Trying My Best

A reminder of the allegations against Neil Gaiman, as shared by Hire Survivors Hollywood, a non-profit group who support survivors of sexual assault. These survivors aren’t just “the victims”: they have names and stories, and their voices deserve to be heard.

Scarlett, who worked as a nanny for Gaiman’s children, revealed that he sexually assaulted her in 2022 when she was 22 and he was 61, initiating an ongoing non-consensual sexual relationship.

K, who met Gaiman at a book signing in 2003 when she was 18 and he was in his mid-40s, describes a similar pattern of rape and sexual assault after they began a sexual relationship two years later.

Caroline Wallner, who worked on Gaiman’s property, revealed that he coerced her into sex by threatening her job and housing, and that he used explicit images and sexual demands to exert control over her.

Julia Hobsbawm was forced to fight off an assault by him in her London home in 1986.

Good Omens: The Finale (Fix-It)

Aziraphale is the new Supreme Archangel in Heaven. Crowley is left alone on Earth, devastated and furious. As Aziraphale struggles to stop the Second Coming from above, Crowley refuses to give up on him. But Heaven will stop at nothing to keep them apart — even if it means dragging long-buried secrets into the light.

This is the finale we actually deserved.

Rating: G for early chapters → T → E (epilogue) Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, Maggie/Nina, Gabriel/Beelzebub, Muriel/Eric Status: Updating daily

Chapters

Prologue + Chapter 1: Under New Management: The Bookshop

Good morning/afternoon/evening/whatever your time zone says

Have you ever wanted to watch the original video of the EVERY leak?

Well, after eons of searches in the depths of the internet (because that fandom is damn too good at making things disappear) and the help of @cleodeschamps, you now can ✨🥂 (can we have a wahoo ?)

Another imaginary achievement for me lol, however, I didn’t know it would be such fast flashes, blink and you miss it!

Stories are built into the DNA of the human species for many complicated reasons, and challenging oneself intellectually by embracing depressive nonsense because negative emotion can sometimes amount to a useful thought exercise is absolutely not the only worthwhile function of stories.

Sometimes, the tragic ending is just the uncreative one, the cheap one that uses shock to yank on jaded people's heartstrings. In many cases, it would take a lot more skill, creativity, and resourcefulness to write an earned happy ending.

In this chapter,

Two lonely men figure out how to become closer without terrorizing a neurotic little dog.

In other words, our pair finally get to "go" on their date. Will Whimsy cooperate?

Read chapter 3. Or start from the beginning on AO3.

Audio: A recording of Leonard Nimoy reading it on Internet Archive.

Text: A PDF version.

Lied and said he was non-verbal

Lied and said he was incapable of communication

Lied and said he had not gotten the surgery of his own accord

Lied and said his "guardians decided [he] was trans"

Got MGT to call a procedure done on a consenting adult "criminal" just because he had cerebral palsy

Mass reported his video and his account, which he ran, until facebook terminated his account for "child exploitation" despite it being his account, him being an adult, and him not being exploited

Ableism and transphobia are inseperable. Just like ableism was used to prop up bigotry throughout history, now it is being used to deny transgender people bodily autonomy the same way it is used to deny disabled people bodily autonomy. It's not a coincidence that so much of the rights transphobic rhetoric is focused on labelling us as "mentally ill". They don't think any disabled people, let alone mentally ill people should have independence or liberation.

Bookverse: Meet in Eden - ended happy at the Ritz

TV/Show Verse: Meet before the beginning - ended on a cliffhanger at the F15

GO3: Meet after the battle of the Great War - fucked the whole timeline up and everyone died.

Other useful AI Removal/Detection links

How to spot AI Hallucinations like a Reference Librarian (originally on Substack)

Crowley catches him out of the corner of his eye—sipping his tea, a finger holding his place in Sherlock Holmes and eyes directed wistfully out the cottage window at another rainy December afternoon.

“Something the matter angel? Only I can hear you thinking.”

Turning from the window, Aziraphale offers a reassuring smile.

“Nothing the matter, no. Just…caught up in a memory is all.”

“Mm, good memory I hope?”

“You’re in it.”

“Definitely good then. Go on.”

“Scamp,” Aziraphale chuckles setting his book and cup aside.

“Your scamp.” Crowley grins (he’s been doing quite a bit of that recently, his cheeks have never been sore before). He slides closer until he can press a chaste kiss to his angel’s lips.

“Yes. Mine,” Aziraphale murmurs between kisses, the air between them thick with the love they can finally share, and Crowley basks in the warmth of it for a long moment.

They have all the time in the world after all.

“So? Your memory? Daring rescue perhaps? Hopefully one of the ones where I’m wearing something halfway fashionable, ideally not on horseback and ending with sexy results?”

“Oh you are full of it, you preposterous python,” Aziraphale huffs fondly. “Actually, I was thinking about snow. It’s been ages since we’ve been anywhere with proper snow…not since…gosh…”

“Alaska wasn’t it? 1925…”

“I believe you’re right. The Great Race of Mercy. Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale glances out the window again, a thoughtful crease to his brow.

“‘Bout froze my arse off, so I think I can reliably say that yes, angel, it’s been that long.”

“I always rather liked the snow. It’s pretty.”

“It’s just as pretty on the telly,” Crowley grumbles, even as the certainty that he could no more deny his angel a whim than he could deny the rising of the sun settles at the forefront of his mind. Pesky business, that.

Next to him, Aziraphale seems to deflate for a moment, bottom lip pouting in a way that Crowley’s sure is intended to garner sympathy and it’s irritatingly adorable enough that it very nearly works.

“I can go by myself, you know, I don’t need you to hold my hand—“

“Oh stop your grousing, you’ll do no such bloody thing,” Crowley drawls, relenting and taking his angel’s hands in his own.

(Okay, so the sympathy garnering worked, he’s weak, moving on.)

“Close your eyes angel.”

He tightens his grip. Threatens his corporation to stay at a reasonable temperature or else, and then their cottage living room is dissolving around them in a whirl of color.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims moments later, looking around in delight as the snow-draped landscape of New York’s Central Park materializes around them.

His cheeks are bitten pink with the sudden cold and his beaming smile might well melt a few surrounding snowdrifts. The snowflakes catch in his wayward blond curls, twinkling like little diamonds before melting away.

Worth it, Crowley thinks as a warmth blooms in his chest totally independent of any threats. His angel is always worth it.

“S’not Alaska, but thought you’d appreciate this—“ Crowley points over Aziraphale’s shoulder at the statue of Balto.

It may have been bloody freezing, but he’d enjoyed soothing the sled dogs back during the relay. He’d enjoyed talking with them in the night while the mushers caught a few winks. Not that he’d ever tell anyone. Bad billing for a demon to go about blessing sled dogs when he’s supposed to be fomenting disease.

There’s a warm hand sliding against his own, interlacing fingers, Aziraphale stepping in close, and suddenly it’s not so cold after all.

“On second thought, I do need you to hold my hand,” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his cheek. “You romantic old serpent.”