#and i canNOT stand the good omens sorry

[sakebytheriver]

One of those polls where I can't stand either option, is there way to make both lose 😭

[francy-sketches]

be cringe, pick a fight on twitter 💪

just went on a hater rant against beloved tv show hannibal on my priv I should post that on main and make people with meat emojis in their display name really get mad at me yes or no

[wizardnuke]

going to have to start explaining to a specific subset of the people i hang out with that my taste in media is much less what we do in the shadows and much more interview with the vampire. even though i have never seen more than a few clips of either of those and they are largely incomparable beyond the vampire aspect i think that might get the point across

[number-one-hog-hater]

There is something fucked up that I Love good omens but it hasn't really inspired me to make anything while I have commited atrocious to the gang with photo edits.

[monstrousdesirestudy]

What makes a monster really, is it the myths and history around them? Where does superheroes/villains fall on the monster spectrum? Especially mutants and aliens. Like Kurt Wagner or Groot from Marvel or J’onn and Swampthing from DC. It feels weird to call them monsters, but if I just look at them, they feel at least monster adjacent.

Gets weird for me when I start thinking about Superman (and other humanoid creatures/aliens). Like Superman feels like a vampire situation but reversed. Like they’re both human looking, has powers and abilities that makes them not human, and/or tries to be/blend in with humans, often for different reasons. Like Superman is morally good and vamps tend not to be, there are universe where Superman is evil tho.

I also have wonder about like the monster “classification” (lack of a better term) for orc women who are just hot human woman but green, especially when the male counterpart is very not human looking. Or where humanoid celestials, cosmic horror celestials, god(s), both from fiction and real life myth, and still practiced religions fall on the spectrum. I bring celestials up, cuz I feel demons/devils are solidly in the monster realm, my opinion/observation of course.

Probably a lot of venn-diagrams happening. This has probably already been a conversation topic on here, but love to hear your input. Sorry for long maybe incoherent ask. Kinda brewed on this for a while.

Monsters are a difficult category because they are a bit of a paradox. Defining them can be slippery because they often defy categorical neatness; take zombies for example—they are the living dead! Monster theorist Jeffrey Jerome Cohen wrote about this in his 7 Theses in which he discusses how we understand the monster, and conceive of them, through cultural moments. His 7 Theses list as such:

The monsters body is a cultural body

The monster always escapes

The monster is the harbinger of category crisis

The monster dwells at the gates of difference

The monster polices the borders of the possible

Fear of the monster is really a kind of desire

The monster stands at the threshold of becoming

Overwhelmingly, monsters are cultural bodies—that is, they are reflections of societies fears, transgressions, anxieties, etc. They speak of that which we Other, ostracize, and seek to distance ourselves from, but cannot leave alone! To me, monsters (good ones at least) should speak to something within ourselves, something that disturbs or unruffles us. The Latin term “monstrum” for example means to warn, remind, or instruct—it is an omen, a portent; monsters are that which threatens our norms, our comforts, and should reveal to us like a mirror that which speaks to our inner being.

Fear and desire are not neutral, and thus, so too monsters cannot be neutral either in their conceptions. Take your ex of female orcs being sexy women who are just green vs male orcs who are ugly: this to me speaks to heteronormative and patriarchal gendered standards reflected within monstrosity (and to dig deeper, often racial stereotypes as well!). That even in monstrosity, which is supposed to represent that which exists outside of our understood norms, monstrous women must still maintain patriarchal standards of attractiveness!

This is a lot of yapping, but all of this is to say that monstrosity in its categorization is not just fickle, and fluctuating, but subjective as well! Take the Greek Gods for example, or any old god—one perhaps wouldn’t necessarily constitute them as monsters, but to me they could absolutely fall within that category if we follow the 7 theses! And then there’s the fact that even pantheon monsters aren’t always necessarily given the term monsters automatically: many people and academics, for example, don’t consider Twilight vampires as monsters (a great piece on this is Kelly Budruweit’s piece Twilight's Heteronormative Reversal of the Monstrous: Utopia and the Gothic Design)!

Anyway I’m sorry if I poorly answered your question and the rambling 😭 I think the joy of monstrosity for me is getting to have these convos about what constitutes a monster because it’s all fun and it’s a great way to delve into the theory of monstrosity and how we culturally define them!

[eresia-catara]

whats the significance of Guido having red hair?

Sorry anon I took this long things have been a little rough lately, but do know that this answer has been in the back of my mind constantly.

So, I'm not saying this is what dgr actually meant because I am not an expert in this field (I talk as if I were an expert in any field lol) so I'm writing this as my personal interpretation jsksj but anyway here's the deal:

pre-raphaelite art developed inside a cultural context that was rediscovering irrationality in all its forms and was fascinated with all that was exotic — meaning, all that is far away, both in time and space. This, especially going towards the northern regions of Europe, meant a special interest in the Middle Ages (far away in time and, due to the prejudices of previous Enlightenement, maximally superstitious/magical = irrational). This means that when we read a pre-raphaelite painting we have to be strongly focused on symbolisms, because that's what their art was: a thought, a message, conveyed through a set of elements that redirected the mind to something else, something more that is beyond what we see. Art is a means to an end, simply put; it's never the point.

Now, a recurring symbol in this art is women with long red hair, such as

Hair in general has always been strictly linked to the essence of a person, going from personality to their position in life. For example, in Mediterranean territories, brown hair is the most common, so if a person has a different color it means they are uncommon in a way or another. In this perspective, in the Middle Ages blonde was usually associated with purity (we can see that the virgin Mary was usually depicted as blonde, but women in poetry were also described as blonde). Red was more often associated with force, be it good or bad. In the Bible, David has red hair because he is destined to great things, but also Saul and Caiaphas are described that way and they were inspired by the devil. In art, Judas has red hair, and when he kisses Jesus, he too has red hair. Red hair is ambivalent, it is however preeminently irrational and goes beyond the earthly dimention; if a person has red hair it essentially means 'hey look out! this person brings consequences'.

And what about hair that is long? Long hair is associated with women, and as it's also associated with sensuality (since hair was considered a main instrument of seduction), women often kept it up as a form of modesty. Thus long hair that is not tied up stands out, again, like the colour red. It tells us the person is not common, they are special in some way (at least in art, because in society you were simply considered a wh0re if you weren't young enough lol), they stand apart from the crowd because they do not follow conventions.

This also makes long red hair extremely sensual, for example.

If we go to dgr's painting where Guido has long red hair, well, the picture speaks loudly, to the 19th century observer. Guido brings consequences, he stands not among the commons because he, as a being, does not conform to social codes and formalities and conventions. He is an irrational force, in the sense that what he brings cannot be understood through analytical thinking and Reason and science but rather through a synthetical approach (what I mean is: imagine a set of stairs, where the bottom is absolute ignorance and the top is absolute knowledge. Analytical thinking means understanding step by step as you go up, synthetical is like being teleported from the bottom directly to the top). And in fact what does Guido have that is so special? He is the friend that found out Dante's talent, he's the means through which Dante achieved divinely-willed (not profane, not rational) glory, he's an omen (irrational). Guido brought a consequence: Dante. And by having him read Guinizzelli's poems we have a temporal continuity from the old masters to the new ones, from old art to new art, from old knowledge to new knowledge.

but do we also have to exclude the possibility that Guido is simply sexy haha

[queen0fm0nsterz]

Hey. I knew you're mad at Otto for hurting Noone and Noone deciding to join Nowhere, but have you ever considered hating the Ferryman for being the main reason why all of this started?

Like this man took away Otto's sister, Cici (Sisi? Cece?? or whatever the hell you spell her name as) away from him and making him obsess for answers, then later in Otto's life he met Noone and realize she is going through the same thing his sister did and became insane and thanks to that, Noone distrusts him and became an easy target for the Ferryman to take her away too and making Otto the bait to catch more children.

Blame can be on both sides. In this case, blame definitely is on both sides.

I understand your point of view, and you are right to say that the Ferryman was the one who started all this. But was it right of Otto to push Noone so far into the Nowhere that she "decided" that it'd be better to leave with the Ferryman than to stay with Otto? Who, mind you, deceived her multiple times, repeatedly breached her boundaries over and over again, used her and admitted that he was using her (when he said "I still need her" to the Ferryman taking Noone away) AND who did not show a single ounce of remorse for what he had done?

No. Of course it was not.

The Ferryman is the cause of the trauma. Otto's obsession with him is understandable, frighteningly human. So much so that I find myself disliking him because I have met people like Otto in my life. People who are nice on a surface level only to reveal later on that they capable of being manipulative and cruel, all under the pretense of past trauma causing them to act the way that they do. Trauma is not a justification for one to act like a piece of shit - an explanation, yes, but never a justifier. Which is exactly what Otto does.

You know who else in TSON has trauma and doesn't act like a dickhead? Noone. Noone, the victim in all of this, stuck between a kidnapper who will bring her to her doom and a man who is pushing her into the kidnapper's arms only to cry wolf when she calls him out on it.

I also find myself more upset with Otto rather than the Ferryman for another variety of reasons.

Firstly, I was not expecting anything from the Ferryman. We know how he operates, we know he's not a force of good; he's a liar and a kidnapper, literally a monster, taking children to their doom when they are at their most vulnerable. He was a bad omen from the very beginning and I never expected him to be anything more. Of course I hate him as a person and what he stands for, but considering where he started, I was not surprised to see him do what he did.

But Otto was different. Otto could have been different. He could have been an example of someone who manages to, if not overcoming, at least face their trauma with a positive outcome for both his own sake and Noone's. But no. He let himself go down a road so atrocious that he is now no different from the monsters we see in the Nowhere while not even being there.

Otto is a regular guy. He's not insane and he did not become insane. He, like everyone, has his own set of bad traits. He can be impatient, harsh, dismissive, insistent and immature. At the same time, he also has his good traits: he used to have a morale, kind, understanding, intelligent and friendly. All these things make up him as a person. As he said to Noone: once you are with someone long enough, you let out who you really are. And he did just that. He let his bad traits get the best of him. And as sorry as I feel for his circumstances, I really cannot bring myself to forgive him.

I suppose Otto let us down, like he let down Noone. And the Ferryman is the guy in the white van with its doors open, but Otto is the guy who threw Noone inside and watched it drive away.

He's a wonderfully written villain. My disliking of him as a person does not stop me from really enjoying his character! I do think he's the second best written LN antagonist.

[snapeaddict]

Snapetober Day 14 - Perpetual

Summer of 1998

The gargoyle gave way - Harry quickly climbed the flight of stairs leading to the Headmaster's office. He did it with relative apprehension. He had not been invited, had not even requested a meeting; yet he was granted passage, and he hoped that was a good omen.

He wanted to speak with Dumbledore, once and for all. He needed it. Then he would finally try to let go, to think ahead, and continue to grieve. One last conversation and he would leave the school for twelve months before coming back to complete his seventh year: they had all agreed upon this break, even Hermione. 

But he stopped, well before the threshold. There was something - a sound - resembling sobs coming from the office: desperate weeping that could not be muffled, no matter how hard one tried. He listened.

Slowly, he climbed the last steps and froze. 

Professor McGonagall was standing in the middle of the office. In front of her, on the headmaster's desk, lay what looked like a portrait, recently unwrapped; the frame was of a rusty colour.

That was all Harry could see. 

Slowly, the new headmistress turned around the desk to face the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. Her hands were shaking. 

"Albus... perhaps we should wait. Just... just until he wakes up..."

Dumbledore shook his head.

When his voice rose, Harry was struck by how tainted with grief it was. If Professor McGonagall was crying, he instinctively expected the former headmaster to take on the role of the grave, comforting figure: but his voice, if that was even possible, sounded even weaker than the headmistress'. 

"I am afraid Severus made himself clear", Dumbledore said, closing his eyes briefly. "No portrait."

McGonagall was wringing her hands. 

"I cannot - I - please. No. I need to tell him first... how sorry I am..."

"My dear-"

"You have had your chance, Albus", she cut him acerbically. "I did not."

For a moment she could not speak. She tried to calm herself down, and Harry watched as she reached the desk for support. She looked fragile - exhausted. 

"You have no idea... no idea what I have said... or done", she whispered after a while. "No idea."

"Severus never held any of it against you, Minerva", the former headmaster said sadly, almost hesitantly. "He knew... what his role entailed."

"I need to speak to him!" the headmistress shouted, jerking her head to look straight into his eyes again.

The features of her face were distorted by pain - her gaze was wet, red and terrible - she struggled to breathe. 

"I need to speak to him", she muttered again, leaning more heavily on the desk. Then it seemed that she could not take it any longer and turned her face away from Dumbledore's, back to the portrait that led beside her. "I must speak to him."

"I cannot let you do that."

"You sent him to his death!"

The silence was heavy- atrocious. Harry watched as the former headmaster lowered his head in shame, and he stepped back, almost falling down - this could not be... Dumbledore would never...

"No matter what you tell yourself, Albus", McGonagall said after a while, coldly - "No matter what you tell yourself or how much we owe you, the fact remains. He is dead - I must tell him that I am sorry. I must tell him... how much I cared for him. He must know that I mourned him as much as I mourned you, when he... when he... he must know."

Dumbledore shook his head.

"Severus had little if any agency over his life, Minerva. He was never in control. He decided against a portrait. Could you face him once more, having denied his wishes even in death?"

In response, the headmistress only made a strangled sound and took her head in her hands, throwing herself into the headmaster's chair in defeat.  

She looked like a woman who would never recover. 

"You know how this works, Minerva", Dumbledore spoke softly, cautiously. "Severus was not alive when this portrait was painted. He did not teach it anything. That portrait will be less than a mirror - we poured so much of ourselves into our portraits, whereas he -"

"But it still will be a faint imprint. The level of sentience also depends on the power of the wizard depicted - you know this portrait will retain something of him. It has to."

The painted Dumbledore stood up.

"It will. And this version of Severus - this echo - will understand that his very existence and cognizance are to be the result of us having ignored his last wishes, only to cleanse ourselves - to relieve ourselves from guilt."

McGonagall shook her head, but said nothing. 

"Severus' wishes deserve to be respected, Minerva, more than even you deserve to apologise to him. It must be so - it cannot be otherwise."

She remained silent.

"Let him be in control. Let him decide. What he was never granted in life, he needs to be granted in death. I apologise, Minerva - I never wanted to inflict this pain on either of you. I tried to save him... he was to come out of this alive... you must believe me."

Then they fell silent.

After a while, McGonagall took out her wand and laid it before her, her face unreadable. She looked up.

"So you get the chance to apologise to me, Albus. You can and you will. But I cannot. I never will, even though I have a chance, even a half-chance..."

"This is not Severus."

"I know!"

She seized her wand and pointed it at the portrait on the desk, standing up furiously.

"I am glad, Albus", she said coldly, her voice suddenly strangely calm.

Blue flames came out of her wand and wrapped the portrait with blinding vigour. From where he stood, Harry saw the paper slowly come out of the frame, writhe in the fire, grow distorted and black; it took only a few seconds for it to be reduced to ashes, and it was then that he noticed all the headmasters and headmistresses around the office standing up, paying their respects.

The light of the flames made the tears on McGonagall's face shimmer faintly. She watched the portrait burn until nothing but the frame remained.

After a while she turned away, her face dry, and looked once more at Dumbledore.

"I am glad", she said again, and the former headmaster did not hold her gaze. "I will blame myself for the rest of my life - I will never get to apologise - but you won't, either. And your penitence, Albus, begins now, and lasts perpetually."

[doonarose]

The first one that’s right.

(Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale kissing and romance fic)

Rating: PG/T

Rationale: I’m still processing Season 2 (loved it, no complaints), but we know Aziraphale and Crowley will come out of Season 3 talking to each other properly, and acknowledging, out loud, that they love each other, and actually planning for a future together. And that’s a delicious setting to play in while I figure out how the hell they get there. So, that future, begs the following fic…

Summary: Aziraphale would like to try the thing they did with their mouths that night it all blew up and no, he does not mean, speaking.

Count: 2500ish

“Crowley, you remember when I went to heaven to do The Second Coming?”

Crowley really cannot believe Aziraphale just casually asked him that.

Aziraphale continues quickly, “Right before I left, when we spoke…” he pauses.

When we spoke! Crowley’s mouth has fallen open, his brow furrowed incredulously, a reaction that seems entirely restrained in the face of such audacity. He wills Aziraphale to drop it, eyes flashing a warning as he steps a little closer, crowding into Aziraphale’s space.

Aziraphale manages to clasp his hands together in the gap between them, fidgeting as his gaze shifts to focus on the floor off to the side. It’s a drizzly Wednesday afternoon in the bookshop, completely innocuous, except Aziraphale has chosen today to trap Crowley in a doorway, stand squarely, infuriatingly, in front of him, and ask him if he remembers that day and that conversation.

“Yes, right, when we spoke, that day,” he continues as though Crowley actually had said he remembered. “Well, I think I would like to try that again.”

“Speaking?” Crowley manages to squeeze an extra syllable into the word. It’s absurd but the alternative is that Aziraphale wants to try the second coming again and that’s just not possible. “You’d like to try speaking again. We speak all the time now, Angel, I hardly think we need to do it more.” That’s true, they are much better at speaking now, at talking to each other and listening. They’re getting better, but that doesn’t mean Crowley wants to talk about that.

“No!” Realization dawns on Aziraphale’s face, “Oh, no!” his eyes going wide and his cheeks flushing pink, “Oh, goodness, no, not that. Of course not, I wouldn’t – I’m sorry – ” He grabs Crowley at the top of his arms and squeezes. He takes a deep breath, something Crowley thinks Nina might have taught him. “I love you.” It recenters both of them, lightens the air in the room, and Crowley feels his heartbeat slow and settle, his fight or flight response thwarted with those three simple words of assurance. He rolls his eyes and shrugs Aziraphale’s hands off his arms, the dismissiveness more out of muscle memory than anything else, but the corner of his lips also twitches up. He knows Aziraphale knows he doesn’t always say it back and that’s okay.

Aziraphale’s hands, now hanging unoccupied at his sides, flex sporadically. “Actually, I meant the other thing… with your mouth.”

Oh. Oh. After too long a beat, Crowley manages to say it out loud, “Oh.”

“Only if you wanted to,” Aziraphale rushes. “Obviously only if you wanted to. And we could stop if you didn’t like it and never talk about it again. I just thought we should try it since we’re kind of, well we’re together now and that’s what you do – it’s what lots of people, humans, do, anyway – and the other time was terrible but that wasn’t our fault and –”

“Terrible?!” Crowley squawks, cutting him off.

“Well, no, not terrible, sorry, oh gosh I’m making a mess of this. Humans make relationships look so easy.” Aziraphale whines, covering his face with both hands and blushing pink beneath them.

Crowley has, of course, thought about kissing Aziraphale, sometimes entirely by accident, but, more often than not, very much, quite on purpose. Somehow, it has never occurred to him that it is something Aziraphale might have thought about, too, and after that one, indeed quite doomed attempt, it is taking him quite a long time to process the proposition. What hadn’t Aziraphale just come and kissed him?

Aziraphale continues to blather: “Can we please just pretend I never said anything. We’re doing so nicely now, we’re both much happier, and I shouldn’t have brought all that up again.”

That sinking, bottomless pit feeling in Crowley’s stomach appears. The threat of losing something he never quite had, a feeling he’s unfairly intimate with but learning how to process and to shrug off as not automatically inevitable. And it’s not the world, or Aziraphale, or his freedom that is about to be snatched away. Just a kiss. Angels, certainly demons, aren’t even meant to kiss – definitely not the way he wants to kiss Aziraphale. That’s the domain of humans and all their weird humanity, smushing their wet food/talk/breath holes together as though it’s some sort of fun. What is that even about? Surely one of God’s more bizarre pranks.

Oh, but he really, really wants to. The pang of potential loss makes his stomach twist and his fingertips itch to grab and hold fast and try to kiss all the doubt out of Aziraphale.

But that didn’t go so well last time.

He’s learning, though. “Hang on a minute,” he says, sounding less calm than he’d intended.

Aziraphale fidgets and shakes his head, pouting and tutting because Crowley’s already been standing there, processing, for too long.

“Was it really that terrible?” What Crowley wanted to say was something like ‘Yes please, let’s try it, don’t worry, it’s going to be great!’

“No!” Aziraphale sighs, and tries it more gently, “No, it just wasn’t… I mean everything around it was terrible, wasn’t it?” Crowley’s eyes narrow and an eyebrow arches. “Well, no, I mean, what you said was… lovely… illuminating… It was everything I wanted to hear even if I didn’t know it. But it wasn’t the right time and I didn’t expect you – well, you, I didn’t expect… It was a surprise, when you kissed me, and it wasn’t terrible but I think we can both agree it wasn’t exactly… good.” Aziraphale goes still, bracing for the impact of more argument or indignation or having to backtrack again.

Crowley says nothing, just watches him, for another too-long moment. “So, you want to try again?”

Aziraphale can’t help but break into a proper smile at the infinitesimal, possible progress: ever the optimist. “Yes! That’s all, and as I said, if it’s awful or you don’t like it, of course, we never have to do it again. I just thought it made sense to ask, to try... well to ask to try. But if you don’t want to, that’s completely fine, just say the word and – ”

“I want to.”

“Oh. Okay…Good.”

Crowley keeps count as the seconds pass. He makes it to twelve before he absolutely has to say something. “Ready when you are, Angel.” He swallows because that felt brave in the face of how fast he can feel his heart thumping, how stupidly vulnerable and nervous this is making him feel.

But then he sees Aziraphale’s gaze snap up to meet his, eyes going comically wide, and Crowley realizes Aziraphale’s been staring at his mouth those whole twelve seconds. It makes him even braver, the nerves and the vulnerability still there, but something playful and teasing, their natural rhythm, working its way into the moment.

Aziraphale starts to nod, building resolve even as his eyes slip back to down to Crowley’s lips which Crowley licks and purses before he can stop himself. Aziraphale swallows heavily and checks, “Here? And… and now?”

“I can meet you somewhere else later, if you’d prefer,” Crowley teases some more.

Huffing, Aziraphale flexes his shoulders back once and then grasps Crowley by the upper arms. He hesitates a second longer and then he’s pulling Crowley into him, angling his face to meet Crowley’s lips in a firm, warm press.

It is not dissimilar to the one other time they did this, albeit without all the drama, trauma and world-destroying stakes. Instead, it’s just them, wilfully, openly in love, mouth to mouth in a doorway in the bookshop. Trying kissing.

Aziraphale smells good, better than expected this close, more earthy, more like skin, and his lips are unbelievably soft. Crowley thinks he can taste the remnants of an Earl Grey tea with two sugars and perhaps a scone. He wonders what Aziraphale is thinking and then he realizes he should really, probably shut his eyes, and so he does. He tries to relax into the tight grip around his biceps, leaning into the unconventional embrace instead of just being held there.

This is so weird.

They’re not moving. Crowley’s pretty sure they’re meant to be moving, not just pressing. He realizes with a start that Aziraphale isn’t breathing at all and opens his eyes to check he’s okay and again, it’s just blurry tanned skin splashed with pink, dark splayed eyelashes that he could count if he wanted to because at least Aziraphale got the memo about closing his eyes. The view is strangely captivating even as the static and uncertain press of their mouths is beginning to border on too weird.  And Crowley’s not breathing either and then suddenly he’s breathless.

They break apart on seemingly mutual terms and both take a step back rendering a larger than expected distance between them. Crowley makes a conscious effort to breathe and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open beautifully.

Crowley won’t say out loud what he’s thinking, he’s not sure he could articulate it very well and it would certainly feature the words ‘weird’ and ‘unexpected’ and ‘woops’. None of which he thinks will be conducive to ever getting to try that again.

But it’s written across Aziraphale’s face, the mirrored consternation that that wasn’t what it was meant to be, it wasn’t like in the books, or the movies, or even a little bit what they imagined. Crowley starts concocting a plan with multiple steps, subterfuge, and, in all likelihood, weather.

Aziraphale licks his lips, takes two determined steps forward and lifts both hands to Crowley’s face, gently holding him there with his palms spread across his cheeks, fingers dipping easily into his hair. He takes only a moment to run both thumbs from the centre of Crowley’s lips out, tracing the crease, tugging ever so gently on his bottom lip, and then across the arch of each cheek. He shifts one hand, sliding it around the back of Crowley’s neck, his thumb pressed to the corner of Crowley’s jaw, and then he pulls him down, rising onto his toes just a little to meet him, to press their lips together again.

Crowley’s eyes fall shut instinctively this time and a small sigh of relief escapes against Aziraphale’s lips. They’re still just pressing together, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, but he’s alive and responding – giving and taking – with him and against him. Aziraphale’s fingers dance across his cheek bone, his other palm warm and secure against the back of Crowley’s neck; Aziraphale’s mouth pressing and pursing against Crowley’s mouth like he plans to try every possible angle and sample each square millimetre. Shifting from bottom lip to top, then back again before drawing the lightest friction of lips on lips as he shifts to kiss at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Back again and again and again.

Crowley’s hands move to Aziraphale’s sides, grasping the material of his jacket but it isn’t enough of an anchor. They slide to the small of his back, again grabbing fistfuls of the soft material, drawing him in, closer, warmer, dearer, safer, snug.

And this is what proper kissing is like.

Arms slipping further, tighter still, Crowley encompasses him as much as he can, an arm snaking up Aziraphale’s back to rest one hand heavy and petting between his shoulder blades, while the other arm wraps around his waist, fingers finding purchase in the material once more. His lips meet Aziraphale’s in each soft, exploratory press even as his breath comes quicker and not quite enough. He ignores the need to breathe and plan and hope, and instead focuses on everywhere they’re touching and the contented thrum of everything feeling right that settles deep within his chest.

When Aziraphale pulls back it’s only the necessary millimetres to switch their angle and feel the press of Crowley’s nose into his opposite cheek, but even that withdrawal, already over before its reacted to, pulls a tiny, forlorn whimper from Crowley that he’s not able to swallow. And that makes Aziraphale giggle. Right up against Crowley’s lips, a hot puff of air and laughter that Aziraphale immediately tries to stop.

Except Crowley knows, immediately, that he will do anything and everything in his power to make Aziraphale do that again, even if it involves making very undemonic, needy, whiney noises. The thought makes him smile, lips stretching against Aziraphale’s, and the kiss ends far more easily than it began.

They don’t pull apart; their eyes don’t open. Aziraphale’s hands drop and slip easily into Crowley’s blazer and back around his waist. His head tucks up against Crowley’s chest and cheek, finding a perfect spot there, just the right height, to nestle. Crowley entertains his instincts and nuzzles into the white curls at Aziraphale’s temple. He presses a firm kiss there because he can’t help himself.

Crowley wonders how long they’ll be able to hold this perfect moment, to stand here, barely breathing, in such bliss. He wonders why on Earth pressing their mouths together – kissing – feels like that. He wonders when they’ll do it again, how often, how many times, for how long. Will it ever be this good again? What if it gets even better? What else might Aziraphale deign to try of kisses and romance and human love? He wonders what Aziraphale is wondering.

Aziraphale takes a long, loud breath against his clavicle and then blows it out, Crowley can feel him smiling. “We,” Aziraphale says, “Are definitely doing that again.”

Crowley’s contented, happy sigh borders on a shudder but he manages a simple, casual, “Of course, Angel,” into Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale hums his happiness and starts pulling back from the embrace far too soon for Crowley’s liking. When he steps back, though, it’s a thing to behold: his lips and cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes shining and his always mussed hair somehow still conveying that, yes, indeed, he’d just been kissed.

“Fancy a spot of tea?” Aziraphale asks more out of habit than expectation, as he smooths down his waistcoat and straightens his bowtie.  

Surprising even himself, Crowley responds, “Yes, I rather do.”

***

Now with a follow up companion piece (and likely to become a short series of their early kisses): The second one that's quite rubbish And also on AO3!

A/N: I wrote a thing?! It’s an extremely sappy thing by my standards (kind of) but certainly what they deserved. I’m waiting on my AO3 account since that seems the way to do things these days. I haven’t written fic in over eight years and I am still finding character and voice with these two so feedback or discussions very welcome! This is just the first part of at least eight, each delving into a subsequent kiss because, clearly, I am a total sappy sap. And then also a potential (unlikely) opus to try to bridge Season 2 to this blissful future.

A/N2: So I posted this pretty much exactly a month ago and since then I've written... over 30K words that follows on from this beginning and you can go and read all of it here as well as two 8k stand alones that just jump to the good (explicit) bit.

[chelsieb]

Being a fan of Good Omens has led to me finding a new poet to get tingly and happy/sad over. Hi, Tom Hirons 💛

.......

Sometimes a Wild God

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine.

When the wild god arrives at the door,

You will probably fear him.

He reminds you of something dark

That you might have dreamt,

Or the secret you do not wish to be shared.

He will not ring the doorbell;

Instead he scrapes with his fingers

Leaving blood on the paintwork,

Though primroses grow

In circles round his feet.

You do not want to let him in.

You are very busy.

It is late, or early, and besides…

You cannot look at him straight

Because he makes you want to cry.

Your dog barks;

The wild god smiles.

He holds out his hand and

The dog licks his wounds,

Then leads him inside.

The wild god stands in your kitchen.

Ivy is taking over your sideboard;

Mistletoe has moved into the lampshades

And wrens have begun to sing

An old song in the mouth of your kettle.

‘I haven’t much,’ you say

And give him the worst of your food.

He sits at the table, bleeding.

He coughs up foxes.

There are otters in his eyes.

When your wife calls down,

You close the door and

Tell her it’s fine.

You will not let her see

The strange guest at your table.

The wild god asks for whiskey

And you pour a glass for him,

Then a glass for yourself.

Three snakes are beginning to nest

In your voicebox. You cough.

Oh, limitless space.

Oh, eternal mystery.

Oh, endless cycles of death and birth.

Oh, miracle of life.

Oh, the wondrous dance of it all.

You cough again,

Expectorate the snakes and

Water down the whiskey,

Wondering how you got so old

And where your passion went.

The wild god reaches into a bag

Made of moles and nightingale-skin.

He pulls out a two-reeded pipe,

Raises an eyebrow

And all the birds begin to sing.

The fox leaps into your eyes.

Otters rush from the darkness.

The snakes pour through your body.

Your dog howls and upstairs

Your wife both exults and weeps at once.

The wild god dances with your dog.

You dance with the sparrows.

A white stag pulls up a stool

And bellows hymns to enchantments.

A pelican leaps from chair to chair.

In the distance, warriors pour from their tombs.

Ancient gold grows like grass in the fields.

Everyone dreams the words to long-forgotten songs.

The hills echo and the grey stones ring

With laughter and madness and pain.

In the middle of the dance,

The house takes off from the ground.

Clouds climb through the windows;

Lightning pounds its fists on the table

And the moon leans in.

The wild god points to your side.

You are bleeding heavily.

You have been bleeding for a long time,

Possibly since you were born.

There is a bear in the wound.

‘Why did you leave me to die?’

Asks the wild god and you say:

‘I was busy surviving.

The shops were all closed;

I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.’

Listen to them:

The fox in your neck and

The snakes in your arms and

The wren and the sparrow and the deer…

The great un-nameable beasts

In your liver and your kidneys and your heart…

There is a symphony of howling.

A cacophony of dissent.

The wild god nods his head and

You wake on the floor holding a knife,

A bottle and a handful of black fur.

Your dog is asleep on the table.

Your wife is stirring, far above.

Your cheeks are wet with tears;

Your mouth aches from laughter or shouting.

A black bear is sitting by the fire.

Sometimes a wild god comes to the table.

He is awkward and does not know the ways

Of porcelain, of fork and mustard and silver.

His voice makes vinegar from wine

And brings the dead to life.

[hrefna-the-raven]

Good Omens: a drunken kiss

Masterlist

Words: 838 Summary: Aziraphale confesses his love to you :) Warnings: drunkeness, alcohol, but also fluff, this is cute I promise ;)

In the dimly lit corners of the cozy bookshop, a gentle hum of silence settled over the shelves stacked high with ancient tomes. The angel Aziraphale sought solace in the familiar embrace of his beloved books. It was where he could drown out the chaos of the celestial affairs with the whispers of wisdom on his shelves. But tonight was different. The usually composed and innocently cheerful Aziraphale had found himself surrendering to the intoxicating allure of a few fine bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He sat perched on a weathered chair at the desk, his usually hidden wings now visibly folded neatly behind him and his nifty glasses slightly askew. The soft glow of ceiling lights danced across his face, casting ethereal shadows that mirrored the conflict within his heart, the inner discord of being torn apart by the love he felt for you and his duty as angel to not meddle in the affairs of a mortal without Heaven's approval. It was then, in the midst of his inebriated musings, that the door to his bookshop swung open with a gentle chime of the tiny bell. The sound startled him, causing him to spill a drop of wine onto his desk, missing the ancient book in his hands within an inch, which he quickly miracled away, almost cursing under his breath. In his haze of drunken confusion, he blinked repeatedly until he could make out the silhouette of your delicate figure standing in the doorway. In that moment, time seemed to cease as Aziraphale's heart skipped a beat and he swallowed heavily. The air around him grew thick with anticipation and he felt the goosebumps forming on his pale skin as he drowned in chaotic waves of euphoria. Here, in his own little shop, stood the embodiment of everything he held dear, the object of his secret affections, malicious tongues might claim it was rather secret lust, but he felt ashamed at the thought. He was an angel, he should be virtuous, a protector, a calm bystander, lust was reserved for the likes of Crowley, the demon who grew on him over the last millennia. You entered cautiously, as if sensing the gravity of the moment, approaching the angel slumped in the chair painfully slow. Your eyes met Aziraphale's and a hint of recognition flickered in your gaze. The bookshop, once a paradise of solitude, seemed to shrink in size, morphing into a sanctuary where two souls inexorably converged. Aziraphale's voice, usually so eloquent, suddenly failed him in your presence. He stuttered, trying to find the right words to say but all he could do was to get lost in the drumming of his racing heart. Your eyes crinkled with a gentle understanding, as if you were trying to decipher the tumultuous intoxicated emotions that swirled beneath his crumbling facade. And then, with a gentle smile, you broke the silence.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but", you whispered shyly, "Aziraphale, are you alright?"your voice carrying a hint of concern as you spotted the many empty wine bottles scattered around his desk.

He struggled to form a coherent sentence, his mind tangled amongst the intoxicating blend of love and the sacred wine. In that moment, he made a decision, probably against all divine rules concerning the interaction between angels and humans, fueled by liquid courage and a desire to finally reveal his, cursed but, true feelings.

"Forgive me, my dear," Aziraphale began, his voice tinged with vulnerability, "but I find myself utterly smitten by your presence. Every moment spent in your company feels like, pardon my blunt pun, hellish torture and I cannot bear to keep these emotions hidden any longer. I-I-I love you!"

Your eyes widened at his sudden confession, searching his face for sincerity amidst those drunken words. A hushed silence filled the air, anticipation hanging like a delicate thread between the two of you. Time seemed to stand still as you teetered on the precipice of possibility. And then, unexpectedly, a mischievous smile curved your lips as you walked up to the angel, placing your hands on the armrest, caging him as your face moved up to his, the tip of your nose almost brushing his.

"Oh, my silly lovable angel," you whispered, your voice brimming with affection, "I feel the same but never dared to say anything because, well you know, virtuous angels and such."

A smile played on both your lips as you struggled to contain a giggle. It was an absurd notion, the idea of a pure angel like Aziraphale entangled in the complexities of love. But love always has a way of defying expectations, and in the midst of uncertainty, the spark finally dare to fully ignite between you both. Leaning in closer, you closed the small distance between you. Your lips met in a soft, tender kiss, unlocking a world of emotions you never knew existed. Time seemed to stand still as you experienced the blissful sensation of your first touch, a moment that felt both otherworldly and utterly perfect.

[who-even-knows-0-0]

intro post finally haha

this has taken me way too long to build up the motivation to do but since im redecorating my entire blog i thought itd be appropriate

hi you can call me sydney [oscar is okay too but yeah] and i go by he/they pronouns :] [including it/its sometimes :3] do not use she/her pronouns on me otherwise you will face the wrath of god /lh

questioning neo pronouns???

i am trans masc [ftm] although i have not yet medically transitioned [idk why you needed to know that, it just felt relevent] and pansexual

i am also a furry, therian, age regressor and i have d.i.d [separate blogs tagged below]

i am also a hellenic polytheist!!! if you have any questions my ask box is always open <3

silly statistics [???] shit:

current hyperfixation: hellenic polytheism

first post: feb 24th 2024

followers: 31

posts: 125

tags [consistent]: #the creature of creativity

what i will post on this account:

mostly just random shitposts or funny reblogs and stuff, sometimes art if i ever get round to it haha. basically any random thoughts that spew out of my head, through to this laptop and Here.

i also do take art requests and if you ask me any non-offensive question i will love you forever /p + dms are open for anything apart from weirdos and people who want to heavily vent, im sorry but i just cant deal with that rn but i hope yall are safe and okay :]

specific things that i am interested in [maybe now including music]:

ultrakill

deltarune

the x files

lotf [lord of the flies]

the marauders

anne with an e

stand by me

wes anderson films

red dwarf

adventure time

scott pilgrim vs the world

the lost boys

labyrinth

what we do in the shadows

horrible histories/ghosts [just The Gang]

almost every alice oseman book

studio ghibli films

good omens

the breakfast club

donnie darko

bears in trees

james marriott

half life kind of

gravity falls

doctor who

life on mars [tv show]

will wood

beetlejuice

heathers

a date with death

portal 1 & 2

the peanuts movie pp

and probably a ton of other stuff i cant remember rn

other blogs i possess:

blog upkeep is poor rn due to us being busy

this is our main blog for well, me [the host] of our system. i am always fronting most often.

@the-honeybee-system - our blog for. well. all of us :D

@our-agere-blog - now in use!!!

@therians-of-the-system - not in use, cannot be deleted due to password failure, if can delete will delete if cannot then may be in use later on.

@the-beastie-in-your-village - not in use, cannot be deleted due to password failure, if can delete will delete if cannot then may be in use later on.

@something-definitely - freaky shit :3

@daily-jam-cat - jam cat. sometimes.

linksssss:

twitter [x] - https://x.com/whoevenknows0_0?t=CDG5pB76iRL2SxxErI5xJQ&s=09

insta - https://www.instagram.com/who_even_knows_0_0?igsh=MW5sb3E1bXp1ZGlwdg==

tiktok - https://www.tiktok.com/@oscartheoctopus11

pronouns page - https://en.pronouns.page/@who-even-knows

pinterest - https://pin.it/5YYU91FNB

pinterest side account - https://pin.it/2LNGsuV1n

guys i think thats it

i went through almost every app i have trying to gather information to make this post gang i have crawled into the deep dark depths of my pinterest account just for this

although i am tired and probably have missed out some stuff so i will be updating this frequently if needed :]

[sonkitty]

The Door Trick Brainstorming Draft

The following content was drafted in late January/early February 2024. It was left incomplete for various reasons, such as my still trying to solve The Pocket Trick and starting to more closely consider that some people actually read my posts and are already familiar with the existence of The Door Trick so didn't actually need or want this silly introduction to what it was.

I'm sorting old drafts in my files, and this one is something I had a lot of fun writing at the time. I don't sound like I'm having fun since I'm venting, but no really, it was fun to write. So, please consider that context. Again, it is incomplete.

...

Do you see it?

Do you see what Crowley's left hand is doing?

How about his right hand?

Notice anything?

The left hand has four visible digits. We can't see the thumb.

But...there is a thumb way over there on the right pants pocket.

Are you intrigued?

No?

Well, I hate to break it those of you not interested, but you are supposed to be intrigued.

That is...a Clue. That is a Clue with a capital "C".

Yup. It's true. It is infuriatingly true.

I know, as much as one can know, that it's true.

How do I know?

Because I was intrigued. I wanted to know what could be so special about the hand being that way in that one shot.

He has longest-length sideburns, and he keeps just standing so still like that, but if you compare the preceding two front shots, this particular one stands out because he is showing his left hand after he hid it.

Why would he do that?

Such questions led me to start looking at the show more closely. I figured out, it seems, how the sideburns change in length for the present day.

In that project, I found a game. By this point, I do think it is, indeed, a game. The game is called Earthly Objects.

What does that have to do with Crowley's funny hands at the door?

Everything.

Infuriatingly, everything.

Earthly Objects wants the players to touch earthly objects. If they aim for a threshold-only touch, that requires better play in the game.

Do you know who the highest tier player is in Earthly Objects?

Most likely, it is Crowley, followed by Aziraphale.

What? Why? What do these two get out of being such good players? No one can even compete, can they?

Isn't there a story going on here?

Now there, I do not have answers. I would love to know why I had to spend such painstaking hours in numerous puzzles to find multiple games and to find out what Crowley is doing at the door.

I still haven't told you what he's doing, have I? Sorry about that.

He's doing The Door Trick.

There is, indeed a story, but it's a lying liar of a story that wants you to play its games. It wants you to find The Door Trick.

But that's not enough once you find it.

Nope.

That's what makes this puzzle so infuriating.

The Door Trick is only ONE of SIX Threshold Tricks Crowley does during Good Omens 2.

And do you know what the most infuriating Trick of them all is?

The Pocket Trick.

Crowley needed to use that pocket for The Door Trick.

Eventually, I figured it was time to learn pockets because I found five Threshold Tricks. They seemed to have names I'm supposed to find.

With one possible missing Trick, I figured "The Pocket Trick" was a likely one.

So, off I went to figure out pockets.

The main thing I have figured out about pockets is that everything on the screen is set out to drive you mad in solving the puzzles.

If these things have personalities, The Pocket Trick is the most annoying one though it does have a sense of humor. I'll give it that much. Tied hands on the tie strands? Belt head of the snake linking to Crowley's snake demon head? Holey Crowley pockets to help Aziraphale get into Heaven? The human yawning to his left in The Door Trick could lend him a hand? She is Yawning Yellow, probably. I cannot believe this thing.

Some of those are from The Door Trick, but we're still blaming The Pocket Trick because of its Pocket Chain making The Door Trick act this way. It's a bad influence. Well, more of an annoying influence. Annoying as it may be, pockets are powerful little things.

...

And that's it. That's where I left off. I probably stopped because also, how do you even explain pockets in Earthly Objects?

If you are somehow new here, read all that, and are interested, here are some links for the things I referenced:

Earthly Objects

The Pocket Trick - Basics

The Door Trick (scroll down to the Earthly Objects bold text)

[theskoomacat]

my brain does NOT want to sleep today. first i wake up at 5:30 during a dream, i guess becauze the surface was too close not to float up. i practically wrestle myself back sleep, and what do you know - 80 minutes later i wake up from a nightmare.

(i was watching ch*lled play some rpg with a big amount of players that occasionally joined the squad when the previous party member has got murdered by some random nightmare - but i also was kind of there, so when his squad was down to only him, i got involuntarily drafted. i had no gear, only some battle knife, but i wasn't taking it seriously.

now, logic suggests this happened first, even though the casual loogic is wonky - a dead man materialized on the steps of a building opposite of ours (we were on like floor 15 of a high rise during all this, i've seen 2 floors during the dream). his shirt was dirty, bloodied and torn. there were scratches around him and bloody beastly prints leading inside the building to something, but i cannot remember what. my reaction was basically "cool evil omen".

so we started on a new floor. it was empty at least until we initiated the "run". there were two pretty small rooms, as on the previous and probably every floor - a "hospital" room and a chapel. the latter wasn't christian-themed, which is normal for a fantasy rpg, but i still decided to be a shit and throw a "fuck you!" inside. that was a Mistake, because this was a game and gods actually gave a shit about people disrespecting them. the door of a furnace(?) standing in the room slammed closed, and we both instantly knew i was fucked.

my mind camera immediately flew to that dead guy. he slowly rose up and sprinted inside my building. we knew he was coming for me. i said "oh i'm out, sorry i cannot help you with your run" to ch*lled immediately and slammed alt+f4 somewhere in the "real world". it didn't work. i went to climb out of the window. the windows were wonky - when i grabbed any handle from the outside, it would immediately turn into positions that would open the window and make it hard for me to hold on. as the result, i had to hop from window to window (i somehow had like 10/10 agility in the dream), but that was actually good because the beast's "AI" made it run from room to room, from floor to floor to get me. once he got to a window that hasn't opened yet, and it looked like darkness, from which red glowing eyes were looking at me. unfortunately, i was out of ideas on how to deal with the situation, so i ejected myself from the dream.)

[avengersnewb]

Wrote a little fix-it for Good Omens season2 :)

--------------------

Just Us

It’s late at night.

One night after the battle of the bookshop, or a thousand Crowley can’t tell, when there is a knock on the door.

Fantastic.

The last thing he needs right now is an annoying bottom of the pit demon to bug him about going back to working for hell, or worst, informing him of the second Armageddon, that he needs to somehow fight Aziraphale—

Fuck no!

“Go away,” he grumbles, walking toward the door. “Go away, go away, not now—” he says, swinging the door open before stopping dead in his tracks.

Has he finally fallen asleep? Is he dreaming?

The man standing right at Crowley’s door, with a faltering smile, his hand still raised in the air to knock some more, cannot be Aziraphale.

“I—I suppose I will go now—” the man—who sounds awfully like Aziraphale too—says, turning on his heels half-heartedly. “I—yes. I shall—”

“Aziraphale?” someone asks, who has to be Crowley, not that he remembers deciding to say a word.

“In the flesh,” the guy at the door says, gesturing at himself as if a magician has just conjured a whole person out of thin air.

Crowley lets out his breath, grimacing; it absolutely is Aziraphale.

“Can I—can I come in?” he asks, with half a sad smile, and Crowley’s heart clenches at the sight, like it’s any other day, like Aziraphale is sad over a page in one of his books that is slightly crinkled, and all Crowley wants to do is to make it go away.

“Yeah—yes, of course,” he says, stepping away from the door to let him in.

“I’m���I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, I suppose I could have—” Aziraphale steps in and closes the door behind himself “—gone to the bookshop first to call, but—” he trails off, his smile disappearing altogether. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. What brings you here, straight from heaven?”

“You,” Aziraphale says quietly.

Crowley feels the heat that curls in his gut and spreads on his skin. “What can I do for you, Angel?”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I know it’s too much to ask, but—”

“Oh just get on with it,” Crowley says gently. “Does heaven need some dirty work done unofficially? Has the 37th level angel sold any of your books, because I will—”

“No, no, Crowley, nothing like that—I—” Aziraphale says, running a hand in his curls.

“What?” Crowley asks, clutching his hand, not to reach over and smooth the curls back in place.

“I wanted to ask you to forgive me,” he says, barely a whisper. “You—you were right, you—” he raises a hand, putting forward a foot “—you were right—” he brings the other hand forward, switching his feet “—I was wrong, and you—” he does the turn, the little curtsey “—you were right. You were right Crowley, you were right—”

Crowley watches Aziraphale, as he curls into himself, voice breaking, shoulders shaking, and he has to press his nails into his palms, to pace back and forth in the small space of his entryway to keep himself from wrapping his arms around those shaking shoulders, from wiping those tears away.

“Very nice,” he says instead, as even as he possibly can. “But not good enough.”

Read on AO3.

[touchstoneaf]

I can't. It's been kicking around in my head keeping me up. I need sleep.

(Zira appears on Earth, looking disoriented. He zooms in on Crowley immediately)

"Crowley! Oh, I..."

(Lounging in the bookshop chair) "Oh, hullo. Fancy seeing you down here, slumming it with the rest of us."

"Will you take off your glasses and look at me? Please?"

"I really think not."

(Wringing hands a little) "Well, alright then. I suppose I deserve that. Right. Well. Then. I see I'll have to do this without knowing if you're looking. Ah, here goes."

(Commences the "I'm Sorry Dance")

"Oh, please." (Affects supreme disregard)

"Wait!" (Holds up hand) "That’s not all." (Steps closer)

(Crowley stands and backs up a bit in self defense. The glasses stay on, his expression giving nothing away)

(Zira locks eyes with him) "Can we... perhaps run away together?" (A little hand-wavey gesture) "Anywhere. Can we just be us? Please?"

(For the first time, Crowley is visibly shaken)

(Zira steps closer, places both hands on his face. Crowley appears hypnotized, cannot look away or escape)

(Zira kisses him, gently, lovingly) "Just us."

(Crowley blinks) "No, we can't "

(Zira drops his hands, heartbroken)

" We can't leave. The world needs us."

(Zira, softly delighted) "Ohhhh. Do you mean..."

(The glasses come off, revealing a devilish grin that's been MIA for far too long. "Welcome back, Angel."

(longer version just went up on AO3, if you're into longer-than-Tumblr versions:

Codas For The Broken Soul - Chapter 1 - touchstoneaf - Good Omens (TV) [Archive of Our Own]