Forgot to post here haha

Dark as a Lake

Don't you just wanna wake up

dark as a lake

smelling like a bonfire

lost in a haze...

This one is on you @waitingtobebroken - here goes my night of non sleep...

Also: I have been thinking about Crowley's fix for extravagant watches and I have come to the conclusion that his alarm clock cannot be anything less than the onboard clock from the dearly departed Mir Space Station.

I love everything about it.

I accept no criticism

I don't think my punishment was the Fall.

I think God put me in that garden, and you on the Eastern wall, knowing you were everything I'd ever want and everything I could never have.

My punishment was never to be a demon; the Serpent of Eden; the Fallen.

God cursed me to spend millennia walking the Earth, desperately and maddeningly in love with you, knowing that I could never have you.

The Ineffable Plan became my Ineffable Punishment; for a crime I didn't realise I'd committed until it was too late.

It's always too late, isn't it?

Fuck you, OP!!

(/affectionate)

As of today 14028 Aziraphale/Crowley fanfics have been posted on ao3 since the release of season two

Which means that on average 77.5 fanfics are being published per day

That’s 3.23 fanfics per hour

0.05 fanfics per minute

So in conclusion:

Every twenty minutes a new Aziraphale/Crowley fanfic is being written

Good! They haven't even started filming S3!

That is the most insane thing I've heard this week

And also the 20 minute thing is an underestimate, for sure. How many are being written and the author is waiting to post until they've finished. How many have been started and the author has just kept them for themselves. HOW MANY ARE WRITTEN ON TUMBLR. HOW MANY ARE JUST SHARED WITH THE AUTHOR'S FRIENDS.

I cannot wrap my head around this, in a great way

So I did a lot of math and the numbers are crazy. As of two weeks ago when I pulled the numbers:

In the time it took you to read this post thread, nearly a thousand words of good omens fanfiction were written somewhere in the world.

Data is under the cut if you're interested:) >more stuff like this<

have some snack-sized 1941 angst, i have way too many of those just. sitting in my wip folders

—

"It's not—listen, I don't—"

"Angel," Crowley interrupts him, far more gently than he thought himself capable of. "I know."

Some of the tension bleeds from Aziraphale's body, and his fingers still, unclenching and leaving behind pale half-moon scars on the outside of his wrist. His cheeks are flushed with a bottle of wine and the taste of it on Crowley's tongue, and when he inhales to calm his own trembling hands, he is hit with a wave of unconcealed desire. For a second, it is impossible to tell where Aziraphale's ends and his begins—not that it matters anymore, not with three feet of space and the weight of God's gaze separating them.

"I know," he repeats, trying to forget the caress of tear-stained lips on his throat, the press of warm hands on his face, his ribs, sliding down and down, and—

He pulls his shades out of wherever he had banished them and slides them back into place, gritting his teeth at the disappointment settling on Aziraphale's face. Dawn is an hour away, and the pleasant chill of angel-blue eyes meeting the hidden gold of his makes him consider staying until the sky turns grey; yearning for another taste of something is so much more dangerous than the temptation of the unknown. Crowley knows that if he does not leave now, he probably never will.

"See you soon?"

Aziraphale smiles, fragile, hopeful, scared. The brittle glass inside his chest holding back centuries of desperate longing is beginning to crack, forming the tiniest fracture, and Crowley allows the next sentence to slip through; just this once, he lets himself be honest.

"Couldn't live without you, angel."

Within one inhale and the next, he is gone, and Aziraphale watches the door unblinking until the sun washes away Crowley's shadow.

I need more of your wips

A Good Day

by Kait Rokowski

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.”

Reblog if you’re 30 or older

This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!

Or over 40

Or over 50.

i posted this once unedited in a chat and it went into the world, so here's a cleaned up version with my signature lol

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

Then bring me luck

the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work

I’m going to fucking SCREAM.

I think its a good time to reblog this.

oh yes :D <3

as much as it hurt me, i don't want to change a thing

tip jar