my favorite thing about this post is that a handful of people have gone "oh wait! this is tangible proof that i don't need to be embarrassed about leaving a lot of comments!! i'll stop being so ashamed!" YES!! ao3 authors basically universally will die for people who comment spam. we love to see it and we do not find you weird or annoying At All.
think about it this way: we ourselves are weird enough to have spent several hours, days, or Months writing down this story. we are weird enough about the content to do that! why on Earth would we be mean and judgmental toward people who care enough to get excited about reading it?? we shared it Specifically For You To Get Excited About!
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Reblog this and let people send you asks (anonymously or not) about how they would describe your fics, your writing style or just anything they've thought about when reading your work
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How y’all THINK fanfic authors react when you send multiple comments on different fics: Ugh, another comment from them? Wow, I don’t appreciate how they enjoy what I write. :(
How fanfic authors actually react: OH MY GOD ANOTHER COMMENT? They must be on a marathon! I hope they read my recent whump fic and tell me what they think. Their kindness will be what drives me to finish my current WIP!!!! I WON’T FAIL YOU, NEW READER.
The trick was to make the sigil of Odegra look like some fancy scroll work in the corner of the valentine gifts. Crowley had figured that out years ago and funded a small cottage business that made chocolate boxes, flower arrangements and those god-awful giant teddy bears.
The sigil was worked cleverly into the design of each, so as to go unnoticed by any being not divine or infernal. When the gift reached its intended recipient every argument and frustration of the relationship suddenly boiled over.
It was elegant work and Crowley was proud of it. Aziraphale had repeatedly pointed out that it was “a bit mean” and couldn’t he at least “leave the young lovers alone”.
Crowley especially loved when the teenagers, hopped up on hormones, gifted one of those giant bears to their love. The sigil worked into the bear’s neck ribbon design. He adored witnessing young love explode before his eyes. Delicious.
On Valentine’s Day, Crowley and Aziraphale sat at their regular bench in the park, splitting a box of chocolates and watching the chaos unfold.
“It’s gotten out of hand,” Aziraphale scolded him.
Crowley just leveled a scathing look over his sunglasses.
“Look.” Aziraphale handed him a magazine ad for engagement rings. One of which featured the sigil of Odegra prominently. Crowley checked the maker and was delighted to see that it wasn’t his company. The design had become self-propagating.
“Don’t smile!” The angel didn’t sound nearly as harsh as he meant to.
Crowley offered him a chocolate. “Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds.”
Don’t you want to know what they read that made them give it this designation? I think the highest possible achievement in fanfic writing might be “tasteless”.
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These stories always make me think of Famine from Good Omens.
He’s my favorite character in the book. All the Horsemen are sort of reinvented for the modern era. But Famine is an evil of persistence and insidiousness.
Famine is killing you so softly that you don’t even notice he is here.
Rating T - 1,183 words - Teen Titans - Starfire Ficlet
Summary: Post The Kiss, Crowley is an emotional wreck but when he discovers that Muriel is clearing out Aziraphale's bookshop he is determined to find out where the books are going. He finds himself trapped in Aziraphale's Inescapable Library subject to the most dangerous thing imaginable, an angel with good intentions.
Story:
How many times had Crowley heard a drunk at a bar slosh over to some long suffering woman and say, “When did you fall from heaven?”
Crowley had fallen. He’d felt the rush of divine grace as it turned to sharp knives on his skin. He remembered the feeling of God’s wraith. She’d wanted him to suffer, to hurt, to lose. A gravity like he’d never experienced slammed into his body. The force of it was too strong for even his wings to fight against. He’d rocketed down, down, down. Away, away, away.
He’d landed somewhere that never existed before. A new place that was made just for him. Hell. The answer to a question he should never have asked.
No one tried to pick him up in bars. Not with cheesy one-liners about heaven anyway. If someone ever had then he would have told them the truth about when he fell about the windburn so strong in his memory that he felt it even now. He wanted to see the beauty in falling. The attraction of the devilish that humans seemed to operate under.
He wanted to spend his eternity saying cheesy one-liners to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale’s betrayal had been worse than the fall. Worse then the gravity. Worse then the ripping away of all things divine and familiar. Hell was a place made just for Crowley and it could hold no competition for the tortures of his own mind.
He had kissed Aziraphale. He had done it because he loved him. And because he hated him in the way that you can only hate something precious. And because he was scared that they would never seen each other again. Not as friends anyway. He had stopped the apocalypse the first time round, but this one he hadn’t even seen coming.
It was a quiet apocalypse with socks on its feet. No plagues besetting your homeland. No horseman jangling their stirrups all the way to prophecy. No. This apocalypse was like wool socks on a country floor in winter. It felt like the whole world was still with sunlight and frost as the rapture slid through unnoticed. Crowley walked into his last conversation with Aziraphale thinking it was Christmas morning only to discover that the world had ended while he wasn’t even looking.
So, he kissed. Then he left. Then he got in his car. Crowley drove for a long time with no destination. The only place he wanted to be was away. But where do you go to isolate from God and her archangels. All existence and non-existence matter and anti-matter were made of her being, were dominion to the job Aziraphale chose over him. Crowley wished for the archaic punishment of being torn sunder from God. He wanted to be broken open. Broken apart. He already was.
He drove and he thought. Days passed without delineation. He drove to Tadfield and circled aimlessly for a while. When he found no solace or purpose, he drove onward. He drove through rolling hills, sprawling cities. Braying sheep blocked his path. Fragile humans admired the Bentley. All was as it ever had been. The world didn’t even seem to know that it had ended. It carried on with the same shuddering enthusiasm that had compelled it through the millennia. Crowley drove back to London.
He pulled into the carpark for his old flat. The Bentley’s engine cut out with a whine. The plants wilted in the back seat. Everything he loved in the world was now in this one parking space. That was a madness that defied comprehension. To discover that his love was so small.
He decided that he would go back to the bookshop. He wasn’t sure what he would do there. Maybe he would burn it down on purpose. Maybe he would sit quietly somewhere and read his favorite volume. All he knew was that if everywhere in the universe was going to be miserable, then he would like to be miserable somewhere familiar.
When he got to the shop, there were moving trucks out front. Great yellow beasts with stupid slogans, being filled to the brim with Aziraphale’s books. A rage took Crowley over as he charged into the shop to track down what fiend would destroy the archangel’s home.
There was no being in the entire building but the cheerful, nervous angel. Marjorie? No, Muriel. They were no longer in their officer costume. They wore a white cable knit jumper and beige tweed pants. They looked almost human.
They waved to Crowley, pleased to see a familiar face regardless of the familiar rage that darkened it.
“Hey, you,” They said.
“It’s only been a few days,” Crowley’s voice was accusatory. “How have you sorted out pretending to be human?”
Muriel held a clipboard close to them. “It’s been months, Mr. Crowley.”
That couldn’t be right.
“It is, though.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Crowley defended himself.
Their eyes were dripping with pity and Crowley hated it.
“You can’t take his books.”
Muriel’s smile was sympathetic. She reached out a hand to touch his forearm. “Archangel Aziraphale has given orders for the books to be moved.”
“Bollocks.”
Muriel had learned the trick to lying. All you had to do was tell yourself that you were doing it for the right reasons. A month, a year, a millennia ago—Muriel had been a normal angel. A being who told the truth and expected honesty and kindness in return. Perhaps Earth had changed them. They did more in a single minute on Earth then they would have during a century in Heaven.
Mortal life was rich with experience. There was so much of it that humans complained about the type of experience they were subject to. “Oh, that hurts.” and “No, not that movie, it’s sad.” Humans wanted everything to feel good. They had no idea what a miracle it was to feel at all.
Muriel could admit that they became jealous of the humans. It gave new context to the war between the angels. They understood—just a little bit—why they were mad at God. She had cheated them of rich full lives. She had made them to serve and that is what they did.
Today, Muriel’s service was to lie.
“I wish I could tell you more, Mr. Crowley.” The next part was the tough bit. She had to make it sound natural. “But I have strict instructions not to let you know where these books are going.”
“His instructions?” Crowley condemned them.
Muriel had him on the line. Now all she had to do was reel him in. “That’s not any of your concern anymore.” She could see him struggle, flopping around against the force of her deception. “These trucks are leaving at 8 pm tonight and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
Crowley smirked. “I guess I’ll just give up then.”
Crowley sauntered out of the bookstore. He was so preoccupied by the plan forming in his mind that he didn’t notice Muriel’s eyes follow him out. They had to warn The Library to expect him.
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Honestly the best part of going back to writing fan fiction after years of only writing original work has been how much easier it’s made writing my original work.
I think I told myself this lie that my creativity was a well and I could run out of water. It turns out it’s a kid going to Disney World. The more I hype up creative brain with fun activities the more it wants to do stuff (even the frustrating stuff).
there’s absolutely nothing better than reading a 100k word fanfic, that is until you remember you have a body that is starving, thirsty and incredibly sleep deprived and hasn’t used the bathroom since the sun set 8 hours ago
