Basically my point is, I’m someone who pointedly can’t enjoy your work but I still think the pile on happening on twitter is disgusting. These twitter bullies supposedly speak for me since they’re so concerned about people who will be “hurt” or “harmed” by your work, and yet, I’ve never done anything like this and honestly, the fact that people write reddie fic I don’t like isn’t a big deal! You’re not causing trouble, shoving it in other people’s faces, being mean or cruel to people who write fic you don’t like…some of the stuff I’ve seen said about you on twitter have been cowardly and disgusting and self-righteous and condescending. It’s cowardly to attack someone on a platform you don’t frequent, pretend like they’re being reasonable, and act like they just want to help you “improve” by never directly speaking to you somehow. There’s people saying that you just need to tag your stuff, but you do tag, rather extensively, and have dubcon all over your most recent stuff, and extensive content warnings in the notes. I am not sure what more people can ask from you and I think it’s clear you don’t want to upset people, but are writing niche interpreation for a niche but enthusiastic audience.

I’ve been the brunt of twitter bullying before and it’s a nasty shitty feeling. A lot of the stuff happening to you has happened to me. I write dark fic myself and in a different fandom, me and my friends were screencapped, routinely mocked, and singled out because I wrote ‘gross incest fic" on twitter, without allowing a way to defend myself.

I think people are picking on you not because they’re jealous (they may be, but it’s not the driving reason), but because they consider you an acceptable target. Your fic is really squicky to a lot of them and I think they decided because you write squicky content in a way that personally upsets them, its okay to pick on you for bullshit smokescreen reasons. I think one person complaining spread to a mob because group think drives people to do shitty things. I think they’ve lost sight of how your work is clearly labled dubcon; dubcon is a huge spectrum, so it’s possible someone read it and expect something a lot softer than what they got because their idea of dubcon is different from yours. That doesn’t mean you didn’t give proper warnings. That’s just an unfortunate situation. I’ve read dubcon that hit too close to upsetting territory for me and closed the tab and did some self care.

I really hope this doesn’t run you out of fandom. I used to always act tough in public and pretend like it didn’t bother me and anyone bullying me was being pathetic but it really deeply upset me to see my work (or my friends’ work) screencapped and mocked. It’s…such an awful feeling and I’m super not okay with anyone doing it. If the people on twitter really had a legit issue with you and your work, they could just talk to you directly but they deliberately refuse to actually engage with you as a human being. They won’t, even though they claim all the want is for you to tag, because they don’t really want a dialouge.

I sent this message off anon because I think you deserve the dignity of a face to face conversation. You’re free to publish this or answer privately, send me a dm, or ignore me entirely, tbh, it’s up to you. I just really wanted to let you know that what’s happening to you isn’t okay, even if people find your work squicky or distasteful. People can not like your work and not be assholes about it at the same time. You don’t need to capitulate or suck up to the popular Reddie BNFs circle jerk on twitter and you shouldn’t have to.

Read also on AO3!

Crowley held onto the slip of parchment, running his fingers over the ragged, burnt edges—he tries to recite the prophecy in his head, picking apart the riddle and the double-meanings, poking for anything they might’ve gotten wrong.

“Good lord,” Aziraphale breathes out, his shoulder knocking against Crowley’s, a whole lot less delicate than what he’d come to expect, lacking the requisite politeness that Aziraphale at least tries to feign. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

He reaches over and tries to snatch the prophecy from Crowley’s finger, but Crowley quickly lifts it out of reach, hand high above Aziraphale’s head; Aziraphale’s mouth forms a line, not giving into the temptation to leap for it, choosing his pride. Aziraphale rolls his eyes instead. “Everything will go according to plan, I’ve made sure of it. So stop worrying, your anxiety is catching.”

Crowley laughs, a bark of a sound that tastes bitter on his tongue. “How can you be sure they won’t figure it out? That you’ve got the right meaning? Switching—that’s a hell of a stretch.” Crowley stops, making Aziraphale pause in his quick steps to make up for Crowley’s long strides. “We can still run, Angel,” Crowley says, lowering his voice, lifting his eyes to the sky, “head for the stars.”

Aziraphale moves in front of him, blocking Crowley’s path. There are still exit strategies, he wants to tell him, you can’t block all escape routes, but then Aziraphale’s hand is warm on his cheek, palm cupping around his jaw, a paper calloused thumb stroking down the jut of his cheekbone and his tongue is struck dumb, throat constricting as he chokes on the words.

“You know we can’t, my dear boy,” Aziraphale says, careful dulcet tones warming his skin, making his cheeks burn. “They will find us, at least this time we’ll be ready and have the advantage.” Aziraphale pets his cheek once, then draws his hand back, movement slow and lingering. “Now,” he says, rolling his shoulders back, “We should get on with it before they—”

Crowley catches Aziraphale’s elbow, then tugs him back as Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest on his forearm, steadying himself as he stumbles, Crowley drawing them closer than before. Their bodies brush as Crowley catches his cheek, arching forward, swooping down before he can think about it, pressing his mouth against Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale lets out a soft oh against Crowley’s mouth—the corners of Crowley’s mouth twitch then curl as he presses his lips firmer down. Aziraphale starts to push back, rising up on the balls of his feet to wrap his arms over the back of Crowley’s neck, drawing himself flush against Crowley as his lips part, the tip of his tongue sweeping across Crowley’s bottom lip.

He should have done this last night when he wanted to, given into the urge to shove Aziraphale back against the door to his flat when he let him inside and kissed him, then never stopped kissing him until the morning came—it wouldn’t have been enough, not enough to make up for the time they’ve lost, but more than this: one kiss on the verge of separation, when they could be snatched at any moment.

But he’d been a coward, a foolish demon with something too holy in his bed, curled up against his side asleep, so trusting as he dozed while Crowley couldn’t make himself sleep, laying wide awake as he listened to Aziraphale’s soft breaths and tick-tock heartbeat.

Crowley makes him break away, gasping at the whimper that escapes Aziraphale’s mouth as he chases back Crowley’s lips; Crowley has to catch him, cup his face between his hands as he rests his forehead on Aziraphale’s, letting his sunglasses slip down his nose so that he can look into his eyes without obstruction. “I just don’t want to lose you, Angel,” he says, his voice breaking. “I already did that once, don’t make me live through it again.”

Aziraphale brushes back the fringe from Crowley’s brow, fingertips scraping his scalp in just a way that causes a shudder to work down Crowley’s spine, a tingling grow on the back of his neck. “That won’t happen, my darling,” he says, giving Crowley a small smile. “I’ll give them hell so it doesn’t happen. But we really should get on with it, quickly before anyone sees.”

Aziraphale leans in again and Crowley almost stops him, not sure he could stop if Aziraphale started kissing him again, but when his lips press against his own, Aziraphale runs his hands down his arms and presses their palms together, intertwining their fingers. Crowley feels Aziraphale draw his soul out with his mouth as Aziraphale’s soul pushes in, their very essences gliding through each other, entangling for a moment, becoming one until they slam into the opposite bodies.

Crowley looks up into his own eyes, feeling smaller as Aziraphale gives him a cheery grin with his own mouth.

thanks bex! good to be back

zombiescorp: hey  its nice to hear from you <3

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH WHAT A CUTIE.  WELCOME TO THE CAT OWNING CLUB

I am very excited to be in the cat owning club!!

ouija: have you ever played with a ouija board?- once, when I was like, 10, I wanna say? It was me and a few cousins and we only did it a little until we realized that, since we were the first people who lived in the house we were staying in, that there wouldn’t be any ghosts haunting it, lol

black cat: favorite urban legend?- oh gosh, I love a lot of them. Bloody Mary, The Jersey Devil, the Hookman is always a classic of course, and one that really always stood out to me was the guy in the cabin. Basically this guy seeks shelter in a cabin for the night, that has all these paintings of people staring at him, and in the morning when he wakes up he realizes they weren’t paintings, but windows. That always creeped me the fuck out.

@zombiescorp is a beautiful angelic starfish who paid an absurd amount for this eddie funko pop (bc he’s the only loser funko pop out of retail??? for some reason???) for my christmas gift and i am absolutely giddy

Read @ AO3

Eliot is heavy.

Quentin had forgotten, or maybe he hadn’t remembered right—Eliot’s body balanced over his and Margo’s shoulders, riding the emotional high as alcohol buzzed through his veins, making his memories fuzzy. But now Eliot was a dead weight, his arms looped around Quentin’s neck, his legs half dragging, knees too wobbly and bent at an angle as he clung to Quentin.

“You’re too big for this,” Quentin says, trying to heft Eliot up to be somewhat stable on his feet, but Eliot just laughs, puffs of hot air breezing over his ear, acrid and pungent scent of alcohol filling Quentin’s nose.

Eliot ducks his head into the crook where Quentin’s neck meets his shoulder—nuzzling him—his curls brushing over Quentin’s cheek. “And you’re short, Q. Did you know how short you were? I could rest my head on yours.”

“Yeah, I’m too short to be carrying your giant ass, but it seems the booze has turned your legs to noodles,” Quentin grumbles, but keeps his hold around Eliot’s torso secure— just a few more feet and they will make it to Quentin’s room; there was no way he was going to attempt the stairs, not by himself and not with Eliot in this state. “If you vomit in my bed, you’re cleaning it up in the morning.”

“Oh, Q, you’re taking me to your bed?” Eliot says, pressing his forehead to Quentin’s temple, his breath humid and overbearing, his feet stopped cooperating. “Are you going to take advantage of me in my weakened state?”

Quentin gasps out, breaks into a manic kind of laughter. “No, definitely not. I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.”

Eliot makes a low noise, deep in his throat, sharp-pitched, like a whine. “Shame.”

They make it to his room without any delay, Eliot cooperating more as his body grows closer to unconsciousness. Quentin had meant to pull back the covers and help Eliot down onto the mattress gently, making sure he laid on his stomach, but Eliot saw the bed and flopped down before Quentin could grasp the edge of his blankets, curling up in a circular heap in the center like an oversized cat, breath heavy and even.

At least he wasn’t on his back, he thinks, mouth curling at the corners as he edged away from the bed. He almost makes a clean escape, but Eliot grabs for his wrist when he goes for a pillow, his grip firm, fingers locked down against his pulse point, rubbing circles against the bare skin with his cool, smooth fingertips.

Quentin’s throat feels thick, like a lump he can’t swallow, that aches and thuds, flushing from his cheeks to his collarbone.

“No goodnight kiss?” Eliot asks, half sitting up, his lips pursed and eyes half-lidded.

Quentin lets out a shaky laugh, more of a giggle if he was being honest with himself, then leans over and presses a dry, firm kiss to Eliot’s forehead. “Goodnight, El,” he says, reaching up to brush back the tangle of curls that had fallen over his brow, stroking through his hair for a moment, unable to stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, not letting go of Quentin’s wrist, but hold loosening, thumb pushing under his shirtsleeve.  “I’m kind of a huge fuck up.”

Quentin feels something loosen, like untying a knot, deep in his gut as his mouth quirks to the side. “That makes two of us.”

He doesn’t duck or dodge, or stumble back—maybe he should have, maybe he should have made an attempt, at least—but Quentin stays in place as Eliot surges up and pulls on Quentin’s arm, their mouths colliding, then fusing as Eliot kisses him with his bitter, slick mouth. Quentin doesn’t pull back, but falls forward, knee coming up to rest on his bed as he pushes into the kiss, tongue swiping up the stale taste of old alcohol and his fingers grasping at Eliot’s hair.

Eliot pulls back,his eyes blown black and shining in the low light, breathing into Quentin’s mouth. “Stay,” he says. “Please.”

Quentin swallows, heart beating like a battering ram, blood rushing to his head and he can’t think straight. “Okay, okay, just to sleep,” he breathes out, and then he climbs all the way into his bed, lets Eliot wind around him.

“Just sleeping,” Eliot says, yawning in his ear, his long limbs curling like vines, arm thrown over Quentin’s chest, tugging him against Eliot as Eliot buries his face against the side of Quentin’s neck. “Just sleep, Q.”

1. heartworms by the shins || now I’m trying to figure out when it was you gave me these heartworms / I feel them wriggling in my blood, you gonna do me harm

2. we belong together by vampire weekend ft. danielle haim || we go together like sound and sight / black and white, day and night / we go together like left and right / oh, we go together

3. talk too much by coin || you know I talk too much / honey, come put your lips on mine and shut me up

4.love stuck by mother mother || I’ve got my love stuck in my head, in my head / I’ve got my love stuck in my thoughts, in my thoughts / I’ve got to keep my love in my heart

5. nobody puts baby in the corner by fall out boy || keep quiet, nothing comes as easy as you / can I lay in your bed all day? / I’ll be your best kept secret and your biggest mistake