characters who crave affection but at the same time have no idea how to respond to actually receiving it due to the fact theyve rarely ever experienced it are my absolute favourite
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“Hi, I'm Becci and I've been making up stories since I could hold a pen. The first dated record I have of a fanfiction goes back to 2005, which is usually the point I count as my beginning. That means I was the tender age of nine when I started my temporarily toxic, on-off relationship with fanfic - marked by embarrassing first steps, year-long hiatuses and hyper-productive phases.
2019 - the year I was introduced to the Marvel universe - marks the point where I started considering myself an author, rather than just a writer. That's when I began producing stories that were actually readable (and fairly enjoyable, too, if I dare say so).
To me, the best part of the Good Omens fandom (apart from the people, of course) is the plethora of versions of our favourite hereditary enemies. My highest achievement as an author is when someone revisits the source material and can never get through a scene again without thinking about one of my stories. Good Omens, by definition, offers an incredibly wide range for canon-adjacent storytelling. Since they've lived through literally all of human history, there are endless gaps to fill. (Yes, those gaps, too. Especially those gaps. I see you, horny fandom.) Plus, I'm a sucker for the enemies-to-lovers trope and who embodies that better than an angel and a demon falling in love?
Also this is the spiciest fandom I've been in so far and I'm having a fucking blast providing y'all with smut 😁 ”
Oooh we love every morsel of it too, Becci😏😁
If you are a first-time reader of Becci's work, or are looking for some recommended reads, here’s some suggestions from the author:
Not A One-Night Stand: Remember what I said about intertwining canon with fanon? This is exactly that. It's an ongoing series about them fucking while pining for 6000 years. We start with Job's cellar and go all the way until season 3. Six parts are currently up, lots more to come. All canon-compliant, highly explicit, and I promise you, you'll never watch the show the same way again 🙂
The Very First Page: A Crowley-centric one-shot set before Creation. It's almost Crowley-exclusive which probably explains why it never got as much traction. But if you're into evocative prose, angel!Crowley and star-maker imagery, I consider this one of my strongest pieces.
You can find these and all of Becci’s other works on AO3
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It is extremely disturbing. He can’t recall the last time he lost himself in here. In his own Mind Palace, no less. How did this happen? And where is the exit sign? The one reading: 221B Baker Street.
He finds many signs on his walk through the corridors but they’re all wrong. They are pointing at the rooms, the nooks, the cabinets, the books, the floorboards; in short, everything. But not the exit to his physical home.
Sherlock is rarely frightened. Not anymore. Not since John moved into his flat. The feeling of fear courses through his body now, though. His claustrophobia – the mania he hasn’t felt in years – has made a dramatic appearance, making his skin crawl uncomfortably.
“I need to find the exit,” he mutters to himself over and over, like a mantra.
Sherlock almost weeps with relief when Mind Palace John magically appears in the hallway outside the library.
“John,” he whispers reverently.
“Fancy meeting you here,” John quips, mirth visible in all his features.
Sherlock wants to kiss him but that’s not allowed. John is his friend, nothing else. He is as heterosexual as Sherlock is homosexual. Not a great match, that.
When Sherlock decides to ask John for the way out, John has vanished. The space he recently occupied still radiates a warm glow.
***
Sherlock wonders how long he’s been trapped. He can’t even recall why he entered in the first place. Was it to search for something, or was it to escape his own living room? He never leaves - at least unnecessarily - to his Mind Palace if John is present, but perhaps he went out on a date again. If Sherlock isn't playing the violin or performing an experiment to stave off the tedium of John's absence, he tends to walk through this place for a while. The fact that he can’t remember the reason for coming here, is unsettling.
Mycroft has of course taught him everything about the comings and goings, but Sherlock can’t remember if he ever mentioned how to escape his own head if he got stuck. Most likely, it didn’t occur to his brother that it was an option. Mycroft has always had better control of his emotions than Sherlock. He will obviously deny this to his dying day, but inside his mind he can afford to be gracious.
“Are you still here? I’m waiting for you, you know. There’s tea and biscuits.”
John has returned, but he disappears faster than Sherlock can respond.
***
At the end of the corridor is a green sign, which Sherlock supposes is the one he’s been searching for, but when he walks toward it, the sign transforms into a painting.
The Reichenbach Falls.
It had been a gift from… a client? Or was it some politician? An insignificant detail at this point, obviously.
The painting gives him the shills; an expression John would use. It is ominous and if he concentrates, he can hear the sound of the grand waterfall.
“John? Where are you?”
Why hasn’t he thought of calling out for the man earlier?
Sherlock contemplates that he might be drugged. Perhaps he isn’t –
“You called,” John says calmly, suddenly standing beside him.
“I did. Thank you for coming. I… I can’t…”
Sherlock is slightly embarrassed to admit that he’s adrift in his own head.
“Lost, are you?”
“Yes,” Sherlock whispers.
To his horror, he feels a burning sensation in his eyes.
A warm hand slides into his, and the words “come on” are uttered.
Is John holding his hand?
Sherlock looks down and sees that they are indeed holding hands. However, this is Mind Palace John, a fictional version of his friend, not the real one.
“Here we are,” John says softly.
They stand before a door which opens a crack. Scents of tea, gingernuts, leather, books, and dust invade Sherlock’s nostrils. There’s also the unmistakable and unique smell that belongs to the man who’s sitting in his chair sipping tea from his RAMC mug – John. The real John. His John.
***
“You’re back,” John says with evident relief and warmth.
Sherlock blinks and nods; his voice seems to be out of order at the moment.
“Come sit. There’s tea and your favourite biscuits,” John coaxes.
Sherlock stands from the sofa and walks over to his chair.
“Did you finish cataloguing?” John asks.
The look on his face is different somehow. More open, fond, and… something else Sherlock is unable to deduce.
Tea first, then –
“You don’t remember, do you?”
John’s voice is sad all of a sudden.
“What?”
“Why you retreated to your Mind Palace,” John explains.
His voice is still –
“Oh!”
Images of John cupping his face, kissing him softly on the lips, telling Sherlock that he… loves him.
“Oh,” he repeats.
“Right,” John sighs, “that didn’t go according to plan, I see.”
“John.”
His words elude him, and John seems unable to decipher what Sherlock is trying to convey.
Action, Holmes.
He steps closer to John’s chair, pries the mug out of his hands, and curls up in John’s lap, mirroring the army doctor’s ministrations from earlier.
“I love you too,” Sherlock whispers after glorious minutes of kissing.
“Thank God! I thought I’d scared you away,” John exclaims, so relieved it nearly breaks Sherlock’s heart.
“Never!” Sherlock says emphatically.
“What took you so long, then?”
“I couldn’t find the correct sign, but then I called out for you. The other you, and he led me back.”
“Clever guy that one.”
“Most definitely no idiot.”
“High praise, love.”
Sherlock hides his blushing face in the crook of John’s neck and wonders if he will ever get used to being called ‘love’.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but apparently John knows him too well.
“I will repeat it until you believe it, but I will never stop,” John assures him, and that is the best answer Sherlock has ever got in his life.
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Inspired by the fabulous @dragonnan's Blood and Romance (included by permission)
*
Too old for this: my first half-thought as I flail and thrash my way back to consciousness. I’m underwater, aching to breathe, but I’ll die if I do; but it isn’t cold enough, I’m not wet, where the hell I hurt all over and something’s wrong, it’s dark where is Sherlock
If I’m not under water, I can breathe; I open my lips a hair and no water floods in, so I take a careful breath and it’s air. Not sweet, God no, tastes like mould and sewage, but definitely air, and shakily I suck it in.
I blink and try to focus but can’t see anything. Where the hell am I, and where is Sherlock? There—a second complete thought, even if it’s just the ragged scraps from before stringing together into sense, that’s got to be a good sign.
Okay. Okay. Stop, where am I. Listen.
In a silence so loud, a darkness so complete, I can hear my racing heartbeat even over my ragged panting—but nothing else, not close by. I can’t breathe through my nose at all. I try to shift to generate some sound, get some idea at least of what kind of surface I’m near or on. Take stock: everything hurts but I can’t tell from what, I can’t gather any sensory data to extrapolate anything from. (Sherlock would say, deduce. I’m not Sherlock. He’d know what to do to get some clarity here; I’m just starting to panic.)
finish reading on AO3
*
A Thousand Words: A picture's proverbially worth a thousand words and often inspires them, though the words may be many more or many fewer, as the Muse decides. Each chapter is a one-shot, inspired (so far) by @kettykika78, @justanobsessedpan, @stephdrawsjohnlock, @bluebellofbakerstreet, @petite-madame, and now dragonnan: more to come.
Thank you to all the artists who do fanworks: you are a constant inspiration. And to the betas (@copperplatebeech for this ficlet) you are a godsend. And to the readers: we wouldn't be posting our stories without you.
Thanks for reblogging! Let me know whether to tag or untag you.
Seeing as we still have one room available, the registration deadline for the European Fic Writers' Retreat, which takes place in Germany 13-16 August, will be extended until 15 June.
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There's another bedroom upstairs!
Please send a chat message if you have any questions!
Tagging some people below the cut, please help signal boost!
Seeing as we still have one room available, the registration deadline for the European Fic Writers' Retreat, which takes place in Germany 13-16 August, will be extended until 15 June.
Click here for all further info and registration link.
There's another bedroom upstairs!
Please send a chat message if you have any questions!
Tagging some people below the cut, please help signal boost!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Why does nobody tell women what an absolute bitch perimenopause can be? I feel like nobody told me anything about it, save for hot flashes. I also feel that doctors don't know enough about it as well. I basically had to diagnose myself.
Like, seriously, women should be educated about their own bodies.
So if you're on the other side of 45 and suddenly everything is twice as difficult, you get more migraines, your blood pressure goes funny, you can't sleep and you feel like your entire psyche is unstable, you might be experiencing perimenopause. My gyn was like,oh, like think of it like reverse puberty, your entire body rearranges itself. I was like, Great, nobody ever told me it can be this bad. My GP didn't even ask me about my period or hormone levels or anything. He just told me I was probably depressed and sent me to a psychiatrist, who also didn't ask about my period or my hormones. If I hadn't experienced something akin to postpartum depression and therefore know what my body does when its hormones are out of whack, I would have had no idea.
Seriously, nobody tells you how much hormones fuck you up as a woman. Nobody prepares you for this.
I've been trying to talk openly about what's fucking me up right now, and I've discovered that it's a lot more common than I thought it was. I feel like every phase of life finds another way to fuck women over. Puberty: have fun with your period as it adjusts itself. Childbirth: prepare for a hormonal rollercoaster. PMS: oh, it can get BAD. Like, BAD. After birth: hormones out of whack for months, maybe longer. Perimenopause: can fuck up everything. Like literally everything. Osteoporosis is also hormonal. Post menopause: supposedly things get better, but they don't have to.
And I feel like we're left pretty alone dealing with all of it. And we know so little about it that we're left wondering why suddenly nothing works anymore. So we flail about and feel terrible about our sudden inability to cope with life, when it's in fact our bodies screwing with us. Again.
So. Let's talk about it, let's be open to each other and learn from each other. Thank you especially to anyone who shared experiences with me. It helps to feel like you're not alone.
Can I just say, to everyone who's replied and reblogged and shared stories and resources, thank you. We need this. We need each other. And more importantly, we HAVE each other. It makes me sad to read so many stories of people being left behind by their health care providers. But at least we can support each other.
A candle (💗romance💗); an offer (YES); a party (is it my birthday?) The future begins (with a dance).
It's been such a pleasure to revisit John and Sherlock in this universe, and to have you along for the journey. Thank you for reading, thank you for your comments 💕
You know, it's great fun sitting peacefully on my sofa on a quiet Sunday morning while my nervous system is convinced I'm being hunted for sport. Awesome experience. 10/10, no notes.
Summary: The tension in the kitchen is almost palpable. It's caused by two Frenchmen Mycroft has seen snooping around the neighbourhood. Things are getting serious and Sherlock is about to panic.
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Rosie’s tantrum is about to reach epic proportions, and John needs to intervene. Immediately.
“It’s impossible! I will never be able to make it before he gets back!!!”
“Rosamund Watson, you can, and you will.”
“I only have one more chance, Dad! He’ll be here in less than fourteen minutes.”
God, do you even know how like him you are?
John looks fondly at his daughter, but she’s too distracted by her distress to observe it.
“Alright, sweetheart. Put that away for a second and come here.”
“There’s no time, Dad!”
“Yes, there is. Trust me.”
Rosie sighs dramatically, puts down the instrument, and approaches John tentatively.
“Take my hands.”
Another sigh, but the girl surrenders.
John squeezes the small hands in his own and smiles down at the tense and slightly anxious girl in front of him.
“Inhale as deep as you can. Hold until I say so, then exhale.”
“Is this a doctor procedure?”
Her smile causes her body to visibly relax, and the tension in the room eases.
“Go on, now.”
After a few minutes, John is satisfied, and releases his grip.
“Try again,” he says softly and places a kiss on her forehead.
***
Sherlock is dead tired and just longs to get home to his two Watsons. He’s been in Paris for nearly a fortnight; hired by one of Mycroft’s associates to solve the theft of the crown jewels in the Louvre. The case had been excellent, apart from one significant thing: John didn’t have the opportunity to come with him.
Another thing that had irked him, was the timing regarding Rosie. A week before his departure, he had started to teach her La Vie en Rose. Tomorrow, she was supposed to perform it at school, which he knew she wasn’t capable of now, due to his long absence. Instead, she had to play one of the easier pieces she already knew by heart.
He feels like he’s failing her, even though John has assured him he’s doing nothing of the sort.
“It’s the Work, Sherlock. And you’re not the first parent who must travel and be away from – “
“But I’m not her parent, am I?”
“Perhaps not officially. Yet. But to her you are. And to me.”
***
His timing could not have been better, John thinks. Rosie has played through the piece nearly flawlessly two times already, and when she’s stretched and had a swig of water, it’s time for the last rehearsal of the day.
“Ready?” he whispers conspiratorially.
“Three is a charm, Nana says,” she replies.
“That’s my girl.”
Rosie lifts her bow and starts playing La Vie en Rose the second the front door closes behind Sherlock. John strains to hear if he’s ascending, but he also needs to pay attention to his daughter’s playing, so he nearly misses Sherlock’s appearance.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes almost inaudibly as tears stream down his cheeks.
Rosie prefers to face the window just as Sherlock does when he plays, and John isn’t sure she can see her Papa in the reflection of the glass surface.
John moves over to Sherlock who seemingly can’t avert his eyes from the playing girl. His hand covers his mouth, which probably is agape, and John decides to slide an arm around the man’s waist in case his knees give way.
***
Rosie, his beloved girl, is playing La Vie en Rose far better than Sherlock thought she would be able to do if he had stayed home instead of running off to France. How she’s accomplished that is a topic for another day or hour. For now, he revels in the beautiful music and how Rosie moves with it instead of standing ramrod straight like a pillar.
He feels John’s arm around him, but Sherlock is too absorbed in the music and the miracle that is Rosie Watson. Next month, his surname will be added, which he still can’t get his head around.
When the last tone has faded away, Rosie sets her violin and bow on the table and runs toward Sherlock. He falls to his knees and opens his arms to her. John mitigates the impact to prevent Sherlock from falling onto his back, by placing steady hands on his shoulders.
“I’ve missed you so much, Papa!”
“And I you, my heart. Your playing was extraordinary.”
“Yeah? Uncle Mycroft helped me a bit, and Dad found a tutorial video online who was really helpful too.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t be angry with him, alright?”
“I promise. For once, his aid was… noble.”
John chuckles behind him, and one of his hands – the left – ruffles his curls affectionately.
***
Later, when Rosie is tucked up in bed, John tells Sherlock about their daughter’s dramatic outburst.
“One more chance? Really, John?”
“Cross my heart. She takes after you, in my opinion.”
“Rude!”
“Truthful!”
“You are insufferable!”
“If you say so. And yet…”
“Yet what?”
“Aren’t you a genius?”
“Of course, I am.”
“Well, then?”
Sherlock sighs mock exasperated, buries his nose in John’s neck and whispers: “And yet, I am marrying you in sixteen days.”
Summary: Martha Hudson's favourite place to dine is (obviously) Chez 1895. The staff treats her like royalty and one of them reminds of her of bygone times.
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