There Was Someone At The Door. 

Heya, happy news everyone!  Chapter 9 of It never hurts to keep looking for a sunshine!! There gonna be some very nice and silly moments which I utterly adore (bless you @elfontheshelves​). Just two guys chillin in the kitchen, really. Hope you all had a great time on TIC and please enjoy new chapter! I promise you will as I do ♡

Yeah, Christmas is over, but I worked on this DTIYS for weeeeeks, and, I hope, I gave it a bit warm and cozy feeling here like the original by @fulmomary (it’s on instagram, but I haven’t art account there, so). 

I love these two idiots every day more, God help me.

I don't know what I would do if fanfiction wasn't here. I don’t know. Honestly, I would probably kill myself.

Few days ago I fell into another one, Under Contruction by @summerofspock and CAN’T STOP reading. 

Just a sketch, but I'm a little proud of myself how their noses pop up! Big noses fan me (this sounded weird). And who is not, with David and with Michael on beside? 

Yeah, below we also have ‘the thumb on the hip bone’! I put it in quotes because it was a Thing and you know what I mean if you already read fic. Only one slightly naked and bruised man (pants on) and one gentle thumb, nothing more, I promise! 

(sorry, perhaps nobody harms if I post whole image, but not finished yet - struggle with anatomy as always)

anyway sure sure we laugh but they really did spend six thousand years in love and terrified about it and i think in the post-armageddon world like. the absence of terror is the terrifying thing. having spent so long looking over each shoulder and slipping past each other in the dark, trying to find each other now in the light–how unsettling that must be.

how devastatingly difficult that must be. 

to reach for his hand and have to remind each other that it’s okay. to lead each other through the first stumbling paces of a slow dance and have to take a breather to swallow back the panic. it’s okay, they tell each other, again and again, trembling fingers on pale faces. it’s okay.

but even immortal beings change and grow and learn, and there is hope here, in this repetition, in this reassurance. it’s okay, it’s okay. crowley initiates a hand-hold one late april night, slipping his hand over aziraphale’s on the table, and aziraphale does not take his hand away. it’s okay, it’s okay. aziraphale sits next to crowley on the sofa one mid-june morning, handing him a cup of coffee, and crowley leans in against him. it’s okay, it’s okay. in september they kiss, all gasping breath and brushing lips, but neither of them draws away.

i love you, aziraphale says, in december. he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because crowley needs gentle things still, sometimes. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged optimism, crowley deserves gentle things sometimes.

crowley is quiet for a long time, swirling the wine in his glass. then he sets the glass aside, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at aziraphale with wet eyes. do you ever miss heaven? he asks.

aziraphale shakes his head. no.

do you regret what happened? crowley presses. do you ever think about going back?

no, aziraphale answers.

if i—if i didn’t love you back, he says, choking on the words a little, would you go back to them?

aziraphale sets his glass aside too, and gets to his knees in front of crowley, taking his hands, pressing his lips to the knuckles. no, he says. if you had your choice, heaven or hell, where would you be, crowley?

with you, crowley says instantly.

so why is it so very hard to believe the same of me? that i would choose you? aziraphale cups one hand to crowley’s cheek. i am not giving up anything by loving you, dear boy. i am finding what i have wanted to find for a very long time.

and if they come for us again? he asks. he’s pressing his cheek hard into aziraphale’s hand though, and aziraphale leans in to press their foreheads together.

then we face them side-by-side. i love you. aziraphale is so close now he can feel the shudder in crowley’s breath when he says it. i love you. i am not afraid.

it’s crowley who closes the distance, who presses in, his mouth hot and desperate and seeking. it’s crowley who slides his arms around aziraphale’s neck, pulling him closer. it’s crowley who makes the noise deep in his throat, the noise it makes when something breaks free: longing, maybe, and hope, and something like belief—faith, not in a higher authority or an ineffable plan, but just in this, here, in them, in crowley&aziraphale, aziraphale-and-crowley, in their heartbeats crashing together and their hands pressed palm to palm.

aziraphale holds him, kisses him back and holds him, stroking soothing paths down his ribs and up his spine. it’s okay, he whispers, taking each biting kiss and turning into a tenderness between them. it’s okay, it’s okay.

crowley kisses him one more time, and it’s slow, this time, and soft, as if he’s finally found the calm in the center of him. as if aziraphale has soothed the shaking out of his limbs and steadied the ground inside his mind. he presses his cheek to aziraphale’s cheek and just listens to him for a moment: the rhythm of his breath, the shift of his clothing. the whisper of his eyes opening and closing, lashes against lashes. the drum of his heart.

i love you, crowley says.

he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because aziraphale needs gentle things, sometimes, even if he doesn’t say so. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged faith, aziraphale deserves gentle things sometimes.

he says, i love you, and he knows it’s going to be okay.

it’s okay, it’s okay. it’s okay.

i love you. it’s okay.

I just might hate you, too, he thought. I just thought they are in love and had to draw them. Again.

My first digital dtiys, guys - still not finihed yet.

I worked on this piece for few days (there was a sketch on paper once, maybe a week ago...) and I am thinking I never finish it and I KNOW that @whiteleyfoster​ and her beautiful art worth for making it in proper way. So, I hope it’s ok if I’ll post it? And I am sorry I cannot do it right, but I would like to show you as well.

I just want to say (in a very odd way) how she inspired me and how deeply I fell in love with her Prince of Omens AU.  

(I just post it before it ends in my “never finished works”)

Bloody Hell, I can't describe how I adore your work and your art style. This awful world needs more artists like you.

First BLM donation commission is done! This was requested by @ineffablefool and it was such a delight to draw. I don’t think I could ever get bored of drawing these two and their over the top adoring gazes. Thank you so much for donating <3

I hope you all had Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! ^^ I totally forget to post art for another chapter of It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine, so sorry! As readers probably know, our bois couldn't keep their hands off each other for 5 minutes at a time, but nobody wasn’t surprised (me neither). What dorks they are and thanks God the kids don’t resemble their fathers/uncles and are much more smarter then them.

A Good Day

by Kait Rokowski

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.”

It’s a lovestory ♥️

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. Crowley has known that look since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he finds himself a little unmoored, when he finds himself a little directionless. It’s a look he wears when he begins to doubt himself.

He’s wearing it now, sitting across from Crowley, half-drunk on Chateau d’Yquem, paused midway through a ramble on books adapted into films. He blinks at Crowley once, twice; his brow furrows. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, sitting up. “S’wrong?”

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, quite wonderingly, “I think I’m an idiot.” 

Crowley can’t help it - he laughs, snorting through his nose. “You’re not,” he says. “You’re the cleverest–the cleverest clever to ever clever.”

“See, that, right there!” Aziraphale says, pointing at Crowley. “That’s it! That’s why I am idiot.”

Crowley laughs harder. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You!” Aziraphale half-shouts. “You’re in love with me!”

There’s a ringing silence in the bookshop as Crowley’s laugh cuts out. They stare at one another. 

“Fuck’s sake, angel,” Crowley says quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sober up.”

There’s a soft shimmer of a miracle being performed, and then they’re still both looking at each other in the silence. Aziraphale’s hands twist and curl together. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, cringing at himself. “I don’t know–I didn’t know.” 

Crowley heaves himself up off the sofa, gathering up his jacket. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he says amicably. “I’ll just, er, see myself out, I think, call it an early night.”

“Wait–” Aziraphale’s hand catches in his elbow, and Crowley can feel him stepping up close behind him, though he doesn’t turn to look. “Wait,” he repeats. His voice is soft, like unbearably tender. Crowley closes his eyes against it. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Crowley says, as calmly as he can. He can feel himself shaking under Aziraphale’s hand, just like one of his plants. “It wasn’t supposed to–it’s not a big deal, angel.”

“It is a big deal,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “Look at me.”

I’m sorry, Aziraphale will say. I didn’t know, he’ll say. It’d be better if you didn’t, he’ll say. Couldn’t you just - miracle it away?

Crowley looks, though. Aziraphale asked him to. Of course he looks. 

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. It’s a look Crowley’s known since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he offers a wing to shelter under in a storm. It’s a look he wears when he holds out a hand before the end of the world. It’s a look that looks a lot like love. 

“Leave it,” Crowley says. It’s a demand because he can’t bear for it to be plea. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just–I thought it was just me.” There’s a wobbly sort of grin spreading across his face. “I thought it was just me, reflecting back. I’m such an idiot.” 

Crowley stares at him. Doesn’t flinch away when Aziraphale touches his cheek. “You mean to say, you–?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “How could I not?” 

And it’s true. It’s true because Crowley would feel it, if it were a lie. It’s true because Crowley would see it, if it were a lie. 

It’s true because Aziraphale would never lie to him about love.

“Oh my God,” Crowley says, for the first time in six thousand years. “We’re both bloody idiots.”

It doesn’t matter, not right now. Right now, Aziraphale is kissing him, and Crowley has already spent too much time not kissing him back to worry about it any longer.