#dancing constables

[ha-bloody-ha]

FINALLY the news is out! (Sometimes it is not a blessing to hear spoilers months in advance because then you have to not talk about them even if they are super exciting.)

Apparently this episode has been in the works for years. The whole studio was hopping with preparations for it when I was there in early November. Constable helmets were in great demand for the dancing extras. I got to hear one of the songs (recorded EIGHT YEARS AGO — this has been in the works for a while). At least one of the main four can SING.

Aaaaah it’s finally happening!!!

[ha-bloody-ha]

This is a very cool poster. The graphic designers at Shaftesbury have been hitting it out of the park this year.

Also. I am reliably informed that the dancing constables are SUPER gay.

💃🕺 🎶 Get ready to experience Murdoch Mysteries like never before! 🎶 🕺💃 ‘Why Is Everybody Singing?’ is our first musical episode. All singing. All dancing. Don’t miss it Monday, March 25

[indigovigilance]

Maggie is Possessed

This is my second meta! My first one is here.

I’m not the first fan to be suspicious of Maggie but I’m going to argue why she might be possessed (and I hypothesize that specifically she is possessed by an angel), rather than being eldritch herself, and will propose some reasons why the hitchhiker might be doing this.

First, a quick list of her early observable behaviors:

She cannot spell urgency

She signs “very faithfully yours”

She refuses to drink alcohol

Golden angel-wing earrings, anyone?

Have you seen those clothes?

All of those things are angelic, but why possession, specifically? Evidence is presented in order of chronology and not necessarily how strong it is, below the cut:

First: The timeline is weird. She’s eight months behind on rent, and suddenly decides she needs to speak to Mr. Fell “on a matter of some ugrency” and insists she can be out by next week. It’s inconsistent behavior that could indicate that a new decision-maker has taken over. First-point-five, she calls Aziraphale an angel: does she know?

Second: re-watch the first coffee shop scene, S2E1 at 13:20. Yes yes, it reads like a cute lesbian flirtation scene. That’s the cowrie shell. Pick it up. There’s a caraway seed underneath. When she arrives at the coffee shop for the first time, Maggie’s confused “ah, yes, coffee” might not be the flustered redirect you thought it was, but rather indicating that whoever is riding around in that body doesn’t actually know how a coffee shop works. But Nina (to Hitchhiker!Maggie’s relief) remembers her order. So Human!Maggie has been here before, in fact, Nina calls her a regular, to which Hitchhiker!Maggie says “oh right, yes, I’m that.” Not sus at all, sister.

Third: During the “herbal tea” exchange, Maggie says to Nina that “I didn’t go to parties” and she was “not that sort of teenager.” On it’s face it reads like she was a goody-two-shoes human teenager, but consider for a moment that whoever is speaking right now was never human; the statement isn’t a lie, but its very misleading. Who else do we know that does that?

Fourth: During the lock-in, Maggie tells the story of how her great grandmother’s store was in a corner of Mr. Fell’s bookshop, so he lets them stay on for old time’s sake. One possible interpretation of this phrasing is that Hitchhiker!Maggie knows that Aziraphale has owned that shop continuously for at least 100 years. Nina is the one that suggests that it was actually Aziraphale’s grandfather, and Maggie nods along.

Fifth: Maggie says it’s a “coincidence” that the power goes in and out when Crowley passes by; could read as a deliberate redirect from someone who actually knows that Crowley is a demon? But more on that later.

Sixth: I’m skipping a lot of intervening content BUT at the ball, during the dance, she says “this is just what we do, isn’t it?” to which Nina emphatically replies that no, it isn’t. So even though Nina has been effected by an emotion-suppressing aura, she hasn’t lost her memory of how society generally works in 2023, but somehow Maggie isn’t up to date. This is parallel to Point #2, not knowing how to order coffee.

Seventh: Aziraphale’s attempted miracle memory wipe doesn’t work on her. I’ve seen others suggest that it’s due to a miracle blocker but all of his other miracles work, so…

Eighth: Nina calls her “angel.” You thought it was cute. It’s not. It’s a double-bluff. She’s actually an angel.

Ninth: She tells Crowley that “we’re real people.” Okay, human police officer Inspector Constable, whatever you say.

The rest of this is wild speculation. Abandon hope all ye who read below the fold.

So of course this raises the question: why are is the hitchhiker here, and what was Human!Maggie’s motivation to give them permission to hitchhike?

I’ll start with Human!Maggie’s motivation. I believe that she is not just pretendy-good but a properly good person who feels a lot of anguish about her failing business, one that’s been in the family for 100 years, and guilt for not paying her rent. I think she prayed for help, and a “guardian angel” answered her prayers, and she gave that angel permission to possess her and fix the problem.

As for why the angel answered her prayers, I propose that the Metatron sent them to fuck around with Aziraphale. My evidence is that Maggie frequently meddles to Aziraphale’s detriment. In chronological order:

She puts him in a moral choice position: if he evicts her, he’s the bad guy. If he forgives her rent, he’s done something good. Both of these can be leveraged by the Metatron. Notably, after he forgives the rent, Maggie calls him an angel, perhaps to remind him whose side he’s really on *wink wink nudge nudge.*

She confides in her landlord about her crush on the business owner across the street, who’s already in a relationship?! How ridiculously inappropriate?? Maggie??!! But she does, and plants the idea in his head about love, which ultimately becomes the runaway train that makes him extremely vulnerable later.

She refuses to leave the shop during the attack (S2E5), I propose is for purposes of fucking over Aziraphale, as evidenced by…

For this part, I need you to go back and watch it. S2E6 at 3:28. During the pissing contest at the threshold, Maggie turns her head away, there is a sound effect, and that’s when she turns back to Shax and invites the demons in. Hitchhiker!Maggie has taken over and rolled out the carpet for the enemy invasion.

Maggie is the instigator of the “you have to talk about your feelings” conversation, dragging Nina from behind the counter across the street while she has a shop full of customers. Considering that the Metatron is at that very moment at the French restaurant next door, making a job offer to Aziraphale, the timing choice seems very suspect. Almost as if they coordinated to talk to each husband while they were separated.

So, it is possible that Hitchhiker!Maggie was sent by the Metatron as a spy and a saboteur to meddle with Aziraphale. To what end, specifically? Probably to get him to break up with Crowley and/or get him to return to Heaven, but ultimately, I just don’t know. I will admit that I don’t have a very strong conviction that this will become canon, but it was fun to write and I hope that it was fun to read! Leave a note if you enjoyed it!

edit: a link to another meta about why this was such an effective strategy against the husbands

[grimesgirll]

it’s rare that rick is home with you in the middle of the day. 

typically, the group leader was off on a run, an errand, or dealing with the duties that came with being constable. but not today! today he was home. you’d even woken up to him beside you, a rarity.

you’d woken up with his taut arms wrapped around you and a nose nuzzled into your neck. the urge to stay overwhelms you but you’ve got to put together some breakfast. you’re slipping out of bed when you feel two arms drawing you back.

“where are you goin’? i thought we were sleeping in today.”

“you never sleep in.” you reminded him.

“except for’ today.” he exhaled into your hair, reaching a hand up to play with one of your french braids. “morning, silly girl,” he greeted, traveling his hand up to cup one of your breasts.

you gasped, breathing deeply as he increases the pressure. “doesn’t seem like you wanna sleep.”

“nope.” the sheriff answered, popping the p. 

god, you wished he could be home every morning to have you squirming. he plunged a sticky finger into you. “another one, please.”

“since you asked so nicely.”

you shuddered at the second addition. grinding back against him, he continued his peace signed shape ministration inside of you. 

“and since you’re gripping me so tight, why not another one?”

“ah!”

“that’s it.”

“mhmmm,” you droned into the pillow.

“feelin’ okay, silly girl?”

“so good, daddy!”

 you didn’t have to see his smirk. you just feel the absence of his fingers. your hips shift in anticipation.

“want me to fuck you nice and dumb on my cock early this morning, baby?” rick questioned with a cocky, sleepy grin. “want me to stuff you, silly girl?” 

your head was bobbing yes immediately and that’s all he needed to pull down his boxers and drive right into you. 

it doesn’t matter if you had a degree in molecular biology or rocket science before all this, you’re still rick’s silly girl. 

his lovely little housewife - the one waiting at home to get fucked to the moon and back on his cock. the same cock that had made your eyes widen when you first saw it. 

you’d never mention it to rick but shane had to really be something for lori fuck everything up with rick over him. yeah, lori thought rick was dead but everything afterwards? you would’ve been head over heels overjoyed to see your man again. 

that’s how you’d felt every time rick came back from a risky run. it was scary to imagine a time when he may not come home. you chose to put it out of your mind and enjoy the organ restructuring dick inside of you.

its owner couldn’t hold himself back from slamming into you on your side. there was never anything more relaxing for rick than being balls deep inside of you - well, maybe being down your throat. 

“my silly girl,” he breathed into your hair. 

it took you two a while to make it to the kitchen. it took even longer to make breakfast after you learned that carl had taken judith over to eugene’s to look into a telescope. 

with the house empty, rick gets to devote an hour to his favorite past time: fucking you against the counter. 

you and rick had stumbled downstairs in your pajamas but they’re scattered on the floor now. you lovers are too enthralled in grinding your bodies as close to each other as possible. rick is on a mission to shove his massive cock as deep inside of your tight cunt as possible. of course, it’s tight fit and a delicate dance of not blowing out your cervix.

the early shocks of your fourth orgasm of the day - second against the counter - make themselves known in a way you can’t ignore.

“you’re hitting all the right spots, rick,” you croon, gazing back at him all fucked out.

you feel him twitch inside of you. he can’t help but lose his mind seeing you so needy beneath him at this time of day. god, he needs to be home more.

“anything for you, pretty girl. you like this?” he lays a firm two fingers on top of your clit.

“mhmmm,” you confirm with a nod. 

your leader takes your murmurings as a go ahead to adopt an intense rhythm; his shaft delivering rapid fire contact with your spongy feel good parts inside while his hand strategically cups your clit. 

his solid length saws into you without any regard for your sensitive pussy. the dull pain pairs well with the pleasure as your clit is lavished in attention and your insides feel like they’re about to come apart around the thick ridges of rick. feeling him bare inside of you equates to pure bliss. 

because just like your cookie dough, you like it raw. 

“can’t wait!” you strain.

ugh, he’s gonna have you exploding again. you’re going to be blacking out for a split second and going soft brained. rick doesn’t need to pound into you to send you to a cloud higher than nine. it’s like you’re not even in the room - not even on earth.

last time rick had fucked one of those mind numbing, leg shaking orgasms out of you. he didn’t even stop for the smoke detector or the smell of torched green beans. he’d seared kisses up your neck from behind and without the will to hold out, he’d snuck you away from your task at hand - a green bean casserole - and instead fucked you silly next to the shoe rack.

he only broke the habit of fucking you through the smoke detector when carol told him off and he realized it was a waste of food. 

you’d both been embarrassed at carol walking into the kitchen to rescue your burnt casserole and discover you and rick disheveled coming out of the mud room. 

after a long day of bullshit, rick wants nothing more than to come home to the beautiful home you’ve made for them. to spend quality time in the home and spend himself in you; always earning a couple of releases from you in the process. 

“can’t wait!” you whimper.

“so you want two?”

you nod. you love when rick gives you back to back pleasure. he’s like the best at it. that is when daryl’s not bullying his way between your legs. 

speak of the devil, daryl’s trudging into the kitchen. figures. you and rick must’ve been so into it that you didn’t hear the mud room door. actually, that’s a lie. rick probably heard the door and just banked on you being too wrapped up in cumming around him like you are now to notice.

the archer is treated to the perfect display of your pulsing pussy as you gush all over the counter. he whistles as some of your slick dribbles down the cabinet drawers. 

“shouldn’t have expected anything else on rick’s day off.” he quips.

the brunette sex god playing chicken with your cervix just snorts, not stopping or slowing down the convergence of his hips and yours for anything. “shouldn’t be draggin’ mud through here.” he advises through gritted teeth.

“daryl,” you pant, overwhelmed by both the aftershocks of your climax and the prospect of mud on your floors.

“sorry, wasn’t very nice and clean in norfolk. but hey, we came here and back with fuel and MREs all before noon, so i wouldn’t be too disappointed.”

“i’m gonna make her cum four times before noon.” rick declares, hammering more frantically into you. 

“rick, slow down,” you pant again. 

“you good, honey?” rick checks in, stilling his thrusts to wait for your reply.

“rosita’s class really took it out of me yesterday. all the muscles are sore,” you complain, eyes watering a bit from your orgasm and the mild throbbing pain in your tightened muscles. 

“poor baby’s feelin’ sore?”

daryl confirms with a nod. “she’s not breathing and stretching like you should when she’s lifting.”

rick gives you a disappointed look. “maybe you’ll take a break from your weight lifting classes. huh, honey?”

you groan and pout.

“then you two need to help me practice kegels.”

“we’ll start now,” the sheriff instructs you. his hands couldn’t be cemented further into the curves of your hips. 

with daryl watching from across the counter, you do your best to remember the motions of a kegel. you squeeze. it feels like you’re doing so randomly but rick is bucking his hips again. as long as he’s not correcting you, it’s good enough. not like he’ll last long anyways. 

you’re irresistible to him, all hot and bleary eyed. 

like the time he fucked you up against a hedge at the community picnic. you two were tucked away in the woods of course but that didn’t make it any less naughty when you sauntered back up the hill and to your picnic blanket with cum inside of you. 

you look just like you did then. hair coming undone from your bedtime braids, tears threatening to fall on the countertop, and your pussy holding on tight and not letting him go. 

you expect to be empty once you’re done spasming around the thick rod inside of you and rick had filled you up completely. the breath is knocked out of your lungs when feel another cock take his place.

“daryl!”

“i know that you can take one more, baby. you love being stuffed one after another.”

“that she does,” rick corroborates.

the constable is in your view so now you can relish in the sight of him finding his clothes while daryl tries to do you in once and for good.

“fuck, dare’!” you wince as he pile drives into you from behind.

“sorry, baby,” he apologizes into the crook of your neck, lowering down and crushing you further into the counter. “just missed you out there. i never find anything as perfect as you.”

“mhmmm,” you babble and squeak in time with his thrusts.

“you really needed the pounding today? huh, hon’?” 

you nod your head the best you can for rick.

“almost there, fucking pretty little bitch.”

daryl feels your reaction on his cock as you shudder around him.

“you like being called a pretty little bitch?”

“maybe,” you stutter.

the auburn haired man fucking rick’s cum into you chuckles. “yeah, i feel how much you like it grippin’ me up so tight.”

“her pussy’s got a killer grip.” rick agreed.

“you ‘bout ready to cum all over this cock? you wanna cum? pretty little thing.” daryl huffs with each thrust.

“yes!” you cry out, tensing around his cock. “please, dare’!”

“silly girl’s gonna make a mess of your cock,” observes the peanut gallery.

“whenever you’re ready, pretty girl,” daryl whispers in your ear.

truth be told, just the heat from his breath on your air had your overworked cunt going off like a sparkler around him.

“daryl, daryl, daryl!” you chant.

the panic in your voice is that of someone falling off a cliff but you’re just nosediving into your orgasm with your boyfriend spearing you on his cock.

the shuddering turns into small aftershocks and your legs eventually still as you bask in the post-orgasmic bliss you’re experiencing of the fifth time today. rick gives you a condescending smirk when he realizes the exact moment daryl’s cum trickles into you. you can’t hide how satisfied you are being so warm and full.

the man withdrawing from your spent pussy points to rick’s snack.

“what’s that?” daryl inquires, referring to the jerky rick is chowing on.

“oh, that’s the jerky i made!” you chirp, peeling yourself off of the countertop. “i’m getting pretty good at jerky. wanna try some? carol’s teaching me how.”

“why not?”

you pull a piece from the ziplock bag that rick holds out for you and gingerly pop it into daryl’s mouth. 

“what do you think?”

he shrugs. “i’d share it with dog - not entirely though.”

you slap his shoulder playfully. “i’m still a beginner. it’ll get better.”

“i think it’s great, sweetheart.” rick compliments, manhandling you to his side of the counter and help you step into your newly discovered sleep shorts.

then you’re being pulled into his lap despite your protests. “rick! i have to make breakfast!” you already had explained to them countless times before why you couldn’t cook topless.

rick and daryl share a look and a snicker before rick is locking you in his seated embrace and daryl is grabbing a carton of eggs from the fridge.

“i got it, princess,” daryl hums. “you just take care of rick.”

“i wanted to make breakfast for you on your day off!” you complain, giving rick another pout.

he shakes his head at you. “you know where i want you on my day off, hon’? right here.” to solidify the point, he drags you down onto him, clutching a breast and attacking your neck with his lips.

“already?” you’re asking, punctuating the question with a ragged breath.

“oh, i can go all day today, sweetheart.”

[blouisparadise]

Today we have the second part to our long fic rec list! These fics are all 100k words or more. If you missed the first part to this rec list, you can check it out here. If you enjoy our rec lists, please be sure to like and reblog this post to help spread the word.

1) The Rose of Whitechapel | Mature | 100,181 words

Jack the Ripper AU - Detective Constable Harry Styles and his partner, DC Liam Payne, lead the case on the Whitechapel murders. Louis Tomlinson, the Rose of Whitechapel, is harbouring secrets of his own, along with a dark and sordid past. When their paths cross, truths are revealed, and perhaps hearts are mended… A darkness is brewing, and it’s finally come to collect on the promise it was made.

2) The Maddest Obsession | Explicit | 100,974 words

One fears the dark. One rules it. Harry Styles, the dangerous mob enforcer, finds himself entangled with Louis, the strong-willed mafia-princess. As they navigate the treacherous underworld of New York, their forbidden love sparks a deadly game of loyalty, betrayal, and passion. Will their devotion to each other overcome the chaos surrounding them, or will their love be their downfall?

3) Shadow Dances | Mature | 101,591 words

Louis Tomlinson has a begrudging gift, he’s able to communicate with the spirits of the dead. Often against his will, and almost always at the most inconvenient of times. He and his partner, Zayn Malik, work for a covert division of the New Haven Federal Bureau of Investigations. They aid in all kinds of cases, though their talents lie in the obscure and unsolvable. It’s when a strange new case falls onto their desks that they’re left questioning the extent of their abilities, and whether they were ever truly alone. Harry Styles was brought into the FBI for not only his skills, but his ability to mitigate the influx of spirits surrounding the elusive and obnoxiously infuriating sharp-tongued medium he’d been assigned to. Louis gets under his skin, he’s impulsive and a risk to the team according to Harry. They do however have to find a way to set aside their sordid history, and their reluctant attraction, to track down the murderer plaguing their coastal city.

4) Billow And Breeze (Islands And Seas) | Explicit | 102,506 words

It was bright; that was the first thing Louis could recall. With a groan, he winced at the throbbing behind the sockets of his eyes and rubbed his temples in an effort to soothe the pain. Maybe he really did hit his head when he took his tumble. The omega squinted as he looked at the surrounding rolling hills and fog hanging over the countryside. As strange as it was, the world felt different, though it looked practically the same. Disoriented and confused, Louis padded through the moss and listened for his husband. “Liam?” he croaked shakily. Nothing but a symphony of woodland creatures met his ears. His footsteps were muted by mossy green grass beneath his feet and soil fragrant as he neared the crest of the hill. At the top, he froze, lips parted in horror and eyes widening at the expanse of empty farmland—not a soul in sight. It had only been less than ten minutes prior that he could see Inverness from the crest, but now there was nothing. “Impossible,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief—his mind not quite able to make sense of it.

5) Praise the Mutilated World | Explicit | 106,668 words 

An enemies to lovers dystopian au where Harry is an elite alpha and Louis is a rebel omega with too much to fight for. Every move made is monitored, and a fertile omega’s purpose in life is one thing: to give children to their alpha.

6) My Kind Of Love | General Audiences | 108,178 words

Harry marries Louis for one year. Louis has no choice other than marry Harry fucking styles. There is a reason behind Harry’s sudden marriage with Louis and Louis has no idea about that. Maybe Harry married Louis for revenge.

7) Only You And Me | Not Rated | 109,836 words

Note: This is the sequel to this fic.

Louis goes on with his life after Harry, he hopes Harry comes back to him but is also on the search for something new. Will Harry reach out to Louis, or will Louis get over him and find something better?

8) You’ve Got A Higher Power, You’re Once In Any Lifetime | Explicit | 113,444 words

Giving up and letting them think they’re right were never valid options in Louis Tomlinson’s mind. In a society full of prejudices, finding a family and being accepted, also seemed like an unrealistic utopia. Louis sets out to do what no other of his kind ever has before and in doing so, he finds love, friendship and more about himself than he thought he would.

9) Like Water Over Fire (Like Water On Fire) | Mature | 119,264 words

Prince Harry has 46 men and 13 weeks to find the husband of his dreams, Louis has a limited amount to time to live out a royal fantasy. They might just be exactly what the other needs.

10) Tainted Saints And Velvet Vices | Mature | 126,057 words

A self-fulfilling Hogwarts AU in which Louis is new to seventh year and Harry is the resident devil-may-care Slytherin set to make his entire experience a living misery. Due to less than favourable circumstances they’re forced to forge an unwilling, tentative relationship for their own survival. Repressed emotions, decidedly unromantic ballroom dancing, Triwizard Tournament tasks, creative jinxes and twilight flying above the Forbidden Forest ensue.

11) Chandeliers And Fake Smiles | Mature | 145,010 words

On the brink of winning their first Grammy; up-and-coming rock band One Direction find themselves in the midst of the biggest scandal of their career - right before tickets for their world tour go on sale. in order to save their reputation, Louis Tomlinson must find it in his heart to forgive pop singer and heartthrob Harry Styles after his first impression rubbed him entirely the wrong way. after all, they cannot sell a relationship if it looks like they hate each other.

12) Buy Me Purple Flowers First | Teen & Up | 157,728 words

Louis Tomlinson is a 24-year-old rock star who tends to be rebellious and known as a “brat” in the extended media. The Omega has yet to find a mate and has no interests in being in a committed relationship. Harry Styles is a 22-year-old Alpha Bodyguard known for his past of protecting some of the most important politicians and musicians of their time. He has settled on a temporary job as a favour of a friend to look after the famous Louis Tomlinson to finish the leg of his European tour.

13) How Many Times Will It Take (To Get This Right) | Explicit | 157,805 words

Harry was watching her go, unable to meet Louis’ eyes again now that they were alone, and that’s how he saw him when the young boy leaned around Jay to peer at his mum and Harry. Harry’s jaw went slack, his mouth falling open in disbelief when two green orbs identical to his own found him and stared unwaveringly calm into Harry’s sunglasses-covered face. His small features were undeniably close to Louis’. Their noses, their lips, even their brow line was the same, but the pup’s eyes were an eerily familiar shade of emerald, and much rounder than Louis’. His hair fell in dark ringlets around his small face, which was also much too round to really say the child looked like Louis, despite the similar features. Harry sputtered when his alpha roared in his chest that Harry should follow the kid–should protect his pup. But there was no fucking way.

14) Charmed | Mature | 163944 words

Louis had always felt he was different, but he had never understood why. At least until one particular event devasted hum, turning his life upside down forever and bringing to the surface a past he didn’t know, a present he thought he knew, and a series of unexpected events that will trigger the beginning of a future he’s not sure he wants to live.

15) Sewn Into You | Explicit | 167,486 words

Harry Styles thinks soulmates are a fairytale, or in other words-a lie. He has no interest in entertaining anything that has anything to do with the very name that had been etched along his collarbone since his eighteenth birthday. Louis Tomlinson won’t be answering to another alpha for the rest of his life if he can help it. Fuck happy endings, his soul mate can choke on it. Problem is, Harry needs a personal assistant to save his family’s business, Louis needs the cash to officially move off of his childhood best-friend’s couch. They can manage. Surely, nothing will go wrong.

16) Don’t Let It (Me) Break | Explicit | 168,297 words

The one where Harry is oblivious, Louis is broken, Zayn and Liam are in love, Gemma and Lottie are lovely, and Niall is just waiting for everyone to get their shit together.

17) Non-Disclosure | Mature | 170,219 words

Being a world class Director, producing some of the best rated Romance movies to date, Louis was easily a sucker for the ‘Happy Ever After’. Except, in a world where he pretends and imagines true love. He was stuck inbetween what he thought was the love of his life and everything trying to stop them. “I did a lot of thinking when I was gone and every scenario I came up with ended with you. I’m fucking scared and I have no idea what will happen from now but I’d risk it all, if you could promise me a lifetime”

18) You Smell Like | Explicit | 185,369 words

The one where Louis is the Alpha’s mate and everyone is aware of it except for Louis and Harry. Go figure!

19) Three Days in February | Explicit | 187,642 words

How close is too close? Harry and Louis are about to find out after a drunken night leaves Louis cursed. With only a week before tour starts, the race is on to fix things before they lose Louis forever. Oh, and Harry has to keep his long-time crush on Louis a secret while the lad can literally hear his thoughts. Easy, right?

20) Collision | Not Rated | 226,294 words

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

21) Truth Behind Golden Eyes | Explicit | 228,727 words 

Louis is a royal servant born with magic in a kingdom where his sole existence is outlawed with a war he has no idea he has a part in upon him. Harry is the prince on whom the burden of mending a broken kingdom falls upon and he might be willing to risk it all for a simple servant if only he admitted it to himself.

22) Join Me In The Afterlife | Explicit | 262,289 words

Louis is a simple guy - all he wants from his summer break is to spend some quality time with his mother, get to know her new husband, and learn to play the guitar. Nothing out of the ordinary, that is for sure. However, life has a funny way of working and when Louis finds a strange boy sitting on his bed one sunny day, his summer break takes a turn for the better (or worse) when he discovers a ghost has stolen his heart from the get-go.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[blairkiss]

Stressed night.

Fluff, Reader POV, Female Reader, Housewife!Reader, Worried!Reader, Stressed!Miranda, Comfort fic

by @blairkiss … this has been rotting in my drafts for a while

I was perched on the edge of the couch, the flicker of the television casting shadows across the living room. A half-eaten plate of lasagna sat beside me, the scent still wafting in the air, mingling with the aroma of simmering pasta in the kitchen. I had planned this evening meticulously, right down to the golden-brown crust of the lasagna that bubbled away, feeling the warmth and richness fill not just the dish but the essence of our home.

Miranda's shift always felt so long, stretching the minutes into hours. As a constable in the Sydney Police Force, the unpredictability of her job kept me on edge. When she was late, my heart would race not just from worry but from a visceral need to have her back in my arms. Sometimes, late or not, I would often indulged in the fantasy that maybe this time she would walk through the door with a smile that could brighten up the grimmest day, though I know that it was far too unlikely.

The clock ticked softly, and I flicked my eyes to its face. Nearly seven o'clock. Tonight, she’d promised to be home early. As the thought danced in my mind, my phone vibrated on the coffee table, shattering my reverie and drawing me back into reality.

It was a message from Miranda:

Last call out? I’m sorry. I’ll be home soon

Of course. I tossed the phone onto the couch in frustration, even as I felt the urge to understand. The nature of her work was unpredictable, but part of me still ached for her presence, the soothing, sultry warmth of her touch, the way she breathed life into the stillness of our home.

It wasn’t long before the heavy sound of keys rattling at the door made my heart leap. A second later, the door swung open, and in walked my wife. The façade of official authority melted off her like wax as she slipped inside — her broad shoulders slumping slightly, those soft eyes now edged with fatigue.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I murmured, a smile breaking across my face in spite of myself.

She returned a tired grin, her voice laden with warmth despite the weariness that draped her like a worn coat. “How was your day?”

“Long. I missed you,” I admitted, feeling a smile hitch at the end of my lips.

She placed her bag down by the door, her blue uniform twisted into angles that I had grown to love — the way it hugged her toned frame, a testament to the work she put in at the gym when she was off duty. But it was her eyes, always, that softened the color of the uniform; they twinkled with an energy that was unmistakably so… Miranda.

“I’m sorry about tonight. I wanted to be here for dinner.” She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my head.

“It’s okay, love. I started without you,” I teased, the warmth of her body banishing the chill of disappointment I had felt only minutes before.

“I’m starving!” she declared, releasing me to head straight for the kitchen, a usual routine, that Miranda and I danced like the waltz each night. I followed, my heart swirling at the sight of her. Every day, standing beside her felt like a privilege — her tall, athletic physique, all defined lines and strength contrasted with my more delicate frame. Together, we fit like two puzzle pieces, strong and soft, perfectly aligned in so many ways.

“Lasagna?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did you make it from scratch?”

“Of course, Mir! I hope you didn’t think I’d let you eat any more of that takeout from last week.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, reaching for a slice and shoving a forkful into her mouth, her face delighting at the taste. “You’re the best.”

As she ate, we spoke of mundane things: her cases, the struggles at the precinct, and my day spent mostly at home. But somewhere in the back of my head, I could feel that the conversation was only a bandage covering something else. I glanced over at her, her expression darkening slightly.

“Is everything alright at work? Any new leads on the ChinaGirl case?” I inquired, referring to a long-standing case that had become something of a thorn in her side.

“It’s complicated,” she replied, pushing her food around on her plate as if it were the lasagna reflecting her mood rather than her plate. “I just feel responsible. Like it’s my job to solve this so that the city can find peace.”

Her voice was tinged with pressure; I could see the shadows of doubt slipping into her mind. I reached across the table and grasped her hand, the familiar warmth grounding her.

“Miranda,” I said softly, “you can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone, you know that? It’s okay to lean on me.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her face, gratitude shining through the creases of worry. “I know. I just... I need to stay strong.”

“You are strong,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “But even the strongest people need help sometimes.”

“I think I just need you to always be around me,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper.

After dinner, I washed the dishes while Miranda settled into her favorite spot on the couch, sinking into the cushions with a soft sigh. I joined her, curling up beside her and resting my head on her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around me, and in that moment, everything felt perfect.

The world outside was chaotic, but here, in our little sanctuary, I felt nothing but peace. Miranda’s presence was my therapy, the soundtrack of her soft breath pulling me away from the anxieties that waited just outside our door.

“Let’s just stay here for a while,” she murmured, her voice dangling in the air like a melody.

“Yes, let’s do that.”

[downbadf0rficppl]

love you

Anthony Lockwood x F!Reader

Summary: Part 2 of let me - Your nights are plagued with nightmares that feel all too real. It's all connected to the Bowers' manor. You need to solve this mystery before it drives you crazy. What will you find?

Word Count: 3.9K

Warnings: umm a lot of gore - it's inspired that one episode of guillermo del toro's cabinet of curiosities, so yeah. also they kiss. and it's slightly sad at the end. lmk if there's anything else.

You twisted in your bed- sheets soaked with sweat, hair sticking to your forehead. Vivid images flew across your mind, confusing you with their content.

There was a woman - tall and beautiful, but angry. She was so, so angry. She gripped your hand tightly, pulling you across the floor and locking you in a room. There was a little boy in there, curled in the corner, clutching a teddy bear. 

The teddy bear was familiar - there was a picture of your mother holding an identical one somewhere in the attic of your family home. The boy was covering the teddy bear’s ears. There was screaming outside the door - two voices creating a cacophony, so disruptive that you cowered under its weight. 

In the distance, you could hear the lullaby again - the one from the manor. The little boy stood up and ran to the corner of the room, glancing back before disappearing into a secret door behind the wardrobe.

The scene changed - light streamed through the window now, casting shadows of the window pane on the wooden floor. The angry woman was now stood at the base of the stairs, her coat wrapped around her and a hat in her hands.

“Elizabeth!” she called, “Elizabeth, hurry, we can’t be late again!” 

A young girl ran down the stairs, her fingers dancing over the railing as she ran. You looked at her closely. She almost looked like you. Same hair, same eyes, same face shape. It was peculiar. A floorboard creaked behind you. You turned back to face the stairs - the little boy was sat there again, hands grasping his teddy bear. He looked woefully at his sister, who was already out the door, chattering away to their mother. You could hear her muffled voice through the shut door. You shivered.

A draft blew through the house. Loud sobbing echoed through the halls and you ran upstairs, following the sound. You turned open the door to the boy’s room, before scrambling back hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your scream.

There, lying in a pool of her own blood, was the sister. The whole family crowded around her - the father cradled her in his arms while the mother cried into her hands nearby. Their clothes were soaked with blood as they sat wailing. A constable ran up the stairs with the maid, and he stumbled back as the scene came into view. You watched as he muttered a prayer to the Lord.

“Come, Timothy.” The maid held out her hand to you. You gasped. She was the same. She was the maid from the Bowers house. What if she had followed you into your dream? Was that even possible? How could that even happen?

The sound of gentle footsteps behind you broke you out of your spiralling. Behind you was the little boy. His eyes were closed, hands tightly gripping the teddy bear. He was covered in blood. From head to toe.

You step aside as he took the maid’s hand. She led him down the stairs towards the maid’s quarters where he sat patiently on the bed waiting for her to return with a wet cloth. She came back with a tub and a pair of clean clothes for him to change into. Slowly and carefully, she wiped away all of the blood, humming her song all the while. Little Timothy cried as she cleaned him, wailing that it was all his fault. 

Confusion mounted as he cried - how could it be his fault, you thought, it’s not as if he killed his sister? The maid soothed him, whispering that it wasn’t his fault, there’s no way he could have known. 

You felt yourself slipping out of the dream, someone’s hand on your arm, shaking you awake, calling your name. You threw yourself awake, pulling yourself out of bed, and putting distance between whoever was in your room. You stumbled, your legs not ready for the sudden movement. A familiar pair of arms caught you, pulling you back into bed. Lockwood. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, once you were settled back into bed, “I heard you screaming from across the hall.”

“I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

Lockwood didn’t look convinced. “Was it about the last case? The one at the manor?”

“No,” you lied, looking away from his inquiring eyes, “it’s one of those ones where nothing makes sense but it’s just scary.”

“Okay. Try and get back to sleep,” Lockwood pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, “if you can’t, you can always come and be an insomniac with me.”

You smiled at him as he left before bringing a hand up to brush your hairline. He kissed you? Lockwood wasn’t one to show physical affection, even to Ruby and George. Since moving in here, you’d only seen him be affectionate once, hugging Ruby when he was exceptionally tired. You smiled internally, lying back down and turning over. Maybe there’s a slight possibility that he feels the same.

It had been 3 days and the nightmare was still replaying itself in your head. You and Lucy were getting ready to go into central London for a case - suited up and ready to scope out quite an old townhouse. The owners had been complaining that there was an apparition causing a disturbance in the attic.

The two of you hopped in a cab, exchanging notes on George’s research as you pulled up to 16 Cherry Tree Lane. It was a tall townhouse in a very affluent part of London. The area had a rich history and Lucy knocked on the door just as the sun started setting. 

Your footsteps echoed as you entered the empty townhouse - clearly the owners were still in the process of moving in as the home was barren. The case should be easy - one ghost that they could hear in the attic, likely a Type 1. Easy. In and out.

“Let’s just get this over with, then we can get pizza,” Lucy said, harking back to Lockwood’s promise to pick up pizza on his way back from DEPRAC.

The two of you headed up the stairs, both of you using your listening skills to try and locate the ghost. Lucy stayed on the first floor, exploring the bedrooms, while you headed up to the second floor to see if you had any luck there. You could hear faint humming - a man’s voice but still, for a moment you stood, paralysed by fear. There was no way she could have followed you here. You heard footsteps come from behind you, and someone calling your name. Lucy. You tried calling out to her but found yourself unable to yell or run to her. You were stuck.

Lucy comes upstairs to find you standing by the top of the stairs, tears streaming down your face. The ghost wasn’t near you - he seemed oblivious to either of you being there (you were right when you said he was a Type 1). Lucy blocks him from your view, placing her hands on the side of your head, bringing your focus back to her. You soon relaxed, your body releasing its tension and movement returned to your body. Your hands came up to cover hers, reassuring her that you were okay. She didn’t seem convinced.

As you pulled up to 35 Portland Row, you were still shaking from the icy grip of the ghost. The chill seemed to linger in your bones and your body felt heavy as you walked up the steps to the house. Lucy’s worried gaze lingered on you as she opened the door, her arm steady around your shoulders, but she said nothing as you trudged into the house.

"You should rest," Lucy suggested gently, closing the door behind you. "I'll make you some tea."

You nodded gratefully, already feeling the exhaustion creep in. As you settled onto the couch, Lucy disappeared into the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

As you dozed off on the couch, you heard the door open and Lockwood announce that he had pizza. Somewhere deep in the back of your mind, you celebrated - it had been months since you guys had been able to treat yourselves to a full pizza meal, so you were excited. But the case had really taken it out of you, so you just remained curled up on the couch.

You vaguely heard Lockwood call your name and walk into the room, but you were too tired to lift your head. You feel his hand brush over your head and a shiver runs down your spine. You hear him ask Lucy what happened, and - with a slight hesitation - she tells him. You can't be mad at her - Lockwood deserved to know the whole truth.

Eventually, he and Lucy slipped away, leaving you to the silence of the room. The scent of pizza wafted from the kitchen and your stomach growled. Mustering up the last ounces of your energy, you rose from the couch and walked over to the kitchen, where the three of them were sat. You gingerly sat in your chair, reaching out for some pepperoni pizza.

The four of you sat in a silence as Lucy and George rushed to finish their pizza and slip away. They knew what was coming.

"You should be resting," Lockwood finally said, as Lucy shut the door behind her. The worry on his face morphed into anger as you took another bite of pizza, "See this is what I mean when I say you're too reckless."

His words stung a little and you felt a flare of defiance. "I'm not a child, Anthony, I can take care of myself."

"Clearly not well enough." He retorted, pushing his plate away. He may be the big boss of Lockwood and Co, but he still left his crusts on the plate. Lockwood's voice kept rising, "You know what, you're benched until I say otherwise. If I can't trust you to keep yourself safe, I'll do it for you."

The finality in his tone makes your blood boil. "You can't just bench me!" You shouted back, standing up to match Lockwood's stance. "I'm also a part of this team, and I deserve to be treated like it."

Lockwood stepped back, his expression a mix of anger and hurt. "I'm doing this because I care about you. Can't you see that?"

But you were too angry to listen. Without another word, you stormed out of the kitchen and off to your room, slamming the door behind you - the picture frames on the wall rattled with force. The silence that followed was deafening, your heart pounding in your ears.

As you sat on the edge of your bed, the anger slowly ebbed away, replaced by a crushing sense of guilt. You knew that Lockwood wasn't doing it to be malicious, but his overprotectiveness felt suffocating. Curling up on your bed, you tried to drift off to sleep but it felt impossible. You were benched off the team and at odds with Lockwood. You didn't need to add another nightmare to that mix.

The next day, Anthony and Lucy disappeared on another mission, while George took a trip to the British Library to put together some information for a case next week. You were supposed to stay behind at the house to clean up and take care of some artifacts, but you had other plans. 

While George got a taxi from the house, you slipped out and caught the next bus in that direction. The British Library was a familiar sanctuary, rows of dusty tomes lining the shelves, each one holding secrets waiting to be uncovered. Years before you had worked for Lockwood and Co., you did what George did - extensive research.

You settled at a computer in the far corner of the library, brow furrowed in concentration, as you flicked through some old local newspapers that mentioned the old Bower's Manor.

The pages were filled with tales of hauntings and tragedy, the ghostly echoes of past inhabitants lingering in the crumbling halls, stuff that George had already pulled out in his last case file. You traced your finger along faded photographs of the manor, trying to figure out why you felt so drawn to it. 

"There's something here," you murmured to yourself, "There must be."

You slide a worn parchment under the magnifier beside you. The photo caught your eye. It was the little boy you saw. You shifted it towards the text. 

May 26th, 1947

News from the Bowers Manor: Ms. Elizabeth Bowers, eldest daughter of Lord and Mrs. Timothy Bowers, has unfortunately passed on at the age of 15, two months after Lord Bower’s brother, Lt. Charles M. Bowers. The passing has been reported as the result of a chronic and fatal condition, but some within the house believe some other forces to be at play. 

Constable M. Myers reported the case to be unlike any he had seen before after he was called to the Manor early Saturday morning. He reportedly returned to the station covered in blood and shaking, before retiring home for the weekend. He has not been able to give any other statement.

You stopped reading. This was it. The story from your memory. Vision? Whatever it was. You scanned the rest of the text, looking for the name of the brother, but there was no mention of him. 

You took the next newspaper in the pile and placed it under the magnifier. Nothing. And the next. And the next. Still nothing. Finally you find one from 1957. Ten years after the original. In the corner of one of the middle pages is a small photo and an article titled, ‘The Last Bowers’. This could be it. 

October 2nd, 1957

Sgt. Timothy Bowers II, son of the late Lord and Mrs. Timothy Bowers, closed the doors to the Bower’s Manor for the last time as the keys pass on to one Mr. Khalil. The 19-year-old made the decision after the passing of his cousin, the late Ms. Sanders. The Sergeant confirmed his decision to sell at last week’s monthly town meeting, and was met with uproar. Nonetheless, it seems whatever bad luck has haunted the house and the Bowers family has finally driven the young Sergeant away.

You examined the photo and your heart dropped to your stomach. You’d seen that photo before. Framed. In your mother’s house. The revelation hit you like a thunderbolt, sending a shiver down your spine as you stared at the crumbling pages before you again. The old Bowers Manor was owned by your ancestors, and the boy from the photo - and your nightmares - was none other than your grandfather.

Images flashed through your mind, fragments of memories long buried resurfacing in vivid detail. You remembered the stories your mother told you as a child, tales of a troubled past and a family history shrouded in darkness. But you never imagined that those secrets lay within the walls of the very manor you had been investigating.

As the realization sank in, you felt your mind race with possibilities. The discovery added a new layer of complexity to the mission, one that you couldn't ignore. But it made sense. Even at Fitte’s, you weren’t supposed to work cases that were close to you - no family relations or people that you were close to. Despite Anthony's orders to stay away, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something you had to do.You may have been benched, but that didn't mean you were out of the game. And if that meant you had to defy Anthony’s instructions, so be it. 

You printed a copy of the two newspapers and tucked them carefully into your bag. You then ran to catch the bus home before anyone made it back. 

As you stepped through the door of 35 Portland Row, carrying the weight of the newfound revelations about your family's history, you were met with the stern gaze of Anthony Lockwood. His expression was a mix of frustration and concern, his normally calm demeanor replaced by a crackling intensity that sends a chill down your spine.

"Where have you been?" he demanded, his voice sharp with reproach. "I thought we agreed that you were going to stay here.”

“If by agreed, you mean you told me to stay here and just expected me to agree.”

His expression didn’t change. Instead, his eyes caught one of the photocopies that was clenched in your hand. He grabbed while you were distracted and looked over it. His face hardened more if that was possible. “I thought I specifically told you to stay away from that case."

You swallowed hard, knowing that you were about to face the full force of Anthony's wrath. "I know, but I had to—"

"You had to, what?" he interrupted, his tone laced with exasperation. "Risk your life chasing after a ghost that we don’t need to? You almost got ghost-touched! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?"

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. "I had to find out the truth," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil brewing inside you. "About my family, about the manor—about everything."

“Your family?” Anthony's features soften slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face. “What do you mean?”

You explained the truth. Everything you’d found out in the Library. You watched as Anthony’s shoulder slumped with every word. You knew why you got ghost-locked now, so things should be back to normal.

Anthony didn’t share the sentiment. "You can't keep doing this," he said, his voice gentler now, tinged with worry. "You're important to me, to all of us. I can't stand the thought of you putting yourself in harm's way like this."

His words caught you off guard, a pang of emotion tugging at your heart. You'd always known that Anthony cared about you, but hearing him express it so openly sent a rush of warmth flooding through you.

"Anthony," you began, reaching out to touch his arm, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you."

He met your gaze, his eyes softening as he took in your sincerity. "I know you didn't," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But please, promise me you'll be more careful. Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

A tense silence envelops the room, broken only by the sound of your racing heart. You can feel the weight of his concern pressing down on you, mingling with your own sense of guilt and determination.

He’d stepped closer to you at some point in your conversation, to the point where his face was inches away from yours. His hand came up to caress the side of your face as he stared into your eyes. “Please take care of yourself. I don’t think I’d survive it if you got hurt. I know…-”

In a moment of impulsive clarity, you leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Anthony in one swift motion. Your lips met his in a tender, desperate kiss, cutting off his tirade mid-sentence.

For a heartbeat, the world fell away, leaving only the sensation of Anthony's lips against yours, the warmth of his embrace pulling you closer. In that fleeting instant, everything else faded into insignificance, overshadowed by the intensity of your connection.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and trembling, you were met with Anthony's wide-eyed gaze, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke, the weight of the unspoken hanging heavy in the air.

Then, slowly, tentatively, Anthony reached out to cup your cheek, his touch gentle against your skin. "What was that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

You met his gaze, your own eyes filled with a mixture of uncertainty and longing. "I... I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "But I couldn't stand to see you upset, and... and I needed you to know."

Anthony's expression softened, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I understand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And... and I think I needed to know too."

The tension in the room dissipated, as you met Anthony’s gaze with sincerity shining in your eyes. 

"I promise," you said softly, "I'll take better care of myself. And I won't put myself in unnecessary danger again."

Anthony nodded, his expression softening with relief. "And I promise to trust you more," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "I know I can be too controlling at times, but I'll work on letting go and giving you the space you need."

He pulled you back into his arms and you relaxed into them. You rested your cheek on his shoulder as he held you, content to just be.

You and Anthony stood outside the Bowers manor. The building wasn’t any less imposing the second time, and Anthony squeezed your hand in reassurance. We can do this, it said. You took a deep breath. 

You pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the decrepit hallway, the air thick and stagnant. This time, the feeling of discomfort didn’t weigh as heavily on your chest as you and Anthony made your way to the maid’s quarters.

Finally, you reached the quarters and you came face-to-face with the ghost that had been haunting your dreams for the past week. It was the maid, her spectral form flickering in and out of existence as she clung to the shadows, her eyes filled with longing and sorrow.

You and Anthony searched the room for anything that could be the source. Eventually, Lockwood found a loose floorboard hiding a silver hair comb and a few photos. He called you over, yelling at you to get a silver box, or some net. Anything that would subdue the maid. 

But as you grabbed the net, a voice cut through the silence—a voice you recognised all too well. It was your grandfather, his eyes covered by special goggles that you’d seen somewhere before. They were the same as the one’s Fairfax was wearing before Annabelle killed him. You shuddered at the thought. 

Your grandfather’s form materialised beside the maid, his face etched with pain and regret. "Please," he begged, his voice thick with emotion. "Don't do this. She's all I have left."

You hesitated, torn between the desire to end your haunting and listening to your grandfather’s plea. But deep down, you know what needs to be done. With a heavy heart, you threw the net over the source, the energy crackling through the air as the maid's form begins to fade.

In a sudden burst of anger and despair, your grandfather lunged forward, his arms reaching out as he tried to stop you. But before he could reach you, Anthony stepped in, shielding you from the blow.

As the maid's form faded into nothingness, you reached out to your grandfather, pulling him close as he sobbed in your arms. For a moment, there were no words, only the sound of his tears mingling with the echoes of the past.

But then, as the last remnants of the maid faded away, your grandfather lifted his head, his eyes filled with gratitude and sorrow. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the fading echoes of the manor. "For giving me the chance to say goodbye."

fin.

[aziraphales-library]

Any good fics about Crowley being a parent to Muriel? (Fluff or hurt/comfort maybeee?) thx!!

We have a #crowley & muriel tag. Here are more...

fools regardless (might as well dance) by prngslvr (G)

“Right, so the other week. On that night… well before the demons and everything, there was that gathering of all the people on the street. And you were all having such a good time, it looked like anyways. And it just looked like so much fun! What was it? That moving?” “You mean the dancing?” That night flashed through his mind, Aziraphale’s hand in his, eyes staring at him, his smile brightening the room like their whole existence wasn't about to crash and burn in the morning. OR; in which crowley teaches muriel to dance and mourns the break up of his not-quite-ex not-quite-lover.

Do It With Comfort by shanimalx (G)

In the months after Muriel was given the responsibility of caring for Aziraphale's bookshop, they did their absolute best to run it, though the severe lack of customers was a bit of a sticking point. That is, until the shop was finally graced with a visitor: the traitorous demon Crowley, who didn't seem to be very traitorous at all actually, and had some great advice about blending in on Earth (like changing out of their Inspector Constable uniform!), and was really quite nice for a demon.

on eyes, stars, and canine metaphors by lemon_cough_drops (T)

Aziraphale has left for heaven. Crowley has been doing… fine, by his standards. He’s befriended Muriel, even. This state of ‘doing fine’ won’t last forever, though.

muriel really needs a cupperty by wiigs (NR)

I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness to it.

Shepherds of the Damned by angelwithawand (T)

After Aziraphale leaves, Crowley carves out a life of his own. “On Sundays, he goes to pub trivia night. It doesn’t escape him, the irony of a demon having a place that he attends like clockwork on the Lord’s Day of Rest.”

Especially to Me, Especially if it's You by cyankelpie (T)

Crowley has spent the last two years learning to cope with Aziraphale's absence. So when Aziraphale shows up with no memories, and Crowley is the only one who can help, it's not an easy thing to deal with.

- Mod D

[mahi-wayy]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 | 𝑨𝒁𝑨𝑫 𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑬

• General • Romantic [both sfw and nsfw]

A/n : I love him T-T

I - GENERAL

the most babygirl to every babygirl- I don't make the rules.

his puppy dog eyes are like the deadliest.

he is very comfortable in his feminine energy and actually leans into it a lot seeing that he was brought up among very strong woman.

likes wearing soft colors, the scent is uses is also not very strong one but more of a sweet smell that clings to him and lingers even when he leaves.

the darling of the jail. the whole department is kind of scared of doing anything when he not around because once a officer kind of messed up his desk, misplaced one of his belongings and that man didn't know peace because the prisoners won't let him live in peace until azad got over his loss.

there wasn't a time when he was used to like night duty and constantly fell asleep on duty and constables have told how no one makes a sound around his office or in general if they know the jailer has fallen asleep.

he is a legend of that jail but he is unaware that his story is narrated to every woman that ends up behind the bars.

once refused the option of transfer with a possible promotion because he just didn't want to leave his girls.

coming to which his team is handpicked of course, he trained everyone of them personally in combat and weapons but also helped them to sharpen some skills they already had.

has nightmares of his mother not waking up or dying in different ways.

gets scolded from kaveri over his messed up schedule all the time. no time of sleeping, no time of waking up, lunch and dinner all jumbled, you get the drift.

his trauma gives him too extreme sides. sometimes he can't grasp what is going on in the room while the other times not even s drop of sweat being wiped goes unnoticed by him in a crowded room.

he almost picked up smoking in his college days but kaveri helped him shake it off before he settled in him.

extremely sensitive to his surroundings and the energy the place and people around him have.

good with his basic emotional regulation, cries when he feels like he needs to. yes he cries during movies.

good emotional intelligence.

was a boxing champion in college and a A grader throughout his academic life.

but he was bullied in school, especially for his "girl like behavior" you know how stupid those boys can get.

used to ask kaveri about his mother all the time, which she thankfully had some answers she could give but it surprised her how he never asked about his father apart from what he did, just starring at the picture aishwarya drew him whenever he missed his dad.

very low maintenance which is to be honest a trauma response. he doesn't want to be a weight on anyone's shoulders in any form.

likes sweets over spices.

he can cook decent enough to survive but I don't recommend leaving him near a oven without supervision for too long.

not much of a party guy but can be convinced once in a while.

he is very shy, will visibly get flustered if you compliment him more than once.

II - ROMANTIC

SFW

makes the first move, very shyly.

buys flowers, chocolates and other gifts all the time.

reads books to his partner.

tries to learn their favorite thing to do so they can do it together.

talk about them to his team and other women in the jail.

surprise dates.

late night dates.

dances in the rain with them.

sleeps with his head on their chest and curled around them like a clingy child.

NSFW

he is a switch who doesn't really care about it tbh.

he is happy as long as both him and his partner are feeling good.

had a praise kink.

shy but loud moaner.

whimpers.

sensitive chest, neck and sides.

------

tags : @mayakimayahai @warnermeadowsgirl @vijayasena @voidsteffy @jkdaddy01 @rambheem-is-real @allari-ammayi @mellaga-karagani @ulaganayagi @ahamasmiyodhah @ranisingnewyetagian @myvarya @toomanyfanficsbruh @harinishivaa @chaliyaaa @tumharisakhi

[daydream-cement]

HI FRIEND may I please request some, and I quote, "goofy silly midnight kisses over pancakes" with Mirandy pleaaaase!! 🧡

Sex and Pancakes (NSFW)

@bri-sonat and I have been living for collaborative fics recently, so the entire smut portion is written by them! Thank so you much for writing with me! Collaborative writing with you is my favorite thing ever.

Authors Note: You didn’t ask for smut, buttttttttttt you get it anyway.

It hadn’t even been thirty minutes since Miranda had arrived home from her evening shift. It had gone on longer than usual, causing your girlfriend to come home later than usual. It was half past eleven when the door to your shared apartment had closed, and the constable’s voice had sounded, calling out to tell you that she was home.

After that, the events sped past. A chaste kiss had turned into a heated make-out session on the couch, that had turned into wandering hands, and that had eventually led to you being naked on your and Miranda’s shared bed, on your back, with the undressed policewoman in between your legs.

Her tongue was working slowly against your clit, as it had for the past ten minutes. She was being painfully unrushed in her movements, wanting to savor every last second. Her long shifts had kept her at the station longer than she and you would’ve liked to, and this was her reclaiming the time that had been lost.

Miranda’s strong hands were gripping your thighs, keeping you in place as she began to pick up the pace of her activity between your thighs. Your whines and moans hadn’t grown any quieter as she resumed, and she knew you needed more than just her tongue, even if it was godly.

One of her hands remained on your leg whilst the other snaked to the inside of it, fingers dancing upwards towards your pussy, making you release a gasp. You didn’t need to ask Miranda for additional stimulation, she already knew what you yearned for.

The constable’s middle and ring fingers arrived at your entrance, soft tips tracing your fluttering hole with a circular motion before gently pushing them inside. She hummed against your clitoris when she felt your familiar warmth and wetness around her digits, eliciting a vibrating sensation from her mouth, and a cry of pleasure from you.

She pushed her fingers all the way in before curling them slightly, finding that sweet spot inside of you that she knew would make you feel so good. She smiled to herself when a guttural moan escaped your lips, confirming what Miranda already knew. Her gaze turned up to find your face, mouth opened in pleasure and eyes screwed shut, she could never get enough of seeing your blissed-out face.

Moving her fingers in and out, she watched and gauged every single one of your expressions and reactions, particularly loving the way your hands grabbed onto your breasts as she fingered and ate you out. 

One of your hands came down to grab onto her head, fingers tangling in her blonde curls as you held her in place against your core, “Oh God, Miranda, holy fuck…” All the constable could do was look up at you in awe as she continued using her mouth and fingers to bring you to climax.

Her name rolling off of your tongue in such a sinful context never got less intense for Miranda, reacting in the same way she had when she heard it the first time, every time it happened. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips, a low moan that ran straight from her mouth to your clit.

She suddenly stopped her motions, leaving her fingers inside of you to brush against the spongy spot inside of you over and over, drawing out the most pleasant and desperate noises from your mouth.

Miranda knew you were getting close based on your ragged breaths, moans, whimpers, whines, and the way you clenched around her fingers, “You’re so good… Such a good girl, Mir…” The words left your mouth in hurried and heavy breaths, your release fastly approaching making it hard to keep your voice steady.

The constable’s reaction to your praise was enough to push you over the edge, the vibrating sensation tossing you into ecstasy when you reached your orgasm. Miranda pulled her fingers out, causing you to whine at the loss of her digits filling you, but you were quickly whining in overstimulation as she used her tongue to clean up every single last drop of juices from your cunt, “I’m sorry, my love. I’m just cleaning up.”

Miranda removed her mouth from your pussy, filling her mouth with her fingers instead, licking and sucking them clean as well.

You lay still on Miranda’s bed, eyes blinking slowly as you stare up at the bedroom ceiling. Your face was flush and you were attempting to catch your breath when Miranda crawled her way up your body, pressing a kiss to your stomach and sternum before laying atop of you. 

She seemed to be deeply satisfied with herself, humming to herself out of pure pleasure as her face nuzzled into you. With a soft smile growing on your face, you raise a hand to her cheek, pushing the hair away from her face before lazily combing your hand through her blonde locks. There was a short beat between the two of you, both of you collecting your thoughts. Resting her chin between your breasts, Miranda stared up at you, a smile growing on her face, “I’m starved. Care for pancakes?” 

“Hmm, yes, of course.” You lazily hum in return, slightly regretting your answer when her warmth left you. 

Miranda rolled off of you and crossed the room, picking her robe from the bathroom door, and turning back to you. She noticed the way your eyes raked up her body, tying her robe shut with a smirk, “My eyes are up here, you know?” You knew she was only teasing by the way she approached the bed once more, her arms supporting her body weight as she crawled over you. 

She bit her bottom lip, eyes scanning your face slowly before dipping low to press a kiss to your lips. Your hands moved up over her shoulders, slipping their way under the collar of her robe to pull her closer. With a light laugh, Miranda withdraws from your touch, readjusting her robe as she backs out of the room, “Food now, fun later.”

You push yourself up from the bed, stopping to put on your discarded underwear, pulling one of Miranda’s old academy shirts from the drawer, and slipping it over your head as you make your way to the kitchen. The constable was already pulling ingredients from the cabinets and fridge, a little smile permanently applied to her lips as she did so.

“How was work?” You ask, leaning against the kitchen counter as she worked diligently to make the batter. As you watched her work, your eyes examined her focused eyes, gentle smile, and stray hairs falling into her face, all of which endeared her even more to you. Your heart felt as if it was about to burst from all the love you felt for your girlfriend. 

Your question caused her smile to fall, her response was preambled with a shrug, followed by the tilting of her head back and forth as she spoke, “Work was work. Robin and I have a new case... that’s why everything has just been so.. crazy.” 

“You’ll get it figured out. You always do.” You take a step closer, looping your middle and ring finger around the belt of her robe, bringing that same goofy smile back to her face. The blonde lit the burner on the stove, pushing a pan to cover the flame, never stepping too far away from you. 

“And what did you get up to today, sweetheart? I remember you texting me something about grocery shopping and a sweet little dog in a sweater.” Miranda recounted some of your communications over the past day. During her longer shifts, you would text her periodically throughout the day, telling her about all the little cute or fun things you saw as you knew it brightened her day. 

You recounted your trip to the grocery store, telling her about the wonderful elderly woman who brought the sweetest little dog with her. The constable’s eyes lit up at the mention of the dog, grinning widely as you recounted the memory. 

Miranda continued cooking and the absentminded chatter continued between you both. As the pancakes began stacking up on a plate, you found yourself shifting from her side to hugging Miranda from behind, soaking in every moment of physical proximity. There was no doubt that Miranda’s love language was physical touch, so she readily soaked up any second of touch you gave her. 

Minutes later, the pancakes were ready and Miranda turned in your arms, holding the pancakes high above your head as her lips dipped to press a kiss to your forehead, “Let’s eat.” The constable wrapped an arm around your shoulders, walking you back towards the kitchen table with her lips now dancing around your face, causing you to erupt into a fit of laughter. Her lips pressed to yours, her face lingering in front of yours for a moment, “God, I love you.”

“I love you... Now it’s time to set the table.” You take a few seconds to appreciate the sentiment before pulling away, finally beginning to pull your weight in this midnight dinner by pulling plates from the cabinet and forks from the drawer. Miranda works in tandem, placing the pancakes down on the table before rummaging through the cabinets to find syrup. 

You smile at the sight of Miranda arranging the two dinner table chairs closer together, not wanting you sitting across from her. Taking your seat next to her, you shift closer to your girlfriend and stab your fork into two of the pancakes, dragging them onto your plate. The room was filled with silence sans the occasional sound of a fork against a plate. 

The constable finishes her meal first, her arm winding around your waist and giving you a soft tug, “C’mere...” The gesture makes you blush, knowing she wanted you to finish your meal while sitting on her lap. You take a seat on her thighs, turning your attention back to your food as Miranda’s arms wrap around your torso, her face nuzzling into your back. These were the little moments where you could feel how in love Miranda was with you.

When you finally finished your plate, you noticed how Miranda’s movements had stopped. Lightly, you rub your hand against her arm, turning your head and whispering, “Mirandy-Andy... Is it time for bed, sweetness?” 

“Mhmm...” She hummed into your back, giving you a squeeze. Her voice was thick with sleep, an octave lower than normal, “We can clean up tomorrow. I’m tired...” 

“Time to sleep, baby.” You pop up from your place on her lap, pulling yourself from her grasp and collecting the plates from the table. Depositing them in the sink, you feel Miranda’s arms around you once more. The constable turned you around and her hands drifted to the backs of your thighs, picking you up to carry you back to the bedroom. 

With the two of you now full and sleepy, falling asleep was almost automatic as Miranda laid you into bed. Her form was half of atop yours, almost like she was your personal weighted blanket. 

After that night, Miranda coming home from late shifts was often (if not always) accompanied by sex and pancakes. 

[ha-bloody-ha]

What we know about the musical episode so far

It airs on March 25

Murdoch hallucinates the whole thing while comatose from a gunshot (apparently to the head?)

It's been floating around at Shaftesbury for nearly a decade

Brackenreid sings a song called "Bloody Hell," written by Paul Aitken and recorded at least eight years ago (I'm guessing this means all the other songs are original as well)

Thomas Craig can SING

Everybody sings! Including Higgins!

Gay! Dancing! Constables!

Have I missed anything?

[misswhateveryouwant]

Just another completely normal moment from MFMM…

Our very decent Inspector is watching a fan dance with his constable during a murder investigation, which is of course performed by Miss Fisher herself…

So we have this lovely moments from:

Oh I should have known it…

I should jerk off today …

OMG what is she doing?!

to: At the sight of naked breasts, the inspector suddenly forget how to breathe…

That‘s MFMM at it‘s best

[lickthecowhappy]

Ineffable May Repository

I am going to do my best to get through Ineffable May daily, writing poems that are shorter, sweeter, and only written in one day. Let's see how I do:

Before The Beginning

Naked Man Friend

Bookshop

Disaster Puppy

Retired

Apology

Coffee

Records

Turtleneck

Pub

Book of Job

Clue

Heavenly Hosts

Agents of Hell

Promotion

1827

Inspector Constable

Bentley

Temptation (Spicy)

Vavoom

Disguise

1941

Shopkeepers

Smitten

While We Dance

Halo

Flashback

Bureaucracy

Metatron

Us

The Second Coming

Or enjoy them on AO3 here.

Back to main poetry list.

[viric-dreams]

Jones Has a Coffee Date

The café is nearly packed, and the wall of noise hits Jones’ ears the moment he opens the door. It’s more than the usual lunch rush—students huddled at the large tables, gesticulating wildly at their notes and each other. In one corner, a trio of tomb colonists set out a game board and a pair of dice. A couple brush passed him, wandering out into the humid London air hand-in-hand. There’s too much going on for him to keep track of; too many faces to watch for suspicious behaviour. But there’s not much that he can do about it. 

He spots the man at a circular table against the back wall, near to the kitchens. The man wiggles his fingers at him in a silly approximation of a wave. At least the bastard had the sense to pick an unobtrusive spot in this chaotic café. With a deep breath, Jones puts on his best pleasant face and wades his way through the sea of patrons. 

A few feet from the table, his foot catches against the leg of a neighbouring chair and he stumbles, arms just barely reaching out to brace against a table in time. The couple occupying it startle at his landing, cups rattling, but drinks ultimately unspilt. From the corner table, the man chuckles at this, his laughter a dry and sour thing. 

“Jonesy, you made it!” He opens his arms wide to punctuate the greeting. He’s too loud, even in such a busy place. Jones slides into the seat across from him to try to close the distance. 

“I’m glad you came,” the man says. 

Jones nods in acknowledgement. “You asked.”

You gave me no choice. 

He grins at this, and Jones feels his stomach turn. 

He’s not saying anything more, just sat there holding that ridiculous, grating expression like he has nowhere else to be today. And perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps London’s finest truly have nothing better to do than to schedule coffee dates. 

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work—”

“No, no, Jones. Don’t worry about me. Worry about you. Now, how do you take your coffee?” 

Dear Christ, he doesn't have time for this. The Kolomanian Delegation’s celebration dinner is two hours from now. They’re far too close to the hotel for comfort. Any of his “fellow countrymen” could see him here talking to a constable, and even in plainclothes, the stench of the man is potent enough to even the most dimwitted of spies.

“An espresso, please.” 

This seems to delight him.

“One of those fancy drinks? I like that about you, Jones.” 

Please be quiet. Please stop saying my name.

The constable waves over a waitress with a wild swing of his arm. 

“One coffee for me, bring sugar. And green tea for my friend here… And we’ll take something to eat too. Maybe those little cakes.” 

If he’s hoping to get a rise out of him, Jones refuses to grant him that satisfaction. His hand curls loosely around the mug, letting the warmth permeate into his palm, whilst The Smug Constable takes a too-large bite of a jellied mushroom cake. His own remains untouched on its plate. 

“These things are really good,” The Slovenly Constable says, his mouth half full of pastry. Crumbs spill out onto his jacket, “You’ve got to give them a try.”

“I’m sure they are.” His hand wraps tighter around the mug. 

The tea tastes of nothing, only heat. He’s not sure if this is the fault of the beverage or his abused taste buds, desensitised to worrying amounts of coffee and that bitter aromatic the doctor had given him. All so that he can do his job. A job he’s unsure the constable is aware of. 

For nearly two months they’ve had this back and forth—the man calls and he comes. This uncomfortable dance that’s taken place since the ominous moment he’d come into Jones’ life, claiming to know who he is, that he’d finally put two and two together after that fateful arrest on New Years Eve. But he’d be willing to look past his sin, let the cop killer be. The Forgiving Constable is a generous man, after all. Jones simply needs to do him one little favour and it’ll all be forgotten. 

And here they sit, finally in the same room. A proper meeting—no last minute being stood up this time—and getting nowhere, that favour left dangling, unspoken. Instead, he sits across from the bastard in his chair, an errant glob of jelly in his ugly beard that he won’t wipe away–why won’t he wipe his face–picking away at this cake, as if he has all the time in the world and—

“Are you enjoying the Games so far?” The way he makes it sound like such friendly small talk makes his blood boil. Like two friends having a casual chat. 

How much does he know? 

Does he suspect Jones has been acting as a double agent? Very few agents of Black are even aware, only adding to his feelings of unease in the field. Likely, the man’s just fishing. 

“I can’t say I’ve seen much of it. Been keeping to myself, mostly.”

Will he call out the blatant lie? If the man clocks it as one, he doesn’t seem to give any indication of it, polishing off the cake to take a deep swig of coffee, before picking up the one from Jones’ plate. The jam remains, stubbornly clinging to his facial hair. 

“Is that so? I’ll bet you’ve got all sorts of fun little hobbies with all of that time on your hands now. You enjoying your freedom, jailbird?”

The snarl becomes a smile before the constable has the chance to spot the expression. 

“Indeed.” Jones replies sweetly, bringing the cup to his lips. This time, he doesn’t even register the heat, outsmoked by his own slow-roiling anger. This is another dead end. The Jam-Covered Constable has no intention of making requests, it’s simply another one of his silly plays. Jones knows this game, and has had enough of it. The man’s had his fun today, let him call again if he’s serious about–

“I saw our mutual friend the other day.” The man swipes at his lip with the back of his hand, just missing that spot of jam, hanging precariously. “He asked about you, you know. ‘How’s ol’ Robert doing? You keeping an eye on him?’” He leans forward, his sour breath wafting across the table, “What do you think I should tell him?”

Tell him I’m going to claw his eyes out of his fucking skull. I’ll break his fucking fingers and push them down his throat.

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

The constable frowns at this and reaches across the table. His hand wraps around Jones’ wrist, prying it from the cup. “Are you sure about that? You look so frail. Nothing like the man I arrested on New Years. Have you been eating, Jonesy?”

He wants to leap across the table and grab him by his stupid collar, smash that smug face of his into the table until it’s nothing but pulp and mushroom jelly. Over and over again until they have to pry him off of what’s left of him. Dig his fingers into muscle and bone and–

“...should take better care of yourself. A man who lives alone can’t afford to be ill. Not when he has to keep working.”

Jones gently slides his arm free from the man’s grip. He makes no effort to hold on. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and when the constable makes no effort to continue the conversation Jones sets a few Echoes down onto the table. “I take it we’re done here, then?”

The man stares at him a moment, before leaning back in his seat. The derisive demeanour slides back onto his face.

“I’m looking forward to the next one, Jonesy. I might have a favour to ask of you then. Perhaps. But for now, be good.”

His hip clips the side of a table on his way out of the crowded café. He doesn’t even feel it.

[head-post]

Violent anti-Muslim crowd clashed with UK police in Southport after young girls killed

A large crowd of anti-Muslim protesters clashed with police in the northern English town of Southport, where three girls were stabbed to death and five other children were seriously injured in an attack at a Taylor Swift-themed event a day earlier.

A horrific stabbing incident in Southport on Monday shocked the British people. However, police claimed it was not terrorism-related and that the suspect was born in the UK.

Nevertheless, national-oriented groups fuelled rumours that the suspected teenager was linked to Islam, and police reported that Tuesday’s violence erupted when several hundred people began throwing objects at the mosque. Police has linked the crowd to the English Defence League, a group that sometimes stages violent demonstrations against Islam.

Police cars were damaged and set on fire, officers were attacked with bricks and large rubbish containers. Away from the violence, hundreds of people gathered for an emotional vigil to pay tribute to those killed in the attack by laying flowers and toys. Earlier, Prime Minister Keir Starmer also made a visit to the town to lay flowers.

“The people of Southport are reeling after the horror inflicted on them yesterday. They deserve our support and our respect. Those who have hijacked the vigil for the victims with violence and thuggery have insulted the community as it grieves. They will feel the full force of the law.”

However, after the visit, disgruntled residents approached him with insults and condemnations after which he was forced to leave the town.

Stabbing details

A 17-year-old is currently in custody on suspicion of murder and attempted murder following a bloody rampage at a “Taylor Swift yoga and dance workshop,” a summer holiday for children aged 6 to 11. Besides the three deaths, eight children were stabbed.

Five of them and two adults who were trying to protect them remain in critical condition. Assistant Chief Constable Alex Goss stated:

There has been much speculation and hypothesis around the status of a 17-year-old male who is currently in police custody and some individuals are using this to bring violence and disorder to our streets. We have already said that the person arrested was born in the UK and speculation helps nobody at this time.

The Liverpool Region Mosque Network said a minority of people had tried to use the Southport stabbing to spread hate.

“This evening we have seen distressing scenes outside Southport Mosque with angry protesters gathering outside. This is causing further fear and anxiety within our communities.”

King Charles and his family expressed their horror. US singer Swift also wrote on Instagram that she was “just completely in shock.”

These were just little kids at a dance class. I am at a complete loss for how to ever convey my sympathies to these families.

Read more HERE

[fan-a-tink]

Season 2 favourite scenes 😇😈

While rewatching season 2 to mark the anniversary of its release, I found this ranking of my top fifteen favourite scenes from season 2, and thought I’d post it here to save it somewhere. So, here goes: 

Before the beginning (specifically Crowley’s excitement when the stars are exploding, and his little red curls)

Crowley on laudanum

Crowley interrogating Gabriel („And I. did not. care. for it!“ followed by „Do you… want a hot chocolate?“)

Crowley & Aziraphale rehearsing the magic trick („Go on Mr. British Man, wow me with your miracles“ & „What you just did’s remarkable, I don’t have the foggiest notion how it’s done“)

Crowley matchmaking Nina & Maggie under the awning („I think it’s fair to say, Jim, that vavooming was not the end result of that particular tempest“)

Crowley being silly in Heaven

Apology dance & the tiny miracle

Aziraphale asking Crowley to dance

Bildad the Shuhite („Shoemaking and obstetrics. Those have always been the twin passions of Bildad the Shuhite. What seems to be the trouble?“)

Crowley and Aziraphale being domestic during the Inspector Constable scene with Muriel („This is a human police officer who has just popped in to have a quick look at a cup of tea.“ & „Don’t hesitate to ask me if you have any other questions about love, Inspector … Constable“)

End of Job episode, („Sorry…You think you’re a demon? With your curly little.. And your neat white…“)

„Our car“ - „We don’t have a car.“ - „Of course we do. Isn’t she a beauty?“

Drinks after the bullet catch („You said trust me.“ - „And you did.“)

Six shots of espresso & „How’s your naked man friend?“ 

Literally any time David Tennant gets to speak in a Scottish accent in episode 3 („You say potato, I say excellent.“)

Honourable Mentions / Iconic Moments

„His royal smugness is in trouble? That’s so sad…“

„Smitten, I believe. You’re being silly“

Crowley driving to Good Old-fashioned Lover Boy

„Fell’s bookshop. We probably don’t have what you’re looking for and we wouldn’t sell it to you if we did.“

„No thank you, you see I have a permit“ & „Seems legit to meeee“

„I am no stranger to the art of prestidigitation!“ *waves handkerchief*  

„He’s far too pure to be anyone’s bit on the side. He’s just an angel.. I know“

„What does your exactly mean, exactly? I feel like your exactly and my exactly are different exactlys.“

„Is he here to amaze and befuddle us all with his prestidigitation… and jiggery-pokery?“

„And I’m Jemimah! I made this pot!“