#i still have a bunch more ideas

[xynczachrome]

Stained Glass Series: Nya

[sysig]

Permission to headbutt: Granted (Patreon)

[swiftmitsu]

hello HI GUYS. some doodles for you all yis eheh

(close ups below <3)

[confusedlittleguy]

Been doing some warriors designs again :p

Reblogs appreciated more than likes, and the quality is probably better when u click on the image

[fictionadventurer]

Maybe the problem with Christian fiction is that it's non-denominational. People are just "Christian", with no effort put into showing what practicing that religion looks like for them specifically. No indication that there are other Christians who could have different beliefs. No wrestling with differing ideas and the struggle of how one should live out their Christian faith. And that makes it unrealistic and unrelatable.

[bixels]

While I do think anon was rude, I do think it's pretty shitty to set up all this stuff you were going to add the au and then just drop it. It's disappointing. Definitely unfollowing.

Bye.

[areyoudoingthis]

I am SO grateful that ed and stede exist as characters exactly as they are. I'm so grateful for these two men who are traumatized and messed up and struggle to even like themselves, who are terrible at communicating, who make enough mistakes between the two of them to fill an entire ocean. I am so grateful to watch them struggle and be seen and be loved and reach out for the things they want and are maybe starting to believe that they deserve. I'm so grateful that the show lets them fall in love and get together exactly as they are, that it doesn't say they need to wait until they've become some unattainably perfect version of themselves before they have permission to have that. i am so grateful for ofmd

[ink-the-artist]

so somehow it’s the first time I’ve seen your Dogs illustration from May. it’s very very cool and strongly reminds me of AI-generated art — did you use AI to inspire the shapes? or otherwise influence the piece somehow? interested in your process! very cool.

yes! some more directly reference ai images id generated than others lol

[meamiki]

a star being appeared in your apartment, wdyd?

(aka loop getting reverse isekaied into the modern office au)

also there are some scattered mumblings on loop in this AU under the cut actually in an rb now link right here if anyone's interested (spoilers for all of ISAT, including 2hats!)

[ded-lime]

weird how its harder for me to imagine bride mozart than salieri, but still

[r-aindr0p]

Against the light/ A contre-jour

[familyofpaladins]

Some Fanart for the Lovely fic Summer Storm by @dawntreaderflynne (Flynne) on Ao3

I love Flynne's 2003 TMNT fics so much, and I saw them answer an ask saying that if they got fan art, they'd like the sleeping turtles

I also really liked the image of April looking at the incoming storm clouds and decided to draw that too as a bonus

[codgod]

as many elena’s as i could fit on one page (and one itty bitty peter because ofc)

[lazy-b1rdy]

LOOK LOOK LOOK I DID SOMETHING COOL??/??!??

I'm pretty proud of this rn but DAMN animating is hard and i was confused about the movements half of the time (not to mention that i needed to save all of the frames and put them together separately)

so shout out to any kind of animators out there bc this stuff is pretty difficult lol

[thegreatyin]

And thus, with the passing of 24 hours, Caeru's ambition truly comes to an end. Major Nemesis spoilers below the cut- we're talking endgame ambition business here. Mostly on a character RP front.

The Doomed Scientist made quite a few... choice decisions, in the end. Killing Cups once and for all, recording his story as one of grief-

And sparing what little remained of Mr Mirrors, leaving it free to roam Parabola as it sees fit.

Some of them, he can explain. Others, he's still left to feel... discontent.

Cups needed to die. That much was certain from the start. It was a tyrant, as all Masters are, and complicit in the bargaining and eventual destruction of four (potentially five) cities, as all Masters are. It was an obstacle. A murderer. A petty monster that felt no remorse even on its deathbed, and it went out of its way to ruin multiple lives just because it felt owed its own sick and twisted idea of revenge.

It killed his first love. It looked him in the eyes and he knew what it had done and he knew from the start it was going to die.

Perhaps, in the end, it knew too. And yet it still pleaded, and wanted to live, and-

It made a bargain.

A bargain Caeru didn't take.

Not because he didn't want to. Gods, he wanted to. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything else in the world. To have Greylu back, to give him the gift of life, of love, to show him the wonders of the Neath and the beauty of the correspondence and all of the people Caeru has met and loved and found home with along the way-

But. He couldn't.

Because Cups was a monster. And no matter what, it deserved to die. And he could not, in good conscience, allow it to live.

Even if sparing it meant everything he's ever wanted.

So he's left here, now. With a bloodied traveling coat, and a bloodsoaked knife, and a favor finally fulfilled.

And nothing to live for. No resurrected lover, no charming visits to Helicon, no slow dances in the living room, no memories to rebuild and lives to live and he won't live again-

Nothing. All he has is a coat born of obligation, not to his love, but to people he's never even met. To lives he's never even touched. To a paramour, still alive, with hair of rose-pink, who doesn't even remember her own brother's existence.

Cups didn't die for Caeru's sake. Cups died for the sake of all who wanted it dead. For the revenger's court, and the ghost screaming in his ear, and the reckoning that will not be postponed indefinitely.

And Caeru, who acted as a tool to carry out their wills? Who all but betrayed his own lover, just to satisfy a cause he never knew existed?

All Caeru is left with, is regret. Regret-

-And grief.

[quadrantadvisor]

Moulting, Good Omens, Falling!Aziraphale au, 2831 words

-

Aziraphale sipped at his chardonnay (not vintage, nothing special, just something he’d picked up to share with company) and sighed contentedly. It’d been a lovely day. Not inasmuch as that the weather had been nice, but rather in that he’d met up with Crowley at St. James’s Park that morning, underneath the gloomy, overcast sky, and then they’d spent the day together. A walk until the rain started coming down, lunch in a new restaurant owned by a pleasant Korean couple, and a trip to the cinema at Crowley’s insistence. Then, finally, to the bookshop to drink and chat. It was getting late, now, and the sky was dark with heavy clouds.

“So you didn’t like it? Not even the actors?” Crowley asked, a note of complaint in his voice.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes, because it was a terrible habit really, and suited Crowley much better. “That isn’t what I said, I’m just not sure that I understood the point of it all. They all seem rather manic, running around as they do, don’t they?” He took a sharp breath, and tried to work his shoulders back and forth discreetly.

Crowley gestured towards Aziraphale with his wine glass, nearly spilling, but of course the liquid knew better than to slosh out. “In about 50 years you’ll get used to them, and then they’ll invent some kind of immersive hologram technology, and you’ll be saying what a shame it is that no one appreciates films anymore because they were true artistry.” Crowley was looking at him, then, and frowned. “Are you feeling alright?”

Aziraphale gave his best smile. “Oh yes, of course, tip top shape!” Aziraphale knew that he was no good at coming up with excuses on the spot, so he’d prepared one earlier. “I tried out that sleeping thing again, but all it seems to have done is bother my back. These corporeal forms really are much too sensitive.”

“Mm, right,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was buying it or not. There was certainly no reason for him not to buy it. Aziraphale was too tipsy for this, and Crowley was still wearing his blasted shades. Crowley pulled out his mobile phone, glanced at it. “Speaking of, I ought to be off.” He downed his drink and grabbed for the jacket he’d slung over his chair.

“I thought that there was no rest for the wicked?” Aziraphale tried, smiling weakly.

He was rewarded by Crowley giving him a sly look and saying, “Surely you’ve heard of beauty sleep.”

Aziraphale chuckled at him, and stood at the same time Crowley did, to walk him to the door. Only polite. “Don’t forget to sober up before you drive,” he chided. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know, I know.”

The rain was coming down heavily, the sound near overwhelming once the front door was open. Aziraphale thought that Crowley met his gaze for a moment, but the lights were too dim to tell. “See you later, Angel.” He stepped out into the wet, immediately drenched.

“Yes. Later.” Aziraphale kept watching him, saw him shake himself free of both the alcohol in his system and the rain, which began to sheet away from his artfully tousled hair. He got into the bentley, drove off into the dark.

Aziraphale closed the door gently, muting the downpour. He stood for a moment, breathing.

Well. Best to get it over with all at once.

Aziraphale rolled his shoulders back and gently, gently, pulled out his wings. He stretched them to their full length. Then he shook them.

Pain lanced through him, like hot irons applied to exposed nerves, and he gasped. Blackened, singed feathers fell straight down, rather than fluttering, and made soft plink-ing noises as they hit the floor. Like huge, dark raindrops. As they built up around him their smell began to waft up, and Aziraphale nearly choked on it. Sulfur and burned hair and acrid smoke. There were so many this time, must be a few dozen at least.

Good. Aziraphale wished that there was a way to speed this whole process up.

There was, of course, but he didn’t know how to implement it without coming off strange. It wouldn’t do to crowd the dear boy; Crowley needed his space, certainly, and Aziraphale would never want to intrude where he wasn’t welcome. When Crowley wanted to see him, he would seek him out, and Aziraphale would have to continue relying on that.

He’d just left, and Aziraphale already missed him. How silly. His wings seemed to be clear, and Aziraphale let them droop, near touching the floor themselves. He swiped at the tears building up in his eyes. How pathetic. An angel, making such a fuss over a few feathers. It was good that Crowley was gone. Aziraphale wouldn’t want him to see him like this. No point in feeling sorry for himself. No point in feeling lonely. Aziraphale had already made his choices, and now he would see them through.

Just one more moment. Just a few more deep, ragged breaths.

Aziraphale went to find his dustpan. Couldn’t leave the ghastly things lying about, where anyone could see them. That wouldn’t do at all.

-

It had all started some months after dear young Adam had kindly stalled Armageddon, nearly a full year. Aziraphale had been in the middle of sorting inventory (read as: doing some light reading) when the phone rang. Aziraphale jumped to answer it, because odds were that the only person calling would be Crowley. Aziraphale had put the shop's phone number up on its website, naturally, it was the done thing, but that didn't mean that anyone else had access to it. Said website was nigh unsearchable, and completely innavigable for anyone who did find themselves there (could Aziraphale be blamed for having trouble with all this newfangled technology? The fact that it was the perfect cover to keep his bookshop out of the public eye was just a bonus.)

Aziraphale picked up the phone with a bright, "Hello!" wondering what plans Crowley might have for the day.

"Ah, Aziraphale," said a familiar voice. Charming and confident, affable in a way that was distant, above it all. "I see that this human contraption works, after all."

"Gabriel?" Aziraphale was frozen in shock. He had seen neither form nor feather of another angel since they'd dragged Crowley off to heaven in his body. He'd been quite hoping that they'd all forgotten about him after the hellfire incident. And in any case, heaven never communicated through indirect channels. For his entire time being stationed on Earth, Aziraphale had always sent and received paperwork through heavenly messengers, and if his supervisors wanted to check up on him, they did it personally.

"Yes, Archangel Gabriel, that is my name."

Evidently, no more was forthcoming, and Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the telephone. As his corporation came back into feeling, he realized that he was shaking. "What is the meaning of this"? Aziraphale asked, trying for all the world to harden his tone, but knowing he came off as weak and soft as he ever had. "I thought we had an agreement that I would be left alone."

"Yes, Aziraphale, exactly right. None of us will interfere with you. As things are now, heaven won't touch you." Gabriel's strangely chipper cadence gained a new edge to it. "And isn't that a pickle? An angel, with no connection to heaven."

Again, Aziraphale waited for him to elaborate, but apparently Gabriel was determined to draw this out. "I'm afraid I don't catch your meaning," he admitted.

It seemed that that acknowledgment was all Gabriel wanted. "Well, we've been discussing your"—Aziraphale could hear the sneer in his voice—"situation, and found ourselves pretty confused, all things considered! You have obviously been corrupted, deeply, deeply corrupted, and yet," this time it's confusion that Aziraphale hears, the utter bafflement of it almost… innocent. "You haven't Fallen."

"Ah." Aziraphale swallows. "I suppose I haven't."

Gabriel was back to cocksure, the innocence purged. "So, like I said, we were talking about it, and the only thing that makes sense is that you've been affected by an overabundance of demonic influence. And no wonder!" His laugh grated Aziraphale's ear. "You've been stationed down there for what, 6,000 years, give or take a few decades? Not that we had any way of knowing, of course, that your adversary had successfully tempted you into some sort of arrangement, or we would've pulled you millenia ago for some recuperation."

They were trying to blame Crowley. Of course they would. "Now, Gabriel, I—"

The archangel interrupted him. "Don't you see what this means, Aziraphale?" he asked, as sunny as ever. For a moment, it seemed as if he was waiting for a response again, but maybe it was just a dramatic pause. "It means there's still hope!"

"Hope?" Aziraphale was a great proponent of hope, generally, but the word felt like ash in his mouth. "Hope for what, exactly?"

Gabriel, with exaggerated patience, explained, "Hope that you might return to the fold. Return to the Host, Aziraphale. Like I said, you've been gone for too long. Michael wasn't a fan of the idea, but I'm fairly certain that if you spend a few thousand years in quiet contemplation, bathing in heavenly light, you'll be able to purge yourself of all of that, ugh, unpleasantness."

Fear's grip on Aziraphale had tightened, and it felt like it was constricting the muscle in his chest. "You can't take me, you can't, we had a deal—"

"Calm down, of course not," Gabriel said, amused. "We won't do anything against your will. Aren't you the one who always said that it means more if they choose, on their own, whether to be saved or damned? So," the silence on the line stretched for only a moment, and then, "I'm offering you a choice."

"What does that entail?" Aziraphale felt cold now.

"Well, it was difficult to set up, I'll tell you that much. We don't normally do this manually, but we found some old files on the process. I guess you could call it a bit drastic, but, drastic times, and all that."

"Spit it out, Gabriel." Aziraphale wasn't quite sure where that came from. He was no longer feeling like a present part of the conversation.

Gabriel let out a short, aggravated hum. "Alright, here it is. Heaven's ultimatum for the Principality Aziraphale. You've allowed your angelic essence to be tainted by associating with the demon, Crowley. We are offering a chance for you to return, willingly, of course, and purify your essence. However," he says, and he wields the condition like a knife, "should you reject Heaven's forgiveness and generosity, and continue perversely consorting with our enemy, we will have to," Gabriel hummed again, but this one was pleased, self-righteous, "cut you off, so to speak."

"You mean—"

"Yes, Aziraphale. There aren't bad angels. It's antithetical to what we are. We found the files on the manual process, and we'll do it, to keep the Host pure. You'll be damned."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. "You're saying that I must choose between Heaven and Crowley, under the threat of Falling."

"Yes." And wasn't Gabriel proud of himself, for his clever solution to their little problem. Neatly smudge away the black spot on his record in one move. Checkmate, no options for escape.

Aziraphale, finally, felt calm. "Ah. Well. I choose him."

"What?"

Annoyance crept into his voice. "I choose him, Gabriel. I thought that should be rather obvious. I chose him, and the Earth, over you and your organization already. Remember that? It was rather a big to-do. Does Armageddon ring any bells?"

Gabriel's tone was pricked with discomfort, but firm. "My threats are not idle, Aziraphale. Every moment you spend with him will draw you further from the Almighty's Grace. The contract has been drawn up and sealed. You will not be allowed to continue in this manner."

"And yet, I plan on doing exactly that. If there isn't anything else, I'll be going now."

A few flustered noises, the likes of which Aziraphale had never imagined an archangel making, came over the phone line. Then Gabriel seethed, "Fine. Enjoy your Fall from Grace, freak." The call ended.

Gabriel had never expected Aziraphale to even consider option two, that was obvious enough. It was merely coercion, to get Aziraphale to do what they wanted, which was to sit down, shut up, and become the perfect little soldier that would go along with it the next time they tried ending the world in glorious battle. Bugger that. Aziraphale was his own ethereal being, and he would make his own decisions.

Well. Not "ethereal" for much longer, it didn't seem. Aziraphale refused to let himself be afraid, and so he wasn't. He wasn't.

And there wasn't any reason to be. Everything was perfectly fine. A couple of days later, Crowley really did call, and even if Aziraphale could hardly bring himself to pick up the phone, he made it before it rang out. Crowley had tickets to an outdoors theatre, and oh, wouldn't that be lovely? The evenings were just getting warm enough, the sun lingering in the sky, and they'd sit or stand and watch a performance like they had so many times before. Aziraphale agreed readily, and Crowley said he'd pick him up at 6:30.

The first one had shocked him, it really did. He'd yelped aloud in the middle of a soliloquy, and gotten dirty looks from the audience around them. Aziraphale barely noticed, because his wing, his wing, something had happened to it, and the sharp pinprick pain of a burn was giving way to an ache, deep in the bone, traveling all the way up to his back, a celestial insistence that something was wrong, wrong, so very wrong.

"Angel, what's happened? Are you alright?" Crowley was saying quietly, urgently. He was leaning in towards Aziraphale, who was having to fight against the sudden, foolish impulse to take his hand and let the contact ground him. It was light enough for Aziraphale to catch his eyes darting about, scanning for possible threats. His gaze turned back to the angel. "You jumped like something bit you."

"I—" he couldn't finish the statement, didn't know how to. He tried again. "You know, I suppose something must have." Aziraphale chuckled weakly. "How odd, insects generally know better than to bother us. I suppose it just surprised me, that's all."

Aziraphale managed to excuse himself, promising to be right back. He felt Crowley's gaze on his back the entire time he made his way through the crowd.

It was difficult to find a spot with the requisite amount of privacy and space, but Aziraphale managed. He manifested his wings into physical space, and pulled the afflicted one forward to assess the damage.

He had barely touched it when the feather detached, and fell. 

Aziraphale stared at it. Leaned down, picked it up. A single feather. Among thousands. He was holding a scorched secondary. He had felt no relief when it fell, just a harsh continuation of the pain.

He noticed the ugly look of it, the way it had practically calcified rather than burning away, he noticed the smell.

Aziraphale didn't know what Falling was like. Crowley never talked about it. They'd been out of sight of the Host, when they'd undergone their transformations. There was a war, there were half as many angels in the heavens, and then there were creatures below that turned into beings that always seemed familiar but that no one could ever quite recognize.

Apparently, Falling hurt. Aziraphale knew that, at least, before. It was supposed to. It was a punishment, after all. This was the start, the first taste, and Aziraphale didn't care for it much. One feather out of thousands.

Was he the first angel to Fall, since the war? He hadn't heard of it happening to anyone else. Maybe it wasn't supposed to. Maybe God had split up her teams in the Beginning, and didn't care much what they did after that. Wouldn't that be something, all those angels scared into obedience when The Almighty wasn't even keeping score.

Best not to speculate. It was happening. It had started, and now he had to go through with it. He would go through with it, because some things were worth a bit of pain, a bit of risk.

He considered keeping the feather, but it did smell dreadful, and Crowley might notice it and there'd be no way to explain that. He'd have plenty more, later, if he wanted. He shoved the feather in a bin, and returned to the play. He couldn't very well keep his demon waiting. And, if what Gabriel had said was true, if every moment they spent together mattered, then Aziraphale was going to hoard and savor those moments with every atom of his angelic being.