#now kith!

[brain-rot-hour]

@mayarab

Happy birthday to you!!

[nosferatini]

Clair de Lune (a Good Omens Animatic)

Too much winter, time for some fluff… Oh wait, it’s Valentine’s Day!?! *Perfect* 🙏

Presenting the brainchild of evil mastermind @kotias—who wrote some fluff to cheer up the fandom—which was then masterfully illustrated by the one and only @gleafer.

...They let me out of my cage (eheheheheeee!) and I made an animatic with their creativity and my voice.

(I so proud!)

Summary:

A few years have passed since Crowley and Aziraphale stopped the second try of Heaven and Hell at ending the world, and those few years have not quite repaired the two of them as one might hope. Both feel the rift between them, one that doesn't seem to go away; until Aziraphale decides that it is high time they have a talk... and a dance.

Check Out the Full Fic with Art on AO3!

And find us on our socials:

Fic by @kotias! (AO3)

Art by @gleafer! (Patreon)

Animatic by Yours Truly 🖤 (SoundCloud)

💝Happy Valentines Day GO Fans! 💝

@goodomensafterdark @whickberstreetwriters

[jeyneofpoole]

Jonsatin prompt - first kiss :)

I’m finally ready to do these! Thank you for the prompt!!!

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The wind on top of the Wall was always unforgiving. The cold went hand-in-hand with the North, and by extension, the Night’s Watch. Jon was used to the cold. He wasn’t used to this wind. He missed the high stone walls of Winterfell on days where the wind on top of the world wouldn’t stop lifting up his cloak and cutting through his furs like a hot knife on butter.

The builders did patrols on top of and below the Wall often, to look for cracks or blemishes in the gargantuan blocks of ice that made it up. Ever since Jon had been named Lord Commander, he had made it a point to take a look himself. He was, after all, probably more intimately acquainted with the Wall than most anyone else at Castle Black.

And this happened every time he did so. Satin walked beside him, breaths puffing crystalline and opaque in the air that hung about his mouth. Satin Flowers was very... odd, in the sense of his aggressive difference to the other men at the Wall.

Satin was not a perfect steward. He often forgot to stoke the fire, or he was late bringing dinner, or he didn’t set out fresh linens as often as would have been typically prudent. But Jon couldn’t imagine another man in his place. Satin was, above all, an unfailingly loyal, good friend.

Lord Commander Snow didn’t have time for friends. But Jon had time for Satin, and Satin always had time for Jon. And every time Jon would go walking on the Wall, Satin would go with.

Satin was perhaps the person least well-suited to the cold that Jon had ever known. His soft, fair skin was raised in a brothel in Oldtown, which was a far cry from the rough, uncompromising, frigid Wall. But every time Jon made for the top of the Wall, Satin came. That said more about him than words ever could, Jon thought.

“My lord? Jon? Are you alright?” Satin looked over at him with flushed cheeks. 

“I’m fine, thank you. Just... Just cold.” Jon smiled back at him and couldn’t help but notice the way snowflakes collected on the tips of his curly hair, framing him in spun silver thread. 

“Well then lets stop by the fire for a moment. I hardly doubt that the Wall is like to collapse if we take a break.” 

“Oh, fine.” Jon acquiesced, followed Satin over to a watchfire, and held his hands out over the crackling orange flames. Satin was doing the same, sighing in relief. Jon half wondered if this diversion was an excuse for him to warm up as well, he voiced often and loudly how much he despised the cold. Or, he voiced this to Jon often and loudly. Satin hated showing weakness in front of his fellow black brothers more than the cold, Jon had seen.

“Satin, why do you insist on coming with me every time I do this?” It had maybe come out harsher than Jon had intended, because Satin flinched, “Do you not... want me to?”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No! No it’s just... I don’t want you to feel obligated to accompany me. It’s not your job to come with me whenever I insist on doing maybe the most uncomfortable job there is up here.” Satin grinned ruefully. 

“Trust me, I don’t feel obligated to do anything for you. I want to. I... well I suppose I like to. Do things for you and... with you, I mean.” He shifted closer to the fire, looking very determinedly into the flame, and very pointedly not at Jon, who saw that his cheeks were burning again, this time the flush of emotion instead of cold.

“You... oh.” Jon was sure that he was blushing now too, and he prayed that his darker skin would not betray him as easily.

“I am your steward, after all.” Satin’s tone was light, but strained, forced somehow, like he wanted Jon to say something. So Jon said something.

“You’re not just my steward, Satin. You’re my friend.” He moved closer to Satin and caught his eye. His eyes were as lovely as the rest of him, dark and curving, with a framing of thick lashes. 

“I’m your...” The tone was almost incredulous, like it had never occurred to him before, like the very notion was mere whimsy and fabrication

Jon couldn’t stand it, he caught one of Satins’ hands between his own and squeezed it gently. His hands were soft and elegant, smooth skin to the more recent callouses formed by hard physical labor all just as pleasant to feel between his palms. Jon had wanted to do this, had wanted to very much.

“I know I’m not very... open. But you are my friend, Satin Flowers. Maybe one of the only true ones I have left. And I couldn’t bear it if you thought that I didn’t think of you like one.”

Satin’s eyes were on his own, wide and clear, and he saw what he was about to do in them. He did not doubt Satin was reading him as well.

He let Satin lean in, and lips as soft as the rest of him opened under his. He had never let himself think about this possibility, so he had no fantasies to compare to. He doubted they would have been better than this, there was no better than this.

He smelled so good, and felt so good, and was so good, and this was so good. Satins’ hands were on his face now, holding him with a gentleness that made him want to cry. He pushed a hand through his curls, because he had always, somewhere in the very back of his mind, wanted to and now he could and he was dizzy and falling into something he could never abandon.

And on the top of the world, where cold wind cuts and bites and blows, two people were warm.

[lsveith-author]

Death’s Chosen

It is London in year of our Lord 1400, and three tailor’s daughters have problems.

Hildi cannot make enough money to marry her betrothed.

Cecelia desperately does not want to marry the odious Gregory.

And Ava is a boy.

But when Hildi is captured by a mysterious man everything is thrown into a tumble of adventure.

Prejudices must be overcome.

Resolve must be strengthened.

Kin must become kith.

The Threade Siblings will need their all their wits and strength to overcome the evil that doesn’t just reside in a tower, but in their hearts.