rough wip of a sonia redesign i might use for the totk rewritten project (plus her daughter zelda)
i thought to fix the whole ancestry confusion with just .. having sonia having a child already before meeting rauru, and she named her zelda bc of an ancient legend ;)
also she wears her enigma stone on her hand since she is the one to sacrifice herself to lock ganondorf away (sicne its jsut kinda .. makes more sense especially in my rewrite.. lady locking someone in an awful stasis between life and death with the cost of her own life as an intentional cruel revenge for her husbands death and also she had time powers works so much better both logical and emotional imo; also there is no time travel so zelda(botw) cant take her role and thus stupidly justify sonias death bkjdsbdhsbjs)
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When she first Fell, the sky had been all embers, all vicious touch. They’d felt nothing but the bite of flames and gore and the sulphuric acid of a mother’s love turned corrosive. Crowley had burned—heavenly bone, muscle, flesh, the chemical antiseptic of the ether stripping away to bare nerve tissue.
In the eternities since, they’d held their breath, kept herself small. They’d learned to amputate the desire that settled in the tips of her fingertips and in the scarlet ends of their hair. She—alone, ever alone—had dragged herself from the brimstone and out of the bonfire. She’d taught herself to exist in the jaws of an unmuzzled universe, under stars that no longer called their name.
Now the sky is blue, and the bookshop burns. The bookshop burns and Crowley’s heart is in her throat, eating its way out of their body. The bookshop burns and yet their angel must be fine. (He has to be fine because the world still spins on its axis and the sea hasn’t swallowed her whole. And if breath still lives in her body, and the universe has yet to collapse in on itself, then their angel has to be fine). But something coils deep in her belly: an oil-slick, a poisonous berry. They bite their lip a brackish silver, the taste of ichor rotten in her mouth.
As though in a trance, she presses forward, and the frantic thrash of panic in her chest forces the double doors wide without so much as a thought. The interior of the shop is all orange-red teeth and flaming claws, tearing into bookshelves and loveseats and oh. Oh, the two of them had just been sitting there not three days ago. (Crowley had tried so hard to stay on her side of the room, to keep her fingertips from brushing the edge of Aziraphale’s as they passed silver-stemmed goblets between them. Skin to skin, breath to body—the indirect touch of their mouths. The passive desperation of six thousand years of want left fermenting under their skin).
They call for him, heat searing her lungs. It comes out ragged and desperate and too late (always too late).
Heat knifes clean through her now—a gutting sensation, a disembowelment in the middle of an already-burning funeral pyre. For as long as they had been on Earth together, she’d always been able to sense their angel from anywhere in the world—a steady, beating heart of a presence. An inevitable gravity that wrapped itself around her arms and tugged her forward. It had been axiomatic, a fundamental truth of how the universe functioned: a hand extended always finds purchase. A heart in motion remains in motion.
So, in a room choked with smoke and two hundred years of memories, she reaches out, expanding the edges of her consciousness, pressing her mind into the outer reaches of the bookshop and Soho and the whole, cluttered universe. She searches for a pulse.
And then something within her is breaking. Something is shaking apart in the depths of Crowley’s being—a star turned supernova turned withering, all-consuming black hole. No heartbeat, no flickering warmth, no pull in the periphery of her awareness. The corpse of gravity turns to dust in the corner of the room.
And she knows—knows with the unflinching inevitability of too many questions, of an ink-winged angel falling from grace—that Aziraphale is gone.
Outside, the sky remains blue. The world stays upright. And the bookshop still burns.
(thank u to the incredibly talented @actual-changeling for helping me fix the first part of the fourth paragraph)
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Any number? 23 and saïx :)
couldn't count all the ways that i've died for you
[ID: a digital drawing of saix from kingdom hearts. He is shown from the hip up, his body in 3/4's and his face in profile. He is shadowed in warm tones. He has a neutral expression, and he's standing straight.
The background is transparent except for a circle that lays from the middle of his shoulders and upwards, with three sections that have a slightly bigger circumference where one to three, seven to eight, and eight to nine would be on a clock. All scenes are blue tones with a noise overlay. these three are all from saix's perspective.
In the first, there is a cloaked figure shown from the waist down, the tip end of young xehanort's keyblade leans forward and some of it goes out of bound, tiled floor as a background. The second one is saix's hand reaching for kingdom hearts. The third is his hand reaching towards Lea, who lies on the floor of radiant garden's lab.
The rest of the circumference is a labyrinth wall in keyblade's graveyard, with a harsh diagonal line of light on the upper half. Most of the circumference is lined black, except from nine to one o'clock, lined white. /End ID.]
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skin | surprise | "You want me and you know it." • 794 words • Smurch fill list
tags: human AU, coffeeshop AU, storage room blowjobs, right in front of the scones, the pining is mutual they're just idiots
“A crop top, Hob? Really?”
“It’s called fashion, sweetie. Look it up.”
Morpheus dumped a bag of beans into the industrial grinder and hit the button, wincing at the noise. He hated opening. He was emphatically not a morning person.
His coworker Hob, on the other hand, was both a morning person and a seemingly incurable optimist. He loved his job, loved their customers, loved trying new things. Including, apparently, very fashion-forward clothing choices for six o’clock in the morning on a cloudy Tuesday.
Morpheus did not like customers, or small talk, or new things, or much of anything about his job aside from dialing in the espresso machine and baking scones. Coffee and baking were predictable. Reliable. There were rules, and if you followed the rules, good things resulted. He appreciated that.
And he appreciated Hob. He appreciated his coworker quite a lot, in fact; perhaps more than was reasonable for a professional setting. He especially appreciated the extra skin on display as Hob stood on tiptoe, his colorful cropped T-shirt riding up as he stretched high to write the special of the day on the chalkboard.
“I am merely pointing out,” Morpheus said, shutting off the grinder, “that it may not be the most appropriate choice for work.”
“Uh huh. And I am merely pointing out,” said Hob over his shoulder, “that you want me and you know it.”
“I think you – what?” Morpheus’s mouth snapped shut as Hob’s actual words registered.
“You want to fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”
He turned to face Morpheus and leaned against the counter. The space they were inhabiting, between the espresso machine and the cash register, suddenly felt very small.
Morpheus opened his mouth to protest. Nothing came out. He closed it again.
“And… if I said…” he licked his lips nervously and Hob’s eyes darted down to catch the movement. “If I said you… weren’t wrong?”
Hob pushed himself off the counter and took a step toward him.
“Then I’d probably say…” His voice was low and teasing and sent a thrill down Morpheus’s back. “I’d say there’s a big, mostly empty storage room downstairs. And I’d say that the front door is still locked and we don’t actually open for another twenty five minutes.” He took another step, until they were standing practically toe to toe. “And then I’d ask if I could kiss you.”
Morpheus answered by leaning forward, grabbing a handful of the shirt that had apparently started all this, and pressing his mouth to Hob’s. The kiss was fierce and messy and weeks of longing and not-so-thoroughly tamped-down arousal bubbled under his skin like hot coffee.
Five minutes later they were in the downstairs storage room, and Morpheus’s cock was so deep down Hob’s throat that he thought he might die.
“Why – didn’t you say something – sooner?” he gasped, then immediately regretted the question when Hob pulled off him to answer. His eyes were a little glassy and a thin strand of drool connected his bottom lip to the tip of Morpheus’s prick, which a distant semi-functional part of Morpheus’s brain filed away as the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
“Why didn’t you?” asked Hob hoarsely. “I know you’ve been staring at my arse since Easter at least. I thought I was being pretty damn flirty.”
“I…” Morpheus didn’t know what to say. I’m shy and awkward and everything makes me uncomfortable while you seem to swim through life with the grace of an otter was probably too much. I didn’t think you were flirting with me because you kind of flirt with everybody, likewise. How am I supposed to have a conversation or open the shop in eighteen minutes when all I can think about is the sight of your lips around my cock and all I want to do is come in your mouth and drag you down with me and smell of you for days was a serious contender. “I don’t know.”
His hips twitched forward of their own accord and Hob smiled with those glossy, spit-wet lips.
“Well,” he said, and leaned back in, dragging a deliberate tongue slowly along the hard, needy length of Morpheus’s prick, a wide swipe from root to tip that drew a surprised and whimpering fuck from his mouth. “Why don’t you think about that for a minute while I’m down here?”
Then he sucked him all the way back down and Morpheus couldn’t think about anything for quite a long while.
There was an angry comment on the shop’s Facebook page later that day, all about how they’d been half an hour late to open that morning, with no note left on the door or anything. But neither Morpheus nor Hob could bring themselves to care.
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