#good omens!!! a better guide to romance

[rogueartgallery]

but i pray for her each night, dreaming that it might catch her ear

i’ve been working on a good omens au inspired by the album burn pygmalion!!! a better guide to romance by the scary jokes. hoping there might be some crossover there but even so my gomens friends have been pretty enthusiastic about the concept ( ^3^)~! i’m planning on writing a fic for it as well!! very excited

gonna include the concepts i drew for the character designs under the cut <3

[persephone-writes]

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Black Lake

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five - Chapter Twenty-Seven ☆ Series Masterlist

Description: It seems as though months of secrets, omens, and animosity is coming to fruition, swirling in a storm above Hogwarts.

Word Count: 9.7k

You barely slept on Wednesday night. 

Instead, your half-lidded eyes followed the patterns in the woodgrains on the beam above your bed, looking for flowers or waves, anything to lull you to sleep. Dorcas had remembered her silencing charm, leaving the room eerily quiet in your paranoid state. Some relief came when the birds began chirping as the sun cast its rays over the horizon, brilliantly yellow against the cotton clouds. The mountains, now covered in the deep greens of fir-trees and chartreuse grasses, stood imposing and spectacular in the distance. You peeked out your curtain at the sight, splendid as any pastoral scene could be, though you found little happiness in it. The day would seem dreary no matter what the weather was. 

Marlene met your eye as you sat on the edge of your bed, knotting your tie as Dorcas and Lily readied themselves in the lavatory. She didn’t need to say a thing, her subtle, supportive smile enough to make you feel just a tad better. You had informed her of your plan a few days ago, asking that she vacate the dormitory at the end of classes so that you could have your talk with Lily. Dorcas would be off at quidditch practice during that time, meaning that nothing could prevent you from getting Lily alone, nor would it allow you the excuse of, as Sirius had put it, chickening out. 

“Gracing us with your presence?” 

Mary crossed her arms on the table, looking sideways at Dorcas. “Good morning to you, too.”

Mavors Thorne, her boyfriend, was beside her, sticking out like a sore thumb in his yellow and black uniform at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. He had on a polite smile, some of his confidence seemingly practiced just for the occasion. You thought it was sweet, and something Mary would also do if presented with the challenge of meeting a few of the most popular and boisterous people in Hogwarts. From what you could gather from the few times you’ve spoken, and from what Marlene had been able to squeeze out of Mary, he was rather shy.

Mary leaned over the table to look at the guys, who could not easily see her from their places. It was work convincing James not to sit by you, though with Mulciber on the prowl, it needed to be done. Despite your tougher attitude, Mulciber, Wilkes, and Zephyr were worse than before, snickering and casting taunting looks towards you from across the classroom, all with enough prudence to never get caught. Snape, however, remained as impassive as he had been since his conversation with you in April. 

Because of their renewed gall, it was imperative that Mulciber have no proof of yours and James’s romance, leaving his suspicions completely unfounded. Peeves was taken care of on Saturday night, thank Godric, meaning that Mulciber would have to tail you or James all day long without getting caught in order to catch even a whiff of the truth. So, James was in his normal spot across the table, which to each of you felt miles apart. 

“Hey guys, this is Mavors,” Mary said, falling back to allow Mavors to throw up a hand in greeting. “This is Sirius, Remus, Peter, and James,” she continued, going down the line. 

“Hey, kid,” Sirius said through a mouthful of food. Dorcas elbowed him in the side, his fork clattering onto his plate. “What?” he asked, swallowing. 

“They’re a year below us.” 

“It’s more than that,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I’m born in November.”

Lily sighed, looking just about ready to roll her eyes when she glanced at you. “Not this again.”

“Just eat your food, grandpa,” Remus said, nodding towards Sirius’s plate. 

You laughed because everyone else did (other than Sirius, who was quite grumpy), trying to ignore the knot twisting and turning in the center of your chest. You attempted to swallow down the awful choking feeling in your throat with a sip of your tea, reminding yourself that you still had over seven hours until the big event. You had rehearsed for every possible scenario, even the improbable circumstance of Lily being totally and completely fine with everything. When you placed your mug back down onto the table, carefully between the jug of pumpkin juice and jar of strawberry jam, James gave you the briefest of smiles, hidden within a laugh at something else you had missed in your ruminations. It was enough to get you through breakfast without collapsing onto the floor of the Hall, which would have most definitely put a damper on your plans.

You were going to the library with Lily and Marlene third period before lunch, with Lily leaving breakfast to visit Professor Bainbridge for some extra Alchemy practice. Marlene seemed more than happy to have you alone, gnawing at her lip all the way back up to the common room. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asked once you were in your dormitory. 

You shrugged, sitting down at your desk. “I could be worse, I guess. I haven’t fainted yet, which is a good sign.”

“And you’re joking,” she said happily. 

“I wasn’t.”

Her mouth pulled to the side as she strolled over to Lily’s bed, perfectly made, letting herself fall into it. With her arm behind her head, she looked up at you in what you assumed to be an encouraging manner. “Why don’t you and James ever hang out with me? I mean, you wouldn’t have to hide or anything.”

She didn’t sound offended, even if her question suggested that she was. You also weren’t sure how this was meant to make you feel better, though you humored her anyway. 

“I don’t know. I think it’s just easier to hide from everyone all at once, that way there's a better chance that we won’t slip up. It’s not personal,” you answered, still staring down at your DADA textbook. 

“Yeah, that makes sense,” she said, her gaze flickering up towards the ceiling. “You’ve always had your own world, though, inside your head. It’s not entirely surprising you kept it to you and him. I’ve got nothing hiding up here but song lyrics and that time I got chocolate sauce all over me at my cousin's wedding.” She cringed at the memory, laughing soon after. “But I guess it’s not so secret if you all know about it.”

“I don’t know how true that is,” you mumbled into your palm. You didn’t like to think of your head as anything but perfectly normal. 

Marlene sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. You glanced over at her, reminded of how she always seemed like spring personified: spirited, vivacious, girlish in a way that did not make her seem weak, but rather, quite powerful. 

She bent forward, her eyes bright as she looked at you. “Are you questioning my judgement?” 

You didn’t answer, chuckling despite yourself. She always had been good at making you laugh. Still, that didn’t stop you from folding your arms on your desk, your head dropping into them with a noise of discontent. 

“Since it’ll all be out in the open in about, oh, six and a half hours,” she began, her eagerness growing like the building momentum of a train leaving the station, “give me some details. You barely talk about him, and when you do you’re so buttoned-up. I want the love song stuff.”

You picked your head back up, your shoulders slumping forward. For a long moment you mulled over her suggestion, your initial reaction of an astounding “no” seemingly slightly less reasonable as you considered it fully. Never once had you allowed yourself to gush about James, likely for the same subconscious reason that you both never fully allowed yourself to act like a couple around Marlene and Sirius. However, Marlene’s astute observation that this reasoning would be null and void in six hours threatened to open the floodgates of your more immature attributes. You would have to get over the embarrassment sooner rather than later, so why not just rip off the bandaid?

Marlene’s grin slowly returned as she saw your expression change, her lip resting between her teeth. 

“Don’t make me regret this,” you said, though your harsh tone did nothing to rid her giddiness. 

She laughed in disbelief, crossing her legs as if to settle into a long conversation. “I can’t believe that worked. Am I rubbing off on you?” 

You snorted. “Merlin, I hope not.” 

When you didn’t speak further her eyes widened, boring into yours expectantly. “Well…” she urged. 

“What do you want to know?” you asked, your outward show of annoyance masking the embarrassment festering in the back of your mind. 

Her face lit up, thrilled at the chance to steer you in the direction of her choosing. “Is he a good kisser?”

You were scorching hot as if you were standing on the surface of the sun itself, engulfed in its infinite supply of flames. You could feel the heat flooding your face, enough to make the back of your neck sweat. 

“Really?” you groaned, wishing you had the invisibility cloak so you could disappear forever. 

“Yes, really,” she said with a zippy sort of laugh, bouncing and exuberant. “Fine, I can go first. Okay, lets see…remember I kissed Maxwell in third year playing catch the comet? He was just all right. Eddy was good, a little too overzealous, but I can forgive him for that. Zephyr was okay. And Sirius—”

“I’m begging you to stop.” You put your face into your hands, wondering how you were going to get through this alive. You could hear Marlene laughing, though you didn’t dare look. 

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Ugh, fine. He’s great. Are you happy?” You dropped your hands, trying your best to glare at her. It was difficult when she was so overjoyed. 

“Great-great or just really good?” she asked, so overcome with surprise that you had revealed much of anything that your frown did nothing to damper her enthusiasm. 

Her expression slowly broke you down, accessing some foreign recess of your mind. Without warning or intention you began to giggle, confused by your own capriciousness. 

“Great-great,” you said, the tightness in your chest beginning to loosen.  

She forced you to tell her about the night after the party, though you were able to keep the vast majority of details to yourself. Disappointed by your lack of willingness to share, she moved on to rhapsodizing about the times she’d seen him dance with you. As you listened to her speak you were practically running a temperature. 

“He is a good dancer, but he looks even better with you. Dorcas said something to me about it after you two left the common room—”

“She did?” you all but shrieked. 

“She didn’t say anything to Lily,” Marlene assured. “It was just one of those stupid things she says. I think she was joking, anyway.”

You were more irritated than anxious, deflating as you asked the dreaded question, “What did she say?”

“That Steven was shooting daggers at James,” she snickered, “and that he looked positively devastated when you left together. But it’s Steven, so I’d hardly worry about it.”

Steven Byrne was the least of your worries, though it did remind you of something James had said on Saturday to which you’d given only fleeting thoughts: you should’ve heard my thoughts before we kissed. Instead of wanting to hex every guy who looks at you, now I just wanna gloat. 

“I don’t care about Steven,” you began. “Though none of this will really matter by dinner, will it?”

Marlene's eyes softened, staring at you for a long, almost tranquil moment. She was looking at you the way a parent looks at their eleven year old at platform 9 ¾ , just before they get on the train. 

You furrowed your brows, now laughing in confusion. “Do I even want to know what you’re thinking?”

“You’re really in love, aren’t you? Like death-do-us-part, let's buy fancy china and not worry about who really owns it love.” 

She spoke with such fervency, such pleasant astonishment that it was nearly enough to knock you off your chair.

You nodded, almost as shocked as she was. “Yeah,” you sighed. “I mean, we’re not engaged, but yeah.”

“I knew you were, but I guess I just didn’t,” she stopped, still looking at you in a warm kind of amazement. “Godric, if I were you I’d never shut up about it.”

“Believe me, I know,” you said, shaking your head at her, sending you both into another fit of laughter. 

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From across the table, you watched Lily and Remus scribble down symbols onto their parchment, some of which you vaguely knew the meanings of. Ancient Runes always seemed to be incredibly archaic, impossible to fully grasp. How could you ever interpret a language so old and complex, never truly knowing if you were right or wrong? You supposed it wasn’t unlike Divination in that sense, constantly subject to reinterpretation. Still, Divination seemed more forgiving. If your prediction didn’t come to fruition, all you needed to argue was that the future is fluid, never set in stone. In Ancient Runes you had no such crutch. You were either correct or incorrect, though it was quite possible to go all your life believing you were right, when really, you are wrong. For reasons even unknown to yourself, that fate, that type of failure, seemed like an insurmountable burden. 

Every once in a while they’d compare something to each other’s work or whisper a question, though for the most part, they were silent. You were trying to do your own work, though Defense Against the Dark Arts was the furthest thing from your mind. You had passed overwhelming anxiety and moved into reminiscing about simpler times, long before Lily even considered going out with James. Then, he was just some overly energetic boy you knew who’d sometimes pester your friend enough to get her livid. A few memories were tainted with Severus, always quiet and meek, though never unkind…then, at least. He’d even help you with potions if you asked. 

What you remembered most out of everything else was never being alone. You had come to Hogwarts expecting one thing, to be sorted in the house of your father, where everyone thought you’d belong, only to receive another. Even when the Gryffindor’s cheered for you as you approached their table, you’d anticipated a certain degree of exclusion. Lily had changed your mind. Even as you grew more independent of each other your bond never weakened or became obsolete. It only changed shape, adapting and shifting, entirely unrigid. 

Your lips quirked up when you remembered something silly you and Lily had done when you were younger, something so innocent yet entirely based on love. When you left the library to go to lunch you mentioned it to her. “Do you remember when we used to say we were fifteenth cousins?”

Lily laughed, her gaze drifting off as she recalled the memory. “Of course, I do. We spent half the summer trying to figure out who the squib was in my family.”

The logic your twelve year old minds were running on was not entirely unsound. There must be a squib somewhere in Lily’s ancestry, for all muggle borns are descendents of one. You each gave your best attempts at formulating a comprehensive family tree in an attempt to find such squib, though after a certain point most people, muggle or wizard alike, didn’t keep very good records, leading to dead end after dead end. You were each hoping to find that your family trees both led to the same squib, thus making you distantly related. The disappointment over your failure to find any wizard connection between you was great, though it didn’t stop you from believing that perhaps, however unlikely, you were still sort of like sisters. 

“I think I still have one of your letters,” you chuckled. “I’m pretty sure it's when we thought it might’ve been your great-great-great uncle Leland.”

“Godric, yes! I forgot about uncle Leland. He was just a bit strange, though.”

Remus, who had been trailing close behind, let out a snort. “Unsurprising.”

Lily rolled her eyes, looking up at him with a blank face. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t insult my relatives, no matter how long they’ve been dead.”

Remus smirked, sticking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “I apologize.”

“You’re forgiven.”

It was sixth period. James, Sirius, and Dorcas went off to quidditch practice, Remus and Peter to do who-knows-what, and Marlene to “meet with Professor Sprout”. You were already in your dormitory, pacing back and forth in front of the stove taking deep breaths, though it was of little use. You were a jittery mess, your hands moving from place to place, never comfortable in one spot. When the door finally opened you took them from your pockets, your arms at your side for a brief moment before they came to rest on your hips. Lily noticed your odd disposition, giving you a look of puzzlement as she shut the door. 

“Is something the matter?” she asked, moving to toss her bag on her bed. 

You swallowed, your eyes darting away. “I need to talk to you.” It was a great effort just to get yourself to speak, though a good sign you’d been able to do it at all. 

Lily stopped, standing by the foot of her bed as she stared at you. “What’s wrong?”

Your throat began to burn, though you pushed the feeling down, your eyes lifting to look at her through your lashes. “I want you to know you’re my best friend in the whole world, okay?” your voice trembled slightly, weak with every word. “And I love you to death.”

She said your name, coming to stand in front of you, clearly concerned. 

“Of course, I know that,” she said, trying to calm you. It only made the guilt rise up again, for in a moment you knew she might regret every moment of kindness she ever spent on you. “What’s this all about?”

Three loud bangs sounded on the door, both your heads whipping in its direction. It nearly knocked the wind out of you, sending your mind spinning out as the pounding continued. Lily went to open it, revealing Agnes Waters with her fist raised for another knock. 

“It’s Peeves!” Agnes said, her eyes like saucers. “He’s in the ground floor corridor near the Entrance Hall with fizzybombs—”

“Merlin’s beard,” Lily gritted, glancing back at you as she moved past Agnes. “I’m sorry, Y/N—”

“No, go,” you said, following behind. If you weren’t in the middle of a mild panic attack, you may have found the irony of the situation hilarious. 

You ran through the corridors and down the grand staircase, the sound of surprised yelps and cackling laughter echoing off the marble as you moved into the Hall. Smoke was billowing out of the adjacent corridor, a few students scurrying out and across the room. The pitter patter of their steps melted into a cacophony of chaos, sending Lily bounding forward. 

When you turned into the corridor you saw Peeves floating above a crowd of students, his grin wicked as he held a pile of fizzybombs in his arms. A student tried to knock him down from the air with a spell, though Peeves only lifted away, whizzing through the air as he tossed another bomb down onto the floor. It exploded with a pop, sending an array of sparks shooting into the air followed by a plume of smoke. 

“Peeves!” Lily shouted, pushing through the scuffle.

Peeves only snickered, blowing a raspberry at Lily before swooping down to ruffle her hair. 

She craned her head to glare up at him, looking back at you in complete exasperation. “This’ll be a while. It’s best just to go back to the room so you won’t be tortured.” 

You nodded, coughing as Peeves tossed another fizzybomb right by your feet, the smoke choking your lungs. Another set of shouts ensued from the students, mostly first-years, Lily telling them all to head to class with no shortage of annoyance. 

You took her advice, leaving the corridor to go back up to the room and wait. Your plan of keeping her in a good mood was utterly failing, the universe practically mocking your efforts. As you agonized over the unfortunate turn of events, you hardly noticed a pair of steely eyes staring at you from the wide marble staircase. The moment your gaze found his a chill like death ran down your spine, setting your body rigid and your heart racing. His hand gripped the railing, his hair hanging into his forehead as he continued to lour. Whatever you had seen within Mulciber before was not darkness, for you never saw the true meaning of that phrase until now. It erased all reasonable thought from your mind, replacing it only with the impulse to flee. 

You spun, bolting across the Entrance Hall and out the door, flying down the front steps in a frenzy. You took your wand from your pocket, looking back when you heard his growling voice calling out your name. You stopped along the main path between the two hillocks, each covered in little, delicate flowers, spinning around to take a defensive position, the one you had practiced with James. 

“You’re a sneaky thing, aren’t you?” he spat, his face contorted into a haughty grimace.  

His voice dripped with a loathing that seemed as though it had been brewing over much time, leaking from the walls of his cool exterior. He took a step towards you, though you did not move. His sneer turned into a smirk, his eyes roaming over your figure, entirely motionless. 

“How’d you find out about our plan? Was it Peeves, or your little boyfriend?” He taunted you now, his shoulders rising as he took another small step. “For a while I thought you two had broken up, but you must’ve worked things out, by the looks of it,” he paused, laughing to himself. “Does your friend know, the mudblood? Doesn’t seem as though she does.”

Blood rushed to your ears and face, though you only hardened your expression, your hand clenching around your wand. You saw something in his eyes so horrid, so unspeakably venomous that you knew at once what he wanted to do. It petrified you, though you could not allow him to see it. 

“We’re on Hogwarts grounds,” you began, forcing your voice not to waver, “you won’t get away with killing me here. You’ll be sent to Azkaban to rot.”

He laughed again, a horrible sound. “We’ll see— Expelliarmus!”

You blocked his spell, stumbling back for a moment before regaining your footing. “Impedimenta!”

“Protego!” His eyes narrowed as you dashed to your right towards the lake in the hopes of finding some shelter behind a line of trees. “Confringo!” 

A blast of fire burst towards you, nipping at your heels. 

You turned fast enough to block most of it, the flames bouncing off your shield and ricocheting over your head. As it faded you ran further, hugging the bushes growing along the shore. You looked back again, seeing Mulciber raising his wand. 

“Expulso!”

A blue light streamed towards him, exploding out into the space before you. When it reached Mulciber he flew back, landing hard against the ground. Despite his fall he gave you little time to think, sitting up and flicking his wand with a biting scowl. 

You were knocked down, your hand catching you on the grass. Your heartbeat had become loud in your ears, your breath uneven as you scrambled to stand. “Expulso!” 

Another wave of blue light surged from your wand, though he was able to block it. You knew he would, only needing enough time to pluck a small wildflower from the grass and transfigure it into the first thing you thought of. From the thin stem and white petals grew an eagle, its yellow eyes dazzling against the brown of its feathers. “Oppugno!”

The massive bird screeched as it took flight into the air, shooting towards Mulciber. You saw his eyes widen as he began hurtling spells towards it, though it danced around him, evading his attacks. Its beak snapped as it continued to squawk, its talons reaching down to slash at him. 

You didn’t pay close attention to their battle, bolting away across the field. You thought of nothing, only getting as far away from him as you could, keeping your legs moving and your eyes sharp. You were able to make it near the edge of the lake before you heard his voice again, your body sent into a state of shock soon after. 

“Flipendo!”

You hurtled through the air, spinning a few times before you slammed into the rocks on the shore of the lake. Your hands were cut by the jagged stones, your head hitting hard on the ground. You felt like a bell, your ears ringing a single, shrill note, your eyes unfocused and blurry. You tried to blink it away, flipping yourself over and grappling for your wand. 

Mulciber was running towards you, so close you could hear his ragged breath. His left arm was limp at his side, his sleeve red with blood and nearly torn to shreds. It dripped down his fingers and onto the ground, the metallic scent mixing with the fresh perfume of the grass.  

Above your heads, you heard the call of a single crow, its black mass swooping down as it gave out another cry. Mulciber briefly glanced up, watching as it circled just as the eagle had, inky against the blue sky. With the distraction you were able to grab your wand, your hand shaking as you pointed it at him, only to find he had done the same. 

You challenged one another, each of arms outstretched and ready to strike. Never had you seen an expression so filled with rage, blinded by complete and utter repugnance. Under it you started to cower, the noise of the waves and your breath fading, leaving nothing but his hatred and the sudden reality of your impending death. 

You have to have confidence, even if it’s fake. You can’t be scared of your wand. You just have to tell it what to do, even if you aren’t sure you got the stuff to do it. It doesn’t know the difference.

“Crucio!”

“Expelliarmus,” your voice came out weak, though it was enough to sustain your spell, clashing with his. You could feel the magic running through your body and down your arm, directed through your wand in a single, powerful force. You had felt something similar before, though it was different now. Your wand was not an extension of yourself, bending to your uncompromising authority. Rather, it was more like a friend, loyal out of choice and not necessity, extracting every ounce of force you had into your spell. 

You each seemed to cancel the other out, both of your spells entirely ineffectual against the other, though it was enough to stop the unimaginable pain from wracking your body. Despite your success, dread swept through you like never before as you took in Mulciber’s face, the face of someone who wanted you to suffer. 

You flicked your wand again, feeling the same alliance as before, Mulciber’s twirling in the air until it landed by the shrubs nearly fifty feet away. For a brief moment he seemed confounded, though fear soon took over as he bolted towards where his wand had fallen. Behind him, you caught a glimpse of a lingering figure behind a cluster of birch trees near the water's edge. You saw that it was Severus, sticking out like a black smudge within the pale white of the bark. He seemed to notice you looking, turning to run further into the thin treeline that curved around the shore. You nearly called out to him, forgetting your opponent who was growing closer to obtaining his wand. 

You stood, your desire to escape growing and your options quickly dwindling as Mulciber picked it up. You glanced behind you at the lake, its waters dark and uninviting. Mulciber’s lips began to move, time slowing as your feet took long strides, throwing yourself into the abyss. 

You swam furiously, thrashing as you dove under to move farther from the shore. Already your clothes were dragging you down, your hand holding your wand slowing you even more. Bright, yellow light flashed upon the surface, illuminating the depths below. You looked up, seeing fire dance across the water before it fizzled out. You swam deeper to escape the heat, a second flash coming soon after. 

Your lungs began to burn, though you continued farther, hoping to get a few more yards between you and Mulciber before you were forced to come back up. Your head was light when you eventually breached the surface, the lake a blur around you and the field just a stroke of greens and browns. In only a short second after you came up you felt a sharp sting on your calf, jolting you enough that you nearly let your hold of your wand slip. Still treading water, you spun around, spotting Mulciber on the other side of the lake. You ducked back under, your leg pulsing with pain. 

You were growing tired from all your effort, kicking off your shoes with another shock of pain in your leg, worse than before. It felt as though your mind was screaming, the sentences overlapping, jumbling together until you could understand none of it. Out of the corner of your eye you caught a subtle movement, bright within the murk. It passed you again, and while its shape was blurry, you recognized the red and purple color instantly.  

You rose up in horror, your arms waving wildly until your head was above the surface once again. You gasped, panting as you performed the bubble-head charm, relief washing over you when it formed around your head. You fell below the water as fast as you had risen, seemingly quick enough to elude Mulciber’s probing sight. 

With crystal clear vision and the ability to breathe, you looked down at your leg, seeing an angry gash across your calf. You recognized the spell well, the Severing Charm, knowing you were more than lucky Mulciber had been so inaccurate in his casting. If it had been more skillfully directed, you weren’t confident even the best doctors at St. Mungo’s could’ve saved you. 

You didn’t have time to think much of this, for flashes of fire still rippled across the surface in a haphazard pattern, sending fish fleeing from the heat. Soon after came a booming splash as if a boulder had been flung into the lake, erupting a few times before the fire returned. In a craze you searched for the fish, though there was no sign of your omen amongst the school of others rushing past. Abandoning your fruitless hunt, you swam farther, though you soon realized that the flashes and rumbles of Mulciber’s attacks had ceased entirely. You waited, your heart pounding so quickly that you could hear the blood rushing past your ears, thrumming like a line of drums. It banged against your ribcage with such force you were beginning to worry your bones may break under the hammering. 

For a split second you contemplated waiting until someone came to retrieve you, pondering the possibility this may be a ploy to get you to reveal yourself again, though you didn’t consider this for long. Perhaps it was foolishly risky, something a Ravenclaw would shake their head at, though you were not a Ravenclaw. 

You emerged, spinning around to search the shoreline for every possible place he could be hiding. You saw a yellow burst of light out of the corner of your eye, the chill of the lake doubling, almost freezing against your skin when you spotted its source. Whatever you had been expecting to find paled in comparison to the terror that gripped you like a hand around your throat. Someone with a mop of curly dark hair was sprinting towards Mulciber from the quidditch pitch, followed closely by another with longer, black hair, each wearing their scarlet uniforms. They were shouting, though you could hardly make out what they were saying. Their exchange of spells collided with one another like fireworks, bursting in blinding explosions. Mulciber was casting spell after spell, his onslaught unforgiving and messy as he dodged those thrown towards himself. A ways away, Sirius was putting up defensive spells, James’s lightning fast flicks of his wand able to permeate Mulciber’s constant barrage. 

Practicing with him was one thing, though seeing James in action was another. His feet were firmly planted, though they still seemed feather light on the ground, taking steps to the side, moving backward and forward with sharp precision. His hand never had to move much, doing only what was totally necessary. There was no flare to it, no dramatics or theatrical displays of his talent. It was efficient, tight, and perfectly clean. It stood in stark contrast to Mulciber, who seemed to move in uncoordinated, unplanned hops and jumps, making it seem as though at any moment he could trip, leaving him vulnerable to James’s quick reflexes. Sirius had his own peculiarities, for he always took a half step back before casting a spell, thrusting forward as he waved his wand. It slowed him down slightly, though like James, he was far less sporadic than his opponent.

You were frozen for a moment, unable to get yourself to do anything but tread water and hold your wand despite your immense desire to help. Your eyes darted between James and Mulciber, James’s mouth thrashing as he continued to shout. 

Swim, you idiot!

You swam without any degree of elegance towards the shore, your feet slipping on the mossy rocks as you clambered onto the bank, your bubble-head charm already reversed. You were panting, watching as they continued to duel, entirely unaware of your presence. 

“Where is she?”

James’s voice was loud and seething, ringing clear now that you were far closer. His face twisted in rage, though his eyes never left Mulciber’s figure, piercing and hard. You realized now that they were going easy on him, allowing him to stay conscious out of fear they would be unable to find you unless he told them. 

You scurried forward, nearly falling to your knees as you ran towards the duel. Still, no one noticed you, James bellowing again. 

“Tell me!”

A roar erupted, booming like the screech of a dozen dragons calling out all at once. It seemed to roll over itself, moving outwards in waves, though it only lasted a few seconds. James and Sirius stumbled back as a burst of amazing, billowing flames erupted from Mulciber’s wand, swirling into the air in a gigantic puff. You felt the heat reach you, nearly forcing you to close your eyes and shield yourself against it. Still, you were unable to look away, mesmerized in utter horror as the inferno continued to grow in size, scorching the grass as it neared James and Sirius. It danced in the air, unruly and quaking with power. Mulciber almost seemed pushed back by his own wand, both of his hands gripping it as it whipped around, jerking him back and forth. 

Suddenly, from within the flames rose a burning serpent, twisting upwards with no clear direction. You had never seen anything like it in your entire life, the dashing, licking flames something out of only your darkest nightmares. The serpent's head aimed itself at James and Sirius, who each were on their feet again, furiously shielding themselves from the blaze. In a moment of panic you screamed, blood curdling and with all the pain you had ever felt. 

“No!”

The serpent's head twisted again, its orange eyes finding yours. Its mouth opened to reveal fiery fangs, making a single, abrupt move to strike. You held up your wand, prepared to fight off the unknown enemy, though there was no need. As quickly as it came, the fire was gone, entirely taken from the world as if it had never existed. Beyond the blackened grass of the lawn like a shining pillar of bright, white light, Professor Dumbledore stood with his wand raised. Behind him, Professor McGonagall and Taurisus lingered with the same look of fright you likely wore. 

Mulciber, whose eyes had been glaring at you when the serpent made its target, were ripped away as he turned to the Headmaster. His whole body shook as he lurched towards him, the breath ripping from your lungs. 

“Avad—”

“Stupefy!”

Mulciber instantly fell to the ground in a heap as the beam of red light hit him, his wand rolling from his hand. All eyes fell onto you, gasping as your arm dropped down, your gaze still trained on Mulciber’s motionless body as if you expected him to wake. 

You barely noticed James flying towards you until his arms pulled you into his chest, your name falling from his lips over and over, broken and wretched. You curled into him, dazed and in disbelief. The cut on your leg throbbed, though it was easy to ignore as James’s hands came to the side of your face, pulling away to meet your eyes. He was looking at you as if you were a ghost, the color all but drained from his face. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, the words rushing from him so fast he was nearly indistinguishable. “What happened? What did he do? Are you hurt?”

You were shivering now, your clothes still soaked and your feet covered in mud. You opened your mouth to speak, though your words caught in your throat, only a small noise escaping. James ran a hand along your head, stopping at the top of your forehead. 

“You’re bleeding,” he gasped, tender as he touched you. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you said, your mind still fuzzy. 

He glanced down at your leg, another wave of worry washing over his expression. 

“I barely feel it,” you said, your jaw quivering as you grabbed at his arms in an effort to get him to look at you again. All you wanted to see was his face, to know that he was really here, that he was safe, that he was yours. Your hands scrambled further up towards his shoulders when he finally obeyed, his glasses slightly askew where they had fallen on the bridge of his nose. You let out a delirious laugh, straightening them. “There,” you whispered.

“Mister Potter.” 

The voice was even and of a low register; serious, though not unnerving. You each knew it quite well, James turning to see Dumbledore looking at you both. He stood beside Mulciber, his pale grey robes brushing the charred ground. Your classmate was still unconscious, his face smoothed of all its rageful lines, peaceful as if he were asleep. Binding his wrists were a pair of handcuffs, his wand nowhere in sight. Still in the place where you had last seen him, Sirius was standing, his eyes flickering up from the grass towards the pair of you, then to Dumbledore. He seemed as stunned as you were, his mouth ajar. He had a speckling of burn marks on the shoulder of his robe, exposing his jersey beneath. The same could be said for James, whose uniform looked worse for wear.  

James put his arm around you, letting you put your weight on him as he kept you on your feet. 

“Take Miss L/N to Madam Pomfrey’s at once,” said Dumbledore. “Mister Black, if you’d come with me.”

McGonagall scurried around him towards Mulciber, motioning for a silent, unmoving Taurisus to follow. 

James turned to look at you, his eyes warm and worried. “Can you walk?”

You nodded, though you made no move to step out of his arms. His lips were pressed as his eyes darted back down to the cut on your leg, though he didn’t argue, leading you back across the lawn towards the castle. It was only then you noticed what seemed to be half of the Hogwarts student body gathered about two-hundred yards away by the main path, looking like a dark sea of bobbing heads. They did not speak in murmurs but at full volume, doing nothing to conceal their raging curiosity. You shrunk further into James, your legs like jelly beneath you. 

Ahead, Dumbledore was taking long strides towards the masses, his arms stretched out like great wings. 

“Return to your common rooms, everyone,” he bellowed, his tone so strict that no one dared defy his order. 

In a renewed wave of chatter, the massive group rushed down the path towards the castle, save for five students shouting as they burst through the crowd. They looked like madmen, sprinting across the lawn towards Dumbledore as they continued to call out, though the Headmaster did nothing but drop his arms. Soon enough you recognized Remus’s wiry run and Lily’s copper hair, Dorcas still wearing her quidditch gear. 

As they neared you made out what they were saying, mostly yours, James’s and Sirius’s names, with a few choice expletives from Dorcas when she got close enough to see the blackened earth and Mulciber, who to anyone else may have seemed dead. Remus got to you first, taken aback either by the sight of drying blood on your face or James’s total dishevelment, or maybe both. 

“Bloody hell,” Peter said, coming to a stop not far in front of you. He stared at the ground, caught in the sight of it for a moment before looking at you and James. 

“He’s not dead,” you croaked, your throat suddenly dry. Dorcas made a grunt as if this news was not ideal. 

Lily was almost in tears as she rushed towards you, her hand coming up to touch your face, but stopping inches short. “Godric, what happened?”

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” you said to her, trying your best to calm her down, though it seemed impossible.

Marlene stared at you a moment before looking to Mulciber, her face contorted in loathing as she took a few hard steps towards him. Sirius caught her arm, not allowing her to shake him off. 

“He’s in cuffs,” Sirius said under his breath, looking straight into her eyes. They stared at one another a moment, Marlene in a ruthless challenge and Sirius in a solemn warning. Eventually, Marlene took a deep breath, still glowering as she gave up the fight.

“Miss Meadowes,” Dumbledore said, his tone entirely calm. 

Slowly, Dorcas looked to the Headmaster, swallowing nervously. He was an imposing figure on the lawn, devoid of his usual aura of gaiety.

“Did I not give you explicit instruction to stay inside the castle?” he asked, not seeming angry, but rather disappointed. Even though she wasn’t faced with the full force of his anger, it was still unsettling to be on the receiving end of Dumbledore’s displeasure, no matter how mild.  

Dorcas’s shoulders dropped, her head dipping just a bit lower. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Dumbledore turned, his eyes piercing behind his half-moon glasses. “Mister Lupin, please ensure that all Gryffindor’s find their way back to the common room. Miss Evans, if you’d aid the prefects in the other houses do the same, it would be much appreciated.”

Lily, whose hand now rested upon your shoulder, turned to look at him, her mouth opening and closing a few times, though she never spoke. She gave you a pained, apologetic look, her hand falling from you in a sad, lazy motion. 

“Mister Potter, to the Hospital Wing,” Dumbledore finished, his eyes meeting yours rather than James’s.

James brushed the side of your head, careful to not hurt you. “C’mon,” he muttered, his voice ginger and low. 

Before Lily ran off with Remus she flicked her wand towards you, drying you off completely. Her smile was small and glum before she went to catch up with him, telling you all you needed to know. I’ll be back, I promise. 

The rest of you walked at your hobbling pace towards the castle, even Dumbledore and Sirius, most of you still in a state of complete bewilderment. You found your eyes drifting to the Headmaster every so often, trying to search his expression for some recognition that you weren’t having some grand delusion, that you had not made the entire thing up in your head, though he revealed nothing. 

The Entrance Hall was empty when you entered, save for a handful of professors who were not head of house. Sinistra appeared dumbfounded as she took in the sight of your group, her dark eyes widening as they fell onto your bloodied leg. Quattlebaum stood beside her, his countenance quite different from all the rest. His hands were clasped in front of him, his mouth straight, though not pressed. At first glance he appeared unconcerned, though under further scrutiny he seemed as though he was fully aware of every detail of the current situation at hand, knowing quite well that Mulciber had been detained and that your injuries were minor. How he could have been made aware, you did not know, though you hadn’t much time to think it over. Dumbledore told them to scour the castle for wayward students and to return them to their common rooms, then motioned for Sirius to follow him to his office. 

“Do not worry, Mister Black,” Dumbeldore said, the faintest smile making its way beneath his greying beard. “You will see your friends quite soon.”

With a final look back, obviously wanting to do nothing more than stay with the rest of you, Sirius went with the Headmaster.

“Goodness, get inside— right this instant,” Madam Pomfrey said in a rushed, fussing voice as she met you in the corridor outside the Hospital Wing. She scrambled to your other side, though you held up your hand, refusing her help. Your right leg only had a slight limp, your head aching, though you were perfectly capable of making it inside, especially with James’s support. You told her as much, though she still placed her hand on your upper back as she led you through the heavy oak door.

“Just sit here, dear,” she said, bringing you to the nearest bed.

James stood by your side as you slowly moved to sit, the large windows behind you casting an outpouring of light into the room. Marlene, Dorcas, and Peter lingered around you as Pomfrey inspected the gash on your calf. She frowned, moving up to your face to do the same with the cut just above your forehead. Huffing, she turned to send a stony look at the others by the foot of your bed. 

“I will permit you to stay for the time being, but only if you are not a hindrance,” she said, her voice strict. 

You hissed, your face scrunching as you laid down fully onto the elevated mattress, your head beginning to pound harder. James nearly flew forward, his hand coming to hold yours, though he pulled away before you could touch when Pomfrey shot him a stern look. Your eyes closed, the sunlight becoming blinding. 

“I’ll get something for your head once I get these wounds healed,” she said, pressing the tip of her wand to your forehead. You could feel the small cut closing, the sensation always strange no matter how many times it had been performed on you. 

She did the same to the cut on your calf and scrapes on your palms, wordlessly using the wiping spell to rid you of all the dark burgundy blood and mud caked onto your skin and clothes. Already it felt better to be clean, though you could still use a long bath and a change of clothes, the smell of the lake still present despite the water having been leached. 

“What happened to your shoes?” she asked. 

“They’re in the lake.”

You could hear her sigh, though she did not comment. As soon as she walked away, James leaned towards you, both his hands enveloping yours. Your eyes fluttered open, unthinking of how his closeness may seem to Dorcas and Peter.

“Are you okay?” you whispered. 

“Fine,” he said, one of his hands coming to rub up your arm. 

You turned to look at the others, all edgy and rather stunned. “Are you all—”

“Of course we are,” Dorcas said. “You’re the one who dueled him.”

A jolt of pain ran across your forehead when you looked back at James, squeezing your eyes shut with a wince. His thumb ran over your knuckles, holding you just a bit tighter. 

“Moony says that Poppy’s headache draughts are top-notch.”

You could hear the small smile in his voice, making the corner of your tips twitch up. It fell soon after, the grave nature of the situation coming back to you. “Is Sirius all right?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” James answered softly. 

The sound of Pomfrey’s office door opening sent James’s hand slipping from yours. She came around the corner carrying two small vials, handing one to you. 

“Here, love, take this for your head.”

You sat up, take the vial and throwing it back like a shot of firewhiskey. It tasted faintly of foxglove, though it was otherwise unremarkable. You flopped back down after she took it back, hoping it would take effect sooner rather than later. 

Pomfrey then applied dittany to the wound on your leg, giving you a pitying sort of frown when she was finished. “Would you like something to sleep?”

“No,” you said, rubbing your temple. “I’m all right. Thank you, though.”

She looked between the small audience crowding around your bed, surveying them intently. “It’s best you all return to your common room and come back later. I doubt Professor Dumbeldore wants any students running around the castle at a time like this.”

James’s face instantly morphed into a look of pure desperation, protests already coming from Dorcas. 

“He saw us go with her. I’m sure he would have said something if he wasn’t okay with it!”

Pomfrey clicked her tongue, not taking any arguments. “Please, Miss Meadowes, return before I have to call Professor McGonagall to escort you.”

James moved to stand right beside your bed, his eyes flashing down to yours before returning to Pomfrey. “But—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts,” Pomfrey interrupted, more severe than before. 

James all but crumpled in anguish, his countenance so distraught that he suddenly seemed more like a boy than a man. You tried to speak, though James rambled on before you could get a word in. 

“But I’m her boyfriend,” he begged, his brows pinched as he stared at her, unwavering. 

You glared up at James, but it appeared as though he hadn’t realized he’d even revealed your secret to two parties otherwise in the dark, too intensely focused on the immediate goal of staying with you. 

Pomfrey looked as though she’d eaten a lemon, unspeaking for a few seconds as she examined his pleading expression with close scrutiny as if to see if he was lying. You couldn’t exactly blame her if she thought he was, for he hadn’t let the entire school forget when he was dating Lily. 

“Just you, Mister Potter,” she said eventually, looking to the others. “The rest, back to your common room.”

Peter could do little to conceal his surprise, nearly gawking at the two of you before Marlene rolled her eyes, tugging on his arm. Dorcas appeared less astonished, her mouth opening as if something suddenly made sense to her. You supposed Marlene wasn’t exaggerating, Dorcas was onto you. 

“We’ll see you later,” Marlene said kindly, nodding at your worried look. You knew she’d force the others not to tell, not until you could speak with Lily yourself. Dorcas you weren’t too worried about, Peter on the other hand…

Pomfrey followed them to the door, seeing them out. When you heard it shut your attention was placed solely on James. You were not particularly upset with him, for it was becoming excruciatingly exhausting to keep the burden to yourself. In a way it felt good to have two more people know, though you hated the idea of nearly everyone finding out before Lily, who by all rights should’ve been the first. 

“Dear,” said Promfrey, peeking around the corner. “I’ve sent for some fresh clothes, since I’d like to keep you for the night. After they arrive you can wash up, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

In an act of kindness, Pomfrey then left you and James alone, slipping into her office.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, pulling up the chair to sit beside you. He grabbed your hand again, studying its shape as he played with your fingers.

“I don’t even care anymore,” you said with a humorless laugh, your head aching as you did. “But wouldn’t it have just been easier to come back later under the cloak?” you continued, speaking at a whisper.

“That's hours from now,” he said, as if he were speaking about months, or even years. 

You smiled, though it was laced with fatigue and a small, though not inconsequential, dose of melancholy. “I was just about to tell her when Agnes came pounding on our door, hysterical, telling her that Peeves was throwing fizzybombs in the corridor. I was this close. This fucking close.”

“She can’t be angry with you now,” he murmured, bringing your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “You can tell her tomorrow.”

Your jaw trembled, tears welling in your eyes. “I don’t want to tell her tomorrow. I want to tell her today, like I promised.”

You stared into your lap, the overwhelming nature of the day hitting you all at once. You weren’t simply crying over Lily, though that surely didn’t help your crumbling resolve. More things had happened within such a short span of time than should be possible. You weren’t even sure what time it was or how long your duel had lasted. You glanced down at your watch, seeing that it was just before the end of sixth period, not even an hour since you ran out of the castle. 

“How long do you think they’ll keep everyone locked in their common rooms?” you asked, sniffling away all signs of your weeping. You hadn’t even let a tear fall, fearing that once you started, you may never stop. 

You could tell James was racking his mind for ways to make things better, though he could come up with nothing. “I’m not sure. Probably just until dinner. Someone will be here to collect Mulciber soon, I’d imagine. He was alone, right?” he stopped, catching himself. “Don’t think about it now. We can talk about it all later.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m all right to. Mulciber was alone, though I did see Snape by the lake.” You continued quickly when you saw a flash of rage run through James’s eyes, “He didn’t do anything. He was by the trees, watching us, but then he ran away. He seemed frightened more than anything.”

James’s jaw was still clenched, the tendons in his neck tight and straining. “I should tell Poppy,” he said, rising from his chair. “Dumbledore would want to know.”

You let your hand slip out of his grasp, watching as he walked to Pomfrey’s office, knocking on the doorframe before he entered. You couldn’t make out the majority of their exchange, only catching the soft, “Oh, yes. Stay here, Mister Potter,” from Pomfrey before you heard the small puff from the floo. James returned, sitting back down with a lagging, weary walk. 

“Are you sure you don’t want something to sleep?” he asked, clearly hoping you’d say yes. 

“No,” you said, blinking away the blurriness in your eyes. “My heads a bit better now, anyway. I want you to tell me what happened. How did you and Sirius know what was going on? And Dorcas—”

“Saw it from the pitch,” he answered, the reminder of the incident sinking him back into misery. “You didn’t see us?”

You furrowed your brows. “No. Did you fly down?”

He nodded. “I sent Dorcas to get help and made the rest of the team stay in the locker rooms. Merlin— they might still be there for all I know.”

“I’m sure they came out once they heard Dumbledore. The whole school probably heard him,” you paused, going over the events again. “Why didn’t you see me jump into the lake?”

“You must’ve done it right when I was bossing everyone around,” he said with a morose smile. “I was— Godric— it was just instinct. I was fucking mad. I thought, I nearly thought,” he faltered, clearing his throat as he stared down at your hands again, now entwined. 

“James,” you breathed, the crushing weight of your affection falling down upon you, colliding with the lingering dread of Mulciber’s blazing eyes as they stared at you from above. You felt too full, bursting with contradictory emotions that did not compliment the other. You were swelling with pride over James’s skill and your own miraculous final defeat of your classmate, tormented over the way he and Sirius had been so close to death, all for your own safety, still scared to the very core of your being— and most of all, consumed by love. 

You reached up, weaving your hands into his hair to bring his face to yours, your other touching his cheek as you leaned forward to crash your lips against his. At first he was taken off guard by your plea, slower than you to drift into your ardent rhythm. He sank into it soon enough, letting you lead him to whatever you felt, riding your unruly current. Thank you, thank you, I love you, you said, your hands keeping his face as near to yours as possible, his nose pressing against your cheek. Never say thank you, you are all I want, he answered, over and over. 

He ripped away suddenly with a shaking breath, his head whipping around to look at the entrance. You followed his gaze, your face running hot with horror when you met a pair of green eyes staring at you from the doorway, wide and fixed on your embrace.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Notes: ahhhhh can't believe we're here! thank you all for reading and sticking with me, I'll see you in the next chapter <3 xoxo

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Tag List: @floverisland @ilovejamespottersomuch @googie-jeon @tvnile @eli-com @lovelyteenagebeard @letssee2468 @abhootghiihii

[practically-an-x-man]

Tell me about Calypso, Fangs, and/or Maleficent?

Thank you!! These are some of my more interesting ideas, I'm eager to talk about them!!

Under the cut for space :D

Calypso is the nickname for a future OC x OC Good Omens fic (yes, you read that right, this one's not an OC x Canon fic! what a surprise lol).

It involves an angel named Ithuriel/"Rue", the angel of community and music, who falls in love with a human woman (named Calypso) in Ancient Rome. They have a few years of beautiful romance, and Heaven doesn't pay much attention to it... until Calypso finds out that Rue is an angel, and Heaven punishes them both. Rue becomes Fallen, and Calypso is blinded (for looking upon an angel without being a prophet) and has her memory wiped. Rue keeps an eye on her from afar, keeping her safe and extending her life and even comforting her on her deathbed (though Cal doesn't remember her, and doesn't even entirely realize she's there).

For centuries she grieves, not only for her lost love but the love that was taken from her in Heaven's punishment, and then... in the modern age, she's out busking in a local park and finds a familiar voice singing along to the ancient hymnal she's playing. As it turns out, Heaven's punishment was out of line, and God made Calypso an angel after her death (the angel of small pleasures, like all the times she brought Rue a meal while she was out busking in front of her restaurant).

____

Fangs is an idea I came up with after reading the Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires. It takes the book's themes of subtle abuse/manipulation and how the most "perfect" homes often house a darker side. One of the main characters in the book, James Harris, is a vampire who appears outwardly very charming but secretly is the cause of a lot of distress, and hardcore manipulation, to the other members of the town. In the book, he's a bachelor, but I wanted to explore the idea of him manipulating a romantic partner the same way he manipulates the other people he comes across.

Enter Rembrandt "Remy" Duvall, a werewolf from the 16th century and James' longtime romantic partner. Remy believes they're entirely in love - he's gentle, he's romantic, he helps her through her painful and dangerous lycanthropic episodes - but a deeper dive into their relationship proves that James Harris has only been using her for his own gains. People are more accepting of a couple than a single man in these sleepy towns, it keeps the illusion up, and he's been feeding on her when other victims are lacking.

Eventually, Remy does become a part of the titular Southern Book Club, and having positive female relationships does lead to her understanding the manipulation and abuse she's been tolerating for so many years now. The club takes care of James Harris, ensuring he'll never come back... and Remy, once she's learned to be her own person again, ends up striking up a connection with one of the other members of the book club (who canonically divorces her husband at the end of the book, for his similar manipulation tactics, and I want her and Remy to become life partners and support each other)

____

Maleficent is the code name for another unwritten fic, though this one does have an actual title: Of Cliffs and Deserts. It's primarily linked to Maleficent: Mistress of Evil, where we get more backstory into the Dark Fey and where they come from.

This fic in particular starts with Sable, a young Dark Fey from the rocky, windy cliffs at the far edge of the continent, who's moved to the Nest with her father after being discovered and attacked by human invaders. Because her home biome is incredibly stormy and windy, she's a skilled flier even as a child, and only gets better as she ages. Her other principle skill is camouflage: her particular branch of the Dark Fey had their magic evolve into the casting of illusions instead of growing plants, since there was such little plant life on the stormy cliffs where she's from.

She strikes up an immediate friendship with Borra (they're both about 6-7 at this point), which ends up becoming an incredibly strong bond that lasts years. They're inseparable... until Sable is seventeen, and her aging and chronically-ill father decides that the Moors will be a better place for them than the Nest. She goes with him, afraid he'll get hurt if he's on his own, and promises that she'll be back as soon as she can.

Two months later, an injured Fey from the colony that went to the Moors comes flying back to the Nest, warning them that humans came and slaughtered every Fey they saw, including all of the Dark Fey there. Borra is, justifiably, heartbroken, and it's part of what eventually prompts him to become the leader of the Dark Fey and call for war against the humans.

However, unbeknownst to the Nest, two Dark Fey survived - Maleficent, of course, hidden away in the depths of the Moors; and Sable, who had her wings cut off and was made into a "human" servant girl for a wealthy lord. Her illusion magic is captured in an amulet, which provides such a strong illusion that not only does she appear completely human, she genuinely believes herself to be Samera, a human girl who tends the queen's orchards.

Long story short, during the war they will reunite, and Borra eventually starts to suspect the illusion magic at play and tries to break Sable out of it.

That's all I'll say for now, I've rambled long enough.

[taroraine]

Okay, so I have been trying to work out what type of omen this is because I have nothing better to do.

I get that there is a strong desire to lump the jackdaws in with ravens because Odin had ravens (Huginn - thought, and Muninn - memory), and the goat is an offering to Thor, who, yes is the god of thunder, but is also tasked with protecting mankind. The goat not being destroyed signals a bad year (It survived 2019, then we got covid in 2020. It didn't burn in 2014, and Trump was elected in 2015. I could go on, but I feel like I made my case.), so burning/destroying the goat seems to signal the sacrifice to Thor being successful. Essentially, it's how we pay Thor protection money. with this in mind, It would symbolize Odin, the "all-father" and god of war, wisdom, healing, and death, coming to collect knowledge (specifically signaled by the birds) on behalf of Thor. This leads me to believe, if we analyze this from a Norse mythology exclusive end, lump all corvids together, and ignore the duck, we can interpret this as a sign that family or community will come together for the good of humanity.

Unfortunately, that interpretation requires us to ignore a lot of things, and make very loose connections, so let's break it down without sticking exclusively to Norse mythology. Literally the only thing we are keeping from the previous argument is that goat destroyed = good.

Jackdaws are incredibly intelligent (they can recognize different people's faces), loyal (they mate for life), and resourceful.

In many Christian cultures, due to the fact that they often nest in churches, Jackdaws are seen as holy protectors.

In Celtic mythology, the jackdaw is seen as a guide, and a symbol of good luck and transformation.

I am going to ignore the Greeks because they were stupid. They thought the jackdaw was a symbol of stupidity and hubris, and overall their idea of jackdaws doesn't line up with scientific facts about it's abilities. Greek mythology sucks and Aesop can suck it.

We are overlooking the singular duck helping to destroy the goat. Ducks are social creatures and they are very protective.

The migratory pattern of the duck has led many cultures to view them as symbols of transformation and transition.

The fact that ducks can fly and swim has contributed to them being associated with, again, transition and duality.

Celtic mythology views ducks as symbols of power. In fact, the duck is heavily associated with Sequana, a river goddess associated with healing.

In many eastern cultures, the duck is associated with love. In China in particular, it is heavily associated with romance. Hinduism often uses the duck as a symbol of good fortune and prosperity.

Okay, so the consistent themes with these two birds are intelligence, loyalty, transformation, and love. What are these birds doing to the goat, a symbol of tradition? They are destroying it (which is good for us) by transforming it into food, a symbol of togetherness, as most cultures use food to bring people together for celebration. They are taking something that is traditional and decorative, a symbol of hubris and vanity, and making it useful in a way that brings others together. In other words, I think this is a very good omen.

The birds eating the Gavle Goat are jackdaws, which are corvids, but not crows.

People also call the family corvidae the "crow family" but that family includes ravens, jays, rooks, magpies, etc. So, I guess you could call jackdaws crows if you really want to, but if you're going to do that you should commit to that classification and call bluejays crows as well.

The jackdaws are, however, very cute, and very good for taking up the mantle of destroying the goat.

[m-y--p-a-s-s-i-o-n-s]

Troll Tails maps

This is the map for Eden Forest in my Good Omens Troll AU series; Troll Tails.

This post will be added to as I post more stories, and add to the map.

Please note that this map is not to scale, it is merely a placement guide for specific locations in the forest.

_________

Somewhere I Belong - Chapter 1

_____

Somewhere I Belong - Chapter 2

_______

Somewhere I Belong - Chapter 3-5

_______

Somewhere I Belong - Chapter 6-11

________

Somewhere I Belong - Chapter 12

Something New

If Three's a Crowd, Fours a Dream

_________

Pillows and Flowers

________

The Apple of My Eye

Under the Little White Berry

________

Device's Device

A Romance to Reminisce

Smitten and Smote

A Better Understanding

[leos-regression-cove]

Fandom content Info:

If you have any agere content you'd like to see, hit up my inbox and I'll write a little blurb for you :)

What fandoms do I write for?

(Starred fandoms are open during limited requests.)

Marvel (I specialize with Loki, but I'll write for most character/franchises)* (Loki or Mainline Avengers⭐)

Parks and Recreation ⭐

Good Omens ⭐

Bee and Puppycat

What We Do In The Shadows⭐

Our Flag Means Death⭐

Abbot Elementary⭐

Ghosts UK ⭐and US

Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (I haven't finished season 5)

Community⭐

30 Rock

M*A*S*H

Futurama

Adventure Time

Transformers (Original Series)⭐

Steven Universe

Animaniacs

Monk ⭐

(*To an extent*) Better Call Saul (and CG!Jessie Breaking Bad)

(*To an extent*) It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia⭐

*Note: it has been brought to my attention how BIG the Marvel Cinematic Universe really is and the fact that I have missed MOST of the tv shows. Please be patient about: Daredevil, Punisher, Agents of Shield, She Hulk, Moongirl & Devil Dinosaur, Werewolf by Night, and Moon Knight while I catch up.

If it's not on the list, shoot over a DM or ask and I'll see what I can do.

What content am I willing to write?

agere content (please specify if you're requesting physical regression)

non-agere content

Violence (It will be properly tagged and warned for.)

Whump, angst, and hurt/comfort

Xreaders

Shipping/romance (not used while a character is regressed, otherwise underage, etc. Keep it legal, keep it ethical.)

Fluff!

AUs

Chapters for preexisting fics!

No real people. (No bands, YouTubers, or actors)

(If you have a writing prompt which is nsfw please go to my main blog @goatmilksoda and I'll answer it there. I'd like to keep this blog sfw)

All pieces of writing uploaded on here will also be uploaded to AO3. If you don't want this, or don't want your username in the notes, please note that in your request.

Ongoing fics and AO3:

Also I write on AO3! You can find my work under the name goatmilksoda (just like my main blog)

Here are my main fics:

Nothing In The Parenting Books Prepared Me For This: my longest running fic, It's >200k words of cute regressor!Loki and flip!Sylvie with (usually) caregiver!Mobius fluff.

All The Lessons I Never Learned: a modern New York AU about permaregressed preschooler!Thor coming from Norway to live with Loki, who hardly knows him. As they adjust, they meet little!Sylvie and caregiver!Mobius who help guide them through some everyday challenges.

Lets Get This Over With: Post-season 1, Loki is pushed through the portal into a version of Asgard where Littles are common and everyone expects him to be the royal baby.

If you'd prefer to access my fics via Tumblr here are the masterposts for three: All The Lessons I Never Learned, Nothing in the Parenting Books, The New Little. [NOTE: as of February 2nd 2023, Tumblr accessible updates will cease. All new chapters are exclusively uploaded on AO3]

[timothyomundsonss]

Shassie Fic Recs Pt 2

Cause this is stil my life and these are still my choices. Also, please check them out cause they’re great and shower the writers with kudos and comments, they deserve it.

- Drinkity/Druggity (Meow Meow Meow) by rispacooper

Three stories about relationships and various forms of love, taking place between Henry and Shawn and Juliet and Carlton in which Shawn and Lassie have some things to work out. There is, as you might notice, a theme of intoxication (or lack thereof).

Shawn is insecure, Jules and Lassiter are tied up and Henry is just about done. Also, “You’re still here…” “So are you.” still gets to me, every time.

- Just Desserts (Or: How Lassie learned to stop worrying and love chicken soup) by Attic_Nights

When trickster god Loki blows into Santa Barbara, a fake psychic would seem like the perfect person on whom to work his mischief. However, chaos reigns when Lassiter is the one who's granted psychic powers.

Sorta crossover with SPN, but not really. However we do have Psychic!Lassie and it’s both really funny and really troubling to see Lassiter like that. Also, Shawn does have “connections” to the supernatural, but it’s probably not what you think.

- And They Say Romance is Dead by pointyshades

For two people who hate each other this much, Shawn and Lassiter sure do kiss a lot.

Sorta enemies to sorta friends to sorta lovers, what else can I say? Takes place on season 1 (sorta) and it’s very very funny, especially cause Lassie preferes to lie about having a dog than admiting to being attracted to Shawn. (It makes sense if you read the story).

     Ordinary but Still so Extraordinary by disturbinglynic

Post Season Six. One small decision and everything changes. When a soaked and desperate Spencer shows up at his door, Carlton, against his better judgement, lets him in. Spencer doesn't leave and they soon form a friendship that has Carlton questioning everything. When Marlowe is released from prison, buried feelings become known and Carlton finds himself in a relationship he would have never imagined wanting nor that it would be the best thing to ever happen to him.

- How to Ruin a Proposal: A Guide by Shawn Spencer by veterization

Despite all of the signs and omens warning Shawn that proposing to Lassiter is a bad idea, he's never put much stock into good ideas.

Very fluffy, very funny fic. Established relationship that also works as a kind of character study for Shawn. One of my favourites.

[rmelster]

okay, so now for the fully detailed, heavily descriptive C1 report:

The Elster Man

THE TITLEEEEEEE. I’m flattered hehehehe. For a more etymological approach, elster (which is indeed a surname) means magpie in German. In western culture, magpies are object of countless superstitions, and is believed to be a messenger of ill omen and death; they also have traditional links to witchcraft. That’s a good choice of a (sur)name for such a mysterious and eerie man like this one 😉

- a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance

FR. There isn’t a better feeling in the world that being half-hidden behind dusty piles of books in the back of an antiquity shop, reading one of those books.

When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded

It is very noticeable that you have taken your time to investigate further about the history of photography. My respects for that! Very well done 🫶

I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it.

Imagine if Rick just entered through the door then 🤣

This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

That awkward moment when you accidentally find out of a deep homoerotic relationship of a century ago.

I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him

Relatable feeling nº1

This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt

Relatable feeling nº2

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

Me finding that one picture that looked a little too much like my OC.

My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

Love this love this love this…

If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

GIRL.

The Elster Man

The antique shop on Allenbrought Street was, to me, the most magical place in the world. Even though it was the first paying job I’d managed to get after university, I was in no particular rush to move on - it was preferable to the waitressing job I’d had at school, and it appealed to my love of the vintage and forgotten. For as long as I could remember, I’d been fascinated by the concept of antiques, so this was the closest I thought I would ever come to a dream job.

I’d only been working there for about six months, but to me, the shop had become a safe haven - a secret hideaway, where I could curl up with a blanket and a cup of tea, and lose myself in a Georgian adventure or a Gothic romance, while the minimum wage trickled into my pocket. The ticking of the grandfather clock was like a lullaby to me, and sometimes I would doze off with the book in my hands, until being woken by the sound of the bell above the door, signalling a customer’s entrance.

My life changed on a Monday afternoon - always the quietest time for our shop, since people were too busy with work or school to come and gawk at antiques. The owner was sick, so it was just me: the only employee, diligently manning the till, sweeping the floor, and dusting the shelves. I’d only had two customers that day - an old man searching for photo albums or soldiers’ diaries from the Second World War, and an elderly woman looking for vintage ornaments - but I didn’t mind. I liked the peace and quiet.

As I pottered around the shop, I was struck, as I often was, by the cosy, cluttered charm of the place. The shelves were stacked high with a beautiful chaos of miscellany - ballerina music-boxes, candlesticks, lampshades, silverware, egg cups, biscuit tins - while the walls were hung with framed photographs and wooden cuckoo clocks.

Sitting on chairs were stuffed animals with button eyes and porcelain dolls with real human hair, and looming over everything was a large, ornately carved grandfather clock, whose pendulum swung to and fro almost hypnotically. Every object had been crafted by skilful hands, whose owners were long-dead; and I took my role seriously as the caretaker of their legacies.

I finished rearranging a teapot, teacups, and saucers on a tray, then looked around for something else to do. I took advantage of the down-time to start unpacking a delivery we’d received the previous Friday: several beat-up cardboard boxes of items from Elster House, an eighteenth century manor-house somewhere in the south.

In order to fund the upkeep of the twenty-bedroom, twelve-bathroom mansion, the aristocrat who lived there was in the process of converting it from a private residence into a public attraction. Tourists and history buffs would come flocking to admire the topiary and old paintings, and hopefully leave a few coins in the donation box. But first, the attics needed to be cleared out.

And so here I was, kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in a cardboard box stuffed with old bits-and-bobs, sorting the tat from the treasures.

Porcelain figurines of blushing cherubs and graceful Regency ladies gazed down at me as I worked. With a keen eye, I inspected each piece closely, looking for any scratches, scuffs, or discolouration that might decrease their value. I set aside a gilded snuff-box, and my gaze fell upon a rectangular tin at the bottom of the pile.

It wasn’t an antique, but a fairly modern storage tin, maybe from the 1970s or 1980s, painted with a rather gaudy floral design. It looked out-of-place among its Victorian companions.

I picked it up, and turned it around several times to admire the pattern. Then I attempted to open it, struggling to dig my fingernails under the lid. Gritting my teeth, I exerted more pressure. The lid finally gave up with a wheeze of escaping air, and the contents were revealed: a mess of old photographs, grey or sepia-toned, unmistakeably and authentically Victorian.

I scrambled to my feet, wincing as my stiff knees protested. I hurried to fetch a pair of cotton gloves, specially bought for protecting old, fragile documents from skin oils. Hastening back to the box, I sat cross-legged, put on my gloves, and reached into the tin.

The first photo I picked up was an unremarkable portrait. A young man sitting in a chair, wearing full Victorian garb, staring off into the distance in an aloof, regal fashion. His expression was dignified and stoic, his pose statue-like. When Louis Daguerre had succeeded in reducing a camera’s exposure time from hours to minutes, the popularity of portraiture had exploded; but having one’s photograph taken had remained a serious event, and smiling hadn’t yet become acceptable.

I peered more closely at the faded image. The man was strikingly handsome, in an angular and somewhat haunted way, his dark hair slicked with pomade. His large, shadowy eyes seemed full of secrets and deep, unknowable thoughts. A Gothic beauty, complete with an aura of mystery. Judging by his fine clothes and aristocratic bearing, he was probably an ancestor of the current owner of Elster House. The plain background and lack of other objects ensured that my gaze focused on him.

I turned the picture over. Written on the back in elegant cursive were the words:

Richard Mariah Elster

His Lordship on a fine Friday

October 13th 1843

To my chagrin, many of the photographs were heavily damaged - covered in splotches and scratches, the corners faded and curling. It seemed as though they’d been tossed carelessly in the tin with no regard for proper storage, yet a loose chronology seemed to exist. As I flipped through, I realised that they were all of Lord Elster. It was a collection dedicated to one man - one beautiful young man (or young to my admiring eyes, at least).

In most of them, he was alone, sitting or standing in various attitudes; but in some of them, he had companions - an elderly couple that I assumed were his parents, a male contemporary who was probably a university friend, a young woman whom he may have been courting. All of them seemed to pale in comparison; my eye was always drawn to him.

Each picture was its own little enigma. Who was he, and what circumstances had brought him to be photographed that day? Was he marking a significant event in his life, or had he simply wanted to show off his new clothes? My gloved hands carefully turned them over, checking for writing, but most of what I found was illegible.

As I searched, my fingers found something that wasn’t paper - something soft and ticklish. I withdrew a lock of dark brown hair, long and curly, bound with a red ribbon tied in a bow. I handled it with the utmost care, afraid of damaging the centuries-old strands. Then, on an impulse, I sniffed it. It may have been my imagination, but I thought I could detect the lingering, sweet fragrance of perfume. I wondered if he’d requested it as a keepsake, or if his lover had offered it as a token of her affections.

Picking up another picture, I experienced a momentary shock to see Lord Elster’s dead body propped upright, bereft of its head; but I quickly identified it as a joke photograph. In the 1880s and 1890s, there had been a humorous fad for “headless portraits”, in which the subject posed for two photographs in succession, and both photo negatives were combined to create the illusion that they were holding their own severed head by the hair or cradling it on their lap. Sure enough, the lord’s “decapitated” head was sitting nearby while his hand pretended to stroke its hair. I snorted with laughter, and put the picture aside.

The one that followed wasn’t a single image, but a collection of eight, arranged in two rows of four. I recognised it as a “visiting card” from the 1860s or late 1850s. At the time, it had finally become possible to take quick, casual photographs and print them onto a single sheet of thin paper, usually showing a person in the same setting but in different poses and attitudes. The low cost and simple production of such photos had led to their boom in popularity, as they could be easily traded among friends and family - one of the earliest examples of social media.

In all images, he was standing with a top-hat and cane in his hands. Sometimes he was posed in a serious and stoic manner, but sometimes he appeared grinning and playful. The images were too small to make out details, but I was struck by his humour - a long-dead man captured forever in a moment of amusement. It was a jarring reminder that people had been just as silly seven generations ago as they were now. Looking at him, I realised I was smiling.

But when I put it aside and saw the next picture, my smile died and my heart dropped. The young lord was sitting in an armchair, his eyes closed, his face slack, his mouth a sliver of blackness as it hung ajar. He looked like he was fast asleep, but I knew that he was dead. The sight came as a gut-punch to me. I’d been piecing together the jigsaw of his life, and in a strange and maybe stupid way, I felt like I’d gotten to know him. Now he sat in front of me, dead, motionless, his existence reduced to a scrap of paper.

There was nothing written - no date, no tribute, no expression of grief. I wondered what had happened to him. Had he died peacefully or violently? In bed after a terrible illness, surrounded by the tender care of his loved ones? Or in the middle of the street after a sudden accident, surrounded by gawking strangers? Morbid curiosity compelled me to peer closer at the photograph, looking for any clue as to what may have killed him - but he was fully dressed and immaculately hairstyled, hiding any possible sign of injury.

He was undeniably dead, and in accordance with the customs of the time, his family had decided to take one last picture of him.

I hadn’t come to work that day expecting to get emotional. Perhaps it was just the dust, but my eyes had begun to sting. I moved on, eager to shake off the image of his lifeless face.

The following photograph was decidedly less formal - probably a private memento. He was standing up, one foot crossed in front of the other, leaning his arm on the back of a chair in a casual manner. His hair had grown longer, and hung in easy-going curls to his neck - quite unusual for the time period, when most men had worn their hair short, slick, and sensible.

He appeared to be in an exquisite garden lined with marble columns, with a fountain in the background, but I couldn’t tell if it was a real place or a studio backdrop. Maybe it was a corner of the Elster estate, or maybe it was just paint on a canvas.

I held the precious picture in both hands, glad to see him alive again, then gently put it aside.

What I saw next caused me to freeze for a moment, as if my heart had skipped a beat. The young man was sitting naked on the floor, and smiling at someone out of frame. His long, dark curls were gathered loosely back, exposing his pale shoulders, and his expression was one of eager delight. Compared to the formality and pomp of its companions, the image was shocking in how alive and intimate it was. The subject was aroused, happy, and in motion.

I turned the picture over. Scribbled on the back in messy cursive were the words:

My darling, delicious Rick. A souvenir. Nothing tastes sweeter.

Something about the penmanship made me think it was a man’s. I felt a sudden guilt. This photograph was never meant for my eyes - it was a secret message between two lovers, who in their time period would’ve lived in the shadows.

Moving on, I jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire - the next picture was even more scandalous. His unrestrained hair tumbled in disarray about his face, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown that hung open, revealing that he was nude underneath. He was draped over a chaise longue in a languid pose, one bare leg crossed lazily over the other. To my modern eyes, the pose was no more shocking than a Greek statue, but for the time, it must’ve been outrageous.

Staring at him, I abruptly realised that it was his hair I had sniffed. His perfume I had imagined a whiff of. For some reason, the fact was embarrassing.

On the back of the scandalous photograph, I discovered the words:

To my dearest Rick. I found this and had to share the memory.

Wednesday 6th June 1866

This time, the handwriting felt feminine to me - painstaking, graceful, the result of years of strict schooling. I wondered how many lovers he’d had in his life, and which one he’d married to continue the Elster line.

Wait…1866? I squinted at the number. No, I’d definitely read it correctly.

I returned to the first portrait, dated 1843, and examined his face with a more critical eye. If I was generous and assumed he was in his early twenties at the time, he still looked remarkably youthful two decades later. Perhaps the hand holding the pen had made an error, or perhaps Richard was simply blessed with good genetics. Oh well, this mystery was above my pay-grade - correctly identifying the pictures would be the museum’s job.

I was approaching the bottom of the tin, and already wondering which museum to call first. These photographs belonged in a safe place, not a dusty antique shop, and I felt curiously protective of them. This man had been happy, beautiful, and by the looks of it, exciting; and the thought of him being forgotten hurt.

Suddenly, my eye was caught by a pop of colour. Something blue amid the grey and sepia. I reached for it, drew it from the pile, and my blood ran cold.

It was a Polaroid, and the face smiling back at me was Lord Elster’s. From what I could see, he was wearing a blue denim jacket over an unbuttoned tie-dye shirt, and his hair was gathered back in a loose mess. Seeing him in colour came as a shock to the system. Even in the faded, washed-out Polaroid, his curls were a rich and lustrous brown, his eyes a deep green. Even his pale skin seemed to be a dozen hues of pink.

My hands had begun to shake. It was the same person. Unmistakeably so. Indistinguishable, down to the slight asymmetry of his eyes. Even an identical twin wouldn’t be such a perfect match.

I knew it was him, but I also knew the idea was impossible. Although colour photography had ceased to be experimental in the 1930s, it hadn’t become the norm until the 1960s, and the Polaroid Corporation hadn’t dominated the world of instant cameras until the 1970s. If the man in front of me was the same man who’d sat patiently for a portrait in 1843, he would be almost two centuries old.

The sound of the shopkeeper’s bell jolted me from my reverie, a resonant chime informing me that a customer had entered. Sure enough, I heard the door swing shut with a decisive thud, and a male voice calling cheerfully:

“Hello?”

“One moment, please,” I answered, quickly returning everything to the tin and putting the lid back on. I heard his bouncy, blithe footsteps striding across the floor towards me, and realised I was covered in dust. I brushed myself off and emerged from behind the shelves, the floral tin in my hands. “How can I help - ” I began, but then I saw his face and the words died in my throat.

“Ah. I was looking for that. Thank you.”

His voice was youthful and sweet. He plucked the tin from my unresisting hands, paused, and peered closely at it. I realised I’d failed to rotate the lid back into the same position I’d found it, resulting in the flowery pattern being disrupted. My mouth opened and closed, but all speech had deserted me.

“You’ve been nosy, I see,” he said, “No matter.”

He smiled brightly, and slapped a stack of bank-notes down on the counter without counting them.

“There. Whatever awkward questions you have, this should be all the answer you need. If you feel it’s insufficient, please feel free to swing by Elster House whenever you’re in the area. I’ll give you a guided tour without the entrance fee, and I promise you’ll leave happy.”

He turned, and with a flick of his dark curls, was gone.

For @rmelster

[trashcatsnark]

WHY THE FUCK WERE UP SO LATE??? FUCKING UR SO LUCKY I CANT BEAT UR ASS OTHERWISE ITD BE KNUCKLE CITY

anyway, speaking about johnny boy i was thinking about him + nibbles and our like collective desicion that he is essiently a cat and it is really weirdly fitting that it just makes me like ???? so like cats themselves are a reoccuring motif within the game from the start, when u go to viks, when ur chatting up takemura and at the end with the rooftop that also doubles as like the millionith matrix reference. they follow v and they take up the role of the bakeneko, which i think in the game is defined by them appearing near death ? or just disaster. the obvious thing is that it is to do with v's inpending death and their whole sitation but like the general point is like the cat symbolises the death that follows v as the cat follows them. this puts johnny in an interesting sitation from his catlike nature to how he seems to like and get along with nibbles, he is linked with cats. he is also the parasite that is killing v. he is V's bakeneko. their signal of death. the events start because of his relic, jackie dies for him, and soon does most of the cast from act 1, and a large part of the death from then on is a direct result of them trying to solve the relic and johnny's whole presence is a signal for hey v ur fucking dying. he is death for them. the bakeneko.

makes me wonder if his catlike attributes were intentionally done cause that boy aint right or we just accidently walked on a really thematic fitting landmind

Spoilers within, again, also leave my sleeping schedule alone, I do not function. Additionally, I have a lot to say about Nibbles, omens, cats, and pets then how they all relate back to Johnny so congrats on opening a flood gate my friend!

 think the thematic thing with Johnny and cats and the bakeneko has to 1000000 percent be intentional, because he even sees a cat when Alt is kidnapped. And that goes back to Cyberpunk Red. Like that was used and utilized and then became such a large part of the story. 

Johnny is clearly meant to be a bakeneko; he’s actively next to the cat in that conversation, leaves when it does, see the same cat before Alt’s death, and is again the visual representation of what is happening to V. He is the symbol of their death, whether he wants to be or not. 

I think it’s also interesting to note, the Bakeneko, which is described as an omen of death and misfortune isn’t the only way we see cats used thematically within the game. Albeit, this way is more subtle and perhaps intentionally so. We also see the maneki-neko; the lucky cat statues are everywhere in game. In V’s apartment, Misty’s shop, Vik’s clinic. Everyyyyyywhereeeeee. 

So, we see two mythological cats from Japanese culture. One brings misfortune and one brings good luck. And Johnny exemplifies both. 

Johnny is a visual representation of all that is destroying V. His mere existence and presence a constant reminder that their death is around the corner. An ever present omen that V’s clock is ticking. He also often pops up to have a comment just before massive relic malfunctions and disasters. The end of every main game quest is punctuated with a relic malfunction and a lecture from Johnny. 

But without the chip and by extension Johnny, V would already be dead. If the chip hadn’t been the exact right place to be damaged and activated by the gunshot; it would have killed V right then and there. And while this wasn’t an active choice on Johnny’s part, he is the visual representation of the chip. Even then, he later does make an active choice to save V’s life. When V is hit with the worst malfunction yet; Johnny grabs them, “you aren’t dying yet, I got you” and he takes them to safety. He refuses to watch V seize and die in a puddle of their own sick in the middle of nowhere (for me it’s always at the sunset hotel, idk if this changes based on the order you do the events tho) So, he takes control, he eases their pain and takes them somewhere safe, somewhere that means something to him, and swears to die for them. 

Luck both good and bad. Fortune and misfortune. A sign of better days and an omen of death. A maneki-neko and a bakeneko. The time bomb in V’s head and the guy who saved their life. He is both. 

Now, stepping away from the mythological aspects. Lets talk about Nibbles the cat, Johnny, and pets within Cyberpunk 2077. Animals and by extension pets are considered a luxury in Night City. They’re taxed to fuck and back, generally only the wealthy can have them. Its also often brought up that real friends and family who stick by you are very difficult to come by. V becomes through Nibbles one of the rare people to have a pet. One of the other people who had a pet is, Barry their neighbor. 

Barry and his mission is one of the first you can unlock and see in the game. He’s V’s downstairs neighbor and his story is played out so fucking similarly to V’s. Barry lost his best friend, he’s quit his job because he can’t handle the weight of the NCPD’s corruption, and he’s thinking of taking his own life.  V has lost Jackie, its stated in game they get less work than usual because of Konpeki (cant be put on a crew), and very early on can say to Misty “be better off putting in my head”. 

But for Barry that friend ends up being a pet tortoise. And its clear what that tortoise represents; a constant companion, a safe place, and a comfort. Something Barry couldn’t find among his peers until later on when they learn just how much he’s been hurting. And this is treated as such a tragedy, that he only has a pet to turn to. 

And so V gets a cat, because they too are fucking hurting and having a little meowing bundle of skin running around their apartment helps. Something to come home to, something to make that apartment a little less empty, a little more alive. 

So, how does this particular aspect of Nibbles/cats/pets relate to Johnny, I hear you wondering (as well as wondering when Im going to shut up). Well, we know Johnny is linked symbolically with cats and thats the choice of pet for V. And we knows pets have been likened to support without judgement; a companion who you can tell everything too and they won’t abandon you. 

And while Johnny has heaps of judgment and is a dick. He is V’s only constant companion. I know a good junk of people don’t like him or his commentary; but imagine V’s life without Johnny in it through the game events. Imagine how lonely they’d be. 

Johnny is the only one who knows everything and is there with V from the start to the final moments in Mikoshi. 

Vik and Misty know, but they’re no edgerunners, they have no idea everything V is doing out there. Part of why as much as I do love Vik, his frustration with V hurts so much in the end because he talks like V hasn’t done anything to save themselves. Because, Vik doesn’t know what V’s been doing this whole time. 

Each part of the main quests in Act 2 are linked to an NPC; Judy, Panam, and Takemura. And not one of them know or are there throughout the entirety of V’s journey. Judy doesn’t get told the full details of what’s happening until later in and stops helping V one Evelyn is saved. Panam doesn’t learn the full details or anything really about the chip until much later. And her quests become her own personal journey once V finds Hellman. And then depending on V’s choices, Panam can come in to help at the end. Takemura knows V is dying and is there to help with the parade and then he’s gone; either dead or in hiding. He refers to anything that doesn’t involve him as V’s shady dealings and leaves it at that. He’s there to interrogate Hellman but he doesn’t know all V did to find him. None of them know everything, none of them have been there the whole time. And that’s not a condemnation of them, I do not expect them to drop everything to be glued to V’s side 24/7 but, I can’t fucking imagine how alone V feels. 

River has no involvement in any main quests and only finds out anything if V chooses to romance him. Kerry knows what Johnny told him and depending on the ending may even leave V. Again, wanna be clear, that isn’t a condemnation on his character. I understand why he does this and i understand his hurt and how it led him to that. 

But this is about how truly fucking alone V is in all of this. Not a single person there start to finish, not a single person knowing all that they have suffered, all that they have been through and are going through. 

Except Johnny. He tells V in the oil fields, closest to him by far, there 24/7, yet they don’t seem to hate him. And he’s that for V too; there the entire way, their demon never leaving.  Johnny knows everything happening; because he’s part of what’s happening. He’s been there through every struggle, every step, every slap in the face as V’s tried to save themselves. Has felt their pain as they lose themselves, has known the people who’ve had to die for them to get this far, as felt their heart break when all they found was betrayal by the Voodoo Boys, Ai Alt asking how V’s life is her problem, getting recommended a hospice by Hellman. 

And as dickish as he is, his comments help. V always has someone there, as much as he sucks. He always has something stupid or naggy to say to help keep some of that weight off their shoulders. Imagine if they didn’t even have that. If Johnny never talked to them, never showed his face. 

A constant companion, like a supportive pet cat except he can talk and did a lot of meth. 

And this is a sidenote that has nothing to do with cats specifically, but that through Samurai music this isn’t the first time Johnny could be compared to an omen. Its no secret that the music was largely created around the game and as such, many of his songs have direct parallels and messages related to the game. Never Fade Away while in universe written in regards to Alt’s death also has so much in common with his journey with V. This brings me to the song Black Dog.

“Black Dog inside my head, guiding me until the end.”

Black Dogs are figures in Irish Mythology  who much like bakeneko’s are talked about in game; are omens of death and misfortune. I just find it interesting I suppose, like Johnny is either a dirty alley cat or a big mangy dog, but either way he’s here cause someones about to die.

Okay this is well over a thousand words, Imma shut up now. This is probably a mess, but anyone here for coherency is in the wrong place. 

[rogueartgallery]

and can you be everything i need?

more good omens!!! a better guide to romance. i need you all to know how ridiculously dramatic crowley is in this au. girl is going through it. threw this together in between all the bigger pieces i’m working on rn, i drew this traditionally a while back (see under the cut).

SONG: no leverage / no pleasure the scary jokes

[thebestbookrecommendations]

The Princess Bride - William Goldman

As a boy, William Goldman claims, he loved to hear his father read the S. Morgenstern classic, The Princess Bride. But as a grown-up he discovered that the boring parts were left out of good old Dad's recitation, and only the "good parts" reached his ears. Now Goldman does Dad one better. He's reconstructed the "Good Parts Version" to delight wise kids and wide-eyed grownups everywhere. What's it about? Fencing. Fighting. True Love. Strong Hate. Harsh Revenge. A Few Giants. Lots of Bad Men. Lots of Good Men. Five or Six Beautiful Women. Beasties Monstrous and Gentle. Some Swell Escapes and Captures. Death, Lies, Truth, Miracles, and a Little Sex. In short, it's about everything.

Read if You Like:

Fantasy/Fairy Tales

Romance

Humor/Satire

Adventure

Witty Books

Recommended if You Enjoy:

Terry Pratchett/Neil Gaiman (Good Omens)

Douglas Adams (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy)

The Princess Bride (Movie, 1987)

4/5

[evilphrog]

Thanks @prettydjarinsoloinspires for tagging me!

Rules: Tag 9 people you want to know better.

Three ships: I don’t so much OTP ship as I project hard onto one specific character and then ship them with every single other character in the media (and sometimes outside of it).  The one exception to this would be Crowley and Aziraphale from Good Omens, because those two are so codependent I can’t really picture them with anyone else.  My top 3 current projections are Darcy Lewis (Marvel), Dirk Gently, and Ford Prefect (Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy).

Last song: Fred Astaire by Jukebox The Ghost. I love the energy and the easygoing romance of it.

Last movie: Kids made me watch Space Jam over the summer.  It was cute. 

Currently reading: Recently finished the Shadow and Bone Trilogy, want to read the last 2 books in the series, but am struggling to find the motivation to read the 2 in between. I really don’t care about any of the characters except Nikolai Lantsov, so I want to jump to the books about him.

Currently watching: Recently finished Loki.  I don’t watch TV or movies too often.  Not in an “I think not watching TV is a personality trait” way.  I just get motion sick easily.

Currently consuming: Vegetarian ravioli my husband made. He’s awesome.

Currently craving: A full night of sleep

Tagging @dont-offend-the-bees @yoshiyakiryu @the-timelord-a-tardis-stole @maniacalmole @sirnotappearinginthisblog @mimisempai @charlottemadison42 @kitundercover @devouringyourson

[aktiophis]

Timing by the Stars: Days, Hours, and The Moon

This will be the first in a little miniseries of posts on astrological timing, specifically as it concerns the making of Talismans, but the principle could equally be applied to a one off ritual. Originally, I was just going to write one post but it got quite unwieldy to talk about so many different concepts all at once, so instead I’m starting at the beginning. I’ll get into more complicated things whenever I feel like writing them frankly, and I’ll probably edit this post with links when I do. (This part alone is long enough Jesus Christ)

It can be useful to think of the election you choose for a Talisman to be its time of birth. Someone born with a very dignified Venus will most often have an easier time doing Venusian things, to be very, very broad with the astrology. But the gist is; planet is more better=person is more good at planet things. Naturally, then, a Venus Talisman made when Venus was very strong and well placed will also be very good at Venus things, and thus good at whatever it’s purpose is. This is the basis of talismanic magic using astrology.

First, though, I’m going to talk about the barebones of astrological Talisman timing, namely the days and hours. I’m including the moon also because it’s the other key consideration for astrological magic generally.

The Days and Hours

[Credit: Digital Ambler]

It isn’t a coincidence that the planets in Romance languages are named after the planets. Even in English (and I would assume other Germanic languages although I’ve never checked, but if they don’t I’d be very surprised), the Gods for each day line up with their Greco-Roman approximate counterparts. As such, each day has an affinity for its namesake planet. That’s why so many spells call for a Friday, and so many curses for a Tuesday or Saturday. At the very most basic level of astrological timing, with no knowledge of anything else, this is how you would time a spell or Talisman, probably at some auspicious time like dawn.

Something not as well known by non-occultists is the concept of planetary hours. Unlike civil hours, these aren’t regular in length and have nothing at all to do with what time it says on the clock for the most part. Planetary hours are divided into two sections. Here are some points to get you the gist before we continue:

The planetary day starts at Dawn, so even if it’s 2:00am on Tuesday, you are in a planetary hour of Monday

The first hour of the day always corresponds to the planet the day is named after, in our example, at Dawn on Tuesday the first hour is Mars

There are 12 day hours, and 12 night hours. The day hours begin at sunrise and end at sunset, while the night hours begin at sunset and end at the sunset of the next day.

Each day hour is exactly 1/12 of the time from sunrise to sunset, and the equivalent for night hours.

The hours cycle in the Chaldean order, which is ascending mean speed:Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus, Mercury, the Moon

 As you can see, there isn’t much the same between civic hours and the planetary hours. You can calculate these by hand, but if you’re like me and use them a lot there’s no need to bother because there are dozens of apps. For those curious, the Placidus house system can also be used to find the planetary hour, as each half of a house corresponds to a planetary hour. I deeply dislike using Placidus for natal astrology but for that reason I sometimes use it to find the planetary hours (not the houses, though).

These two things are the most basic considerations for Talisman making. For a Solar talisman, the hour of the sun on Sunday. Bam. Specifically, the first hour is often considered the best because it coincides with dawn/sunrise, i.e. the daily birth of the sun and illumination of the world with spiritual light etc. but any of the correct planetary hours will do the trick.

One thing to note is when I start getting into more complicated electional stuff, you might find a great election that isn’t in the right day or hour. By no means disqualify it because the day doesn’t fit. If Mercury is at the most powerful it will be for the next few months after but it’s a Friday and the hour of Mercury doesn’t fall within this very specific timeframe (Like say it’s Cazimi in Gemini, in its bounds conjunct the midheaven, or something, Idk), do it anyway honestly. You’ll never get everything to be just as you want it, and frankly days and hours come every day/week, and some things only happen once every 20 years.

The Moon

[credit: Honestly no idea]

That’s right, it’s not just for Wiccans! The state of the moon has been a big consideration for ceremonial magic, folk magic, you name it, for a long ass time. Even in astrological Talismans not concerning the moon, as the planet associated not only with magic but also with collecting and reflecting the ‘astral light’ onto the Earth, the condition of the moon is an important consideration.

Anyone who has read a 101 book on magic will have seen that “waxing to increase something, waning to decrease” thing, and that’s the gist honestly. For Talismans though, you want a waxing or full moon. The talisman might be protection against evil, but f you did it when the moon was a waning crescent it wouldn’t be the evil decreasing so much as the protective Talisman. I’m not going to discourage people from doing stuff in a waning moon, I do all the time, just be aware it’s not necessarily the best, especially in the case of Talismans and astrological magic. To be quite frank I feel like this can sometimes be overlooked as a factor, but if it’s an important thing it can wait until the moon is growing

Now, with just that and the days/hours you’re honestly pretty much set, but I’m writing this to eventually get onto more complicated things so there are some more bases I’d like covered.

The Lunar mansions are the obvious thing to talk about next. The Zodiac Wheel of 12 signs is intrinsically a solar schema for astrology. The beginning of the Zodiac at 0 Aries is at the moment of the Spring Equinox, when the days are equal to the nights. All of the cardinal signs, in fact, are so called because the next season of the year begins as the Sun enters them. There is, however, a similar system for the moon, of 28 mansions, each of just under 13 degrees, starting also with Aries. The Picatrix is what I’d direct you to if you want to read more about them specifically, especially since I haven’t used them in very much in practice.

The mansions were widely used in Arabic astrology, apparently quite often in electional astrology generally, not restricted to magic (as a side note, by all means study in the hour of mercury and treat-yo-self in the hour of Venus, even without magic. Tune into the rhythm). One mansion might be good for travel but could also cause strife between friends, while another might bring ill health but be good for buying livestock, that type of deal. It’s always worth checking if the time you have in mind for a Talisman happens with the moon in a favourable mansion for that purpose.

I will touch on this passingly because it really belongs in my next post, but if the moon is in a hard aspect with Saturn or Mars that can also be a bad omen for an election, although if the moon has good aspects or is particularly strong otherwise I would personally still do the thing because otherwise I would probably only do astrological magic once a year waiting for the perfect time.

Void of Course

This is something that frankly puzzles me to no end because half the resources I could find when I first looked into it clearly were using the phrase without having a clue what they meant, and the other half gave me a number of different definitions. I personally use the definition as given by the medieval astrology guide, whose site I’ll link at the end, because it makes the most sense to me.

All definitions of a Void Moon stem from the same basic idea, which is that the Moon will not perfect an aspect to another planet any time soon, sort of as if the moon is running in the dark on its own. The most common modern definition says the moon is void if it doesn’t perfect an aspect before leaving the sign it’s in, which basically means it happens every couple of days like Clockwork. I use a different definition (when I even remember to consider it) that is, the moon is not within orb of perfecting an aspect, without consideration as to the sign. So, by my definition, if the moon was leaving a sextile aspect with Saturn at say, 29 Aries, and was applying to a trine with Venus, even if it didn’t make a perfect trine before entering Taurus, the moon wouldn’t be void of course, because it was still in an applying aspect at the time. More broadly, I only consider a moon Void when it isn’t applying to an aspect (look into moiety for more on what I mean as far for more details on application). I encourage you to come to your own conclusions about this though, so don’t take my word for it.

[credit: Skyscript.co.uk]

A Void moon is generally bad for magic because to be literal the moon isn’t really doing anything much, at least as far as aspects go. That being said it isn’t something I look at unless I’m planning an important thing and I wouldn’t stress about it unless you were doing an important thing too. To be frank I often forget to even check what the moon is doing even for some slightly more important stuff.

And that is about it or what I wanted to cover, I think. The next post will probably be about Essential and Accidental Dignity, which was really what I wanted to write about in the first place, but here we are.

TL:DR

Time for the day of the planet

Time for the hour of the planet

Time for a waxing Moon

Avoid the Void moon

Some Useful Links/Sources (Some I didn’t even reference but they’re still good so I’m including them)

The Picatrix

www.sykscript.co.uk

www.Medievalastrologyguide.com

Secreti Geomantici (Great little geomancy book, also has useful things on timing. Thanks @nightjasmine for reminding me about it)

Hellenistic Astrology: The Study of Fate and Fortune, Chris Brennan (not about magic but this is just a great book on astrology overall, especially Hellenistic)

www.Rennaissanceastrology.com (I have issues with some of Warnock’s work, but his information is accurate and his site is great for these purposes)

 (Looking back I suppose I could’ve just made a post of resources but I’m in too deep now).

[collaborationandresearchproposal]

Thursday 29th April, Research Report: Lycanthropy and the hays code

Notable points * lycanthropy seems  to be synonymous with homosexuality- parallels between Teen Wolf and Buffy The Vampire Slayer's respective coming out scenes. * The Queer-ness of the character Remus Lupin from the Harry Potter books and film series. Many fans head cannon and write slash fics about Remus and Sirius' romance and relationship, reading the characters as queer. The ship, named 'Wolf Star' is quite popular and well known within the fandom. Many fans feel there is enough evidence to build this relationship on; Remus and Sirius' ghosts stood next to each other in the resurrection stone, mirroring Harry's parents,  a canonically married couple. They also bought Harry a joint present for his birthday and know the intricacies of each others personalities. Dumbledore also infamously told Sirius to 'lie low at Lupins.' But the problem here, as the article points out, is that Rowling doesn't acknowledge Lupin as queer, despite the homoerotic cues in the writings,  and instead gives him a female love interest and admits that Lupins Lycantrhopy is a metaphor for AIDS/HIV. She has further dismissed any alternative readings of the character, disappointing fans' hopes of there being a shred of representation in a queer monster who is actually queer. This sort of behaviour from authors and creators is what turns Queer-coding into the more harmful and frustrating Queer-baiting. A large majority of queer representation comes from connotations and interpretations. the clues are there and queer audiences do pick them up. However this grey area allows allows straight culture to use queerness for pleasure and profit in mass culture without admitting to it. Modern examples of this are CW's Supernatural and BBC's Sherlock. I can't personally speak for Supernatural but having watched Sherlock with the advantage of a queer eye, I can say with confidence that it is a prime example of queer-baiting. there is clear homoerotic subtext between Sherlock and John and even Sherlock and Moriarty. I Personally think it's entirely romantic as I head cannon Sherlock to be Asexual or at least on that spectrum but the point is, it is not just wishful thinking or pushing of a narrative. It's manipulation. Queer-baiting takes advantage of an already vulnerable group of people by preying on their desire for representation in the media.

In modern media werewolf's are often portrayed as having chiselled bodies and looming over each other. The 1985 Teen Wolf received a television reboot and it's fair to say it got reasonably more progressive.  It seemed interested in queering the werewolf narrative and in a sly moment of gender-bending the traditional Little Red Riding Hood narrative, protagonist Scott receives the Bite from a male werewolf while wearing a Little Red Hoodie (‘Wolf Moon’). Additionally, the show features LGBTQ characters while Scott’s human best friend Stiles visits a gay bar and makes friends with a group of drag queens in startling contrast to the gay panic of the 1985 film’s version of Stiles. By midway through the show’s second season, the slash pairing that had proved dominant in the fandom was Stiles and wannabe-Alpha Derek Hale. The two characters, who operate in the narrative as belligerent and begrudging allies, rapidly became a slash phenomenon, due, in part, to the chemistry and comic timing between actors Tyler Hoechlin and Dylan O’Brien. The narrative is further subverted when Derek is raped by an adult  human woman.

The pair 'Sterek' gained so much traction that it caught the attention of MTV and the cast and crew behind the show. So much so that they released a video of Hoechlin and O'Brien cuddling on a boat, asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf for this  years Choice Summer TV Show at the Teen Choice Awards. This  was big as it acknowledged fans and slash flics and the pairing itself as a possibility and many queer voices who watched the show felt heard and validated. However this didn't last long. MTV released a video on the official Teen Wolf Facebook, this time featuring O’Brien asking fans to vote for Teen Wolf in a TV Guide Poll. O’Brien joked that if fans did not vote, then the show would kill off its sole remaining gay character and one of the few remaining non-white characters on the show, Danny. The Teen Wolf Facebook released the video with the following caption: ‘Keep #TeenWolf in first place! Heed Dylan and Linden’s advice or we might have to. #KillDanny’ (Teen Wolf). The show’s social media team then attempted to make the #KillDanny tag go viral on Facebook and twitter, but fans, understandably, were not amused, primarily using the tag for outraged tweets to MTV (Baker-Whitelaw).Such blatant disregard for fans’ concerns about queer representation on the show alienated a large number of fans, especially when coupled with Jeff Davis’ more frequently dismissive and condescending comments about the Sterek pairing where he had been enthusiastic and even encouraging of the ship. As seasons wore on without any indication that Sterek would indeed become canon, it became clear that MTV and Jeff Davis had been queer-baiting Sterek fans as a marketing technique and that the unique interplay that fans had enjoyed with Davis, which offered a new kind of truly interactive fandom had, in fact, been something of an illusion. ' serial killer Hannibal Lecter and his love interest Will Graham in Hannibal, and reanimated gay corpses Kieren, Simon, and Rick in In the Flesh. Notably, both series have received an overwhelmingly positive response from fans and critics who have applauded the series for taking their queer monsters beyond mere coding and into explicit text. The warm reception of Hannibal and In the Flesh’s handling of queer representation by fans, and the continuing frustration with Teen Wolf’s queer-baiting and the appropriative nature of Remus Lupin’s narrative in Harry Potter, belie a desire not only for better queer representation, but also for more complex re-articulations of queer monstrosity' the symbolic and narrative trappings of monsters are often used as metaphors for queerness without actually acknowledging the positive behind that queer identity or even confirming the queer identity at all. Another positive example is the miniseries Good Omens. Based on the book of the same name, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Pretty much the whole fandom believe That the two leads, Crowley and Aziraphale are in a romantic relationship. They've known each other for centuries and perhaps what was the main fuel to this ships fire was the episode 3 cold open. Even fans who have only read the book seem to support these two as a couple and what's perhaps even more amazing is Gaiman’s response on twitter. "I wrote it as a love story. They acted it as a love story. You saw it as a love story. How much more proof do you need?" and "I wouldn't exclude the ideas that they are ace, or aromantic, or trans. They are an angel and a demon, not as make humans, per the book. Occult/Ethereal beings don't have sexes, something we tried to reflect in the casting. Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it's a love story." It's beautiful because not only does it confirm that they are in love but it also leaves room for interpretations of what kind of relationship they have together.

https://dialogues.rutgers.edu/images/Journals_PDF/2017-18-dialogues-web_e6db3.pdf#page=164

In the year 1922, when cinema was gaining traction and popularity, The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association (MPPDA) hired a devout Presbyterian, Will H. Hays as its head. Eight years later, in 1930, the MPPDA ratified the Motion Picture Production Code. Also known as the Hays Code, these guidelines were set up as “a list of rules that studios could follow to avoid the censors’ wrath” one specific line read “sexual perversion or any inference to it is forbidden” This era in censorship set the stage for a culture in which the stereotypical behaviour of homosexuals, or any behaviour deviating from the traditional gender roles, is seen as dangerous, evil, and even fatal. By representing coded homosexual characters as depressed, perverse, and succumbing to punishing ends, it shifted social subconscious beliefs of LGBT individuals in real life to those represented on screen. Media often teaches us how to feel about others and ourselves – e.g., it promotes specific body types and clothing styles. In the same way, by promoting gendered behaviour and banning homosexuality, it spread a message that homosexuality was not fit to be viewed openly. Although themes of homosexuality were banned they were definitely alluded to and that continues today.

[big-edies-sun-hat]

It was somewhere north of Tunica on Highway 61, above the crossroads but below the Calvary Baptist Church, back when there were no casinos, back when there was nothing but Moon Lake and the level Delta soy and rice and the three roadside crosses, that I laughed harder than I had ever laughed in my life, because of this:

        4. And bye the border of Naphtali, from the east side untoe the west side, a portion for Manaffeh.         5.  Buggre Alle this for a Larke. I amme sick to mye Hart of typefettinge. Master Biltonn if no Gentelmann, and Master Scagges noe more than a tighte fisted Southwarke Knob-befticke. I telle you, onne a daye laike thif Ennywone with half an oz. of Sense shoulde bee oute in the Sunneshain, ane nott Stucke here alle the liuelong daie inn thif mowldey olde By-Our-Lady Workefhoppe. @ *“Æ@;!*         6.  And bye the border of Ephraim, from the east fide even untoe the west fide, a portion for Reuben.

When I was twelve, I could still read in the car. I was riding back from Memphis with my mother, and we had been to a bookstore there. I had picked up the newly released Good Omens because the cover compared it to Hitchhiker’s Guide. With the Buggre All This Bible, it had already delivered, but it would bring me more than that. It was a book of revelations.

In a Mississippi Christian school, you did not joke about Heaven and Hell, except with sugary, malicious pastor’s jokes about who got to go where. I had already come to understand that I was going to hell for a lot of reasons, all of which I would learn many years later were part of the Weird Little Girl Expansion Kit. I was obsessed with Egypt and with curses--today, this is widely known as a sign of a healthy intellect, but back then, only my parents and their friends approved of me. I was outwardly defiant and inwardly afraid that, as another roadside sign had told me, HELL IS HOT--HOT--HOT.

Good Omens introduced me to the idea that Hell was simply a side. It was a nasty side, to be sure, but so too was Heaven. The book suggested, naturally and easily, that humanity was not a playing field, but a player itself: wickeder than hell, braver than heaven, better than anything going. In short, it gave me my first lesson in humanism. It is not always a fine thing to be strongly influenced by British fantasy when you are an American kid from the hinterlands; it can help make you twee and insufferable and convinced of your own superiority. And I was certainly that. But at that age, would I not have been anyway?

Like Adam Young, I was crazy about old copies of the Fortean Times and dug through my father’s collection for signs and wonders. (They took some time to filter down to Mississippi through the postal mail, but they did.) I took naturally to Adam’s wonderment and delight at the world, and to the idea that he did not have to be bad, that he could be as gentle and good as his father--his real father--with his soul like a “leather armchair.” It encouraged me, too, to see that Adam, being a boy, could choose to be good, when it seemed that,here in junior high, every boy I knew--had known for years!--could suddenly choose to be nasty at the least opportunity.

I did not then know what shipping was, which is probably for the best. At twelve, I would have hated it, not because of homophobia--I had just become enamored with Freddie Mercury--but because romance was a dark place to me then. I did not yet understand that there could be romance without making someone suffer, and I would never have believed that either Aziraphale or Crowley could ever have been cruel enough to each other for that. They were bumbling and thoughtless, but they were decent, and when it was important, they had chosen to be kind. Here on the shores of middle age, I have, among other questionable decisions, read a lot of fics; and the best of them--which are very good indeed--center on kindness.

Whether or not you care about shipping,* this is a book, and a show, about choosing to be more than kind--to be human--on a cosmic scale. The rest of Pratchett’s works taught me a great deal about this; Good Omens was just the first one that made the lesson clear. I will always be grateful for that.

-----

* I do now, of course, I mean, this is Tumblr, what are we even doing here

[msclaritea]

~Mr Azira Phale, Angel~

It struck me during the church scene that perhaps the Germans were calling him Mr. Fell because they thought Phale was his last name. So, I took a closer look at the two halves that made the whole.  

~Azira

...Arabic in origin, it means A Rising Star. Interestingly, Pre-Islamic Arabia practiced Vedic religion, and in Vedic Astrology, Azira is a common name for babies born within Krittika Nakshatra, the older name of the Pleides Constellation.

Krittika..."literally means a "sharp flame" or "sword of fire." Alternatively, the word "Krittika" may be derived from the Sanskrit root krit, which means "to twist threads" or "to wind as a snake." This clearly is related to the symbology of the Caduceus and the May Pole. The root 'krit' also means "to separate, cut asunder, or divide." This secondary meaning refers to the division of souls into two groups that occurs on the Day of Illumination. The subtle energy associated with the Pleiades constellation is considered a Sword of Fire because it cuts asunder or separates knowledge from ignorance. It separates light from darkness."     

~Phale

The name is actually of what is known as Pictish-Scottish origin. "The Picts were a confederation of Celtic language speaking peoples who lived in what is today eastern and northern Scotland during the Late British Iron Age and Early Medieval periods. Where they lived and what their culture was like can be inferred from early medieval texts and Pictish stones. Their Latin name, Picti, appears in written records from Late Antiquity to the 10th century."

"This interesting surname is of Scottish and Irish origin, and it is an Anglicized form of the Scottish Gaelic "MacPhail", and the Irish Gaelic "MacPhoil", both patronymics from the Gaelic forms of the given name Paul, derived from the Latin "Paulus, meaning "small", and is has always been popular in Christendom."

Now of special note is Paul, the Saint, originally Saul of Tarsus, considered by many to be the actual founder of early Christianity, who very much believed in Angels, spoke of them appearing to him, and who at first, was bent on persecuting Jesus, only to become an Apostle after he appeared to him in the famous story of his travels on the road To Damascus. I came across an eye-opening article, theorizing that not only were Paul's writings edited and twisted, making him a patriarchal misogynist, but that he in fact believed in equality, was hugely inspired by Plato, and may very well have been Gay.

From: The (Possibly) Gay, Elite Apostle Who Believed in Radical Equality for All by Jay Parini

"I tend to agree with Bishop John Shelby Spong, a brilliant theologian and church leader, who argues that Paul was “a rigidly controlled gay male,” as he writes in Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism (1991). Be this as it may, Paul was clearly at war with his own body, tormented by the idea if not the reality of sexual desire, and eager to withdraw into the company of his male companions:  Luke, Timothy, Silas, and others. His conflicted feelings about his own sexual nature may account for the “thorn in his flesh” that he wrote about in his second letter to the church at Corinth. (2 Corinthians 12:7-9)"

Galatians 3:28: “In Christ there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free man, neither male nor female. In Christ, all of these are one.” ~Saint Paul~

 Saint Paul was later decapitated by Nero! Oh, and one last thing...

              Azira is actually a girl's name.

BUT WAIT...THERE'S MORE.

For those who have looked closer, you may have discovered that Petronius worked for Nero.

Petronius was chief advisor to Nero and helped with the planning of all debauchery, orgies, feasts and crimes. He was known as Arbiter of Taste.

And Petronius wrote the infamous Satyricon.

Influence Of The Satyricon Upon The Literature Of The World.

"...It is to the author's recognition of the importance of environment, of the vital role of inanimate surroundings as a means for bringing out character and imbuing his episodes and the actions of his characters with an air of reality and with those impulses and actions which are common to human experience, that his influence is due...This class of literature, though modified essentially from age to age, in keeping with the dictates of moral purity or bigotry, innocent or otherwise, has come to be the very stuff of which literary success in fiction is made. One may write a successful book without a thread of romance; one cannot write a successful romance without some knowledge of realism; the more intimate the knowledge the better the book.."

"Petronius writes cynically and satirically about Roman decadence, about a society that’s corrupt and materialistic. Paul, to a certain extent, is writing about the same thing. He is certainly not humorous most of the time; he’s expressing his straightforward outrage about what he is seeing around him."

Petronius, set up for a treason charge by a rival, was threatened with death but chose to take his own life in quite a dramatic fashion, which is described in the notes to Satyricon. He died a year before Paul.

*Satyricon is compared often in style to Au Rebours by Joris-Karl Huysmans, and one translation published in Paris,1902 has been attributed to Sebastian Melmoth aka Oscar Wilde.

Now, was St. Paul an influence in any way on Shakespeare? The Bard of course wrote about Religion and Politics in his plays but due to his enormous influence, St. Paul managed to touch Shakespeare's place in a much different way. This has led to the discovery of a place I had never heard of from this time period...and a new head canon.

During Shakespeare’s lifetime, the area around old St Paul’s Cathedral was a hive of activity and industry...the main gathering place for acquiring (and spreading) news and gossip, purchasing the latest fashions and commodities, and, of course, for being seen. Under its Nave, as known as Paul's Walk, while the people who went there and into the churchyard were known as Paul's Walkers.

Complaint of Thomas Dekker in 1608:

‘What swearing is there; yea, what swaggering, what facing and out-facing? What shuffling, what shouldering, what jostling, what jeering, what biting of thumbs to beget quarrels, what holding up of fingers to remember drunken meetings, what braving with feathers, what bearding with mustachios, what casting open of cloaks to publish new clothes.’

Indeed, with its dozens of booksellers, Paul’s Churchyard was the centre of the London book trade, and was popular throughout the entire country.

"Booksellers on Paternoster Row became a source of competition in the latter half of the century, eventually winning the prominent position in London bookselling, but Paul’s maintained its supremacy well into the seventeenth century."  This link has a beautiful rendering that can be expanded to show the individual publishers." 

I imagine Aziraphale would have spent hours here, likely with Crowley beside him, eagerly pouring over the thousands of books available, excitedly meeting other writers, getting lost among a mixture of saints and sinners, just enjoying humanity. And I head canon that THIS is what gave Aziraphale his idea to open a bookshop.

What kept bringing me back to St. Paul?

It's imposing presence caught my eye during the WW2 sequence. Turns out, it was bombed during the last days of December 1940, but survived due to the hard work of British firefighters.

“There are a lot of secrets in the design—a lot of buried subliminal stuff,” he reveals, noting that he hopes an eagle-eyed fan will find all the Easter eggs in Good Omens." Michael Ralph, Production designer, who also says that he based Azira's bookshop on the design of a compass.

Purposeful or no, using St. Paul as a guide through Good Omens has been a fun history lesson.

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The Satyricon

https://www.uscatholic.org/church/scripture-and-theology/2012/04/putting-paul-his-place

The Influence of St. Paul on Shakespeare

An awesome podcast That Shakespeare Life on St. Paul's Bookshops

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