Rescuing Aziraphale isn't what makes Crowley happy, not really. He doesn't want him to be in danger in the first place. He wants him safe. He wants him happy.
But he does like having an excuse to take care of him, to protect him, to dote on him in a way that's safe, acceptable and would be honestly illogical to turn away. Like Crowley walks into that church, burning his feet all the way and Aziraphale nearly shoos him away? (Because of the fight all those years ago, because he must be in league with these Nazis) But Aziraphale is in actual, real danger of being discorporated, of being sent back to heaven for who knows how long, so how can he actually reject Crowley's offer to protect him, right?
So every time Crowley does this, the whole "gallant knight swooping in to save Aziraphale from his own follies" thing, it's basically completely irrejectable, safe love Crowley can offer up to Aziraphale with no fear of rejection or overstepping the invisible line between them. Aziraphale can say "you go too fast for me, Crowley" a hundred times in so many varied ways and Crowley accepts this but he's never going to reject Crowley's love when it comes to him as a hand pulling him free of oblivion. That's what Crowley likes. Being able to love Aziraphale in a way that he knows will never be rejected.
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Hello yttd nation I have an announcement to make, yesterday after harassing @dailykeiji threatening him of death, asking for muppetji x baldji and calling him a grandpa I had a revelation. My third eye opened and my mind was finally cleared.
As the kanna fan I have enough, enough of people disrespecting the bucket, enough of kanna literally losing every poll she's in 😭. Enough is enough. Why is the kanna nation always losing I said to myself. And I realised. Strength is in numbers, a single individual cannot change the world but one can start the wildfire to convince others. A single spark can create the toughest fire.
Which is why I have decided to group and create a union between all the Kanna fans, to all stand besides a single banner....
I'm renaming the Kanna fandom "The Rats", why rats you may say, a single rat is only a nuisance but an army is danger. And also rats are like cute smart and very intelligent. While we are not that strong nor that influencial we are still the ones who can changes the world all together as one group.
How to join the rats you may say there is only one criteria, loving the one and only Kanna Kizuchi. Anybody can be a rats. Also all my subscribers are like already rats I mean, like, if you follow my blog you must like Kanna you know, I'm the biggest kanna fan.
I am inviting you all to become a rats. I am also inviting people in being apart of the rats, you were chosen to be members of our new found mutual strength.
I am inviting to become exclusive rats members @averagecatdoodlesenjoyer (who owns a kanna blog) @gr33ncynth @bouquet-of-blood-and-bones @daily-bucket-girl @five-crows-in-a-trenchcoat @runetallem @thatoneluckybee and everyone from the discord honestly.
So as the new rats lord I will create a tag #rats assembly, this tag will be used to make us do something all together and defend the honor of the bucket.
Also brody I want you to know, I promised an army man, I'm at your door in your walls brody, I have decide to start to attack Brody. Be aware of your ears brody.
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I wanted to say, bc I saw someone mention Geralt as an example of a predetermined character in an rpg that works, that yeah, I fully agree it can work! But in Geralt's case, for example, he's a well established character who's fully written before you start the game. He has his own traits, his flaws and shortcomings, history, relationships, etc. He's just as well written as any other character in the story, and the only things you have power over are his choices and a bit of his fighting style(sometimes his hair as well), but everything is made to fit with who this character is as established before the game even starts. Think of the origin characters in Baldur's Gate 3, it's the same thing- they're not customizable, they're established before you even start, and the only control you have is over their journey. None of these are ever meant to be a blank slate, and they're written as such.
With this Phyre character it's like they're trying so so hard to tread the line between "this is a character that stands on their own" and "this is a blank slate you can fully customize". What you end up with is a very "meh" sort of character, who's not one or the other, without enough wiggle room to make your own story however you want and not enough to get attached to them as they are. We get attached to Geralt bc he's a fully written character in the game, you just control his actions. The problem with Phyre is that they're neither a fully written character nor fully yours to write.
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a tiny little ficlet based on this lovely comment from @queer4cryptids on this post! (i accidentally made it angsty, i’m so sorry!! but there’s comfort and gay yearning in there, i swear!)
when the night falls low and settles against the side of the Earth; when the the dark begins to carry a certain weight, he shifts his stance. he lets himself breathe air he doesn't really need into lungs that exist simply by virtue of his inclination to breath.
it's the same pattern Crowley's watched unfold a hundred million times times over—the stretching of a thread until it frays, three women, a set of blades; a wicked inevitability carried in the lines of time-weathered hands.
and still it never changes, never lessens the welling of grief that builds and breaks in his chest, that stagnates and stratifies like layers of sand upon gravel upon so many eons since he first fell from the sky and lost the right to mourn a woman hungry only for bread and a little kindness.
he leans back against a headstone, swallowing down a familiar hollowness. the sparrows have all taken root in the knots of tree trunks. the moon blinks back at him, clouds swaying like an eyelid closing to sleep.
he turns his face away from the light, sucks in breath for which he still has no need. the rough-hewn granite is going to scuff his coat; he knows this with the certainty of having lived in a world full of serrated edges for so many years.
and yet he doesn't care.
Crowley can't find it in him to give a damn because finally, finally he's there. he's there and he's real and tangible and it's been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since he's last felt the warmth of angelic skin so close to his own.
not that he's been keeping count, of course.
and Aziraphale's got that faraway look again. the one pressed into the lines of his face in the aftermath of a flood that tilted against the sky; the same one Crowley saw in the stark daylight of a death warrant unfurled and stamped with the name of the holy Mother herself. it's the same, hollow, teeth-gritted look Crowley himself wore as he stood on a hillside reeking of freshly-cut wood, bearing witness to yet another child of the Almighty thrown to the wolves.
Aziraphale turns, then, and blue eyes meet black lenses meet amber-gold.
"Crowley—" Aziraphale manages, choking it out in a half-whisper, like it hurts—like it scrapes his throat with bits of barbed wire. and, just like that, something in him is breaking and the oak trees are all whispering dangerous things and still, still he can't find a version of this story in which he doesn't lean closer, doesn't press himself forward into air that smells of earl grey tea and old books and something celestial and hallowed and holy underneath it all.
and as though he's drowning—as though the moon doesn't watch them with a flickering gaze and the trees can't hear the brush of skin meeting skin—Aziraphale presses his fingertips to the side of Crowley's wrist.
he moves no further. the air holds still, time seeming to freeze around them. it's intentional, he realizes; it's fire and it's heat and it's utterly fucking terrifying. even now, so far above ground, Crowley can nearly feel the weight of hellish eyes on his back. a shudder runs the length of his body.
and yet. in the atomic space of that hungry, desperate, throat-baring yet, he turns his hand, trembling, to the side. he finds the angel's touch like a bird bearing North—like a compass forever calibrated to a single, fixed point.
"I know—" he rasps. “Angel, I know.” he twines his fingers with Aziraphale's, and it's positively electric. every cell in his tragically, wonderfully human body has turned pure gold, conducted and galvanized and sparking.
a sharp, stilted inhale; a quiet anticipation carved out in the space between their pressed hands (and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss...).
the graveyard is still. the grief is there, still. the grief might always be there. but the sharp edges dull, the welling in his chest grows steady and slow and gentle.
and the world becomes a little less difficult to bear with the two of them holding it up.
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