#fic: icarus

[october-writes]

Icarus sneak peek...

Okay, so I'm being super generous with this sneak peek because I have no idea when I'll be ready to post the whole fic. Pandora!Verse Leon has a long, bittersweet backstory and I love it, but it's a lot to get down especially when all I want to do is cry and hug him. 😫

Thank you for your patience. Any likes/comments here or on Pandora are the fuel that keeps the fic engine running.

‘Is this really where you grew up?’ she asked, her voice light with surprise.

He turned in time to see her cringe at the question. She’d been quiet since the drive away from the motel and the scene with Russ and his posse. No, scratch that. Ada had kept to herself because he’d asked her to and he’d been kicking himself for that ever since.

His stomach flipped whenever Ada asked him about himself; one part excitement, one part terror. He wanted to tell her everything and, in turn, he wanted to know her as well as he knew his deepest desires. But he was scared of the guy in those stories. Steadfast, optimistic, stable, responsible. He was sure that version of him had died on a forest floor. Now he was trying to live up to his own ghost.

Leon swallowed before replying glibly, ‘Nope! I grew up in a house.’

‘You know what I meant, Leon.’

God, he loved the way Ada said his name; like she owned the word, like no one had ever called him that but her.

‘Okay. I spent a lot of time here too,’ he conceded, nodding at the front facade of the church and the flawless circle of its Gothic stained glass window, ‘One Easter when I was fourteen, me and the chaplain’s son changed the sign out front to read: “Honk if you love Jesus”.’

She spluttered on a laugh, ‘You did what?’

‘You could barely hear mom’s sermon ‘cause of the car horns. I would’ve been grounded ‘til Christmas, but lucky for me she has a sense of humour! Damn. I was such a little asshole when I wanted to be.’

Ada bit her bottom lip until it shone pearlescent pink and he couldn’t look away from her mouth.

‘I could show you around,’ he offered suddenly, ‘If there was time.’

‘Really? And where would you take me?’

Her eyes glinted like a dare. He’d reignited her interest in him and they were back there again, at the edge of something beautiful and dangerous.

Go ahead. Impress me, rookie.

‘Well, um... there’s the Boott Cotton Mills Museum just across the canal,’ he suggested weakly, his throat suddenly dry, ‘I uh... I wrote an essay on it in High School.’

Her eyebrows twitched, ‘High School...?’

‘Yeah, it was on child labour reforms during the Industrial Revolution. I got an A minus.’

Oh for the love of- Shut up, shut up, shut up!

Ada blinked at him before turning away, ‘Interesting. Maybe some other time.’

Her eyes went dull, the glint of challenge extinguished. They were left beneath the cool light of the street lamp looking at everything but each other.

‘Come on. We should get going before I’m recognised,’ he said, leading her across the street, ‘We’ll check out the back lot.’

Leon remembered the first time Sarah had taken him to First Presbyterian to help out the day crew, officially as penance for his reckless escape attempt on his first night under her roof. He hadn’t been due to start school for another week and, while he’d been sincerely forgiven for his antics, he’d still been grounded.

The church ran a Day Centre from Monday to Friday, the doors opening at eight on the dot come rain or shine or biblical levels of snow. Refreshments, clean clothes and pastoral counselling were available no questions asked and, in the evenings, volunteers served hot meals alongside a rotating programme of art therapy, sign language classes, and addicts anonymous meetings.

Sarah had started the programme during her first few months in Lowell. The way some locals liked to tell it, Sarah had crashed into town on a wave of radical ideas. The Day Centre hadn’t been popular with everyone, bringing ‘undesirables’ and addicts from the fringes into the centre of town where they were harder to ignore.

‘I’ve brought the poor and the sick to Jesus’ doorstep, just like he instructed,’ she’d retorted, knowing the Bible was her home turf and she’d arrived ready to fight dirty, ‘If you’ve got a problem, take it up with him!’

‘I’m on a first name basis with the Mayor’s office,’ Sarah had boasted as they’d carried boxes of donated clothing through the back of the church, ‘Mayor Wiggins reminds me every time I stop by that I shouldn’t let it go to my head! I think he preferred the old pastor, Reverend Dawson. But Wiggy knows I’m better at getting things done. He’d rather boil his own head in lard than admit it though, so I’m not holding my breath for the key to the city!’

Young Leon had tipped his head back to take in the building’s decadent red brick and stained glass, its silver spire bouncing the sun towards every corner of Lowell.

‘Is all this yours?’ he’d asked.

He’d lingered at the threshold, a deep breath ballooning his stomach as he’d prepared himself to enter. The air had smelled apple-crisp, the pavement sun-dappled and warming the tops of his sneakers. It had stirred something familiar inside of him. But he hadn’t been inside a church since... since they’d buried his mom.

Sarah had chuckled, bumping the backdoor open with her behind, ‘Oh, no! Frannie belongs to everyone. But I am humbly responsible for her, like a sheepdog with her flock.’

She knew the church well enough that she could walk through it backwards without knocking into anything. All the better to keep her eye on Leon so she could read her new foster son’s lips.

‘What does that make me?’ he’d wondered as he’d followed her, ‘Like... a stray puppy or something?’

She’d hooted at that.

‘I don’t tell people who they are, Leon. But if I am to be completely honest, which under his roof is essential,’ she’d thrown the box of donated winter coats onto a nearby table and had turned to relieve him of the ones he’d carried, ‘I am sincerely looking forward to meeting the man you’ll become some day.’

Leon hadn’t known what to say to that.

Old foster parents, social workers, even a cop once; they’d all warned him that who he was becoming was someone he should be afraid of, ashamed of. But Sarah had greeted all sides of him like they’d known and loved each other for years.

The Day Centre had become a fixture of Leon’s teenage years from that day on. He’d never been much for the services, the singing, the prayer. But he’d helped out with the art classes and he’d learned how to cook in the community kitchen. He’d taken sign language classes after school and pulled weeds from the community garden across the street. He’d done his homework in Sarah’s study, her day sermons sailing in through the open window like a warm breeze.

When he’d turned fifteen and grown a foot taller in what had felt like a week, Leon had begun captaining one of the local street hockey teams. Their casual league had been run out of the back lot of the church.

He remembered long afternoons three times a week, two dozen kids howling like wild animals after sunset, and sweating even when it was so cold he could see his breath. Rhonda in the goal, as reliable as rain in September. She’d used the church to escape her alcoholic dad for a few hours a day. And Marty, a formerly homeless teen, playing offense and doing a backflip every time he scored. The slap of hockey sticks, rollerblades tearing up the tarmac, a puck smacking off a brick wall, his heart in his throat as a shot narrowly missed a car window.

There was still a dent in a lamp post from where one of Leon’s shots had gone wide. It had struck the post so hard the bulb had gone out. They’d played the rest of the night by the light of the church’s silver steeple and it had felt like an incredible dream.

It had been yesterday and forever ago. But as Leon walked the lot with Ada now, a part of him was convinced he’d be back here tomorrow, hockey stick in hand with his skates tied at the laces and slung over his shoulder.

‘The Day Centre closes early Thursdays,’ he told Ada as they lingered at the edge of the lot, ‘It shouldn’t be this busy.’

The lights were on and the church shimmered from every window. The front of the building was still bustling, so they’d given it a wide berth. Though Leon had his cap down, he’d grown up inside these walls. There was no way he’d make it to the rectory without being recognised.

Ada was getting restless. Her face was hidden by her hood, but Leon could see the tense line her shoulders made beneath her sweater.

‘Maybe things have changed,’ she muttered.

‘She’ll be here,’ he replied, ‘That much’ll be the same. I know it will.’

Minutes later the backdoor to the church opened and Pastor Sarah stepped into the warm summer night.

Her dark hair had regrown in gentle waves, softer and less curly than before her illness and now tinged with grey. She wore a thick cardigan, unbuttoned and showing off a baggy Guns and Roses tour t-shirt that Leon had stolen from her closet about a hundred times before it had stopped fitting him.

Leon muffled a quiet laugh into the collar of his jacket, but deep down he felt like sinking to his knees.

He knew Lowell’s streets. He knew there was a house a few blocks away where his old bed waited and his sketchbooks tumbled out of the wardrobe in an avalanche of memories. But ‘home’ was a complicated concept for a guy who’d had so many. A one bedroom in Chicago snuggled safe between his mom and dad, Buchanan with its dreams unfulfilled, in shady motels forever awake in front of a TV with the sound as low as it would go, and finally seven foster homes; a number that made ‘normal’ people from ‘normal’ families wince so he’d stopped repeating it until he could almost imagine that his early childhood had happened to someone else.

For Leon, ‘home’ had eventually come to mean Sarah reminding him to be back by ten. Home was the leftover casserole in the fridge with his name on it. It was about not being alone at the kitchen table because Sarah would always wait up and ask him how his game went. She’d even pretended to understand the rules.

Someone Leon didn’t recognise stepped out with Sarah. It was an older woman in a long cotton dress. She and Sarah shared a quick hug before the woman left for her car. Sarah stood in the doorway and waved goodbye. Then she slid back into the church, disappearing like a dream at sunrise.

Ada was watching Leon. Her gaze passed up and down his face, mapping the angle of his nose and the cleft of his chin like they’d just met. Leon knew what she was thinking.

He and Sarah sang off-key to the same songs, they ate their eggs over-easy with too much Tabasco sauce, and they both thought cilantro tasted like soap. But they didn’t look even a little bit alike.

‘I’m adopted,’ he explained.

She frowned, surprised, ‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not.’

‘I didn’t mean... I just didn’t know.’

‘But you knew my mom was a pastor?’

‘It was in your obituary.’

Leon did a double-take, ‘My... what? I have a damned obituary?’

‘Of course you do! You died,’ Ada replied sardonically, ‘Your colleagues had some interesting things to say about you.’

‘Yeah, I bet,’ he winced, and his mind raced to suss out exactly what Ada knew about the old him as filtered through the eyes of his peers. They’d treated Leon like he was fresh out of school and an old man at the same time, ‘Come on. It’s now or never.’

The back of the church held Sarah’s office, a common room for the staff, and a library that smelled like cold coffee and chocolate. Leon opened the door quietly and checked it was empty before ushering Ada inside.

They heard voices echoing from the church hall beyond the big wooden doors:

‘Has anyone seen Pastor Sarah? We’re running low on baby formula!’

‘She’s in her study. Don’t trouble her. I’ll call the supplier first thing tomorrow.’

‘I’ve barely seen her all day, Lucille. Is this ‘cause of that silly protest outside the Governor’s office? I told her to take it easy!’

‘She’s tired, Frank. Let her be.’

Sarah’s office door was ajar. Leon could see her shadow spilling over the desk and onto the carpet. He could smell her hand lotion, its residue on the doorknob. His eyes drifted shut as his hands formed a tight claw around the knob like he’d forgotten how doors worked.

Maybe this was a mistake. A panicked sensation surged inside his chest. Ada was right. Umbrella could be monitoring Sarah. He could put her in danger just be showing his face around town. He should go, shouldn’t he? Right now, just go and leave her be. He could think of another way to track down Jill and Chris.

And what was he going to say to her? How could he explain what had happened to him? She’d thought he was dead for nearly two years, but at least her ignorance had kept her safe.

Leon tensed when he felt a pressure on his forearm. He looked back to find Ada gently peeling him away from the door.

‘I’ll go first,’ she whispered, her dark eyes trained on his face, ‘I’ll make sure she’s alone.’

He nodded but Ada was already slipping past. She opened the door just enough to squeeze through.

‘Pastor Morris?’

A chair scraped the floor as Sarah stood.

‘Yes?’ her voice sounded jittery like she’d just woken from a nap, ‘Hold on... Let me just...’

There was a long pause. Leon guessed Sarah was fumbling with her cochlear implant.

‘Could you come closer, honey?’ Sarah said breathlessly, ‘I can’t quite hear you all the way over there. Are you here about tomorrow’s charity drive?’

‘No. No, I’m...’

Leon swayed on his feet, his ears ringing. He’d been so nervous, he’d forgotten to warn Ada that Sarah was deaf. He mentally kicked himself.

Then Ada raised her voice and when she spoke, she filled all corners of the little study, her voice lifting its high ceiling and rustling the pages of every tome. Like a fair summer wind, she was the little lift he needed to make it home.

‘I’m a friend of your son.’

Then it was as if they were the only three people in the building. A silence enveloped them, as dense and safe as stone. Leon didn’t feel himself move, but he felt Ada’s hand, warm and insistent around his wrist as she pulled him through the doorway and into his mother’s study.

Sarah, to her credit, didn’t cry out. She didn’t seem to be breathing either.

‘Mom?’

Her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes turned red to signal an oncoming wave of tears. But when her hand fell, Leon saw she was smiling like it was the first time he’d ever called her that. It wasn’t, not by a long shot.

Leon took a step towards her. Then he stopped, realising that Ada was still holding his wrist. Her grip was loose, almost reassuring. Not too much pressure, just enough; like a whispered phrase he felt all the way up his arm to straight to his heart: ‘I’m right here’.

When his hand slipped from hers, Leon still felt her warmth; that fair wind driving him forward.

Sarah whined softly. She rubbed at her throat like the words had gotten tangled up in there and she needed pry them away from each other. Her fingers were trembling and he realised she was too overwhelmed to sign to him.

He stepped towards her and raised his hands to tell her:

I’ll explain everything. I promise.

I’m so sorry, mom. I’m sorry...

He made a fist with his thumb extended and scored circles with it deep into the centre of his chest. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Sarah dove forward and latched both her hands over his fist. Then she tugged him forward and threw her arms around his shoulders. She clung to her son like the grave could snatch him back. She buried her wet nose into the crook of his neck. Then she keened against his shoulder, a wordless cry of grief and joy combined that shook his core.

‘I love you so much. Okay? I love you,’ Leon murmured into the crown of her head where his tears were already soaking her hair. He hoped she could feel the raw honesty in his voice even if she couldn’t make out the words, ‘I missed you. I did! I missed you, mom.’

Who knows how long they huddled in the centre of her study? Long enough that his face was still pink but finally dry when they parted. Long enough that Sarah could stand to let him go so she could snatch a tissue from the box on her desk while laughing at how terrifying and strange and wonderful this was.

And long enough that when Leon looked over his shoulder, he saw that Ada had disappeared.

🥲

To be continued...

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Pray For Us, Icarus a Good Omens Fanfiction Series by Atalan

For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Read the series here and check out my rec here

[fagtainsparklez]

new type of guy: ao3 author who thinks the “minor [ship]” tag means the characters are underage and not that the relationship is background

[mothdogsart]

So excited to share my latest bind! This is a Good Omens fic called Pray for Us, Icarus by Atalan/@brightwanderer 💐

I went a little nuts with the floral designs in this one. The cover was so much fun to put together, and I somehow managed to match the bookcloth color to the headband color perfectly. I also made the chapter headers look like Aziraphale was gathering his bouquet from Crowley throughout the years:

I can’t add another photo on mobile, but Part 7 has two wine glasses with apple slices 🥰

Technical details follow ➡️

Fonts: Glamore (title) and Sabon (body)

Cover material: Allure bookcloth in Mudpie

Dust jacket image: Abraham van Beijeren, Creative Commons usage

Endpapers: Renato Crepaldi

Text block: Hammermill 70lb Ivory

Designed in Canva and Procreate

The fic can be read at http://archiveofourown.org/series/1448647

❗️My binds are not for sale. Authors can request gift copies.❗️

[diabolicdetective]

serial apologizer

[emberunderscore]

see. now. i write about prison duo. wonderful great time. problem: they are in tavern. this is fine but. issue arises. i know. jack shit about alcohol. like. do i give them a mug of whisky??? wine?? beer?? what the fuck do i do. google says whisky is shots. and wine is in a glass (not mug sized glass). i can give them beer i guess. but beer sounds really gross and i need icarus to like the taste and my blorbo will NOT be a beer drinker if its the last thing i do.

this is me asking for help. please adults of drinking age. or really anyone who knows something. how alcohol?

[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 1st: Parents | Runaway - Sword | Youthful cw: allusions to neglectful and alcoholic parent, police, incarceration [happy ending promised, as always!] read on ao3 | link to series on ao3

Eddie runs away from home for the last time when he’s thirteen years old. 

The ground beneath his feet is barely visible, barely felt against the worn soles of his too-small sneakers as he runs through the familiar trails of Hawkins’ forest. He’s run away before, usually sneaking out in the middle of the night when he hears the tell-tale silence of his father falling into a drunken stupor on the couch, but this time feels different. This time, he’s actually running, no backpack or hastily thrown together bag of essentials to weigh him down. 

He hadn’t had time, not with so many police cars showing up at once. 

His breath comes in quick bursts, just enough oxygen to carry him off the beaten path onto a path only he knows. It comes without markers or posts. Why would there be signs here? No one else needs the most direct route between Clyde Munson and Wayne Munson’s homes. A 10-minute run, quicker if he sprints like he is now, connects two different worlds and only one feels safe. 

Uncle Wayne has, for much of Eddie’s life, been home. He’s lived with him on and off for a few months at a time, sometimes after dear old dad had been hauled away by Officer Hopper again and other times, when he’d simply run away and his dad couldn’t be bothered to track him down. Eddie spent nearly a year with his Uncle Wayne after his mom died, a wonderful year where Eddie experienced an actual parent and got to figure out things he actually enjoys– fantasy books, D&D, music with intense virtuosity and aggressive guitar lines. He never should’ve gone back, but the guilt ate at him. Maybe it’ll be different, he’d thought at the time. Maybe he’ll care now. 

The fact that he’s running through the woods at full speed away from what could only be defined as a fucking siege with his dad at the center is all the answer he needs. There’s nothing he can do to help his dad– there’s nothing he should do, because he’s a kid at the end of the day and he never should’ve been put in this situation to begin with. 

Eddie shakes his head as he runs, shaking the thoughts from his brain as he hears the familiar, comforting sounds of people talking in the distance. He barrels through the tree-line into one of his Uncle’s neighbors who steadies him by the shoulders, checks him over quickly to find nothing physically wrong. 

“You alright, son? Looks like you seen a ghost.” 

Nope, just a nightmare, he thinks.

Eddie shakes his head and looks around frantically for Wayne, out of breath. “No, no, I’m– I’m fine. Is Uncle Wayne home?” 

“Eddie?” As though summoned, Wayne appears in the doorway of his own trailer a few lots down. Eddie shrugs out of the neighbor’s touch and runs toward the voice, the one that makes his brain slow down from the spinning wheel it’s been on since the first fist pounded on his dad’s door. 

“Wayne, thank God, thank fuck,” Eddie mutters as he runs into him, hugging him unabashedly around the middle. His fingers dig tightly into Wayne’s back, clutching the fabric of his familiar flannel and grounding himself as Wayne hugs him back. 

“I’m uh, I’m glad to see you, too, kid. Everything alright?” Wayne tone is questioning, rightfully so. He doesn’t know yet that Clyde’s been arrested and likely won’t get out this time, or that Eddie’s here to stay. 

Hours later though, after Eddie’s shared his side of the story and Wayne’s made him a mug of his famous hot chocolate, the police arrive. Officer Hopper assures Eddie that he’s in no trouble, that he didn’t need to run, that he’ll never need to run from Clyde again. 

“I know you’ve got a lot of your stuff still at the house. You got family around to stay with?” Officer Hopper asks, looking at Eddie but clearly asking Wayne. 

“‘Course he does, he’s here, ain’t he?” Wayne nods at Officer Hopper and Eddie catches the interaction. “My old van ain’t much– she needs some work– but should be enough to get us back and forth with your stuff, Ed.” 

The van is more than enough for the barebones possessions Eddie cares to bring: an old acoustic guitar that belonged to his mom, a worn paperback copy of The Fellowship of the Ring gifted to him by Wayne, and some clothes and odds and ends. 

Years later, after he runs again and somehow lives to tell the tale, he returns to what still stands of the trailer with Wayne. Most of their belongings are either destroyed or damaged beyond repair but it doesn't matter to Eddie. 

Home was never the trailer he ran to– just the family inside of it.

[sage-is-in-fact-very-tired]

"The horrors persist but so do I." - Icarus Morningstar (probably)

[eddiemonth]

Hello, all! We’re @thefreakandthehair (aka writy Lex) and @nostalgicbones (aka drawy Lex) and we’re joining forces this spooky season as lexes-who-host-fanworks-events to bring you: Eddie Month!

We have 31 prompts, songs, and traits for you all to take inspiration from to make art, writing, edits—whatever you can conjure. The key component is that it must center on Eddie Munson from Stranger Things. Other than that… let your imagination run wild!

The prompts will be released in batches throughout September (the 3rd, 8th, 13th, 18th, and 23rd) so you have a chance to simmer on each prompt and cook up ideas before being presented the next. The first week’s prompts, centering on loved ones and history, can be found here!

Posting will begin October 1st, and run throughout the month until the 31st. Late works will be accepted, the timeline is just for fun!

FAQ | Masterpost | Navigation

[v-toast]

all the kid icarus manifesting on my dash got me thinking about that fic i was writing a while ago

[crow-caller]

I had fun with the crunchy collage but today got into more artsy design. So I've done like 10 pages. so. I'll do more and share them when ready :3c

Text is from Creatures Of Heaven, my Forbidden Ship fic

[october-writes]

It took a few minutes for a booth to clear but when it did, Leon and Ada sank into their seats with muffled groans. The booth was... well if Leon was being polite he’d call it ‘cosy’. He had to readjust his legs under the table twice to keep from treading on Ada’s toes.

Ada. She’d barely looked at Leon on the drive up. In fact, she hadn’t said much at all since they’d left that alleyway in Evansville. He thought he’d caught her staring at him a few times, but otherwise all he was getting from her were waves of disquiet beneath a blanket of icy silence.

Their tender truce had barely begun and already he could feel her second-guessing her decision to join him on this hastily sketched-out crusade. He tried to think of something to say that would reassure her, but how could he? He wasn’t sure himself. All he knew was that he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, he didn’t smell great and he still felt like a stranger in his own body and, sometimes, even in his own mind.

So Leon sat there, absently scratching his forearm and willing her to acknowledge his existence so he could begin to persuade her that he had a way out of this fucked-up situation. He opened his mouth, waiting for the words to fill them like rain blessing a dried riverbed.

‘Hi! Welcome to Burk’s!’ trilled their waitress, ‘May I take your order?’

Leon flinched so hard that his knees knocked into Ada’s underneath their tiny shared table. His head snapped up and he blinked at the young woman standing ready at their booth in all her candy-cane red and white glory.

Ada hadn’t moved an inch at the interruption. He sighed. They must look like they were auditioning for America’s Most Awkward First Dates .

Their waitress loomed over them with a curious and faintly guarded expression that suggested she had already clocked them as strangers; of the establishment as well as with each other. The woman was short, petite and looked to be in her early-thirties. She wore white sneakers, dirtied but with cute, stubby laces coated in pink and purple glitter. Her socks were white, but they didn’t match.

Her curly auburn hair was tussled, maybe windswept though she looked pale like she hadn’t been outside in days. Her crown was dotted with little white hairs, but they lent her a charming ethereal glow, which along with her wide freckled forehead and pale green eyes spoke of simple home comforts. Her nail polish was nibbled almost down to the cuticle. There was a greasy orange stain on her apron in roughly the shape of New Jersey. It looked like chilli sauce.

Leon’s gaze flickered to her name tag, ‘Hey, nice to meet you, uh... Christie . We just got here-’

‘I can read you the day’s specials,’ Christie announced, popping her hip as she began reciting them from memory, ‘Let’s see. We have the chef’s signature clam chowder served hot from eight AM to midnight. Or if you want breakfast, I can recommend our maple waffles with toasted hazelnuts and whipped vanilla bean cream with chocolate sauce-’

Leon studied Ada’s profile while their waitress sang the breakfast menu.

‘You know, I think we could both use a coffee,’ he said, turning to Christie with a lopsided smile.

Christie made a breathy ‘uh huh’ noise, her pink cheeks turning three shades darker. She plucked her pen from behind her ear.

‘Did you know Berk’s has the second best coffee in the state?’ she asked him, lowering her voice like this was exclusive gossip and she didn’t want the guys at the next booth to hear about it.

Leon leaned over the table and dropped the volume of his voice to match hers, ‘You know, Christie, that’s actually why we’re here...’

Her green eyes darted nervously around their booth, ‘Wait... really?’

‘Yeah, the two of us,’ Leon jabbed his thumb at Ada, ‘We make the third best coffee in the state. We’re here to scope out the competition. I’ll tip you whatever you want, but please don’t give us away!’

Christie’s eyes went wide and a laugh exploded from between her puckered lips like a gunshot. She almost dropped her pen, ‘Oh my God, you’re so funny!’

Ada let out a groan that was just loud enough for Leon to hear.

---

A sneak peek of Icarus, the WIP sequel to Pandora. Read the rest on Ao3.

[lemoneyshipz]

An Icarus inspired AU fic idea>>>

There was once an island full of people who had wings for as long as anyone could remember.

The people would spread their wings sore through the sky, unbound by the pull of the ground. But there is a lesson passed down from generation to generation

“Be humble of your abilities, do not fly toward the stars, for your wings are not built for such heights, they will freeze over in the ice cold air ”

When Hob Gadling was still a youngling, he often dreamt of that one star, the brightest of all stars, hung at the edge of the night sky which served as guide for his people. In his dreams he would ask all kinds of questions, and the star would answer him in gentle voices, and tell him stories about the world

The star is the most beautiful thing he has ever witnessed, but he has always seemed so sad, so lonely, and young Hob wanted nothing more than to ease him of that. He confessed his love to the star, only to be gently let down, for how could a mortal properly love a star? He could not allow Hob to be ruined in his pointless chase.

None of his peers believed Hob when he told his dreams, they only pointed and laughed at him, the elders didn’t understand either, they scolded him for having the hubris of daring to reach the stars.

Nevertheless, ever since he learned to fly he has been trying to reach it. But it was always too high, too far away and he has to give up to return before he rises too high and it gets too cold.

Then one day he just decided, fuck it, and ignored the pain in his wings to fly higher, and higher and higher.

And a familiar voice rings at the back of his mind, the star that often spoke to him in his dreams, first warned him to stop, to return home and rest, then demanded him to stop, and in the end begged him to stop. But hob ignored all of it. He is determined, he will reach the star that he loves or he will die trying.

Until his wings completely froze over and he drops to the ocean beneath him.

That night the people of the island witnessed the once brightest star fallen from the skies, leaving a tail of light as it went, then disappeared.

Some say that the star falls to catch and embrace his lover, until they both fall to the depths of the ocean. Others say the star successfully saves his lover, but can now never return to the sky again now that he has fallen. They say the star is content with this however, for he is no longer lonely.

i think i would like to write this into a fic if i ever get the chance 💕

[fagtainsparklez]

i can never read reader insert fics because every time i try the only thing on my mind is just

[rayn-storms]

How do I write the gays properly??? I don’t know what attraction feels like so how do I write it??? How do I write Icarus realizing they’re in love??? It’s so much easier to just write depressed gay birds than the healing by part istg

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Pray For Us, Icarus (series)

For three centuries, Crowley has been reincarnated over and over as a human with no memory of his past. Aziraphale has tried to find a way to restore him to his true self, but all he seems to do is hurt them both. This time, he only means to steal a brief moment when he walks into Crowley's flower shop. But Crowley can't let it go...

Length: 65,836 words

AO3 Rating: Teen and Up

Best for: Safe in Public, At Home, Human AU, Canon AU, Angst, Romance, One Sitting

Triggers: Temporary Character Death

Read it here, fic by Atalan

*Minor Spoilers* There's nothing I can say about this story that probably hasn't already been said. It is one of the most popular and well-known Good Omens fanfics, and for excellent reason. I know for certain that I'm not the only one who has wept while reading it. Today was my third time with this story, and, whoops, I cried again.

I've tried to express my thoughts in this post in a few different ways. I can't wax poetic about how much I love this story—my writing skills just aren't there. And much of what I've tried to say feels redundant. I even had a whole paragraph comparing it to the themes in this art by chernozemm which is how this story feels to me.

What I've settled on is that you should read this story because it is intrinsically Good Omens Fanfiction. This series only works as Aziraphale and Crowley, and you could not repackage or retell this story for any other fandom, or, God forbid, traditional fiction. All the emotions we feel reading this come from the intimacy we already have with this world and these characters. The story, and the author, know we can read between the lines. Thus, it can drop a simple line and have us crumple because we already know the subtext behind it. That's why I am so addicted to fanfiction! I'm not saying this is the only story that has accomplished this. But I do think it's one of the most successful.

This series, in my opinion, must be read all the way through. In my eyes, this is a singular work and no one should be skipping any part of this saga. It bothers me that the hit counts between the parts is not equal. The first part has 99k hits and the final 47k. The drop off is criminal! Every section of this story is important and critical to the full picture. So if you read the first part, Flowers for Anthony, and did not proceed to the rest of the story, please get on this!

Completely safe in public, but if you can, I really suggest you read this one at home in one sitting. You'll want to devote all your attention to this story. If, for some reason, you haven't read this one yet, please make it a priority! This is one of the most heart-wrenching and romantic stories I've ever read, and it deserves its spot as a fandom classic.

Read it here, fic by Atalan