#rewrote it

[dead-patrol]

crystal did not make heart eyes at niko that many times for anyone to say she could be straight. don't worry ms. palace surname-von hoverkraft i saw your septum ring

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

when you can’t keep the own details of your own ass book straight -- after you’ve been writing it for S E V E N years 

i hate it here 

[sollozas]

august

the month is midway in violence. i let my mouth open. it is selfish to create even the cells of the body. everything stretches itself out, the days heat-soaked and walled in dry orange. the hours are opened like a bird flung against the sky, bursting featherless. there is little crooning, a lot of numbness. the promise of measured time dappled in light. it closes as august stirs. 

[ineffablefool]

Okay, the Lovecraft Meraziraphale AU is 6.6k so far and, like, maybe half done.  Cool.  Cool.

Have another snippet of the first draft!  I’m holding back on the Good Stuff, but this has the benefit of being a full scene at a digestible ~550 words.

--

After a while, Aziraphale got used to the idea that if he came ashore, Crowley would probably find him.  It didn’t matter if he was walking out in the wild hinterlands, or visiting one of the humans’ ever larger and more clever cities — he’d catch a glimpse of red-and-black, or hear a warm voice call his name (or call him angel), and there was Crowley.  Who was always supposedly doing the evil will of the Risen hordes, yet who mostly just seemed to make his own quiet existence amongst humanity.  Especially once he took to wearing dark glasses to hide his eyes.  With those, Crowley stood out much less than he had in earlier ages.

Aziraphale was disappointed, somehow, when the glasses became the norm.  There was something open and inviting that he sometimes caught in Crowley’s eyes.  Something he missed when the Risen started walling them off.

Of course, Aziraphale’s own eyes got some attention now and then.  They tended to shine a rather lustrous blue, and they were just a little large for a human’s, just a little round.  Not inhumanly so, it wasn’t like he had the cold bulging eyes of an Archangel, but — yes, unusual enough that he did occasionally get stares.  Although maybe that was his pale skin, his ghost-fluff hair.  He didn’t exactly make a habit of asking.

He’d tried dark glasses himself, once, in the 17th century.  Had swum up the huge river not far from the Gate, passing into the largest city of the humans, because he had discovered theater and he very much wanted to catch a play.  Eyes hidden from all the gathered humans, he’d thought he would be just a little more anonymous, although it hadn’t actually wound up feeling that way.  

“Isn’t that more my style?  I know imitation is the sincerest form and all, but come on.”

Aziraphale’s mouth curved into a smile without his asking it to.  “Crowley.  I thought you didn’t like this sort of play.”

“Agh, no, I hate the gloomy ones.  And,” he went on, stepping around in front of Aziraphale, so close in the crowd that they were nearly touching, “I hate the glasses on you.  Really does not go with those heavenly looks.”

Before Aziraphale could get his brain around a response, Crowley was reaching toward his face.  Pausing.  “Okay if I…?”

Aziraphale nodded weakly, then blinked against the light as Crowley gently pulled the glasses away.

“There.  Shouldn’t hide from the humans like that, angel, when else are they going to look upon the divine?”

Crowley’s voice was brash and laughing, and he was plainly only trying to get a rise out of Aziraphale, because — well, because he was just like that.  So Aziraphale made an irritated face at him, and Crowley smirked and moved back to his side, and they watched the rest of the play in mostly silence.  Aziraphale had to turn down an offer of dinner afterwards.  He’d already been away from the Gate for far too long.

It wasn’t until he was back in his secret grotto that he realized he no longer had his dark glasses.  Crowley had slipped them into a pocket, and had not returned them.

[tired-needs-sleep]

sleepy's silly masterpost

hey, you can call me sleepy! i just post things about my ocs and have fun here. usually. maybe.

if you're seeing this, congrats. you've caught my blog under reconstruction. i figured it was time to switch my theme since it's been 4 years and i now draw my ocs haha

i reblog a lot. my tag for that is #post upon queue, so if you only want to see my creative work, it's easy to filter it out.

i may occasionally reblog #suggestive things, stuff of that nature, or answer an ask with something suggestive. i will tag it as needed.

i am a very anxious person, so don't sweat it if you tried talking to me and i didn't respond for a second.

the posting things:

ocs

art of ocs

oc rambles

writing of ocs

ocs

ocs

sometimes a random interest i have

...so, most of my original posts are gonna be about my ocs. info on them here.

the reblogging things:

friend art

pokemon, both main and fangame content

arcane odyssey

lego ninjago

cassette beasts

octopath traveller II

minecraft diaries

minecraft story mode

sonic

mlp

relatable/funny things

tags:

#sleepy rambles- text tag

#post upon queue- queue/rb tag

#sleepy art- art tag

#sleepy art-ish - art wip tag

#sleepy writing- writing tag

#sleepy plays: (game)- liveblog tag

anything else more specific to an oc is listed on the oc masterpost!

[barbex]

kind of regretting posting that fenders fic last night because it probably would have been better if I wrote the ending differently, really leaning into that sadness, the heartbreak. It would have been better. One day I’ll learn to let a draft rest

[number1-dominik-blog]

Broken Kitten || Open Para

After hours, Roxy finally regained consciousness, quickly gasping for air as he did so thinking his neck was still bound. As the air entered his lungs clearly he let out a soft sigh in relief as his hand moved to the bruised ring around his neck He slowly moved up and winced in pain as he felt the pain from the stab wound and the pain in his ankle from it being squeezed. “Fuck...” he gasped softly as he looked down at his bloodstained clothes that were on the ground, he didn’t remember taking his shirt off. He looked down at his shoulder to see it was bandaged “At least he cared a little bit” he grumbled softly before grabbing his crutches to try and get up. Apparently applying pressure to his shoulder was not a good plan, he quickly toppled back onto the couch. “Fuck...” he hissed out, he had just gotten out of the infirmary, he didn’t want to go back. He reached into his pocket to grab his phone but then the memory hit him “Fucking Enlil broke my phone!” he shouted before growling.

He got up on his uninjured leg and hopped over to the nearest wall to keep himself up. He had to get help. He hopped towards the door and soon stepped out into the hall way “Help” he called out as he made his way down the hall, keeping himself sturdy on the wall “Please...Help me...” he called out again, his calf was starting to hurt as his leg began to get tired from holding all of his weight. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he looked down at the bruised ring around his ankle. Fuck..he forgot about the bruises that the vines left and the little cuts that soon began to sting with the sweat that were left by the thorns. “Fucking Avery..” he breathed out as he tried to continue hopping towards a more populated area, but his leg gave out and he came tumbling face first to the carpet. “Ow...” he breathed out as pain filled his shoulder and ankle “Help...” he whimpered once again, hoping someone would pass by “P-Please...”

[normcnikcrdci-blog]

As I’m laying here, staring at the ceiling, I’ve been debating and thinking.. I kind of want to get a tongue ring.