Friendly reminder that it hasn’t even been a full year since moonyinpisces and her little gang of acephobic, transphobic, anti kink Mean Girls (gn) caused major MAJOR waves in the Good Omens fandom to the point where people left spaces that had previously been a safe haven for them, and some people left the fandom entirely.

The fact that she couldn’t even be bothered to post her fics under a new username is so so telling of the fact that she doesn’t think she did anything wrong, she doesn’t give a fuck about the people she hurt, and worst of all, her little “find me nowhere!” author’s note makes it abundantly clear that she thinks the whole fucking thing is funny.

Can’t wait to see all the art that vavoomsorted/ Zoey will be posting to accompany her “good friend moony’s” fics, despite her performative little apology back in April about how she “doesn’t associate with that person anymore.”

Disgusting, deplorable people who don’t deserve a space in the Good Omens fandom

Just Kneel (pt. 2)

Good Omens x Fleabag

Part One

Once again inspired by @depraveddame's Vine Slips of a Strange God. :D

Just Kneel.

Good Omens x Fleabag

Heavily inspired by @depraveddame's Vine Slips of a Strange God.

As usual :3

Free Will by depraveddame

| 666 | explicit | human au, professor au, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits, rivals, D/s vibes, face fucking, denial, tenderness, oblivious pining |

Sequel to Akrasia: Aziraphale and Crowley meet exactly one week later in his office, as always. It goes as it always does.

Until it doesn't.

| excerpt |

Aziraphale has developed a Pavlovian response to the turning of his office doorknob.

Its whirring susurration is now a call to arms, a bugle blaring through veins. Assuming command over his blood and its priorities, demanding it pool between his legs.

shhhh-clickkk—

He watches Crowley lower to his knees after what hardly constitutes a greeting: surnames testily exchanged, eyes mingling for seconds made weighty with unspoken scorn.

Aziraphale is already hard, straining in his trousers.

Thoroughly conditioned.

Akrasia by depraveddame

| 666 | explicit | human au, professor au, enemies to lovers, enemies with benefits, rivals, D/s vibes, face fucking, boot grinding |

Professors Anthony Crowley and Aziraphale Fell do not like each other.

They despise one another.

In fact, most would more than likely describe them as being mortal enemies if nothing else.

Rivals in their field of Philosophy at a prestigious university, they clash in nearly every sense of the word, doing their absolute best to either 1) go out of their way to metaphorically rip the each other to shreds, or 2) aggressively and/or spitefully avoid the other.

Most of the time.

| excerpt |

He opens the door, Fell’s unspoken permission to do so given by way of an unbolted lock week after week.

“Crowley,” his surname, uttered with barely veiled contempt edged with heat, has him swallowing a whimper. 

“Fell,” he tersely replies for what’s surely the last time.

He steps inside; the door clicks closed. 

Crowley’s already sinking to his knees. 

This priest and his sweet boy. ♥️✨

Some sketches I did recently for the Vine Slips of a Strange God and Bring Your Seed to Blossom boys from @depraveddame’s fics.

the keenest pleasures by depraveddame

| 10.8k | explicit | canon compliant, ancient greece, angst, CNC, fucking while pining, rib-cracking tenderness |

Athens, Ancient Greece, 430 BC.

An unknown pathogen which would be known as The Plague of Athens has been ravaging the ancient Greek city, killing thousands and thousands with no end in sight. Just outside the walls surrounding the devastation, a guilt-wracked angel and a raging, despairing demon seek refuge from a violent downpour and the stench of death in an old abandoned dwelling.

And under the heaviness of what's happening just outside the hut and the relentlessly pressing weight of their forbidden desire for the other, they crumble.

| excerpt |

“No one will know,” he’s so close now, close enough for Aziraphale to smell the scorching furnace of him, the honeyed note of beeswax in Crawley’s hair and scented olive oil clinging to the infernal plane of his skin, his typical, intrinsic freshness of the very first rain and undercurrent of smoldering cedar now woven with cardamom and lily, incense and myrrh, “there’s no one else here; no one needs to find out. ”

Crawley’s whisper is almost sweet, then, almost tender, and when Aziraphale dares to meet his eyes, as he raises his chin slightly and meets Crawley’s gaze head on, he watches something dawn over the pale angles of his features, witnesses the blossoming of what might be a kind of understanding or perhaps an idea of some sort.

“Is that what you’re afraid of? Of Upstairs knowing?” Crawley cocks an eyebrow, a movement quickly mirrored by his head as he holds Aziraphale’s gaze with a scrutinizing eye, “you know, you could always tell them it was a means to subdue your wily adversary, if they found out…” he trails off, the possibility of what he’s implying dangling from his tongue like a length of rope offered to a drowning sailor; a rescue. Perhaps the rescue of a siren, but a rescue nonetheless.

Aziraphale seems to have lost the ability to swallow.