#fractional half a miracle

[erraticopeninghours]

The "Little" Miracle That Could

Thoughts on 1.15: The “little” miracle that could  

First, I love that it is Aziraphale who proposes doing half of a miracle each.  I think it really shows that he’s begun to internalize at least some of the ideas of Our Own Side.  

In Season 1, we got to see Crowley proposing the Arrangement and also coming up with the idea to raise the Antichrist together so that he will grow up to be neutral.  But this makes it clear that Aziraphale has not only been reluctantly going along with Crowley’s ideas and has - at least to some degree - accepted the idea that working together can be an effective solution to problems.  

Also, just all of the times that Aziraphale clearly expresses his desire to work with Crowley in this episode!  (Even, uh, until the end of Episode 6, rip…) Like shades of grey for the win!  All of Aziraphale’s willingness to work together (without Crowley cajoling him first) also makes me even more curious about who initially came up with the body swap solution in canon! 

I love how Aziraphale and Crowley holding hands with Gabriel parallels the scene of them with Adam at Tadfield air base.  But also, I love how it calls attention to how much has changed between seasons 1 and 2.  At Tadfield air base, Aziraphale and Crowley were only presenting a united front because it was the climax of the season, and they both knew that it was time to put everything on the table.  

In the scene with Gabriel, we’re still in the first episode of the season, and most of the rising action is still to come.  But they’re already (fairly openly) working together anyway!  And they’re in the sanctuary of Aziraphale’s bookshop rather than on an unfamiliar airbase!  And the stakes are objectively a bit lower (since they don’t know what horrible thing Gabriel was trying to avoid) but, in a personal sense, higher because they now have Their Own Side to lose!  

Additionally, as we find out, Gabriel does not wind up being very helpful at all in this season.  Whereas in Season 1, Adam essentially saves the world and sets most of the problems (e.g., the Bentley and bookshop) right, in Season 2, Aziraphale and Crowley have to rely much more directly on their own competence/incompetence and the consequences thereof.   

I know that they did count in order to get the timing just right, but I loved getting to see them miracling in sync.  Like, yes, an angel and a demon who pull powers from opposite directions, but also, two friends working so perfectly and intentionally together!  The synchronization was just really delightful to witness! 

Crowley’s “I am not your friend!” line was also very fun.  Partly because he and Aziraphale had just argued about Gabriel not being their friends / not having any friends.  But also because of his later remark to Gabriel that he [Crowley] only has one friend! 

I’m sure none of this is new, but for my own records, my initial theories on why were the miracle wound up being so powerful were: (a) Crowley was a very powerful angel before Falling; (b) they accidentally used Gabriel as a conduit or tapped into his powers (seemed less likely after viewing the entire season); or (c) Aziraphale and Crowley are extra powerful when working together because (c1) they’re an angel and a demon, (c2) they love each other so dearly, or (c3) they’ve retired from their former sides and are accidentally tapping into a third earthly/human source of power. 

Lastly, I’ve been trying to steer away from the topic of Crowley being created as a powerful angel because that feels like its own series of posts, but I do want to point out some of the little ways that Season 2 Aziraphale and Crowley have subverted common fanon ideas, but managed to do so in ways that make sense.  

(1) For example, before Season 2 and especially before Neil Gaiman mentioned anything about benevolent landlord!Aziraphale, I would have expected Crowley to be the one with oodles of human investments.  Partly because it fits his human personna of fashionable flats and black credit cards and flashy outfits but also because he seems slightly more up to date what all is involved with living in human society.  But it also makes perfect sense that Crowley approached personal finance as another way to pull one over on Hell (especially given that they never check up), and for Aziraphale to take the time to set up his bookshop and livelihood the human way!  I mean, Aziraphale does his taxes perfectly each year.  If Crowley’s aware of taxes, I’m sure he proudly does not pay them. 

(2) Similarly, from a fandom perspective, I feel like Aziraphale is generally the one who is portrayed as being especially good at wards and the more finicky, technical aspects of magic / miracles.  This makes sense given his apparent love of the little details and the formidable intelligence which we see him apply to Agnes Nutter’s book.  However, given that there are signs that Crowley is (possibly) especially powerful in season 1 (e.g., being the one to check that no one is watching before they swap back bodies, stopping time, etc.), it also makes sense that he is the one who takes point on checking that their “tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle” succeeded. 

(3) And of course, this is later in the season, but just the fact that Aziraphale has both a firearm and the corresponding permit while Crowley has presumably no firearm experience!  In hindsight, this makes complete sense, but it was not, in my estimation, widely expected!  For me, at least, it completely tracked once I learned about it, but it wasn’t something that I felt I knew before Season 2.  And I  think little surprising details like this are especially fun because they put the audience in the same position as Crowley and Aziraphale: even though we’ve known them for a (somewhat) long time, they’re complicated enough that we still get to discover new things about them!  And that makes them even more interesting and fun to spend time with (or love?) across the years. 

(previous) (next)

[ Note: I intentionally skipped 1.14 The “I Was Wrong” Dance because I am not prepared to write about it, and I potentially may never be ready.  But it is definitely a thing – a thing that is both beautiful and egregious.] 

[goatbeard-goatbeard]

Revivals

“And the dead will leave their graves and walk the earth once more. And there will be great lamentations. Every day it’s getting closer.”

Thinking about the running theme of revival in Good Omens 2.

Thinking about how the only dead who actually left their graves were the Nazis.

Thinking about how Aziraphale and Crowley got a few years of not being bothered by heaven and hell, but now the Second Coming is ramping up.

Thinking about the running theme of revival in Christian evangelicalism — a revived fervor that comes roaring back, cyclically, after periods of increased secularism, in the form of Great Awakenings and revival tents.

Thinking about the early 2000s, and how it was common knowledge then that conservative evangelicalism was dying out on its own.

Thinking about now, when ultra-conservative Christians are explicitly organizing around revival tents and Great Awakenings.

Thinking about how much easier it is to work miracles when you believe your every tiny action or inaction has consequences for eternity, leading to a wild mismatch in passion between evangelicals and non-evangelicals toward incremental progress like voter persuasion and school boards and controlling the levers of political power.

Thinking about how the biggest miracles (for good OR for evil) come from each person doing an incomplete fraction of a miracle, while trusting others to do the same.

Thinking about how easy it is to resonate with Crowley, with the idea that it’s not worth engaging with heaven or hell — might as well talk to a brick wall. Besides, their influence is dying out on its own. And when do the dead ever leave their graves?

[shock]

i want to hold my tongue and not share the depth of my opinions about the two-headed cow but it upsets me so much every time i see it, i really do hate the narrative of 'rooting for' an animal like this to live despite it being unable (and will be unable, for its entire life) to do the most basic of things life has to offer, even breathing, eating, moving, to prioritize the savior myth that everything can and should be saved, that every living creature should be treated this way as though its not one of the greatest mercies that we as humans have the ability to enact a quick and painless alternative to a slow and miserable life that ends in slow and miserable death on our livestock when they can't advocate for themselves, the ability we have as humans to see the research and make a prognosis and decide that the spectacle is not worth the extended misery, but this life is worth the dignity of a peaceful death we have the capacity to grant

because there is a difference between helping a baby animal in the first legs of life knowing it has a chance to have a quality of life worth fighting for, not a life doomed to be painful that we KNOW is painful knowing all that we know about animals who come with this specific type of physical abnormality, what we see on the surface is only a fraction of much more malformation and deterioration on the inside that we can't just decide is not happening because they 'look' fine, and what we see on the surface is already a life from start to finish without any experience an animal like this should have by virtue of being alive, with no life at all and no understanding of why it is going through this

the assumption that there is no suffering despite eating, breathing, moving never something that this baby will be able to do unassisted, despite knowing the longest a two-headed cow has ever survived was not even a year and a half and that record hasn't been broken in over thirty years, that's not even a quarter, an 8th, a 12th, a 15th of a cow's normal lifespan, and doubtfully much of that was pleasant or comfortable, and even if this cow does get to the point of being able to stand on its own, we can't ever know the full range of agony this animal is going through, all we know is there is and there will be agony, and we need to not see life as inherently successful or painless just because something is going in one end and coming out the other, that isn't what defines an animal's quality of life to me

the two-headed calf poem is beautiful to me because it's a miracle that something so rare (luckily) and so doomed could see one extraordinary thing before passing. the sky ceases to be beautiful when forced to live every day for the sake of social media's voyeurism, it makes me so sad that someone who raises livestock would put public attention over their duty to their animals ☹️

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

Crowley: We need to make this the tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle we have ever performed. No traces of anything miraculous left behind. No alarm bells ringing in Heaven.

Aziraphale: Right. Count of three.

Crowley: One, two, three, now.

*Crowley jumps on the chair and checks an orangey-flowy-something with a tip of his finger*

Crowley: I think it took. That was a class-A surreptitious half a miracle. No one will have noticed a thing.

*happy Aziraphale*

*unamused Michael sighs as alarms are blaring in Heaven*

[didyoulookforme]

walkabout

your teacher asks you to tutor none other than matty healy. the very beginning of the bf matty au.

warning: cheesy fluff. teenagers being dramatic. grammatical errors, typos.

au masterlist here

-----

you cannot believe your luck.

of all the people mr. davis could assign you to tutor, it has to be matty healy. matty, who sits at the back of the classroom, half-asleep, drumming on the desk like he’s got an entire band in his head. the boy who’s always late, looking as if he just rolled out of bed. the one everyone can’t stop whispering about—quiet, untouchable, with that mess of hair and a permanent slouch that somehow makes him even more infuriatingly attractive to every single girl in school.

“so, you’ll do it, yeah?” mr. davis asks, holding you both back after class, his tone practically daring you to argue. his eyes flick between the two of you, clearly expecting some kind of protest.

no. absolutely not. you want to say, mr. davis, i will do literally anything else. mop the floors. clean the whiteboards. just, please, don’t make me do this.

but instead, you say, “of course,” because that’s what good students do, isn’t it?

mr. davis turns to matty, who, by the way, hasn’t even looked at you once. not even a glance. “and you? will you actually show up?”

“yeah. sure.” matty shrugs, voice low, casual, not impolite exactly but not making any promises either.

when you leave the classroom, your brain is spinning. how is this your life now? you spend the rest of the day picturing every way this could go wrong. matty showing up late—or not at all. matty being too quiet, distant, barely meeting your eyes. matty fidgeting in his seat, counting the minutes until he can leave, not paying attention whatsoever.

and after school, you unload all your frustration onto your friend, desperate for a shred of sympathy. but really, you should’ve known better.

“shut the fuck up.”

her voice slices through the air, sharp and disbelieving. she’s already sitting up, magazine abandoned, eyes wide like you’d just confessed you were moving to mars. “are you serious?”

“unfortunately,” you groan, covering yourself with your favourite pillow, your words coming out muffled. “apparently, someone thinks i’m a miracle worker who can make him care about school.”

“holy shit.” she leans forward, her grin stretching wider by the second. you can feel it without even looking. “you’re kidding. matty fucking healy?”

“yes.” you drag the pillow over your face wishing it could block out her inevitable reaction. “he doesn’t even try in class. now i’m supposed to magically make him care about algebra?”

“oh, who gives a flying fuck about algebra!” she waves a hand dismissively. “you’re gonna be sitting across from him. alone. for an hour. every week. that’s… basically the fucking dream.”

“oh my god,” you collapse further into the bed hoping the worn sheets beneath can provide some sort of comfort. “you’re delusional.”

“no, you’re delusional if you think this isn’t fate.” she’s practically vibrating with excitement now. “you have to find out everything about him.”

“he’s not some alien experiment,” you deadpan, lifting your head just enough to glare at her. “he’s just a guy who probably can’t add fractions.” still, the thought lingers. maybe you do want to know more—just a little. not because you care, obviously, but because it’s… curious. infuriatingly so.

“and yet, he’s also the hottest guy in school. don’t even try to deny it.”

you hesitate. she’s not wrong, exactly, but you can’t admit that—not out loud.

“there’s no—”

“don’t.” she cuts you off like a stern teacher catching a student mid-lie. “i know you. i remember. you had the biggest crush on him.”

you can’t help that your face burns instantly. “that was years ago.”

“doesn’t matter,” she sings songs, her grin practically glowing. “you were obsessed. you used to be like, ‘oh my god, matty’s curls looks so soft’ and ‘did you see how he dressed today?’ you were embarrassing.”

“i was twelve.” your voice cracks, too defensive, maybe too high-pitched. “it doesn’t count.”

“oh, it absolutely counts.” she leans closer, “plus, you’re really flustered right now.”

“i’m not!”

“you so are.” the smile plastered on her face is absolutely wicked now. “you still like him, don’t you?”

your stomach warps into knots. “jesus christ, no!” you practically shout, burying your face in your hands.

“sure,” she drags the word out. “but just so you know, louise totally made out with him at that party last month.”

your head snaps up so fast you’re pretty sure you strain something. “what?”

“uh-huh.” she looks far too pleased with herself. “she said he’s, like, weirdly good at it.”

“matty healy?” those two words don’t even make sense in your mouth and brain anymore.

“apparently, he’s super eager and… sweet. can you imagine? matty fucking healy being cute?”

you snort, because no. you can’t.

“right? same. but louise swears it’s true. she said he kept pulling her closer and saying, ‘is this okay?’ and ‘you’re really pretty.’”

your gut twists again, this awful, fluttery thing you refuse to acknowledge.

“you’re so full of shit.”

“she’s full of shit,” she corrects, laughing. “but honestly? if it’s true, it makes him even more confusing. how can someone be broody and sweet? pick a fucking lane.”

and there it is again—that thought you don’t want to have. matty healy. sweet. yup.

he barely talks to anyone, always hunched over a notebook or sketching weird little patterns on the edges of his papers. he’s quiet in this intense, self-contained way, like he doesn’t want anyone seeing too much. he doesn’t seem like the type to ask ‘is this alright?’ or let alone call someone pretty.

but what if he is? what if there’s something softer under all the sharp edges, something he keeps hidden on purpose? what if—

no. fucking. way. it’s ridiculous. you shove the thought down, locking it in the imaginary safe inside your brain. plus, he’s probably never even thought about you twice.

“he’s not like that,” you say finally, more to yourself than to her.

“oh, yeah?” she raises an eyebrow, daring you to argue. “guess you’ll find out, won’t you?”

“jesus christ, stop it.” you grab the nearest cushion and launch it at her, but she just laughs, catching it before it hits her face.

“hey, i’m just saying,” her grin is downright evil now. “if he’s a good kisser, you’re practically obligated to confirm it.”

“get out,” you groan, flopping back down.

but even as you bury your face back in the pillow, you can’t stop thinking about it.

what if she wasn’t wrong?

—

by the time the first session rolls around, your nerves are a complete wreck. your hands are clammy, you feel a bit lightheaded, and you’re already regretting every decision that’s led you here. the library is practically dead—just the low buzz of those ancient fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of someone flipping a page somewhere in the distance. it smells strange, this weird mix of dusty books and that lemony floor cleaner that somehow always feels sticky no matter how fresh it is.

your swear your bag is a million pounds, stuffed to the brim with textbooks and notes you’re not even sure will matter. every step toward the back of the room seems slower than the last, as if your feet are trying to talk you out of this whole thing. but you press on, your heart hammering, every instinct screaming to spin around and hide in the safety of the nearest aisle.

he’s already there when you stumble around the corner, looking exactly how you expected. his hair’s a reckless mess, all careless pieces falling into his face because gravity’s obviously playing favourites. his shoulders droop so far it’s a small miracle he hasn’t slid off the chair entirely. his tie’s hanging on by sheer willpower, slack and crooked, and his shirt—don’t even get started on the shirt—looks like it’s been wadded up at the bottom of a gym bag for weeks. yet by some ungodly miracle, he still looks stupidly good. you’re sure the universe must’ve bent the rules just for him.

you stop dead in your tracks, your stomach doing this annoying thing once again, but this time more from dread than nerves. he’s not quite intimidating but there’s something about the sheer disinterest radiating off him that makes you hesitate. you’re clutching your bag so hard your knuckles are white, and for one brief, tempting second, bolting feels like a legitimate option. but then he glances up, his eyes widening just enough to make it clear he didn’t think you’d actually show. the expression isn’t inviting, but it’s enough to stop you from finding the exit. barely.

“oh. hi.” his voice is soft, so quiet it takes you a second to register that he’s spoken.

you swallow hard, willing your nerves to calm, and walk over, lowering yourself into the seat across from him. “hi.” your voice comes out steadier than you feel, the single word hovering awkwardly in the air.

you pull your bag onto the table and set it down with exaggerated care, as if even the slightest sound might disrupt the fragile calm between you. he doesn’t say anything else, just shrugs, his movements loose and lazy, still half-melting into the chair. 

“are you ready?” you manage, keeping your tone neutral, polite, professional even.

another shrug. “yeah. sure.”

his voice is low and rough. perhaps it hasn’t gotten much use today. it’s still not exactly rude, but it’s not encouraging either. you nod, your hands fumbling slightly as you flip open your notebook. you start simple, writing out a basic equation: 3x + 4 = 10.

“try this one,” you say, sliding the notebook toward him.

he picks up his pen, taps it rhythmically against the table for a few beats, then scribbles something down. x = 2.

“good,” you say before you can stop yourself, a flicker of surprise coloring your voice. you didn’t expect him to nail it on the first try, and the unexpected ease of it catches you off guard. “okay, what about this one?” you write out another problem: 2(x - 3) = 8.

he stares at the equation for a long moment, his brow furrowing slightly as he traces the numbers with his eyes. his lips press together in concentration and for a brief second, you think he might actually be invested in figuring it out. then he bites his bottom lip, and it’s glossy and pink when he lets go, and you have to snap your attention back to your notebook, pretending you didn’t notice.

“uh… x is… 11?”

it’s wrong, obviously, and you should’ve seen it coming, but something about the way he says it—hesitant, unsure—makes you bite back a laugh. instead, you shake your head, the corners of your mouth tugging into an involuntary smile. “not quite. here, let me show you.”

you walk him through the steps, breaking it down as simply as you can, and to his credit, he listens. his eyes follow your pen as you write, nodding slowly while he tries to piece it all together. his hair falls into his face as he leans in, the faintest shadow of understanding flickering across his expression.

“oh. so x is 7.”

“exactly.”

he leans back with a soft sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. his fingers catch in the tangles, but it doesn’t seem to bother him—it’s more automatic than deliberate. “right. makes sense, i guess.”

you glance at his notebook, curiosity tugging at the edges of your focus. it’s open, but not to anything remotely useful. instead of math problems, the pages are crammed with chaotic scribbles—tiny guitars, abstract shapes, half-finished stick figures tangled with half-finished sentences. words scratched out and rewritten so many times they’re barely legible, spiraling across the margins in waves of ink that don’t seem to lead anywhere.

you try not to stare, but it’s impossible to ignore the sheer disarray of it. it feels oddly intimate, a window into his head he hasn’t really hidden but hasn’t offered up, either.

“this one’s hard,” he mutters, pulling you back. his voice is quiet again, but there’s a faint sense of frustration as he frowns at the problem you’ve written: 5x - 2 = 3x + 6.

“it’s not too bad,” you say, leaning forward slightly, your tone gentle. “just move all the x terms to one side and the numbers to the other.”

he scratches something down, his pen pausing mid-air as he hesitates, then scribbles a little more. finally, he looks up, the faintest smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “x is… 4?”

you nod, feeling a flicker of warmth at the small victory. “exactly. see? you’re getting it.”

his lips tug into a smile—small, tentative, almost reluctant—and it’s not much, but it’s something. you look away, turning the page in your notebook, refusing to acknowledge the way your chest flutters for half a second.

the hour drags and flies at the same time. he tries, which surprises you more than anything else given that he has the attention span of a newborn goldfish. his foot taps a steady rhythm against the floor, and his fingers keep tugging at the frayed edge of his sleeve, but when you gently redirect him, he comes back.

the more time you spend with him, the more details start to sink in. the way his voice softens when he’s unsure of something. the way his nails are bitten down to jagged nubs. the way his lips part slightly when he’s thinking, his gaze flicking back and forth between the notebook and the table as if the answer might reveal itself if he stares long enough.

when the hour’s finally up, you take your time packing up, every movement drawn out and careful, watching out of the corner of your eye as he shoves papers into his bag. half of them are crumpled, a few look like they’ve barely survived, and none of them seem to end up where they’re supposed to.

“thanks for this,” he mutters, barely loud enough to register, his focus stuck on cramming his notebook into the disaster zone. “i mean… yeah. thanks.” 

“no worries.” you aim for light, casual, as if your pulse isn’t doing that weird, too-fast thud in your chest. “that’s why i’m here. see you next week?”

he nods, barely, and there’s this tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth—a smile that doesn’t quite make it but lingers just enough to be noticeable. “yeah. see you.”

he walks off, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his bag hanging awkwardly from one shoulder, papers still sticking out at random angles. you’re just about to leave when your eyes catch something on the table. a crumpled piece of paper, left behind in his whirlwind of packing.

you pause, glancing around like you’re about to commit some kind of crime, but the library’s empty. no one’s watching. your fingers hover for half a second before curiosity gets the better of you, and you pick it up, smoothing the wrinkles carefully.

the handwriting is a mess—words scratched out and rewritten, lines twisted into tangles of uncertainty: and this is how it starts

take your shoes off in the back of my car van

you share my shirt, looks so good

when it’s just hangin’ off your back (???)

you stare at it, the edges still crumpled, the ink smudged in places where his hand must have dragged across the page. it feels too personal, but you can’t stop looking. your fingers hover for a second before folding it up and slipping it into your bag, your thoughts buzzing with questions you’re not sure you should even want answers to.

[mizgnomer]

The tiny, surreptitious, fraction of a half miracle

Good Omens Season 2

[writers-advocate]

just need you | d.p.

description: the only thing you could ever need is her [requested]

cw: fingering, oral

“would you like to talk about it, my love?”

diana’s dulcet tone helps guide you into the warmth of home, her hands easily peeling the jacket from your shoulders and guiding you to the sofa to sit. the plush cushions dip under your weight and she kneels in front of you to level with your gaze.

you shake your head and hold up one hand, her calloused fingers entwining with yours gently and making you smile just a fraction. a pinch in her chest at how heavy your day seems to be weighing on you. “just need you, di.”

dinner is spent curled in her lap, eating together, feeding each other. she pours you more wine and you listen to her talk about her day at the museum until the moment she takes notice of how your muscles have relaxed, weighed down by the liquid, fuzzy warmth from the glass held delicately in your hand. eyes mildly glassy and smile a little crooked as you ask her why she’s stopped talking. she poses the question as a tease, “are you sure you don’t need anything, asteri mu?”

your repeated answer, softer, lighter than before, makes something warm like sunlight seep into her chest and envelope her heart. “just need you, di.”

that same ray of sun turns into something molten and sinks lower later that night in bed, leading her lips into trailing away from yours to press firmly to your throat instead. the soft sighs it draws from you, her own personal siren’s song, are enough to make the feel of hot molasses spread through her limbs, and draw her hand to settle between your thighs. what she finds makes her mouth water, but she takes her time.

two fingers have sunken into your heat and she could be content with simply staying right there, feeling you, knowing she’s the only one to taste something so precious. but your pretty voice in her ear draws her fingertips to curl into that spongy spot inside she knows will prolong your sweet melodies. a desperation unlike any other tightens in her belly but her words are steady, sure, almost teasing with how even and sympathetic her tone is. “what do you need, little dove?”

it’s unfair the way her fingers curl again, knocking any coherent request out of your mind. she so gently swipes her tongue across your pulse point in anticipation when you revert to base instinct and gasp sweetly, “just- need you, di!”

what could i have possibly done to obtain the key to paradise?

she knows that’s where she is when she presses warm, almost calculated kisses along your thighs, thumbs curling into the sides of your underwear to gently drag them down your legs. it doesn’t take long for her tongue to find it’s home, swirling around the little bundle of nerves, trailing through your slick as though she can’t get enough. your hands tangling in her hair merely spur her on, and she slips her tongue lower until she can press it deep inside you, coaxing out more of what’s easily become her favorite vice. this is the filthiest you’ll ever see her outside of battle, gaze half lidded, face dusted pink as she barely allows herself a moment to breathe before her nose is nudging at your clit again. it’s intoxicating for you both.

that is easily confirmed for you as a fact on her end when she draws a third orgasm out of you, her muscled arm curl around your thighs now, hands pressed over your tummy to pin you. to remind you of just how helpless you are in her hands. your head is thrown back against she sheets as she relentlessly prods at that sweet spot inside, clearly set on pushing you into another mind numbing moment. it’s a miracle your broken up words reach her, but they do. “di! oh- di, please i want- want you to- feel good too-!” your voice devolves into another whimpery cry as her chuckle vibrates against you, one calloused hand slipping down lower to circle her thumb around your overly sensitive clit.

not that you would be able to appreciate the irony of her answer. but what you can appreciate is the way her words are mumbled against you, breathless, just as you leave her every time.

“all i need is you, little dove.”

[ralkana]

Fluffbruary, Day 6

February 6: tie | embarrassment | dessert

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

-----

It's the middle of the afternoon when his stranger shows up at the New Inn, a smile on his face, naming Hob friend. Apologizing for his absence.

"Welcome," Hob says, shoving his marking into his satchel. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

His stranger sits silently as he asks Katie for another pint and orders a glass of Malbec.

"The good one," he clarifies, and she grins.

"Got it, Robbie," she says, with a curious glance at his companion, and then they're alone again.

His friend is still watching him, that smile on his face, and Hob can't help but take a moment simply to look. He thinks about asking why they didn't meet in 1989, why he was left adrift and alone, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He's here now.

"What were you working on when I arrived?" his friend asks, his gaze shifting briefly to Hob's satchel before anchoring firmly on Hob's face once more.

"Marking," he says, and his friend's brow furrows. "Checking my students' work," he adds. "I'm a professor now! Me, can you imagine?"

And then he's off, the familiar rhythm of their past meetings suddenly returning. He talks for so long that his voice falters. There is so much to tell his friend about. X-rays and the space race, vinyl records and the internet. With a word to Katie, he switches from beer to water, and keeps going.

His friend is no more talkative about himself than usual, but he seems more engaged, less... dour. He asks questions, and is more expressive than Hob has ever seen him. Hob even thinks he tried the wine Hob chose for him, though the nearly full glass now sits on the table between them.

He is in the middle of explaining the miracle of organ transplants when his stomach growls, loud enough to be heard from across the table even in the busy pub, and he breaks off in embarrassment.

"Pardon me," he says with a laugh.

"I have kept you from your evening meal," his friend says, shifting in his seat, and Hob lunges, half-desperate, as it looks like he might rise. His friend stills, eyes widening a fraction.

"No, no! It's fine!" Hob says, lowering his hand from its aborted grasp. Please don't leave! He takes a moment to breathe, to calm himself.

"We have shared a meal before," he reasons, though of course, his friend has never eaten. He has remained while Hob has eaten, though, and that's what he's hoping for now. "We could do so again. If you'd like."

His friend nods his agreement, so quickly that Hob thinks he might not be the only one unready for the evening to end.

He orders a steak and ale pie, and when Katie asks his friend for his order and he declines, Hob asks for two forks. His friend raises an eyebrow at that, and Hob simply grins. One day, he'll find something that tempts his friend - his need to feed those he cares about is strong. Stronger still because his friend looks like he's missed a fair few meals recently.

If he even eats. Perhaps he lives on words. Heaven knows Hob has given him plenty of those.

His meal arrives, and he breaks the crust of the steaming pie, smiling as he inhales the aroma of the thick gravy that wafts out.

He has eaten a few bites in between his words when his friend shifts in his chair, reaching for the fork in front of him.

Hob watches, fascinated, as he scoops up a small bite of beef, a morsel of crust, and a tiny bit of gravy. Those petal pink lips part as he tastes it, head tilted like a bird's as he considers it.

"It is pleasingly savory," he pronounces as he sets the fork down again, and Hob grins.

"That it is, friend," he says in agreement, applying himself to his meal and his tale.

"Dessert then, Robbie?" Katie asks a few minutes later, as she brings him another glass of water and sees the remains of his meal.

Hob debates for approximately three seconds. "Yeah, go on then."

Katie laughs as she picks up his plate. "The usual?"

"Please, and two forks."

There's so much more to tell his friend about - there always is - but Hob feels mostly talked out. This is by far the longest his friend has ever lingered, and he can't ignore the ache of the knowledge that soon, their meeting must end.

Unwilling to prematurely give into the melancholy that always arrives after these evenings, Hob pushes it away and says, "The kitchen here is fantastic. In some ways, pub food is the same as it's always been, but some things are so different now..."

He's in the middle of explaining gastropubs and fusion cuisine when Katie approaches their table once more, and he breaks off.

"Ah, thanks, love," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation as she sets down their dessert. "Butterscotch bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream and housemade whiskey caramel sauce. It's absolutely the best thing on the menu. It's won awards."

Lifting the shot glass of caramel, he upends it, drizzling it over the pudding sizzling in its little cast iron pot. The ice cream is melting slowly into the top of the pudding, and the smell is divine.

Hob digs in and pops a bite in his mouth. It's too hot, burning his tongue, and it's absolutely worth it.

His friend picks up his fork and digs out a tiny bite to try, and Hob watches his eyes widen, his pleasure clear on his face in a way that has Hob shift in his seat. He's beautiful.

"Good, innit?"

He says nothing, but his fork dips again, lifts a larger bite this time.

Sweet tooth, then, Hob thinks. Got it.

He goes in for another bite as well, picking the thread of his words back up.

He's talking about the rise of the celebrity chef a few moments later, reaching for another bite, when his fork scrapes against iron, and he blinks and looks down. The little pot is empty, only a few drops of caramel sauce and a few smears of melted ice cream remaining. Hob has had maybe three bites.

He looks up, astonished. His friend looks back serenely, but there are spots of color, high on his pale cheeks. He sets his fork down.

Hob could not stop the smile breaking over his face for all the money in the world. His friend's lips twitch, the corner tucking into a tiny smile, and Hob notices there is the smallest drop of caramel sauce at the corner of his friend's mouth.

Hob entertains a very brief fantasy of leaning across the table and licking it off, tasting the sweetness of the caramel and his friend's perfect skin.

Clearing his throat and shoving the thought away, he sets his own fork down. They are not unfamiliar, these little moments of want that flash within him, whenever they share an evening. They are what sustain him in the long decades between their meetings.

His friend's gaze is sharp on his face, but those spots of color remain.

"I apologize for consuming your dessert."

"Our dessert, friend. Two forks, remember? I'm just glad you enjoyed it. Would you like another?"

His friend looks away, out the window long since gone dark.

"The hour grows late," he says, and Hob tries not to flinch. "And I have. Difficult work ahead of me. But. Perhaps we might meet again soon. To share this dish. Or perhaps another."

Hob's breath catches, his heart pounding. I will take you to every bakery and dessert shop in London, he thinks. England! The world!

"I would like that very much, my friend," he says.

"Dream," he says as he stands, looking down at Hob with the same smile he had when he first came in. "You may call me Dream."

"Good night, Dream, my friend," Hob says, trying not to choke on the emotion that swamps him. "I hope to see you soon."

"You shall, Hob Gadling. Good night, my friend."

Between one blink and the next, he's gone.

END

-----

Thanks to @fluffbruary for the prompt, and to the Morrison in Atwater Village for the best damn bread pudding I've had in my life.

[realitythroughthelensoffiction]

Good Omens Movie predictions: love will save the day

Everyone who watched Good Omens will probably agree that love is depicted as something very important in the series. But in this post, I want to show why I think that it is not only important, but also a powerful force that might be the key to saving Crowley, Aziraphale and the world in the finale.

The first thing that springs to mind in regard to the power of love is the 25 Lazarii miracle Crowley and Aziraphale performed together. But there's also the moment when Beelzebub and Gabriel take each others hand and all the candelabras in Aziraphale's bookshop light up (as for example user Mystic_printer_ on Reddit pointed out - I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise).

Since both couples consist of an angel and a demon, we cannot be sure whether it is love that causes this strong effect, or just people from two opposing sides coming together. But in any case, it shows that unity, not separation or hostility, is what produces a powerful outcome.

Crowley and Aziraphale try to do "the tiniest, most insubstantial fraction of half-a-miracle", yet it ends up being strong enough to rise 25 people from the dead, "a miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could have performed". Beelzebub and Gabriel are not even trying to perform a miracle, they're just holding hands and heading off to Alpha Centauri, and yet the lights in the bookshop react to it. So we can deduce that love/unity is one of the greatest - I would dare to say the greatest - powers in Good Omens.

@sendarya has a very cool video on her Youtube channel where she compares Good Omens to the movie A Matter of Life and Death (also known as Stairway to Heaven). She points out the many parallels between this movie and our beloved series (if you haven't seen the video yet, I would definitely recommend you to watch it, it's great). Moreover, she draws attention to the hints in season 2 that some of the themes and scenes in A Matter of Life and Death will be mirrored in the plot of the Good Omens finale.

She specifically mentions the trial at the climax of the movie, where the defence counsel says "nothing is stronger than the law in the universe, but on earth, nothing is stronger than love", and this statement allows for the resolution of the conflict. I believe that something similar will happen in Good Omens.

I have already mentioned in my previous post that I think we will see a trial - and not just a trial, but the ultimate trial, the Last Judgment. And I have also explained why I assume that the theme of reality and the ways in which it can be altered will continue to be important in the finale. So what if the love between Crowley and Aziraphale, the love of both them and the humans for the earth, or the unity between a great deal of angels and demons finally working together to avert Armageddon will give the Last Judgment an unexpected outcome? What if it will create a new reality without heaven and hell, because love is stronger than law?

Prediction: Love/unity will save the day.

In a future post, I will explore different scenarios of what exactly might happen during the climax of the Good Omens movie. But I'm very confident that love/unity will play a key role in it. This would not only fit very well the themes of Good Omens, but also a quote from the New Testament, more precisely 1 Cor. 13:13 (the most beautiful quote from the Bible, in my opinion), which establishes love as the greatest power in the universe:

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

(In some versions, it says "charity" instead of "love", so even the Bible allows for both readings: love as the highest form of affection, or love as kindness towards other people).

[izvmimi]

cw: babytrapping. yandere. manipulation. cult behavior. suguru.

Suguru told you once, twice, perhaps more times, that he never wanted a child, no matter how longingly you glanced at small children, or how much your arms reached to him when he spilled inside you, hoping he would hold you close and leave behind just enough of him for you to carry forever.

What he planned for the world was too great, and an attachment to this earth would distract him. And you understood him, even if the undercurrent of these statements implied that his love for you wouldn’t be enough, that you are not a real liability and are just as disposable as any one of his other entanglements.

You’ve always known that Suguru doesn’t just belong to you, and truly no one. Jealous glances were often swapped between you and other members of the cult, especially forward when you knew Suguru had been sweet on them recently. Yet you were always his favorite, his prized one. The spot beside him belongs to you, the favorite kitten, pet idly as he followed more… noble pursuits. Little mattered of occasionally sharp claws or sparse mewls for attention. He’d fuck you good, and that was enough to keep you satiated.

The human part of Suguru still makes mistakes. 

You look shakily down at a pregnancy test, wishing for some miracle, some sign that it’s defective, that you haven’t failed your leader in such a cruel way. The two lines look mercilessly back at you as your stomach churns, even worse than it did this am prior to your first sickness of the day. Suguru stands before you, arms crossed over his chest, not bothering to give you even the privacy of confirming your newfound state in privacy.

“I can explain-” is the first thing that comes to mind. As if you are somehow to blame for getting pregnant. The fraction of a percent chance past birth control pills and condoms, and pulling out. You wonder if he’ll force you to put in an intrauterine device this time, or pursue even more permanent options.

He raises his hand, and you look at him, eyes wet with not yet spilled tears.

“Do not worry.”

Your heart quickens its pace. Mercy.

Getou kneels before you, your closed legs, and kisses your left knee, warming you from your toes to your nose. Intimate and possessive, he takes the test from your other hand and drops it in the trash.

“You may keep it,” he offers.

You swallow.

“A-are you sure?” you whimper. His other hand rubs your other leg, while he continues to kiss your knee. Watching him from this rare vantage point, you can feel an immeasurable joy in the pit of your stomach, devotion welling up inside you. The tears make it past the brim of your eyelids.

“You never let anyone else-”

Getou smiles and looks up at you as tears fall from your face, splattering on your bare bent legs, on shaky hands. He’s had nearly a half-dozen children to be, you’ve not wanted to embarrass him the way these other women did, and yet here he was! Extending you something you could lord over others, something that would be just yours and his.

Another heartbeat that belongs to the two of you only. He is yours, yours, yours.

“None of them are as devoted as you are to me, now are they?”

You nod, joy so much it is caught in your throat.

No one, under the sun and moon, will ever love him like you do.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: The Huntress In Moonlight.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Eula x Reader (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: Unhealthy Relationships, Implied Kidnapping/Imprisonment, Obsessive Behavior, Slight Manipulation, and Intimidation.

[Part Two]

It’d taken Eula six hours to catch you.

Three hours for one of her many agents stationed within Mondstadt’s walls to report that you were missing, two to find your tracks amidst the dense wilderness of the Whispering Woods, and one to overtake your frantic sprint and recapture you – the target sighted, located, and hunted down in less than half a day. Part of you was proud of yourself. You were familiar with her swordsmanship, had witnessed what she could do with a claymore and a raging vendetta. You knew that the twisted sense of fondness she held for you was the only reason her blade wasn’t lodged in the side of your throat, but still, it was a small miracle that you’d managed to evade her for as long as you did. It was a small miracle that you’d managed to get out of the city at all.

Part of you was proud. The rest of you, the majority of you, was just angry that you’d been stupid enough to try something so foolish in the first place.

Angry, and bitter, and more frustrated than you had any right to be. Even slung over her bicep, her shoulder pressing into your stomach and her gloved hand wrapped over the back of your thigh, you couldn’t do anything to loosen the tight coil of irritation pressing against the inside of your chest, to stop yourself from digging your nails into her back and kicking at her stomach whenever the terrain grew harsh and you could get away with trying to hurt her a fraction of as much as she’d hurt you. She took the abuse without complaint. You couldn’t see her face, but her breathing was steady, unfaltering, and she only ever seemed to pause to check the compass hanging from her waist or brush stray greenery out of her path.

That might’ve been the worst thing about Eula, when you found it in yourself to look beyond the violence and obsession. You could kick and scratch and scream all you wanted, bite and tear and call her names until your own desperate fear had been forgotten in the face of rage and vile hatred, but she was strong enough to take it, to hold you against her chest and bury her face in the crook of your neck until you were too exhausted to fight, until your throat had grown too hoase to scream. She was always hard to read, but her emotions (or, the collection of delusions that she liked to call emotions) were the most shielded in those small hours you spent alone with her; when she saw fit not to take what she wanted from you, but to wait until you’d worn yourself down far enough to let her have it willingly. It was the most excruciating to be at her mercy when—

Your limp body was hauled off of her shoulder and thrown carelessly to the ground – the earth colliding with your back and knocking the air from your lungs. No, you’d been wrong, this was the worst thing about Eula; the feeling of her gaze piercing into your flesh as she loomed above you, lips pressed into a thin line and dull eyes glinting silver in the moonlight. She reminded you of a wolf, silver-furred and nocturnal, an unrelenting force of nature from the minute she caught her quarry’s scent to the moment she had them in her maw, bloody and broken and ready to bend to her will. An unstoppable fury of teeth and canines and all the many things she had stripped you of, during your time together.

A click of her tongue, the setting of her jaw. She stepped towards you, where you remained on the ground, lingering long enough to haul you upward before gripping your shoulder and coming to kneel behind your back. “Hands.”

You hesitated, going stiff at the cold harshness of her tone. Her grip tightened, calloused fingertips burrowing into vulnerable flesh, and you relented quickly, bringing your hands to the small of your back and balling them into fists, your own blunt nails pressing defined indents into the meat of your palms. She wasn’t a wolf. That had been an idiotic thing to tell yourself. Wolves were messy, and barbaric, and they relied on their packs; admitted their weakness each time they shared their quarry with another dozen starving beasts. She was a hawk, or an eagle – a bird of prey who needed no more strength than what she possessed. She did not trek through the dirt and brambles, did not stoop so low as to have to put herself on the same plane as those she hunted. She soared above it all, barely a shadow in your peripheral until she saw fit to make herself known and fell just low enough to spear you with her claws. She was clean, and swift, and lethal. A huntress who did not waste time wondering if her prey knew to fear her.

You felt something cold and smooth wrap around your wrists – shackles, connected by a chain no longer than your forearm. For the first time, you thought to glance around the area she’d dropped you in. A canvas tent bearing a tattered crest sat to your side, covered in leaf litter and clearly not often used, an unlit lantern hanging above it on a thinning cord. An abandoned Fatui encampment, cleared out by some vicious adventurer and left behind by those who might've once inhabited it. Eula, in one of her rare fits of transparency, had once mentioned that there were dozens of them, dotted across the untamed wilderness, uncharted and unnoticed. She may’ve been the only person who knew how to find them, who cared enough to chart the forgotten sites, if only in her own mind.

The idea that there wasn't a soul in Mondstadt who knew where you were or how to find you was, somehow, even less comforting than you would’ve assumed.

When she finished, she pushed herself back to her feet, taking long seconds to skirt her fingertips along your shoulder, then the side of your neck as she placed herself in front of you. “Are you hurt?” As always, her voice was stern, stoic, and as always, you responded to her probing with bitter silence, pursing your lips and narrowing your eyes at the ground. She let out an airy sigh, but any other signs of irritation were muted, hidden beyond the shallow reach of your perception. “If you still have the strength to hold your tongue, you must not be too terribly injured. I’ll take this as evidence that you’re being woefully disagreeable and regard you as an uncooperative party from this point forward.”

You hated it when she talked to you like this; as if you were a criminal, as if you were some evildoer she could lock away without guilt. You grit your teeth, shrinking into yourself, but if Eula noticed your growing resentment, she didn’t deem it worth her acknowledgment. Few things you did seemed to be worth her attention, despite how close she saw fit to hold you.

“You know that it isn’t safe to leave the city on your own,” she went on, ignoring your resistance. “Let alone wander into the forest in the middle of the night. If you had something you needed to attend to, you could’ve just—” She paused, exhaling deeply. You could see her posture slacken, fatigue forming hairline cracks along the surface of her composure, but it was a temporary fracture, hidden just as quickly as it’d materialized. “You know the rules I’ve given you are there for your own protection. I don’t see why you continue to break them.”

“I never asked for your protection.” You were mumbling, speaking under your breath, but you knew she’d heard you. From the abrupt quirk to her practiced scowl to the way her fingers twitched at her side, fighting the urge to grope for her claymore, you knew she’d heard you. “The only thing I’ve ever asked you to do is leave me alone, and you have never once listened to me. Why shouldn’t I pay you back in kind?”

“Because I’m trying to prevent someone very dear to me from getting hurt, while you are being unnecessarily difficult and throwing yourself into danger just to spite someone who cares about you.” Her tone took on a tender lull, softened and saccharine, accompanied by a light touch to the corner of your jaw. You jerked away from her hand, but that did little to deter her. “You know that, don’t you? That I’m just trying to make sure nothing happens to you?”

You opened your mouth, already baring your teeth.

But, just as quickly, you snapped it shut and twisted away from her, bringing your knees up to your chest and firmly shutting your eyes. A childish tactic, but a necessary one. Complete avoidance was the only strategy she understood, the only thing that managed to block out her mantras of love and protection. She usually went on for a while longer, tried to provoke you with a cloying pet names and rhetorical questions, but in a few minutes, her frustration would take control and she’d leave to collect herself or return your silence in turn. Usually, she’d let you have your reprieve. Usually.

But, tonight had proved to be distinctly unusual, and you should’ve known better than to try such old tricks.

When you failed to respond, Eula pulled away from you, regaining her towering stature. The skin of the huntress traded out for the armored façade of a knight, the latter worn just as naturally as the former. “Do you really want to make this difficult?”

Again, you held your tongue. There was another sharp sigh, another shift in her stance, and then, she raised her hand.

Your mind didn’t have time to fully gasp what she was doing. She was holding nothing, and then, there was something – a hulking mass of iron and steel, the spaded tip of a blade plunging down, down, down,  towards your suddenly very exposed and very fragile form. You stiffened, curling into yourself, but the piercing blow never came. Rather, you felt something cool and flat against your back, heard a hollow thud, and reluctantly, opened your eyes to see that her claymore was no longer plunging towards you, but puncturing the ground less than hair's width from your back, buried in the earth with the chain of your shackles pinned beneath it. You jerked at your cuffs, pulling frantically at your restraints, but her claymore held true. All your strength – your diminish, exhausted strength – wasn’t enough to make the hulking weapon so much as tremble.

“I’ll come back in the morning. We’ll see if you’re feeling more mature, by then.” Cold as ice, as cutting as a sharpened knife. You lashed out blindly, kicking at the ground and clawing at the metal wrapped around your wrists, but she stood strong, unmoved by your panic. “My company’s based a few miles north. If you do manage to slip out, carefully consider in which direction you’ll choose run.”

“You can’t—” Your voice cut out, dying into a wordless, frantic sound of desperation. “Eula, there are monsters, and wolves, and— I promise, I’ll be good.” Because that was what she cared about. Not your safety, not your security, just your cooperation. Just how violently you fought back against her. “I won’t talk back, and I’ll let you touch me, and I’ll be so, so good. Just, please, don’t leave me here.”

For the first time since your recapture, her frown gave way to a small, softened smile. With slow, deliberate movements, her hand came up to cup your cheek, the pad of her stroking over your tender skin. “Oh, but you were so sure you’d be just fine without me only an hour ago.” She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss into your forehead before rising back to her full height. “Be safe.”

She turned away, but spared you one more glance over her shoulder, the moonlight casting her eyes in cold, unfeeling silver.

“And have a good night, beloved.”

[indigovigilance]

Miraculous Energy

Guys, I think I found a hole in the plot. We should probably walk through it together and see what we find.

inspo citation by @ritz-writes

Originally this post had to do with holding hands.

The 25 Lazari Plume

In S2E1 they hold hand through the conduit of Gabriel and perform "the tiniest, most insubstantial, fractional half a miracle we have ever performed. No traces of anything miraculous left behind. No- no- no alarm bells ringing in Heaven" miracle.

Even though they were trying to be surreptitious, they failed drastically. Common fanon is that their combined angelic and demonic energy, or the power of love, creates a holistic power greater than the sum of its parts. The result:

A miracle of more energy than anyone knows what do with: per Shax, "a miracle of enormous power... the kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed."

But.

This isn't the first time they've combined their powers to perform a miracle.

Two quotes from Gail Neiman:

The instance in question:

Theory:

There are at first glance two solutions to this paradox. Either

a) They did create a burst of energy but everyone above and below Earth was so freaked out by them having just survived hellfire and holy water (respectively) that they were like "yeah that tracks and we're not touching it with a 10 foot pole," or

b) They did not create a burst of energy in the body swap, and therefore the plume of power didn't have to do with the boys combining powers but instead has something to do with either (b1) Gabriel or (b2) the nature of the miracle being performed.

I don't like (a) because Saraqael is so dismissive of the idea that Aziraphale could have performed such a miracle. It creates a narrative inconsistency.

We are left with (b), and since purple is the color of Gabriel's divinity this would be narratively consistent. (b2) doesn't track because the nature of the miracle being performed is fundamentally the same: in S1E6 they were (what in other fantasy fiction is frequently called) glamouring to hide their identities, and they did the exact same thing to Gabriel in S2E1, obfuscating his angel identity with a made-up human one.

So, yeah. It perhaps doesn't lean into our preferred conceptualization of the super-powerful duo, but it does fit the evidence.

~~~

It looks like @ineffable-suffering already put forth this theory, I just missed it. You can read it here: What if it wasn't Aziraphale and Crowley who performed the 25 Lazarii miracle?

~~~

special shout-out to @flameraven for the scripts, you make my life much easier now that I can copy-paste quotes instead of transcribing.

If you liked this, you can find my meta index here.

[nofomogirl]

Why was Aziraphale and Crowley's joint miracle so powerful?

They try to make it as tiny and insignificant as possible. A fraction of a miracle. And yet it turns out to be a massive one, with power enough to raise 25 people from the dead. A power that only the mightiest of the Archangels should have at their disposal.

Why?

Theory #1: It's love.

That one must be the most popular one. It just has to. Because that's what Good Omens are all about to many fans, myself included. Aziraphale and Crowley share a very special bond and hence when they join forces they create magic.

Theory #2: It's them

Let's not dismiss the simplest explanation - the miracle was powerful because the ones performing it were powerful. If you think it's too simple to be particularly interesting, think again.

There are many hints this season that Crowley used to be a big shot before the Fall. One of them is actually the miracle in question, or rather Crowley's words to Shax when she questions him about it.

But there are some things about Aziraphale that raise eyebrows too. Mainly, how he always seems to need Crowley's help to control a single person but then is suddenly puppeteering a room full of people.

I'm just saying, with a memory wipe canonized, everybody's identity is a potential mystery now.

Theory #3: It's a fusion

Renegade or not, Aziraphale is an angel and Crowley is a demon. Their powers are opposites and if applied at once would just cancel each other out. Like fire and water that represent them, right? Right?

Well, opposite is often just a synonym for complementary.

I think it's entirely possible it isn't just about Aziraphale and Crowley personally but simply about celestial and infernal power. I wouldn't be surprised that combined they can do things neither can separately.

Theory #4: It's Gabriel

This one is a bit underwhelming and I doubt it would be to many people's liking. But can we address the fact that the plume was kind of purple? Okay, it was more pinkish than Gabriel's trademark lilac-violet, but still. I think by holding hands our boys made Gabe not just an object of the miracle, but a participant too.

Theory #5: It's the portal

That's another one that might feel disappointing, but it's something I've noticed and I'm excited about it.

Just look.

Episode 1: when Aziraphale and Crowley decide to do half a miracle each, Crowley asks Gabriel to sit on the chair which he puts on top of this light-coloured, very worn circular rug.

Episode 5: when the bookshop is under attack, Aziraphale decides to use the portal against demons. We can see it was covered with a completely different rug - a burgundy one - so probably a different spot, right? Aziraphale must own at least a dozen circular rugs.

However.

Episode 6: when Crowley cleans the bookshop, he covers the portal with the same light rug we saw in episode 1 in the miracle scene.

Normally I'd say that if we saw the burgundy rug removed from the portal, it means it was under the burgundy rug the entire time and it was Crowley who put another one over it afterwards. After all, Aziraphale doesn't exactly strike me as the redecorating type.

Except he decided to host a ball in the meantime and we saw him redecorate for that.

So when Crowley puts the light rug over the portal, it's very likely he is in fact putting things back to how they originally were.

What I'm saying is when Aziraphale and Crowley performed their miracle, Gabriel was sitting directly over the portal connecting the bookshop to Heaven. Sure, it was closed, but it still might have given the whole thing a boost.

Personally, I think it was the combination of all of the above.

What do you think?

[actual-changeling]

He asks him exactly once.

Some months after the world almost ended, Crowley still smells smoke and tastes fire whenever he first enters the bookshop, and so every single time he stays into the evening, he gets drunk. It's not the ideal way of dealing with it, but it works, and, really, it's not going to last forever.

(Right?)

Either way, it's past midnight and he's absolutely shitfaced. Aziraphale pulled out the good whiskey around eleven, and while he is still nursing his second glass, Crowley has lost count of how many times he has topped off his. Looking back, it is hard to tell why that evening, why that question at that time - not that it matters much.

The room is spinning, he is less than artfully sprawled across the sofa and only held in place by a stern look Aziraphale had leveled at the cushions at some point; they wouldn't dare to let him slide off.

"Stars, angel," he says, responding to... something, surely.

"The whole bloody sky 's full of 'em, but you only see such a tiny teeny sparkling sparkle."

Pushing himself a bit more upright so he can face Aziraphale in his armchair, the liquid sloshing dangerously, Crowley impatiently waits for a response, flopping onto his back when he doesn't receive one within seconds.

"Y'know, 's all so pointless, innit?"

Even with his gaze tracing colourful swirling lines on the ceiling, he knows exactly what kind of frown falls onto Aziraphale's face, half worried and half thoughtful. Distantly, emptying his glass and miraculously not choking, he wonders what his concerned little pout would taste like.

"Maybe we're simply not supposed to know the point, my dear, the-"

"The Almighty 's not here, angel, She doesn't care 'bout my stars."

His interruption ends on a sigh, a puffy exhale laced with the first sparks of millennia old angry frustration, and his mind is jumping between centuries and memories alike, leaving him uncomfortably dizzy.

"D'you think," Crowley begins, his voice oddly steady, "She's still- does She care 'bout me?"

If he were fractionally less drunk, he would have sobered up before the words slipped past his lips, but he isn't, and he doesn't. Regret comes all the same, immediately and forcefully enough to punch the air out of his lungs. Home, he needs to go home, needs to take the question back, needs to run before the pity undoubtedly radiating from Aziraphale hits him. His limbs are dipped in honey, unresponsive to his commands, and he screws his eyes shut just long enough to get rid of the worst of the vertigo.

He does not know the answer nor which answer he wants to hear, and yet he has whispered the question to the stars countless times, receiving nothing but cold silence.

(I still love you, he wants to tell her, sometimes, hoping that maybe-

You made me and I still talk to you and you're my Mother, you're the heat burning in my the stars, you're watching us, me and him, and you have yet to punish us him)

With considerable effort, he pulls himself upright with one hand gripping the backrest, dropping his empty glass onto the floor and swinging his legs down next to it. His vision is a blurry haze, his mind too heavy to fully comprehend the panic raging behind it, and a familiar rush of blood in his ears is drowning out Aziraphale muttering in concern.

"Sorry, 'm leaving. See you t'morrow, angel."

"Crowley-"

Making it to the Bentley with nothing but a twisted miracle, he shakes off Aziraphale's fluttering hands, and falls into the driver's seat; she knows where to go, whether he's actually driving her or not. Loneliness seeps into his bones while the engine cools, and he forbids himself from thinking about the response Aziraphale might have given him if he had stayed.

The stars above London are distant and quiet like they always are, and not for the first time, Crowley accepts the silence as the answer it is.

(He asks the sky again three weeks later, he never did know when to stop with the questions.)

(Deep down, he thinks knows hopes if he just keeps asking, eventually She will answer; he hates Her almost as much as he misses Her.)

(Almost)

[posarmeklen]

Don’t you hate when you turn your back for a minute at your dead-end copy job (sorry, dead-end desktop publishing job), and all of a sudden, one half of your sister’s cool teen quartet along with your horndog conspiracist friend are holding paper products (er, helping with a big job) and flapping their lips about the latter’s fairly new unplanned pregnancy?

It was just a coincidence that Goat swung by to visit Alex at Repro Man’s shortly after Fruity and Matt came in, and even though they had heard through Chaka (who, naturally, knew because of Alex) that the older man was in a “delicate” condition, it was their first time bumping into him in person since.

Hearing Fruity’s compliments, Matt turned around from the poster in his hands. “Oh, hey, Goat,” he greeted him.

“Hey, Matt, what’s up?”  

“Probably nothing compared to what’s up with you, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy.” Goat coughed.

“Yeah, you know, my cousin just had a baby a couple months ago,” Matt offered up. “I’m not gonna lie, it wasn’t easy for her, but she said it was totally worth it. You know, yin and yang and all that.”

“Hey, I don’t think this situation calls for the poetry.” Fruity made a disapproving smacking sound with his lips.  “Man, can’t you just leave this beautiful thing be?” Goat smirked.

“Chill out, alright?” said Matt, gingerly transferring a large stack of paper from Fruity’s hands to his own and placing it by the copier. “I was just going to ask how he’s taking it.”

“Well,” Goat said emphatically. “Do you want the miracle-of-life Demi Moore Vanity Fair edition, or the cold unabridged truth?” His words conjured an image of himself, au naturel and assuming the pose of the actress, which subsequently splintered and fell away like a broken pane of glass.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less than the second one from you.” Matt smiled.

“Oh, it’s fuckin’ brutal,” he asserted. “Imagine the most head-splitting zombifying hangover, with none of the fun from the night before.”

Fruity raised his eyebrows. “None?”

“Oooh, rough…” Matt mumbled sympathetically.

“My back hurts all time. Everything’s sweaty. Plus, on top of that, I can’t really see my junk. It makes for a challenge when women’s volleyball is on and I wanna –”

“Alright, alright…” Matt’s laugh cut the description of his plight short. “I think we get the picture.”

“Hey, we’re all guys here!” grinned Fruity, giving an open-palmed shrug.

“I will say, it’s not a total loss,” Goat went on. “I seem to have unlocked a brand-new level of savoring life’s pleasures.”

“Oh, because you had trouble with that before, right?” teased Matt.

“Eh, I don’t know, but this baby must love Ring-Dings and Bud Light.”

“Hey, and at least the ladies eat up this stuff,” Fruity said. “You know, feeling the baby kick and comparing its size to a dill pickle and crap. They must be all over you.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, right on.” Goat looked past him, letting out a sigh. “Is there a bathroom in this place? I gotta take a leak.”

“Yeah, right over by the back wall,” said Matt.

“I won’t keep you,” Fruity added, motioning in the general direction of the door.

So anyway, when it comes to Fruity’s comment re: the “fairer sex” and pregnancy, I would be remiss not to mention the kindred spirit Goat hit it off with, the child’s second parent (seen in my Downtown posts of yesteryear. However, I did change her name for some reason. Friendship ended with “Jackie”, “Kasey” is my best friend now). *clears my throat and shuffles flashcards* There came a point of awareness that despite their similarities, they were at really different life stages (Goat had been doing his own thing for years, but Kasey, a trans woman who was Goat’s age, had been living as herself for a fraction of that and was relishing her freedom) and while Goat initially hadn’t changed his lifestyle a bit to accommodate the pregnancy, she didn’t want to live like him forever and begrudged his seeming lack of trying. Words were exchanged, and the pair went their separate ways. Not to worry – they would soon rekindle, and both put forth effort to be healthier (in Goat’s case, he was mostly propelled by the knowledge of his physical condition; in Kasey’s, she was inspired to show a sort of solidarity with him, plus she would soon be a parent as well, despite not physically being pregnant).  But given their respective issues, neither swayed the other in a positive direction, and they soon reached the disappointing yet amicable conclusion that they were perhaps too alike to remain close. And in the midst of that, they just knew neither of them were cut out to raise children (what were we thinking?) – so wish granted for a lucky adoptive parent(s). But I digress… I wonder if some of this diverted him from regaling Fruity and Matt with salacious tales when given the opportunity.

Also, by the way? Even though Fruity was being facetious in my picture and Goat wouldn’t name his offspring after himself, he and the aforementioned second parent did discover at an ultrasound (the first and only; Goat completely forgot about an appointment scheduled earlier in the pregnancy 😑) that the fetus was male. Goat after he and Kasey exchanged an overwhelmed glance and muttered fragmented agreeable noises upon being asked if they were interested in finding out the baby’s sex today: “Rock on! Built-in apprentice and wingman, here I come…” *medical technician politely chuckling intensifies*

[myriad-ofmuses]

Birthday Dinner

@thetraumazone @alilmusebundle

He paused in his finishing preparations to allow his hands to stop their shaking, exhaling a stressed breath and stalking back over to the sink to throw cold water on his sweaty face. Again.

Keeping his wet hands plastered to his face for a few beats longer, trying to calm his racing soul, frustrated at himself for letting himself get so worked up.

Fottutamente ridicolo. (Fucking ridiculous.) It was just a dinner. - It was just a culmination of all his impatient patience over the last several months, trying to pin down a time that he could catch his mother alone.

Which.. either fortunately, or unfortunately.. happened to be on her birthday. His father had been called away on some urgent Family business, along with most of their people. Pops had been apologetic and promised to make it up to her, but as ever, she'd been all cool grace about his absence, claiming she would rather have a quiet night in with her sons and grand-baby then to make a big deal of it, anyway.

He'd agonized on whether or not he should wait for another opportunity, but he'd been on pins and needles at home for too long already, and that ticking clock was ever looming over him. The longer they waited, the more risk of discovery - and they couldn't under any circumstance let Sir catch wind of their reunion.

Not until they had powerful backing to support them, anyway. They were in over their heads, they had to make some sort of play before the cards were further stacked against them.

And while it was a shrewdly selfish thought, perhaps his Pops could make it up to his Ma by taking her lead in acceptance of this twisted situation. They just.. had to get to that point, that was all.

Heh.. yep. That was all. Abbastanza facile, vero? (Pretty easy.. right..?)

With a shaky breath, he wiped his wet face with a dish towel and went back to the oven, checking on the garlic bread and the pre-sauced spaghetti simmering away on the stovetop.

It was a miracle in itself that he'd convinced his Ma to let him make dinner for them, but she'd softened up when he said that he wanted to give back even a fraction of what she did for their family on her special day - and then promptly put her grandchild in her arms. Whatever lingering resistance she had melted away, and she'd shooed him off to the kitchen while cradling an extra-snuggly Mia.

Plating up their first course, he took the opportunity to slide the sauce-laden, seasoned pork loin in the oven for secondi, setting a timer to let it slow cook while they enjoyed their first course (and talked.. of course..)

And while he was at it, he tapped the pager clipped at his belt, giving the signal that everything was prepared.

Gathering everything up on a tray, it took a few trips to transfer dinner to the dining table, his mother looking up from her squirmy granddaughter to watch him set up the table, even smile shifting to a perplexed expression at the extra place that was set.

It took all he had not to nervously tug at his collar when faced with that silent quirked brow, but he managed. He certainly wasn't going to start this off on a full-bodied lie, but wouldn't show his hand yet either.

"I invited someone that'd like ta celebrate yer day with us, hope ya don't mind, Ma.."

Puzzlement changed to an equal combination of suspicion and curiosity, and he quickly draped his apron on an empty chair to take his own seat, relieved that it had saved any staining on his sharp suit. No half-assed formal ware tonight, not if he was going to butter her up, anyway.

After an affectionate kiss to her cheekbone, he settled in his chair, and glanced expectantly toward the entryway of the dining room, hoping that Juke's nerves wouldn't get the better of him. It would be.. a much better introduction if he walked out of his own volition, rather than him having to go and fetch him.. but he was prepared to do so.

As the seconds ticked by, he sent out a silent plea to his anticipated partner.

Please.. just trust this, Vipera.. we're going ta be fine. We got this.. I promise..