#re: new fanfic

[diaryofasentimentalist]

— i dial drunk // ex!leon

pairing: leon kennedy x reader

tags: angst, exes, drunk dial, very mild sexual content

summary: your ex calls you in the middle of the night to reminisce on the good times, but you'd rather not. (2.7k)

a/n: lots of jumping between the current phone call and their past memories so just mind the verb tense!

The ringing finds you in your dreams, a vexing trill that you can’t seem to find the source of no matter how long you search, that doesn’t stop no matter how long you wait it out. When it finally pulls you from your sleep, you reach over and silence the tone without so much as twitching an eyelid. The grating vibrations of your phone against the nightstand continue as the call finishes ringing out.

Another shrill tone startles you, shattering the silence as soon as you feel yourself drifting off again. Groggily, you pat around on the nightstand until you find your phone again and bring it to your ear, eyes barely cracking open enough to find the green 'accept' button.

“Hello?” you mumble into the receiver, eyes straining open. It’s pitch black. Nowhere near dawn. Good news never comes at this hour.

“God, I missed the sound of your voice.”

That voice you’d know anywhere snakes its way into your ear, straight down your throat and into your chest, where it settles around your heart, squeezing tightly. You’re wide awake now, burning eyes forcing their way open, pulse quickening as you lay still in bed, paralyzed.

“Leon,” you say hoarsely, your voice still thick with sleep.

Your name echoes back to you on a sigh, your chest constricting at the homesickness of it all.

“I told you not to call me anymore,” you say, measured and even in spite of the way it feels like you can’t breathe.

“I know, baby,” he says, words slightly slurred. “But I jus’ missed you… wanted to hear your voice again…”

“You’re drunk.”

It’s not a question or an accusation, just a statement. It’s in his voice, in the way he called you multiple times at such an hour. In the way he’s calling you baby again, telling you openly how much he misses you. Leon has too much good sense— or maybe just pride— to pester you when he’s sober. Even on the rare occasion when he’s run into you in public since the break up, he just watched you from afar, a strange expression on his face. Get enough alcohol in him, though, and he’s right back to the desperation of the day you first left.

“S’that obvious, huh?” he says with a low laugh. The sound triggers the thing that has settled in your chest to tighten once more, sends another stabbing pain straight to your heart as you stare up at the dark ceiling. “Sorry, baby. I know you hate it when I drink.”

“Hated,” you correct. It doesn’t matter. Even if he remembers this conversation when he’s sober, it won’t stop him from talking the same way next time he drunk dials. “I don’t care what you do anymore, Leon, so long as you leave me out of it.��� You shift onto your other side, breaking through the strange paralysis that had overtaken you. The digital alarm clock on your nightstand is waiting to greet you. 2:23 AM. “But you can’t even do that. God, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Nighttime?” he offers, sounding unbothered. “Did I wake you? We always used to stay up this late.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as an involuntary wave of memories floods through you. There were a lot of late nights when you were together. The lack of consistent sleep schedule never bothered you then. You were always just happy to be spending time with him in whatever way. Sometimes you’d be out on the balcony, lights off, clinging to one another as you talked on the wicker settee. Sometimes you’d watch late night tv, lying on the couch with him on top of you, nuzzling into your neck while you traced patterns into his back beneath his shirt. Sometimes you’d lie atop the mound of pillows on the bed, his head buried between your thighs as you gasped and sighed and moaned his name, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I have work tomorrow,” you say coldly, bidding the images to stop. “Goodbye, Leon.”

He cuts in before you can hang up, carrying on as though you hadn’t said anything at all. “Remember when you got that craving for muffins at midnight?”

Of course you do. You’d been having another late night with Leon, the tv droning on in the background while the two of you dozed on and off, when he’d finally suggested the two of you retire to bed. A commercial for some cereal came on just before the screen went black, and the second you saw the mock breakfast spread, that was it. You needed a muffin. Leon laughed off your suggestion at first. As soon as he realized how serious you were, though, he’d pulled you up and to the kitchen, and you’d gotten to work. His offers to help you culminated in him keeping a hand firmly planted on your waist at all times, watching you measure the ingredients out, and kissing the back of your head every so often. But you were at his apartment, and he wasn’t much of a baker, and so you’d only realized halfway through that he didn’t have all of the things you needed, no brown sugar or vanilla or even cinnamon.

Feeling defeated, you’d relented that you could just finish tomorrow. Wordlessly, Leon left the kitchen, returning a moment later with his keys jingling around his finger and tossing you a jacket. He took you to the nearest 24-hour supermarket, your hand never dropping his as you led him along the aisles, giggling. Even now, you recall the distinct domesticity of it all, how you’d felt so normal, like you could have a real life with him some day.

Leon kept a hand on your thigh the whole drive back, taking the long way home just to prolong the moment, and you were so glad you could watch the wind from the open windows rifle through his hair just a little longer, drink in the sight of the passing street lights flickering across his skin. When you finally got home, he was touchier than before as you finished your baking expedition. The moment the tray was in the oven you were upon him, legs wrapped around his waist as he hoisted you onto the counter, pulling you closer, always closer. You’d been so distracted that you’d let the muffins bake a little too long until the smell reminded you what you’d stayed up for. The edges had started to burn, the cinnamon crumble on top hardening just a bit too much, and you’d insisted that you could do better, but he assured you—

“Best damn muffins I’ve ever had,” Leon rambles on. “Been to a million bakeries, can’t find anything like them…”

Why is he telling you all this?

Why is he making you remember?

Now that the memory has started, you can’t stop it, the scenes rolling in your mind like a film. After indulging in the baked goods, he’d carried you to his room, house still smelling of cinnamon and vanilla. It must’ve been well past three by the time he was laying you back against the bed gently, but neither of you were tired. The earlier impatience in his movements had dissipated, and he took his time with you, his hands caressing your body while yours explored his with equal devotion—

“I miss how you felt in my hands,” he says suddenly, as though his thoughts have followed the same natural trajectory as yours.

You remember his hands on your hips, firm, secure, anchoring you to him. The way his calloused palms felt against your smooth skin. The way his touch dripped with reverence, like he was perpetually caught between the desire to treat you like something delicate and the desire to have more of you, that hungry conflict always reflected in his piercing blue eyes—

“I miss how you looked under me,” he continues.

You remember throwing your head back, how he’d dip in to kiss along the exposed column of your neck before littering affection across your face. How it would suddenly stop, sometimes, and when you’d look up at him expectantly, you’d find him gazing down at you in equal parts awe and adoration. The moment you reached up for him he’d come back down and—

“I miss how your lips fit against mine.”

“You’re so selfish,” you interject, unwilling to entertain this any longer, afraid of what might happen if you do. “Waking me up on a work night so you have someone to reminisce with?”

“I know, baby,” he says, a self-deprecating laugh tumbling through the phone, twisting your stomach. “I was a shit boyfriend and I’m a shittier ex.”

That’s not true. He was a wonderful boyfriend, except when he wasn’t. He was always affectionate with you, except when he wanted to be alone… always warm and patient with you, except when he would withdraw… always understanding and attentive, except when he’d drink… It’s just that the times he wasn’t there for you were so hard, and over time, they’d gotten more and more frequent. Nothing you did to try to reach him, to be there for him, to support him, ever seemed to get through to him. Eventually, it was all too much.

Yet anytime you hear his voice, it’s always the good that comes to mind. It overwhelms you, makes you question why you ever left. A single word from Leon makes you curse the day you walked away. Only when you’re alone, in silence, away from the inexplicable effect of his presence, can you truly remember how the lows felt. The isolation of it all, the pain, the waiting. The disappointment over and over and over again.

The rest of that night comes to you now, floating in through the open window with the August breeze. How strange to think that was a whole year ago. After making love, he’d held you for a time, and you were content there, as sweaty and warm as it was, but he’d carried you to the shower with him. It was mostly silent, save for the pitter-patter of the water against the tile. He lathered your hair for you, and you scrubbed his back, pressing kisses against his wet shoulders. By the time the two of you were toweled and dressed in fresh clothes, it was late— or early— enough that you’d decided to stay up and watch the sun rise. You’d snuggled closer to him out on the balcony, the early morning air chilling you slightly as your still wet hair dripped onto your shoulders. He’d pulled you in, his body a natural furnace, and wrapped you in his arms.

God, you’ve never felt that safe anywhere else.

“Yeah, you are.” The words are laced with forced venom, and it burns to speak them. “That’s why you shouldn’t call me anymore.”

“I know.” There’s a pause on the other end. “You should block me.”

His words shatter something inside you. “Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he drawls. “You could just block me. But you won’t.”

“Leon.”

“Because you still think about me, too, don’t you?”

“Seriously, shut up.”

“And if you blocked me,” he rambles on, “then you’d really never hear from me again.”

“Go fuck yourself, actually.”

Laughter filters in and out of earshot, like the receiver keeps drifting from his lips, but he doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches on for one minute, two. A part of your conversation from that night on the balcony strikes you.

“Why not?” you’d asked him, tearing your gaze away from the brightening horizon to stare up at him, at the distant look in his blue eyes. Somehow, the subject of past relationships had come up. It wasn’t something either of you really cared about, but he’d just disclosed that he hadn’t really had a long term relationship with anyone before you. Most women left before things got serious, he’d said, and he never asked them to stay, to give it a real shot. He shrugged, using the motion to tug you closer.

“I can’t ask that of anyone. I don’t really deserve to. If someone wants to leave, I get it.” He glanced at you from the corner of his eyes, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “That means you, too, when you finally get sick of me one day.”

“Never,” you said, leaning up to plant a kiss on his cheek as he chuckled. A few strands of sandy hair tickled your nose. “You’re stuck with me, you know that?”

“Oh, darling, I know. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck with you long after you’re gone.”

The offhand remark didn’t make sense to you at the time, and when you asked him what he meant, he refused to elaborate, merely remarking on the emerging colors in the sky.

You get it now. And if you’d got it then, you would have been afraid, too.

Time moves on for everyone else, but not you two. Something happened when you stormed out of his apartment on that rainy night back in April, staining the fabric of time, marring your life with an inescapable loop. Just when you start to feel normal, you’re forced to relive the raw heartache all over again, as if it’s only been four days, not months, since you left. It happens every single time his name pops up on your caller ID. Every so often, when you think— with a surge of dread that you refuse to acknowledge— that he might finally have moved on, he calls again.

Never to ask you to come back, though. Never to ask you for another chance.

Just to reminisce.

Hot tears stream out of the corners of your eyes, landing on your pillow with muted plops. You make no effort to stop them or wipe them away, silent for fear that your voice will betray you if you try to speak now. You hate it, but even crying in bed like this makes you think of him, the feeling of his chest against your back, his silent strength when he’d comfort you during moments of weakness.

“Leon?” you call, wondering if he finally passed out. Hoping that if he did, he’s at least in bed, or on the couch, or somewhere safe. Warm. Not huddled outside of some seedy bar, or hunched over the filthy curb.

“I may be selfish, sweetheart” he says finally, his voice husky, “but you’re just cruel.” You can only blink up at the ceiling, tears momentarily stayed as you wrack your brain for what he’s responding to. “You answer my calls just to tell me how much you don’t want them.”

If the fight weren’t draining out of you, you might snap back at him that he doesn’t have to call in the first place, that he should take a hint, that he should delete your number altogether. Instead, all you can do is let his words hang there while you contemplate them.

Maybe it is cruel. When he calls you like this, asking if you remember, he’s asking something more. Questions he could never verbalize, but that remain implicit in what he says. Do all those little moments mean as much to you as they do to me? Do the memories haunt you like they haunt me? Do you miss it like I do?

Leon won’t ask you to come back, no. But he wants to know if you’ve ever considered it on your own.

“Goodnight, Leon,” you say suddenly, forcing the words past the painful lump in your throat. You can't keep doing this, can't keep letting him tear you down just because he's found himself at the bottom of another bottle. “I hope you learn how to take better care of yourself one day.”

“I hope you find someone better to take care of one day.” At first, you think he’s just scrambled up your words in his drunken stupor in an effort to throw them back at you. But then he speaks again, and you know he meant exactly what he said. “Hey, I’m glad you left. Happy for you, I mean. You deserve better than me." Something terrible is building up in your chest, threatening to climb up your throat if he doesn't stop. "I love—”

You hang up before he can hear the way your breath shudders.

[desired-misery]

why did I have a dream about BOW!Leon (who was turned into a BOW by experimentation) and ended up trapped in a facility for a few months that is later stormed by Chris and Alpha team (with Piers obviously). They figure out that this place has some strange BOWs, but especially this very particular one started off really scared ends up being really smart and cooperative and clingy???? So some BSAA aligned scientists are brought in to try and figure out what the hell is going on (and surprise, Luis is there!) Long story short, Luis ends up befriending a whole ass BOW and the BOW makes friends back. Luis has basically bonded with BOW!Leon and become very protective of him Luis: this is my new laboratory pet, Sancho Everyone: uh... you can't have a BOW as a pet, Dr. Serra Luis: he is smarter than the average three year old, I've adopted him Everyone: that's a monster Luis: look, he grew fur to be extra cuddly and soft BOW!Leon, who indeed grew fur to be extra soft, and also developed speech mimicry: friend Everyone else: *Horrified* Luis: *delighted* :D

[pixelatedraindrops]

Guess who’s going to a theme park tomorrow in the midst of a heatwave? 😅 I’ll probably have to put wet paper towels on my head to prevent heat exhaustion.

Hehe it’ll be like a fever compress :3c

[nothingenoughao3]

Back at it again with a fic update! New tags in italics!

Dreams in the Necromancer House (52655 words) by NothingEnough Chapters: 10/? Fandom: Re-Animator (Movies - Combs), Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Daniel Cain/Herbert West Characters: Daniel Cain, Francesca Danelli, Herbert West (Re-Animator), Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Henry Armitage Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Swearing, Drinking, Smoking, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Hypnotism, Slow Burn, Fix-It of Sorts, Plot With Porn, Exes, Character Study, Making Female Characters Actually Characters, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Surrealism, Virgin Herbert West (Re-Animator), Tickling, Laughter During Sex, Anal, Unsafe Sex, Pining, Blood and Gore, References to Lovecraft, Lovecraftian Shenanigans, Reagent (Re-Animator), Reagent As Lube, Love Confessions, A Wild Nyarlathotep Appears, Angst, Body Horror, Trypophobia, Facial Shaving, Jealousy, Minor Character Death, Lovecraftian Cults, Chases Chapter 10 summary:

Dan discovers what went on while he and Herbert left the party. After a mind-altering escape, Dan decides, at last, to make certain parts of Herbert's life his business.

This story is killing me as much as it's killing y'all. I have to tell it or it will choke me out.

[trappedinmymind]

Re-reading your own writing is one awful thing, but re-reading your own writing specifically because you have to figure out if you already explained an important lore point or not somehow manages to make it worse

[tani-b-art]

((my very distraught Avanine recap))

When people have a connection like this, ain’t a thing you can do to stop it! Even Ava couldn’t stop that.

Ava, sweetie, I am so, so sorry. It’s too la—. Janine and Gregory has happened!

Ava wears purple a lot and that color represents part of the LGBTQ+ community so I’m gonna tentatively say she is a part of the rainbow!

Janine has a cardboard cutout of Allen Iverson, who Ava dated. She didn’t get a cardboard cutout of any other 76er (I mean Allen is the most famous Sixer of all time) but she doesn’t have one of Andre who Ava is/was dating. I feel she got this post Ava revealing this. She pays attention.

Janine brought her cousin to her party for Ava — obviously to be a distraction and to keep her out of her hair for the night. Is it because she knew she’d maybe be distracted by Ava and didn’t want that to happen? Ava saying “we’re like sisters”…so we’ve gone from friends-acquaintances and now “sisters”. We took a L, Avanites.

((now for the real))

Ava noticed Janine and Gregory’s chemistry while she was dancing with the cousin and physically attempted to position her body between that and was extremely vexed about it! And before she did that, she gave such a glaring stare to Janine when she noticed something was happening beside her. Her hyper-awareness & sensors for Janine is unmatched! [Ava gave Gregory a livid look]. And to say, Ava was very much preoccupied with Janine’s cousin and paying zero attention to Janine until this happened.

It was kinda funny seeing how unbothered Janine and Gregory were with Ava shooting eye lasers their way! And then it crushed my feelings because the ball was rolling from that moment onward.

So Ava obviously HAS feelings for Janine and it hasn’t stopped. So they want us to know that (or to remember if some forgot or thinks that Ava has stopped liking Janine just because we all witnessed the snail-paced progression of her and Gregory eventually becoming a thing).

Ava is probably going to be unbearable towards Janine and Gregory come next season now that they’re together unless Ava amps it up higher and flirts harder with Janine out of frustration OR they’ll have her the complete opposite, which would be awesome, and make her sad and despondent and lovesick with the new couple and she’ll be less picky towards them both which will shock Janine because she’s expecting Ava to tease her more than before.

WRITERS, what are y’all doing to us?!?! They wanted us to know Ava has feelings (still has) for Janine because why would y’all have Ava be so visibly bothered with Janine’s moment with Gregory?? (Then they zoomed in on Ava realizing what’s going on). Why have Janine dance right beside Ava too when this happened? But then have Janine bring her boy cousin specifically for Ava AND make Ava declare “we’re like sisters”? Unless this “sisters” statement was purely under the guise of Ava just being instantly excited for an attractive guy and it was sheer surface-level. Conflicting, testing, twisting and unreadable Ava+Janine story arc.

Ava seemed so dejected. Like the rug was pulled from underneath her. And while it’s very charismatic to see her unravel when it comes to Janine because she’s longing for something with her and is that attached and interested, I’m also sad for her because it’s yet something else that’s disappointed her as far as relationships are concerned. It doesn’t seem like she’s had much success with relationships.

I get it…Avanites will simply have to suffer till the end of Abbott time with their unrequited love! I feel queasy lol!

I think I set myself up way too high with my Avanine delusions and now look at me…I’m all undone about them being done (when it is clear they weren’t ever). I blame all the Tumblr Avanites for pushing me here - jk! Y’all are awesome! We’re awesome!

All is fair in the world of delusions.

[endlessburningdarkness]

been thinking about luo binhe getting therapy in the modern world. living a good life, happy, only to be haunted by dreams of horrendous abuse. inflicted on him and by him. thinking he's going insane, becoming depressed and suicidal. it takes years of his life to piece together that these dreams are in fact, memories.

he comes to accept it and move on with the help of cbt. but just as he's pulled himself out of a depressive pit and ready to move on, fate throws another anvil at his head. one day, he run's into a man who look's just like his hated teacher. in shock, binghe almost doesn't manage to dodge when the man immediately attempts to kill him.

turn's out, shen jiu remembers too.

[bleachbleachbleach]

[Bleach 083]

I have never really identified this in myself before, but I am kind of maybe a little obsessed with Ganju. A lot of this has to do with my general superinvestment in Rukia and Kaien and the whole Shiba-Kuchiki situation. But I'm also just into Ganju himself? I think it's the 4WD boar. SUBARU FAM.

Also because it's interesting to think about what we can draw from these panels, in terms of how Ganju is thinking about himself. I'm pretty sure we don't yet know that the Shiba are former nobility (though now I'm not sure in what future context that, specifically, would come up? if I had to guess Byakuya brings it up on the bridge, because literally who else would). Regardless, they have this whole cannon situation, and they are adept enough at the spiritual arts to know/invent kidou. In this chapter, the ceremony of the cannon is a huge deal (and requires use of what we might assume is Kuukaku's zanpakutou?). Even if we don't know the specifics, we know these are not your average Rukongai konpaku by any stretch of the imagination.

From Rukongai

But Ganju has still narrated a version of his brother that excelled in the Academy "despite being from Rukongai." The Shiba are absolutely not "from Rukongai" in the way that, say, Parakeet Kid is, even if they have always lived outside the Seireitei walls, pre- or post-demotion. Despite that distinction, and their linage, Ganju still thinks of himself--and by extension, Kaien--as being of this place, this non-Seireitei place. I mean, he rides a boar, he has fully embraced the bogan lifestyle.

My point is, this distinction of being from Rukongai matters to him, in his calculus of the world. Being from a noble family, it's probably only as surprising that Kaien is as innately talented as he is, as it is that Byakuya would be innately talented (relative to other Kuchiki as well as relative to other shinigami). The reach isn't as extreme as it would be for some literally random Rukongai konpaku. But that's not how Ganju sees this.

My brother who's in the Gotei

As far as determining Gotei norms, Ganju gives us a lot of cool info, provided we take him at this word as someone who would be intimately familiar with how the Gotei works. SURE, everything I've said thus far suggests we shouldn't. But I also feel like his pride in Kaien--and the kinds of weird things grief makes fixations out of--would suggest that even if Ganju knows nothing about the Gotei, he knows these little Kaien-shaped pieces to the letter:

Perhaps obviously, it is unusual to have lieutenant-class levels of reiryoku on entry into the Gotei

This does not automatically qualify you to become a lieutenant (even if there are slots available, which it kind of seemed like there were, re: Ukitake)

Kaien makes lieutenant within 5 years of joining the Gotei, which is also an exceptionally quick ascent. Given that Ukitake is nudging him in that direction during TBTP, this gives us something of a timeline on how long Kaien had been in the Gotei at that point (not very!).

"I was just a kid"

Then, between 40-110 years later, Kaien dies.

It's wild to think about Ganju being "a kid" when this happens. When was Ganju born???? Given that neither time nor aging are linear here, that's an impossible question to answer with certainty. Plus, I think "a kid" in this context could mean a whole lot of things that don't necessarily mean "I was exactly seven years old."

Even if I don't think I buy it entirely, I'm into the possibility that Ganju really is BABY, and was born after Kaien was already a shinigami and living apart from the fam (are the Shiba parents still alive and living and even weirder and more itinerant life than even Kuukaku--perhaps on the high seas??).

I'm also into the possibility that, honestly, Ganju has had a hard life, and that Kaien's death fundamentally separated his sense of who he was prior to that moment and who he would become, and that this is what he's referencing when he says his memories are dim because he was "only a kid" then. He had to grow up fast, at the same time as he's in no rush to grow up (running around with his boar gang, self-proclaiming things, rushing home for supper, acting the dutiful little bro to Kuukaku). Regardless, there's a lot of trauma surrounding Kaien's death, for sure. Which isn't to say Ganu's entire and only personality and reason for anything is his trauma, LOL. But it's not like Kaien's death and absence isn't a huge part of what's made him. It's not until this moment with the cannon, and the Hero Garb he made himself (using the Shiba crest) that he really says, okay, let's get some real info. Let's move forward.

DIY Regalia

Even the fact of his making his own Hero Garb really intrigues me. There is a long history that the Shiba are a part of--and again, we see this in the ceremony of the cannon, and perhaps even in Kuukaku's clothing and tattoos. It's not as though the Shiba don't already have regalia. And we could take this as Ganju finally fashioning literal, specific garments for himself as he takes up more of the mantel of his family's legacy, in the style of their usual regalia. I totally buy that.

But I also feel like the focus on this special getup being self-made goes back to Ganju not necessarily having access to the full picture of who his family was as a Great Noble House, and what all that history really is. We know that sometime after Kaien's death, the Shiba ceased to be a Great Noble House. If Ganju really was that young when Kaien died, there's another disruption. Like his memories of Kaien or his notions of who Kaien was, what the circumstances of his death were, Ganju is kind of piecing these things together without a map. ...Not unlike Ichigo!

(Must run in the family.)

[jenny-from-the-bau]

I'm slowly edging toward a new depression fic haha if I get energy to write at all

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Why not hunt down some fun fanfics to read while you rest your wrists?

unfortunately i have hunted too enthusiastically and drained the area's natural resources

[shades-o-grey]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Missing Scene, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Pre-Canon, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Share a Brain Cell (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), I Was Wrong Dance (Good Omens), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Likes Animals (Good Omens), Prankster Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is So Done with Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is so camp (Good Omens), My First Work in This Fandom, Neil Gaiman References, Attempt at Humor, I'm Bad At Tagging, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping Summary:

The ritual began, as most regrets do, with an astonishing amount of alcohol, some farcical bickering- And a bet.

Honestly, Aziraphale should have known better than to enter a wager with a demon. He should have known better than to keep imbibing with one too. But they were both far too deep in the cups by that point for the matter to even be considered. That and the temptation of proving Crowley wrong for once was just too, well... Tempting.

Not that an Angel can actually be tempted, obviously. Aziraphale's involvement in the wager was purely for altruistic and perfectly righteous reasons. It would be an added feather to his wing. A chalk up for the side of the Angels, an act of thwarting the whiles of the wicked! That sort of thing, you understand. It was practically his job.

Now, the only trouble was... What exactly did Aziraphale want Crowley to do once he won?

^^(THIS IS A RE-PUBLISHED EDITED VERSION OF MY PREVIOUS WORK)^^ The previous Version, which I was unhappy with, will be taken down post-publication of this revised work to avoid confusion

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (3-9 Nov 2024)

welp. that sure was a week that happened.

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😍 reasons why you don't want to talk (about reasons why you don't want to talk) (napricot) - 61K, post EG/TFATWS fix-it that was amazing and so satisfying. [tbh i usually prefer to ignore EG/TFATWS entirely but this author is so damn good; I trust them implicitly]

😊 ripples all the way down (iriswests) - 57K, slow burn buddie

🥰 No Needles series (sal_si_puedes) - 68K, suits D/s fic, reread, forever fave

💖💖 +85K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

center of gravity (spqr) - Suits: Mike/Harvey, 16K - absolutely amazing fic, delightful read, extremely unusual AU

Rank Hath Its Privileges (One-EyedBossman (desert000rose), SecretFandomStories) - MCU: Steve & Natasha, 18K - DOLI #15; Steve & Natasha have a besties night in and catch up

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Would I Lie To You? - s16, e9

Jet Lag: The Game - Hide + Seek (ep 1)

Rescue & Restore - 1871 Candy Drop Roller Restoration

Handsome - Pretty Little Episode #12

Handsome - Molly Shannon asks about Irish Goodbyes

Dirty Laundry - s4, e7

Jet Lag: The Game - Tag Eur It 3 (ep 1-6)

Decoding the Afterlife: Ancient Egyptian Tombstones With Dr. Nicky Nielsen - Session 3: Reading Divine Epithets & Offerings

Seas The Day: Life Lessons From Cephalopods With Dr. Sarah McAnulty - Session 4: Respecting Our Elders: Ancient cephalopods to today

What We Do In The Shadows - s6, e5

Gastronauts - s1, e3

Brilliant Minds - s1, e1-6

D20: Adventuring Party - "Pigeon Lord Ishii" (s18, e7)

D20: Misfits & Magic 2 - "The Heart of Weugan" (s23, e7)

Doctor Odyssey - s1, e6

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

⭐ Lost Notes: Groupies - Lori Lightning and the Baby Groupies

⭐ Lost Notes: Groupies - The Fairytale of Miss Pamela

⭐ Lost Notes: Groupies - Girls Together Outrageously

⭐ Lost Notes: Groupies - Hollywood Encounters

The Curious History of Your Home - Bins

The Curious History of Your Home - Dish Washing

Re: Dracula - November 4: My Jonathan

Pop Culture Happy Hour - The Penguin

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Weed Week: Get Inside the CannaVan

If Books Could Kill - Sam Harris's "The End of Faith"

Wait Wait… Don't Tell Me! - Outtakes: An airline is being sued for carelessly handing out what?

Talk From Superheroes - Agatha All Along

It's Been a Minute - The hot mom rom-com phenomenon

Pop Culture Happy Hour - YouTube Rabbit Holes That Are Great Distractions

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Weed Week: Dope Lake

Switched on Pop - Did Kendrick Lamar kill hip-hop?

Re: Dracula - November 5: Three Graves to Find

⭐ 99% Invisible - Meet Me at Riis

The Allusionist - 165. Fiona part 1

⭐ Vibe Check - One Hell of a Contradiction

Off Menu - Ep 270: Sebastian Stan

Decoder Ring - A Feel-Good Story About the End of the World

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Weed Week: Jirzankal Cemetery

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Weed Week: San Francisco Cannabis Buyers’ Club

⭐ Lost Notes: Groupies - The Oral History of Star Magazine

Dinner’s on Me - ZACHARY QUINTO

The Curious History of Your Home - Forks

Imaginary Worlds - Why The Future is (Doctor) Doom

Pop Culture Happy Hour - Heretic And What's Making Us Happy

Dear Prudence - I’m Sick of Hearing My Friend Cry About Her Job. Help!

Dear Prudence - Prudie Plus: It Really Should Be All About Me

Endless Thread - Awoken by a Lamp

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Weed Week: The International Church of Cannabis

The Sam Sanders Show - Inside 2024’s Tech Revolution with Journalists Taylor Lorenz & Elise Hu

The Curious History of Your Home - Coffee

Lost Notes - S1 Ep. 2: Outlaws of the Airwaves: The Rise of Pirate Radio Station WBAD

ICYMI - The Fashion Expert Twitter Loves to Hate

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Presenting Barry Manilow

Stray Cats

Presenting Bay City Rollers

The Struts

AC/DC

Multi Cello Retro TV/Video Game

Lacrimosa [a playlist described as "moody classical music with dark academia aesthetics" and it was great!]

Judas Priest

HorrorPops

HorrorPops Radio

[oatmealwrites]

new writing blog

hello I need to actually write on a schedule/discipline for once in my life so I'm starting a fanfic writing blog. (i did this once at 13 and it was the only time I actually did things on time so here we are a decade later)

I'll write fanfic for:

anime: JJK, BNHA, Death Note, Haikyuu, AOT/SNK, & more (i just can't remember all the ones I've watch tbh)

games: Resident evil, BG3, Personna (?) & more

But just drop me a request for anything specifically you wanna see!

I do long fics, multi-part, head cannons, and one shots :)

current preferred tropes: Enemies to lovers, love triangle, helpless pinning, best friends to lovers, obliviousness love, hurt/comfort

tho i'll write other topes depending on the specification

i will write NSFW (hehe) and i'll leave a tag depending on the anatomy i'll use. tho request if u want a specific anatomical reader/gender. NO NSFW for students unless time skip bc thats weird otherwise. (ex. Yuji after being a student and now a full sorcerer at like age 22 ya feel?)

anyways ty for reading this and just be patient. I need to consume at least one red bull per post to write it all

current plan:

Gojo x reader (in which reader is a sorcerer but not a teacher. reader is also implied to be close friends with Nanami) - Friends to something more? - Gojo Satoru needs help in persuading the higher ups to extend Yuji's execution date but he needs more support from outside sorcers. Nanami and Mei Mei already signed their support, with some convincing, but he needs one more signature. Yours.

L x Reader (reader is uni student studying criminology and psychology who is interning under chief Yagami. They are trusted to the Kira case and reader expects to get a full time job out of grad school - especially if they can catch kira, image the CV references)

colleagues to friends to lovers: When chief Yagami brought his grad student intern along for a Kira briefing L was all but hesitant to let them into the circle. But when the reader catches a detail L missed and put Light noticeably on edge, L realizes they may have more worth than he initially expected. Late nights together working on the case begin to blur the lines between professionalism and something more. L brushes it off, if he can try and be friends with Light, who he is certain is Kira, then he can remain friends with you. Or so he thought..

*im currently requesting an AO3 invitation to make a new account so soon all fics will also be on there*

[pinkbowsandprettyprose]

ay, amazing job manifesting paitasu writing letters to each other and ichigo being earth’s ambassador, maybe the rest of fickle fourteen can be real too (or I’m delusional but shhhh)

it’s hard work doing 300k+ words of manifesting via TMM fanfic in order to make sure my personal headcanons become true but I’m so glad to see it’s paying off 😌

[ygodmyy20]

I'm getting emotional over re-reading my ageswap au fic

God DAMN me.

GOD DAMN

[confetti-cat]

For some reason I often forget to share with Tumblr that I do, in fact, write things more frequently than I post them here, so here's a piece I still like! A oneshot for Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild (and some of the rest of the LoZ series).

time immemorial, remembered - (2k)

If he is a hero of anything, it's of a grown-over wild, a land where grasses spring up in fallen garrisons and every breath of wind carries the scent of old rains and new flowers and ancient wisps of forgotten memories.

He doesn't want to remember others. He doesn't want to recall lives that aren't his own.

(It's strange, when he remembers the wrong things.)

Set post-BotW - feat. friendly adventuring, a little bit of Link/Zelda fluff, and Link just wishing he could remember the pieces to his own puzzle. Written before TotK, so no spoilers for it. Enjoy!

AO3 link here!

—

It's strange, when he remembers the wrong things.

He knows he doesn't remember everything. He knows that, Zelda knows that (unfortunately—he tried, he's still trying; she deserves a knight who truly remembers her), Impa and Purah and Robbie know that, and the spirits of the King and Champions know that. He's working hard to regain his memories, and they all know that's the most he can do.

Still, it's hard not to wish his mind would do more when his sense of déjà vu doesn't always work correctly.

They're at the curl of the beach where Akkala overlooks the ocean, and while Zelda is gushing about her Sheikah Slate picture of a new rhino beetle, he's looking at the sand. Something stirs in his head, as he looks at the waves and the palm trees and thinks—you've been here.

The feeling is bittersweet but painful, like a memory of an odd dream. Yet it was clear—he'd woken up on the beach once and cleared caves for kind people and had walked a strange black dog on a chain. A big dog with big teeth.

"When did I shipwreck at sea?" he asks Zelda, because it doesn't quite fit with what he knows of his life in the past. Perhaps his father had taught him to sail—perhaps he'd gotten a small boat himself. Zelda has a clearer picture of his life than he does at this point.

Yet, she stares at him uncertainly, blinking once or twice.

"When did you... pardon?"

A wave of embarrassment rushes over him, because Zelda usually understands him perfectly, and—sheesh, maybe he hadn't spoken clearly. His voice catches in his throat sometimes. He tries not to look so ashamed as he restates his question. "...Didn't I shipwreck at sea, once?"

Zelda blinks at him, thoughts whirring through her eyes, and then she looks out at the beach and the palm trees and the ocean.

"...Not that I'm aware of," she says carefully, and Link reminds himself that they hadn't truly known each other until they were sixteen. "Perhaps it happened when you were young?"

He doesn't know. Something about it doesn't feel quite right, like it doesn't fit. It's a puzzle piece to the wrong puzzle.

So he shrugs and dismisses it, at least for now, though the images don't leave his mind.

It happens again when they're up at Shatterback Point, just in time for the sunset. The Zora reservoir glistens like molten sapphire below, and the mountain peaks all around them have a golden-purple sheen in the late afternoon light.

It's not that, though—it's the way it feels to have the world so far below, and to see wing feathers as eagles make lofty circles in the sky, and he has the silly thought of how maybe this is Hyrule, and everything else so far below is really just Lorule.

It doesn't really hit him until Zelda has found an excuse to poke fun at him, in a playful, friendly way that ends with her smirking at him and his back to the open air, stuck in the few inches between a princess and a freefall that would last ages.

He can't lean forward for balance because she's right there, and he certainly is not leaning backward, so there's really no other option than to cling to balance and try to stand rigidly.

His heart skips a beat, because he suddenly remembers this—staring nervously into the face of a blonde princess who has far too much fun spending time with him, and he knows what will happen. She's going to push him off, like she did when they were in the sky kingdom and he liked wearing tan and she looked a bit different.

But she doesn't push him. Zelda shrinks back a little and laughs in embarrassment at her actions—she was more sure of herself a hundred years ago in the sky, wasn't she? Or was it a hundred thousand?—and allows him to step away from the edge and toward the danger: high dive at your own risk! sign a safer distance from the open air.

(He thinks—and this is really him, the normal him—that if it didn't take so long to get back up here from the water far below, he would show her a swan dive.)

(Maybe they could both—no, no. It isn't called Shatterback Point for nothing. He somehow doubts that she shares his ideas of entertainment out here, anyway.)

"I apologize," this Zelda says in embarrassment, looking away so that he can only see the tips of her ears turning pink. "I don't know what came over me."

His brain is too bewildered by all the déjà vu to mind. He tells her it's fine, because it is—some part of him thinks it feels nice to recognize that they have something friendly and familiar. Even if it is a bit teasing, and even if it does make adrenaline shoot through his veins and his heart pump hard enough to ready him for a freefall.

It happens again at twilight, late after a long day in Hyrule Field. The sky is tinted purple, and flecks of grass and dust float by in the strong breeze.

A wolf is there, in a place Link doesn't usually see any. It's on the next hillside, and it stares at him, eyes reflecting yellow in the dim light of the receding day.

Link's limbs twitch as it turns and leaves, as if reenacting the gait of the wolf—as if feeling the sensation of controlling a wolf's movement, with four limbs pacing and a head turning to and fro. With a sturdy gait and mind set fast on a goal.

When Zelda mutters something nearly irritable at the cooking pot, he half expects to turn his head and see someone who's not Zelda.

It is Zelda, though; of course. He doesn't think he knows anyone else who talks half to him, half to herself. She looks quite frustrated with whatever she's trying to do to improve their meal, and by her muttering, you'd think she was trying to blame him for what he'd put in as the necessary base ingredients.

Well, excuuuse me, Princess, he almost teases to throw her sarcasm back at her, but his mind is suddenly giving him a wildly different case of déjà vu and he vows never to think of saying that again.

They're at a stable, and one of the travelers who loiter by the cooking-fire pulls a little round instrument out of his pack and begins to play a flutelike tune. Something in Link's chest jolts a bit, as if he's only just awoken suddenly, even though the melody doesn't quite feel right. Is it strange that the sound of the little wind instrument feels as though it sends him back to another time?

He tries to ignore the fact that all these nagging lapses in memories ever occur—but they happen again, and again, and again. Always with something strange, something he feels connected to, something he's sure he's never seen before.

He sees things like the Hyrule Forest—a towering, vast area of woods that he knows, even though he's barely been there before. He knows it well enough, at least, to sense that the path isn't the same anymore. Right, left, right, left, forward, left, right—

(He sees the view of Saria's Lake from a patch of grey land hidden deep in a dark forest, shrouded with mist and drained of all color. The lack of pleasant sound here seems stark and wrong to him, and amidst the gaping maws of dying trees, he wonders what's missing from the hollow space that's suddenly prominent in his own chest.)

He sees Zelda sitting cross-legged next to Impa, learning from her, and thinks about how this mentorship feels like something that's been in place for a long time.

He looks at the massive skeleton of a creature called leviathan, and his mind says Jabú-Jabú and Wind Fish and wait—did they die?

He loves the Zora people. He only remembers so much, but it's enough to know he grew up thinking of them like a second family—with King Dorephan as almost a non-Hylian grandfather, and all the young ones as his cousins and friends.

Yet still, when those same Zoras pop out of the river with wide grins to surprise him, there's moments where his heart skips a beat and he's drawn his sword and shield, ready to deflect their attacks.

Enemies! his instincts shout at him—and it hurts, because his heart and mind say friends.

Koroks are strange to him, somehow, and not because they're little plant creatures who can vanish into the wind with ease. He just really feels like one of them should have a fiddle. Hestu's maracas don't quite carry the same emotion in their tune. He finds himself looking twice at the smaller, rounder ones, but none of them quite look right.

(He finds himself standing on a tiny lump of land his slate calls Mekar Island, staring at the piles of bones and the lone dead tree in the middle and wondering why it gives him a vague sense of dread.)

He half expects Beedle to set up shop on a boat in Laurelin, for some reason. Melody comes to mind in Rito Village, when Kass's daughters all come together to sing. (Except melody doesn't sound quite right. Perhaps he's trying to think of something similar?) When he's helping Zelda organize the old library, he can't help but get an odd mental picture when he rereads the chancellor's recipe for monster cake—of a tiny castle official with two horns like a monster. (But how would he hide them while working at the castle? By wearing two hats? Wouldn't that look too silly?)

Except when Zelda is there to study, he avoids the castle's archives like a plague, somehow wary of what he might find there if he gives in and looks for answers to his blurry memories. Perhaps the old rumors of the heroes being the first one reincarnate are true. Or perhaps the physical rigor of fighting through so much malice has messed with his mind. He isn't sure which would be worse.

His memories are... muddled, still; at least where they're not as clear as daylight or so fuzzy they feel nonexistent. The Princess knows this. She tries to help jog his mind, holding the same hope he does that perhaps some of these things will be like a well-placed kick to Robbie's machinery, jostling something back into place that will return it to working order.

But she's left it to him, lately, seeming to perceive that the things returning to him are leaving him uncertain and unsettled. Or at least, she's tried to. Her inquisitive nature seems to eat at her for a week before she finally gives in, looking to him in clear interest.

"Have you remembered much more?" Zelda asks, the curiosity in her bright eyes shadowed only by a faint hint of apology.

Are her eyes blue? Or brown? Were they ever blue or brown? Her emerald-green gaze is making him hesitate, because no, of course they were never another color. The idea is absurd, and he doesn't like that it lingers in his mind for so long.

He doesn't want a wrong sense of déjà vu with her. This is Zelda, the Zelda of now, the princess of a broken Hyrule and the survivor of a calamity. This is a Zelda long removed from the days of Hylia and the first hero. If he is a hero of anything, it's of a grown-over wild, a land where grasses spring up in fallen garrisons and every breath of wind carries the scent of old rains and new flowers and ancient wisps of forgotten memories.

He doesn't want to remember others. He doesn't want to recall lives that aren't his own. The Zelda here is her own, and he is his own—their world may be old, but to them it is something new, and he wants desperately to see it through the eyes of someone who has never lived before.

He can't really answer her question. So he gives her a thin smile, and hopes she can see the look in his eyes and understand.

Perhaps he's clinging too fast to hope, but she seems to.

When he hands her the cooking ladle and the long-awaited meal he's prepared after a long and hungry day, a funny little smile crosses her face, like she's remembering something, too.

"Thanks, Link," she says, and her voice is only a little bit teasing. His heart tugs oddly in his chest, but somehow, he can tell that she feels it too. "You are the hero of Hyrule."