The Subtext Is Rapidly Becoming Text

Inspired by this poll.

*Note: I have both worked professionally in kitchens and do most of the cooking in my home. My opinions are infallible and correct, deal with it.

Stede - Disaster. Goes in with his classic overconfidence. Thinks he doesn't need a recipe because he's been eating all his life, he knows what good food is supposed to taste like! Has no concept of cleaning as he goes so at the end of the night there's an apocalyptic load of dishes in the sink.

Ed - Different kind of disaster. Gets hyperfocused on trying to recreate one recipe he vaguely remembers, stresses when he doesn't have the right ingredients. Results actually aren't too bad but because it doesn't align with his vision he self-sabotages while serving, warning everyone it's probably shit while also making it very clear he will start crying if anyone agrees with him.

Jim - Goes in with confidence because it's just food, how hard can it be? Realizes quickly that it's way harder than they thought but refuses to admit they're in over their head and ask for help. Foulest language you've ever heard emerging from the kitchen for over an hour before they emerge with something that they sling wordlessly onto the table and storm off to throw knives.

"Oh no, Angel, we are NOT listening to THAT cassette in THIS Bentley!"

Crowley was emphasizing his words in a dramatic way, to show that he meant what he said. He even gestured as well, which would have been comical if Crowley didn't sound so enraged.

"But why, dear? Aren't you tired of listening to Queen all the time?" Aziraphale inquired in a much more calm manner.

"YES!" Crowley shouted in agony.

Crowley hit the steering wheel, then howled. He held his hand and rubbed it, looking even more upset.

"In the beginning it was fine, but when "she" got a crush on Freddie's voice, there was no going back. You know everything gets changed to Queen after a fortnight. If I was in the business of selling counterfeit Queen albums, I'd be loaded. I am not that kind of person and if I could pay her to NOT change my cassettes, I would." Crowley explained. He had stopped rubbing his hand.

"Crowley, the Bentley likes me, and when I drive her by myself, I can listen to anything." Aziraphale bragged. "Problem is, you treat her like you do your plants."

"Angel, I have the greenest, hardiest plants around! Know why? They know what they should be doing and do it!" Crowley was getting impatient with the conversation.

"I bet if you talked sweetly, they would be even more luxurious and leafy." Aziraphale sounded smug, as if he'd ever grown a plant before.

"Look Angel, never you mind about my plants! The argument is whether you will be allowed to play your cassette." Crowley pulled his glasses down to his nose and glared at the Angel, but Aziraphale remained calm. He was going to talk to the Bentley, as Crowley was being ridiculous.

"Bentley, girl, would you enjoy some new music? I have a cassette which has never been played before." Aziraphale felt optimistic when the Bentley made her engine purr.

"This can't be happening, my car is listening to you. Mind, she is a demonic car, at that." Crowley folded his arms and grumbled while Aziraphale loaded "Buddy Holly's Hits" which wasn't particularly long, since he had died young in a plane crash.

Buddy Holly's voice played over the speaker, and Aziraphale waved his hands. Crowley was having a bit of a fit, but turned on the gas anyway, and off they went.

Neither spoke as the music played until Crowley looked over Aziraphale who was smiling away and slightly dancing.

"Charmer." was the one word he let slip from his lips.

"Beg pardon?" Aziraphale asked, even though he knew what Crowley had uttered.

"You're a charmer, you would make one Hell of a demon with that charm and your looks. You could snatch the Queen's soul, except someone already did long ago." Crowley turned sharply, and Aziraphale frowned.

"Crowley, I'm an angel, we can charm as well. I mean, I charmed you-didn't I?" Aziraphle smiled a mile wide.

"Angel!" Crowley raised his voice, then sighed and gripped the wheel. He knew that he'd do anything for that angel, didn't even have to tempt him . Aziraphale, again sat smug as the scenery flew by. He often wondered if this was like being in a jet plane, as fast as they went.

Aziraphale reached and turned the cassette over, the Bentley again purring. He then began to sing and Crowley lost it. He slammed his foot on the gas and they went even faster.

"What's the matter, the 1950's were fun, don't you remember? I thought you liked rock and roll?" Aziraphale shrugged as he whispered the lyrics to the song.

"The 1950's were filled with squares!" Taking his hands off the wheel of the car he made the outline of a square with his fingers, which made Aziraphale scream and grip his heart.

"Do you want to get us discorporated?" panic filled his voice as he gripped the seat.

"Relax, you are safe with me, you think I'd let my angel get hurt? Nope, even though you are playing that ridiculous music. Crowley wrinkled his nose up as if he smelled garbage.

"Too many rules, to many white picket fences….and Elvis! People still claim to see him as if he is a demon. Perhaps he is, as he would be no angel. The 1960's, however, now that was a decade. "Groovy" even, and "Swinging London!" it was Crowley's turn to grin.

Aziraphale wasn't hip to all Crowley was saying, but he remembered Crowley's clothes and the tartan thermos of Holy water he gave to his friend. He had no idea what became of it, only that Crowley was here and grumpy as ever, just as he liked him. The cassette ended and Queen popped back on. Crowley sighed as now everything was back to normal.

Good Omentober drawing challenge Day 9

Stargazer

Another deviation because I can't help but draw my fav.

🪶 A GO Regency AU - Rated E - for @addledmongoose via @fandomtrumpshate

🪞 Chapter 1 of 11 - “The Angel” (7.6k)

🎩 Completely written (around 80k in total) | Updates every Wednesday | Fake/Pretend Relationship | There Was Only One Bed

💜 Beta: the one and only @beerok23

1811. Returned to London after the death of his father, infamous rake Anthony ‘Crowley’, Duke of Morningstar, has three months to restore his tattered reputation and secure himself a proper match, on pain of having his title stripped from him. Enter the irreproachable Lord Aziraphale, newly minted Viscount Eastgate, who would very much like to discourage his many suitors from lining outside his door in Mayfair so he can go back to enjoying his peaceful existence on the shelf. After a chance meeting at a gentlemen’s club, it appears the two may lend each other a helping hand after all. While a fake engagement will not solve their problems once and for all, it should buy them enough time to put their respective affairs in order. If only the ultimate goal of their Arrangement would remain as clear and unchanging as it should…

🪶Read it here on AO3 🪶

Excerpt from Chapter 1 - “The Angel”:

Stormy grey eyes widened in surprise and then slowly roamed all over Crowley’s face, moving even further south, along his waistcoat, his pantaloons, down to the blood red tassels of his Hessian boots. Now, in polite company, such attention could only be described as rude. However, Crowley prided himself on being as far from polite company as one possibly could be and it was clear, at least judging by the unfocused intensity of the man’s expression, that he hadn’t quite realised what he was doing. Besides, Crowley liked to be ogled. Thrived on it. There was no other reason for wearing pantaloons that tight. In his experience, the more he could get people to concentrate on his appearance, the more successful his deceptions. So he grinned and folded himself on the chair with the snake-like gracefulness he’d cultivated over the years. “Am I more or less interesting than your book?” The angel frowned and drew back, cheeks pinkening and eyes blinking in sudden awareness. “Why, I never–” Crowley smirked and popped a roasted potato in his mouth. “Don’t answer,” he said, mouth full. “That was terribly forward of me. Rude, even.” A wrinkle appeared between the angel’s eyebrows, something akin to recognition not so slowly dawning on him as he straightened his back. “According to what I have heard about you, I should not expect anything less.” “Oh, my fame precedes me, then.” He speared another potato as obnoxiously as he could. “I am afraid it does, Your Grace,” the angel said, lips almost comically pursed in disapproval. “What are you doing at Angel’s?” “Same thing you are, I wager.” “Somehow I doubt it.”

New podfic chapter: Is There a Version?, Chapter 2: I'll Be Fine and Dandy

Written by @lookingatacupoftea.

Crowley reflects on his new role and the feelings he can no longer contain.

10 min | Mature

Aziraphale manages to break away from the rigid constraints of competitive rowing. Years later, his mother's will requires him to live on in his family home on the bank of the Thames for one year before he can sell it. When four young people beg for his help when their rowing club coach leaves, will he make peace with his past? And what will the meet-ugly with another coach lead to?

If you know me at all, you know I have a special place in my heart for Boat Omens, especially when the atmosphere feels real. And this does.

This fic posts updates each week. If you check it out, remember to encourage our wonderful writers by leaving kudos and comments. Don't read WIPs? Bookmark or subscribe so you don't miss out when it finishes posting.

Read the writer's summary and tags below.

I originally typed most of this out as a reblog to somone else's post, but in the interest of not going too off topic, I decided to separate it into a big ol' spiel of its own.

One of my own more complex opinions in regards to the ending of the finale is that it COULD have worked.

In a different story, with a different set up.

There are a lot of optimistic fans who will theorize and headcanon and explain over and over again why the ending "makes sense" and is a "bittersweet" but happy one. But every argument I've heard in that regard only "makes sense" if you narrow down the show to ONLY the third season and the direction the showrunners took it in.

Full disclosure that this fixit fic is 100% my way of coping. My way of rewriting the finale. My way of seeing my beloved characters placed into the same circumstances but acting in character gdi (as I interpret it*).

In the spirit of that - spoiler alert - this chapter goes a little ways towards healing the giant wound left by That Kiss at the end of S2 and That Lack of Kiss in S3.

*caveat that these are my views on the characters - you can have yours and this fandom contains multitudes and positive takes on the finale always welcome with me

Fic Premise: what if Aziraphale didn't stay away? What if he came back sooner, and he and Crowley had a chance to begin to talk and work out their differences before the high stakes rush to the end? If we just changed that one detail, how would the rest of the story of the finale unfold?

Rating: Mature (may become explicit later, or may write an explicit part 2 tbd)

Hellooooooo GO moots! I know it's been *checks notes* eight months and one day 😬 since the last W&F update but I said it would be back and so it is!

Make sure to check the notes for an important one from imposter/ @maaikeatthefullmoon

I know stuff in the fandom is a little divided and rough right now, but I hope this silly offering brightens someone's day as much as it brightened my own to write it.

So, without further get ready for chapter 24 'Step to Me'!

I think the difference here is Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss openly mocked the fans that shipped Sherlock and Watson, whereas NG insidiously inserted himself into the fandom space and played along with the shipping. Encouraged it. Half confirmed it sometimes. And then actually made them kiss. Sherlock and Watson never crossed that line, so there was nothing to resolve. And also, they were together in the end, still running off solving crime.

Aziraphale sees sound, words and feelings as colours. Crowley sees the world without colour at all – only shades of grey, light, shadow and texture.

When they meet, they begin, carefully and almost accidentally, to show each other how the world looks from their side.

Every Colour Of You

The story was created for @fandomtrumpshate 2026 as a gift for the wonderful Chandyowlet (@handyowlet on Tumblr). And although I’m the one who put it on paper, this story was genuinely collaborative – which is why she absolutely deserves a co-creator credit.

Thank you, for everything, dear C.

The story is completely written, the first two chapters are up. More every Tuesday and Friday, as usual?

👉👉👉 Read Chapter 50 👈👈👈

[Art by @klikandtuna]

Happy Monday, everyone! 💗

I don’t have much to say about this chapter, except that it’s another BIG milestone! Painted is 50 chapters old! Almost a year-worth of updates! 🎉

Thanks again for sticking around for so long, and thanks to the other people who have joined us later in the journey. 🙏 (I’ll definitely thank everyone again once we reach the proper one year mark)

An excerpt 👇

Anthony takes a cautious sip of coffee. Strong. Bitter. Perfect.

“How you feeling?” he asks after a moment, glancing sideways at Ezra over the rim of the mug.

Ezra is quiet for a beat.

Better than last night, certainly. Last night he’d looked split open after everyone finally left. The momentum that had held him together through the speech and the reveal and the endless adrenaline had simply… gone. Anthony had held him curled against his chest while Ezra cried quietly into his shirt, exhausted. He’s noticed Ezra letting himself cry more lately, no longer wanting to keep barriers wedged between them, presenting himself to Anthony in that messy, vulnerable way he once would never have allowed to surface. Anthony takes every one of those moments like something precious handed carefully into his palms.

Now, though, Ezra looks sharper again. Not untouched—but steadier. There’s still tiredness beneath his eyes, but it’s threaded through with something brighter. Something alert.

“Good,” Ezra says finally, and Anthony believes him. “A bit overwhelmed, perhaps. But… good.”

Anthony hums softly. The word feels woefully insufficient for what yesterday was, but maybe there simply isn’t a better one.

Ezra glances back down at the laptop. “I’ve been watching the aftermath.”

Anthony groans immediately. “Dangerous pastime.”

“It truly is,” Ezra murmurs.

He taps a key, and the BBC News broadcast expands fully across the screen.

Professional footage fills it at once—sweeping aerial shots of the crowd outside St Jude’s, thousands upon thousands packed into the streets beneath the summer sun. The camera cuts across banners and painted signs and flashes of white masks in the crowd before landing on the mural itself in full cinematic clarity.

The Ark glows against the stone. Even through a screen, it’s staggering.

The news presenter speaks in that polished BBC cadence while footage rolls behind her. “Yesterday’s unveiling of the Ark mural outside St Jude’s Church in Clapton drew unprecedented crowds, with estimates placing attendance well into the thousands. The artwork, created collectively by The Common Thread and the anonymous activist art movement known as the Host under the leadership of the masked figures Aziraphale and Star Maker—”

Anthony physically winces. “Christ alive. Hearing them say our names on the BBC still feels deeply cursed somehow.”

Ezra snorts softly into his coffee.

The report continues. Clips flash rapidly across the screen: people crying beneath the mural, crowds roaring as the tarp comes down, close-ups of painted figures on the Ark, interviews with residents, slow pans across the angels amongst ordinary people.

“The mural has already become a powerful symbol for anti-eviction groups across London,” the presenter continues. “Its imagery of communal survival and mutual protection appears to have resonated deeply with attendees…”

The footage cuts to interviews. A woman near St Jude’s wipes tears from her face while speaking directly to the camera. “It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at something political and actually felt included by it,” she says shakily. “Like—we’re in there. People like us.”

Another clip follows—a young man grinning breathlessly in front of the mural. “Makes you feel like maybe someone’s actually fighting for us, y’know?”

“Aziraphale? They make people feel safe,” someone else says. “That’s why people follow them.”

Something strange twists beneath Anthony’s ribs at that. Safe. Bloody hell. That’s the dangerous bit, isn’t it? Not just admiration. Not just attention. Faith.

The report shifts again, showing Ezra on the platform in full mask beneath the blazing afternoon sun. White. Gold. Motionless against the storm-coloured mural behind him.

“Aziraphale’s speech, which framed the housing crisis as both a systemic and moral failure, has since circulated widely online,” the presenter says carefully. “Supporters have described the address as inspiring and urgent, while critics have condemned aspects of its rhetoric as inflammatory and openly antagonistic towards state institutions.”

Anthony lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “Here we fucking go.”

Ezra says nothing, but Anthony feels the subtle shift beside him anyway. The weight of it settling between them. Because that’s the thing now: yesterday they crossed a line. Deliberately. And everybody knows it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/77494926/chapters/228481571