#i mean. it's not like he has a business in This post apocalypse england

[ioannemos]

and the trees stand

a wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think i too have known autumn too long. e. e. cummings

day one: the universal problem / au

rating: pg

words: 900

───────────────────────────

The wind cries around the corners of the house, rattles the windows, moans in the chimney in the room next to hers, and Lucy stares up at the ceiling. As if falling asleep on threadbare carpet in an abandoned house along a back-country road wasn’t going to be hard enough on its own, the wind had to pick up, and so despite the salt lines she laid down her ears are straining to hear something else.

She scrunches down in her sleeping bag, trying to cover her ears. Her usual method of fortifying the single room she’s in has certainly stretched out her salt supply, but it means her imagination likes to run wild. Currently it’s picturing ghosts drifting into the other rooms and building up against the invisible line, their forms melting into each other as they press against it, trying desperately to find the smallest break they can force themselves through…

Downstairs, the front door bangs open. She sits up and puts her hand on her iron bar, heart beating in her throat. Adrenaline floods her bloodstream as a real voice echoes through the huge front hall, not quite loud enough for her to pick out actual words. She picked this house partially because it was so big: they’re harder to defend. What person on their own would chance it? At least two, she thinks bitterly. Maybe they’ll stay downstairs? Or maybe it’s one crazy person talking to himself.

The door slams shut. The voice continues speaking, a rapid cadence… a frantic one, she thinks after a moment. And a young one. And then she hears, far too clearly: “No, stay awake!” Her heart constricts as her stomach goes sour.

She stays where she is for another moment of frozen indecision, and then she groans and stands. Whatever is happening, she can’t stay here and half-listen. She opens the door, breaking her salt line, and brandishes the bar. No ghosts have built up in the room beyond. The frantic voice ceases abruptly, and then calls out a blustering, “Hello?”

“Flesh and blood,” she calls back, heading down the short hallway to the walkway open to the front hall. No ghosts accost her and she makes it quickly to the walkway. She doesn’t dare put weight on the banister as she looks down.

A tall thin boy in a long black coat is standing a few stairs up raising a faint lantern, illuminating his face better than hers or the house around them. His hollow face is smudged all over with what she can’t tell, making his age hard to pinpoint, but beneath his sunken eyes it’s even more smeary. He’s breathing heavily and holding his own iron bar; it’s raised aggressively, despite his whole arm trembling with the effort. All she can make out of the person on the stairway behind him is curly dark hair on one end and muddy jeans and trainers on the other. A voice too low and uneven for her to guess gender says, “La’wood?”

“It’s all right, George,” says the boy without looking away from her. “I’ll sort it.”

“Is he all right?” Lucy asks.

“He’s-” The boy cuts himself off and swallows hard. “No. He’s-” He blinks rapidly and swallows again, shifting on his feet as if that will hide how he’s swaying in place. “He’ll be fine,” he says, trying to be firm and assured but betrayed by his choked voice and darting dark eyes. “He just-”

“For God’s sake,” Lucy interrupts, starting around the walkway for the stairs. She slides her iron bar into her belt and keeps it there with a loop of twine. “Come on, let’s get him up here. I’ve got a salt line all around a room.”

“He’ll be fine,” the boy repeats. “He wasn’t ghost touched, we had to run and he fell down a ditch and hit his head, but- he’ll be all right.”

Now that Lucy’s come down the stairs she can see the boy a little better. He’s taller than her by more than she thought, and so thin and shaky it looks as though the wind still banging the shutters could blow him over. The ends of his black coat are stiff with mud and his trousers are more mud than fabric; God only knows what color his trainers are under all the drying brown. George’s hair is matted with mud on one side and he has glasses that are currently resting cockeyed on his nose. He mutters something she can’t make out.

“I’m… not,” the boy protests feebly, only now lowering his iron bar. “I’m…” He swallows again and rubs the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s… been a night.” He tries to smile. She forgets for a moment how filthy he is because it’s such a lovely smile. He sets aside his iron bar and offers her his right hand after wiping it on his coat. “I’m Anthony Lockwood.”

“Lucy Carlyle.”

He gestures to the boy behind him, then crouches and takes his left arm. “This is George Karim.” George mumbles something that might be ‘pleased to meet you’ and half-waves a hand in her direction.

“Hello George.” She steps carefully to George’s other side to take his right arm and smiles back at Anthony. “Let’s get him upstairs, shall we?”

He smiles a little wider, making her heart flutter. “Yes, please.”

───────────────────────────

shoutout to my new job for not sapping all my energy, @dangerously-human for getting me into lockwood & co, and @lco-angst-week for setting this thing up 🤍

thoughts on this au that didn't make it into the fic: ghosts multiplied faster than in canon, children and young people are still the only ones who can sense them, and thus society has largely broken down. it's not quite a lord of the flies situation where the kids are on their own, but... it's not not that either. i imagined little pockets of people struggling along in the country and cities being mostly abandoned bc of all the ghosts, small older towns only being better off in terms of smaller graveyards to fence off. where is lucy going? why are lockwood and george out in the middle of nowhere? there i can't help you. they're just. going. and meet up, and team up, and their lives are all changed for the better no more questions please 🧡

[sitp-recs]

kinda been wanting to reread hp after years but ive been busy as hell, i would love it if you could recommend me some very magical / wonderous drarry fics. it can be any tags or even retellings.

Hi anon, that’s a great ask! I haven’t read a lot of retellings but here are some fics that brought me that special feeling of “wow this feels so much like reading a book”. I went for fics that prioritize world building and interesting magical theory so I hope they work for you!

Hogwarts fics:

Dwelling by aideomai (2017, T, 83k)

Curses, James and Lily Potter ride again, several Ministry balls, a teenage Summer of Love, a grim young adult dystopian winter, a few different Draco Malfoys, secrets and the problems re: not having any, alternate lives, impossible lives, real lives, allusions to Dirty Dancing, and just because it's not called the Mirror of Erised doesn't mean you shouldn't know better.

Azoth by zeitgeistic (2013, E, 88k)

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run by waspabi (2016, T, 93k)

'You're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.

At Your Service by Faith Wood (2012, E, 95k)

Hogwarts students are in danger; Harry is determined to save them all. There's only one thing he knows for certain: Draco Malfoy is somehow involved.

The Secret Keeper by fools_errand (2021, M, 225k)

On Halloween 1981, Albus Dumbledore made a decision that would change the course of history, concealing Harry Potter’s survival at the hands of Lord Voldemort underneath a Fidelius Charm. But when Harry comes of age in the Muggle world, Dumbledore realises too late that the fate of the world may depend on a boy who has never held a wand.

Post-Hogwarts fics:

Turn From Stone by harryromper (2019, M, 45k)

Something happened in the hours after the final battle, after the evacuation of the living and the dead. As the last of the survivors left the castle, and as the castle itself turned its wounded back on them all. The loss of Hogwarts has been felt by their entire community. And it’s something that needs to be put right.

Heal Thyself by astolat (2022, T, 46k)

"Are you going for the course?" Lovegood asked. "You have the NEWTs.”

Stately Homes of Wiltshire by waspabi (2016, E, 57k)

Malfoy Manor has mould, dry rot and an infestation of unusually historical poltergeists. Harry Potter is on the case.

The Compact by astolat (2021, E, 64k)

Hermione frowned. “The real question is why the magic of Britain would be failing now, in fact.”

Transfigurations by Resonant (2003, E, 71k)

Five years after Voldemort's defeat, Harry returns to England to help re-open Hogwarts.

Timecode by Rasborealis (2019, M, 73k)

Harry Potter has been dead for two years, and Draco would laugh in the face of anyone claiming differently. Well, anyone but Hermione Granger.

Never Grow a Wishbone by ShanaStoryteller (2016, T, 123k)

Draco returns to Hogwarts. He has a duty to his blood and his name and his house, and he will fulfill it.

In The Dark by bixgirl1 (2020, E, WIP)

In the aftermath of an apocalypse, Harry receives an order to find and bring Draco Malfoy nearly a thousand miles, to the tenuous safety of Hogwarts. But more than distance separates them from their goal. The world has fallen, and death is hungry.

[verifiedaccount]

More movies (and a tv series) on youtube to keep you busy

List 1 / List 2

Here’s a third update of movies that you can watch in full on youtube since you’re stuck inside

Documentaries about movies:

Visions of Light: The Art of Cinematography (1992): Featuring interviews with more than two dozen major cinematographers and a ton of clips, this is a useful and enjoyable primer for anyone interested in learning what a DoP does

Vittorio Storaro: Writing With Light (1992): This is a shorter (40 minute) television doc focusing on one specific cinematographer, Vittorio Storaro, famed for his collaborations with Bertolucci and for shooting Hollywood movies like Apocalypse Now and Reds

The Epic That Never Was (1965): In 1937, Josef Von Sternberg started shooting an adaptation of I, Claudius starring Charles Laughton as Claudius. Dirk Boagarde hosts this lively documentary examining why the film was never completed, featuring the surviving footage from the 1937 shoot. 

Hollywood: A Celebration of the American Silent Film (1980): Kevin Brownlow and David Gill’s 13-episode miniseries about the silent film era is considered the gold standard for documentaries about film history, but the impossibility of negotiating the rights to all the clips used at a reasonable price has kept it off of dvd or blu-ray. Luckily, that didn’t stop someone from putting it on youtube, although episode 12 has in fact been blocked due to a copyright claim.

Buster Keaton: A Hard Act To Follow (1987) Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3: Another Kevin Brownlow and David Gill miniseries, this one, as you’ve probably guessed, covers the life and films of Buster Keaton over three episodes.

More movies:

Powell/Pressburger: Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, aka the Archers, were one of the greatest writer/director teams in film history (and a favorite of Scorsese, who seemingly made it his life’s mission to ensure that their films were restored and available), and three of their incredibly charming, magical movies are on youtube. Of the available ones, I Know Where I’m Going! is probably the best to start with.

I Know Where I’m Going! (1945): Dave Kehr on the film:  “Michael Powell's 1945 film resists easy classification: it opens as a screwball comedy, grows into a mystical, Flaherty-like study of man against the elements, and concludes as a warm romance. Wendy Hiller, in one of the best roles the movies gave her, is a toughened, materialistic young woman on her way to meet her millionaire fiance in the Hebrides; Roger Livesey is the young man she meets when a storm blows up and prevents her crossing to the islands. Funny and stirring, in quite unpredictable ways, with the usual Powellian flair for drawing the universal out of the screamingly eccentric.”

A Canterbury Tale (1944):  The Criterion jacket copy: “Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s beloved classic A Canterbury Tale is a profoundly personal journey to Powell’s bucolic birthplace of Kent, England. Set amid the tumult of the Second World War, yet with a rhythm as delicate as a lullaby, the film follows three modern-day incarnations of Chaucer’s pilgrims—a melancholy “landgirl,” a plainspoken American GI, and a resourceful British sergeant—who are waylaid in the English countryside en route to the mythical town and forced to solve a bizarre village crime. Building to a majestic climax that ranks as one of the filmmaking duo’s finest achievements, the dazzling A Canterbury Tale has acquired a following of devotees passionate enough to qualify as pilgrims themselves.”

Gone To Earth (1950): Made under unhappy circumstances (David O. Selznick producing), this is a gorgeous technicolor romance starring Jennifer Jones as a nature loving young woman forced into a choice between two “civilized” men, with tragic results.

Straub/Huillet: If you’re looking for something easy and relaxing to watch during the quarantine, I’d recommend literally anything else other than the films of Jean-Marie Straub and Danièle Huillet. J. Hoberman on the couple: “Straub-Huillet, as they preferred to be called, are cinema’s conscience — an antidote to all the junk movies you’ve ever seen. Drawing on Kafka, Cézanne, Brecht, Schoenberg and Malraux, to name only some of their best-known sources, Straub-Huillet films are meant to raise ethical questions on subjects as varied as proper camera placement and the appropriate political approach to the subject.“We make our films so that audiences can walk out of them,” Mr. Straub once said, perhaps not altogether in jest.” Of the available ones, Class Relations, their adaptation of Kafka’s unfinished novel Amerika, seems to be agreed upon as the easiest place to start as it’s the closest to a straightforward narrative, although History Lessons has also been recommended as a relatively easy starting place by some people. Not Reconciled, which compresses an epic Heinrich Boll novel following three generations throughout multiple timelines into 52-minutes, is not recommended to start with. MUBI did a retrospective of their works and had essays commissioned for each one to help viewers out so I’ll link those with each film. Hit Closed Captions for subtitles.

Not Reconciled (1965): Here’s a 10-minute video essay by critic Richard Brody that will help you have a slightly easier time with Not Reconciled if you decide to give it a try. Here’s the MUBI essay

Othon (1970): In the 17th century Pierre Corneille wrote Othon, set in ancient Rome. Straub-Huillet’s adaptation is shot in the actual ruins of Roman palaces with modern buildings and cars visible in the background. The MUBI essay

History Lessons (1972): An adaptation of Bertolt Brecht’s The Business Affairs of Julius Caesar. From the MUBI essay: “In the film, an unnamed young man tours Rome and conducts interviews with toga-clad members of ancient Roman society on the subject of “C,” meaning of course Julius Caesar. It plays like Citizen Kane shorn of any of the flashbacks that bulk out that film: here, it is all exposition, reminisces, impressions. Interspersed through these sedentary discussions are a series of randomly protracted car rides through the city, all recorded in unbroken takes from the backseat of the young man’s Fiat 500.From this brief description alone, I’m sure you can see why structuralist-minded academics in the seventies had a field day.“

Fortini/Canti (1976): From the MUBI essay: “In Fortini/Canti, the Italian Communist writer Franco Fortini reads aloud from his Dogs of the Sinai (only recently translated into English for the first time), a memoir of his life as an Italian Jew and an extended reflection on the aftermath of the Third Arab–Israeli War of 1967 and its representation in the Italian media and by the political class. [...]  Like all of Straub-Huillet’s movies, this astonishingly combative film follows an internal rhythm born out of the particulars of landscape, of speech, and of the physiognomies of its actors. It begins with an extended recording of a television newscast about Israel/Palestine (thus distancing the audience from the warped words and images on screen), a quotation from Fortini that connects like a punch in the jaw (“People don’t like having to change their minds. When they have to, they do so in secret. The certainty of having been tricked turns into cynicism. Gain for the cause of conservatism”), and then alternates between short jabs like these and more sustained verbal and visual attacks.”  

Too Early/Too Late (1982): Serge Daney on the film: “No actors, not even characters. If there is an actor in TOO EARLY, TOO LATE, it’s the landscape. This actor has a text to recite: History, of which it is the living witness. The actor performs with a certain amount of talent: the cloud that passes, a breaking loose of birds, a break in the clouds; this is what the landscape’s performance consists of. This kind of performing is meteorological. One hasn’t seen anything like it for quite some time. Since the silent period, to be precise.” The MUBI essay

Class Relations (1984): The aforementioned adaptation of Kafka’s Amerika, often recommended as a place to start with Straub/Huillet. The MUBI essay

Hitchcock: Back to fun stuff, three Hitchcock classics.

The 39 Steps (1935): Dave Kehr: “As an artist, Alfred Hitchcock surpassed this early achievement many times in his career, but for sheer entertainment value it still stands in the forefront of his work.“

Shadow of a Doubt (1943): Kehr again: “Alfred Hitchcock’s first indisputable masterpiece. . . . Hitchcock’s discovery of darkness within the heart of small-town America remains one of his most harrowing films, a peek behind the facade of security that reveals loneliness, despair, and death. Thornton Wilder collaborated on the script; it’s Our Town turned inside out.“

Spellbound (1945): No one would argue it’s Hitchcock’s best and the psychoanalysis is very dated but with Gregory Peck, Ingrid Bergman, and Dali-designed dream sequences there’s still enjoyment to be had.

Ozu: One of Japan’s most beloved and revered filmmakers, he’s primarily known for his post-WWII family dramas, but his career stretched back to the silent era (although most of his silent films are lost). I Was Born But... is a good place to start but it’s not representative of the style he’s known for. Late Spring is where his later style fully emerges, and it’s a good place to start, so you might want to go in chronological order with these (Tokyo Story, widely considered one of the greatest films of all time, is also not a bad place to start).

I Was Born But... (1932): Jonathan Rosenbaum on the film: “One of Yasujiro Ozu's most sublime films, this late Japanese silent describes the tragicomic disillusionment of two middle-class boys who see their father demean himself by groveling in front of his employer; it starts off as a hilarious comedy and gradually becomes darker. Ozu's understanding of his characters and their social milieu is so profound and his visual style—which was much less austere and more obviously expressive during his silent period—so compelling that the film carries one along more dynamically than many of the director's sound classics. Though regarded in Japan mainly as a conservative director, Ozu was a trenchant social critic throughout his career, and the devastating understanding of social context that he shows here is full of radical implications.“

The Only Son (1936): Criterion’s jacket copy:  “Yasujiro Ozu’s first talkie, the uncommonly poignant The Only Son is among the Japanese director’s greatest works. In its simple story about a good-natured mother who gives up everything to ensure her son’s education and future, Ozu touches on universal themes of sacrifice, family, love, and disappointment. Spanning many years, The Only Son is a family portrait in miniature, shot and edited with its maker’s customary exquisite control.”

Late Spring (1949): Ignatiy Vishnevetsky: “Each shot in Late Spring is striking on its own; the mature Ozu belongs to that rare category of filmmakers whose work can be recognized from a single frame. But together—with all their abrupt shifts in visual perspective and time—they become a mosaic, deeply poignant and ultimately mysterious in the way it envisions a relationship between two people trapped by how much they care for one another. There are domestic dramas, and then there’s this.“

Tokyo Story (1953): Dave Kehr: “The film that introduced Yasujiro Ozu, one of Japan's greatest filmmakers, to American audiences (1953). The camera remains stationary throughout this delicate study of conflicting generations in a modern Japanese family, save for one heartbreaking moment when Ozu tracks around a corner to discover the grandparents, alone and forgotten. A masterpiece, minimalist cinema at its finest and most complex.“

Early Spring (1956): Ozu on the film: “I wanted to portray the life of a white-collar man — his happiness over graduating and becoming a member of society. His hopes for the future when he got his job have gradually dissolved and he realizes that, even though he has worked for years, he has accomplished nothing worth talking about. By delineating his life over a period of time, I wanted to portray what you might call the pathos of the white-collar life...I tried to avoid anything that would be dramatic and to accumulate only casual scenes of everyday life in hopes that the audience would feel the sadness of that kind of life” 

Equinox Flower (1958): Vincent Canby: “One of Ozu's least dark comedies, which is not to say that it's carefree, but, rather, that it's gentle and amused in the way that it acknowledges time's passage, the changing of values and the adjustments that must be made between generations.“

Late Autumn (1960): Peter Bradshaw: “Another gem from the Ozu canon, a masterpiece of tendernesss and serio-comic charm, as tonally ambiguous and morally complex as anything he ever made.“

And the tv series:

The Armando Iannucci Shows: You may know Armando Iannucci from his films, In The Loop and The Death of Stalin, or from some of his other television shows like The Thick of It or Veep, or from his involvement in all the Alan Partridge series with Steve Coogan. You probably missed The Armando Iannucci shows, his stream of consciousness sketch comedy that ran for one season back in 2001 (it didn’t help that it debuted in September of 2001), but it’s probably the most purely funny thing he’s ever done. 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

What Might Have Been - 17

@goodomenscelebration - Theme Prompts

Continuing to post as many as possible in one evening!

If you missed a chapter, they are all available on AO3!

CW for briefly described but very bad injuries; and for creepy abandoned towns

For those who need a reminder: “Crowley” is our Crowley, while his “mirror image” is the Alternate Universe version. “Aziraphale” (or the “Guardian of Humanity”) is the Alternate Universe angel, while “Kasbeel” is ours, in disguise.

I apologize for that being confusing.

Holiday

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley’s mirror image slumped against the wall, looking blankly at the space between them.

It was the only thing he ever asked. He never spoke of his own Aziraphale.

At first, Crowley had thought it was a trick. He’d kept his responses vague, evasive. What do you want me to say? Smug bastard with white wings. The mirror image had simply nodded.

Over time, Crowley started telling stories from their past, short ones, ones he thought over carefully, to ensure they wouldn’t reveal too much.

He likes oysters, way too much. Just. Salty, briny disgusting oysters, and he’ll eat a dozen of them in one sitting. Slurps them, too.

He can’t stand Charles Dickens. No idea why. Might just be that his customers are always asking for him, but I think they met once.

He’s been trying to learn to pull a coin from someone’s ear for over a century. Still drops the damn thing half the time. Isn’t it only supposed to take ten thousand hours to learn a skill? He’s coming up on a hundred thousand hours I think, and he still can’t get the fingers right.

And then, somewhere along the way, he stopped even guarding himself that much.

“He helps people,” Crowley said, turning his leg, which was still stiff and sore from the last torture session. The floor around him was black with demonic blood. “Even…when it’s really not worth it, even when there’s something way more important going on. One time, we were at this little restaurant in Italy. I turn my back for a minute, and there he goes, off washing dishes. He hates doing that sort of stuff, you know, always leaves them in the sink until I take care of it. But the girl in the back had been sick, and he sent her home and took over the job himself. Didn’t even use miracles, by the way, and couldn’t figure out how the machine worked, so he did it all by hand.”

“What…” the mirror image asked. “What was the more important thing?”

“Oh, uh, I’d been planning to ask him something. Not important what. We picked up the conversation later, but, um, he really ruined my first attempt.”

--

A hundred and forty miles to London.

Alone, Kasbeel could fly the distance in just under five hours. He would be exhausted, but he’d had a lot of practice the last few years.

He was not alone.

A Roman legion could walk twenty miles a day, setting up camp every night and breaking it in the morning. They could have made it in a week. Harold Godwinson had crossed from Yorkshire to Sussex in a little more than that.

But Kasbeel wasn’t leading an army.

He was leading nearly three hundred tired, hungry humans, most of them young, through enemy territory. Where they could be spotted at any moment and taken from him.

He took a deep breath, and walked through the crowd.

“Patrick, how’s the leg? Healing well? Ollie, make sure you hold onto Jennifer’s hand. Mrs. Sherwood, that’s not too many children? Please let Mrs. Kumar know if you need help. Amiyah, why don’t you move up to the front where we can see you? Alex, please, stay with your group, I don’t want to ask you again.” He greeted as many as he could, clasping shoulders, grasping hands.

When he reached the front, Lyla was waiting. She’d arranged her hair to hide the Mark on her cheekbone, as many did if they could. He bit his tongue and didn’t say anything. It was her choice.

“Are we ready to go?” she asked, tilting her head towards the highway, cutting south towards London.

“I believe so.” He glanced at the sky, black, filled with stars once more. It was comforting, and frightening. What else would change? “Let’s get as far as we can before sunrise.”

--

Ishliah had never seen the world before the apocalypse. Just barracks and training until the day the war started, then fighting, and fighting and fighting.

What spread before her now was almost incomprehensible. Little short plants growing everywhere from the ground, a vibrant, impossible green. And the taller ones – the trees – reaching almost to the top of the wall, branches spreading thick with fruit. Little animals sat in the branches, singing, not as varied or interesting as the singing of angels, but music nonetheless.

All that, and the sky above, brilliant blue again – it was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Ishliah of the Seventh Battalion. Welcome to New Eden.”

She turned, and her heart stopped in her chest. That face – she knew him, would never forget it, though now he was in uniform, flaming sword in hand. But the pale curls – the round face – the blue-grey eyes…

“You…” she managed, weakly.

“That would be the confirmation I need.” He stepped closer, still smiling. “I am Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, Principality of Earth and Guardian of Humanity. I believe you met someone claiming to be me, three years ago, according to your report.”

“That…it really was…you?” Her hands began to tremble, and she wondered if this was what fear felt like. She never felt it on the battlefield, but this was much, much worse.

Ishliah had lied in that report.

“No, it was not.” He patted her on the shoulder. “And I don’t believe many others understand what you truly witnessed. I don’t fully understand it myself, but I mean to. Now. You said this angel…” a screen appeared in his hand and he scrolled down, lips pursed as he read. “Here it is. He took you into a hidden room and tortured you for information? Is this true?”

“Yes?” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. There was a great deal of pain and…he asked me questions…”

Something caught her eye down in the garden. A group of humans, being led to a smaller walled area not far away. The human in the lead was shouting, and they all seemed to be bound together on some sort of chain.

“Even here we have our troublemakers,” Aziraphale said, with something like regret. “Sometimes the children don’t grow obediently as we’d hoped, and sometimes the Retrieval teams make mistakes when identifying the Elect. Not often, but we have been very busy lately.” He nodded towards the smaller walled section. “The holding pen is their last chance. Gabriel will arrive in a week to deliver the final Judgement on them.”

“And…if they’re found wanting…?”

“They’re cast out, of course. Far from here. The Eastern Gate, you understand, is purely ceremonial.” He gestured to the outer wall beside them.

Ishliah glanced down to see, not quite directly below them, a single stone missing from the completely smooth face of the wall. It hardly looked large enough for even a young human to slip through. She checked the inside curve of the wall. No breaks there – the missing stone didn’t even reach all the way.

She looked up again to find the Guardian scrolling through her report with pursed lips. “Ishliah. I wonder if, perhaps, you weren’t completely honest in what you said?”

She clenched her jaw, the fear suddenly reaching a height she had never suspected. Was this why traitors deserted? She would do anything not to feel this way again…

But the Guardian merely smiled, stepping close, lowering his voice. “My dear. Do not worry. What you witnessed was…truly extraordinary, and of course you thought no one would believe you. But this is no longer an isolated incident. There have been…other reports, curious ones, and yours doesn’t quite line up. But if you tell me the truth now, all will be forgiven.”

Her eyes slid again to the holding pen. “All?”

He rested a hand on her back, turning her away, until she faced him and only him. “Now, Ishliah. Tell me about the angel.”

--

“Tell me about the angel.”

Crowley tried to sit up straighter. His leg had healed, but now there was some great gaping gash across his stomach, and the way his manacled arm hung kept stretching the wound.

“He’s a complete hedonist. Foods. Wines. He goes to the barber every month. His hair doesn’t grow, he’s never had a beard, and he never even changes his look. I have no idea why he does it, except to have someone wash his hair and buff his nails. But he always comes out smiling, like he’s found the secret to peace on earth.”

“Nh,” the mirror image said. Crowley looked up to find he had a hand pressed to the bleeding wound on his neck. But it hadn’t sounded like a noise of pain. “I…uh, yeah. I know the look.”

“He likes to spoil me, too, when he has a chance. Trying to cheer me up, I think. I don’t tell him when it works, though. I’ve got a reputation to maintain. One time in Rome, there was this place with oysters—”

“Stop.”

Crowley looked across the cell, but his mirror image might as well have lost interest, tugging himself towards the corner to sleep.

--

After three days of travel they reached Burton-upon-Trent.

The gang of wanderers divided into teams to explore, looking for supplies: food, medicine, clothing, shoes, anything that could be used as a weapon. Kasbeel and Lyla walked together with Squad A down the empty street, hot with the kind of blistering heat that only comes on a sunny day. Barricades were put up here and there, signs of the Marked painted on the walls, but no one came out to challenge them.

“I don’t like this,” Lyla muttered. “I don’t want to fight, but…where is everyone?”

All of the villages they’d passed had been abandoned. Apart from the angelic patrols, England was apparently empty.

Kasbeel shook his head. “The Sainsbury’s should be up ahead. Why don’t you…” he trailed off, looking at a few unbroken windows up the side of the street. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I have something to investigate here.”

Two hours later, Squad A emerged with four shopping trollies loaded with cans of soup, vegetables, powdered milk – everything they thought might still be edible after seven years. Lyla doubted it would last them more than a day or two.

No sooner had she stepped into the overly-bright day – she’d forgotten how painful the sun could be – then she heard a shriek, a high-pitched scream of a small child.

She spun, grabbing a can of food, ready to throw it at whatever angel, demon or human threatened her people –

The wanderers had gathered in the parking lot of the carwash across the street, and jets of water filled the air. She could still hear the children shrieking, but everyone else looked relaxed, calm, many of them smiling.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, prepared to push her way through the crowd, but they parted, pressing her forward until she saw the set up.

Four chairs, padded and high-backed, stood in a line across the parking lot. In each one, a child sat, dripping wet, while behind them the adults scrubbed and combed their hair, snipping with delicate scissors. They passed a hose up and down the line of chairs, rinsing the children off.

On one side, Alex had mastery of a single hose, waiting until a chair was free. “Next!” Ollie ran up, bouncing eagerly for his turn. Alex turned on the hose and drenched him, from head to toe, while the little boy shrieked, jumping up and down in the water. “Alright, you’re clean, go get your hair cut.”

On the other side, Kasbeel had set up a small table with two chairs. He sat on one side, and delicately rubbed at Mickey’s nails with an emery board, a pair of glasses she’d never seen before perched on his nose. “Ah, Lyla, you’re back. Join the queue, but be careful, many of the older customers are finding Alex’s methods a little intense.”

“What are you doing?” Lyla shoved at the table, causing little bottles of nail varnish to rattle. “You could have been helping us find food, and instead you’re – you’re wasting time!”

“I most certainly am not. Time is a precious commodity, you know, and ought never to be wasted.” He put down the emery board. “Do you want a color, Mickey? I think the pale pink would look wonderful.”

And Mickey – tough, stoic Mickey, veteran of five battles in the demonic army, Mark emblazoned on his brow for all to see – asked, “Can I try the gold? I like the way it shines.”

“Of course. A wonderful choice.”

“Look at me!” Lyla slammed her hand onto the table again. “What is wrong with you? We need to get everyone ready to move, we’re still weeks away from London. We don’t need—”

“My dear, you most certainly do need.” Kasbeel pulled off the glasses, brows snapping down. “Look at our people. They’ve been living in the mountains, in the dirt, covered in their own filth. It isn’t right.”

“So what? Who cares how we look? Humans lived like that for thousands of years. Our ancestors didn’t need to be pampered, they survived with the bare minimum—”

“Oh, no, who told you that?” Kasbeel shook a jar of nail varnish and began applying the first coat to Mickey’s nails. “I was there, and I can tell you. People bathed. People spent hours on their hair, and their eyebrows, and their nails, and elaborate henna tattoos, although I wasn’t able to find any supplies for that. It isn’t about wanting to look good, or to impress anyone. It’s about taking care of yourselves.” He blew a breath across Mickey’s nails, encouraging them to dry. “Being clean, being groomed, it makes humans feel human again.”

Lyla’s lip curled in disgust. But she looked back at the crowd, the smiling faces, the way the kids splashed in the puddles with bare feet, the way the adults laughed behind the stolen salon chairs, passing the hose back and forth. The teenagers all tugged at each other’s newly-short hair, running their fingers through it, marveling in how light it felt on a hot day.

She hadn’t seen her people like this. Hadn’t seen anyone like this. Not in so very long.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. And since we’re clearly going to spend the rest of the day here, I might as well look for a place to sleep. Something that’s actually necessary.”

She stormed up the street, past the shattered windows of the salons and nail parlors, past the Sainsbury’s again, and around the corner. She kept walking until the sounds of the crowd at the carwash were long gone, then just stood, quietly, in the street.

She wanted to scream, until the knot in her stomach was gone. But she wasn’t a kid anymore, and she couldn’t find the voice for it. So, she just stood there, in the street, fists clenched.

Until Kasbeel’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk about it, my dear?”

“Talk about what? I told you – I’m – I’m looking for a place for us to stay.”

“There were plenty of townhouses in the other direction, you know. And I’ve already sent a team to explore them. Unless you think a, er, door stripping establishment would make a better place to spend the night.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why I’m mad, I feel like I don’t have any control over my mind. I’m just – I have a million thoughts racing in my head and I can’t even slow down long enough to actually think any of them, I just know we have to keep moving.”

“You’re afraid,” he told her. “You’re stressed, and although I forget it sometimes, you are still very young. I shouldn’t ask so much of you.”

“I can handle it!”

“Yes, you can. You handle it very well, taking care of the others, taking care of your brother before that. But, you know,” his hand rested under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. “It’s perfectly alright to take care of yourself, too. Indulge a little. Let yourself be happy. They deserve it. You deserve it. And it will make you feel better.”

“I just…I’m not sure I can relax anymore. What if they come for us while we’re all standing around, or—”

“If they do, I will be ready. I promise. I have not let my guard down for an instant.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, rubbed her back like a child. “That fear you feel. You know if the angels come back, there’s nothing you can do, but you want to be ready anyway. Your mind is telling you to find a solution that doesn’t exist. I’m sorry. But there is something you can do, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“There are many of my former colleagues who believe that anything which makes humans happy is a sin. I believe it is always worth indulging, just a little, to show them how little you care.”

--

“Oh. And one other thing.” Gabriel wasn’t happy. He often wasn’t happy these days. Bringing about the end of the world, it seemed, was more complicated than anyone had expected.

Aziraphale kept his face carefully blank.

“We have reports of a gang of hundreds of humans moving south, but the scouts can’t seem to get near it. Vanishes every time they try. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Yes. I’ve been following up on these rumors for some time. The circumstances appear to me, well, nearly incomprehensible.” He hesitated, but only for a second. “It would appear these humans are being led by a rogue angel, posing as a scout or a messenger.”

“Rogue? You mean a deserter?” A brief flash of anger in Gabriel’s eyes, but it quickly vanished, smoothed over by something calm and patient. “Well. At least my best agent is already on this. Glad you took the initiative. Now. Tell me about the angel.”

--

The mirror image didn’t say anything today. He wasn’t a mirror image, either. He’d angered the angels who had come in earlier, refusing to cry out as they hurt him. Shoftiel had left him as a serpent, coiled mutely on the ground, and then they’d turned to Crowley.

“I can tell you about the angel,” Crowley offered. His throat was still raw from the screaming. They hadn’t even asked any questions, simply given him back his wings and broken every bone in them. It hurt, worse than almost anything else in the last three years. He wondered if it would ever stop hurting.

The serpent lifted his head, then let it fall heavily.

“He…he…” Crowley closed his eyes. It was so hard to think of a story. Not just the pain. His mind longed to be blank. “He is so soft. Like a cloud, like a warm blanket, like a pile of feathers. And that’s all most people ever see of him. A fool and a pushover and a – a – a lazy pleasure seeker who likes his books and his chair and his food. It’s what he wants, though. He wants to be soft.”

He closed his eyes and tilted back his head, ignoring the way his wings felt like a thousand pieces of shattered glass.

Far away, an angel led a troop of humans down the motorway. He laughed as he walked, carrying one of the youngest on his back. In the week of travel, they’d grown dirty again, their nails had lost their color, their clothes become faded and stained. But they still smiled, still tossed their heads, running fingers through their hair. The young woman beside him had hers cropped almost completely off, exposing the Mark on her cheekbone.

Suddenly, the angel stopped walking, his eyes locked on the sky above. None of the others had heard or sensed anything, but he knew what was coming. Three hundred humans gathered close in the shelter of his wide white wings, and his eyes took on the color of steel.

“But then…when he needs it…when the things he cares for are threatened…he isn’t soft at all.”

[c4t1l1n4]

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Gift for @qorktrees​​ from the Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019

Thanks to @scintillating-galaxias​​ for betaing!! 

Here’s the AO3 Link just in case Tumblr butchers this post: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21676567

Hope you like it!!

My gift was a fic, but here’s a little drawing to go along with it!

Warm, Cozy, Loved

Crowley is drunk. 

It is cold, and Crowley is drunk. 

It’s winter in England, which means the weather is absolutely horrible. Less due to the fact that it is winter, and more due to the fact that it’s England, and the weather in England is always absolutely horrible. Except in Tadfield, for the 11 years leading up to the almost end of the world, but that’s not the point. 

The point is Crowley is drunk and it’s cold.

It had been a lovely night. Crowley and Aziraphale spent dinner at the Ritz before heading back to the bookshop for a drink or twelve, moments of shy, romantic tension stretching out between them, almost to the point of breaking. Crowley definitely did not spend most of the evening pointedly not staring at Aziraphale over a glass of wine, across a dimly lit room. He firmly reminds himself that he’s too drunk to think about it. He’s not sure how drunk though. It’s hard to tell how much you’ve had to drink when your glass never stops being full. He stumbles to his car, carelessly throwing a hand over his shoulder to wave goodnight to Aziraphale, who watches from the glowing warmth of the bookshop, peering just as lovestruck through the front windows. But Crowley is too busy fumbling for the keys of his car to notice, only to remember the Bentley doesn’t need keys to run and wrenching the door open. He plops inside, scowling at any snow—when did that start—that dare traps itself inside and tarnish his meticulous upkeep.

He drives off towards his flat with an air of drunken confidence and figures he’s allowed to drive drunk because he’s a demon so he doesn’t have to follow the rules, but mostly because he sternly told the Bentley she wasn’t allowed to crash. He stalls at a traffic light, watching it turn green and then back to red, much to his amusement as the car behind him honks the horn. It’s nearing 2 am, certainly no one is in any big rush, so he fiddles around with the radio as he waits for the light to turn green once more. The same three Queen songs repeat themselves, even as he changes the radio stations and inserts a CD. 

The lights flicker green for a second time, and Crowley snickers as a multitude of beeps resonate from the line of vehicles behind him, so he waits a few more seconds before driving through the intersection, just for the hell of it. Believe it or not, he actually wants to get home too. He can’t wait to park his car somewhere not quite illegal, but definitely in the way, waltz up the stairs, and curl up in his nice warm bed. It’s too late to yell at plants tonight, Crowley supposes as he drapes his jacket neatly over one of the hooks on the wall next to his door. He walks into the main room, takes a deep breath and freezes. Like, literally. He continues to shiver as he shoves off his shoes, nudging them next to the couch and hurries to his bedroom. Why is it so cold in here? Crowley takes off his sunglasses, placing them on the small table next to his bed. He disregards the need for comfier clothes and immediately crawls under the heavy blankets on his bed, curling into a tiny ball in attempts to regain some of the warmth that he’s lost since leaving the bookshop. 

Surely there is something he could do about this, but he can’t quite remember. Something about miracles and this and that and- Crowley rolls over, pulling the covers tighter around himself as his teeth start to chatter. What’s this all about? Wasn’t alcohol suppose to give you a warm and fuzzy feeling? Or maybe he just gets that from being in the book shop. Alcohol. Al… co… hol… Oh! That’s right! Alcohol! He’s drunk! Crowley giggles to himself once more. He promised his angel he’d make it back to his flat safely—which he did thank you very much—and now he’s cold. And he’s cold because it’s winter and it’s England and it’s horribly miserable and other descriptive words his foggy mind can’t think of right now. He supposes he could clear up his mind but that would require a miracle, and he can’t quite remember how to sober himself up. So as Crowley falls asleep that night, his mind settles on the fact that the cold is a lingering after-effect of the harsh, nighttime wind and fails to realize what really is going on: the heating in his flat is broken.

-----

Aziraphale is worried.  It’s noon and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s cold, it’s noon, and Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s a blustery day and he is waiting on a bench in St. James’s Park and Crowley isn’t here yet. 

Aziraphale is worried. 

It’s not that Crowley’s ever on time, it’s just that he’s never not fashionably late. Now he’s way past fashionably late and he’s just plain old late. Which for Crowley is totally unacceptable because that’s what humans do. Angels are prompt, they’re on time. Humans are late because they’re humans and that’s what humans do. Crowley is a demon, neither on time or mundanely late and never early because that looks desperate. So that fact that it’s now nearing half past noon only means one thing. Crowley is in trouble.

Aziraphale is worried.

He miracles himself over to Crowley’s flat because his nerves are too frayed to take the time to walk there, even though it is a lovely day, if not on the chilly side. He knocks on the door—he’s an angel, he’s polite—and frowns when he doesn’t get a response. But the door is unlocked, purely due to the fact the Aziraphale wants it to be. Crowley is never too careful about locking it, especially after the little stunt they pulled at the end of the apocalypse. But the door swings open without even so much as a squeak of the hinges, and Aziraphale shuts the door behind himself, trapping the cold outside. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice rings out into the empty air and his breath crystallizes in front of him, disappearing after a few seconds. “His apartment usually isn’t this cold,” he mumbles to himself, seeing as he had gotten no other response. He wanders over to the thermostat on the wall on his way to other parts of the flat, peering at the numbers on the tiny screen. He taps the side of the little device and, despite never being good with technology, he knows the numbers on the display do not match the temperature of the room. “Must be broken,” he looks around but isn’t sure how to fix it. “I wish you wouldn’t be like that,” he informs the little panel, and suddenly a blast of warm air is rushing into the room. With a satisfied nod, he continues his way through the flat.

“Crowley?” he calls again, shivering despite the machine’s best attempts to warm the flat back up. The bedroom door shifts open and Aziraphale carefully steps inside, feeling slightly like he doesn’t belong. He comes face to face with Crowley’s sleek, black sheet bed and takes a second to soak up the sight. He smiles gently to himself at Crowley’s sleeping form, legs tangled with the sheets, thick blankets covering every inch of available bed space, and tufts of auburn hair in a messy blaze like a fire, haloing his head. Aziraphale melts, just the tiniest of bits, before turning to leave. Crowley overslept, that’s all. He did sleep through a whole century, you know.

 He’s halfway down the hall, thinking about Crowley as he goes, his companion all the way back from the beginning of time when it hits him. Crowley is a demon. He was the original tempter, a snake in the garden of Eden. It was ridiculously cold in his apartment, for who knows how long. Crowley always complains about the cold, something about... snakes and being cold-blooded. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

Aziraphale spins around and hurries back to the bedroom, rushing right up to Crowley and placing a hand on his skin. He was cold. He was absolutely freezing. But he wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t like Aziraphale who shivered as the air still had a bite to it, even though he had fixed the heating unit. 

Crowley wasn’t moving. 

“Crowley.” This was a statement, not a question. A hesitant statement that feared to get no response. And it didn’t. Crowley lay there, just as quiet as ever, even as Aziraphale shakes his shoulder, and pulls back the covers. 

Crowley wasn’t moving.

Aziraphale scooped up his dear friend in his arms, unsure how to feel about the fact that he was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, and marched out into the main room of the flat. “You can have him back when you are warmer.” He sternly scolded the flat. Then, he promptly opened his wings and fled. After all, he wasn’t given the role of ‘Guardian of the Eastern Gate’ for no reason. 

----

The first thing Crowley feels when he wakes up is: warm. Well, he feels a lot of things when he first wakes up. In fact, he’s hit with a wall of warmcozyloved. So it’d be more accurate to say, the first thing Crowley notices when he wakes up is how much warmer it is compared to what he last remembered. 

The second thing he realizes is: he’s not alone. But there are no warning bells going off in his head, and he’s comfortable and he’s hit with another wave of warmcozyloved so he figures he’ll be alright.

The third thing he decides is: he should figure out what exactly is going on. He eventually opens his eyes and a little “ngk” sound escapes his mouth as he tries to sit up and survey his surroundings. He quickly settles back down into his previous position due to the fact that any movement is greeted with a throbbing pain in his head and he has to combat the urge to throw up. He takes a moment to steel himself, but can’t quite work up the nerve to try moving again, so instead, he cautiously opens his eyes. What he is confronted with, is definitely not anything he owned. Crowley was swaddled in a terribly oversized, downright atrociously ugly beige sweater, and sprawled across his lap was an equally atrocious tartan blanket. 

Angel, Crowley’s mind suggests. But when did Aziraphale get here? The last thing he remembered was getting outrageously drunk, as usual, and falling asleep in his bed. But his mind is still foggy and his head is hanging to avoid looking at the overhead light, so he’s sure he’s missed something. It’s not normally this bright in his flat anyway. He briefly recalls being cold and… what time is it? He looks down at his watch, or where his watch should be, then remembers, it’s probably still on his nightstand. 

Crowley blindly reaches out in the direction that his nightstand would be in, and freezes when his hand hits a wall of feathers instead. He glances over in surprise and then carefully lifts his head to survey his surroundings. This is not his flat. Actually, he can’t really tell, because he is cocooned in a set of white wings. Angel, His mind supplies for a second time.

“Angel?” Crowley grimaces out and immediately regrets the way it leaves his head spinning so he forgets to listen for a response. 

There’s movement—the world shifts the slightest bit on its axis around him—and “Oh, Crowley! You had me so worried.” It’s only when Aziraphale’s voice chimes very close to his right ear that his brain puts the pieces together, and Crowley realizes he’s sitting in someone else’s lap. “How are you feeling?”

“Ow,” comes Crowley’s graceful response, screwing his eyes shut.

“Oh, you forgot how to sober up again, didn’t you?” Aziraphale sympathizes and reaches over to run a hand through Crowley’s hair. Just like that, his headache died down a considerable amount, and Crowley could think again. 

“Thanks.”

“Anytime, dear.” 

A moment of silence lingers in the air, ways to restart the conversation dangling in front of them, and Aziraphale almost snatched one, but Crowley lays his head back on Aziraphale’s shoulder, so the silence persists. Aziraphale doesn’t point out the fact that he had Crowley cradled in his soft, white wings as a way to trap warmth inside their little cocoon in front of the flickering fireplace in the bookshop, but Crowley hasn’t said anything either. Maybe he just hasn’t noticed yet. He had just recovered from being hungover. Besides, Aziraphale enjoys having the one person he loves so much curled up in his wings. It gives him a sense of control and calms his protective instincts. 

“What happened?” Crowley asks, his mind still foggy as he tries to recall the events of the night before.

“I think your heating unit broke.” 

Crowley groans in annoyance. 

“I think I fixed it,” Aziraphale admit, but is unsure. “It was freezing in there when I came to see about lunch, so who knows how long you had been suffering with no heat.”

“You came to see about lunch?” Crowley furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“We were going to meet in St. James Park, and inevitably end up somewhere to get you a hot cup of tea—you do always complain about the winter weather and such—and we were gonna—”

“What time is it!?” Crowley exclaims, cutting Aziraphale off, jerking his head up to stare at the angel in disbelief. 

“Oh, I’m not sure now.” Aziraphale turns his head and peeked outside the warmcozyloved wing cocoon to look. “Well, it is dark outside.”

“Dark outside?” Crowley splutters. “I slept all the way through dinner? I’m sorry Angel, even when I forget to sober up, I wake up in time for lunch.”

“I think you were hypothermic, with being a snake and all. I mean, Crowley, you were stone cold.”

“Were cold!? I’m still cold,” Crowley half-heartedly grumbles under his breath, pulling the atrociously warm sweater tighter around himself. A sweater knitted that chunky has no right to be as warmcozyloved and reminiscent of his angel as it is. Crowley pouts, just the tiniest of bits, but a small smile creeps its way onto his face as Aziraphale fusses over him. 

“My dear boy, you should have said something earlier,” Aziraphale admonishes gently. 

A moment of silence passes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Crowley admits, in a very small voice. He suddenly realizes that he doesn’t have his sunglasses to hide behind and felt very exposed, so he drops the angel’s gaze and looks elsewhere. 

“I know dear. I feel better just sitting like this.” Aziraphale admits, and his wings sag, just a little bit. He’s exhausted, worn out from worrying about Crowley for so long. And everything for so long. The apocalypse is over now, surely they can stop holding their breath. “Even though we prevented Armageddon, we’re still on our own side, aren’t we?”

Crowley lifts his gaze to Aziraphale, who stares back at him hesitantly, his wings drooping a little more as he second-guessed his words. 

“Of course, Angel. You and me against the world.”

“Well, that’s good then. I just like to know you're safe. I want you to know that I care about you.”

“Angel, you’re important to me too.” Crowley tilts his head and studies Aziraphale, who averts his gaze, flushing slightly red. “Are you saying what I think you are?” A sly smile grows on Crowley’s face and he shifts closer, slinging his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“I don’t know whatever you could be implying.” Aziraphale shoots back, but this is familiar territory, and he is growing more confident.

“I think you do.” And without further prompting, Aziraphale pulls Crowley close, one hand shifting to wind around the demon’s back as they kissed. “I love you, angel,” Crowley says as they pull away.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Aziraphale says in lew of a proper response, but another wave of warmcozyloved said everything for him. “You wily old thing. I bet, in all these years, you never thought the moment we confess our love for each other, you’d be wearing such an atrocious sweater,” Aziraphale says mischievously, now that he knows the feelings are mutual.

“Oi, watch it,” Crowley teased back, his arms casually resting on either side of Aziraphale’s head.  “This is my partner’s atrocious sweater, and I happen to like it, thank you very much.”

They looked at each other for a second longer before a grin broke out on Crowley’s face, and both of them broke out into quiet laughter. Once their giggles died down, they took a moment to catch their breath and Crowley used the moment to kiss Aziraphale again. He then curled back up into Aziraphale, laying his head on his shoulder and securing himself to his side. Silence lingered in the air, but everything was alright now.

Crowley was no longer cold and Aziraphale was no longer worried.

A consistent pulse of warmcozyloved radiated from both of them, filling the bookshop and lulling them to sleep. 

[hellfireandbookshops]

This blog has crossed 1k followers, I am so overwhelmed! Thank you all so much!

As a way of celebrating I have decided to break my 4-year hiatus on publishing fanfiction! I’ve posted chapter one of my short stories/drabble collection which you can read on AO3 here. A preview is available below the cut! 

My plan is to update as often as I can with short stories and drabbles exploring the lives of the ineffable husbands after the apocalypse. All the drabbles will exist in the same universe and be in chronological order. So far there are 30 chapters planned, and I am open to prompting too!  

Thank you guys so much for sticking around for my descent into Good Omens obsession and keeping me creating content, I appreciate and love you all <3

~O~

You can stay at my place if you like.

Boarding the bus to Oxford (the bus that would drive to London anyway) was a silent affair. Crowley got on first, a brief gesture with his left hand ensuring that they would make it home tonight. Home being the demons residence, of course, no matter that Aziraphale hadn’t actually agreed to go there yet. If he was certain of anything right now it was that the angel shouldn’t be exposed to the ruin of his bookshop. Not tonight.

It had been horrific enough for Crowley. The aged rafters had crumbled to ash, the scent of burning paper surrounded the demon and choked in his lungs. All that uncomfortable heat licking at his skin, a dangerous reminder that whatever once stood there was now nothing more than dust in the wind. Fuel for a vicious flame. He’d called for Aziraphale but he had known the second he parked outside the angel was gone.

For the last six thousand years, Aziraphale has always been on his mental radar. An energy output ever-present in the back of his mind no matter where he went; it was how he managed to follow him across the globe al these years. It burned in him like the north star; leading him home.

There was nothing amidst the fire, though. Just an absence the likes of which he hadn’t felt since rising through the earth in the garden of Eden. An indicator that his best friend wasn’t in this realm anymore; discorporated or destroyed completely, he had no way of being certain. Oh, he’d hoped it was the former. That way he could just pop back down again with another body, surely. But who was to say the archangels hadn’t intervened and put a stop to whatever relationship they had? Crowley had been openly pleading with him in the street just an hour beforehand and hellfire would do a slap up job of eradicating an angel and his shop.

Crowley wasn’t entirely certain even he’d be able to stomach looking at the carcass of his friend’s home right now, not after grief like that.

So they’d go to the flat.

He took the seat beside the window, staring out at the quaint little village lit up in the night. It looked sickeningly nice. The kind of thing you’d put on a postcard to your nan. To think the world almost ended here today, in picturesque rural England. Oh the hidden dangers of a beautiful thing, much like an angel brandishing a flaming sword he supposed.

So busy waxing poetry about some scenery, and wasn’t that embarrassing for a being from hell, he hadn’t noticed the angel slide comfortably into the seat next to him. It was a little surprising, to say the least. Throughout the millennia, sitting together involved a fair amount of space between them. Crowley used to joke about leaving room for the holy ghost, but close quarters had simply never been worth the risk to them. Being caught talking was one thing, being caught cuddled together like illicit lovers was something else entirely. So park benches found the demon sprawled on one side and Aziraphale propped stiffly on the other. Any time they met at alternative Rendezvous point number 2; the number nineteen bus, Crowley would sit in the always conveniently absent seats directly behind his friend. Inconspicuous may not be their middle name, but at least they made something of an effort.

Pressed side by side with their shoulders brushing was different.

Though if either of them were being perfectly honest; everything was different now. Reality as they knew it was rewritten; or at least… He thought. Even Crowley couldn't be entirely certain what had happened on that airfield today with little Adam Young.

The bus pulls away and Crowley resolves to leave that train of thought behind. It’s going to take more than their journey’s length home to properly wrap their heads around it. Instead, he takes a large mouthful from their open bottle and wordlessly offers it to his companion.

“I don’t think we should really drink here.” The angel uttered in hushed tones, ever wary of the opinions of onlookers. Despite his protests, though, he does take the bottle into his own hand.

There was barely any passengers at this hour, Crowley knew, having cast a glance around the vehicle as soon as he’d boarded. A young woman near the front, headphones firmly in place and eyes drooping shut. A couple of seats behind them, there sat two young men both absorbed with their phones, uncaring of the world around them. Finally, at the back, a rather run down looking businessman skimming a broadsheet newspaper. Unlikely any of them would give the two eccentric gentlemen at the front a second glance. “I don’t think anyone cares, angel.”

Regardless, Aziraphale insisted, “I do.”

He was clinging to the bottle like an infant might cling to a safety blanket, but he was making no move to actually drink from it. The demon sighed deeply. “Suit yourself.”

Neither of them spoke for some time following that. Many people might assume that being friends for roughly six thousand years would leave very little to talk about, these people would be wrong. Crowley had long since mastered reading Aziraphale like one of his books, and he wouldn’t be dim enough to imagine the angel couldn’t do the same. They understood each other almost frighteningly well. Thus, the silence itself was practically a conversation.

The press of Aziraphale’s shoulder against his own was an act of showing comfort as much as it was the other seeking it for himself. Actual physical contact between them, at least in Crowley's opinion, was always a signifier of something consequential. Whether that be a handshake declaring an arrangement, or the brush of their fingers when they exchanged items (an incident involving Nazi spies and a church sprang to mind). This felt like it was much the same.

Rather than just innocently brushing, Aziraphale was gradually letting his weight come to rest against the demons side; and though he was loathed to admit it, Crowley was doing the same. Very soon they’d be propping each other up in a display of mutual reassurance. It enveloped him in something rather soothing.

Flashes of love, he remembered Aziraphale describing once on the drive back from Tadfield.

At the time Crowley had brushed him off, declared the notion ridiculous. That was more because of his irritation at having found no leads than it was the lack of understanding. He was not a being of love, but he certainly knew what it felt like. That energy on his radar was what it felt like. Like sinking into a hot bath. The waves of it washing over him in a cascade of warmth, circling his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach. Filling him up until he felt like he was glowing with it. That love he understood; he’d been feeling it since Eden, and it was only identifiable to him as Aziraphale.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?”

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Crowley to bring himself out of his thought process and register the angel's words. Luckily for him, staring off into the distance in broody silence was something of a signature behaviour, and as such raised no query from the other when it took several seconds of just staring at him to form a response.

“That depends entirely on what you’re referring to. I said a lot of things.” Was what he settled on.

Amused but unwilling to admit as such, Aziraphale narrowed his eyes just briefly; a fleeting smile gracing his features before it was gone again. “You said I could stay with you tonight.”

Crowley continued to stare, dumbfounded. “Of course I meant it, why wouldn’t I mean it?”

The angel had no particular response to that; a minute shake of his head that Crowley would have missed had he blinked, and choosing to forgo his earlier shame by bringing the bottle they’d been sharing to his mouth. There was a hefty swallow of alcohol.

Worst of all his angel’s usual warmth is buzzing beside him; it almost makes the demon uncomfortable to sit next to. The only reasonable comparison is a live wire. It’s something volatile and dangerous like it wasn’t moments ago, as if the angel was trying to forcibly keep something under control and failing.

Crowley hadn’t the faintest clue how to interpret this.

“Angel, I meant it,” Seemed a good place to start as any. It worked in some small way; Aziraphale turned his head enough to meet his gaze, those impossibly wide eyes making an appearance as he hung on Crowley’s every word. Damn those eyes. “I’m not going to leave you out on your ear, am I?”

Crowley wasn’t going to leave him at all. That much should be painfully evident if the two failed attempts at abandoning earth were anything to go by. Going anywhere without the angel just wasn’t an option for him anymore. Probably hasn’t been for about a thousand years.

Yet Aziraphale still looked so lost. He’d always had such an expressive face; he could tell more stories than his bookshop could hold with the things that face could do. Currently, his eyes were glistening, brow softly furrowed, cheeks dusted pink, lips parted on words that aren't likely to be spoken. Crowley knows that face will be the end of him one day.

“I’ve got a few bottles of 2009 Essence Bordeaux that I’ve been saving for a special occasion,” He offers, gently. “Averting the end of the world seems appropriate, don’t you think.”

The atmosphere around them begins to feel less dangerously electric and more like a mildly concerning fizzle.

“You’ve never offered that before.” The angel says suspiciously.

“I’ve been ageing it.” One shoulder lifts a little in a half shrug. “I’m sure a decade will suffice.”

“You said that about the Roussanne,” The demon groaned and turned his gaze away at the stark reminder of that process gone wrong. “and a decade was in fact far too long.”

“You still drank it.”

“It would have been a shame to waste it, really.” The sigh Aziraphale gives is fonder than he likely intended it to be.

They share a smirk and it feels like something all their own, secretive and special. On Crowley’s mental radar, everything settles back to normal with a wash of warm water over his very being. Whatever was troubling his angel seemed to be on the back burner for now.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

It’s almost completely inaudible. The demon turns his head to catch it and instead finds himself eye to eye with his best friend. The way he’s staring at him with such wonder makes Crowley glad his heart is entirely decoration; otherwise, it would be thumping in his chest like a bass drum. The gratitude clearly wasn’t just about tonight, he could understand that much, it was all-encompassing gratitude.

Not just thank you for letting me stay the night, but rather, thank you for staying by my side all this time.

He wanted to reply that there wasn’t anywhere in any universe he’d rather be, but admitting such things out loud weren’t becoming of a demon. Nor were they becoming of Crowley, honestly, who still flinched when he was called nice. So the only appropriate response seemed to be to demonstrate this point non-verbally. Specifically by slouching in his seat and leaning his weight against his friends side a little more, a slow grin adorning his features.

Aziraphale huffed a delicate laugh and rolled his eyes at the behaviour, likely not expecting a response any other way. The angel didn’t stop there, however, those perfectly manicured fingers reaching across to brush against the back of the hand lain in Crowley’s lap. The confident nature of the action was lost about halfway through, Aziraphale looking as if his limbs had acted of their own accord rather than his instruction and he was unsure where to go from here. Between them, the temperature starts to feel a little humid.

Crowley, not one for half measures, decided to aid his friend in his time of need. He flipped his hand over and entwined their fingers without a second thought.

There was something to be said about his role in this relationship, if it had an official title it would likely be something along the lines of ‘Here to Finish What Aziraphale Starts’. His job description was to pull the other out of near-death situations at the last second, give him a gentle push into beneficial decisions; and as of this moment assist him in instigating the affection he clearly wanted but wasn’t quite ready to ask for. Not that he had ever been anything but glad to hold this particular role. Crowley was, and always had been, unashamedly open about everything. At least in his opinion, he had been.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, had spent six thousand years denouncing their friendship in one breath and then asking him for lunch the next. It only made sense to the demon that the other was a bit skittish about hand holding.

Neither of them said anything about it- Obviously. But it was the most relaxed either of them been since arriving in Tadfield. The air around them settled back into something familiar.

For right now at least, Crowley was content to believe that this could be their eternity.

[racefortheironthrone]

Thoughts on Powers of X #4

Into the home stretch:

Good Times At Bar Sinister:

In retrospect, this may be the weakest issue of HoX/PoX and the closest that the miniseries come to a filler issue. Partly that’s to do with its role in the overall story: this is a denoument issue after the fireworks of the last two issues, and it’s also there to make sure that House of #5′s big reveal/undoing of the climax wasn’t literally the next week’s issue. On the other hand, it’s also probably the funniest issue in the miniseries, so I’d still call it a pretty good comic.

In this first segment, Magneto and Charles track down Mister Sinister on his ominous red crystal island, which continues the motif of ominous towers. When this is happening isn’t clear. We’re still in X^0, but Charles’ flying chair makes its first (only?) appearance suggests that it’s been a while. I really hope Powers of X #6 gives us a better Life 10 timeline, because some of these ordering questions are confusing.

The Guard Sinister sets the tone right off the bat - as we might expect from someone whose morality was shaped by Victorian England, Sinister is perfectly comfortable with being the “yes we have much” and telling the have nots to go away; but at the same time, being very into Aesthetics (note the first of many punctation for emphasis) and style, so that we’re not so much dealing with a guard as a club bouncer grading their outfits.

The clash with Xavier’s grey businessman’s suit and politesse and the vibe at Bar Sinister is immediately apparent, although Magneto’s similarly aggressive Aesthetic is clearly close enough to get them into the club even if Magneto wasn’t up for hurling Sinisters into rocks for being rude to his boyfriend who he kind of crippled although not in the 616 Charles.

Inside the club, the vibe is a weird blend of Edwardian-by-way-of-Lewis-Carroll and the fantasy medievalism of Melniboné. As we are introduced to Sinister the Capeless, I have to say that I find the version of Mister Sinister we get here really interesting, because what’s happening is a shift from glam to camp that’s been there from Kieron Gillen’s run and which has cropped up in Hickman’s earlier work. None of the Aesthetics have changed at all, it’s just that we’ve subtracted the self-seriousness that was sometimes there with the OG Sinister and added a sense of knowing humor to the whole affair. Doesn’t make it any less terrifying when Sinister the Capeless turns on a dime from “I. Love. That. Cape” to Red Queen murderousness - clearly we’re dealing with someone who is both highly powerful, highly intelligent, but also totally nonsensical.

Incidentally, as lines that would work great as t-shirt slogans go, “I can’t be shamed into changing who I am” has got to be up there. Also, very thematically appropriate for HoX/PoX as a whole.

At long last, Xavier and Magneto finally get to the reason why they’ve come to the Bar Sinister: they want Mister Sinister to build “a comprehensive database of mutant DNA” that is “safe. secure.redundant.” More than anything else, this feels like the (necessary?) evil of the founding of Krakoa. Other villainous mutants can be dealt with on the basis of ideology or self-interest or just dealt with, as we saw in House of X #6, but Mister Sinister is really the only one who has made himself indispensable to the broader mission.

However, this is all being done with the foreknowledge that Mister Sinister betrayed the mutant cause in Moira’s most recent life, so I don’t think this is being done out of typical Xavierian hubris.

The reaction is rather surprising: Capeless Sinister refuses out of aesthetic objections to the inclusion of “that aberrant gene” in his collection, which is not consistent with his previous characterization (although given the “they’re all crazy clones” thing, there’s an explanation right there), but is in keeping with Victorian eugenics. (I like Magneto’s very carefully worded lie about the future.)

And then finally we get the Mister Sinister we all know and love, complete with ribbon cape and everything, but him showing up blowing off another Sinister’s head with a handgun is weirdly jarring, like a sudden intrusion from some violent cartoon universe. On the other hand, “my mutant power is overthrowing tyrants and being absolutely fabulous” feels way more like the Sinister we know, and suggests that the hatchet is not buried with Apocalypse)

I like that Magneto is kind of into all of this, because for all that he can be Serious Business sometimes, he’s also someone who’s deeply into his own Aesthetic of overthrowing governments while being fashion-forward.

So here’s the thing about Xavier mind-controlling Sinister into forgetting why he’s doing all of this: I don’t think this is the whole of the plan to deal with Sinister’s sudden but inevitable betrayal. I think part of the point is to maintain quality control over the database, given the whole business with the deliberately-engineered quality control failures in LIfe 9. But I feel like Moira would insist on more redundancy than just relying on one psychic whammy sticking. 

Red Diamond Blind Items Infographic:

Speaking of comedy...this definitely is the funniest infographic we’ve gotten throughout the series. A bunch of these went way over my head, lots of them ended up as dropped plot threads which we’ll have to wait for Dawn of X to see if they get followed up on, but they were all entertaining.

Sinister Secret #1: this one is kind of vague, and I’m 99% certain it’s just a gossip columnist being catty about shoes. Incidentally, Louis XIV loved red heels so much that he decreed no one other than him could wear them.

Sinister Secret #2: in addition to being a clue about the Resurrection Machine bringing back all kinds of dead mutants, I like how this one continues one of the best elements of Grant Morrison’s run - the idea that mutants start developing a distinct culture - but now with a twist that it’s going to be happening even more that Krakoa is giving that culture a safe space to flourish.

Sinister Secret #3: Especially what with all the hints about Inferno throughout HoX/PoX, this is definitely about Madelyn Pryor. Dunno what she left behind, but it could well be some sort of resurrection failsafe. 

Sinister Secret #4: no idea what this refers to.

Revealed! Of all the X-genes out there for Sinister to use, why John Proudstar? It doesn’t fit with the powers he’s displayed in previous runs, and the only thing I could think of is that Proudstar is the first of the All-New X-Men to die (making it easier to get samples).

Sinister Secret #5: especially in the wake of House of X #6, this suggests that Scott and Jean are in a poly relationship/open marriage of some sort with Logan and/or Emma, and that the new mutant culture is developing its own values on sexuality and family structure, what with the First Law.

Sinister Secret #6: the HoXPoxToX on this issue gives the relevant citation, but I didn’t read the book so I don’t know which of the samples Ernst stole were supposedly destroyed.

Sinister Secret #7: this is a pretty clear reference to the whole messy continuity business about there being a third Summers brother, but also a nice hint that Sinister is completely full of shit and so these blind items have to be taken with a whole salt lick. (Incidentally, we’ve seen Vulkan showing up in promotional materials for Dawn of X, so that’s probably the Summers in question, which means we can finally stop talking about dumb theories about it being random male X-Men).

Sinister Secret #8: again with the pretender talk, but the real clue here is that Apocalypse’s major motivation is getting his original Horsemen back, which is significant for the next section.

Sinister Secret #9: especially with the reveal that Synch has been resurrected, this is pretty clearly referring to him and Jubilee, who are now at very different places in their lives post-resurrection. 

Revealed! As I’ve talked about before, Inferno is a running theme in HoX/PoX, and to be honest, if the new status quo of X-Men is going to involve any nostalgia riffs, it’s a good choice because it hasn’t been over-done as much as Days of Future Past, and ties in well with issues of clones, demons, and Sinister.

Sinister Secret #10: as I suggested above, the fact that Xavier saw all kinds of Sinisters running around suggests that he wasn’t relying on that tactic alone to safeguard his mutant future.

Linguistic Anthropology with Doug Ramsey:

So let’s talk about pith helmets - on the one hand, this is a callback to Cassandra Nova, but it’s an inversion: where Nova donned the helmet to show a Trask the instrument of mutant genocide, Xavier is wearing it to show a mutant a crucial part of the plan to reverse the Genoshan genocide. On the other, it’s a deliberately colonialist fashion statement: namely, that as with earlier attempts at establishing a mutant nation - San Marco, Genosha, Utopia, etc. - the mutant homeland is not unoccupied land and mutants are thus not entirely innocent of this particular sin of nation-states, whatever Magneto might say. Not the first and last time that nationalist projects have made this mistake.

Charles talks a good game about moving from adversary to ally with the land, but as we’ll see in just a bit he doesn’t understand Krakoa as much as he thinks he does, which undercuts his good intentions.

Doug introduces the techno-organic virus to Krakoa,which is significant both for the whole issue of biological vs. mechanical transhumanism and singularity, the potential threat from the Phalanx in X^3, but also is a sign that introducing new species to a habitat (something that’s happened quite often in the history of settler colonialism) is an easy overlooked problem.

I love the idea that the difference between telepathy and hyperlingualism is the difference between pidgin and anthropological thick description. Xavier might be able to hear anyone’s thoughts, but that doesn’t necessarily means that he understands said thoughts.

By contrast, Doug’s greater understanding means that he learns Krakoa’s origin myth, and is thematically appropriate for this series it’s a story of unity and division. The linkage between demonic incursions and Arakko/No-Place suggests Inferno, even as the Twilight Sword points to Surtur and Walt Simonson’s run on Thor. The key thing here, however, is that Apocalypse is portrayed as a tragic hero, sacrificing his original horsemen to seal away the demonic invasion and dividing the land - as Apocalypse wants to bring the OG Horsemen back more than anything, this would suggest that seal will be rebroken, causing a lot of chaos, but ultimately leading to the reunion of a sundered land.

As a reward for his insight, Doug is one of the few people who learn the whole plan, which places his “hopey-changey” comments from the very first issue in a different light.

Current Krakoan Systems Infographic:

I’m going to be brief here, because we already saw these systems in action last issue.

Here, the first thing I want to emphasize is how crucial Doug is to the founding of Krakoa - every single other system relies on his interface system. At the same time, we also learn that Forge is running the Krakoan skunkworks system which creates the biomachinery that all of Krakoa will run on as well. In other words, one founder creates the software and one founder creates the hardware. It’s yet another example of the Krakoan emphasis on accomplishing greater things through cooperation and creativity (and how very much this is a story about nationalism and not cults of personality).

 We Hope for Ascension:

I gotta say, I’m with a lot of other people who don’t get why this particular X^3 plot was chosen. It’s harder to grasp and the characters don’t have anywhere as near as much to connect with as X^2. That being said, I have some guesses, which will probably all be proven wrong tomorrow!

As I discussed the last time we saw the post-humans, the difference between conversion and ascension are much less clear than they first appeared...unless (unless...) we’re talking about the whole issue of the philosophy of identity. As the Elder points out, if your culture already has the idea of a self and a seer-self who’s already uploaded into a machine, are you really dying if your body dies? As I’ll get into way more in House of X #5, the argument that the post-resurrection mutants are clones and not the “real McCoys” rests on a particularly strong case of continuity of consciousness that I don’t think holds up to scrutiny.

At the same time, I do think we see here some signs of cultural weakness among the post-humans: they can’t tolerate the idea of being just short of the next step of consciousness/intelligence and are willing to do anything to achieve the goal of achieving the next schematic stage in machine consciousness development, because “isn’t that what’s next.” Except the problem is that it’s a rigged game - there’s always another level, always another Phalanx using you as a Technarch patsy, and it’s not clear from the outset whether these higher stages are all they’re cracked up to be.

Incidentally, I totally misinterpreted what happened here. Initially, I thought that the “seer-self”/recognition sequence thing suggested a way around losing “ sovereignty “ by introducing a memetic virus, given the way that the Phalanx undergo a sudden physical transformation. This doesn’t seem to be the case based on Powers of X #5.

How are the Phalanx not an empire? All they do is expand, consume resources, and either wipe out or “elevate” other cultures on the basis of their own ideas of cultural worthiness. That is the very definition of imperialism!

And here we see the bedrock incompatibility of biological and mechanical transhumanism/singularity. 

[kink-shame-the-birds]

What Comes After The Dust Has Settled (Maggot Husbands, Hastur/Ligur)

Summary: When everything that should have happened didn't, and when everything that shouldn't have happened did, the forces of Heaven and Hell are left reeling. But most of them had something worth going back to. The same can't be said for Hastur. His entire life's gone up in smoke. What's the point of sticking around Hell when all that's left are reminders of a demon who's never going to come home?

So, I uh... wrote a thing... Also on my AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a year since the apocalypse didn’t happen. After the failed extinction of the traitors, both Heaven and Hell had done their best to go back to how things were before the End. The world kept spinning, there was still work to be done. Nowadays, Hell was much quieter than it should have been. Tension gripped the air like an iron fist, and it kept the riotous voices of ten million demons subdued, most of them still finding the will to get back into the lives they’d planned on abandoning after the War started.

Six thousand years, wasted. All of that work had been for nothing, yet they were expected to just keep moving. A situation like that sucked every ounce of purpose from them all.

In other words, morale was at a record low.

But Hastur didn’t feel that. In comparison to losing his mate and the only demon he could’ve considered trusting, the torment of going back to work after what wasn’t the End was infinitesimal. Having Ligur there to pick up the pieces with would have made post-Armageddon palatable. All he wanted was to go curl up in their den, damp and dark enough for both of their liking, and huddle up until most of the unbidden chaos had passed. But going back now, he was only greeted by a home void of its soul matching the emptiness in his chest. Going back to his own desk was hardly better, with the eternal leak above it and with Ligur’s vacant desk to its right. Some new demon had taken Ligur’s place, who could never have hoped to fill it. That didn’t last for long. After leeching the life out of the other demon, Hastur left. Not just his office, he left Hell altogether. There was no reason to stick around for Dagon to chastise him or for yet another demon to replace the disintegrated one.

He hadn’t returned since.

It had been a year since the apocalypse didn’t happen. In that time, Hastur, Duke of Hell, had spent his days wandering the planet, going wherever his feet took him. Lurking was off the table. All that did was make the gap in his chest where a heart should have been ache. No, he instead he took part in what the humans called ‘people watching’. Technically, that also could have been considered lurking, but the different name let Hastur go about his business without being swamped with grief and guilt. Those things weren’t supposed to be felt by demons, but then again, most demons cared for nothing and no one other than themselves.

Wherever he ended up, Hastur always found a park bench or a nice perch and he would sit there until he got bored. He’d smoke and listen in on conversations, watch as humans went about their lives like everything was fine and nothing had happened. They hadn’t lost anything what with that bastard of an Anti-Christ putting everything back to the way it was.

Except Ligur.

He couldn’t remember when he’d last experienced envy. Humans milled around him, never sparing a glance at him, and he watched them embrace one another, scream at each other, and cry with each other. So what if a human they cared about died? They’d only known that person for about fifty years at most. Meanwhile, Hastur was forced to trudge through the rest of eternity without the demon who’d been by his side from the start. What was a measly handful of decades in comparison to over six thousand years?

Stewing in his own thoughts got him nowhere, and he’d made a point to move whenever he caught himself sinking too deep into his own head. London, Paris, Moscow, Seoul, Nairobi, Brasilia, Washington, and now back to England again, he never stayed anywhere for long.

On most days, he felt like he didn’t exist at all. Moving like a ghost through crowds of people. His lips chapped and mouth dried from not speaking to anyone but himself for months on end. Even on the better days, he couldn’t the motivation to make a human fall to temptation. It was like no one knew he existed. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Hell trying to contact him. He was alone, and Hastur had a feeling that he’d prefer for that to continue until everything truly came to an end.

In the absence of purpose, he was beginning to forget the sound of his own name.

It had been a year since the apocalypse didn’t happen. The anniversary of Ligur’s death was ushered in by a fierce storm. Thunder boomed through the sky, and the windows of buildings rattled in their frames. Lightning flashed in the distance, striking more than one tree and knocking out an entire town’s worth of power. But Hastur wouldn’t know that.

He remained as he had been the week before, and the week before that, slumped up against a dead tree next to a bog. Time passed easily without him noticing at all, and when the veritable tempest poured down on him, Hastur did little more than shiver as his eyes stared out into the murk. Like most rainy days, it seemed to last far longer than normal days did, as if God herself sought out to prolong his misery. All things must come to an end however, and day turned to dusk, turned to dark.

The rain didn’t stop.

But Hastur didn’t move, slouching as his eyes slipped closed to listen to the frogs croak in the swamp, the single source of solace he had on such a dreadful night.

When a lightning strike came down not four meters away, Hastur didn’t flinch. It had been one of dozens, and the only one worth mentioning was the strike that set his tree on fire. Then the tree thought better of it, not wanting to disturb the mourning demon’s brooding, and the fire died under Hastur’s will in an instant. The only problem with this latest bolt of lightning was that the smell of ozone lingered, and no clap of thunder had followed. Squelching footsteps through mud seemed to ring out above the sheets of pelting rain.

That could only mean one thing.

Hastur jerked out of his reverie, pushing himself away from his tree, and preparing himself for a fight. What the Hell was an angel doing next to a swamp, in the middle of the night, near him of all demons? Surely, he thought to himself, Hell would have contacted him somehow if the war with Heaven had begun?

A white figure made its way forward. Living in the blackness of the Pit gave demons the ability to see well in the dark, but that had its limits. He knew that whatever angel had come for him wasn’t armed, and they didn’t look like any angel he’d run into. Well, not recently at least. Their steps were slow and deliberate, coming straight for him. But he waited. Angels don’t go stomping around in the swamp in their pristine white clothes, much less in the rain, for a demon that hadn’t interacted with Hell in months. What did he have or do that made the agent of Heaven seek him out on a clichéd dark and stormy night?

               “’Ey, Wank-wings,” Hastur called, “Ain’t you got better things to do than play in the puddles?”

The figure stopped, but Hastur still couldn’t quite make out their face. Clouds above parted for a second, briefly illuminating their face, revealing dark hair and dark skin, the rest remaining a blur. He knew that the angel had heard him over the pouring rain. Why weren’t they saying anything?

               “I said,” he growled in irritation, “’Ey, Wank-wings! ‘Ain’t you got better things to do?”

Silence. Hastur wasn’t sure why, but the angel was hesitating. Waiting, maybe? Whatever, it was interesting, and he wanted to resume sulking in the mud undisturbed.

               “Look. I got places to be,” he didn’t, “An’ I got better things to do than shout at some stuck-up chicken in a robe,” again, he really didn’t, “Whaddya want?!”

Again, silence. Huffing, he’d just about had enough of whatever stupid game the other was playing. If that holier-than-thou bastard would get lost, he could get back to his moping, but no. ‘One more time,’ Hastur told himself, ‘then I’ll go for blood.’

               “Last chance, ang- “

“Hastur,” at last, the angel spoke, “Stop.”

Hastur froze, choked, and damn near swallowed his tongue. First off, of course it had to be raining when something like this happened. Second, he’d know that voice anywhere. It was the same voice that had greeted him every day, had hushed him while his panic got the better of him, and had asked him to pass the cigarette that Hastur had dangling from his lips.

Oh, this was low, even for a demon’s standards. The forces of Heaven had tracked him down to taunt him and nothing else. Well, wasn’t that nice?

               “I dunno what you’re trying to accomplish tonight, angel,” he said, “But, I do I know what you’re trying to do to me. Piss off, ‘m not that stupid.”

With a huff of annoyance that trailed off into a snarl, the angel hiked up his robed and started slopping through the mud again, faster now. The rain began to taper down, and Hastur stood his ground, frame undaunted and his eyes fixed on the frustrated angel.

               “Never said or thought you were stupid, Hastur,” the angels voice was cut over by the gross squishing noises, “An’ I ain’t doing nothin’ other than trying to see you again, arsewipe!”

At last, the angel came into full view. Frowning and covered from the calves down in muck, was his beloved back from the dead, sans the chameleon he’d always worn. Hastur’s jaw went lax, staring on in disbelief. That had to be Ligur, no angel would ever use that kind of slur. But then what was the deal with the robes? And his missing familiar? And most importantly, where had he been? What could have happened that would keep Ligur away from him for a year? He made to ask, to try and joke to brighten the irritated angel’s mood. Uh, demon? Shit, no. Lover? Too brash. Who knew if the other would remember that integral aspect of their relationship? Old friend? There we go! But before he could stop it, his thoughts collapsed in at the last second and the question he really wanted to ask slipped out instead.

               “How? You were gone,” Hastur’s lip started quivering before he had half a mind to stop it, “You melted right in front of me. You were screaming, and I was screaming, and everything started falling apart, and you were dead! Not discorporated, dead! Extinct! Annihilated! Murdered by that damned trait- “

Before he could react, Ligur stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Hastur, squeezing him tight, just on this side of painful. Hastur halted tirade with a choking sound, and the demon couldn’t hold everything back anymore. For the first time in what seemed to be ages, Hastur held his love back, and sobbed.

               “I know,” Ligur muttered, streaking his too-clean hand through Hastur’s matted, greasy mop of hair, cupping his nape, “I know, but I’m back now. It’s over. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I was gone for so long. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner.”

The angel began his own slew of words, and Hastur was half tempted to throw Ligur off of him, to get angry and throw a fit after being consumed by sorrow for a year. The other half, the part of him that had dreamt about this kind of reunion the one time he passed out on a park bench, wanted this point in time to last forever. There hadn’t been mud, rain, frogs, and his very demon husband transformed into an angel in the dream though, that would have been weird and oddly prophetic.

Hastur’s softer side, his second half, won out. The only being he gave two shits about had risen from the dead like Jesus fucking Christ himself. Who gave a damn if they’d both collapsed on their knees and sunk into the soft ground? They held onto each other for dear life, like the other was the only think keeping them from falling apart. Inky black seeped from Hastur’s eyes and into the soaked fabric on Ligur’s shoulder as his grief purged itself from his body.

All the while, Ligur had been talking as Hastur had his minor breakdown, and with the way his voice was cracking, Ligur was near ready to shatter too.

               “-And when I finally got out, they wouldn’t let me back into Hell. Wouldn’t have mattered anyway because they had no clue where you went either. I’ve been looking for months, and here you are, wasting away-”

His voice gave out then, and whatever hiccups the two gave while weeping were swept away by the dying storm.

The sun was creeping over the horizon by the time they parted, Hastur’s coat spattered with glittering silver while Ligur looked like he’d fallen into a tarpit sideways. They had to hand onto each other as they wrenched themselves out of the swamp’s ground, both of them having sunken up to their thighs. An unspoken agreement was made that they should leave and find somewhere to dry off. And talk. They needed to have a long talk. After all, a mire was hardly a place for a serious conversation, even by demon standards.

The closest town was quiet when they arrived, not a soul in sight. They found the one inn, and Hastur nicked keys to a room before they finally settled down. Once the door was closed, Hastur collapsed into the beat-up armchair, then watched in surprise when the angel flopped forwards with a groan onto the bed with mostly clean sheets. Filth from his robe stained the fabric instantly, and something in Hastur twitched even though Ligur looked content sprawled out as he was.

               “’Ain’t you uncomfortable?”

               “What,” Ligur cracked an eye open and stared at him, “With the mud?”

               “Well, that an’ the messing up the sheets, an’ me stealing keys for the room. You know since you’re a...” Hastur gestured at the angel.

               “I’ll be honest, it does…” Ligur answered slowly, “But not too much. I’m still me, you know that, right? Just because they stuck me in this awful getup and messed up the way I think doesn’t mean that I’m not me anymore.”

Ligur’s tone was defensive and Hastur slipped into another un-demon-like emotion: Regret. Whatever, he needed to focus on being a husband rather than a demon right now. He hadn’t meant to upset Ligur, especially now when they were just stitching themselves back together again. After just getting him back, Hastur couldn’t afford to lose him. Not now. Not ever again until the Almighty herself ceased to exist.

               “’m sorry. It’s just,” Hastur’s eyes flicked around the room for a moment, looking for an answer hidden in the room somewhere, anywhere but at Ligur, “I feel like this is some weird hallucination. Like I’ve fallen asleep again, and I’m gonna wake up any time now out in the mud and the rain, alone.”

He could feel Ligur’s eyes boring into him.

               “Course you’re still you. You’re the only bastard who I’d let get away with callin’ me an arsewipe,” he grinned briefly, the smile gone as quick as it came, “I thought you were gone forever, you know? Part a me felt like I died with you, and I wished I really had. ‘rest a Hell went back to work, but I…” he trailed off, his voice dying out.

               “I missed you too,” Ligur said, “For a while there, I thought that I’d never get away from those angels. Thought they’d keep me there ‘til they broke me.”

Hastur’s eyes shot open wide and he jolted up. The fear that had been nibbling at the back of his mind shot to the forefront.

               “Broke you?” Hastur screeched, “What happened? What did they do to you?”

Ligur clammed up, his teeth clenching, eyes going foggy and distant. A memory was dragged up from its watery grave, rotten, ugly, and stinking, only to be shoved back under the surface. He swallowed and shook his head.

               “A lot,” he muttered, “Don’t wanna talk about it. You don’t wanna know.”

               “Don’t wanna know? If I didn’t wanna know, I wouldn’t have asked!”

               “Hastur, please,” Ligur put his hand out, trying to placate his love, “What happened in Heaven is over. There ‘ill be time for payback, later.”

He tried to move forward to embrace Hastur again, only to gasp and keel over onto the floor. Panicking, Hastur slipped from his chair and went to place a hand on Ligur’s back, words of concern and comfort nearly leaving his mouth before he snatched his hand back. There was a faint twinkle of gold shining through the damp white of Ligur’s clothes.

               “Ligur, ’m taking the robe off.”

               “Wait, hang on- “

The filthy cloth vanished from the angel’s body revealing a mess of lacerations and burns, so many of them that they formed one large wound, so big that you couldn’t tell where one cut began, and another ended. It was all scabbed over, but pieces of the gold were flicking off to reveal green puss festering underneath.

Neither angels nor demons ever got sick, and when they did, it was serious. An infection should have been fought off easily or miracle it away.

Gently, Hastur took the angel’s hands into his, squeezing them tight as he tried to reign his emotions in.

               “You’ve been looking for me in this condition? For how long?!”

               “Hastur- “

               “Don’t you ‘Hastur’ me! You look…” he stopped, his voice turning into croaking, “Awful. And not in the nice handsome awful you normally look.”

It was true, though it pained them both to acknowledge it.

Before, when he’d been out in the rain, he didn’t really pay attention to Ligur’s appearance after realizing who he was. Hastur had been too focused on simply having his husband back in his arms alive. Now, he could see the dark bags under Ligur’s eyes looked sicklier, nothing like what they had been. While the angel’s hands were clean, they shook in Hastur’s grip, even after he ran his thumb over Ligur’s knuckles. At a second glance, he spotted more of the flaking gold of angel’s blood dug underneath his fingernails.

Under the pungent odor of earth and rain water, Ligur didn’t smell right for either an angel or a demon. It wasn’t rot or ozone, must nor whatever flowery shit that Heaven smelled like. It wasn’t the smell that Hastur knew like the back of his hand. He couldn’t put a name to it but paired with how Ligur kept his gaze to the stained carpet and how hard the angel was trying to put on a brave face, it made Hastur want to curl up and die. The person before him was beaten up and more vulnerable than he’d ever seen them. It wasn’t right…

The room fell silent, and the angel slumped forward, making a point to bury his face in Hastur’s jacket.

               “I know I look like shit,” came Ligur’s muffled reply, “’Didn’t want you to see me like this, but I just got too caught up in finding you again…”

               “Ligur,” he said, “You’re hurt and ill, and you were looking for me for Satan knows how long now.”

               “Only about a month-”

               “So those fine feathered fuckers tortured you for the other eleven, eh?!”

For a moment, Hastur almost let his temper get the best of him. His veins burned and his blood boiled with want to slaughter the ones responsible for Ligur’s suffering, whatever they’d done to him. Once justice was served, they could go back home, to their nest, with the looming specter of Heaven averted from them so they could live in relative peace. Ligur gripped Hastur’s arm, and looked up, pleading with his eyes, and hastily pulled together plans of total annihilation and pain dissolved.

               “Not quite, but I told you, I don’t want to talk about it here or now,” Ligur growled through gritted teeth, “I want to clean up, rest with my husband, then go home, somehow… Hastur, I just want to go back home, but they won’t even let me back in…”

Hastur watched his husband, eyebrows pinched together as he gave a solemn nod. His main priority was Ligur right now. He was hurt, he needed to heal, and they’d have to see if they could rid Ligur of his newfound divinity. If fate would be the smallest bit kind to them, Ligur wouldn’t have to fully Fall again, it would be too much for him to take in his state. Carefully, Hastur caught the angel’s chin and moved him up, pressing their foreheads together, both of them closing their eyes.

               “We can fix this, promise,” Hastur said, “And even if you can’t go back, I won’t either. ‘s not the same without you. ‘s not home... ‘missed you…”

               “I missed you more, you absolute git.” Ligur huffed out with fondness.

               “Not possible,” Hastur drew away from the angel, “Now then, let’s get you cleaned up some, get some of the mud and the stink of Heaven off you.”

               “’m tired of being not-dirty.”

               “Well,” Hastur stood to his full height and tucked his arms around Ligur’s waist. “We can get a fresh coating of filth on you in celebration once you’re a bit better but being caked in swamp muck isn’t doing anyone any favors.”

With that, Hastur pulled his husband up with a grunt, wincing when Ligur let out a hiss of pain. Doing his best to avoid pressing onto his back, the demon waddled them both to the small ensuite bathroom, and maneuvered Ligur into the damn near microscopic tub. He stepped back and looked around for a cloth and soap. As much as he’d rather not use it, Ligur usually smelled absolutely fantastic as he was, covered in guts and gunk, but desperate times…

               “Hastur, love,” Ligur said, “Maybe it’d be best if we get you taken care of first, you’re not doing we- “

“Shut it!” Hastur snapped, “You’ve taken care of me Satan knows how many times when I’ve fared far better than you are now. I’m not letting you brush off wounds from holy instruments to tend to my shot nerves. ‘m not that selfish. Just let me look after you for a change… please.”

Ligur couldn’t really argue with that, and he settled down quietly, watching Hastur draw his bathwater. He didn’t make a peep when he had warm water dumped over his head, and he only groaned when Hastur tried and failed to wash away the gathering puss on his back without pain. Water in the tib clouded over in minutes, and it was drained before the tub was refilled again.

Rinse and repeat until Hastur was satisfied with his work.

               “You know,” Ligur said when they were back into the bedroom, “’kinda feel like you’re treating me like a fledgling now, not even letting me dry ‘yself.”

The demon didn’t respond, too focused on dabbing away the dampness on his back.

               “We’ll get this cleaned up better later. For now, we’ll just let it air out,” Hastur tossed aside the towel and tugged the bedsheets back, “We’ll sleep, Satan knows both of us could use it.”

Ligur didn’t argue when Hastur nudged him down onto his stomach, knowing that his mate only had the best on intentions, although he was rather insufferable when he got into one of his moods like this. He couldn’t blame the demon though. If Ligur had been the one to be left to languish in his grief then had Hastur drop into his lap after being gone so long in this condition, he’d’ ve been a right state himself.

               “And don’t you think that we won’t be talking about what happened to you upstairs,” Ligur winced, “You still need to tell me what they put you through, but that can wait for now.”

After kicking off his boots, vanishing his filthy clothes, and miracling away the muck on his body, Hastur crawled under the itchy quilt and curled up close to the other. They pulled each other close and did their best to settle down.

As they drifted off, the rain outside started again, now only soft tapping against the window panes and a deep rumble of thunder in the distance. Things would be more difficult from here on out, but that would wait until tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. For now, the mated pair clung to each other and slept.

The troubles of facing what had come after the world hadn’t ended would be easier now that they weren’t alone.

[honeylikewords]

Anon Asked: Ok so i’m curious: if you can, could you rank your favorite Oscar boys from least to most boyfriend material? they all seem very charming and sweet but i can’t figure out who the cream of the crop is!

First of all, THANK YOU, I  L O V E  making lists of my favorite things. You guys know that. Listicle formats are, like, my lifeblood. Thank you for enabling me.

Second, I’m going to rate these on MY personal scale. Now, I also should point out that “husband” and “boyfriend” mean two different things to me, and that I instinctively value “husband” material more than “boyfriend” material. The “husbands” are going to be the winners of this list, because I can see them having long-term, fulfilling, happy and mutually beneficial relationships with their partners. So, without further ado, here is my list, from LEASTboyfriend-able to MOST husband-able.

1. The Unmentionables Category.

These boys don’t even get to be part of the discussion because in their roles they are either misogynistic, evil, assaulters, or something else to prevent them from entering the race. A little villain apologism here and there is okay sometimes, but only to certain degrees, and these boys exceed it. Blue Jones, Nathan Bateman, En Sabah Nur/Apocalypse, and John, King of England all exceed my limitations. Begone, thots. You’re disqualified for the Boyfriend Campaign Race. (I do still like them as characters, though, or for Sexy Oscar Gifs, but they’re just… un-boyfriend-able!)

2. The Low Tier Boyfriends.

These boys are boyfriend-able, but come with some problems. Can we sort them out on here and make them into better boys on this blog with careful re-writes? Maybe! Are we doing that in this list? No! We’re just taking objective looks at these Oscar-boys as they stand. So, here are the low tier boyfriends.

Laurent LeClaire: He’s sexy, but he’s also, like, a murderer. And a bit of a playboy. Could we make him better on this blog? Absolutely! But, as before, we’re just looking at them as they are. So, sexy French boy or no, he’s a pretty low-ranking Oscar for the murders and the philandering.

John “Jack” Johnson: Kinda dirty, kinda rude, also a murderer, but nice to dogs and pretty darn intelligent. He’s sure somethin’. Only slightly higher on the list than Laurent simply because I liked him and he made me laugh, and he was good to a dog, so I suppose that’s a tick for him!

Bud Cooper: A bit of a sneaky boy! I like him a lot, but his trickery and sneakery place him lower on the list. Still, points for looking good in a weird mustache, and points for being clever!

3. The Middle Tier Boyfriends.

These boys are much more boyfriend-able, but still have baggage. Could you work around it? Hypothetically, sure! But we’re still just discussing canon behavior, so let’s rock and roll.

Llewyn Davis: Llewyn is shockingly low despite how much I like him, but he has a LOT of issues. Besides his inability to hold a stable job and the couch surfing, Llewyn struggles with attitude problems and relationship issues, apparently having to deal with the issue of terminated pregnancies with two women. We could certainly gloss over that for a more romanticized Llewyn on this blog, but I think it’s important to address that while he holds a place in my heart, he’s a difficult person and a little hard to love, maybe because he doesn’t know how to love others or himself yet. So, he’s higher on the list because at least he isn’t a criminal, but he’s low-ranker because of his life issues. Maybe if he sorted himself out more…

Basil Stitt: Basil’s got problems. I mean, just… a lot of problems. But I like him, and I like his scars, so I think we can work with him. Having a paranoid breakdown after sustaining an injury isn’t the worst thing that a person could do, right? We’ve all been there; scared, alone, afraid. I think, with time, Basil could really make steps in the right direction and be quite a cute boyfriend.

Shiv: Shiv’s a sweetheart. He’s doing his best in a world not inclined to allow him the freedom to do so. Sure, he’s a criminal, but he has a heart of gold and wants to make his son happy. He wants to do better. He’s kind, if misled, and a little dumb, but, hey, morosexuals stand up, ya know? He’s a cutie, even though he’s involved in some shady business. With a cleanup and a fresh start somewhere else, who knows? Maybe he could be a much better boy and end up in the husband range!

4. The High Tier Boyfriends.

Oh, now, these are some boys. These are some cute boys. Oof. Yeah. Let’s see these boys!

Rydal Keener: Poet, dancer, thinker, and sometime scam-artist, Rydal is a Grecian romance just waiting to happen. He’s not perfect, but he’s passionate, he’s sweet, and he’s doing his level best to try and get himself out of a sticky situation. He’s young; let’s find him some young love!

Standard Gabriel: Oh, Standard, how my heart beats for thee. I love Standard, and the only reason he’s lower on the list is because he’s got a lot going on in his life that makes it hard for him. Cheating wife, creepy people following him around, prison sentence sitting on his shoulders from the past; things are hard for our baby. But he’s resilient, he’s loving, and he’s loyal. And if given a new chance in a new place, I fully believe that Standard would be a great boyfriend, and, someday, a great husband.

Reeves: Sentimental, sweet, and a sumptuous songwriter, Reeves rings of a great boyfriend. He’s soft and tender, but firm when necessary, funny, relaxed, and witty. This guy has it all, and when he finds love, he hangs on tight. Ten plus years, tight, apparently; he’s still chasing the girl he had a crush on in high school! How sweet is he?! A beautiful boyfriend, no doubt.

5. Husband Tier.

These boys are the peak performance. These boys bring it. These boys aren’t just boyfriends, they’re partners, fiancés, and, one day, husbands. These are not just boys… they’re Men.

Kane: Loyal husband and dutiful soldier, Kane’s endured a lot, but still did his best to come home to his wife, even if it wasn’t “him”. Kane deserves to be a husband with a woman who will love and appreciate him as he loves and appreciates her (which I assert is NOT Lena. Lena did NOT appreciate that man). The only reason he’s lower on this list is because of the unfortunate nature of his storyline, and because he’s part-alien now. Actually, that last one isn’t that bad. He’s a cute alien. We stan.

Santiago Garcia: This man has been through so much, and I want him to be happy. He’s kind, great with kids, funny, generous, protective, and strong. I would rant and rave about him, but then this post would be a mile long. I love you, Santi. Brave boy. Husband.

Orestes: Orestes was in love with the same woman since he was a young man and advocated for her freedom and equal status in society, trusting her as his sole counsel consistently through his years as a public servant. The dude took a stone to the head for defending her. He went on stage to declare his love and play her a beautiful two-flute solo, for God’s sake! This man is husband material.

Mikael Boghosian: Actual angel. Has endured the depths of hell. Deserves all the love in the universe. My words are not enough for his goodness. Please, someone, fill this man’s life with joy and light. I am begging. This is a husband.

Abel Morales: I would fucking die for Abel Morales but he’s so good a man that he would never let me. My love for him is as boundless as the stars and twice as bright. May God’s light shine forever on his perfectly coiffed hair. Holy angel of the heating oil industry.

Miguel O’Hara: SPIDER-MAN, SPIDER-MAN, DOES WHATEVER A SPIDER CAN! FILLS MY HEART, UP WITH LOVE, AT OUR WEDDING RELEASE SOME DOVES! LOOK OUT, I LOVE YOU, SPIDER-MAN! But in all seriousness, the guy’s great. A goober, yes, but nevertheless, his fangs have pierced my heart and I am paralyzed with love for him and also venom.

Poe Dameron: I betcha all knew he’d be at the top of this list. I betcha knew. He’s… Poe Dameron, you know? What can I say that hasn’t already been said? We know he’s wonderful. He just is. He carries his mother’s ring, searching for his future spouse. This man is a husband. I love him. I will not change my mind.

6. Honorable Mention Husband.

Peter Malkin: Since Peter Malkin is based on a real person, I feel hesitant to talk about him. However, since the movie was juuuuust enough divorced from reality and his character changed juuuuustenough to call it fictionalized, I’ll include him. I love Peter Malkin. He’s a good good Jewish boy who visits his Mama for Shabbat and wears his kippah and that man is a primo husband. N*zi hunter, loving son, honorable soldier. We have chosen to stan forever. And wed, when the time is right. Mazel tov!

There are some other boys who didn’t make the list simply because I didn’t wanna go too overboard and make a too overwhelming post, but here’s my general take on the order from least to most boyfriend-able, and then husband-able. This list also shifts around depending on my mood, and the order in which some of the husbands are categorized can change from day to day. I love them all! I will not be silenced!

I hope that helps, and if anyone is curious about where a non-mentioned boy falls on the scale, lemme know and I’ll either add him or explain his spot in a separate post!

[ninnetta153gaming]

What should i look for in a gaming monitor

Taking into consideration Moving To Pc Gaming?

Enthusiast Gaming is a media and technology business developing the biggest neighborhood of genuine gamers. Travel into a virtual world with a VR headset , where all of your senses will be treated to a barrage of stimulus from many sources. With the Oculus Rift + Touch Virtual Reality Program , you'd have to prepare yourself for additional intense gameplays, additional immersive action, and a completely new and exhilarating gaming gift practical experience as the package currently comes with 6 VR games that will retain your heart pumping by means of your chest. The Oculus Touch controllers are ingeniously made for optimum and unparalleled interaction with the numerous elements in the virtual globe. You will require to meet specific program needs on your computer system, though. This also makes a excellent gift for nerds in your life.

With elegant style including cool blue lighting, the Lenovo IdeaPad L340 Gaming is an perfect mainstream laptop for the contemporary multi-tasker and undercover gamer. Out there in 15-inch or 17-inch models, the Lenovo IdeaPad L340 Gaming has subsequent-gen attributes like up to the newest 9th Gen Intel Core i7 mobile processor, NVIDIA GeForce GTX 1650 GPUs and jaw-dropping Dolby Audio hardwired into the laptop to take transportable gaming into an additional dimension.

You have played thousands of different board games, yes that is correct not hundreds, but thousands. You are a member of various gaming groups, and you have come to realise that distinct groups have diverse personalities and exclusive dynamics. You recognize what style of games you take pleasure in and precise mechanics that you do and do not like in a game. You don't actively preach or inform persons about board games, but when asked you are an ambassador for the genre and with your vast information you can constantly add thoughtful discussion and predictions regarding games you are however to play. Your collection is the excellent range of games that you like. It is not uncomplicated for a new game to make it into your collection, and you have a defined a rigorous trial of fire that any game should meet to make it effectively into your collection.

Do you love to fight even though developing your own town or village in a game? If yes, Clash of Clans is the finest option for your gaming wants. It is 1 of the most well-known games by Supercell. It is a multiplayer game that comes free of charge of price with in-app purchases. The primary aim of the player is to develop a village and fill it with everything that the villagers will will need. A town hall, gold mine, army camp and a great deal far more get unlocked in the course of the course of time.

When it comes to graphical intensity there definitely is no comparison among mobile gaming and Computer and console gaming. While handheld devices such as the Nintendo Switch present a mobile alternative , it still doesn't pack enough punch to definitely compete on an even field with the Computer and console market — and the average smartphone possesses even significantly less graphical power. Whilst there have been massive advancements in mobile technology, with new devices coming equipped with far more highly effective processors and RAM than ever before, only Computer and consoles are able to deliver the power expected for 4K imaging, the hottest new thing in gaming.

We're going to the International Festival for Enterprise this month and will be hosting a one of a kind event Inspiring Entrepreneurs '˜Going Global' exactly where prime business enterprise individuals will inform us the secrets of their achievement. One of these entrepreneurs is Paul Sulyok, CEO and Founder of Green Man Gaming Green Man Gaming is a pioneering, worldwide eCommerce technology firm that has gone from strength to strength considering that its launch in 2010. We asked him how he did it.

And finally, in order to keep your audience closer to you, do not forget to add a make contact with type and subscription kind to your gaming site. Operating a gaming weblog let your readers comment on your publications. Under no circumstances miss a possibility to reply to the comments of your readers. This will show that you care about the time that individuals spent to appear by way of your data.

Gaming was after deemed a solitary previous time, but this assumption is now a issue of the past. These days, gamers share their hobby digitally with other individuals from all about the world. This takes location via reside Internet sessions on Twitch and even the most preferred of social media platforms currently. On social networking web sites like YouTube, blogs and Instagram, influencer video game content material dominates. There are now actually thousands of gaming influencers creating content material for social media platforms like YouTube and blogs. And the largest and brightest of these influencers have enormous followings. In reality, several of the best YouTubers in the planet have been originally gaming influencers.

Powered by NVIDIA Tegra four, SHIELD portable is made for those who demand incredible gaming experiences. It features precise, tactile controls and the most current version of Android KitKat, providing you the best way to play your favorite Android games. Play the games you currently own or opt for from the most effective titles on Google Play and the NVIDIA SHIELD Hub app. With SHIELD transportable, Android games will lastly have the console-grade controls and graphics performance they deserve.

PenNews is a contemporary and clever responsive WordPress multiconcept news & magazine web site theme. It Homepage really is a powerful platform for webmasters across the spectrum. Regardless of market place or niche, PenNews has the demos and templates to make your life less difficult. You do not need to have to know any coding to operate the WP Bakery like a pro. Great post designs fit diverse stories, to always provide the message right. Gaming magazines and news blogs are a excellent fit for PenNews.

Is READY Worth [$] To You?

Green Man Gaming is a well-liked web site that sells video and computer games. Comparable to each F.Y.E. and Gamestop, it also lets customers get cash for games they trade or sell to the web site. Even though it is primarily based out of England, the internet site delivers shipping to prospects around the planet. Whether or not you want a new game for your PS4, a kid-friendly game for the Wii or even a battle game for your Pc, Green Quit Gaming ought to be your very first quit.

Zombie games in AR are the true hit of today's gaming market. Zombie GO is a single prime example of outstanding Augmented Reality shooter games. It brings zombie apocalypse into the actual globe, at least that's what the producer tell. As a player, you walk by means of your dwelling, college or the nearest parking lot and expect zombies to pop up at any second. Then action starts - fight and kill with a weapons of your option.

SHIELD wireless controller has a massive constructed-in rechargeable Li-ion battery for hours for immersive gaming. With up to 40 hours of gameplay on a single charge, you can use the SHIELD wireless controller for numerous play sessions with no having to charge it back up. A single hour of charge provides up to 8 hours of gameplay. The controller charges from empty to full in significantly less than five hours.

Do not you want you had your pretty personal arcade machine ideal in the comfort of your property? What if we told you that we have found a gaming method that is not only reminiscent of retro gaming arcades but is also made to match ideal in your hands? That is what the My Arcade Retro Arcade Machine Handheld Gaming Technique is all about. This handheld gaming console is made quite considerably like an old-school gaming arcade total with genuine D-buttons and joystick. Nonetheless, its compact design and style tends to make it a quite handy arcade complete with 200 of your favourite pc games of the 80s and 90s.

Video games have been around since the 1950s when the earliest pc scientists started producing easy games as component of their analysis. Video games remained a hobby of scientists till the 1970s when the very first video game arcades opened. But video games didn't go mainstream until the 1980s when technology was developed to move arcade games into the house. This ushered in a new era of home console gaming led by businesses like Nintendo, Sega and Atari.

[usnewsaggregator-blog]

Can little Middleburg stay its ground against America’s retail apocalypse?

New Post has been published on http://usnewsaggregator.com/can-little-middleburg-stay-its-ground-against-americas-retail-apocalypse/

Can little Middleburg stay its ground against America’s retail apocalypse?

Shoppers are reflected in the windows of Highcliffe Clothiers in Middleburg, Va. “None of us, and I say us retailers, are able to escape the Amazons of the world,” shop owner Mark Metzger said. “But there are plenty of people who still like to try on clothing, see things in the mirror.” (Pete Marovich/For The Washington Post)

Mark Metzger grew tired of the retail business in downtown Washington, so he took his high-end Highcliffe Clothiers an hour west to Middleburg, the heart of Virginia horse country.

A decade later, Metzger is wrapping up his best year ever. His success is bucking retail’s slow strangulation by Amazon.com (Amazon founder and chief executive Jeffrey P. Bezos owns The Washington Post). His story is also one of the bright spots in quaint Middleburg (population 780), whose main-street businesses are grappling with encroaching technology, ever-increasing overhead and limited shopping hours.

Bricks-and-mortar retail is under assault. Thousands of mall stores have shut down in one of the largest waves of retail closures in American history. Abercrombie & Fitch, Sears, Macy’s. Who is next? Lord & Taylor’s flagship Fifth Avenue store in Manhattan was just bought by tech unicorn WeWork for $850 million.

And now, the contagion has seeped into little Middleburg, a seeming bastion of wealth and aristocracy. When several shops closed, a Fauquier Times headline hinted at a business community in dire straits: “ ‘Perfect storm’ leaves Middleburg grappling with empty storefronts.”

Let’s be clear. This isn’t Flint, Mich. Or Janesville, Wis. Or my hometown of Syracuse, N.Y., all of whose economies have been decimated by factory closures that vaporized thousands of jobs.

I am not making light of the plight of Middleburg businesses, but this is fixable. It’s a cycle, not a downward spiral. And remember, Loudoun County is one of the wealthiest areas on the planet.

“The town, over all those years, has had waves of peaks and valleys,” said Middleburg Mayor Betsy Davis, whose family has owned the Fun Shop since 1956. “Sometimes several businesses close at the same time. People retire. It’s healthy.”

[She gave up a $100,000 job for this: World chocolate domination]

Rick Allison, left, co-owner of the King Street Oyster Bar, talks with Jamie Gaucher, Middleburg’s director of economic development. “This is an economy built on visitors, whether those visitors are coming from the District of Columbia, from Chantilly, from Shanghai or London, ” Gaucher said. (Pete Marovich/For The Washington Post)

The town hired Jamie Gaucher as its new director of economic development to help push a Middleburg renaissance.

“This is an economy built on visitors, whether those visitors are coming from the District of Columbia, from Chantilly, from Shanghai or London, ” Gaucher said. “It’s about building reliance on the local economy. There’s a lot of energy around performing arts, concerts at Salamander Resort, horses, fox hunting, history, lots of Civil War. Why do they come here? Because they want to experience it.”

Middleburg has classed up the downtown with new streetlights and brick crosswalks. But the town needs diversification so it can drive more traffic to its businesses. That means connecting resources in the town, whether it’s Salamander Resort events or gatherings at Foxcroft, an elite boarding school for girls.

My wife, Polly, and I drove the 60 miles west on a gloomy day last week to see the Middleburg disruption, crisis or whatever you want to call it. We eventually found ourselves ensconced in comfortable velvet chairs in Metzger’s store, listening to a primer from the retailer.

“What you have to remember about Middleburg is it’s a walking-around town,” said Metzger, whose clubby confines includes a couple of fifths of whiskey resting on a shelf, reserved for favorite customers who like a nip between fittings. “None of us, and I say us retailers, are able to escape the Amazons of the world. But there are plenty of people who still like to try on clothing, see things in the mirror.”

[How a government paralegal mastered portrait photography to make millions]

A couple takes a stroll on Washington Street. Middleburg “over all those years has had waves of peaks and valleys,” said Mayor Betsy Davis, whose family has owned the Fun Shop since 1956. (Pete Marovich/For The Washington Post)

With more than 30 years in retailing, this is no pastime. Metzger is an unsentimental businessman. During the better part of an hour, he provided a detailed assessment on some of the businesses around town and their chances of success.

Metzger, 57, has five employees, including himself, and I would not be shocked if he sells $1 million worth of clothing and accessories to men and women this year. He won’t say exactly, but he did not dispute my estimate.

He grew up outside New York, graduated from Antioch College with a business degree and has been in retail just about ever since. He left Washington when he saw a decline in demand for his custom suits. So he relocated to Middleburg, expanded into women’s clothing and started selling casual wear.

Retail is no place for amateurs, even in comfy Middleburg. People still talk about a dollar store that lasted a nanosecond. An olive oil tasting room bailed. The Home Farm Store in a former bank at the traffic-light intersection has been replaced by an oyster bar, run by a seasoned restaurateur.

One local investor I talked to who spoke on the condition of anonymity because the person didn’t want to alienate the residents in this small town, said real estate prices have increased because of supply. Middleburg is surrounded by estates with protected green space. There is limited space for development. Landlords have paid high prices for what’s left — which is passed on to the retail renters.

“The rents in general are high,” said Duane Ellis, who owns Common Grounds coffee shop, which is kind of a town living room where the cognoscenti gather. “But when you think about it, where aren’t rents high? Middleburg has always had high rents. It comes with the Zip code.”

[Here’s how to get your video footage into a TV show or movie]

The Historic Red Fox Inn is reflected in the window of the Shaggy Ram antique store. (Pete Marovich/For The Washington Post)

To stay in business and pay those rents, Metzger says, you have to know your customer. This is not the dollar-store crowd.

“In a small market, a small town, if you are selling less-expensive items, you have to sell more of them to make a living,” he said. “The business plan of a dollar store is to have a thousand people walk by every day. Some come in and buy an item. That just doesn’t happen on a side street of an 800-person town.”

The people walking the quarter-mile along Middleburg’s Main Street, perhaps having started the day patronizing one of the many wineries before driving into “downtown” to gawk at the multimillion-dollar home prices on the real estate storefronts, pop into one of the offbeat shops such as Popcorn Monkey, aptly named Upper Crust bakery or the Christmas Sleigh.

Some stop in, look over the goods, perhaps make an impulse buy. “The reality is that it’s probably all that way in Middleburg,” Metzger said. “It should be a good experience.”

It may seem hard to summon a tear for this historic town, the heart of a region known for its fox hunting, private airstrips and smattering of aristocracy with names such as Mellon (banks, and everything else), Birdseye (frozen foods), DuPont (chemicals), Mars (chocolate) and Firestone (tires).

Then there are the boldfaced names such as actor Robert Duvall, television personality Willard Scott, Bill Clinton foil Linda Tripp and former congressman Tom McMillen.

[The secret to building a $50 million company]

A few shops have closed on Washington Street; the losses have made an impact on the town and its tax base. (Pete Marovich/For The Washington Post)

Sheila Johnson, who made her fortune as the co-founder of BET, built the Salamander Resort just a short walk from the town’s center. Metzger said he gets significant business from the resort. Even old foes including Bundles Murdock, a former town council member who opposed the project, have been won over by Salamander and its Middleburg Film Festival.

“We went through some tricky years,” Murdock said in a phone interview between calls about the upcoming fox hunt. “We redid the streets. Dug up the middle of town and buried the electric wires. We are moving forward.”

Metzger said the most interesting thing about Middleburg, from a business perspective, isn’t the high-profile millionaires and billionaires.

Some street roamers are weekend warriors from leafy McLean or historical Georgetown. They are the under-the-radar rich folks who own homes in the countryside. They think nothing of dropping $1,000 at Metzger’s shop. For that crowd, he stocks his inventory with high-end goods from the United States and from England and Spain.

But they don’t pay the bills.

“There are an equal number of off-the-radar well-to-do people,” he said. “There are hundreds or thousands of support people who have to look well. One of my better customers happens to be a shelf-stocker at Safeway.”

Original Article:

Click here

[cloveroctobers]

HENRIK LILJENQUIST—

IG info/Bio: @/adventuresbyhenrik | 53.1k followers — “imma wild boi🌿🌏🧗 | happily taken👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

23 (24) years old

Parents are both Swedish and only speak Swedish, leaving henrik to also become fluent

His father Halvi is a pilot

His mother Lova is a race car driver

Siblings? Probably a brother, named Jahan & younger by two or three years + they get along quite well

Born & raised in Isle of Wight, England + loves it there & thinks it’s the best place for him to live, it’s his own private island in his mind plus he’s always finding something to do. He stays active

Climbing & wilderness survival instructor, he gets to talk as much as he wants while also teaching people AND all while being active! Sounds like the perfect job for him

Probably developed ADHD around his pre-teen age, leaving his parents to find him something he enjoys + can slow down and focus on

used to be on meds for it

Was well-known in high school, probably in the yearbook club since he was able to run around & get to know people but was kinda shit at knowing the functions of a camera

His selfie game has gotten a lot better now but he mostly posts anything but his face. You’ll see more of his face on his stories & location shots on his feed

Feels his hair is his best physical feature & his prized possession, would never THINK about cutting it. Even just a trim is a bit much for him

Always tries to be positive but at the same time can be condescending since he sometimes won’t pick his words wisely ex.) when he gave MC a backhanded “compliment” about makeup, being active, + wanting them to “think of others ” feelings — just because someone is opposite from you doesn’t mean you have to shit on the way they carry themselves...that’s my issue with him

maybe he’s a Taurus?

Loves fall & spring, more so fall since that’s when the weather feels nicest to him plus allergy season is a REAL bitch

The guy’s real Adventurous & always managing to find something to do. If you’re ever bored just hit him up, he has plenty of recommendations 

Family owns a cottage & he’s the one who goes out there more than his own family does! “You should just sell it to me at this point!” He tells his parents over dinner often & it is strongly considered

Has five birds & a husky, when he goes on road trips they’re always with him. Which can get a little hectic at times but they’re his family, he’s a, “birdog dad”

BLAKE secretly dislikes them all, feeling like they take up space sometimes (especially when she wants to cuddle) but she deals with it since she cares for the guy — yes, they’re still dating

She’s been convincing him to cut a few inches off of his hair which he took like a slap in the face, “that’s like me asking you to quit speaking up for humans!” “No, no it’s not.”

They’re polar opposites with flaws which causes disagreements between the two of them by putting each other in their places but they learn to compromise? (*insert eartha Kitt gif laughing here*] if they want this to work

His mother seems to be the only one who dislikes blake (she strongly feels he should have bought MC back home...that’s right she watched the show from time to time. Not always since she doesn’t care for reality tv but her friends encouraged her to watch bits and pieces) while his dad and brother approve

It is tense when Blake and his mom are in the same room which makes Henrik sad since he believes Blake deserves a chance. He took a chance on her and it seems to be going pretty well so why couldn’t his mother just be happy for him like the rest of the family is?

Henrik loves his low-maintenance girls who are open to trying new things with him, Blake is usually down most of the time but she likes her personal space too..which henrik struggles to understand

He wants her to live with him, he’s sure his parents will let him have the cottage if Blake decides to live with him but Blake loves her freedom in Kingston

It’s hidden but I feel like he might be one of those guys that feels like “a woman should follow a man” since that’s what his father installed into his boys— which failed because his wife isn’t just a housewife, she has goals and went after them

I feel like Blake turns to social media almost always to post about her feelings (I can’t remember what I picked the first time around as my occupation but as I’m currently playing I picked human rights campaigner so) but it’s mostly subtle shade & it always goes recognized by fans which brings drama between her, mc x Bobby

Henrik jumps in because what kind of guy would he be if he didn’t have his gf’s back? Doesn’t care for the drama but he & Bobby usually said slick shit to each other in the villa, it’s safe to say they’re not really friends but they’re not enemies either that’s mostly between their gf/wife

Henrik doesn’t care enough about Bobby to dislike him but he won’t put up with his shit any longer and what easier way to do that than online? He feels like they can settle this with a phone call but Blake & MC aren’t with the shits and don’t want their men speaking to each other

Henrik & Bobby eventually have a chat in secret anyways

Henrik warns Blake that this can effect her job status if she doesn’t calm down since she uses social media for her cause

She usually knows when to stop but can’t help it if it slips out sometimes

They talk it out and move on usually with whatever fun idea henrik may have

Owns a ford bronco from the 90’s that used to be his uncle’s who builds tree houses for a living and is still running, a jeep gladitor, or some sort of pickup truck

Knows how to make the best apricot jam

All about saving the bees

Loves animals, probably on his journey to veganism if he’s not already there

We all know this fucking guy likes eating M0sS

“Embarrassing fact” but uh big fan of twilight, feels like Seth Clearwater and him are meant to be best buds but he also stans the Volturi 😷

Him and Lucas of course remained the best of mates, since they live 2 hrs away from each other and are always busy living their lives they always have to plan out when they can hangout but that fails 60% of the time when henrik pops up at Lucas’ job or at his flat not giving him a choice but to hang out

They’re always vacationing together too? Sure Henrik is his own version of low-key while Lucas likes a bit of luxury...they still find a balance to just have a good time regardless if they live different lifestyles...they’re basically married

Always texting if they’re not hanging out, henrik with his memes that Lucas doesn’t understand & Lucas just checking in on henrik’s well being which leads the conversation to many topics

He’s actually cool with Gary now? They like/comment on each other’s posts & even text here and there

Even ran into Rocco once on a road trip, that was interesting but when life gives you lemons...we’ll just say that

Even him and Ibrahim share recommendations through text or DM’s which is nice! Henrik is always down for friends even tho they’re not like his personal friends (except for Lucas, he fits into his criteria)

Most of his work is physical and talking but he goes the extra mile by hiking every Sunday either with his friends, Blake, or family — he’s genuinely likes being one with nature

If he’s at the cottage, he’s always outside, chopping extra wood, making sure the yard looks like it belongs on a magazine, or takes the boat out on lake to nap since he doesn’t like to fish as much anymore

Currently trying to grow strawberries but some animal keeps eating them :/

Adores adventure time, the x-files, bobs burgers + animal planet, and travel channels—like he’s a real dad

If he could shower outside everyday, he would, it’s such a freeing experience to him

His outings consist of being in the woods 24/7 so in his mind when he brings Blake out there with him, it’s a version of a date, whenever they spend time together is a date to him, which she has to remind him that she wants to do something different like getting dressed up every now and then + go out to dinner which he HATES but he’ll do his best to please her, as long as the restaurant is more earthy than snobby he’s okay

100% would survive the apocalypse, he knows how to make due with what he’s got, he’s always been that way

Enjoys rom-com’s so he’ll laugh at how cringe they are but still enjoy it, indie films, ALITA was the best film of 2019 to him & currently his fav film is, “the call of the wild” with Harrison Ford

His favorite films ever are Indiana Jones, Lara Coft: Tomb raider, Terminator, and I am legend

Aliens ARE real, they’re out there and he’ll be part of the reason they’ve been exposed

I feel like he wanted to be an astronaut growing up but then realized he’d be a confined space for long periods of time and said cancel that shit lol + he isn’t the greatest at science. History? He did real well in that subject

I think he loves Lorde, listens to Bon Iver—especially on early morning commutes to work, Rex Orange County, Omar Apollo, Joji, the nbhd, the driver era, kid cudi...yktfv

Celeb crushes?/types: The main girls from Charlie’s angels 2019, Alexa PenaVega... “you know Carmen from spy kids?” Diana silvers, Dove Cameron, JAMIE CHUNG, & VANESSA HUDGENS

Anthem = Wallows, “OK”