#terry pratchett fanfic

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch7

A 1990's Through the Ages story set pre-Antichrist. Crowley and a keen new manager are getting deeper into a battle of paperwork while Crowley's been cut off from most of his demonic powers due to an Accountability drive in Hell. Aziraphale and other new Whickber St characters help out. (Terry Pratchettesque banter and hijinx)

Dave looked up from the bar where he was polishing a glass and pointed his chin to the kitchen when Crowley walked in. The hungry demon made a big plate of pub fare and polished it off before putting his dishes and the dirties from the bus bins into the industrial washer. He set about cleaning the kitchen since it wasn’t yet time for his shift out front.

After a while Dave came into the kitchen looking for Anthony, eyebrow raised at the unrequested industry of his unlikely new hire.  Freshly washed and shaved, the lad still sported his kilt and heavy soled boots, knobby knees and elbows poking out so the redhead didn't look completely filled out yet, despite his lanky broad shoulders.

“Good job, lad.  I like the initiative,” Dave set down an official looking employment form on the only dry, clear space in the kitchen pushing the paper and a pen towards the lad. “Just fill these out for me, so I can hire you officially.  Just the usual stuff,” he explained.

Anthony picked up the form like he’d never seen one before, reading it quickly, then glancing up at Dave, an awkward smile that seemed to be trying for shifty on his face.

“Do we have to be so ‘official’?  I’m happy to save you the extra paperwork and just take cash?��� Anthony offered hopefully.

Grabbing the other kitchen stool, Dave sat across from the lad, “Sorry, Anthony, I don’t employ people under the table.  I’ll need these filled out with your National Insurance Number and copies of your birth certificate or passport, to prove you can work in the UK.  It’s a bugger, paperwork, but it keeps me open an’ operatin’, you understand.”  

Mouth open, the kid came up with a plausible lie on the spot, “I understand, Dave, I’ll fill it out.  I just don’t have my ID on me.  An’ I don’t have me National Insurance Number memorized, yet…”

Dave fixed Anthony with a measuring look, the lad was fairly vibrating with keen, terrible hope.  The kid obviously needed the job badly, surreptitiously scrounging leftovers while bussing the tables last night.  And he was making a good impression so far…

“Fine, lad. I can pay you cash until you can get your IDs sorted,” a relieved smile broke over the kid’s newly shaved (and nicked) face.  Dave held up a hand, “I can’t run it that way for long, two weeks, tops.”  

Anthony popped up from his seat and grasped Dave’s raised hand, shaking it vigorously. “You’ve got a deal!”

The next few days fell into a new rhythm.  Crowley slept in the Bentley, sometimes in alleyways, sometimes on the street in the Whicker neighborhood, sometimes as the Bentley moved around the neighborhood.  For some reason, the car didn’t seem to want to venture past Soho.  Crowley hadn’t walked to his Mayfair apartment, since the doorman wouldn’t let in the unfamiliar young Scottish kid.  Plus, there was no point.  Crowley didn’t keep any documents.  He’d never needed real, actual documents before, always pulling the appropriate official paperwork by miracle for whatever situation was needed.  Anyways, he’d always thought all that paper just cluttered up the place and didn’t go with his minimalist aesthetic.  Shame.

Everyday he went into the bookshop, which started a rumor that the new barkeep liked history, and was writing a book.  He certainly had some colorful stories to tell of historical events and left the bookshop everyday with an ever enlarging stack of computer printouts.  In reality, Crowley was running reports for Usher’s requisitions.  Waging a war by form, now with the additional Daily Standard Requisition for official identification documents needed for holding a job, and energy or monies to run a body.  Aziraphale was a canny help suggesting new requisitions, but Crowley couldn’t ask him to miracle documents for him, too obvious.  Unfortunately, Usher didn’t seem likely to break before the two week deadline was up. 

The regulars at the Dirty Donkey were taking a shine to Anthony, which allowed Dave to step away from the bar to pop upstairs to help his wife. If the lad didn’t have to work under the table, he’d truly be heaven-sent.

***

Shax collected another sheaf of reports from a less harried Furfur.  “Your department seems to have grown considerably, Furfur,” she observed.

“Yeah, lookit them all!  Workin’ away like maggots on a carcass,” Furfur looked proudly over the demons at ranks of desks with inkwells and fountain pens at the top.

“I see you found a solution to the pencil problem,” Shax said.

“Usher understands an empty ink bottle, and they stay put on the desks,” Furfur smiled at the inkwells locked into the desks, fingering a shiny new key.  A demon with a strange contraption attached to his back went around filling the inkwells.

Shax looked at the new ‘Inbox’ which had been turned into a chute that fed into a huge hand cart, like the kind for industrial laundries.  Sheets of paper with regularly spaced holes on either side and attached to one another on their short sides were continuously feeding into the pile while pieces of paper, scraps of receipts, scribbles on envelopes floated around them.

“Did Usher get more demons to manage?  There’s considerably more coming in from Earth.” Shax observed.

“Nah.  Actually he’s got less demons reportin’ in.  There’s more coming in by the reincorporator, and they tend to lurk around until they’re forced to go back out,” Furfur said, going over a report that one of the demon clerks handed him.

“They were discorporated? By angels?” asked Shax, an edge of anger in her voice.

“Some of ‘em,” explained Furfur, “But some of them by humans more often now.  Also,” Furfur looked shifty.

“Also, what!?” hissed Shax. 

“Some of ‘em have been goin’ quiet for days or weeks, then pop down here in the re-incorporator.  Said they lost the ability to move and just laid there til they dissolved,” Furfur shuddered a little.

“Why would that happen?” Shax asked.

“Dunno, but one demon’s making up for all the others and then some, an’ ‘e’s been asking for energy to run his corporation. He’s the one sending down the reports on that funny connected paper,” Furfur indicated the nearly continuous fall of white connected paper landing in the handcart.

“Who is it?” asked Shax, noting that Furfur seemed negatively disposed to whomever was managing to oppose Usher.

Face distorting in dislike, Furfur said, “Crowley.”

Ah, thought Shax.

“So Usher is giving Crowley energy to run his corporation and all his other requisitions?” asked Shax, thinking that any preferential treatment of Crowley was sure to pull Furfur’s tail.

Grudgingly, Furfur admitted, “Nooo.  Usher actually gives Crowley the least of all of ‘em.   Though he’s started giving some of the discorporated demons part of the “Standard Daily Requisitions” that Crowley requests.”

“The what?” Shax asked and Furfur handed over a piece of paper from his clipboard.

Shax looked down the list.

“Usher is giving the other demons requisitions, but not Crowley.  And Crowley’s still operating?”

“Bugger me how.  I’ve checked for help from,” Furfur pointed over their heads, “After catching him with that angel in 1941, but he’s not registering any angelic support,”  Furfur said.

Shax looked up from the reports at a sudden outburst.

“I won’t go back!” a demon with spider legs extending from their back came through from the reincorporator accompanied by a slender demon with hair raised into two vague horns. “You’ll be fine,” Demon Eric encouraged, “Lookit all the stuff we get to have this go!” 

“That’s the spirit, Eric!  Get up there and give ‘em hell!” said Furfur.

“Oh, I didn’t requisition for all of Hell, sir,” Eric said, walking by towards the transporter, “Imagine me requisitioning all of Hell,”  he said, shaking his head.

Eyebrow raised, Shax said, “I’ll take the reports.” 

Furfur turned back to his desk and handed her a full banker’s box, “Here ya go,” dropping it into her outstretched arms.

Shax easily took the weight of the box and clicked away efficiently.

Walking until she didn't feel any eyes on her, Shax ducked into an unregarded corner to read the reports.  Maybe there was a clue to how Crowley was doing it?  This was information that was sure to help her get ahead!

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story, there are more Good Omens fanfic at my Master List.

[msue0027]

Ah yes, my favourite Bible fanfics, in no particular order

"Paradise Lost", John Milton

"Divine Comedy", Dante Alighieri

"Good Omens", Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

[dont-tell-my-mom-im-here]

I keep seeing GO fics in which they use miracles for sex, which is nice y'know, love the creativity, but like, Heaven and Hell can see what they use miracles for right? So I just keep picturing like Michael or someone getting a notification and it's just like:

[AZIRAPHALE] removed Crowley's clothes

[AZIRAPHALE] miracled (1) penis

I mean no wonder they wanted to break them up.

[doraminatook]

Spoilers: it did.

[very-normal-abt-this]

if Aziraphale allowed himself to say it (final 15 fix-it)

(after the kiss)

-I lo…I love you.

-Then don't leave.

-I don't want to leave you.

-Then don't!

-I don’t have a choice.

-Why?!

-Because I'll never forgive myself if I don't!

-Sure you will. I do it all the time. Just takes practice.

-No, you don't. You never forgive yourself.

-That why you keep doing it for me?

-Yes. You deserve peace and forgiveness.

-I don't want peace and forgiveness. That sounds boring. What I want is…You.

-Aren't…aren't you going to say it back?

-It bacK.

-Crowley!

-If I say it, will you stay?

-Crowley…

(pause)

-If you don't want to be an angel then…I don't have a choice but to go back. To protect you. To protect us.

-I don't need protection, Angel! I've been taking care of myself for years, in case you haven't noticed.

-Of course I noticed. I also noticed when you needed holy water to protect yourself. And I noticed when we had to switch bodies to protect ourselves. I noticed that the only reason you didn't receive extreme sanctions was that Beelzebub went rogue. They're never going to stop trying to destroy you, you know.  Your very existence is a threat to them.

-So what! I'll take my chances! 

-I can't take chances with your life.

-Ngk.... So you're going to abandon me here, and its "FoR mY oWn GoOd" ?

-Not…abandon. Just a temporary leave of absence. And it's for our own good. I'm doing this for me too, because I need you to be safe. And I'm doing this for the world because…it's our home. 

-(sigh) You'll never stop trying to do good, are you Angel?

-No, I suppose not. But isn't that why you love me?

-Hmm. And what makes you think I love you?

-Crowley! Don't be cruel.

-Like I told you before…I love you because you're just enough of a bastard to be worth loving. 

-That's not exactly what you said back then.

-It was what I thought.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54145684

[suckrose-and-akwa]

Original credit for this cap is @eruvadhril TY!

[khorazir]

“The Wee Free Men”

Illustration for chapter 1 of my new Payneland fic The Case of the Stolen Barrow, the second story in my Figuring Out The Rest series. Crivens!

[cephalopod-celabrator]

I think it's a shame that there was never a discworld book involving Moist Von Lipwig facing the elves. Because I would pay so much money to see that. The elves are dangerous and some of them have seriously powerful magic, but for the most part they're creatures of glamour. They entrance, trick, deceive, and intimidate. But the thing is, Moist is even better at it than they are. Moist's primary skills are just his sheer audacity and charisma. The elves are creatures of stories, and Moist knows how to spin a story better than anyone. Plus, it's mentioned elves often try to use their glamour to overwhelm humans with sheer feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. And while Moist doesn't like plenty of things about himself, he's incredibly good at hiding it. As I said, he's a man with audacity. It could also draw an interesting parallel showing how elves aren't much more than he is, just magical con-artists but at least he's trying to be better now. Bonus: Adora Belle Dearheart vs the elves. She has an even more ironclad sense of self-confidence than Moist. Plus she has golems, which would likely be unaffected by both elf glamour and elf swords, and goblins which were formerly enslaved by the elves and are a vengeful people with access to a lot of iron. It would also be funny if they were hyper-sensitive to her cigar smoke or something

[georgiacooked]

“Steal five dollars and you're a common thief. Steal thousands and you're either the government or a hero.” ― Terry Pratchett, Going Postal

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

good omens mascot here, just some thoughts

Hey, Good Omens fans. Do you all know how important you are?

I need you to. I need you to know how important you are. How loved you are. How talented, and friendly, and loving you are.

I mean, look at us. @neil-gaiman and Terry Pratchett created a story, a bonfire in the woods. And so many people gathered around it, some looking for the fire, some drawn in by the warmth, some, like me, just lost in the woods and stumbling into the clearing.

And those people looked at the fire and began to weave stories of their own, told them to each other, stories filled with possibilities and endless what-ifs, and called them fanfiction.

Some people looked at the fire and saw images instead, and began to make art on the ground, on the tree trunks, on each other's skin. Colours and lines and so much beauty, all decorating this one little clearing with fanart. Some even moved, animated, brought to life by endless love and creativity.

Some took up little flaming twigs from the fire and twisted them in new ways, humming songs they remembered to go with the patterns, filling the clearing with new combinations of sparks. So many fan edits.

Some of the people even wrote songs of their own, singing them to each other. Some made jokes, drawing laughter from those who thought they'd never smile again. So many more ways in which the people gathered around the bonfire made the story a part of them, and made themselves a part of the story.

There were other people, too. They thought that they didn't contribute anything. They were wrong about that. The artists and writers and creators were so grateful to them for listening, for loving, for appreciating. They held each other's hands and cried and laughed together. They silently watched, finding warmth, not knowing they were giving strength to other silent watchers.

So many fans who made the bonfire's clearing home, reaching out with kindness to each other.

And I'm so privileged to have been grabbed by laughing, friendly people, pulled into the clearing, and shown the fire. Isn't that such a wonderful thing?

You are those people. You did what humans have been doing for millennia, you gathered around a fire and you formed a community, you made a home right there in the middle of the wilderness, with just a story holding you together. Well, not just. A story is never just a story.

Look at you.

So utterly, utterly beautiful.

I love you all. I'm so grateful for you all, the creators, Neil, Terry, the cast, the crew, the fans, all of you. For this little clearing in the woods, which I wandered into by accident while I was lost in the forest, looking for a friend.

I love you all, you are loved.

That's all, maggots. Goodbye, I have some fanfiction to read :")

[cieffeitsme]

Do It Again

Source fanfic: @smol_ghosts on Xitter

[gwydpolls]

Lucian's Library 5

Feel free to suggest never written books you wish you could read.

[doraminatook]

I wrote a spec script for Good Omens.

This past week, I was out to coffee with a friend of mine and we got to talking about writing (as we often do). She has more of a television/movie background while I have more of a theatre background.

In the midst of our discussion, she brought something called a "spec script". When asked what exactly that was, she explained (at least in terms of television), it's an unprompted and uncommissioned script written for an already established show. The purpose is to help demonstrate a writer's ability to match the style, format, and voice of a show they didn't create.

Immediately, I said, "That just sounds like fanfiction!"

(Obviously, it's not, but I enjoyed the parallels nonetheless.)

So, of course, I had to write a spec script. (Season 3, episode 1 of Good Omens.)

Let it be known that I did not do this in the hopes of joining the writing team as I know Neil has that MORE than covered. I just did it for fun, but I'm really proud of it and I hope you head on over to AO3 and take a look at it.

Probably too many swear words. Probably too much AziraCrow too quickly. Probably too blasphemous. Definitely wonky formatting.

But I had fun! And that's what fanfic is all about.

[leoreadss]

Have you ever found yourself reading for the second time the last chapters of a fanfic because you had an idea and need to know certain things in order to start your project and suddenly realise that the old lady across the coffee shop where you are is looking at you a bit concerned and you start noticing your tears falling in your coffee? No? Just me? Oh, ok.

[khorazir]

“The Wee Free Men”

Lineart of the illustration for chapter 1 of my upcoming Payneland fic The Case of the Stolen Barrow, the second story in my Figuring Out The Rest series. I hope to post the finished art and the first chapter tomorrow.

Like the rest of the fandom, I’m still reeling from yesterday’s cancellation. I’m angry about yet another queer show with wonderful, relatable queer and well fleshed-out female characters, great storylines, costume design, cinematography etc. being sacrificed for and by corporate greed. I’m sad for us fans who are yet again cheated out of what surely would have been a brilliant second season.

But even more than that, I’m sad for cast and crew and all the creatives who poured heart, soul, talent and hard work into this show and seemed to have truly loved it the same way we do. That’s not usual for a show at all. I wish them all the best in their future endeavours, while maintaining a faint hope that we haven’t seen the last of our beloved dead boys and their found family yet.

I really hope the fandom will stick together and stay as amazing as I experienced it to be in the past four months. You’re absolutely aces, folks.

As for my creative endeavours when it comes to Dead Boy Detectives, I feel I have only just started out creating art and fic, and there will definitely be more. I’m a person who is not easily drawn into new fandoms, but when I am, I tend to stick around. I’ve been active in the BBC Sherlock fandom for 14 years, and have been creating art inspired by the works of JRR Tolkien (books only) for over 30. So ... yeah. I’m more inspired than ever to create things inspired by Dead Boy Detectives. So watch this space.