western sheep wrangler at heart 🌄

Hi, call me whatever you want (real OG mutuals remember when I was 14 posting my full government name on here… ignore that). Pronouns he/him. 18 y/o. I am on here frequently posting about whatever I want. Right now, that’s Good Omens (mostly GO3 hateposting, but aren’t we all?). Next, who knows? (Gestures vaguely to my insane lineup of fandoms I've written for on Ao3.) Regardless, I hope you stick around!

My Twitter (longeroutcast) (I don't do anything on here except retweet but figured I should add the link regardless)

My Ao3 (midnightdragons) -> my fic tag -> my art tag -> my photography tag (nature pictures I post on here whenever I like them)

My current fic I'm working on (a GO3 rewrite!):

Feel free to follow me, tag me in whatever as long as it ain’t weird, send asks— do whatever, just don’t be a dick. 👍 If you follow me I'll probably follow you back! I'm a big fan of the Tumblr art of having mutuals.

This blog is named after my 10-year-old bearded dragon, Midnight. (:

Because I am so excited to be done with this fic (in the sense of this is the longest fic I've written in a good while, it's been a labor of love, and I'm glad to be wrapping it up with an ending I love right now... when I'm officially editing it, I'll probably hate it, but for now, I love it truly).

I'm writing the last chapter + epilogue of my GO3 fix-it/rewrite, heavy-laden! The story's climax was in the last chapter, but now the part everyone actually cares about, the emotional climax, the thing we didn't get but so deserved in GO3 canon...

“I never wanted you to be an angel again. That was — I never meant that, I — I only wanted you, and I only ever wanted you to be happy.” [Aziraphale] was blinking furiously, tears shining in his devastated gaze. “I thought — foolishly, I now see — that being in Heaven, being an angel again . . . that it would make you happy.” “I am happy,” Crowley said, “with you.”  He stood to his feet and put his whiskey on the mantle above the crackling fireplace. He moved forward, stumbling only a little, and before he even knew what he was doing, he was gripping Aziraphale’s hand again, half-crumpling in front of the armchair, half-kneeling to be on the angel’s level. “S’ all,” he rasped out. “Angel, s’all I was trying to say, that day. That I would — I would like to spend — the rest of my existence with you. ‘Cause you —,” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and looked away, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “When I can’t feel you — s’ like I’m — I’m —,” “Lost?” Aziraphale whispered. “Lost,” Crowley breathed out. “And now?” “I don’t know,” Crowley said. “You never were a good liar, Crowley.” To the demon’s surprise, there was a shimmer of mirth and affection there, among all the grief in Aziraphale’s gaze. “Especially not to me.”