Surviving The Angst War Just To Live To See The Smut War Is Like Living Through WWI Just To Get Drafted

Every time I draw a Crowley.

creepy hands and exclamation points always get a reblog from me 🖤🖤🖤

COMING SOON: A new Of Fire and Falcons Project!

October 1 is just around the corner, which means the official start of Spooky Season, but also the kickoff of Ineffable Kinktober! This year, I'll be working with @quefish77's excellent prompt list and bringing you a whole series of prequels, cut scenes and happily ever afters for my Ren faire AU! Expect POVs you haven't seen before, new lore, rarepairs, and more! What does bird Gabriel actually think of his human husband Aziraphale? How did Beez and Muriel get together? Why can't Eric get Crowley out of his head? And what are Aziraphale and Crowley like at home when they're not out flying falcons or impressing everyone with their fire skills? Answers to these questions and more await with my new series.

If you want to be the first to know when the first chapter drops, subscribe to the Of Fire and Falcons series on AO3!

Or if you want to get notifications about all of my new work, you could try subscribing to my author page instead.

And if you haven't read Of Snowbirds and Hearthstones, the sequel to Of Fire and Falcons, maybe today is the day!

Thank you so much to @quona for the gorgeous cover and for all of the art for this series!

This isn't really a timelapse, more of a collection of my WIP shots from the Flappers painting.

You can very clearly tell where I got frustrated with Crowley and repainted her.

A Lover’s Dance 🐍🪽

Trying my damndest to learn digital oil paint.

Crowley in (an attempt at) the style of John Singer Sargent. Human AU so he has non-snek eyes.

WIP

if Crowley and Aziraphale had a baby ✨

Oh someone got our poem reference, @thescholarlystrumpet !

For anyone interested, the title of my flappers painting comes from a beautiful poem, "For the Goddess Too Well Known", by Elsa Gidlow, a British-born Canadian-American poet who published the first openly lesbian book of poetry in North America in 1923 (!), titled On A Grey Thread.

For the Goddess Too Well Known

I have robbed the garrulous streets,

Thieved a fair girl from their blight,

I have stolen her for a sacrifice

That I shall make to this night.

I have brought her, laughing,

To my quietly dreaming garden.

For what will be done there

I ask no man pardon.

I brush the rouge from her cheeks,

Clean the black kohl from the rims

Of her eyes; loose her hair;

Uncover the glimmering, shy limbs.

I break wild roses, scatter them over her.

The thorns between us sting like love's pain.

Her flesh, bitter and salt to my tongue,

I taste with endless kisses and taste again.

At dawn I leave her

Asleep in my wakening garden.

(For what was done there

I ask no man pardon.)

i have brought her laughing (to my quietly dreaming garden) ------------------------------ The scene: A smoky, velvet-lined speakeasy smudged carelessly somewhere in the pocket of a roaring, glittered New York City, 1924, nighttime. Prohibition is on, but the law books never really dissuade anyone from getting a drink, not if they know where to go. It sure as Hell doesn't stop Crowley from taking her Angel out for a drink, because Aziraphale wanted one. And hey, it's the jazz age, Crowley knows where to get weed again.

This painting is one half of a collaboration I did with my dear friend @thescholarlystrumpet, who wrote a fantastic companion piece on AO3 (Rated M, mind the drug use tag).

“I got something else to liven up your final night in town. If you’re feeling a little… daring.” Crowley looked sidelong at Aziraphale and arched one penciled-on brow. Aziraphale wiggled happily and slid off the stool to sidle closer, until her head was practically on the Demon’s bare shoulder. “Do tell.”  Crowley tried not to shiver as she could feel the Angel’s breath against her heated skin, smell the heady potpourri of perfume, wine, and a pinch of ethereal sweat, taste it on her (currently unforked) tongue. She held up the expertly rolled joint between two fingers accented by red painted talons. “It’s been a very long time, I think, since we really… indulged.” Turning her head just so, nearly nose to nose with her friend. “Don’t you think we’ve earned it?” “Why, you wicked temptress,” Aziraphale murmured, her voice low and slightly breathless, sly smile belying any hint of admonishment. 

full size and detail shots after the jump

MY ART! STRUMPET'S FIC. GO READ IT, MY DARLINGS.

Father Fell x Crowley in WW2

With SPECTACULAR new cover art by @quona!! (everyone go follow them!)

Father Fell has been living a quiet life in a small parish. Despite the looming fear of war, he thought he was content with his small pleasures. Until a mysterious stranger comes to town, turning that life on its head and awakening desires the Father thought he buried long, long ago...

READ ON AO3:

Chapter ten in which a gift is given and then another is shared—if only for the barest sliver of a moment.

Or read from the beginning!

tagging @goodomensafterdark as promised ;)