I Love Them Your Honor!

I'm always looking forward to two things: new chapter of Loosely Ballroom AND new fanart of Loosely Ballroom (and I am not sure which one I love more 😅 ) This is pure happiness. I don't smoke and I don't like it, but I can watch them as smoking all day.

Guys, if you haven't started reading yet, do so now please. And LOOK AT THEM, LOOK.

Loosely Ballroom bump! This pic is from Week 4 (Chapt 5) but you should check out the newly posted chap 6! 

Good omens strictly come dancing AU!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24438355/chapters/60976732

I don't know what I would do if fanfiction wasn't here. I don’t know. Honestly, I would probably kill myself.

Few days ago I fell into another one, Under Contruction by @summerofspock and CAN’T STOP reading. 

Just a sketch, but I'm a little proud of myself how their noses pop up! Big noses fan me (this sounded weird). And who is not, with David and with Michael on beside? 

Yeah, below we also have ‘the thumb on the hip bone’! I put it in quotes because it was a Thing and you know what I mean if you already read fic. Only one slightly naked and bruised man (pants on) and one gentle thumb, nothing more, I promise! 

(sorry, perhaps nobody harms if I post whole image, but not finished yet - struggle with anatomy as always)

“The point I’m trying to make,” he said, brightening, “is the dolphins. That’s my point.” 

full version

I need more of your wips

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.

Hi everyone and especially @starryfull13​ ! I made this art for you as a Gift Exchange event by @do-it-with-style-events and I hope you will like it ^^ At the beginning I wasn’t sure which of prompts I was going to draw until I started and these two came up itself. It’s also my first attempt to draw Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis and I hope I captured them well (high heels are very impractical in garden, angel). Thank you for joining to this event, I had a great time to draw them!

By the way, I’d like to think Aziraphale has a history with crumpled birds more than we all thought and that he is completely terrible with them even he loves all living creatures on Earth. Also, you never know the birds will fall from the sky when you are pretendring to know how to replant hydrangeas.

paint me like one of your studio ghibli background sceneries

I have faith but don’t believe it, it’s not there enough to leave it.

‘Don’t Swallow the Cap’ by The National

anyway sure sure we laugh but they really did spend six thousand years in love and terrified about it and i think in the post-armageddon world like. the absence of terror is the terrifying thing. having spent so long looking over each shoulder and slipping past each other in the dark, trying to find each other now in the light–how unsettling that must be.

how devastatingly difficult that must be. 

to reach for his hand and have to remind each other that it’s okay. to lead each other through the first stumbling paces of a slow dance and have to take a breather to swallow back the panic. it’s okay, they tell each other, again and again, trembling fingers on pale faces. it’s okay.

but even immortal beings change and grow and learn, and there is hope here, in this repetition, in this reassurance. it’s okay, it’s okay. crowley initiates a hand-hold one late april night, slipping his hand over aziraphale’s on the table, and aziraphale does not take his hand away. it’s okay, it’s okay. aziraphale sits next to crowley on the sofa one mid-june morning, handing him a cup of coffee, and crowley leans in against him. it’s okay, it’s okay. in september they kiss, all gasping breath and brushing lips, but neither of them draws away.

i love you, aziraphale says, in december. he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because crowley needs gentle things still, sometimes. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged optimism, crowley deserves gentle things sometimes.

crowley is quiet for a long time, swirling the wine in his glass. then he sets the glass aside, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at aziraphale with wet eyes. do you ever miss heaven? he asks.

aziraphale shakes his head. no.

do you regret what happened? crowley presses. do you ever think about going back?

no, aziraphale answers.

if i—if i didn’t love you back, he says, choking on the words a little, would you go back to them?

aziraphale sets his glass aside too, and gets to his knees in front of crowley, taking his hands, pressing his lips to the knuckles. no, he says. if you had your choice, heaven or hell, where would you be, crowley?

with you, crowley says instantly.

so why is it so very hard to believe the same of me? that i would choose you? aziraphale cups one hand to crowley’s cheek. i am not giving up anything by loving you, dear boy. i am finding what i have wanted to find for a very long time.

and if they come for us again? he asks. he’s pressing his cheek hard into aziraphale’s hand though, and aziraphale leans in to press their foreheads together.

then we face them side-by-side. i love you. aziraphale is so close now he can feel the shudder in crowley’s breath when he says it. i love you. i am not afraid.

it’s crowley who closes the distance, who presses in, his mouth hot and desperate and seeking. it’s crowley who slides his arms around aziraphale’s neck, pulling him closer. it’s crowley who makes the noise deep in his throat, the noise it makes when something breaks free: longing, maybe, and hope, and something like belief—faith, not in a higher authority or an ineffable plan, but just in this, here, in them, in crowley&aziraphale, aziraphale-and-crowley, in their heartbeats crashing together and their hands pressed palm to palm.

aziraphale holds him, kisses him back and holds him, stroking soothing paths down his ribs and up his spine. it’s okay, he whispers, taking each biting kiss and turning into a tenderness between them. it’s okay, it’s okay.

crowley kisses him one more time, and it’s slow, this time, and soft, as if he’s finally found the calm in the center of him. as if aziraphale has soothed the shaking out of his limbs and steadied the ground inside his mind. he presses his cheek to aziraphale’s cheek and just listens to him for a moment: the rhythm of his breath, the shift of his clothing. the whisper of his eyes opening and closing, lashes against lashes. the drum of his heart.

i love you, crowley says.

he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because aziraphale needs gentle things, sometimes, even if he doesn’t say so. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged faith, aziraphale deserves gentle things sometimes.

he says, i love you, and he knows it’s going to be okay.

it’s okay, it’s okay. it’s okay.

i love you. it’s okay.

I’m here!

And many many very talented artists and writers!

Made an illustration for beautiful and touching story by @luinlothana Thank you ♥️

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It seems pretty weird, my posted images at one place, but yeah, I still dont have or know my artstyle. I keep drawing and hope I'll find it one day. Or not.

just a little confession which in nobody interested, but I feel ashamed and need to admit it