#Local businesses in Soho

[cruciatusforeplay]

Map Of Whickber Street (Good Omens Soho around the bookshop)

I had a lot of fun watching the entire series again and working out where all the shops were in relation to one another. Some of these are mentioned in canon, some are just shown. I've taken some liberties with scale and the like. It wasn't clear which of these streets is Whickber Street, but I suppose there must be some mystery left in the world.

I'm adding some photo references and some more information about the various shops below the cut. If you can make out any more names, I'd love to know.

It's possible the deli is also part of Francesco's as they're both Italian, but there is a front door by the awning that could lead to the restaurant (not an unusual set up for Soho). Francesco's awning is the victim of Crowley's rainstorm.

Between Francesco's and Give Me Coffee is a shop selling formal menswear that I couldn't make out the name of.

Next to that is the coffee shop, Arnold's (the musical instruments shop), Marguerite's (the French restaurant), and newsagency (the news agents). We get a lovely shot of them from the upstairs of the bookshop (newsagents just barely visible).

Opposite them, we obviously have the bookshop itself and down from that, the record shop (which is called The Small Back Room, presumably in reference to having started at the back of Aziraphale's bookshop). The record shop is the orange shop you can see below. (There's also a clearer view of the newsagents).

The shop one down from the record shop is currently a question mark, but it does have a very bold colour scheme, and at one point we are a candelabra and a piece of fabric in the window display. I can't make out the name of this one either.

Opposite the bookshop we have the pub, the Dirty Donkey, whose front door is also the lift to heaven when summoned. Next to the pub is the doorway that leads you to the brothel (I picked the colour on the map from the new model friendly hands sign on the door), and next to that is Will Goldstone's Magic Shop. The magic shop, bookshop and the pub can also be seen in 1941 London flashbacks. Opposite the magic shop and next to the bookshop is another unknown shop. My gut says it sells lighting or maybe more general electrics, but I couldn't get a good enough shot to really see it.

At the end of this street we can see the Lucky Snake which I believe is a Chinese Restaurant, and just to the left we can glimpse a yellow shop, that I suspect is the herbalist that we see mentioned on Aziraphale's list of local businesses. Soho and Chinatown are geographical neighbours, and it's not uncommon to see Chinese herbalist or health shops in Soho. The red lanterns from the Lucky Snake continue down over the yellow shop, which is what gave me the impression it might be the herbalist.

Directly across the crossroads from the bookshop we have a fruit and vegetable market, that has a flower stand on the corner. That's where the tomatoes roll from when Gabe is walking through naked. (The veggies are obscured in the shot below, but we do see them in general)

If we follow the road between the flower market and the newsagents, I've extrapolated that the stage entrance to The Windmill (the theatre that we see in 1941) is there. We get a moderately clear view of it during the flashback, and the Windmill is a real place (to my knowledge it's somewhere between a burlesque club and a strip club these days), so I figured it would still be standing here too. We get the briefest of glimpses of the stage door still standing in modern London.

If you care for real world geography, then The Windmill's main entrance is on Great Windmill Street, right off Shaftesbury Avenue, on the corner of Archer Street.

I could not for the life of me find Brown's World of Carpets anywhere. Maybe he's not even actually a local business. He seems the type to fake it.

Here's a view of the area from heaven.

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x Reader [7]

description: Marc, his ex-wife and his supposed mistress head to Mogart’s to find Senfu’s sarcophagus, whatever could go wrong when the god of Chaos wants to be involved?

word count: 14.4k

trigger warnings: blood, gore, violence. Knives, stabbing. Small description of a drug overdose (accidental) and it doesn’t happen to reader. Themes of domestic abuse/grooming/prostitution. minors dni. [Based on Last Night in Soho dir. Edgar Wright]

main masterlist | series masterlist

Sipping her carton of juice, Dove’s eyes scanned the busy bazaar for any signs of recognition in the shoppers eyes as they bustled past her loudly. This exact square that had been a blood bath, a hunting ground, for her yesterday seemed to barely blink an eye at the primped and preened woman, thick sunglasses resting on top of her head.

“Anything?” She asked, the sweet taste exploding in her mouth as Marc returned from questioning one of his leads on Senfu’s whereabouts. It was surprising to her just how many people seemed to know something about the black market, then again it didn’t cross her mind that she knew how deceiving looks could be. She knew that the average person on the street likely had a dark secret, so twisted and vile they searched for their equal in maleficent places like the backstreets of Soho, or a normal town square in Cairo.

Marc shook his head, handing her a new cup of something saccharine for her to try.

“I hope you like attention,” The woman nearly choked on the liquid as a chirpy voice snuck up behind them. She spun, wiping the back of her spluttering lips with the cuff of her cardigan, to meet two honey eyes peering down at her amused.

“Right guy, right place, but you’re not Egyptian,” Layla teased, sipping on her own cool drink.

Marc huffed, his ex-wife’s eyes looking at him in smirking satisfaction. Dove couldn’t deny the sun clearly agreed with the older woman, her skin bursting with sweet freckles that were hidden in England’s cold grey, her hair just that bit more luscious. Her stomach twisted with a mix of jealousy and captivation as she watched the woman who made being beautiful look so easy.

“Layla, what the hell are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here,” Marc clipped, making the woman roll her eyes and Dove turn away from their catfight, chewing her cheeks nervously.

“Why? Because my name pisses off a few people in Cairo? Who cares?” She snapped, only just then taking in where the other woman bit the end of her straw.

“It’s not the locals I’m worried about,” Marc muttered, his eyes catching sight of Khonshu and his hauntingly smug partner that stared down at the three of them, watching the chaos unfold.

Dove followed his eye line, her blood running cold at the way he vultured around her, waiting for another chance to slip up, to take her body as his. Would he even need to? Now she realised she could conjure the suit herself, would he even need to puppeteer her anymore or would he simply put some sick whims in her head and let her have at it?

Would she be able to fight back? Would she be able to say ‘no’ and have it mean ‘no’ to him?

“Come on. I’ll help you find what it is you need,” Layla sighed, taking a hand to the top of the woman’s back to direct her away from the crowd. “And for the love of gods, girl, you need sunscreen on, you’re burning up,”

The three of them, smothered in cream, had spent the best part of the afternoon in the hotel room while Layla worked her magic and contacted her own informants. She knew the black market perhaps even better than Marc did, and it took her no more than a couple of hours to find Senfu’s sarcophagus from a source she said she trusted with her life, though Dove caught the split second of fear in her eyes when she’d said it.

It was fair to say she was not filled with confidence as they sat on the small boat taking them to the place the informant said they’d find it. Layla seemed ever more stunning in her make up, loose hair and with the purple tinged string lights the boat had weaved over its canopy. Dove felt selfishly glad she could barely look at Marc without gritting her teeth, she had no idea how she would feel if their marriage stood a chance at rekindling, then she really would be the other woman. Except not at all. It wasn’t like Marc looked at her in any way other than a nuisance, a thing he had to take care of for Steven’s sake. A stray to feel bad for, to have a vet euthanize out of duty, not out of care.

It wasn’t like Marc liked her any more than he disliked her, she was sure he felt near enough indifferent to her.

His kiss still burned a hole in her temple, his hands still phantoms at her cheeks, holding her gently, cleaning her, sewing her hurt back together. He had no idea the way his touch seemed to mend the tiniest parts of her together yet shatter her all the same. So desperate to be touched by him, so disgusted with herself she wanted to curl into a ball of solitude and never recover.

“So what exactly are we gonna do here? What’s the plan?” Marc asked in a hush, avoiding the ears of the few other passengers. A group of older women chatted animatedly on the other end of the boat, laughing to themselves wildly. The entire opposite of what she felt between the feuding exes, the salt river lapping behind her, knocking her to and fro in her seat.

“Oh,” Layla bit, her face twisting into a grim smile, “It’s not pleasant being left in the dark is it?”

It had been like this all day, Dove staying silent as they hashed it out. Well, moreso Layla ripped into Marc who simply laid there and took it willingly, knowing he had immorally screwed her over by disappearing into thin air. His feelings for her may have dwindled over the past year he had been away from his wife, but he at least owed it to her to suffer the consequences. It seemed to be all he was doing now, taking on the repercussions of his actions, ever since she lay dying in his bloodied hands begging for Steven to save her.

She tuned them out, much too occupied by her own dilemma; the water. The tiniest movement of the boat, the slightest of rock in the waves, had her twitching to grab his arm out of nerves, settling on gripping the wooden seat beneath her instead. Her leg jumped, eyes darting to where the moonlight reflected off the dark ripples under them, visualising how it would feel if she were to go tipping off the edge, head plunging under the surface, sinking, thrashing, succumbing.

“Would you please just cut that out?” Layla snapped, and Dove’s head whirled from checking over her shoulder to meet the woman’s fired gaze. It had been all of four hours and whatever civility the two had the evening with Harrow’s men was gone. Following her orders, Dove forced her leg to relax, picking at her thumbnail almost instantly only to have Layla roll her eyes, “For fuck sake,” She cussed in Arabic, “Is something the matter?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” She responded, releasing her fingernail despite the itching feeling to pick at it once more, “It’s just the uh, water’s a bit choppy,”

Layla nearly glared at her, “Well, we were a little short on time, princess. This was the only option we had,”

“No-no not like that, it’s fine, this is perfect,” She stopped, feeling her face heat in embarrassment as the woman seemed only more annoyed at her skittishness. Plastering a smile that was clearly tinted with a veil of fear, whether it was of the woman who looked like she could wring her neck or the water itself she wasn’t so sure anymore, “This is fine. I’m fine,”

“Are you fine?” Layla asked, annoyance leaking in her tone though Marc, who had known the woman the best part of five years, heard the amusement behind it.

“Yep, I’m fine,” She nodded, clutching for dear life onto the seat. Flashing the pair an unconvincing smile, she stilled herself, waiting for them to continue their quarrel.

“So this Mogart guy, he’s really gonna have the sarcophagus?” Marc asked, wishing he could grab her shredded fingers in his, if only to comfort her in the slightest. He caught the way they twitched even after her scolding, how her eyes flicked every time water licked up the side of the wood.

“Yes, I asked around,” Layla said, relaxing against the side, her chocolate ringlets kissing her cheeks tenderly. “Mogart’s collection is prime gossip for those of us who deal in antiquities,”

“So like Indiana Jones?” Dove asked, the naivety in her eyes brightening as she looked to Layla for approval. The woman held back the scoff from passing her lips, knowing she was trying her best to win her over, and couldn’t help but stop herself from rebuking the otherwise dumb statement.

Layla was more like Marc than she gave herself credit for, burying kindness in a cold expression.

“Abit like that, yes,” Layla murmured, tugging her hair up into a low ponytail to keep it out of her face, better yet to busy herself from the guilt of snapping at the innocent girl.

The girl who had no clue how Marc looked at her, the way Layla caught onto immediately. She’d thought maybe it was just Steven besotted with her, but it took one glance at the man she knew like the back of her hand to see straight through whatever bullshit front he put up against her. And it wasn’t like he’d acted on it either, it was always whenever she wasn’t looking, always secret, always hidden.

It was what Marc did best, Layla thought bitterly. Hide his feelings when it mattered most.

The sour taste in her mouth hadn’t come from an open wound, no. Their relationship had since scarred over, healed, bled dry for Layla El-Faouly. It was the doe like girl that he strung behind him, that got entangled in the mess he left behind in his wake that angered her. It was the way she couldn’t help care for the girl and what would come of her when hurricane Marc blew over her, cattle flying, houses crumbling on his way the way he always did.

“Need one?” Layla held out a hair tie to the girl, her own hair messy from where she’d let it dry naturally. With no product, Marc’s fingers as a hairbrush and a need for a hair drier, it was obvious the girl had tried her best to fix it on the way, attempted to look her best for the evening.

Dove felt the lump grow in her throat.

“Sit still,” Grace hissed, running the wide toothed comb through her hair, her companion squished between her legs, squirming in pain.

“It feels like you’re trying to suck my brains through my hair follicles,” Dove murmured, face wincing in pain as the brush scraped its way through her locks once more.

“Brains? You’re giving yourself way too much credit there, baby,” Grace teased, only to receive a firm smack on her calf for the comment.

“Bitch,” She cursed back, her head being yanked back one final time by the honey haired girl and her damned brush, Dove grimacing and yelling “BITCH,”

“Quit your whining, now how do you want it?” Dove pouted, crossing her arms over her tummy, only to be toed in the ribs by Grace’s blossom pink socks, “Don’t take a stand of silence with me, how do you want it? Dutch braids?”

Dove nodded quietly, only for a rogue piece of hair to be tickled under her nostrils. Quickly realising the culprit being a small, pale hand holding the split ends and her an amused face leaning over her shoulder to see her reaction, she scrunched her nose batting away the hand with a growl, though she couldn’t help the way her mouth tugged into a giggle.

“Grow up, will you?” The girl scolded through a laugh, her head resting back onto Grace’s lap, eyes closing in bliss as the girl ran her fingers over her scalp, parting the hair into two sections.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Grace mused, giving her nose a quick peck as she split the right side of her tresses off with a claw clip, “You’re gonna be the prettiest princess by the time I’m done,”

—

“Thanks,” Dove replied forlornly, Layla’s skin burning as the woman dropped the tie into her palm. She was never good at braiding her own hair, it was always Grace who liked to do it for her. Anything fancier than her normal, low maintenance styles and she’d go to a cheap stylist. She’d loved doing Billie’s hair too, but for whatever reason her sore fingers had no perception awareness when they were behind her own head.

Settling for a low bun, she rubbed her hands on her thighs to calm her nerves, not missing the way the two of them seemed to watch her meticulously.

“What?” She asked, looking between them with the same nervous smile as before, “I’m fine,”

Layla huffed, shaking her head at the girl who looked between the two expectantly. She reminded her of a docile mouse searching for a cracker, fidgeting with her hands, so trusting yet meek, ready to be squished under Marc’s clumsy boot.

She couldn’t stand to watch this Greek tragedy anymore.

“Come on,” Layla hauled herself up, the movement rocking the boat the smallest amount, enough to make Dove latch onto Marc’s arm with wide eyes, “We’re almost there,”

The younger woman felt her face blaze with embarrassment, meeting her companions umber eyes that looked down at her with a cocktail of amusement and worry.

“You’re alright,” Marc whispered, Layla going to stand with the driver to confirm they were almost at Mogart’s. The two of them spoke calmly, the Arabic being foreign to Dove’s ears despite having spoken it clearly when Seth had control, though she noticed when Layla slipped him a few notes for his intel.

“I know, I’m just not a huge fan of boats,” She stopped, looking guiltily at the floor, “I didn’t mean to piss her off though, I just can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I fell in-”

“Then I’d be coming in right behind you and dragging you out,” Marc stopped her with a gentle hand atop her own, feeling her shake under his touch.

Her head whipped up to his, eyes staring up at him with the sugary glaze of trust in them, the same way she’d seen him the first night he’d met her. Perhaps that was why he felt so responsible, like she was his to take care of. While he’d loved Layla, loved her enough to marry her, loved her enough to let her go, she had always been fine on her own. She was independent, never let him forget it. The selfish part of him revelled in the way Dove needed him. Needed him of all people.

They shared a little smile between the two of them, heads shooting up as the boat stopped and the captain hopped off to dock the boat properly. Layla stepped up onto the planks, turning to hold her hand out to Dove who rose to her feet steadily.

“There we go, back on dry land, princess. You can put your big girl undies back on now,” Layla snarked, though Dove caught the way her almond eyes washed over the younger girl, checking she was okay, not too roughed around by the journey.

“I think I forgot to pack those,” Dove responded quickly, wiping her clammy palms on her tummy, looking around her at the estate. This was not what she’d pictured at all when Layla had said they were going to have to be stealthy. The place was filled with people chatting, enjoying themselves, as if they’d just docked in the middle of a party scene, interrupting the entertainment for the evening.

“This guy’s got a lot of friends,” Marc said cautiously, Dove feeling his presence at her back closer than her own shadow, as if he was watching over her shoulder for any signs of trouble despite only just showing up to the place.

“With a lot of guns,” Dove murmured, catching where the string lights glinted against the noir black of an assault rifle. Feeling her stomach churn with fear, she stuck herself in between the two of the more seasoned adventurers, not wanting to stray too far from their sides.

Layla shoved the bags with their own weapons under a step in the dock, avoiding where the waves lapped at the wood. Dove’s eyes trailed over the inky froth, the briny smell in the air still lingering around her nose, taking in the starry specks of Alexandria that reflected over the shore. She could almost appreciate it from here, on land, where there was no danger of sinking; that is until her eyes fell on the dinghy that lurked around the dock, three men aboard that stared her down with a predatory gaze.

She suddenly felt just as scrutinised now as she had in the pyramid.

“What is it?” Marc asked, sensing the way he body had stilled like a deer in headlights. He followed her line of sight to the men, his jaw feathering as he bit back a curse. “Harrow’s men keeping tabs?”

“Probably,” She replied, Layla watching the men with a cautionary gaze, her lush eyebrows turning down into a frown.

“Let’s go,” The woman said, tugging at Dove’s wrist gently to ward her away from the men’s smarmy smiles. The trios faces lit up with a warm glow under the lamp’s beams cutting through the night air, small stalls like a market flanking either side of the pasture they walked across. “Remember, your name is Rufino Estrada.”

“Right,” Marc said, the three of them taking off in between the partiers towards where the stately home, likely belonging to this Mogart guy, was. “And yours is-”

“Nadia Estrada. We just got back from our honeymoon in the Maldives,” Layla replied, her eyes wandering over the various stalls, intrigued as to what had brought the elated guests here. There was only little food, very few cups of alcohol like she’d expect from a party, so what were these people buying? “Figured we may as well use our old code names, save the confusion,”

Her eyes zeroed in on a fossilised tablet, an ancient painting etched into the slab. Relics. He was selling relics; ancient, irreplaceable pieces of history and he was just casually selling them out of his yard like they were friendship bracelets, or a pitcher of lemonade.

“You guys had code names, that’s so cool,” Dove piped up, leaning up on the tips of her toes to peek at the merchandise also. “What’s mine?”

Layla stayed quiet for a second, “Truthfully, I had only accounted for it being the two of us. I assumed Marc would have left you at home to keep you out of harm’s way,”

Dove’s energy wilted, slammed with the feeling of taking up too much space in their world of adventures, “Oh, okay,”

“I guess it just means you get to choose your own name and alibi, then,” Layla cut in, trying to save the moment. She’d never intended on causing the girl upset despite the short fuse she’d had with her the moment they’d met. If anything, she’d prefer her to be back in the hotel, not to make any moves on fixing her marriage but for her own peace of mind that the girl was safe. Seeing the interest spark in her eyes again as she peered at Layla, the woman pointed in a warning way at her, “But make it believable enough that you can lie on command,”

“Right, gotcha,” She replied, her eyes falling in front of her where they were heading towards, trailing after Layla’s assertive footsteps. “So what role will I be playing then? Your assistant? A distant relative?”

“No and no,” Marc protested with a wince, his stomach turning at the idea of pretending to be her cousin, no matter how fake it was, “You can just be our friend,”

“Friend that comes on our honeymoon? That’s not a friend, that’s a third,” Layla interjected, a doubtful look on her face as they neared the manor. From what she could see, Dove caught sight of a wide sand pit, spotlights lighting up the square as a dozen men on horseback circled one another in some kind of sport. Some of the partiers, not seemingly interested in buying the goods, walked over to spectate, surrounded by a lot of security guards donned in all black, matched only by the guns cradled readily in their arms.

Dove was already feeling the panic rising in her gut.

Steven’s voice blared clear in her head, yet another of one of his stories he loved to entertain her with when they had a long night of inventory ahead of them. Or on the underground, or even when he would walk her to her door and stay for a hot cuppa on the cold Winter evenings.

“Did your father tell you about Horus and Seth’s challenge for the throne?” She asked, turning to Layla and taking a shot in the dark at the woman who hated her guts.

She rolled her eyes, “Which one?”

“When Seth had killed Osiris and taken Isis and Nephthys as his wives and attempted to take the throne over Horus by claiming it was his blood right,” Dove explained under her breath as not to draw attention to them.

Layla was intrigued now, her eyes flicking to the woman, Marc doing the same with an identical lost expression.

“What’s your point?”

“Well, when Nephthys and Isis escaped Seth’s imprisonment together, Isis led rebellion against Seth by turning herself into a beautiful, young woman to trick Seth into admitting he was not the rightful king, outwitting him because he couldn’t hold himself back from some batting eyelashes and a pretty face,” She went on to say, looking between the pair. Marc seemed to catch on quickly, raising his hands in protest to cut her off.

“Absolutely no-”

“Perfect, that’s perfect. That’s just the distraction we need. He’d never believe I’d go for him right in front of my own husband, that’s brilliant,” Layla babbled, giving a supportive nudge to the young girl’s shoulder.

Marc just rolled his eyes in defeat, fists already clenched by his side as the women smiled between one another in pride.

“Did Horus win at least?” He asked, a semi sneer on his face at the idea of her making herself a pawn in their game of facades. Dove’s head shot up to meet his bitter gaze, feeling a twinge of guilt at the way she’d so readily put herself forward for the task of bait. But why? She was no more his than he was hers.

She tried to lie to herself and pretend the idea of him alluring a woman in front of her wouldn’t stab at her chest, just thinking how she’d almost jumped for Hathor’s throat when she’d so much as spoken to him. It wasn’t so strange, she had been smitten for Steven since the moment she’d met him, falling hard and fast for his gentle hands and even gentler words. It wasn’t far of a stretch to say some of it had transferred to Marc, even with his cloudy attitude and stormy expression that never seemed to weather.

It was probably the doppelganger effect and all that, she reasoned with herself. Probably just her idle brain confusing care with love, grasping at straws for any reason to be wanted.

She smirked at his question, shrugging her shoulders, “Well, supposedly, the Gods involved couldn’t come to a decision as to who the throne went to as both Seth and Horus were part of Osiris’s bloodline. So, in order to show superiority and a challenge of manhood, Horus, uh-”

Layla chortled, obviously having heard this story from her father.

“What? What did he do?” Marc asked with a huff, though he beat down the smile that threatened to tweak at his lips when he saw the two women chuckling together.

“The story goes that Seth, uh, ejaculated over Horus to show dominance, but Isis figured out his plan to make Horus seem unworthy for the throne, and sprinkled Horus’ semen over Seth’s garden so when he came to eat from the crops he was impregnated.” Dove said, her eyes turning away bashfully at the explicit nature of the story, though he heard her giggle on her final few words.

Marc’s jaw hung open in a mixture of disgust and horror, “That did not- Wow,” He spluttered, head shaking with disbelief, “Remind me never to take Horus’ throne,”

“Do you think Gods get morning sickness?” Layla asked, Dove smirking at her statement. Figuring since the god that trailed after her had remained so quiet after the meeting with the Ennead, she felt the opportunity too good to pass up to throw punches back at the one that had caused so much havoc.

“I can see it now, the horror that is the God of Chaos with swollen ankles and a midnight craving for pickles,” The younger of the trio snarked, and for the first time since she met the El-Faouly woman, she heard a real cackle of laughter out of her.

“He definitely got trapped wind and acne when he was carrying,” She added, making Dove crease into herself with suppressed giggles.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Marc tried to quell their hysterics, yet found himself joining in quietly, secretly, because he would never let her know how contagious her laugh was to him.

“Do you reckon his breasts got sensitive?” She asked, feeling Layla nudge her with a snigger.

Their little jokes all came barreling down around her as she felt a large, cold presence linger over her shoulder, swallowing the street light completely. Any and all laughter died in her throat within a hair's width of a second, her mouth going dry almost immediately when she realised just what was behind her.

Seth. Seth, the beast she was poking with a stick. Seth, who she would bend in any which way for were he to so much as snap his fingers, if even that. Seth, whose rage she could feel blowing out of him like steam out of a train flute as his snout breathed over her spine.

“You dare mock me, insolent mortal,” He growled, a clap of thunder running through her bones, shaking them beneath her flesh.

Marc grabbed her shoulder, attempting to pull her away from the creature, knowing her words had practically waved red at a charging bull. Turning to see the terrifying creature, leering just that bit closer, snarling just that bit louder, his breath pungent with wrath.

“I- We were- I didn’t mean-” Dove’s voice was small, childlike. A kid caught with their hand in the candy jar, caught smearing lipstick over the mirror. Tiny. Guilty. Punishable.

“You wish to behave as their little seductress that you so taunt me of bedding, then that is what you will become, mutt,” Seth snarled, his upper lip twisting to reveal his sharp canines that dripped with anger. He waved his staff, the hieroglyphs rippling with dark hum, singing with glee that they were being helpful to their master.

Before she could so much as gasp, so much as apologise, fall to her knees and beg him to see she was simply fooling with the woman she had been so deeply loathed by, she felt her clothes fall away into embers around her feet, the cold night air ravaging her skin despite the heat that rose to her chest.

What was left of the cloth robbed every single speck of her dignity; made her look like some prized mare, the same kind those men rode, the same kind she used to be. A body. A doll. A whore.

Her top half was nearly entirely exposed, save for a black wrap top that just about covered her tits, though they teased enough to turn heads nearly instantly as if they’d sounded an alarm of look at me, stare at me! Gawk all you like! I am nothing but whatever you see me as!

Her arms, neck and head was wrapped in spindling pieces of gold jewellery, the headdress, as she could have guessed, bowing down her brow and to her nose like a metallic pointed snout, only making her look more like Seth himself. Egotistical bastard.

The long, onyx skirt was the only part that gave her any sort of privacy, yet that didn’t help much since there were two enormous splits in the side, a slim gold chain resting over her curved hips, the material dragging over her crotch and buttocks. A single breeze could have her exposing herself, and she realised with a blazing face that the bastard had taken away her underwear in the process.

This was the first, last and only time she was going to make fun of the God of Chaos. Chaos indeed.

“SETH, Oh holy fuck-” She hissed, hands reaching to tuck the fabric inbetween her legs frantically, covering her breasts with the other.

“Woah, what did you do?” Layla asked, eyes wide as she scanned the girl’s, womanly, body from head to toe, “I thought he was the God of Chaos not God of Leia in Jabba’s palace-”

“Give me my clothes back, NOW,” She hissed, seething with a heat that could challenge the sun god Ra, “This is not funny, I will have you turned into fossils I swear-”

She heard a dark chuckle, malicious and vengeful as he was, and felt instantly a wave of stupidity had washed over her. Of course he would punish her, what a fool she was to think he wasn’t watching at all times. What an imbecile to have thought she would be able to live a single moment as a normal woman, a normal girl laughing with a friend, her mother always warned her of men and their damaged egos. She knew this lesson well enough. She knew this story. Why was she so stupid? So naive? Marc nor Steven would ever want such an ignorant girl, not when they had women as brilliant as Layla willing to marry them. Willing to re-marry them even.

She felt like a gullible child. Always falling into the wrong hands, into the snares laid out for her, a lame doe traipsing through a hunters meadow. Wandering down the garden path as a lamb led to slaughter.

The heat caught to her cheeks, burning her ears with embarrassment at her predicament.

“What the fuck do I do?” She spun to Marc’s eyes, though she seemed to catch his coffee gaze staring right at her. Flicking over her chest, flitting down to where the chain hugged her waist, her soft, supple waist he wanted to bury his fingertips in, and her thighs, her thighs-

His gaze snapped back to her after a second of weakness, seeing the fear waiting for him there slapping him out of his reverie. How disgusting he felt to have taken such a cheap look at her, art is supposed to be enjoyed not glanced at he chided himself, though the sick feeling in his stomach that she were such a divinity beneath her everyday wear, that she wasn’t just a pure soul but an angel woman outside as well.

She made every breath for him difficult.

“Huh?” He asked with a scratchy voice after a beat of silence. Blinking as if to drag himself from a daze, he looked away from her altogether to give her some privacy, though his chest never faltered from battering away at his ribcage, “I-”

“Bek,” Layla cut him off, and god he could have thanked her. Words seemed lost on him, stuck in a purgatory between enjoying the view and hating himself and everyone around him for besmirching her body with his worthless eyes.

A man had approached in the time it had taken for Marc to have his crisis; tall, broad, handsome the two strangers noticed quickly. Sticking out her hand for a friendly handshake, ‘Bek’ pulled the slender woman in gently, raising an eyebrow as he saw the woman to her right.

“Nadia, it’s been a while,” He said cooly, shaking her hand firmly, clasping her fingers in his familiarly in a way that told Dove they were friends. Not trusted enough to know their real identities but enough to not kill them on sight. It was what they had to work with, the younger woman told herself as she clasped her hands under her armpits to hide her exposed gooseflesh, “And who is this bewitching creature?”

Dove’s face tightened as his attention was entirely on her then. She saw it immediately, the lust in his eyes; the way they hooded with want, as if they saw through her whilst simultaneously seeing too much of her.

Just like those men, the horrid part of her brain whispered, Just like those who paid for you, just like those ones that would come in the night. The ones that used you, saw you as a thing to have, to conquer. Just like the one man who put you there.

If this was a dance she’d have to perform again, then that she would. She knew every step, every turn. She knew how to puppeteer these stupid men just as easily as Seth controlled her. Perhaps that was why they were such a clean match.

“Sandie,” She said coolly, a hint of a smile twitching at her lips. Enough to make him want more, enough to make him think he could be the one to give it to her. Men and their saviour complexes, “Me and Nadia are old friends,”

Holding out her hand for him to take, she tilted her head in discontent, watching as he took her own fingers as he had Layla’s, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles, a Cheshire cat grin on his face when she seemed to watch him boredly.

They liked it when she was mean to them. She wished they would just see a therapist instead of seeking her body as a deposit.

“Right this way,” His voice was smooth in the buzzing atmosphere, the lamps suddenly too bright, the chatter too loud as they neared the ring. “After Madripoor, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about, and perhaps something new to add,” His satin timbre stuck deep in her skin as he peered over his shoulder, trailing his eyes down her exposed legs.

Taking Layla’s hand in his own, if only to keep up appearances while they were supposedly married, Marc and Layla were but a step behind where Dove took the lead, her false confidence surprisingly convincing for a woman usually so quiet.

“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Mogart will be with you shortly,” Bek said, leaving the trio at the edge of the huge sand pit, the riders slowing their mounts at the approach of the burly man entering their training ring.

Leaning against the rail, Marc and Layla stood either side of Dove, the three of them watching as one man dismounted to talk to Bek, his shirtless body toned and lightly sweaty from what Dove could tell in the spotlights surrounding the place.

From what the girl understood, they were playing some sort of fencing sport, something similar to jousting she supposed only with less charging and more arm strength. The long wooden poles in each of their arms smacked against one another loudly, a whip like crack echoing around the open space. The sand sprayed out under the horses hooves, flicking towards where they stood in amazed silence.

“So what? This joker just puts on El-Mermah games in his backyard for fun?” Marc snarked, glaring down at every single one of the vain motherfuckers that seemed to all leer in their direction once they caught a sight of her. Yet, he simply let it happen, let her run her mouth with the new attitude she’d assumed, her new alias not at all his anymore.

“No, he gets private lessons by the best in his backyard for fun,” Layla replied, her eyes trained on the man that Bek had approached, a fine silk robe being slipped on over his arms as if he were too delicate to do it himself despite the size of his hulking arm muscles.

“I would love to get me one of those bad boys,” The youngest woman blurted, looking around the enclosure at where the rest of the men, equally as toned and attractive slid off their saddles, strutting around in their glory alongside their well groomed geldings.

The ‘married couple’ flicked a look at her, both their eyebrows raised at her statement, shock evident by their slackened jaws.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, princess,” Layla commented, eyes scanning each of the men that seemed to be waking up to the godly woman watching them ride, “I’m sure you could get any man you wanted looking like that,”

“I meant the horses…” Dove trailed off, her voice a song of innocence, perhaps even more embarrassed.

Marc was warm inside then, the four words alone reminding him she was still the same girl with the change of clothes, with the added seduction. It was still the girl sweeter than a honey pot that had trapped him like a fly and had yet to let go.

The man Bek had garnered attention from looked over at the three of them, his easy smile spreading when he saw the familiar face accompanied by two new ones. He, ofcourse, was quick to note the bare flesh the woman to her right flashed, the intricate gold spidering over her skin like a lovers touch.

“Nadia. Come in,” The man, who Dove guessed was Mogart from the way the staff scurried around him obediently. He gestured them forward, his eyes flitting over Marc who looked about as cheerful as a headache. “Such a delight to see you.”

But he was barely looking at ‘Nadia’, his dark eyes venturing over from Marc’s tight lipped smile to Dove’s exposed collarbones, flicking over her soft stomach, down over the curves of her bare thighs, even her calves got his attention. He was enraptured, taking the bait easier than she would have ever thought.

“You too,” Layla responded, shooting a glance in Marc’s direction, only to see his brow twitching. Gods had she seen that expression many times, normally before he would have stormed out of the house after one of their fights or gone to sleep on the couch. He was close to losing it already.

“How have you been?” He asked, finally ripping his eyes away from where Dove batted her lashes up at him shyly, a slight smirk to her lips that teased as he couldn’t help but glance at her face once more. Men were all the same in every country, it seemed.

“Good. Thankyou for having us over on such short notice,” Layla thanked gently, her own expression somewhere between wary and polite.

“Oh, please. I hope you realise you need no excuse to drop by,” Mogart said with his playboy smile twitching, looking cheekily at Layla, “So who are your friends?”

Layla nodded, reaching out an arm to gesture to Marc, “This is my husband, Rufino."

The women felt him tense up, holding his arm out much too forcefully for a handshake, “Nice to meet you,” Marc said, though nothing in his tone was nice by any means. Dove would have elbowed him in the side hard had Mogart and his men been watching them closely.

Dove couldn’t lie, the man was attractive. Not nearly as easy on the eyes as Marc and Steven, but he was attractive in the rich, bad boy kind of way. His scruff of a beard was dark, yet brushed neatly, not a single hair looking out of place. His nose was broad, making his face all the more masculine, bringing her attention to his mysterious dark eyes.

“Pleasure,” The millionaire looked down at Marc through disinterest, barely acknowledging his outstretched arm until he had taken a long look at ‘Rufino’. Seeming to brush Marc away almost instantly after they had shared a stiff handshake, he turned his mesmerising eyes back to Dove who leaned into his gaze, “And who is this?”

“Sandie,” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling under the spotlights, holding out a jewelled hand for him to take. As predictable as they come, Mogart took her fingers gently and kissed them, just as Bek had, just as any other man being stared at with such allurance would want to, “Do you not get scared playing those games without a helmet on?”

The purity was clear in her voice, and it had Mogart’s eyes latching onto her mouth that seemed to call to him like a siren song.

“You are too sweet,” He said, yet to let go of her fingertips as she stepped towards him, his chiselled body turning to lead the trio towards his private collection, “You see, these horses are some of the finest Arabian thoroughbreds, mine has yet to throw me even once-”

The two of them took the lead, Dove making sure her shoulder brushed against his just enough for him to understand she wanted to invade his space, let him see her as closely as possible. She looked at him with the right amount of naivety, the rest seduction. Tilted her body towards his so he could see the way her hips curved, her breasts rounded.

“She’s good,” Layla whispered to Marc, seeing Anton’s face take her in for her entirety. It was as though she had him under a spell, even she as a woman mostly interested in men couldn’t help but appreciate the way the shadowy night seemed to preen under her glow. She wondered if it was Seth’s doing, yet he didn’t seem the type to deploy love potions. “I see why you like her,”

Marc’s chest froze. In the midst of glaring down the man’s hand that lingered at her lower back, guiding her towards his mansion of a house, he had barely even registered that Layla had been speaking until he’d heard that.

“I don’t- What the hell are you talking about, I can barely stand her,” He snapped, Layla’s short snort making his ears turn red. “I’m only keeping her around because she’d important to Steven,”

“Riiiight, for Steven’s sake, yep?” She drawled, the knowing look in her eye at how he squirmed under her gaze, “You know, we weren’t strangers once. I know what that look means,”

“What look?” Marc glanced back at his ex-wife, his eyes softening with the familiarity he found in her. He had loved her, he had loved her at one point with everything he’d had. But with her it was like trying to make two puzzle pieces go together when they were from opposite ends of the picture. They just wouldn’t fit. He’d loved her, she’d love him, but not enough to show her all of him; show her the full artwork.

She grinned at him smugly, reaching out to grab his hand as if to keep up the pretence they were still married, “Try not to ruin this one, will you? I’m starting to tolerate her,”

Marc scoffed to himself, “No, you like her. You just don’t want her to see past your big, cold independent badass thing you’ve got going on,”

“If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black, Spector,” She nudged him, her eyes trailing back to where the girl now had Anton pointing out his horses by name, hanging onto his every word as if she gave a shit. Then again, Layla didn’t doubt she was planning on talking the wealthy man into giving her one at this rate. Sighing, she leaned away from Marc, looking at the outfit that showed her off just as well as one of his livestock. “Just promise me something?”

Marc looked at her troubled expression but said nothing. He had learnt from Khonshu quickly not to promise anything before he knew what he was getting himself into.

“Get her away from Seth as soon as this is over,” Layla pleaded, quickly seeing the guilt that washed over his face as she’d said it, “Now he has a body weak enough for him to control at his whim, he won’t want to let go so quickly. Who knows what he would make her do? She’s not cut out for this life, Marc,”

How would you know, you’ve barely said two normal words to her, Marc wanted to snap, You don’t know her, she is so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for, she could do anything if you just gave her a chance.

But he knew that was selfish. He knew that was his own mind wanting to keep her needing him, the twisted part of him that craved to be needed wanted her for as long as he could. Yes he kept her safe for Steven, for her own sake, but the bitter part of him that hated the world loved every second of the euphoria that came with her desperation for him. He craved that high like the hardest drug off the Madripoor market, like he had forgotten what living and not just surviving this awful life felt like until that day she’d brought him the dead bird. She was good, she was the best thing he’d ever seen in his miserable life. She was a beacon in his dark mind.

But Layla was right, she wasn’t cut out for his life. She didn’t deserve a wretched man like him, she deserved Steven. He couldn’t get too attached, he knew he’d have to leave her as soon as they’d figured out how to get rid of Khonshu and Seth from their lives.

Maybe that's why he pushed Layla away with a bitter frown, dropping her hand. Sometimes the truth pill hurts to swallow, and Layla had just served him up an overdose.

“I hope you understand this is more than a collection to me,” Anton said, peeking over his shoulder at the couple that seemed to be all eyes on the younger woman. “Preserving history is a responsibility I take very seriously,”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for one man, surely you must get lonely,” ‘Sandie’ dared a sweet smile at the man who was on her like a moth to a street lamp.

He gave her a boyish smirk back, but she could still tell he held his walls high, kept his cards close after seeing Marc’s gloomy attitude. Trust it to be the masculinity competition the two had going on to ruin her bait.

“I prefer to see it as a philanthropic effort at preservation.” He replied, leading the way to a quieter courtyard where a few of the larger items seemed to be held under glass mimics of the pyramids, not a single fingerprint or speck of dust on the clear surfaces. The first one held what seemed to be a collection of effigies of the gods, similar to the one she had been thrown into that night at the museum only much smaller, most likely found in temples or the homes of wealthy members of Ancient Egyptian society.

Yet Anton led them to a halt outside the second one, opposite the statues, where thin pillars held up a collection of golden masks she recognised from Dylan’s tours as funerary masks, used to preserve the dignity of the deceased. They circled an even wider stand in the middle, a sarcophagus propped wide open for viewing pleasure in the centre, highly detailed from what she could see under the beaming lamps being stood so far away.

“Now, if I may ask, why such an interest in Senfu in particular?” Mogart questioned and the trio felt the air tighten around them, the silent accusation lingering close. Anton’s face was not amused, interested in the woman to his right as he may be, he was still smart and kept his wits about anyone attempting to pull wool over his dark eyes. Dove opened her mouth to pipe up with an entirely innocent excuse, something along the lines of Layla had told her all about Medjay and their burial practices and wanted to see what the fuss was about. But before she had so much as began her fabricated tale, Mogart flashed her a dimmed smile and held up his hand, “I’m sorry, I’d like to hear from the husband if you don’t mind, sweetling,”

Dove felt her breath hitch, covering it with a pleasant nod, turning to watch Marc meticulously, the pressing look of ‘don’t fuck this up’ in her eyes.

Marc seemed to get stuck on his words for just a second too long as he looked between Anton's unimpressed glare and Dove’s masked panic, feeling his mouth go dry as he had not prepared himself for improv.

Laughing humorlessly through his nose, he turned to look past the group and at the sarcophagus, gesturing with his open hand to fill time, “I think that- But I just think that we’d love to take a look,” He choked out, and a deadly silence befell the group.

That was perhaps the least convincing lie Dove had ever heard. They were so fucked.

Layla and Marc seemed to jump as she let out a loud laugh, her hand coming to clap on the man’s shoulder. “Ah, Rufino, you’re so funny,” She said, squeezing his muscles, turning to him with a bright grin. Shaking her head ditsily, she looked to Layla as if to warn her to play along before returning to Anton’s suspicious look, “This was all my idea. Nadia and Rufino were kind enough to let me crash their holiday so I could see some artefacts- a silly hobby of mine I rarely indulge in. They spoil me too much, I think,” She giggled, turning towards the glass pyramid with a hopeful look on her younger face, “You won’t mind if they look first?”

Anton seemed to bite his cheek, calculating the girl’s motives, yet even Layla would admit the words were smooth, believable. Had she not known the actual plan herself, she’d think she was crashing a couples post honeymoon glow with her mollycoddled, airhead act.

“By all means,” Mogart seemed in slightly better terms, though still slightly bitter as Layla and Marc headed straight towards the casket with a slight flash of relief on their faces. “So, sweetling, what is it about our history that intrigues you so?”

She leaned in towards him, her face smoothing out into young innocence, watching his reaction carefully. This job was like a mechanic tuning an old car, watching for every tiny movement in their body, waiting for that hum of enamourance where she knew she had them wrapped around her finger.

Men were the same in every country, in every part of history, in every facet of life. Every one of them except Steven. And Marc, she’d now realised.

“I don’t know,” She said, playing with her rings absently, head cocked like a placid dog waiting for a pet, “Perhaps I like the idea that people one day could be holding my things up in museums or paying hundreds to see what my life looked like. I like the idea that they were all once the same as me, you know? All just humans doing human things,” She hadn’t meant to be so honest, had never expected to speak from her heart, but her airy voice seemed to conceal her raw emotion well enough. Mogart seemed to warm under her answer, no doubt finding her cute, a little woman with a little brain having such big thoughts about life.

She knew Steven would have taken her answer as gospel.

“So about these Arabian Thoroughbreds, how much would one of those set a sweet girl back?” She asked, trailing her golden fingertips over his shoulder when Anton’s eyes cut over her shoulder, straightening a touch when he saw Layla there. She met the woman’s eyes, trying not to seem so thrown off by her appearance, her interruption in the plan.

“Rufino would like to show you something before we consider making any purchases,” Layla said, the push in her voice for her to not ask questions and to just head inside the pyramid telling her everything she needed. Their plan was not going so smoothly after all.

“Ofcourse,” Dove smiled back, beaming at Anton with a cheeky glint in her eyes. “I’ll be just a moment,” She promised, watching his eyes dilate as she ran her finger down his arm. Take the bait, take the bait and don’t ask questions.

“Don’t take too long,” He replied, meeting her eyes over her shoulder as she slinked into the glass structure, feeling his eyes dropping over her hips, over her bare thighs.

She entered the faux tomb, feeling hot under the blazing sets of eyes on her back as she came to a stop at Marc’s side.

“I’m starting to think I would make a great super-spy,” She whispered, leaning into him to keep up the pretence of two old friends on a relaxing holiday, “Maybe I should be Bond and you can be the sexy femme fatale I can save,”

Marc rolled his eyes, frowning and nudging her back, “Concentrate. These guys won’t hesitate to drop you no matter how pretty you look, princess,” It was a sneer, it was a bark of an order for her to quit messing around, that their lives were very much on the line here, and yet she couldn’t help look at him bashfully for his choice of words. He caught the girlish grin and the slight softness in her eyes, realising what he’d said to make her so coy. Fighting the heat that threatened to meet the apples of his cheeks, he turned away from her, staring hard down at the scrawl of writing inscribed in the stone, “Just read the damn sarcophagus, would you? Layla couldn’t get anything from it,”

Fighting the urge to snicker, she scanned over the funerary rites, her mind unravelling the translations she’d spent three years studying.

“It’s Hieratics,” She whispered, skimming the cursive writing, “Different to Hieroglyphics, it's known as the priestly script, the kind usually found on respected members of royalty, their blessings to carry them to the afterlife.” Marc gawked at her, the words sounding gibberish to him despite Layla drilling this stuff into him for years. He was sure if it were Steven in his place he would have been teetering on an orgasm by now, seeing her brows furrowed in concentration as she spurted knowledge about the writing styles. Taking a moment to skim the texts, the words became tales and spells, guidance for the deceased, wishes of good health in his next journey. But nothing about Ammit or his allegiance to her. Her brows furrowed as she flickered over the symbols, wondering if there was anything she was missing.

“What? What does it say?” Marc asked, chancing a glance over his shoulder to where Anton and Layla seemed to be watching them with hawk eyes now, though his ex-wife looked more nervous than anything.

“It speaks of how to cross through the gates at the Hall of Double Justice once you get to the other side of the Duat. It warns him of traps the gods may have set up; nets that will swallow him whole.” She leaning a little closer, some of the lettering worn away by its age, “There’s spells for repelling apshai-beetles-”

“Huh?”

“Apshai was the God of insects, said to be able to summon a horde of them that could block out the sun and devour men,” She brushed him off, searching further in the coffin for anything else, “It speaks of how to deflect them in the duat- all I’m seeing is how to guide the dead, no location indicated anywhere.”

She huffed leaning away from the relic with a defeated look on her face, giving the whole thing another read over.

“That’s because the information needs to be unlocked,” Marc’s head whipped up to the ceiling, where his reflection glared clearly back at him in front of the night sky. “It’s coded,”

Marc sighed, grabbing the girl’s attention. “What is it?” She asked, her eyes wide, worried their plan was entirely fucked.

“It’s Steven,” He said grumpily, watching her eyes light up in hope.

“Does he know the answer? Just let me talk to him, I’m sure we could figure it out,” She interrupted, flashing a quick and casual smile to Anton who had seemed to tense up at their rushed whispering, despite the fact her stomach was in knots.

“No, he’s not ready for- He said it’s coded, it needs to be deciphered,” He murmured back, watching her face smooth out into realisation.

“Ofcourse, priests did this all the time. Grave robbing was so common they had to hide their valuables, or in this case their information,” Dove smiled up at him, the accomplishment clear on her face, “So? Let Steven out, he’s great at puzzles and stuff like this-”

“Absolutely not, he won’t last two seconds if this starts getting ugly,” Marc snapped, gesturing to the sarcophagus despite the way her face fell, “Can’t you just do it? You guys solve stuff like this for fun,”

It was true, another of their weekly routines to pull out a board game of some sort and have a crack at it together. Or race to see who could put together a jigsaw the fastest. Ofcourse, they always wrote each other new rules for the games in other languages to add to the fun, she’d once thrown him completely off by writing out her best sanskrit. He’d been lost the entire hour. Yet even when they’d done an escape room together, Steven had been ten steps ahead of her at all times while she just stared after him, finding his intelligence dreamy.

“Yeah, and he almost always wins because he’s like the cleverest person I know,” She cut back, frowning at his stubbornness, “And incase you hadn’t noticed, Marc, this is an ancient encrypted casket not fucking UNO,”

Steven snorted, the sound only pissing Marc off even more as his gaze snapped to the ceiling, confronting his alter head on.

“Do you want a blood bath? Do you want her hurt? Because that’s the way it’s heading if you don’t start talking,” Marc cursed bitterly, throwing his hands out to the woman who glared at the sarcophagus like it owed her money. Soft eyes flicking to where Marc’s forehead creased, the worry was evident behind his mask of anger. He wasn’t worried about Harrow right now, or about the tomb, he was worried about her.

“Alright, have it your way,” Steven conceded, his own brown hues dropping to watch her from his place in the glass, a sad longing on his reflected face, “But this isn’t for you, I hope you know that,”

“Loud and clear,” Marc nodded, callused hands resting over the remains that sat inside the coffin, “Alright, what do I do?

“Check the cartonage,” Steven instructed, “Now, take that first piece and fold it over the middle piece,”

“This one?” Marc pointed to the smaller piece of fabric on the right, Dove’s eyes watching his military smooth expression carefully.

“Yes, that one,” Steven replied, exasperated as Marc did what he said. Dove followed his movements, the pattern quickly forming in front of them. Jumping at the chance to help, she grabbed the middle piece of the map folding it in half in order to create the correct shape, handing it to Marc so he could tuck it into place-

“Hey, what are you doing?” A hand grabbed Dove’s shoulder, yanking her away from the sarcophagus with a gasp, her own fingers reactively reaching to grab onto Marc. For Marc it was like clockwork, him snatching the gun from Bek’s hands, him taking a step in front of Dove, her hands gripping the tail of his jacket tightly, peaking over his shoulder with guilty eyes.

“Marc!” The pair of them turned their attention to Layla, her hands raised in surrender, two of Anton’s men pointing pistols at her closely. Even if they were to miraculously get one of them away from the El-Faouly woman, the second would pull the trigger without thinking, “Don’t,”

They were caught.

A breath passed between the trio, defeat written in bold ink on the two women’s faces, before Marc’s nose scrunched in annoyance. “Shit!”

He shoved the gun back at Bek, who grabbed it before they had any chance to get out of his grasp, his lip curling into a sneer at the pair in front of him, the barrel of his weapon staring straight at them. His flirty nature was long gone as he glared at the woman who wished for the ground to swallow them up.

Anton stepped past his guards, entering the glass room with a grave look on his handsome face, dark eyes looking between Marc and the woman that shadowed him, afraid to move so much as an inch were she to get Marc or Layla hurt.

“Do you really think I’m an idiot?” Anton scoffed, Marc’s jaw flickered with tension as he watched Anton’s eyes slide past him to the woman who looked back at him meekly, “And you? I won’t deny I would have enjoyed a night spent with you, sweetling. But you have been a sly creature,”

He reached out to pinch her chin gently, eyes roaming her lips that parted with a held breath, Marc tensing at her side. He envisioned himself breaking every one of the man’s fingers, of blinding him for daring to look at her so longingly, so perversely, as if seeing her was an enrichment he wanted to keep all to himself.

Then, as if to dial Marc’s already hot temper to a thousand, Anton smirked at her.

“Ofcourse, you could always just tell me what it was your little friends wanted, and I can let the three of you go unharmed?” He proposed, his umber gaze meeting hers with a flick of fervour, “For an added expense, of course,”

“You piece of-” Marc began, the heat of Ra in his glare, his veins running hot under his sepia skin. She cut him off, without a second of hesitation, without so much as a glance at him or his ex-wife.

“Anything,” She practically heard Layla’s laboured breath, the way every heart in the room seemed to stop at her word. Anton’s grin grew on his boyish face, this brows raising in surprise, “You let them both go, and you can have anything you want,”

Marc’s jaw slackened as he looked at her incredulously. What was she doing? How could she throw herself to the wolves like that?

“And if I wanted you? If I wanted to keep you?” Anton asked, his white teeth a glint behind his full lips that seemed to purse at the sight of her. She nodded, ignoring the feeling of Marc’s vicious glare burning a crater in the side of her skull. How could she do this to Steven, how could she stoop so low?

If they got out of here alive, if she got Layla out safe, she would go as low as it took. Layla who hated her, Layla who wished her hung, drawn and quartered, Layla who was human and had no god to save her, to repair her wounds.

“Anything,” She confirmed, a distant look glazing over her eyes as she signed her name on the invisible dotted line, threw herself in with the dogs once more.

Just as Anton’s grin was about to spread just that bit wider, victory ringing clear in his chocolate gaze that swept over her fact. He’d always had an eye for the valuable things in life, and he felt as if he’d just hit the jackpot. Bek leaned in towards his boss, speaking in hushed tones that even Dove struggled to hear until she realised it was because he was speaking French.

Anton’s head whipped towards his manor, where three figures stalked forward towards them, the armed men nudging the trio to exit the glass sculpture and follow the millionaire to meet the newcomers.

But Dove already had a pit in her stomach that told her exactly who it was waiting for them.

“It appears we have a concerned third party here,” The handsome man said, traipsing over to where Harrow and two of his followers approached, not batting a single eyelash to the shit show they’d stumbled upon, his telltale walking stick thumping against the sand pathway.

She felt her blood simultaneously freeze and boil in her capillaries, terrified of just how well he seemed to know her as if he understood anything about the things she’d seen, the things that had led her to here, yet angered from it all the same. Of what he’d called her the last time they’d met. Of how he’d spoken about Marc.

This time there were no gods to save his throat if she were to rip it out.

“Whatever they’ve proposed, I’m sure I can offer you something much more tangible,” Harrow declared, unveiling his hand from his pocket to show off the scarab. The scarab they had lost, the same one that seemed to levitate in the palm of his weathered hand and point in the direction of the tomb. A compass, a navigator, she realised, “Why settle for anything less when you could have a god's share of treasure?” The little bug hummed in his hands, its golden wings glinting in the moonlight.

“Anton, don’t listen to this man, he’s trying to stop us-” Layla started, her hands waving between surrender and gesturing wildly, watching Anton become enamoured with a new valuable, something better than a woman for the night.

“Please, stop,” Anton brushed her off, scowling at her with disinterest.

“She’s telling the truth. He’s planning to kill millions, trust me,” Dove jumped in, her eyes avoiding Harrow’s all knowing gaze, the wealthy man’s frown diverting to her.

“Are the two of you seriously talking about trust?” Anton snapped, his eyes finding their way back to the solid gold figure Harrow held out to him with the promise of more. If there was one thing men wanted more than women, Dove had learned quickly, learned the hard way, it was money.

“Anything! I told you I’d give you anything, get you anything if you just listen to us, please Anton,” Dove begged, feeling the but of the gun pressing into her skull as she took a step towards him. Tossing her a look over his shoulder, Anton seemed to boredly take her in, as if his reverie of having her to himself had worn off, the promise of more wealth than he could dream of, an inheritance for a goddess herself, outweighing any sort of sexual or physical favour she could give him. “He’s planning to slaughter children,”

“Please, there’s no need to descend into violent accusations,” Harrow started, his calm voice only making her seem all the more hysterical as she finally braved a look at him. Just as she suspected, his cold blue hues were already staring through her body in amusement, as if her worry and wildness was all but a game to him. A tally on his leaderboard. Harrow: 2 - Dove: Nil. “Each one of you has so much more in common than you know,”

His gaze shifted to the woman next to her, his eyes filling with false pity, the smirk on his lips telling her otherwise, “Layla, you keep thinking that distance will prevent the wounds from your father’s murder from reopening, but something stands in your way. You know that Marc never told you the truth, you know he hid things from you, maybe that’s why you can’t bring yourself to love him anymore, because he could never be honest,”

Tears glinted in the woman’s lash line as she looked at Marc, every word of his conviction true. She could never love Marc as she had once, never love him anything past nostalgia, an old memory she was learning to shake. But she’d had her suspicions, that he knew more about what had happened to her father than he’d told her, she saw it in the way he tensed every time she brought Abdallah up, he was a worse liar than he thought, or perhaps she had just known him that well.

“And Marc, you never told her because you knew that if you did, she’d see you exactly as you see yourself, as unworthy of the love she could have given you,” Marc’s glare could have melted Harrow to the bone as the older man approached, the glass in his shoes clinking wetly with his every footstep, seeming to enjoy this game of cat and mice he had with the trio already at odds with one another. It was like he was setting a fox into the hen house just to see them scramble.

“You piece of shit,” Marc hissed, his lip curled in anger as Harrow set his gaze slowly back to where Dove stood frozen in place, all too aware of how much he knew, of what he’d seen in her.

“Which brings us to the little pup,” He smiled, a chill running over her spine the moment it grew on his features, a lump balling in her throat, “She cowers in guilt every waking moment knowing if the two of you, if Steven heavens forbid, saw the real her, if you knew what she’d done before she was the meek little bird that worked at a gift shop, you’d be truly horrified. Dare I say, you’d hate her,”

She felt their eyes on her in an instant. Yet she couldn’t drag her horrified stare away from Harrow, who only watched her victoriously. She felt her legs shaking under her weight, weak and numbed from his revelation. There would be questions, there would be answers she couldn’t give. People she only ever visited in her sleep, others she ran from every second of the day.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” She croaked, her face tightening with the lump in her throat, eyes hot, lip trembling. Harrow just scoffed.

“Don’t I?” He leered closer to her, slipping the scarab back into his pocket, “Why don’t you tell your new beau what you did to the last man who had you?” He gestured to Anton who seemed to look her up and down, not with lust anymore. No, with caution. Wariness. Worry. He was scared of her. Disgusted. Her eyes chanced a glance at Marc and Layla who looked equally as perplexed, watching for her reaction. They couldn’t see, they weren’t allowed to see. They saw too much, saw right through her. They would hate her, they would leave her for dead.

She’d have to tell them what she’d done to him, to the man who’d put her there. How she’d made him pay for what he’d done to Grace, for taking her away from her family. How he was unrecognisable by the time she was finished with him.

She was back in that room, the window empty, the curtains shut. Grace was… she couldn’t even stomach the thought of it. Of her lying in that room alone, choking on air because of the white pills he’d given her as a reward, as if they were in need of a reward for their good behaviour. In need of anything to satiate them, keep them quiet long enough he would be able to keep them just a little longer.

She wished she’d never taken his number that first night, wished she’d stayed balancing her three jobs to make rent money instead of running after him ‘down the yellow brick road’ as he’d said. She had been in love at first, then she had been scared, terrified when she realised the monsters that lay in wait for her chomping at the bit, empty when she found out Grace had…

But now, now all she felt was anger.

The letters, the damn letters she asked Oz to send to her brothers, the ones where she poured her heart out with apologies, ‘I love you’s and ‘I want to come home’. The ones where she sent the money back to them, the money she’d earned, the whole reason she’d left them, went with Oz on blind faith, the money she stuck around for knowing she was keeping them afloat back home. The same damn letters she’d found stuffed into a duffel bag at the bottom of his wardrobe.

She had been looking for Grace’s things, he’d had her room cleaned by his men who seemed to know exactly what they were doing when moving a body out. She’d wanted just her cardigan, the lilac ones that made Grace’s eyes look like a bed of bluebells, that brought out the buttermilk tones of her blonde hair. She’d missed her more than usual this week.

Yet all she found was the letters, each one addressed to her brothers, money still inside the envelopes, never sent, never opened like he’d promised.

She was angrier than she even knew was possible to feel.

The past two years had meant nothing. She had let those men, those bastards do whatever they liked to her. Had crawled into Grace’s arms when they’d left, when the nights were longer. Had been his dog, his mutt, his puppet for two years; left her brothers, left Billie, with no explanation hoping the letters and the money would be enough to see them through, enough to keep the house and have their bellies filled, their feet warm. She had watched Grace get drained just as she was, had cried every tear, laughed every laugh, danced every step with her just to see her wither under his cruel hand, just to see her take a bad cocktail of painkillers and see herself out of the savage life they lived.

Grace, her sweet saving grace, gone. And it was because of him.

She remembered him coming home, remembered hearing his footsteps beating against the wooden stairs, hearing the second one from the top that squeaked under anyone's weight. She’d learned quickly how to get around this house where no one could hear her the way a doe steers clear from a hunting ground. It was nature, survival of the fittest.

She heard him huff, scratch his thick black hair as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. Oz, as known by his friends. Frank Osbourne, as known by his government. A dead man walking, as known by Dove.

He stepped into her room, the biggest bunch of flowers in his hands she’d ever seen. Red roses, cliche, the kind every man assumes his girlfriend wants. Oz plastered on a wide smile, too forced for her to appreciate, the coldness still in his eyes. She saw through his mask, his act. She saw how he seemed bored every second he pretended to care.

“Hey there, doll,” He leaned down to kiss her brow, shoving the roses into her lap as if he wanted rid of them already, “I got you these, you know just to cheer you up a bit after all this mess the past few weeks,”

“Mess?” She croaked, her dead eyes watching as he paced around her bed to open the curtains onto the night air. The abandoned hotel opposite had still yet to realise their Welcome sign was still blaring its neon red light after ten years of disuse. The ‘C’ and the final ‘E’ flickered every now and then, but other than that, the red poured into her dark room as if it were sat on her own bedside table.

Mess. As if Grace hadn’t been ripped from her arms whilst she screamed and wept and begged for her to stay. Don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone, you’re all I have left.

But now it was just the two of them.

Oz scoffed, her eyes following his figure that slumped on the bed, leaning down to undo his shoe laces. “Well, I was thinking,” He continued, “Since I let you have a few weeks off to pick yourself back up, I was thinking I could start taking you dancing again the way we did before? Find a new club? Get you another VIP lounge like at the Emerald so you could earn your keep,”

Before this house, when she’d met him. When he’d offered her a job as a barmaid. Given her his number on a little yellow slip, the red words “Follow the yellow brick road,” glittering back at her from his lapel pocket. True to his name, his club had been something out of a wonderland. The “Over the Rainbow” Gentleman’s club was tucked away below the streets of the town, away from prying eyes that would see through the glamour of the girls sold in red slippers. The VIP lounge, a room called The Emerald City, where the most expensive girls were expected to live up to their prices, where she’d served the parties alcohol, tidied when the girls were done, made sure they were all ready for their next show. That was how it had started.

Then his plans changed. Then he’d forced her into the ruby red heels, put her to work for him. Sold her to the highest bidder of the night. And worst of all, he’d convinced her it was a good idea, made her think it was all her own purpose.

She smiled emptily at him, reaching under the bed to grab the straps on the duffel bag. In one swift movement, she chucked the bag onto the duvet in front of him, the weight of her letters, her words that carried her every apology she’d uttered in the last two years, the weight of a girl missing home.

“Earn my keep?” She sneered, watching his handsome face stare down at the bag with a calculating coldness. “Why have you not sent these? That money was for my brothers- you said-”

“Now let’s not get hysterical, doll.” He held his hands up to stop her in her angered state, “I didn’t send those letters because I knew people would come after you. And I couldn’t risk losing my most prized possession because of some high school dropouts and that pill popping little brother of yours-”

That was when she had lost it. Her brothers had been through shit and back, and Mikey had picked up the same awful habit their mother had, but he was her brother. She would let him do what he liked with her, but she drew a line in the sand at her littlest boy.

Before she’d even known she had it in her, she’d thrown a fist at his face, hit him square across his cheekbone. Sammy always told her to aim for the nose or the chin, that boy was always getting into scraps, but she didn’t care. She felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she grunted with the effort.

“I would choose all of them a million times over if it meant being away from you,” She yelled, her breaths coming out in rattled gasps, “I don’t care about the money, I don’t care about you, everything I ever loved is gone and it’s because of you-”

She wished she’d been more prepared for the retaliation, but she still felt the vitriol wave of shock as his hand came across her face in a loud slapping sound.

“Because of you, my girl,” Oz spat, launching himself to grab her by her top, dragging her towards him as if she was a ragdoll, “I have only ever been good to you. You were nothing when I found you, remember?” She felt the tears brewing as his voice roared in her face, her brows furrowed in vicious anger, “Nothing, you were a street rat. You could barely afford to eat with that lot dog piling on you for your wages,”

“You say that like you’re any better, Oz,” She spat back. There was a single second where she saw the expressionless face turn, turn into something dark, something hateful.

It was all a blur from then, a harder hit striking her face, shoving her into the huge vanity mirror, her temple colliding with the glass. It smashed on its impact, shards spraying around her, littering her messy desk with tiny glints that looked like red stars in the light of the hotel sign.

She felt the dribble of blood from her hairline, the thickness of it rolling down her cheek like a cardinal honey, though the bitter metallic smell hit her faster than the pain. She was sure she was in shock, she felt numb to the prickling pain of the gash, though she doubted she’d ever feel anything deeper than the torment of knowing her life was gone. Knowing Grace was never coming back, that she could never go back home. It was gone, irreplaceably gone. No amount of rough hands or vile words could cut so deep as the aloneness she felt.

They stared at one another for a moment, her slumped over her desk, just about able to lean herself on her hands, meeting his abhorrent gaze in the mirror.

“I suggest you quit acting up, girl, or next time I won’t be so forgiving,” He spat, turning his back to her to begin unbuttoning his jacket, a huff passing his lips as if she had worn his patience thin, “Take of your clothes and make yourself useful, why don’t you?”

Her lip curled in anger, her reflection looking back at her as she tore her gaze away from his muscled back, ignoring the way he worked on unbuckling his belt, knowing what he wanted.

He wanted her to forget, to pretend as though she wasn’t torturing herself every moment of the day thinking about what she had lost. Looking at herself then in the mirror of the vanity, truly seeing what she’d become, the glass that seemed about as broken as her spirit distorting her view. It was no longer just Grace or her brothers or her job or her life that was gone. She had lost herself. She was not a person anymore but a shell, a phantom. A dead girl walking. She and Grace had always been two sides of the same coin.

She was nothing. He was right. She was nothing.

Her eyes were sunken, cold, dead. She wondered if it had been her who had overdosed in the next room with how ill she looked, smaller than normal. Weaker. Stony. Her skin was lifeless, her hair thinning. Her lips were dry, her eyes glassy. She looked like a corpse. A doll. A mannequin.

She was nothing.

She watched the blood trickle down to her jaw, tinier cuts from the glass shrapnel beginning to pucker and weep their own fresh redness, looking like crimson freckles.

She was nothing.

He lay back on the bed, his trousers slid down to his ankles to reveal a plain pair of grey boxers, his manhood barely concealed as he reached into her bedside cabinet and grabbed himself a cigarette and a lighter.

She was nothing.

“Well then?” He prompted, the white stick waggling between his pink lips as he spoke, “You gonna do as you’re told, my girl, or do you need another smack of the face to knock sense into ya’?”

And then she thought of every one of Grace’s laughs. She thought of the girl's heartbeat against her own whenever they hugged. She thought of the way she was so kind, so sweet on her. She thought of how Grace always had a way of fixing her bruises inside and out. She thought of every one of her freckles, how her eyes always seemed to be watching her with adoration. And then it was taking her brothers to school, the nights she stayed up with Joey to do homework, even though he was the smartest kid she’d ever known. It was Christmas, oh how she loved Christmas once, when they’d each scrimp to get each other something decent, it was the way her brothers pitched in to get her a bike she didn’t have the heart to tell them she couldn’t ride. It was the socks Mikey tried to knit her, that her pinky toe stuck out of on both sides. It was cooking them all breakfast before she went to work at her cleaning job, making sure not a child left her house on an empty stomach like she had when she was their age. It was her and Sammy dragging Dad in from the porch chair when he’d had one too many. It was Matty bringing home Billie the first time, the feeling of holding the tiniest little girl with the thickest hair. A child bringing her a child. It was dancing with the toddler in the kitchen, her soft feet stood on her own as she hummed Billy Joel’s Vienna. It was Mum and Dad when they were young and happy, when the boys had been small and Mum had been to rehab and seemed to stick to her promises for a few years at least. It was the day they went on their first and last family holiday, the day her and the boys had played on the beach until their little legs were sore and their tummies aching from laughing. The ice cream that stuck to their face, the salt that dried on their skin.

She was nothing anymore.

She was nothing but angry.

Vengeful.

She was a savage let loose.

Reaching over her desk, her dead eyes looking back at themselves, her fingers wrapped around a long shard of glass that had split off, toppling onto the wooden surface with a delicate clink, ignoring the way it cut into her own skin painfully.

She was nothing but chaos.

–

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[goatbeard-goatbeard]

Sure, Aziraphale lives in Soho and is THE southern pansy. But I’ve met multiple people in my own neighborhood who match Crowley’s exact description:

older trans/gnc person

military vet

living in their car

I cannot stress enough what a common combo that is, particularly for older trans folks. In my area, you can see the split between people who transitioned 10+ years ago vs. now, what kinds of experiences they had. There’s still a ways to go, but things have gotten dramatically better.

If you want to make things better even faster, vote in local elections.*

(that’s right, you’ve been tricked into reading a ✨🗳️ Voting Post 🗳️✨! Discover your civic obligations, fool!)

But seriously though, local politicians have TONS of influence on housing policy, and they really don’t hide their opinions. Even if their housing plans are awful, they’ll be easy to find on their campaign website.

They actually want to advertise those shitty plans, because those shitty plans are aimed at homeowners. Homeowners (1) have a stable address and (2) often worry about their home value. Both those factors make them super reliable voters.

Unfortunately, the “but my home value” folks always get riled up by low/no-cost housing. They’ll say it’s about “the character of the neighborhood”, but really, any increase in housing supply impacts the demand for their home investment. They also don’t want people visibly sleeping outside, so the combined effect is a neighborhood that blocks housing and harasses people for the crime of… peacefully sleeping in their car.

Whatever housing makes it through will often be too far away from necessary amenities or too busy/loud for folks with multiple overlapping traumas, whether from family or the jobs they took to get away from family (e.g. military).

But again, this is all very local politics, so you can outvote the Home Values crowd with a little bit of organizing!

For example: after voting, share your notes with your friends.** You have to research the candidates anyway, so why not pass around a little voter guide when you’re done?

List who you’re voting for in each position, and what info you saw that made you pick/avoid each person (this will also make your life easier the next time that person’s up for election). Even a very basic, bullet-point list can be the difference between someone forgetting the election date and filling out their entire ballot.*** Now instead of 1 vote, you’re moving a small handful of votes, which can have a big impact in local elections.

Also, creating a voter guide is surprisingly fun. There are some real characters in local politics, and you get to dunk on all their wacky policy ideas in your notes. An official voter guide will never say “<candidate name>: wtffffffffff”. But yours can!

*remember that local elections may happen more often than big-ticket elections. Search “<city name> election dates” and put reminders in your phone for a couple weeks before important deadlines, so you have time to research stuff.

**especially younger friends who may be less confident about voting their whole ballot, or unaware of different deadlines.

***this is one of the reasons why Christian conservatives are overrepresented in politics — they’re inherently organized because they already meet weekly (or more). It’s very easy for them to remind each other to vote. But we can steal this strategy! Don’t have a megachurch? That’s ok, remind your discord server to vote. Don’t have a Bible study? That’s ok, remind your D&D group, your boardgame group, or your knitting circle to vote.

[yasubloodly]

Just Us

Chapter 1: Bentley's Owner

Good Omens x GN Reader

Sypnosis: Moving into a new place will never be easy but making new friends especially with an angel and a demon?

Who knows.

A/N: Decided to post it here too. Uh this is my first time posting here.

(Y/N) - Your Name

(H/C) - Hair Color

(E/C) - Eyes Color 

(Y/F/N) - Your Full Name

(S/C) - Skin Color

.

.

.

Over the years, Soho evolved and adapted. It became a haven for the creative minds that flocked to its streets. Musicians, writers, and artists found solace and inspiration in its coffeehouses and underground clubs. The melodies of jazz, soul, and rock 'n' roll filled the air, drawing both the curious locals and the adventurous tourists to its lively margins.

Beyond its artistic allure, Soho pulsates with culinary delights. From hidden speakeasies to renowned Michelin-starred restaurants, its diverse array of flavors tantalizes the taste buds. Soho is an epicurean's paradise, inviting food enthusiasts from all walks of life to explore its gastronomic offerings.

The neighborhood cherishes its working-class heritage, weaving the stories of the past with the energetic rhythm of the present. Traditional pubs frequented by laborers still stand proudly on street corners, their wooden interiors echoing with laughter and tales of days gone by.

Soho may be a small corner of London, but its spirit is immeasurable. It is a place where creativity knows no bounds, a hub of artistic expression and cultural revolution. The legacy it leaves on those who venture through its vibrant streets is one of inspiration and acceptance.

(Y/N) has been living in a big city their whole life, so moving to Soho was a dream come true. Even though they were excited, the hustle and bustle of the city was intimidating and overwhelming. They started to wander around and got lost in the busy street.

As they were trying to orient themselves , something caught their eye. It was a grand old Bentley, parked across the street. (Y/N) was mesmerized by it. The car was sleek and elegant, totally different from anything they ever owned and different from anything they’ve seen before.

The Bentley’s owner was leaning against the car, with his fiery red hair and a black jacket. He remained stern-faced despite the chaos brewing in his mind as he leaned against his sleek Bentley, his gaze fixed at the vintage little bookshop across the street. Even though (Y/N) had made eye contact with the Bentley owner twice, the person never responded which made them feel like they weren’t welcomed.

(Y/N) couldn’t peel their eyes away from the beauty of the Bentley. To them, the car was much more than a vehicle, it was a symbol of adventure. With that car they could travel the world, explore different places and meet people from all kinds of backgrounds. It was a dream come true.

(Y/N) already knew that living in Soho was going to be an amazing experience. They simply had to take this opportunity and make something of it. With that thought in their head, (Y/N) smiled.

"What?" The man spat out impolitely. 

(Y/N) flinched.

"Excuse me...hello, I'm really sorry for staring. You have such a lovely Bentley, I can't help but to stare" (Y/N) awkwardly stumbled not only on their words but on the steps too, talking to a stranger in a place you don't know can be dangerous. Slowly, (Y/N) walks to him but stay a few feets away from him.

"Oh, also I'm new around here so I don't actually know what to do besides walking around..umm" (Y/N) whispered to themselves, Crowley could barely hear them. 

(Y/N) does not want to make a weird first impression to Crowley. Their soft (H/C) hair bounce from every steps they are taking. 

Crowley was bored and a bit hungry. But the human seemed rather polite. (Y/N) had that innocent puppy dog look on their face. Maybe the human wasn't so bad after all, especially because they admired his car. 

He raised an eyebrow at them, wondering why they were approaching him. He didn't want to be bothered by someone looking for directions or something similar. 

However, he still asked, "Are you lost?" Maybe he could give them false directions, he smirked internally.

"Oh! No no... I'm not lost actually. I'm new to this area. I'm just hanging around here. I did visit some shops and uhh that coffee shop behind me, it was good! " (Y/N) directed their finger towards the coffee shop behind them. 

Their bright (E/C) eyes squinted, they smiled awkwardly or perhaps nervously. Their shoulders dropped as both of their hands are at the sides. 

"Hmm, new here. I don't know anyone that looks quite like you," Crowley muttered, looking them up and down. Their nervousness amused him, he was sure he could annoy them even more. 

He looked at them with a serious expression on his face, "What's your name?"

"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! I'm (Y/F/N) , pleasure meeting you umm... " (Y/N) trailed off, trying to get Crowley to tell his own name. 

"Crowley." He said his name with a straight face, even though he was slightly entertained by the conversation.

Then he smirked, and his voice rang with a bit of sarcasm, "Pleasure is all mine," he said, even though he didn't really think that. "Oh, and are you some kind of exotic tourist around here, (Y/N) ?"

He knew (Y/N) just move into here since they mentioned it earlier but he decided to tease them even more. 

Flush creeps across their (S/C) cheeks. Their (E/C) eyes widen for a second before shifting glances all around the streets. "Uh... I'm a freelancer, I move into this neighborhood just to get some fresh air. It looks nice here" They flashes a smile to Crowley as they nervously tucked one hair behind their ear. 

"How about you Mr. Crowley? What are you doing here, I guess you're not new here like me since you look like you're seems to park your car here every days" questioned (Y/N) . 

"Oh, are you trying to figure out my secrets?" He asked with a smirk. "I've got some time to kill, so I thought I'd come and see if my best friend is in the shop."

He gestured in the direction of the shop. "I'm never far from him," he said with a little smile. "I have nothing better to do. I'm so bored. I wish I could fall through a crack in the world to a more exciting world." 

He looked at (Y/N) with a bit of curiosity. "Are you enjoying this part of the world?"

It was indeed a strange question, someone that you don't even know and meeting them for only a few seconds just ask you that. What does he wants? Is he trying to be friendly or just curious. 

(Y/N) glances at the bookshop Crowley gestured to, their eyes sparked as soon as they saw the shop. "Ohh! I would love to visit the bookshop, I was supposed to go there just to look around and introduce myself but I'm taking my time out here. Probably just me been nervous" (Y/N) chuckled. 

They turned back to look at Crowley "I do actually enjoy the world, there's a lot of stuff to be discovered! I get to do things that I enjoy too! " beamed (Y/N). Their smile widen at the thought of enjoying life with everything that they have. 

"It just so happens that my best friend works in that very charming little bookshop." He couldn't help himself, and grinned at (Y/N)'s excitement about the bookshop. 

"Is it really that exciting for you?" He asked, a bit amused. 

"Are you perhaps a fan of books, then?" Crowley wondered, because he himself enjoyed a good book every once in a while. But he was sure that there were many things more entertaining to do than reading. Or so he thought.

"I love books! It's just the smell of books got me feeling gleeful. Besides reading books, I also love listening to music especially when I'm drawing or reading. How about you Mr. Crowley, do you enjoy them as well? "  curiously, they look at Crowley in anticipation. 

"Hmm, you seem like a bit of a nerd," he teased. 

"Yes, I might enjoy books and music too," he said with a small smile. His grin widened, and he glanced at (Y/N) in a way that made they feel as if he was looking right through them. He always found it amusing to see someone blush, and he was sure (Y/N)'s face was starting to get a little pink. 

He took a breath and then asked, "Speaking of music, what kind of music do you like?"

(Y/N) let out a soft breathe laugh "To be honest, I love music like Queen but not a lot of people seems to enjoy it. Quite rare if I must say" They crossed their arms as they crinkles their nose. 

Crowley grinned when (Y/N) started to talk about their favorite band. He loved Queen, and he was actually quite surprised that they mentioned them.

"Queen? Really?" He asked. "I also really enjoy them, they're one of my all time favorites!"

The demon gave a loud laughter and then said, "I never thought that I would ever find someone in a place like this that enjoys music even half as much as I do!"

He looked at (Y/N) , and then added with a flirtatious edge in his voice, "Perhaps you and I aren't so different after all."

(Y/N) giggles, they hums a bit " Perhaps we aren't, Mr. Crowley " they winked. 

"Well, it was nice meeting you Mr. Crowley. I guess... I better go now. That bookshop of your good friend has been intriguing me for almost hours" They look down at their black leather watch, wrapping nicely around their left wrist. 

(Y/N) look up back to Crowley, smiling softly "Unless you wouldn't mind to walk me there and introduce me to your friend? " 

Crowley was surprised by their sudden flirtatiousness. Were they really flirting with him? A human, flirting with him? He liked it. 

"Of course I don't mind," he said with a smirk. "I don't want you to get lost. And it makes me happy to make you happy by introducing you to my friend," he replied with a charming smile. 

He started to walk towards the bookshop. It was almost time for closing, and he was hoping that his best friend was still around.

Before they could even reach to the bookshop. Crowley halted. He was hit by a strong sense of urgency, his heart rate increasing rapidly. He immediately stopped walking, turning to look at (Y/N) with a serious expression on his face.

(Y/N) looked at Crowley in concerned " Is something ma-"

"Something is wrong," he said in a low voice. "I have to go back."

He knew that something important had to happen to disturb him, but as always, his curiosity got the better of him. He decided to at least have a look, maybe it'd be worth it.

He quickly started to walk in the opposite direction, trying to ignore all of the people staring at him and wondering what the heck was going on.

Crowley let out a sigh. "Oh, for Go- ugh, what is it now?!" His face suddenly changed to an angry, annoyed gaze. 

Crowley stopped for a moment and turned to (Y/N). They seemed confused about his abrupt behavior, but there was really nothing he could do about it.

He said, "I'm sorry for taking up your time, but something urgent has come up, something I can't ignore."

Crowley then turned and ran as fast as he could, disappearing out of sight around the corner and leaving (Y/N) all by themselves with no idea what the heck just happened.

(Y/N) watched Crowley's Bentley disappeared as he drives away from there. They already at the bookshop door so they don't mind at all. Crowley business seems rather urgent so they don't really want to bother him. Crowley was an interesting man, wearing all black and his red colored hair stood out even more. 

(Y/N) shook their head, turning around to face the fascinating bookshop that they have been wanting to go inside. They took a deep breath, they look through the glass on the door, trying to find the mentioned friend of Crowley.

.

.

.

A/N: I'm so sorry that they might be a bit OOC but I've been dying on creating a GO fanfic and finally after 2 seasons 😭 decided to write one. Anyways, reader is non binary,

I'll update new chapter whenever I can so please do not put too much hope on me. At first I wanted to write this as one shots but decided to make it a series. Thank you for reading it!

I might not be a big fan of Queen but I love them🧡

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Kate narrating a documentary about bee-keeping and honeymaking? Earthshot giving us a 6 episode documentary series about their winners narrated by Cate Blanchett or a 2-hour special about Cape Town and South Africa (and every Earthshot city) by David Attenborough or a local expert? A 30-minute travel program about Cornwall by the Duchy of Cornwall? 3-minute YouTube videos about their charities and patronages produced by the people who work there or who benefit from services posted ahead of their visits? William narrating a documentary about his homeless initiative in Cornwall? A summer exhibition in KP’s display hall of Kate’s dresses or a Kate-curated show of the Royal Collection or loans from her patronages?

Yes, yes, and yes!!!! William and Catherine really are the first gen of royals to belong wholly to the social media generation. They should use it’s global reach much more expansively and more expertly. 

For Catherine: yes to beekeeping lol! Show the children - during small, limited vignettes - helping her. Further though, she has a degree in Art History. The BRF/RCT has a priceless art collection, most of it largely unseen/unknown by the greater public. Pair these two gems together in some (“fun yet informative”) documentaries…even a series. Same for the BRF photo collection. The BRF has been photographed by iconic photographers…Cecil Beaton, Richard Avedon (D/Dss of Windsor lol), Annie Leibowitz, Mario Testino (those stunning Diana photos). Sure, some of it’s been done before, but let the people see these treasures again in an updated modern media presentation - interspersed/“edited” :) with pertinent film footage and interviews - and hosted by Catherine.

And not just the BRF art/photography treasures, but ditto for their fashion (an entire series in itself!), jewelry/tiaras (what exactly IS inside the Royal Vault, anyway, hiding unseen?), castles/palaces/homes (let’s see inside Balmoral, Sandringham, Kensington, Adelaide Cottage (limited access), Frogmore House - but minus Frog Cott…we already know what Soho House design looks like, although Frog Cott cemetery might be informative…), priceless antique furniture, properties/gardens, horse stables and animals, even their vehicles (rare carriages, automobiles, boats, aircraft)! How about a documentary on the Royal Ballet, hosted by Catherine and Charlotte, w footage included of Granny Diana at the RB? Each of these categories could easily fill an episode, presented by C. The catch, of course, would be to present all of this “to the people” in a way that doesn’t scream “let y'all eat cake!” but rather “this is yours, be proud of its beauty and history, which also is yours” ala Jackie Kennedy at the White House.

And separately from the above “fine arts” themes, yes, let’s also see much more in-depth coverage - by William and Catherine - of their charities and the bts work/progress involved, especially as related to Early Years research and work!

For William: yes to a documentary tour and inside look at the Duchy of Cornwall (that is much larger than just Cornwall lol)! William could pilot the helicopter - filmed up-close-and-personal inside the cockpit - as he takes us on the tour, with on-the-ground coverage as well, of course. And YES to expanded coverage of Earthshot and the ongoing progress of its winners (and nominees). Show the people what innovations Earthshot is catalyzing. This also has the built in advantage of appealing to youth, diversity/CW, and cutting edge climate change concerns….ie, the future. BTW tie in Earthshot with the Duchy of Cornwall and show us how the Duchy is incorporating climate change initiatives…organic farming, wind power, sustainability, re-planting, etc.

All of this could be widely and easily disseminated to a large, young, global audience both on social media/KP youtube and via media networks (ITV, BBC, etc.). Get busy, William and Catherine! Make your impending future reign a glorious one, a British Renaissance! (From an American fan with British ancestry)

*********

My hope is for Kate to include the kids in one of her promo videos for her Christmas carol service. I’d love to see them decorating a tree together or baking holiday cookies while they’re still young and small(ish).

[rogue-bard]

Fandom: Good Omens Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: The history of Aziraphale's bookshop through Yelp reviews, POV Outsider, Epistolary, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Comedy, Canon Compliant

Maggie opened a Yelp-page for Aziraphale's bookshop.

These are the stories that outsiders shared about the store, Aziraphale, Aziraphale's relationships, an eventual falling out, and a subsequent happy-end. Apart from following the plot of Good Omens 1 and 2 and ending that with a happy end, there is also something that you can loosely categorise as a comedic subplot about some internet conspiracy theorists making Aziraphale out to be a cryptid and trying to find out what's real.

Chapter 8 is out and Aziraphale might need to apologize to Shadwell. Maybe he did have the right shop, back then? Why does all of London think that the bookshop is the place to be if you’re handsome and kinky? (It might have to do with the naked gentleman and the all-white police person that were seen walking into it...)

[majnoonathelibrarian]

Good Works Chapter 5: If I Only Had the Nerve

 Good Works Written by Majnoona

CW: Internalized homophobia, Historical homophobia. Poor coping skills, Minor mention of food and alcohol for comfort

Rating M for future chapters. These will be (skippable) self contained sections. Tags will be added as we get there, as well as per chapter warnings.

Summary:

It's 1987 London and anti-gay sentiment is on the rise ahead of the government's push to pass Section 28 to prohibited the "promotion of homosexuality" by local authorities -- including banning books and education in schools.

Anthony Crowley takes advantage of his past life as a cog in the government machine (but don't ask him to talk about it) and his free time due to a "complicated" current employment situation to help support the SoHo gay and lesbian community.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale Fell, current Assistant Parliamentary Secretary, has stumbled into an environmental disaster that no one seems to want to deal with -- or is a cover-up? Could the Environment Secretary even be involved? Could this really be part of Her (Margret Thatcher’s) Plan?

Why do Crowley and Fell keep running into each other -- literally? Is it just romantic fate bringing together two middle aged "confirmed bachelors" who thought it was too late to find love, or is there some other connection? Will they figure it out? (Are they sure they want to?)

Excerpt:

The streetlights were flickering on by the time Aziraphale made his way back to his neighbourhood. He swayed slightly on his feet as he waited for the light to change, stomach grumbling with a nagging emptiness. The world pushed and poked from all sides – the honking of horns, a radio blaring through an open window, faces coming in and out of focus on the busy sidewalk. 

He needed a very large glass of water, would telephone for some delivery– maybe from that new Indian place– and then he was most definitely opening a bottle of wine. At the very least…

Continue reading on AO3

Or start from chapter 1 - The 24 Hour Print Shop, July 1987

Special thanks to the best first beta you could possibly hope for: On1occasionfork

@goodomensafterdark @on1occasionfork

[world-of-wales]

THE WALES DIARIES ♚

4 MAY 2023 || The Dog & Duck Pub, Soho

The Prince and Princess of Wales walked from the distance from Tottenham Court Road to the Dog & Duck pub in Soho.

They visited the Dog & Duck Pub to hear how it's preparing for the coronation weekend from members of staff and to meet representatives from other hospitality and recreation businesses in the area.

William and Catherine talked to managers from local businesses expecting a boom in trade this weekend with extended opening hours for pubs and bars, music and other events. Among them were representatives from nearby Ronnie Scott's jazz club, the Prince Edward Theatre, Bar Italia, and the Randall and Aubin restaurant.

They were then accompanied by pub managers Chris Watts and Maria Sojkova behind the bar, where William poured a 'perfect pint' as per Bernie Kidson, the shift supervisor. This was the first pint of Kingmaker, a pale ale brewed to celebrate the coronation

Following their visit they spent time meeting well-wishers and posing for selfies with them, many of whom were foreign tourists who are in London for the Coronation.

[stephensmithuk]

The criminal courts of late Victorian England

Edit: I have made some slight corrections. CW for discussion of crimes, courts etc.

****

This does not cover Scotland, which has a rather different system. I believe it covered Wales as well.

In the 1890s, there were three types of courts someone charged with a crime could end up.

Police Court (London)/Petty Sessions Court (outside London)

These were based in each of the 'hundreds', the traditional divisions of the counties used for administrative purposes for much of the second millennium.

This is what the Essex hundreds looked like in 1832:

I live in the area of the Havering Liberty, then rural and now very much suburban, being part of the London Borough of Havering.

Chafford Hundred's name survives in that of the railway station that serves the Lakeside shopping centre and the Romford to Upminster Overground line will now be called the Liberty line. There is also a Liberty shopping centre in Romford and a Royal Liberty School.

The boundaries changed over time - as towns grew bigger, they would get their own 'petty sessional district'.

The Royal Liberty of Havering was an autonomous area of Essex, with its own courts and special exemptions from certain taxes.

Being a pretty small area with a low population before a housing boom in the 20th century, its existence was seen as an anachronism and it was on its way out in 1891; it would be fully incorporated into Essex the following year.

Romford's court in any event was located with the County Court on South Street, just north of the Great Eastern Railway station (still in use, but heavily changed inside). Looking at the historical maps, I think there's a Slug & Lettuce on the site now. The police station was close by; there may have been a tunnel linking the two buildings, but I would have to confirm that.

Anyway, these courts dealt with misdemeanours, with cases tried by one or more Justices of the Peace aka magistrates. JPs were generally unpaid and so they would often be people who could afford to do this stuff in their spare time. They'd often be local notables, like the main landowners, a rich doctor, a local priest, or someone who ran a factory. This may well have caused issues in bias.

This included things like:

A drunken punch-up outside a pub.

Domestic violence.

"Your dog bit my servant."

"You drove your cart too fast and collided with my shop window."

Solicitation i.e. prostitutes seeking business on the street.

Shoplifting, pickpocketing, burglary, and various low-level theft/fraud cases.

"You said in the newspaper I paid young men for sex" (Criminal libel, which is what Oscar Wilde charged the Marquess of Queensbury with via a private prosecution - and we know how that ended for him)

The JPs would try the case, decide on guilt or innocence, then decide any punishment; I believe the maximum possible sentence was six months. Solicitors would represent defendants.

Havering had exactly three JPs. The crime rate was pretty low in this rural area.

This 1887 article covers the workings of one London police court:

This court in Soho, which closed in 1998 and is now The Courthouse Hotel, would see a few famous names in the dock, including John Lennon (for indecency over an art exhibition, case dismissed), two Rolling Stones (fined for drugs possession) and Bob Monkhouse (for illegally importing films, acquitted at the Old Bailey).

They also served as the place for the first court appearances of people going to the higher courts like...

Quarter Sessions

These sat at the seats of each county and each county borough. The latter included places like Oxford and in the case of Essex, Southend-on-Sea after 1914.

Havering had its own quarter sessions until 1892 - the three JPs also doing these; it would then be merged into Essex. This caused a few jurisdictional issues when Essex courts charged men for crimes alleged in Havering and some cases got quashed for that reason.

For Essex, the Quarter Sessions were held at Shire Hall in Chelmsford; this closed entirely in 2012 and is now being redeveloped. In 2024, it featured in the Channel 4 documentary series The Jury: Murder Trial.

They were traditionally held four times a year - hence the name. Unless you could put up the sureties required for bail, you were going to gaol, at least until the next session. Romford had a small gaol, but it was generally more convenient to send people to Chelmsford, where the prison still operates.

Quarter sessions dealt with more serious felony cases, like armed robbery, serious assault, poaching and forging banknotes. Cases were presided over by two or more JPs, with a jury making the decision on guilt or innocence.

By 1891, most of the administrative functions of magistrates had gone to the new County Councils, but they still dealt with alcohol licence applications.

However, these courts could not deal with capital-level offences, at this point pretty much reduced to murder, treason, and piracy. These would be handled at:

Assizes

Happening twice a year in each county, these also dealt with civil matters, which are outside the remit of this post. Since these dealt with capital crimes, bail was pretty unlikely.

The country was split into six judical circuits with professional judges travelling around between the courts, often accompanied by barristers. This might sound pretty familiar to American readers; Abraham Lincoln was a circuit lawyer in Illinois and the US court system remains divided into circuits, but the judges don't ride on horses anymore. Insert your own jokes here about the judge of your choice.

Essex fell under the Home Circuit along with four other nearby counties - Middlesex had been joined up with the City of London by this point. This appears not to be linked to the term "Home Counties", which covers some areas outside.

Once the judges arrived, they would impanel juries and try all the cases before them. Only barristers could represent defendants here, I believe - a solicitor would instruct a barrister if a client were facing the Assizes.

The historical Havering gallows had been near Gallows Corner, but it had stopped being used by 1815. Gallows Corner is now home to a notorious roundabout. Chelmsford was where hangings for Essex took place.

In summary

If you punched someone in London, you'd go to the police court.

If you broke their leg, you'd go to the quarter sessions.

If you killed them, you'd go to the Assizes and quite possibly soon to the highest court of them all.

The end of the system

In 1972, this system was abolished. The petty sessions courts became magistrate's courts, with the quarter sessions and assizes combined to form Crown Courts.

Romford Magistrate's Court today sits on Main Road, next door to the police station and in close proximity to Havering's Town Hall. It covers cases in the surrounding areas to Havering as well.

The nearest Crown Court is at Snaresbrook - it's the biggest in the country with no less than 20 courtrooms.

[lillyhasaspoon]

♥ June 14- Free day; “The Geeks and Dorks Gone Pro”

Our free day! After spending the previous day learning the ins and outs of London’s public transportation, currency rates, and local areas, we were free to hit the road.

Okay, I wouldn’t say we knew the ins and outs of transportation just yet. After a few bus reroutes, we ended up at our first stop: Frith Street Tattoo. My little group of four (Zahir, Grace, Brandon and I) with the exception of Brandon, left this place with wonderful insight from our artists and new masterpieces to add to our ink collection. My artist, Marina, was actually from the states. It was neat to hear about how she wound up here (one of the other artists actually had connections to Jacksonville! Small world!) and how different the life here can be.

About 90 minutes later, we emerged above ground into the depths of Soho. We meandered a bit, seeing a lot of ties to Amy Winehouse in the shops around. We looked at the parks, architecture, and shops. Once we got our fill, we were off to Brick Lane.

For some reason I kept deciding to navigate and we ended up at White Chapel. This area was rich with bustling markets and crowds, and was actually the setting of the famous Jack the Ripper. That didn’t freak me out, not one bit. We walked from there to Brick Lane (about 25 minutes.. Whoops.)

Brick Lane was gorgeous. Every corner was covered in graffiti, and was honestly not as busy as I was expecting. There were many cute shops, and we ended up eating in a very nice Italian restaurant. Brandon and I got scolded for cutting our pasta.

With full stomachs we took the tube back to the hotel and saw more of our classmates and ended up exploring the Camden area, unfazed by the misty nighttime.

To conclude, I had a blast with my group. We discussed anything and everything, laughing the whole time. We took every chance to talk to the locals around us and learn as much as we can. I definitely would love to revisit the Brick Lane area someday. A wonderful success!

@danielcronrath

@grcetylr @comafloods @livingingloworld

[winterrain-11]

Drinking on a Sunday Afternoon

Inspired by a comic by @hollisartsblog

Crowley was — as he was most Sunday nights — piss drunk. He thought it a harmless way to spite the Almighty in a way that wouldn’t earn him accolades in hell. Plus, he got to be inebriated, which was always a fun time along with letting him feel a bit more human.

Aziraphale occasionally joined him — not in the blasphemy aspect, but in the inconsequential indulgence. Plus, Sundays were their date nights (they had finally started calling them dates recently, after around 80 years of having weekly fine-dining excursions, it was impossible NOT to see them as dates) and they usually started lightly drinking at dinner either way. Sooner or later, a bottle of shared Pinot Noir turned into two, then an added whiskey back at the bookshop, then a few weeks later two whiskeys and so it continued.

This particular night, the pair had drank several glasses of sherry at a local Italian restaurant a few blocks from A.Z. Fell & Co on their recent spout of acquainting themselves with the local businesses. (this was all the Angel’s idea of course, but it brought a smile to Aziraphale’s face and that was all it needed to do to drag Crowley along). After a few hours of banter and a few spilled glasses, they were properly tipsy. The two stumbled along the dimly lit Soho sidewalk, leaning on one another and laughing at long forgotten jokes, hands intertwined with one another.

Back at the bookshop, Crowley immediately sauntered towards the liquor cabinet, pulling out a still-sealed bottle of a dark bourbon like one would pull a rabbit out from a hat. Aziraphale let out a noise that could only be described as a groan of hesitant enthusiasm, slouching back further onto the old leather couch he had made his way onto.

“Eh?” Crowley did a drunken little jig, the contents of the bottle sloshing around as he attempted to gain the Angel’s approval, “Wha’d'ya say, Angel?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, a slight smile forming on his lips, “I don’t see why not. Give ‘er here, dear boy.”

The Angel conjured two whiskey glasses with the wave of a hand, taking the bottle from the Demon, who had thrown himself onto the couch next to Aziraphale, legs swinging up and over the arm of it and his own arm draped around his Angel. He poured them both a glass, Crowley prompting a silent toast as he raised his glass with a smirk before downing the liquor along with Aziraphale.

One glass turned to two, then three, and halfway through this third glass is where Aziraphale stopped. Crowley continued on, the Angel – though satisfied himself – not wanting to snuff his Demon’s fun.

~~

A few hours later, Aziraphale was slouched further down the couch, still sweating from the alcohol, feeling heavy and slow within his inebriation. Crowley, however, was currently trying not to spill his fifth glass and failing at being coherent.

“C’mon, y’know, the… the thing!” Crowley slurred, elbowing Aziraphale, “”s the bugger’s name? The fucking – the thing!”

Aziraphale, having not a single clue what ‘the thing’ could be, moved the Demon’s hand from his shoulder, “Dear, I think you should sober up a bit.”

“Nah,” Crowley pulled Aziraphale close into a side hug, the Angel’s shoulders scrunching up to his ears as he was shaken like a sickly, extremely intoxicated maraca, “Nah, ‘aving fun here with you.”

Aziraphale cracked an uncomfortable smile, “That’s very kind, dear. But no more to drink for you. Shall we possibly call it a night?”

“Agh, Angel, the fun was just beginning!” the Demon hissed, moving his hand to graze Aziraphale’s jaw with this thumb.

Aziraphale raised his brow, confused but intrigued by the gesture. Before he could respond, Crowley began again, “You’re dashing, you know that? Always loved that bow tie of yours. Compliments your eyes.”

Aziraphale scoffed, lazily shooing the Demon with his hand and he turned to hide his blush, “Oh hush, you old serpent. When did you become a sentimental drunk?”

“Dunno, but ‘s true! You’re a strapping young laddie if I’ve ever seen one,” the Demon drunkenly lifted himself off of the couch, “A fine man worthy of a courtship I reckon,” he lazily bowed, leaning to grab Aziraphale’s hand, “I have a modest dowry of ten chickens and a three-legged goat if you’ll have me.”

Aziraphale chuckled, pulling himself up from the couch, grabbing Crowley’s other hand and pulling them both face to face, “Oh, what a deal. I’ll have to consider it.”

“Oh, whatever shall I do to win your affections?” Crowley dipped, hand to his forehead in a sarcastic sigh.

“Well, certainly not prance around a drunken fool,” the Angel teased, steadying his Demon, “Perhaps sober up a bit and I’ll be more inclined.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale closer by his hips, his expression suddenly softened and he kissed Aziraphale on the nose softly. The Demon smiled brightly as he pulled away, looking deep into the eyes of the blushing Angel.

“Always loved that smile.”

Aziraphale pulled them both back down on the couch, mumbling some embarrassed slurry in an attempt to dodge compliments, “Crowley, you’re drunk. Now hush.”

“Don’t matter if I’m sloshed or not, still love your smile, aye?” Crowley leaned further onto the Angel, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders, their noses touching together, “Love ‘lot ‘bout you, Angel.”

The Demon ran his hands down Aziraphale’s back slowly, rubbing his nose on Aziraphale’s, “Quite the beauty, my Angel.”

“Dear boy–”

Crowley pulled himself closer to the Angel, burying his face in Aziraphale’s neck and kissing it slightly, speaking some other drunken complement into his skin, muffed beyond comprehension.

“Crowley, this is hardly—“

“Cmon Angel, it’ll be great fun,” the Demon purred, not with bad intentions, but in a drunken conviction. Crowley pushed himself on top of Aziraphale, pinning the Angel softly to the couch. Crowley moved his hands down the Angel’s torso, running his fingers down the seam of his waistcoat and lingering at his hips. Aziraphale sucked in hard, trying to apply his better judgment and not enjoy this too much. Crowley slowly made his fingers underneath Aziraphale’s shirt, running his fingers up his torso. Aziraphale shuttered, moving the Demon’s hands away, no matter how much he enjoyed the touch.

“Crowley, plea—“

Before the angle could finish, Crowley cupped his hands around the Angel’s face, pulling himself into a kiss. The kiss was sloppy – but not a bad kiss by any means. Their lips didn’t fit together quite right, and Crowley hadn’t planned on opening his mouth this wide or leaning as far into Aziraphale as he did, but in terms of a first kiss, it was far from the worst one that they could have had. Unfortunately in terms of length, it was short-lived, as Aziraphale pushed Crowley off of him quickly.

“That’s quite enough,” the Angel snapped, “Sober up.” He was demanding, and also redder than he imagined he had ever been, “Now.”

“Oh, Oh no,” Crowley sent a shake down his body, the alcohol absolving from his bloodstream, “Angel, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that you didn’t — Gah, I’m an idiot.”

Aziraphale furrowed his brow, “It’s fine — it’s just—“ he exhaled sharply, “I don’t want either of us to get the wrong idea.”

“How do you mean?” Crowley asked, his voice dropping to a more serious tone.

“I mean that, oh, I don’t want to … let myself get too comfortable, I suppose. Letting myself believe that you desire me when it’s just the alcohol making you want me.”

Aziraphale had gained a lot from humanity, little quirks, stresses, loves — but unfortunately he had also gained insecurities, especially as someone in a body that was fatter than many others around him. He saw the way that humans looked at him versus how they looked at Crowley — with disdain rather than lust. Even the other Angels pointed it out once in a millennia. His size used to be part of the aristocracy, but even throughout the eighteenth century he was never desired as such.

“What?” Crowley exclaimed, nearly stifling a laugh, “Angel, what on Earth are you going on about?”

The Angel tilted his head in confusion, Crowley taking his hands into his own.

“Where did you ever get the idea that I wasn’t attracted to you? Angel, you’re a catch if I’ve ever seen one, I’ll tell you that.”

“I hardly believe that,” Aziraphale twiddled his thumbs in embarrassment, “I mean, come on my dear boy, just look at me.”

The Angel gestured towards his own body, shirt still untucked, hair still unkempt, but face in a depressing grimace unlike Crowley has ever seen.

“Angel, I’m lookin’ at you right now. Have been for the past six thousand years, in fact — and you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Aziraphale paused for a moment, unsure of what to say, then exhaled, “Why now? Why only when we’re drunk?” he pleaded, stepping back closer to the Demon.

Crowley bit his lip, trying to figure out exactly how to put this without sounding like the imbecile he assumed himself to be.

“I just — I hadn’t got the nerve,” the Demon admitted, “I mean, you wonder how a Demon could love an Angel, but how could an Angel, especially one as bloody fantastic and heavenly as you, love a Demon? I supposed over the last few decades it became more, well, apparent that we were more than just friends but …” he began to trail off, regretting miracaling all of the alcohol out of his bloodstream. He cursed himself for even having the thought right after. That was exactly that problem, wasn’t it? He needed the alcohol to open up. He always had.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘go on’.

“I guess it just goes to say that I was scared. Scared of what you’d say, what you’d do, what you’d hate me for. The booze just lets it come out a bit easier, I suppose. Liquid courage.”

“So… it’s not that you don’t want to,” Aziraphale started, “It’s that you did want to. And you were worried about my well-being?”

Crowley shrugged, not wanting to admit his lack of courage out loud, but wanting to affirm the Angel.

Aziraphale chuckled, “We really are quite dense, aren’t we?”

“I’d rather say so,” the Demon pulled Aziraphale in closer, placing his hands on the already loosened buttons of his waistcoat, “I’ll say it again Angel, you really are beautiful, inside and out. Especially on the outside at the moment. Messy hair kind of does it for me.”

“Oh shut it, you old serpent ,” Aziraphale chuckled, pulling himself in closer to the Demon, “You’d think after six thousand years we’d learn to better communicate.”

Crowley exhaled, raising his brows as if to say ‘if only’. The Demon rested his chin upon the Angel’s shoulder, giving him a doe-eyed (or rather snake-eyed) muted smile.

Aziraphale placed his forehead against Crowley’s, softly reaching for his jawline, “Assume you’d like another glass before we continue?”

“Nah,” Crowley purred, planting a quick kiss on the Angel’s forehead, “I think I can muster up some of my own courage tonight.”

[zeldahime]

Highway to Pail Day 20

[Day 1] [Prev] [Next] @do-it-with-style-events

February 20: A good magician's assistant is hard to find. They're highly sawed-after.

There were a number of very clever tricks Aziraphale had observed stage magicians do that he rather admired but could not add to his repertoire. Many of the most impressive contraptions and tricks were actually performed by assistants, slender and flexible people who contorted themselves within cabinets and boxes while the magician demonstrated the illusion.

Except one memorable night, Aziraphale's act had always been a solo one, and Crowley had made it quite clear he didn't intend to join him on stage ever again.

Then one week, Mutt had contracted the flu, and he and his spouse Calico were scheduled to perform at a charity event, and Aziraphale was just thrilled to be asked to be, as it were, something of an understudy to poor old Mutt and perform in his stead.

"I'll do the hard parts," Calico had said on the phone, "but I think we should go through the way the cabinets work before we go up."

"Oh, yes, that's a very good plan," Aziraphale agreed. "I wouldn't want to accidentally poke you or stick you through!" As this was a telephone conversation, Aziraphale could not see Calico's grimace, nor their clear expression of "what have I gotten myself into?"

They made arrangements to meet at the local church where the performance was to be held in the afternoon before the event. Before leaving, Aziraphale left a note just in case Crowley decided to come by, letting him know that he was performing and when to expect him back. Otherwise, however, he shoved thoughts of Crowley and the last two times he'd performed magic on stage down, determined that this time would be a success worthy of the Marvelous Mr Fell!

Aziraphale wasn't close to Calico, but had known them from their teenage years, long before they had chosen that name; they were exactly the bookish kind of young person who would wander into Soho looking for a community and then retreat, overwhelmed, into the nearest stack of shelves, and so had been into the bookshop a few times, quickly scared off by Aziraphale's glower before it became clear they were more of a shy child than a potential customer. Aziraphale had been at one of their first drag shows and had blessed their wedding, though he had sat on the groom's side. They weren't close and they had never performed together, but neither were they strangers.

Aziraphale's costume and Mutt's both tended to a slightly Edwardian sensibility, though from very different directions, so his and Calico's costumes did not clash as badly as they might have if Mutt and Calico's act had been more modern. They wore a dress inspired by Victorian circus performers, with a tight bodice and a knee-length ruffled skirt, in a light lavender to both compliment and contrast with Mutt's usual navy-dark attire. When Aziraphale arrived to the church, however, Calico had not yet changed, still in brightly-patterned leggings and a shirt that would not have looked out of place on the cover of one of Crowley's bebop albums, still positioning the cabinets and making sure everything was up to their standards.

"Mr Fell, wonderful," they said when they saw him, suddenly smiles but nevertheless all business. "Here, stand over... yes. I've just finished putting together the crushing illusion—let me show you how it works."

The pair of them talked and demonstrated and practiced for a few hours, going over several tricks that Calico had ready, arranging a set that would show them both to their advantage. Aziraphale's sleight-of-hand and misdirection tricks would lead naturally into the tricks where Calico vanished, and thence into more complicated illusions. All ones where Calico was in control, of course; Aziraphale knew very well they had no way of knowing he would change the laws of physics to keep them safe on that little church stage.

Eventually, it was time to change, then to put on a show. The Marvelous Mr Fell and his daring assistant Calico Jones wowed and amazed the audience with their prestidigitation and jiggery-pokery, their conjuring and illusions! The prestidigitation less than the illusions, it has to be said, but Aziraphale thought the turning of a turnip into an inkwell did set them in the mood for the crushing trick, at least, which was quite the crowd-pleaser. He rather thought their act must have inspired a number of contributions to charity.

When he tried to help Calico pack up, however, they were unusually reticent to accept. "Go out and talk to your partner first," they said, "I think he might be mad at you. He's doing that sexy lean against his car, the one where you can feel him glaring a hole through you even though you can't see his eyes."

Crowley!, Aziraphale thought, then partner?, then oh dear.

"Ah, thank you my dear," Aziraphale said with a perfectly cherubic smile to Calico, "and my best to Mutt, if I don't see you again before you leave." He knew he wouldn't; he was going to be sneered at sarcastically for having done magic in a church, because he was an angel and Crowley was a demon and they must have some standards, then taken out in the Bentley for a pleasure cruise where he would complain about the speed, and ultimately end the night quite drunk on some very nice wine.

And Crowley was going to hear all about his show.

Author's note:

The last three days have been a black hole, productivity-wise, and I had to sink all my energy into my job (ugh) and grad school (double ugh) but I did finally finish this!!!

The crushing trick is this one, which is really neat. I loved how the assistant is in control of the trick the entire time. Warning for some seriously objectifying language in the video though; pretty much the entire video up until they reveal the trick talks about the assistant like she's a sex doll.

Calico is Mutt's unnamed spouse, in case it's not clear enough. They're played by British comedian Andrew O'Neill, who also uses they/them pronouns. I wish we had even one line from them when they're not under the Jane Austen Ball Spell, to get a better idea of their voice, but I think I like where I got with them.

I love how Aziraphale just ditches them to go out on a date with Crowley at the end. I wasn't planning on that! He's just a bit of a dick!

[dougholtphotographyus]

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[gucciwins]

i just recently moved here to nyc!! (so im by no means a local) I’d say if you want to be in the cutesy part of nyc, greenwich and soho/west village are really cute areas. Lots of good restaurants and little shops and lotsss of wandering potential. brooklyn is where all the good thrifting and flea markets are, and the fun clubs and bars too. upper west and east side are more residential which might not be the tourist vibe you want, but generally you can get anywhere pretty easily by train so you don’t have to be limited! i’d personally avoid staying smack in midtown (think Times Square area) but that’s bc I just don’t like how busy it is there lol

first of that’s amazing!!!! i hope you’re loving it 🥰 this was so informative, bestie 🫶 i appreciate it. definitely keeping away from midtown.

excited to look more into these places

[cha-melodius]

Ok, I guess you guys can have a bit more. I was reminded about word game Wednesdays when I saw @ficwip post this. Here are three separate snippets containing the word "outside". Not tagging anyone, jump in if you want!

REPORTER: We’re here outside the grand opening of the Mountchristen store in SoHo, where a group of concerned locals have gathered to protest the opening of the new retail location. [She turns toward Alex] As a local business owner, can you tell us a bit about your concerns today?

It’s just after closing on a Monday, and the fairy lights still hanging in the window do little to chase away the oppressive January darkness that wants to bleed in from outside. Maybe that’s just Alex’s mood.

The frigid temperatures outside have darkened the tip of his nose and brought a deep flush to the apples of his cheeks, and he rubs his hands together to warm them as he glances around the cafe.

[ceruleanmindpalace]

First Sentence Game

1. The Chemist (Sherlock)

Sherlock tried to roll to his other side, but the pain in his joints – especially his shoulder and hips - made it an agonising endeavour. The last moment he remembered people where listening and stifled a moan. John, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mycroft were in the living room. They had brought him home from hospital a few hours ago, but he was far from recovered.

2. Untitled work [Overdone] WiP, not posted yet (Sherlock)

When John peaked into the large duffel bag Sherlock had brought with them the first slightly alarming conclusions surfaced. They were in the middle of nowhere, somewhere west of London and John was following the detective down a path that wound down a hill. They had left the land rover behind over ten minutes ago, on a rarely used country lane.  Poor visibility due to the thick vegetation made John constantly watch out for Sherlock's position.

The thing John though he had spotted amongst the very professional and specialised looking photo equipment  in the bag was the mouth end of a snorkel.

3. Untitled work [Local Anaesthesia] WiP, not posted yet (Sherlock)

"It's just a scatch."

"No, it's not. Jesus, Sherlock!" John takes Sherlock's hand and drags it away from under the stream of water flowing from the kitchen sink tab. He deftly pulls him closer to the light over the kitchen table.

"It's not even really bleeding. See?" Sherlock tries to argue.

"I can see that. It only means you somehow managed to miss the blood vessels. But I can look inside. That means it's deep enough to need at least two stitches."

"I won't go to A&E for that."

4. Untitled work [Sensory Hell] (WiP, not posted yet) (Sherlock)

It had been a normal day so far. At least for John. They were walking down Carnaby Street, a pedestrianised shopping street near Soho. It was rather empty for this time of day, probably due to the sizzling rain that had finally started after a long dry sommer.

The case they were on is slow going and Sherlock seems a bit moody due to the low excitement factor. He had been in a dark mood for two days and latched onto it even though it was only a 'four' due to pure boredom.

5. Obstacles (Dr Strange)

"Stark! Watch out!" Clint bellowed. For some unknown reason it took Tony longer than expected to try to dodge the small missile. It hit his damaged shoulder with enough force to make Strange and everyone around gasp. Iron Man rolled in mid air through the enormous dark warehouse they were in, fighting the week's villain. He crashed into a support beam and then the ground, where he remained, unmoving.

6.Juice (Sherlock)

John has just brought Rosie to Molly for the night and is now climbing the stairs to 221b. One of his rare free evenings was ahead of him.

The sun is going down and shining through the large living room windows; it gives the room a golden glow. He once more is struck by how 'home' this particular building feels - more than any home he ever had, more than the flat he shared with Mary. He still doesn't know to feel about this but every time he walks up the stairs to 221b, he is glad he moved back in. The renovations upstairs to make room for Rosie are still in under development. For the moment, he and Rosie still share his room.

Sherlock is busy. Usually, his friend did his experiments in the kitchen, but today he is sitting on the sofa, bathed in daylight.

6. Bitter candy - Nothing was beautiful and everything hurt (Sherlock)

"Joh…" Sherlock's voice trails off, he has just run out of breath.

"Sherlock! Don't move!... Just lie still. Hang on," John's voice is raspy.

Things have slowed down. Everything is happening in slow motion. Sherlock desperately tries to breathe.

Something seems to have…

He has breathed in some sort of rubble. There's sand in his mouth, the bright grey taste is adding to his distress.

The pain is so intense, he has trouble breathing.

7. Imminence (Sherlock)

When they enter 221b, John is beyond tired and he isn't sure how to handle the night they have ahead of them. On one hand, he feels he needs to watch out for Sherlock; on the other, today's events in Sherrinford and his stay in a well have brought him to his limits. The adrenaline is fading and so is his alertness.

8. Pain Management 2 (Sherlock)

"What were you doing to him?" John roared, reaching for Smith and holding him in place.

In the hospital bed Sherlock was gasping for air and the moment of silence that followed John's question told him more than whatever words the detective might have spoken.

Sherlock's hand was slackly hanging over the railing of the hospital bed, a quite unsettling and vulnerable posture that struck John's very core.

Also, Sherlock was struggling to get himself together, which was never a good sign.

This had been a close call.

10. Define Vulnerability (Sherlock)

"Bloody hell," John muttered, staring at the sheet of paper in his hands.

"What is it?" Lestrade and Sherlock also stared at the papers that were spread over Lestrade's desk.

"Uh!" Sherlock exhaled, exited.

"What do you see?" Lestrade demanded.

"That's a nasty cocktail…" John started to explain, "This is a drug that is used in ICU for paralysing patients. It needs to be used in combination with sedatives, or the patient experiences a waking nightmare..."

Tagging (no pressure): @sgam76 @7-percent @sparkypipartypipart as well as anyone else who'd like to participate who hasn't done it, yet ;)