#wot excerpts

[deeplyridiculouslyinlove]

Thinking a lot about how Moiraine and Lan in Season 2 is essentially an exploration of the “does the bond chafe” scene from The Great Hunt, and how it turned something I disliked in the books into something I really love.

While there is a lot going on for Moiraine in this scene in the book, a core part of it is that she’s worried about Lan feeling compelled to abandon their mission both because she is worried she will die and he will freak out and because she is worried he will come to care more about Nynaeve than their battle against the Shadow. I get where this scene is coming from, both in emphasizing that Lan and Nynaeve are made for each other and in giving us insight into Moiraine’s calculating nature and the amount she is willing to sacrifice goodness for rightness, but I feel like this does Lan and Moiraine both a disservice, as well as their bond. Despite 20 years together, it feels like she doesn’t fully trust him. It also doesn’t quite make sense to me how they could have a conversation like that if they can feel each other’s emotions - it reads to me as blunt but not honest, and I’ve always assumed a core tenant of Moiraine and Lan’s relationship is deep honesty since they’re each feeling the other person reacting on a gut level in real time to every sentence said. Anyway, the scene landed poorly for me on my first read through and I still don’t love it even with a far better understanding of each of these characters on a reread.

So I really appreciate how the show flips this on its head and makes it about Moiraine doubting herself, not doubting Lan. In Season 2, Moiraine is embarrassed and insecure that the thing that made her who she is and that connected her to Lan has been taken away without her consent. You can extrapolate from this that she could also be worried or sad or insecure because she fears Lan might want to be Nynaeve's warder instead now that Moiraine is (in her eyes) useless in their quest, but there’s no indication that Nynaeve as she stands on her own is a primary motivation for Moiraine’s worrying about Lan. Moiraine’s callous actions towards Lan are so clearly rooted in Moiraine’s own fear, and not in Lan’s behavior. And then we get the final scene where Lan asks to be let back in to their bond. He has his out right there, he could go off and find Nynaeve and he chooses not to. Yes, this is because he is a man of his word and he took an oath, but it's also because he is devoted to Moiraine as a person, for who she is and their shared dedication. We aren’t left with Moiraine wondering when Lan will ask Moiraine to release him from his bond, but instead with him doing just the opposite and asking affirmatively to be rebonded. I find it really beautiful and it just speaks to this core of each of their characters that feels really authentic to me. And I think it will strengthen Lan and Nynaeve’s eventual relationship because it will feel like a very purposeful choice he’s making to enter into it, instead of something he’s pushing against. (It will also make the red door that much worse helpp.)

[markantonys]

#you know what this post has made me realize? poor mat is in dire need of a homoerotic rival!#<- PREV HE ABSOLUTELY IS#the show should give him one. as a treat. it'd be entirely in keeping with the show's Everything so far tbh tbh#personally i think it should be asmodean#he shows up and attaches himself to rand and mat's just like 'excuse me if anyone is going to give that man a bi awakening it WILL be me'#asmodean is torn between the urge to yell that it is Not Like That and the necessity of hiding his Very Evil Motives#(also it absolutely Is Like That but sometimes a gay lil bard needs some evil denial. for his health <3) (via @thewholedamnboulangerie)

i support this motion AND there are book grounds for it!!

gawyn with rand 🤝 dain with perrin

[eybefioro]

UNDERCOVER - Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Sugar High

Summary: In which an angel and a demon go for a stroll in the park.

Excerpt:

Crowley walked to their usual bench, irritated to find it taken by a young couple. He dithered on whether scaring them away was better than just miracling them a sudden fish and chips craving. He paced for a few seconds, almost ready to fill their picnic basket with snakes when a well known silhouette appeared from the other side of the pond. Aziraphale walked his way, his hands folded behind his back, an easy, soft smile plastered on his face as he looked around. Crowley felt his heart skip a beat, fondness rushing through his veins. He knew how miserable the angel was in Heaven, how horrible it was for him to have to spend his days in those empty corridors, surrounded by blinding bright white walls. He was made for Earth. Made for clutter, for music, for the cosy little deli, the small restaurants, the Ritz. Heaven must be torture for him. When Crowley noticed him, his expression softened, but Aziraphale’s hardened as he noticed the humans on their bench. Really. With a little wave, the couple went their way. Crowley got to the bench at the same time as him. “Wot did you do, Aziraphale?” “Nothing really. I just reminded them they left the oven on.”

Read it on Ao3 💛

@goodomensafterdark @captainblou

[goodomensafterdark]

Writer's Guild Presents: Tethered chapter 17

Written by NegotiationReal6508 on our subreddit!

Based on artwork by the amaaaaaazing @gleafer. Go support her on Patreon and tumblr! Forthwith!!

CW:

Angst, Suicide attempt, mental hospital, sleep paralysis, panic attack, restraints (not the fun type), religious trauma, implied character death, referenced child abuse, Good lord these warnings are making this fic sound gloomy af, mutual pining, light smut

Summary:

Crowley wakes up in a mental hospital with no memory of how he got there. Without his demonic powers, neither the doctors, nor the people who claim to be his family will believe he is who he says he is. With the evidence against him mounting, his only lifeline to the real world is a cryptic note left by an unseen messenger. The longer he stays in this hospital, the harder it becomes to recall for sure, is Crowley really a demon of Hell? Or has his entire existence been nothing more than a delusion conjured by a grieving mind?

Excerpt:

Aziraphale took in a deep breath through his nose. “Mmm, my dearest…” he sighed. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Dearest. Crowley could get used to being called that. He took hold of Aziraphale’s hand. “Me too, angel.”

“Why did you leave me?” Aziraphale hummed groggily.

Crowley cocked his head like a perplexed dog. “Wot? Leave you?” he asked.

“If only you had come with me, none of this would have happened,”...

Continue reading on AO3

Or

Start from chapter 1 - Dies Lunae

As always, big big thanks to my beautiful betas u/paperclip_ninja and u/blackjeans93! You make my writing ten times better, and I love you!! ❤️🧡💛

[cheeseplants]

Chapter one: The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

I'm so excited to share my new WIP. It's already pre-written at 58k!

Tags: Sad Wet Cat Crowley, Flirting over planning permits, Parish Councils, Bickerflickering forever

---

Down-and-out Crowley moves to the sticks to save his late aunt's cottage from demolition, but when he finds out that Councillor Aziraphale Fell isn't quite so keen on the demolition he is supposed to be in charge of - the two of them scheme to save the cottage as they uncover that sometimes the key to the future lies in preserving the past.

However, when feelings bubble up, can their relationship survive if on the surface they have to pretend to be working against each other?

--- Excerpt

“Your aunt left you something in her Will.”

“Left me something? Money?” Crowley’s eyes lingered on the bills before he downed the expresso, and set about making another. 

“Something like that. There is a bit of a problem.”

And all he thought was of course, there always was. 

That was his life. He could see the Book of his Life: Anthony J. Crowley, gold-embossed and tied with a red ribbon. Inside, every page, the word: "but..."

He could have his flat in London, but he couldn’t afford it. He could find his dream job, but he’d get fired. He could fall in love—or at least think he had—but... A sharp pain shot through his chest, nausea rising before he pushed it back down.

"But" had been seared onto him since the day he was born.

Crowley stared at the strips of daylight peeking through the window, and the jeans crumpled on the floor. He had planned another carefully curated day of misery: reality TV, wine, sleep, repeat. This routine dulled the pain that sat in his chest like a fire that would never be extinguished.

Inside, the four walls held him close and safe, keeping the blaze at bay. But even he knew his ability to keep the flat was dwindling, what with the extortionate bills and sky-high rent in one of London’s most expensive neighbourhoods. It had seemed such a good idea to buy here when he was at the top of his game. He hadn’t anticipated the fall.

Yesterday he’d sloped back to the cornershop under the judgemental eyes of the shopkeeper who must have noticed the uptick in Shiraz sales over the past few weeks. Crowley bought two bottles, and a tub of ice-cream.

Two bottles of wine, he decided, seemed like the kind of thing someone with a partner or a friend might buy. Three is too much, and one is suspicious. One screams: 'I am home alone and filling my days with alcohol and sleeping'. Two gave the air of someone who might be sharing their life with someone; not that he wanted to do that again. 

Those bottles were riding around in his stomach this morning like a waltzer he wished he could get off.

Crowley pushed the receiver back up to his ear. “Wot something? Wot problem?” His head was too foggy for this today.

“I suggest you come in, Mr. Crowley.”

Read chap one here.

Thanks to the amazing @happynachohologram & @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon for their incredible beta!

@goodomensafterdark

[gaiaseyes451]

A Little Life - Chapter 3 - All Of You

Rated: E, Words: ~14k/~71k. 3/12 Chapters. Read the tags!

Chapter Excerpt (Read on AO3):

“Anthony, do you ever think about it?”

“’Bout wot?” He asked, rummaging through the onion bin for one that still had its skin and no soft spots.

“Well, us. In the future…”

Anthony’s head snapped up. All of a sudden the small golden ring sitting in his jacket pocket burned against his chest. Carrying it with him had become part of his daily ritual: wallet, check, watch, check, keys, check, ring-in-case-the-moment-presents-itself-today, check. 

“Might do,” definitely do, all the damn time. “Do you?”

*~*~*

Summary:

When Professor of Botany Anthony Crowley met bookshop owner Ezra Fell one November afternoon both knew their lives had irrevocably changed. From that moment forward, Anthony and Ezra’s existence was intertwined. Their story was written through the moments and memories they created as they moved through life’s chapters of coming together, building a family and facing the challenges of being human. This is a story of unconditional love and the joy and humour, obstacles and grief that inevitably come with choosing the same person, day after day, over and over and over again.

*~*~*

A huge thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the writers community. And an extra special thanks to @adverbian, @hakunahistata and @the-literal-kj for beta'ing this chapter. Finally, a huge thanks to @fuzzygoblin for the song prompt that inspired this work.

[startledplatypus]

intentionally horrid art by... me

Indyoni Crowley and the Temple of the Jade Egg

By @startledplatypus and @wingsofopal

Rated: E; Words: 8.3K; Genre: crackfic

CW: none, but being an April Fool's fic, "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat" is in effect

Summary:

Aziraphale receives an unexpected gift from the new shop on Whickber Street and asks Crowley to help him figure out how to use it. Since they're both already a bit pissed, what would have been a weird evening anyway goes completely pear-shaped... or, in this case, egg-shaped.

Involves the improper use of a yoni egg, tampons, lubricant, and fire. Involves the dubious use of French and a lisp, but not a French lisp. Trauma is arguably enacted upon a Chesterfield sofa as well as one desk and its entire contents.

Also be advised that there are two regrettable but noble deaths: Aziraphale's trousers and Crowley's vintage Bob Marley tee.

Excerpt (Read the entire story on ao3):

Aziraphale hiccoughed loudly.

“Think y’ve had enough, angel,” Crowley drawled, perched on the Chesterfield’s arm and barely hanging on to his coffee mug. They’d decided to get drunk enough that they shouldn’t use the crystal tonight.

“Crowley, dear, I am completely sober!’’ squealed the angel, almost sending his teacup airborne. By the grace of Someone, he managed to grab hold of it instead, using it to indicate the desk at which he sat. ”There is something I wanted to show you – I am not sure what it means, exactly. Maybe you can help me?’’

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“I received a package recently, and it contained the most bizarre thing!”

This time Crowley hiccoughed. (The demon would’ve insisted that he belched. Crowley did not hiccough, according to Crowley.) “Wot is it?”

“Well, they seem to have been sent to all the Whickber Street shops. There’s a new…” Aziraphale realised his teacup was seriously askew and carefully set it on his desk. “What was I… oh! There’s a new shop on the corner. A… Sex Shop,” he enunciated, as if it might be a Clue.

*~*~*

Special thanks to our beta readers @theravenmuse, @spookysexy, and @cheeseplants as well as to the continual support of the awesome community at @goodomensafterdark!

[glassesfreekjr]

IMG: candid photo of Red Flare District's (alleged) bassist, Deryn Doe. Wanted for illegal data brokering as of 09/10/122023.

Excerpt from interview with two three members of Red Flare District, Inkopolis News Network; 6 September 122023:

------

Q: So, i take it the band's second single was composed and arranged primarily by... Haddock, was it? Hiddock (he/him), guitarist: Hiddock. Deryn (presumed she/her), bassist: [incoherent] St. Tuna Piano (he/him), frontman & drummer: Yeah, no input from me at all, man. Real inspiring stuff. Shame Petr coul'n't sing vocals again. Q: ... What was the reason this time? St. Tuna Piano: Cuz 'e choked on a bell pepper, that's wot. Irrevokably out o' commission. Deryn: [incoherent] Hiddock: Truth be told, I was initially inspired after our day trip to Um'ami — er, before it flooded last week, that is — but it wasn't until Shipshape Cargo Co. broke into the whole Turf War shtick that this idea just... arose through spontaneous generation; Squid Athena being birthed, fully formed, from her own skull. I mean, like, this new battleground floats through the remains of the polar ice caps — in essence, the impetus of both humanity's extinction and the Great Turf War, now used for a mundane cargo route and commercialized inkspewing. Don't you think that's oddly messed up? Q: Couldn't say. Anyway: there seems to be some degree of curiousity regarding a sample used around the one-minute mark. Any remarks? Hiddock: From a demo tape we found. Lost media; fit the theme. You wouldn't believe if we told you how we got it. Deryn: [fervent babble; no less comprensible] Q: I... don't believe she was even invited to this interview. How, uh... why is your bassist present? Hiddock: Well, "present" isn't... the word I would use. She's here, certainly. St. Tuna Piano: She comes n' goes as she pleases. Sorry if she touches anythin', 'er hands get all sticky. Q: Yes, but where did she come from? St. Tuna Piano: Same place anyone does, I 'xpect. Hiddock: Under a bridge. St. Tuna Piano (abruptly): Don't worry about it. We, eh, take care of her. Or somethin'.

------.

(sample source list can be found on my Youtube)

[burningvelvet]

One of my favorite excerpts of Jane Eyre (1847) taken from chapter 14:

“Yes, yes, you are right,” said he; “I have plenty of faults of my own: I know it, and I don’t wish to palliate them, I assure you. God wot I need not be too severe about others; I have a past existence, a series of deeds, a colour of life to contemplate within my own breast, which might well call my sneers and censures from my neighbours to myself. I started, or rather (for like other defaulters, I like to lay half the blame on ill fortune and adverse circumstances) was thrust on to a wrong tack at the age of one-and-twenty, and have never recovered the right course since: but I might have been very different; I might have been as good as you—wiser—almost as stainless. I envy you your peace of mind, your clean conscience, your unpolluted memory. Little girl, a memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure—an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?”

“How was your memory when you were eighteen, sir?”

“All right then; limpid, salubrious: no gush of bilge water had turned it to fetid puddle. I was your equal at eighteen—quite your equal. Nature meant me to be, on the whole, a good man, Miss Eyre; one of the better kind, and you see I am not so. You would say you don’t see it; at least I flatter myself I read as much in your eye (beware, by-the-bye, what you express with that organ; I am quick at interpreting its language). Then take my word for it,—I am not a villain: you are not to suppose that—not to attribute to me any such bad eminence; but, owing, I verily believe, rather to circumstances than to my natural bent, I am a trite commonplace sinner, hackneyed in all the poor petty dissipations with which the rich and worthless try to put on life. Do you wonder that I avow this to you? Know, that in the course of your future life you will often find yourself elected the involuntary confidant of your acquaintances’ secrets: people will instinctively find out, as I have done, that it is not your forte to tell of yourself, but to listen while others talk of themselves; they will feel, too, that you listen with no malevolent scorn of their indiscretion, but with a kind of innate sympathy; not the less comforting and encouraging because it is very unobtrusive in its manifestations.”

“How do you know?—how can you guess all this, sir?”

“I know it well; therefore I proceed almost as freely as if I were writing my thoughts in a diary. You would say, I should have been superior to circumstances; so I should—so I should; but you see I was not. When fate wronged me, I had not the wisdom to remain cool: I turned desperate; then I degenerated. Now, when any vicious simpleton excites my disgust by his paltry ribaldry, I cannot flatter myself that I am better than he: I am forced to confess that he and I are on a level. I wish I had stood firm—God knows I do! Dread remorse when you are tempted to err, Miss Eyre; remorse is the poison of life.”

“Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.”

“It is not its cure. Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform—I have strength yet for that—if—but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am? Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may.”

“Then you will degenerate still more, sir.”

“Possibly: yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure? And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor.”

“It will sting—it will taste bitter, sir.”

“How do you know?—you never tried it. How very serious—how very solemn you look: and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head” (taking one from the mantelpiece). “You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries.”

“I only remind you of your own words, sir: you said error brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence.”

“And who talks of error now? I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error. I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation: it was very genial, very soothing—I know that. Here it comes again! It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light. I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.”

“Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.”

“Once more, how do you know? By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne—between a guide and a seducer?”

“I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you. I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it.”

“Not at all—it bears the most gracious message in the world: for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don’t make yourself uneasy. Here, come in, bonny wanderer!”

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

“Now,” he continued, again addressing me, “I have received the pilgrim—a disguised deity, as I verily believe. Already it has done me good: my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine.”

“To speak truth, sir, I don’t understand you at all: I cannot keep up the conversation, because it has got out of my depth. Only one thing, I know: you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection;—one thing I can comprehend: you intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane. It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure.”

“Justly thought; rightly said, Miss Eyre; and, at this moment, I am paving hell with energy.”

“Sir?”

“I am laying down good intentions, which I believe durable as flint. Certainly, my associates and pursuits shall be other than they have been.”

“And better?”

“And better—so much better as pure ore is than foul dross. You seem to doubt me; I don’t doubt myself: I know what my aim is, what my motives are; and at this moment I pass a law, unalterable as that of the Medes and Persians, that both are right.”

“They cannot be, sir, if they require a new statute to legalise them.”

“They are, Miss Eyre, though they absolutely require a new statute: unheard-of combinations of circumstances demand unheard-of rules.”

“That sounds a dangerous maxim, sir; because one can see at once that it is liable to abuse.”

“Sententious sage! so it is: but I swear by my household gods not to abuse it.”

“You are human and fallible.”

“I am: so are you—what then?”

“The human and fallible should not arrogate a power with which the divine and perfect alone can be safely intrusted.”

“What power?”

“That of saying of any strange, unsanctioned line of action,—‘Let it be right.’”

“‘Let it be right’—the very words: you have pronounced them.”

“May it be right then,” I said, as I rose, deeming it useless to continue a discourse which was all darkness to me; and, besides, sensible that the character of my interlocutor was beyond my penetration; at least, beyond its present reach; and feeling the uncertainty, the vague sense of insecurity, which accompanies a conviction of ignorance.

“Where are you going?”

“To put Adèle to bed: it is past her bedtime.”

“You are afraid of me, because I talk like a Sphynx.”

“Your language is enigmatical, sir: but though I am bewildered, I am certainly not afraid.”

“You are afraid—your self-love dreads a blunder.”

“In that sense I do feel apprehensive—I have no wish to talk nonsense.”

“If you did, it would be in such a grave, quiet manner, I should mistake it for sense. Do you never laugh, Miss Eyre? Don’t trouble yourself to answer—I see you laugh rarely; but you can laugh very merrily: believe me, you are not naturally austere, any more than I am naturally vicious. The Lowood constraint still clings to you somewhat; controlling your features, muffling your voice, and restricting your limbs; and you fear in the presence of a man and a brother—or father, or master, or what you will—to smile too gaily, speak too freely, or move too quickly: but, in time, I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you; and then your looks and movements will have more vivacity and variety than they dare offer now. I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high. You are still bent on going?”

“It has struck nine, sir.”

[canmom]

i read Alex Dudok de Wit's short book for 'BFI Classics' on Grave of the Fireflies. goddamn can de Wit write. it's got some very specific information about the production of the film that I hadn't known - the shenanigans needed to fund that Fireflies-Totoro double bill, the fact that it wasn't finished on release and that almost tanked Takahata's career - and an incredibly sharp scene by scene analysis of the film, particularly noting what Takahata changes from the novella and from its author's life, and the simultaneous realism and romanticism comparing to the Italian neorealists.

but especially interesting to me is de Wit's analysis of how and why the film failed to realise Takahata's ambition to not just convey 'war is sad' but convey his critique of contemporary Japan in Seita's actions (here are two excerpts I found interesting)

and how that relates to subsequent 'war anime'...

i wrote about this subject last year after I saw Fireflies, comparing it with Gen and In This Corner; my post is like, ok, but of course it doesn't get nearly as far as Dudok de Wit does. but then he has been at the animation journalism and film crit thing a lot longer than I have. (also i was totally confusing Alex Dudok de Wit with Michaël Dudok de Wit, co-director of The Red Turtle, for a while there...)

In This Corner... doesn't get a mention here, but it seems that it is perhaps more typical of a genre than I realised. I'll pull out more whenever we get around to Giovanni's Island and - if I can find a copy! - Beneath the Black Rain on Animation Night.

anyway I think it's easy to read about Takahata's intent for the movie and think like, uhhh you wot mate? you want us to judge how irresponsible this teenage orphan in the middle of a war is being? some of his decisions to sanitise and idealise Seita, which already saw Nosaka (for understandable reasons, even if he didn't forgive himself for it) editing out the ugliest parts of his actions in that time, like hitting and taking food from Setsuko, also seem to undercut that intended reading. though it seems unlikely it would be a better film if he hadn't. so no wonder his intended reading doesn't come across. it's hard to imagine what a Grave of the Fireflies which was that uncompromising would feel like.

[mydearestdarlingsidney]

A battalion of a London regiment was in reserve in Rivière-Grosville, a small village just behind the line, in March 1917. Towards midnight we were ordered to fall in in fighting order as it was believed that the Germans had retired. Our mission was to reconnoitre the German position, and we were cautioned that absolute silence must be preserved. All went well until we reached the German barbed wire entanglements, that had to be negotiated by narrow paths, through which we proceeded softly and slowly, and with the wind "well up." Suddenly the air was rent by a stream of blistering invective, and a Cockney Tommy turned round on his pal, who had tripped and accidentally prodded him with the point of his bayonet, and at the top of his voice said: "Hi, wot's the blinkin' gime, Charlie? Do that again and I'll knock yer ruddy 'ead off." Charlie raised his voice to the level of the other's and said he'd like to see him do it, and while we flattened ourselves on the ground expecting a storm of bullets and bombs at any moment, the two pals dropped their rifles and had it out with their fists. Fortunately, rumour was correct, the Germans had retired. —H. T. Scillitoe, 77 Stanmore Road, Stevenage, Herts.

an excerpt from ‘500 of the Best Cockney War Stories’, c. 1930[?]

[thelivingautomaton]

hello time of wheelies, i am still livetweeting the books but i am now done with book 2 and figured you all might want an update, the most important being: y'all were right about the religious freaks with coffee, good god

yeah so let's start there with the seanchan because hooooooooly fuck

literally every time any of the seanchan are on the page i just sat there open-mouthed going "oh my god these guys are such FREAKS". but it's also so galaxy brained of robert jordan to introduce another antagonistic faction but have them be completely unconnected to the ongoing battle of dark vs light + unrelated to all the other factions in the setting?

and all the insane details about their culture. the nails! the blood! the insect-like armor! THE GROLM? (they're dimension-hopping colonizers????) also i only picked up on it b/c i was on the lookout but when lord turak is talking about "caf" and saying that the aroma is almost better than the taste, i literally sat up and yelled THOSE FUCKS HAVE COFFEE

for real though it is so unbelievably funny/based for rj to be like, okay, the prophesied last battle between the forces of good and evil is about to take place, world-shattering apocalypse, make or break. meanwhile, some guys from across the ocean are gonna invade and Do A Colonialism.

also, the damane? UNBELIEVABLY fucked on every conceptual level. special shoutout to renna's cloyingly patronizing treatment of egwene though, that shit actually made my stomach churn. (also also, shoutout to nynaeve for immediately seeing the damane/sul'dam/a'dam for what they are and reacting with the extremest revulsion when she has to put the bracelet on, love u bb girl <3)

kinda wanted at least one comedic interaction in the battle of falme where a bunch of seanchan soldiers run into The Actual Ghost Of Artur Hawkwing and lose their shit though. actually i thought it was soooooo funny as a narrative choice to have the horn blown but you barely see what happens in the big clash on the ground cos you're in rand's pov and he's too busy fighting ba'alzamon in a giant laser light show in the sky

(i still. don't really understand how that worked exactly but WHATEVER, it's fine. sad about the heron blade though ;-; but at least rand got to "prove" he has/had the right to it beforehand when he defeated turak. without channeling, even! which makes it 5x more badass)

also i thought it was interesting that by around the midway point of the book you have the pov characters dealing with three different factions whose way of doing things seems strange and alien: the seanchan, the aiel, and the cairhien nobles with the great game. just thought it was an interesting parallel

also, rand trying his best to Not Participate in the great game and just getting pulled in deeper was never not funny, sorry not sorry. rand and co infiltrating barthanes's mansion to try and grab the horn and the dagger was Peak D&D Heist energy and i loved it

the other big thing that had me losing my shit was surprise! parallel dimensions

LITERALLY WHAT THE FUCK. the moment that the realization hit that the washed-out otherworld that rand/hurin/loial found themselves in was an ALTERNATE UNIVERSE where artur hawkwing didn't defeat the trollocs, i fucking went crazy. and then loial talking about the excerpt from "mirrors of the wheel" and going on about worlds that are shadows of the real world! i was hooting and hollering and going "this is just like chronicles of amber" (which i highly recommend for y'all, VERY different vibe compared to wheel of time but they're super fun and you'll love them if you like the whack-ass stealthy sci-fi/genre blends in WOT)

and then the escalation to rand actively trying to use the stone and flickering through countless permutations of his own life? utterly fucking bananas. also: unbearably tragic! literally what if you lived out hundreds of versions of your life but despite the seemingly-infinite choices open to you, they all really boil down to one choice: play the role that's meant for you and be doomed by the narrative, or don't play and be doomed anyways. like. FUCK

robert jordan i am begging you to give me more insane alternate realities for your made up fantasy universe, i am begging you for more insane creepy shit like the otherworld being devoid of people and all the color washed out since it's a "weak reflection", it is SO GOOD

this is tangentially related but: i knew who """selene""" really was going in, but i did NOT know her introduction in the books was this fucking batshit, and also that she comes across as literally the shadiest motherfucker alive. "oooh, here i am in my pretty white dress being attacked by a beast, come save me! no i don't know how i got here, i was just riding! don't mind how i know a surprisingly specific amount about the portal stones! you're my hero! you can blow the horn and be a great man!" unironically i love her so much for this scheme, and how it plays off so well vs rand's insistence that he's just a shepherd + his starting to settle into the position of "lord" and/or "dragon"

but fr though i think this conflict is sooooo interesting as a central narrative theme, i.e. the choice to seek out glory and heroism for its own sake vs taking it upon yourself as your duty because there's no one else who can vs running away from that duty and responsibility. "We may be a poor pair of heroes, but we are what there is." "It was not what I was made for, but all was breaking apart, and they were alone, and I was all they had." everything with rand feeling the "threads" of his duties and "death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain" and the idea of choosing to sheathe the blade in yourself when the moment comes. and how that ties in with ingtar's final choice and his sacrifice!

it's all about the CHOICE!!! this is literally me irl rn:

oh my god what else. i loved getting so much more detail on the aes sedai (who are basically underfunded academics constantly squabbling among their respective departments, i have decided) and how channeling works/feels. (the parallel between the girls imagining saidar as a flower vs rand feeling saidin as the flame and void with a sickly light in it. chef's kiss!!! but also, rand simultaneously craving saidin and being sickened by it? chewing glass about it, nbd) verin mathwin aka The Aes Sedai Ever is unbelievably great. a lot of this book felt like buildup so i'm hype for things to start popping off, especially now that rand has apparently accepted the mantle of dragon. these books are crazy and i love them

[insecateur]

Wot is cb3?

Also may i kindly request odapura excerpt, professor bigtits deserves love

cb3 is part 3 of my mutual pining series, lmao. it's short for carol brown (link goes to the tom cardy cover) bc the song actually partially inspired it what with augustine dating around and having a hard time keeping up with it

here's an odapura excerpt for you... this is definitely high up on my priority list, i really want to finish it this year

Throughout the weeks that followed, Birch learned two very important things. One: as he suspected, Augustine's charisma was through the roof. He could chat up anyone he wanted, and nearly instantly tame any pokémon he ran into. Everyone at the lab seemed to like him, and Birch had even caught a few questioning glances his way, as if people found their friendship confusing or hard to believe. Two: Augustine was also incredibly clumsy. Sometimes he'd trip over himself for no reason and only narrowly avoid falling over. Sometimes he'd turn around too close to the edge of a table and elbow whatever was on it right into the floor below. Once or twice, he'd even run into walls.�� It gave Birch a fascinating insight into what it was like to watch him struggle with handling pokémons. Unlike him, though, Augustine didn't seem put off by it. He took his lack of dexterity with a disarming amount of good humor, laughing at himself easily and always making sure not to get too close to things that he'd rather not risk breaking.

[goodomensafterdark]

Writers Guild Presents: Tethered - Chapters 4-5

Written by NegotiationReal6508, find them on Reddit and AO3

Chapters 4-5 of Work in Progress

TW/CW: Attempted suicide, mental breakdown, physical description of panic attack symptoms, implied character death (but not really)

Summary: Crowley wakes up in a mental hospital with no memory of how he got there. Without his demonic powers, neither the doctors, nor the people who claim to be his family will believe he is who he says he is. With the evidence against him mounting, his only lifeline to the real world is a cryptic note left by an unseen messenger. The longer he stays in this hospital, the harder it becomes to recall for sure, is Crowley really a demon of Hell? Or has his entire existence been nothing more than a delusion conjured by a grieving mind?

Excerpt:

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. “Aziraphale!” He spun on the mattress and there he was met with the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen: Aziraphale standing next to his bed.

“Hello, Crowley.” The angel knitted his fingers apprehensively.

“Oh, thank someone you're here!” Crowley threw the sheets off and clambered onto the cold floor. “I can't stand another second in this depressing cesspool!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said gently, holding his hands up in front of him.

“C'mon, let's get the hell out of here!” Crowley already had his hand on the doorknob when Aziraphale spoke.

“I can't,” the angel said. “Not yet, I mean.”

Crowley stared at him dumbfounded. “Wot?!”

“I can't get you out yet.”

Continue reading on AO3

Or start from chapter 1 - Dies Lunae

Thanks to my Beautiful Betas: u/blackjeans93, u/adverbian, u/lemon-tart-221 u/FuzzyGoblinoid

[cheeseplants]

The Ecstasy of Eden: Chapter six

The Last Day

We've reached the fifth time they use sex pollen!

CW/TW/Tags: Sex pollen, The Last Judgement, The End Times, The Rapture, Sorry Humans, It’ll be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright it’s not the end, Resolved sexual and romantic tension

Summary

It's the end of the world as we know it, and their last chance on Earth together.

Excerpt

“Tea?” Aziraphale managed, as what other way was there to deal with the impending end of everything? He had always felt rather English after-all.

Crowley shrugged, his head deep in the heavy tome. Aziraphale got up anyway, needing something to do. He wandered through the shop, his hands dusting along the covers of books, finally making tea and rummaging around for a bottle of wine for Crowley. Might as well open the best, they weren’t going to age any longer.

He held the cup of tea, and a thin stemmed wine glass between his fingertips, as he balanced the wine on his elbow. The plan was to place the bottle wordlessly next to Crowley, as he often did these days. Crowley would give little acknowledgment until the night was over and only a few drops were left in the bottle.

Their meanderings into the night were less fun than they used to be, mainly scouring books while Aziraphale gave detailed accounts of Upstairs as Crowley furiously paced around the shop. These small touches brought him closer to what they once had, he had that at least.

“Aziraphale!” The scream ripped through him like lightning. He pulled out of his daze, and saw Crowley hovering in the air, his hands gripping the bookshop sofa, the Bible lying half open on the floor.

“Help me.” Crowley’s face was ashen white, his glasses had toppled onto the floor, and he realised in their 6,000 years together he had rarely seen Crowley’s eyes blaze with such terror.

The teacup, wine, and glass came crashing down, leaving rivers of brown and red liquid running along his carpet. He lunged towards Crowley, his heart banging hard in his chest, he grasped at his shirt, yanking him down in one fell swoop. Crowley’s toes floated and scraped the floorboards. He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s chest and squeezed him tight.

“Ngk.”

It had been so long since they touched. Crowley’s ribs dug into Aziraphale's chest, and his hands grasped at the stiff white fabric of his suit. A heavy thick musk, the smell of six thousands years on Earth hit him with full force, Aziraphale cried out a helpless sob.

“Angel, wot is happening?”

“ It’s happening,” Aziraphale’s voice shook. They both turned to the window outside and saw the humans rising off their feet, each one floating towards Heaven. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“I thought I’d go, you know, down there.”

“The Last Judgement. Everyone goes up before they go -,” Aziraphale sighed. “- down. Even the damned.”

“Just my luck to get damned twice.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t stop himself from burying his head into the crook of Crowley’s shoulder, breathing him in, the smell of him, not just him, but of Earth. The drinks he had, the cologne he wore, the leather from his coat, the wax he used in his hair. All from Earth. His eyes moistened.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Crowley’s ear. It was his last chance, he let his lips touch Crowley’s cheek, a gentle kiss, nothing like the one they had shared before. Crowley’s fingers pushed into his back, his feet lowered to the ground.

“Wait -” Crowley said, peering down. “Do it again.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.

“Kiss me,” Crowley growled.

“I -”

“Please.”

And he did.

Crowley’s feet slammed onto the hardwood floor, as Aziraphale’s mouth pressed into his. It was quick, uneasy, a short peck, nothing more. They parted breathlessly.

Start here Read Chapter 6 here

Written for the High Sex Pollen Event! Thanks to my lovely betas: @fuzzygoblin and @happynachohologram. We're nearly at the end!

Thanks to: @adverbian, @voluptatiscausa, @malachitegrey again for the High Sex Pollen Event! I'm nearly done, I swear.

@goodomensafterdark

[wot-tidbits]

10 Years Anniversary

PART 1

How it started?

10 years is a lot of time and a blink to the human eye.

For 10 years I was extremely stubborn in my pathological consistency to provide WoT content for this blog every single day.

In the last 10 years I had probably around 10? 20? days without a single post. 10 days for 10 years. This is a lot of dedication. Basically this is dedication by insane lunatic.

Every single day - new art or new meme or usually both, with sprinkles of community posts on the top.

For the 10th anniversary I decided to look back through my bumpy journey and write some memories down. I am not surprised that the project turned into several parts.

So here is part one.

How it all started.

If you are old follower of mine probably you have read that story already - I had completely other intention in creating this blog.

Back to 2013 when A Memory of Light came out I had crazy lovely time going around different places in the fandom in anticipation for the last book. And then in the first days of January I stumbled onto the UAF community on Tumblr. I remember two blogs which captured my attention - asthewheelturns and deleted WoT confessions blog. I participated with several confessions and liked the idea of how Tumblr works. For the next months I regularly checked asthewheelturns and in the end of 2023 I got inspired to create my own blog on Tumblr.

(Note – asthewheelturns was the biggest WoT blog at that time)

But what was gonna be the content? At that time I was rereading the database interviews in Theoryland and gathered the most interesting parts shared by Robert Jordan which turned into 100+ excerpts of a list. Then I decided why not make a blog which sorts out the best of the interviews and make catalogue for easier reading. So the blog was initially heavy text only oriented. From the very beginning I knew that I create very specific niche and I expected small audience to pay attention. I anticipated that 100 followers would be considered as great success in the long run of a year or two.

How little did I know about the community on Tumblr. I got the first 100 followers for less than a month.

While learning around the community in those first days I decided that it would be good to have some amazing content reblogged on my blog to show my appreciation. Then I noticed that asthewheelturns was kinda unique in providing various content and I asked myself what kind of blog I would love to follow myself - WoT centric content with regular sharing of artwork, memes and funny community posts and thoughtful analysis (alongside with information behind the scenes by Robert Jordan or Brandon Sanderson). And then I realized that such grandiose thing have not existed at the time. Do not get me wrong, asthewheelturns were amazing and awesome but still they were doing it casually for fun. I told to myself - well if no one else is eager to put the required insane amount of dedication into work... why I don't try it myself? As I wanted such blog to exist, let’s build it with my own hands. I am that crazy enough to spend so much time consuming enormous amount of labor. And this is how I start working on it and now you have seen content for this blog for 10 straight years. And this project is still not replicated.

I got the first place of the WoT-content blog with most followers very fast - in around 1 year my numbers surpassed asthewheelturns and to this day 9 years later I still hold that record to my knowledge. May be this sounds like I am extremely proud and selfish for this "accomplishment", if we can call it as such. The reality is so much different. Yes, in the first 3-4 years it was nice to know that I give the most dedication to the project. But not for long. I realized that such long period “being on top” is definitely not okay for the WoT community in the long run. If the WoT community is thriving there should be always healthy competition, there should be always someone new, someone better - this is a natural cycle. I was not worried or was jealous of the thought to be surpassed. I was eager for this to happen - it would show that WoT on Tumblr is moving ahead. On the contrary, being on top for so long would show that the community is in worrying state of stagnation.

There were several attempts where people created blogs for the goal of competition with me (often doing it with spite of me) and I was more than happy to promote them. Unfortunately, in the long run they all got tired and abandoned their work. This was sad news for me. What I do is not that difficult or special to replicate. The only difference it seems to be that I am insanely stubborn donkey who does not give up. That's all.

All of the above probably does not matter anymore as the new gained popularity of the TV show might make someone with more followers than me. I hope so. Really hope so. Just I do not have that information yet. Please, share with me if you know WoT-centered blog that has more than 4400 followers so to put the record straight. 9 years is too much.

Let the Light keep you safe.

LightOne