#ineffable snails

[snebulae]

snail... omens....

[sighed-the-snake]

I present to you INEFFABLE SNAILS.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

ASTROBLEME - Collab - Page 51

astrobleme [ as-truh-bleem ] - an erosional scar on the earth's surface, produced by the impact of a cosmic body, such as a meteorite.

A collab between @daneecastle and me! Next page coming out over on her blog!

First | Previous | Next

https://astroblemecomic.carrd.co/ <- Read the full comic here.

(tagging @goodomensafterdark)

[snailsdraw]

[Start ID: Page 22 of Good Omens Ineffable Husbands narrative doodles featuring wing preening. The two continue working away at each others' wings, with Crowley's leg slung carelessly over the armchair to brace the angel's wing against his knee, and Aziraphale's wings, subconsciously, enveloping the demon. /End ID.]

[Link to pages 19 to 21 here] [Read from the start here]

[violet-ram]

I return from my coffin to post 60's ineffable wives because good omens took me by the storm lol.

Click image for higher resolution!

[seductive-snail]

UMMMMM YOUR TAGS??

HOW DARE YOU WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS??

I get silly sometimes 🤭

no seriously tho, yes when Crowley first asks for the holy water he claims that its for "insurance" just incase the demons ever get him he could have smth to protect himself with. Which we do see him later use right? But Aziraphale first interprets this as Crowley's desire for a "suicide pill." And I mean, the implications are there, say Crowley did mean it like that, it'd all make sense.

"If it all goes pear shaped.." "i want insurance." They're talking about them continuing to "fraternise" and its clear that all Crowley can think about are the dangers, he seems cooler about it than Aziraphale who constantly mentions it, but he clearly is aware of the dangers and instead of wanting to run, Crowley decides if it all goes sideways, say in the event that Aziraphale were killed, he could use the water as a last resort, to escape eternal torment in hell.

Crowley needs reassurance, he clearly has some deeply rooted feelings of self loathing, I mean in s2 episode 2 he literally tells Aziraphale how lonely it is just being on "his side" and now he's alone again.

After everything they've been through, Crowley's on his side once more, not their side, his side. I mean its bloody tragic. And i wouldn't blame him for falling into despair, now wether or not he becomes a Duke of hell is up to interpretation. I personally think not, because despite everything, he does despise the system, and ahh i just i wanna see just how fucked up my little romantic fuck up can get. I love him

[theaethernetconnection]

In honor of my sibling @perseriph's birthday today I wanted to share a letter I sent them about a month ago:

Text reads:

Hello my long lost sibling,

I write to you in the blood of my enemies wishing you similar such fortunes. Are you well? Occasionally I receive images of robotics, but I hear little of your wellbeing. I am as well as I can be, which is to say I writhe in agony and think about the ineffables frequently. The autism rages, my body rages, it is possible I am not long for this earth. Yet I persist, for I am gay.

Fare well, I hope you live long and prosper.

If you see this, this is your sign to send a ridiculously dramatic letter to someone. Have fun!

[staraun]

"You go too fast for me, Crowley" IT HAS BEEN THOUSANDS OF YEARS HOW MUCH SLOWER DO YOU WANT HIM TO GO????

[imjustheretofangirl003]

[aydracz]

South Downs Happy Husbands

@idkchatie

(More pics below)

Buzzing to share these with you! While on our trip to London to see Nye (which was phenomenal and so was meeting Michael afterwards!), @0xlilith and I made a day trip to the South Downs to see where the ineffable husbands will spend their retirement.

We were blown away (figuratively and literally) by the South Downs! And then the time came to take out some amazing fanart and take photos of what Crowley and Aziraphale might be up to in the future.

Couldn't find the creator - please help, so I can credit them

@blairamok

@lizulimu on X

@numbuh424

Couldn't find the creator - please help, so I can credit them

@turnipoddity

@tio-trile

@kidovna

Bonus - @0xlilith and I, the rational adults that we are, decided to draw magician moustaches, print out the first photo and go to the National Theatre again to show it to Michael Sheen. Sadly, he didn't do stage door that night. But we met many wonderful people in the queue so it was a great evening nonetheless!

We had a blast doing this and many new headcanons came out of this trip. For example:

Crowley shouts at all the rabbits because they are eating his garden produce. Until he notices there are also little bunnies and he simply cannot shout at those. He ends up dedicating part of his garden to the rabbits. Aziraphale finds this endearing.

While on their walks on the cliffs, Crowley picks up snails.

Crowley makes up random stories about the local lore and tells them to the tourists. Aziraphale puts and end to this when the stories gradually become more and more unhinged.

Aziraphale takes up bird watching.

Crowley makes fun of it at first but then he also takes up bird watching.

Aziraphale and Crowley start competing in bird watching.

Aziraphale doesn't believe Crowley saw the birds he claims he did.

Crowley is adamant he really saw the yellow-breasted tit.

Aziraphale calls Crowley a yellow-breasted tit.

Etc etc.

Hope you enjoy these as much as we enjoyed making them!

And if you are in London right now, some are actually glued to the benches around the Bandstand in Battersea Park. Check out my previous post to get the details!

[onceuponapuffin]

Fanatic Intervention Part 14!!!

Happy Birthday to regular reader and commenter @ritz-writes !! :D

Here's the sculpture mentioned in the fic: https://noma.org/collection/history-of-the-conquest/

You'll notice that the poll at the bottom isn't anything suuuuper important. There's just some plot things that I want to get running in the next section, so I'm gonna be writing it up and posting it tomorrow. But I promise you that it's still an important choice to make (also idk what to pick so that means you all get to pick lol ).

Okay! Here we go! Back to New Orleans with The Anti-Apocalypse Crew!

Beginning || Previous || Next

*************************

Now that you all were in the city, it only took Anathema the next morning to hone in on her signal. To Aziraphale's delight, it led you all to the sculpture garden at the New Orleans Museum of Art. To your delight, it led more specifically to a sculpture of a person riding a snail (to victory no doubt).

"I think this might be my favourite statue ever," You say aloud (because this author is assuming you would agree with her opinion). There is a person you don’t know standing in front of the statue. He gives a dissatisfied huff.

"It's called 'History of the Conquest,'" he tells you, despite not being asked, "The ever-slow and over-confident march of the entitled towards a future where they're in charge. Everyone else suffers while they promise glory and prosperity."

Your jaw drops open. This person looks like a 'surfer dude,' but is talking like someone who's spent most of their life in a cubicle changing 1s to 0s for 8 straight hours a day.

"WOW! That is BLEAK," is what finally comes out of your mouth. "Proper ray of sunshine, you are."

Okay, that sounded really British. You briefly wonder about the effect of spending so much time around Crowley and Aziraphale before Surfer Dude starts to laugh.

"I've seen a few things, human. Been 'round longer than you've been alive, will be long after you die. You're no more than a moth in my eyes."

"Wow," You can't help but repeat yourself, "Again, bleak." Also rude, but priorities.

"It is what it is," Surfer Dude replies. You shake your head and turn to Aziraphale and Crowley.

"You're up," You concede. You have no idea who this is, but he called you "human," and compared you to a moth. Whoever this person is, they’re probably the one Anathema’s had you looking for. He doesn’t look like Jesus, but maybe he will know where Jesus is. Either way, Anathema doesn’t get things wrong. If her work brought you to this person, then he’s the person you need to talk to.

That being said, whoever this is, he's the Ineffable Husbands' department and not yours. Sometimes you just gotta tap out and let the celestials handle their own kind. Now, this doesn't mean that you're not going to sit back and watch. Oh no, you want to see how this plays out.

"Can I have some popcorn?" You stage-whisper to Crowley as you pass him.

"Piss off," Crowley stage-whispers back. Despite his complaint, you notice a tiny Michael-Sheen smile on Aziraphale's face, and you return to Anathema, who looks surprised and is holding two small cartons of popcorn. You gratefully take one and have a seat on a convenient bench that is located conveniently within earshot. This is gonna be good.

"Hello," Aziraphale begins as he approaches, "I'm Aziraphale."

"Right," Surfer Dude says with a roll of his eyes, "The Angel of the Eastern Gate. I'm so honoured."

"Here I thought manners were important to angels," Crowley replies, sidling up next to Aziraphale. Surfer-Dude-Who-Is-Apparently-An-Angel takes in Crowley and raises an eyebrow.

"And here I thought demons didn't make a habit of hanging off angels' arms," Surfer Dude scoffs in in return.

Crowley snarls.

"Yes, well, each of us seems to be an anomaly in our own right," Aziraphale says with an appeasing smile, "This is Crowley. Might we have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"No."

"Ah, right. Well, that is to your own discretion I suppose."

"Rude is what it is," sneers Crowley.

"Regardless, we've come to this garden with the guidance of our friend here, hoping to find, well, Jesus as it happens."

Surfer-Dude-Angel-Person throws his head back and laughs outright.

"You're looking for who now? JESUS? HA! Bit of soul-searching for you, is it? Spiritual journey? Pilgrimage to the Holy Land? You're in the wrong place for that!" He keeps laughing.

I mean, you get the laughter. It definitely sounds weird to a third party. Crazy even. But if this guy is an angel, then shouldn't it sound perfectly reasonable?

"Oi," Crowley interrupts, clearly impatient, "We're trying to save the world here. And since angels don't normally take holiday time, I'd think helping us might be in your best interest."

"You think you can stop the Second Coming? Ha! There isn't another technicality that you can throw around this time. This one's it. Enjoy the giant snail statues while they last, because it won't be for much longer."

"You know an awful lot," You call from the bench, "And you like to talk. So just get to the part about Jesus so we can leave you to be miserable on your own." You popcorn is already almost finished, and you frown into your carton. If only you could do miracles. You'd refill it yourself.

Surfer-Dude-Angel-Person laughs again.

"Yeah, okay, I like this one," he says, nudging a thumb in your direction. He turns away from Crowley and Aziraphale and strides towards you. Suddenly your popcorn carton is full again, so you look up. Okay, maybe he's not so bad. He reaches out a hand to you.

"Call me Sardis, Little Moth."

After a moment of hesitation, you shake his hand. He turns back to Crowley and Aziraphale.

"I can see why you've adopted this one," he says, then turns his attention to Anathema, paying no mind to the garbled protests coming from Crowley. "And since we're doing introductions...?"

"Anathema Device," says Anathema with a nod. She would probably shake his hand, but between her equipment and her popcorn, her hands are full.

"Lovely to meet you, Miss Anathema," Sardis nods at her before finally looking back at Aziraphale and Crowley. "You won't find Jesus here. But meet me for drinks later and I'll tell you what you need to know to find him."

"You're unnecessarily cryptic, Sardis," You say with a raised eyebrow and a mouth full of popcorn. He laughs again.

"Well, Little Moth," his eyes have a sparkle in them now as he looks at you, "Gotta keep myself entertained somehow."

Sardis insists on giving you all a tour of the sculpture garden, but refuses to say anything more about Jesus, or how he knows about Armageddon, or why he isn't in Heaven, or anything else that you actually WANT to talk about. He insists that such talk isn't for a quiet garden full of art. It isn't until he lays a cryptic finger beside his nose and winks at you that something clicks in your memory.

Remember, back before JK Rowling turned out to be an awful person, back when everyone read Harry Potter? EVERYONE, RIGHT?? Perhaps, dear Reader, you remember the chapter in book 5 where Hermione calls a meeting at The Hog's Head because it’s less crowded. Hermione figures the sparse crowd means that there are fewer people to see them together. Perhaps you also remember when, later in the book, this action comes back to bite them, and they are told very sternly that they should have met at the Three Broomsticks precisely BECAUSE it was busier. A busy pub meant they would have been less likely to be overheard.

Suddenly you look around the garden and notice the sparse, but very much there, collection of people. Just the right number of people that could listen to your conversation if they wanted to without you being any the wiser. Oh.

Oh.

Maybe the cryptic is a little bit necessary after all. He’s still overdoing it in your opinion, but whatever floats his goat.

You part ways after his tour, agreeing to meet at a local bar at 9pm. There’s enough time to go back to the hotel, freshen up, and get something to eat before you make your way there.

“Well,” Aziraphale says back at the hotel, “This Sardis certainly is a character.”

“I know the name from somewhere,” You trail off in thought. Where have you heard it before? Sardis…Tardis…Sardine….You’re not sure, but it rings a bell.

Anathema is already flipping through notebooks. Aziraphale has picked up his copy of the Bible, and Crowley is on his phone. You figure everyone else has it covered, and sure enough, it’s Crowley who finds it first. Google, no doubt.

“Ha! Found the sod! He’s in Revelation.”

“Oh!” You practically jump as recognition finally hits. “He’s one of the seven angels! The ones we didn’t think were here!”

“You didn’t think any of them were here?” Anathema asks, “Did you even check, or did you just assume?”

“Well Muriel said…” You go quiet, before clearing your throat and trying again. “We didn’t look into it far at all, no.”

“So exactly what work did you do before you called me?”

“Umm…….” You say.

“Nnngggh” Crowley adds.

“A great deal less than we thought at the time, apparently,” Aziraphale finally admits with a sigh.

“You are all really bad at saving the world.” Anathema shakes her head.

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🖤

Beginning || Previous || Next

[ladyswillmart]

Overhead, the skies over Yondershire appeared a velvet cloak, smooth and soft, violet-black—the real blue-ribbon stuff of hometown poetry festivals.

Poetry is fine enough, Arlen thought, although he did like pretzels better. He chewed thoughtfully.

Night skies are also fine enough by their lonesome, especially in the Shire, especially in June. Nevertheless, how kind that someone, perhaps some celestial elf-maid, thought to spatter a million stars across the whole thing, and they even twinkled a little. It wasn’t an overt twinkle, Arlen observed, nothing too ostentatious but sort of like the way the Elbow’s Bend Inn studded their pretzels with those big crystals of salt.

They were simply better with the salt, but beyond taste and texture, there was some other quality to a coarse salted pretzel that he could not adequately describe. He continued to chew, lamenting his own lack of vocabulary: What kind of bard should have such profound difficulty describing his love for a pretzel?

While revelers milled around him and his company, the crickets purred wordlessly in the wildflowers. Suddenly seized by curiosity, Arlen looked up at the other elf who had joined them earlier, an apparent close friend of Hivallion’s whom he identified as “Gildor”, last name Something-or-other that Arlen forgot after his first ale. Their reunion was all laughing surprise and “How long has it been?” with a lot of very large numbers being bandied around and then a strange shift, smooth as the sky above, into what Arlen could only assume was their native tongue.

Arlen was never good with elven languages and he was even worse with large numbers. No no, he was better with pretzels, much better, or at least he thought he was.

“So,” he finally spoke up, now that he felt suitably merry. “Who is Hivallion, anyway?”

Gildor registered surprise, as the elf in question napped nearby, where some hens milled around a patch of black-eyed Susans, delivering the occasional curious peck.

“He is your tutor, is he not?” he replied, then smiled, as warm as the breeze circulating the garden, ruffing everyone’s hair. “Oh, I see. You want to hear the story from an old friend, eh? Well, I suppose you picked the right person to ask. I have known Hivallion since he was quite young—since I was quite young, really. We are roughly the same age, I would wager.”

“Are you really? What did he do, way back when? I mean, Did he ever do anything, uh, I dunno, adventurous...? Foolhardy?”

“Foolhardy!” Gildor laughed a little. In his hand, he balanced a half-full tumbler of scrumpy. “Well, foremost he was well known among us as a scholar, albeit one who spent most of his time out and about, if that should count as adventurous in your book. His field of interest primarily lied within our environment, especially its creatures, especially the small ones, especially those with wings. Oh, birds, butterflies, bees, bats, snails...”

Arlen stopped chewing momentarily. “Snails? Those don’t have wings.”

“No, my friend. No, not anymore, not anymore, sorry to say...”

Arlen eyed the elf’s tumbler; perhaps he too was feeling a bit too suitably merry. “Say, did he ever wear armor like that? Like yours? All shining, like the moonlight?” he asked, deftly changing the subject. “Did he ever go to battle?”

Gildor nodded. “Indeed. Well and often, though war never suited him. For certain occasions he would wear a jerkin of finely tooled calf, and over that, a breastplate of...” He took a drink as he reminisced. “...oh, it was some kind of metal scale like the belly of a fish, shining pale blue like—yes, like the moonlight, like a reflection of the full moon over the Belegaer.”

Ah. Now that was some poetry.

If only such wonderful words could somehow become applicable to the ineffability of pretzels...

“I wonder if he still has it?” said Arlen. “Reckon I’d like to see that. Maybe try it on m’self...”

“His mother likely keeps it, if Hivallion himself knows not where it is. Still, you should ask him about it. Whenever he wakes,” said Gildor, muttering as he offered his slumbering friend a spare glance. “Honestly, old as the blessed sun and he still can’t hold his drinks...”

[milomilesmib]

Art idea: ineffable Husbands as little critters. A fox and a fluffy cat. A snake and a dove. A puppy and a fish. A little snail and a little butterfly. Etcetera. Feel free to steal this idea

[snailsdraw]

[Start ID: Pages 19 to 21 of Good Omens Ineffable Husbands narrative doodles featuring wing preening.

Aziraphale stops his preening and turns to Crowley: "Did you catch any of that?" Crowley snaps to attention: "Oh, oh yeah. Just..." he points at the angel's wings, "...do that then, will I?" They both pull up a chair and get comfortable.

Now seated and tending to each others wings, Aziraphale peers over the edge of a dark wing at Crowley with a warm smile.

The demon has found a pin feather in the angel's wing. He's rubbing at it delicately as instructed as not to hurt him. Aziraphale beams at him, and as he scratches away at Crowley's feathers, he finds them starting to fluff up in contentment. /End ID.] [Link to Pages 16 to 18 here] [Link to Page 22 here] [Read from the start here]

[charlottefinn]

It’s the third Monday in May.

Superman sat on top of the mountain that he had built, in a temporary high-backed chair that he dug out of the ice. He leaned back his head, closed his eyes and listened. He listened for everything. He turned on his full super-hearing, not simply the directed senses that he had trained himself to use in homing in on random conversations or on the noise of a distant underground rumble before the Earth moved somewhere. He turned on the whole thing, and in a moment he realized that he had never done this before.

From his perch at the top of the world Superman heard the clatter of trains making their ways among the towns of central Europe, the hissing of a cobra in the basket of a Pakistani fakir, the tuning sounds of the Boston Pops Orchestra and the orchestra of a high school in La Paz as respectively they rehearsed “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” and the Second Brandenburg Concerto. A geyser bubbled below the surface of Colorado. A company of humpback whales howled an ecstatic, intricate symphony whose orchestration stretched for half the width of the Indian Ocean. Quintillions of snails dragged quintillions of jellied tails over the surface of quintillions of leaves.

The slap-slapping of a runner’s feet against the outskirts of Kampala made a perfect syncopated rhythm with the singing of a thrush in Singapore. When the thrush stopped for a moment, the runner would stop for a gulp of water from his wineskin. When the runner stepped up his pace, the thrush soared into a new rhythm, as though the man in Africa and the bird in Asia were following signals from the same conductor.

The wind-songs ripping through the Andes made a counterpoint for the wagging tails of the dogs in the Bide-A-Wee Animal Shelter on the south shore of Long Island.

An ant’s breath, as it struggled to press a cake crumb up a centimeter and a half high hill in Bali, traced the precise pattern of the whirring of a machine mixing cavity filling in the office of a dentist in Tel Aviv.

The hums of all the beehives and all the Xerox copiers in all the world together created an eerily beautiful collection of sound that clearly constituted a fugue.

An angry golfer in Palm Beach, when he smashed his putter against a tree, compensated for the drummer in the Sussex disco band who missed a beat.

Then something even more remarkable happened. There was a flutter of flying fish in the Caribbean west of Bermuda whipping past the cruise ship Raffaelo. Together, in a pattern whose precision Superman could now begin to notice, they flashed out of the water and splashed back in, soared up, fluttered, tumbled back, broke the water again. And as they arced through the sky two of the fish hit the hull of the Raffaelo and broke their part of the pattern. A line of people who applauded as they watched the fish performance from the liner’s rail did not even notice the falling out of the two members of the school. And as Superman heard, from his icy throne, the sound of the pair of flying fish splashing clumsily into the sea, a few chunks of ice chipped off the rest under his heavy arm and scattered down the hill, making a noise comparable in quality to the noise of a flying fish duet fluttering on the wind and splashing into the Caribbean.

Superman was part of the song.

He had an instrument in the orchestra of this Earth.

He was not, in the overall scheme of things, an outsider.

He listened to the world, sitting in one of its most desolate spots, and he began to put together the pieces. He heard the howls of wolves, the roiling of cyclones, the bouncing of children’s balls, the sounds of his own digestive system, the clicking of the mandibles of ticks attaching themselves to the skins of dogs’ ears: everything, working together to create an ineffable symphony.

Maybe Superman, today, was the first one ever to hear the music that Earth made in totality. Maybe, on the other hand, every human who ever composed a concerto, wrote a song, whistled a tune, or listened intently to the heartbeat of a woman carrying a child had heard the song of the Earth in his or her own peculiar set of perceptions. Maybe Pythagoras, Mozart and McCartney had heard the song, had spent their lives trying in their primitive ways to imitate it. Maybe every whippoorwill and meadowlark Superman heard today was imitating the Earth as well. Maybe that was what Superman had been doing – bouncing to the rhythm of this planet that teemed with life and melody, ever since the day he first arrived on Earth.

- from Miracle Monday by Eliot S! Maggin

I know that in part, my fondness for the Bronze Age era of Superman is due to my age; I came up on Blue Ribbon digests full of stories from that whole stretch of pre-Crisis continuity from the 60s on to the mid-1980s. They imprinted on me as surely as your favorite interpretation imprinted on you.

But I don’t understand how anyone could love this character and not find something to contemplate in this lovely passage from Miracle Monday, where Superman takes a breath to mourn the loss of his other self Clark Kent, to listen to the symphony of life on Earth, and to prepare to rise and stare down the Devil for the most precious thing in all of creation: a single innocent life.

[seductive-snail]

thoughts on good omens? go!

ahhhh its like watching a married couple act like a married couple then repeatedly deny being married. i got so attached to them, they're my dads. crowley loves plants, he's a hopeless romantic who loves cheesy rain kiss scenes, he has unexplored feelings of self loathing, heaven is undeserving of him. aziraphale loves crowleys eyes, he'll never sell a book, he recognises the broken system but is so naive he believes he can fix it. they tried to raise a kid, wrong kid tho. found the kid, saved the world. fun! they're silly, they get up to silly antics, aziraphale pitied job, crowley was tiny once, they did magic and did NOT get discorporated. also nazi zombies??? there are LESBIANS. BEAUTIFUL, MIDDLE AGED, COFFEE SHOP RECORD STORE LESBIANS. there is ineffable bureaucracy, they go to Alpha Centauri, all seems well. then my parents get divorced. I AM A CHILD OF DIVORCE. I'VE BEEN RIPPED APART FROM THE INSIDE OUT, AND NEIL GAIMAN SITS IN HIS ARMCHAIR LAUGHING LIKE A MAD MAN