cold yet burning from within."

Unspeakable directions and sways are of my gratefulness, delicate and sweet adore that is for lovely in complexities, gentian shades galore - those that are all of beautiful of most, most gracious and songbird @Tmxpvksl one's!<ззз

[beanarinooo]

the feminine urge to dress like the last dinner party on a day to day basis is inescapable

[romanceofyiu]

creamed.

[kiraman]

death/blood/gore tws.

( John wick Mizu au, where she's a young assassin that seeks revenge against the men, one of whom is her biological father, who brutally hunted down & killed her family when she was young. )

She can't remember their faces, but she remembers his voice. 

She remembers him saying it's nothing personal. Just tying up... loose ends.

She remembers the river town, the fireworks off the dock. Someone running his fingers through her hair.

Mother dead in the bathtub, veins split open, a bullet to her head. She remembers watching them kill her through the mirror, choking on her tears trying not to scream under their bed.

She remembers the whistling, the promise not to hurt her if she comes out.

She remembers running and running and flames, smoke filling her lungs.

Someone pulling her from the fire.

She doesn't remember her mother's face now. She remembers the sound of her voice breaking as she screamed. The roar of the sea as Eiji carried her away.

The men stand before her house, this place she's been kept hidden all her life, far away from home where no one was supposed to find them, and watch it burn to ashes. Clad in black, black suits, black jackets, a black tiger tattooed on their wrists.

She spends all of her years in a prison of rage and fury; when she sleeps all she sees is fire. Mother torn away from her, and herself, a small, fragile thing, hiding; ashes in her lungs, blood in her mouth. Eiji's hands, scalded from the fire, reaching out to pull her from the flames. She hears Mother scream her name. She wakes up, gasping for air.

On the run, she takes shelter with Eiji, the assassin her Mother's father hired to keep her safe, who takes her in and teaches her the tricks of his trade as she dreams of revenge.

She never stops hungering for it; detached, cold, she does not make friends, she's not good with words; with people; she's got violence in her heart and murder in her eyes. She trains and trains, night and day, molds herself into a weapon; she does not want to be happy; she does not want to live; does not care if death becomes her shadow. She cares for one thing only: vengeance. She will have it, no matter what it costs the world around her.

you will get yourself killed! Eiji snaps at her one moonless night as he watches her walk away from him, desperation in his voice.

She stops, but does not look back. Her voice does not falter when she says Maybe one day. Not before they're dead.

She walks away and does not see him again, alive.

†

Trust no one. Everyone's either an obstacle that must be obliterated or a means to an end. Expendable. Inessential. Unimportant. It can not be any other way. This is what it takes if you want to succeed. she tells herself, over and over again.

She pretends to be a man to infiltrate an elite violent criminal syndicate that operates internationally for the purpose of obtaining access to the men she seeks, track them down and kill them. Every last one of them; only one of them is her father; but all of them have killed her.

Slick, precise, savage, effective, taciturn; run from her with everything you've got, if you've been marked for her bullet, it won't matter how fast you run or where you go; no one escapes The Ghost; they say; she's built a name for herself now- everyone wants him to work for them; no one knows where to find him; The Ghost; The Smoke; I watched Smoke kill three men in a bar with a pencil. Not even a pen. A fucking pencil, Violet says one late night over his drinks, smoke in his mouth and fire in his eyes. I would love to meet him. bring him to me. he says; he does not know, she's already coming for him.

The Cabinet of Curiosities is empty when she pries the door open and steps inside, steps slow, measured, perfectly controlled; her trademark precise, almost military, bearing, the one that hangs off of her like a burial shroud, cold, detached, powerfully controlled, firmly in place. Geraldine looks up from her desk. She looks like a renaissance painting brought to life; she’s got this long dark curly black hair all the way down to her back and limpid brown eyes that droop and she is wearing all black, leather and silk, a velvet choker around her neck and this slash of velvet red lipstick, blood on snow.

“You don’t look well, Smoke,” she says, and it’s perfect—the slinky dress, the way she’s leaning against the counter like a femme fatale, her knowing smile, slick and lovely as oil on film. It’s perfect, her performances always are: here, enveloped in low red neon lights and smoke (she is always smoking; one day Mizu, voice curt, cold, impassive, tells her It'll kill you; Geraldine inhales, blows out the smoke she's swallowed all over Mizu, then stabs her cig out, laughter sharp, chilling; lovely. Will it, now... You care? she taunts Mizu, reaching out to toy with the buttons of her shirt. Mizu does not answer, shrugs her hand off.) she's putting on quite the show.

Mizu grunts at it anyway, a hollow, bitter sort of sound. That’s the difference between Mizu and her, just then; Mizu can’t seem to stop being real. It is why she is effective, why she's come this far. She does not give a fuck. Geraldine can’t seem to be real at all. (Later they’ll meet somewhere between the two, but now? It’s unfortunate.)

“I need the Butcher.” Mizu says, plainly, and it’s just her, Geraldine-Riley-Jane-Isabelle, whoever she is just then—who sucks in a breath. The mask doesn’t fall (never, never) but it slips a little. Daughter of a high-ranking member of the High Table that provides people like her like him like Smoke, guns, ammo, shelter and anything they might desire; Mizu's heard the stories about her, too; an unstoppable force, The Thief. there is nothing I cannot get my hands on, she tells Mizu one night, enveloped in shadows and smoke in the corner of some slick bar in the underbelly of New York, her hand slipping down the curve of Mizu's chest, between her legs before Mizu's hand shoots out, catching her hand mid-way, a dark smirk on her mouth.

“Oh,” Geraldine says now. ”You've been shot.” Mizu does not answer, but Geraldine notices how tightly his left hand is pressed against his side. Mizu steps closer, grunting. “Who did this?” she asks, and Mizu laughs then, darkly. It’s a nastier sound, now, less bitter and more cruel, low. “Why, think it might have been one of your friends?” Something about Geraldine's face sharpens, hardens. Her eyes go dead, the warmth of them snuffed out like a candle. Mizu will never tell her, but that’s why she liked her—the playfulness balanced with the spite, like a single-sided blade. Serrated. “Don’t,” Geraldine-Riley-Jane-Isabelle says, and her voice is dead too. “No one's our friend.” And then, she too, becomes smoke, slinking away in a swirl of leather and smoke, snuffing out her cig against the counter. Come with me, she beckons Mizu closer, ushers her into the dark belly of the beast.

The Cabinet of Curiosities, is not, after all what it appears to be. Nothing ever is, around here, she's found. Not even herself. Least of all herself.

She’s masked under her own self illusions for her father, and she’s lying—she doesn’t speak for all of them, the terrible class of people who make up the criminal substratum; the one they all work for, here, where no one breathes or dies without him knowing: Violet. Some of them have morals and some of them don’t, and some of them will, if given the proper motivation; Mizu will learn that, soon. But just then she’s entirely scar tissue and aching, a tempest of rage roiling in her blood; she wants her mother back; she wants their blood on her hands. Everything about her is the profound ache of absence, of loss, of a life taken from her, running and running, she does not know when to stop, and she’s unwilling to believe her when she says they are not their friends. “It wasn’t one of them anyways,” Mizu mutters, a kind of slantwise half-apology that comes out gritty and dark. Geraldine-not-Geraldine says nothing, but something about her posture eases. Mizu's not sure how to take that. She watches out of the corner of her eye as Geraldine raises her eyes to her for a moment—almost lazily— but does not stop walking. Geraldine leads her through dark, long hallways, the walls thrumming with the pulse of distant music somewhere under their feet ( the Den; the underground club where anything is possible, accessible only through The Cabinet of Curiosities; she wonders who's down there, right now; looking for her). She makes her sit in the dark in some room she's never been taken before; pours her a drink, and when she says I don't drink, Geraldine knocks it back herself, flinching at its sharpness, pours another one, and pushes the glass towards Mizu where she sits on the edge of some bed. You'll fucking need it. she says, and then she is gone. “Fuck..." Mizu growls, peeling her shirt back to expose the gunshot wound, grunting as a sharp jolt of pain shoots through her ribcage. Geraldine comes back, carrying a white box which she wordlessly sets down near Mizu as she kneels before her. With a shock of realization, she blinks, eyes cold and empty, ice, snaps "What the fuck are you doing?" flinching away when Geraldine reaches for the buttons of her bloodsoaked shirt. She pulls her hand back and stares at Mizu, sighing. She does not say anything for a long moment, too long, but then, those delicate, slim shoulders of hers slump over under whatever tension they are holding, and she relents. "The butcher's with Violet." she admits, curtly, as though afraid of what Mizu might think. Smoke works for Violet, too; Geraldine told her as much once, and Mizu had sneered, had said, I don't work for anyone. She does not know what's happened; she does not know why he suddenly disappeared two weeks ago, only to come back now, shot half dead, growling about how Violet's men are somehow her friends, and not Smoke's. They've killed together. No?

What have you done, Smoke? What have you done? Geraldine wonders but does not ask the question, is not sure she wants to know...

"Don't worry—" she begins, but Smoke cuts her off, breathless, voice hard, piercing the air between the two of them, like a knife, stabbing. "Violet's here?" Mizu's voice is a growl, salivating over its prey; god help us, he's got murder in his eyes. What have you done? she wonders again, and fear, deep and unfathomable, burrows into Geraldine's stomach as she gathers her needle and thread, sterile gauze and antiseptics from her box, says, resolutely, No, Mizu. He's not. But Mizu's already on her feet and heading for the door, dragging her feet, grunting in pain, blood streaming profusely from her open wound,

stop, god. he's not here. Butcher left two hours ago. Come back to the bed, you'll fucking bleed to death. she snaps, impatient, astonished yet somehow unsurprised by Mizu's stubborn, infuriating disregard of anything but whatever he thinks must be done.

Mizu grunts, but in the end, she comes back to her bed; they are in her room, she realizes; they must be. There's silk all over her bed, black sheets, crimson curtains, blocking out the light. There's smoke in the air, sweet and cloying, thick with Geraldine's perfume, lilacs and something sour, bitter. Mizu watches her clean away the blood, hissing through her teeth at the touch— firm yet gentle— but not flinching, too familiar with the pain, the death, the anguish to mind it.

"Do you even know what you are doing?" she huffs, impatient, watching Geraldine's fingers come away slick with her blood, relief flooding those brown eyes when she realises the bullet's not been lodged somewhere into her side, it's passed through her, cleanly. “You’re drunk,” Mizu says, after swallowing a mouthful of the drink she's brought her, growling in pain as Geraldine begins to disinfect the wound. “Join the club.” she snaps back, says, it's deep, it'll hurt, which Mizu does not answer, only knocks back the bourbon in her glass, bearing the pain wordlessly, unflinchingly.

The needle buries into her side, over and over again, the wound must have been deeper than she thought. She grits her teeth through it, ice-blue eyes fixed on the threads of silver light pouring over the crimson curtains.

Somewhere at her feet, she hears a phone ring, an incoming message. Geraldine pauses for far longer than she has ever seen her pause away from a task at hand before. Then, she calmly returns to her job, patching her up, soft, small hands tender against her torn skin, far gentler than they need to be.

“Smoke…”

“What?” Mizu turns to look at her, and she’s struck—all over again, by how she looks at her, like she’s tearing into her with her eyes and vivisecting whatever organs are left there beneath her skin. Surely, not a heart. Maybe a liver. She probably has a liver, somewhere for all the rage to go, like liquor flooding her bloodstream,: she does not drink; anger is her addiction; her obsession; the poison in her blood.

Geraldine looks up at her with something dark in her eyes, something frighteningly hopeless; desperate.

For a long, long moment Isabelle (who isn’t Isabelle to Mizu, not yet, she's still Geraldine, the pretty girl that greets her into The Cabinet) looks back at her, letting herself be looked at. Letting him look. Then, as though something important has been wordlessly decided, she leans in, her voice pitched low in her ear, and says— “What,” Mizu echoes, surprised at the closeness, cutting her off.

Geraldine does not pull away.

“The map, it’s in the storage container at the Bunker. Number 1-11. The combination for the lock is 03-12-77, my mother’s birthday. Find him on new year's eve. At the Cellar.” Mizu blinks, shock swiftly jolting right through her system, like lightning, striking: powerful; absolute. Inevitable. “Are you…” “Mark it down as a win,” Geraldine says. She drains the last of the bourbon left in Mizu's glass, sets it back on the bed near them. Her hand, Mizu notices, is shaking. “I think you might need one, right now...”

She holds her phone up for Mizu to look at the message sent to her not ten minutes ago.

UNKNOWN NUMBER WORLDWIDE OPEN CONTRACT THE SMOKE $10 MILLION USD

Mizu does not flinch; she does not gasp in shock. It's not fear in her eyes; it is not desperation; it's something darker, violent. It's death. It's murder. A detached sneer, a cold, fleeting touch to her hand. A nod. Smoke rises, filling the air between the two of them, hungered, inescapable, like breath shared between lungs.

Geraldine doesn’t try to keep her, when she goes.

[captain-astors]

“Despite it all, I still loved him.”

(Happy birthday you living communion wafer, the sketch was by suggestion of @elmaxlys from a WHILE ago I just only managed to kick myself into finishing it now.) 

[dice-rolling]

At last, the Boop gods have spoken, I can go to bed!!!

Shout-out to @errantnight @seraphravenflight and @duskffyart for getting me here in the finally stretch!!

I am now bowing out of the booping war because I'm sleepy!!

[aleng-neng]

Someone help me find a good omens fanfic. It was released after the S1 of the TV show came out. The fic centered on a semi-popular fandom trope that Aziraphale's touch is painful for Crowley. Set from Crowley's POV and the pain only goes one way. I think (?) I remember a line that goes something like "The truth is he remembers all the places Aziraphale has touched him.". And the pain of Aziraphale's touch still lingers after centuries. Virtual hug to anyone that can try to help me.