#its at the watercooler

[mr-orion]

sometimes you gotta hype yourself up and color your sketches... anyway, Ray's about to ask you something very on the nose and it's gonna hurt. You should watch out.

[pikslasrce]

me (internally): oh my god. another gay perso– wait its not right to assume peoples identity based on stereotypes like tha– but look at him. the mullet. the chunky highlights. the way he talks– okok. im not the only gay person h– WAIT hes coming this way look approachable

me (externally): *stares homophobically*

[thelastlaff]

does anyone else look at the half of chip revvington’s place (cut to the chase) covered in red solo cups and a trash bin filled to the brim with trash and think about the implications

and the fact that the lamps are all crooked probably from him throwing them so often

[compil]

So we're all just glossing over the fact that God's been having chats and bets with Satan since at least Job era. Like they're just bickering coworkers and not hereditary nemeses. Sounds like another pair I know

[marsixm]

this is fucking taking me out

How Our Flag Means Death Transformed Rhys Darby into a Merman: new behind the scenes costume design pics from Entertainment Weekly

[darkkitty1208]

a serirei prompt for you :D serizawa gets hurt from a spirit and reigen has to save them both

Thank you for the prompt! 💖 I cheated a little and had a certain someone else come in clutch but I think this still fits the prompt. :)

crisis averted

Summary:

It had at first seemed like your run-of-the-mill, standard evil spirit case. Go to the alleged haunted location, find the spirit, exorcise it, and then be off on their merry ways with thicker wallets and a sense of self-satisfaction. In and out, quick and easy.  That, as it turns out, is not the case this time. OR A case gone awry.

Word count: 3,221

Tags/Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, Concussion, Canon-typical Anime-level Medical (In)Accuracy, Big Scary Evil Spirit, Possession, No Beta We Die Like My Sleep Schedule, a hint of Pining Reigen Arataka

AO3

Reigen has made a big mistake. Well, he’s made a lot of big mistakes in his lifetime, but he supposes this one isn’t any less worth noting. 

Actually, scratch that. He’s made several big mistakes. This one unequivocally included. 

The first mistake he’s made goes all the way back to the time he decided on quitting his old watercooler job and starting his own spirit consultation business. Sure, it’s his best worst mistake yet, with all the good things it has brought to his life—and he’s sure the company would’ve gotten him laid off down the line anyway—but if he hadn’t made the stupidly bold move of turning in his resignation letter way back when then he wouldn’t have been here on a chase-down with a godawful evil spirit trying to play an unbearable game of something between tag and hide and seek with them.

The second mistake he’s made is choosing to wake up that morning. If only he had stayed in bed, closed up shop for the day, or simply decided to no longer exist, then he wouldn’t have replied with an immediate affirmative to the client email he finds on his laptop sitting on the office desk that morning. 

The third mistake, which is probably the biggest mistake yet, is actually accepting the case and heading straight into his ultimate demise. 

Which, Reigen finds, is currently his complete lack of athletic stamina and endurance. He should really work out more.  

It had at first seemed like your run-of-the-mill, standard evil spirit case. Go to the alleged haunted location, find the spirit, exorcise it, and then be off on their merry ways with thicker wallets and a sense of self-satisfaction. In and out, quick and easy. 

That, as it turns out, is not the case this time. This time, apparently, is a case involving a particularly troublesome and audaciously impenitent spirit. And admittedly a very quick one. 

Reigen has since lost track of how long he and Serizawa have been running around the abandoned building, up and down the staircases to catch it. It flits quickly between one room to another, and every time they get close enough it’s always faster to escape. Reigen isn’t even sure anymore what it looks like; one second it’s a long shadow across the wall, the next second it’s dark smoke curling in a corner, and the next it’s a jet black, worm-like, gooey substance of some sort twisting about. It doesn’t seem to have any sense of shape or volume, morphing its form into its own whims—which makes it all the more frustrating for them both, it seems. 

He lets out a grumble of frustration between laboured breaths as the spirit flies up the stairs yet again, feet skidding to a halt. He turns to Serizawa, who almost looks absolutely defeated but nowhere near as horribly so as he is. At least in terms of sweat patches and dignity. He’s stopped running when he saw Reigen did, too. 

“This is not working,” Reigen says, breathless. They’ve tried splitting up, predicting its next moves and attempting to back it up into a corner, but the spirit never stays in the same spot for more than three seconds and somehow always finds a way to flee from them. It’s a slippery, annoying little thing. Reigen has not run this much since Mob’s marathon, and even then he hardly made it halfway through before nearly passing out. There was also that time he chased Mob during his psychic outburst, but… he doesn’t count that one; it was by pure luck he managed to survive that. 

Serizawa’s giving him that helpless, “what do we do now?” look he often dons when he’s confused about social cues or situations he does not know how to handle without guidance or assistance. Reigen resists the urge to don his own “I don’t even know what I’m doing” look. Instead he puts on his confident “it may not look like it but I absolutely know exactly what I’m doing” look which, to be frank, contrasts to the way that he does not, in fact, know exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s got everything handled. He does. He just needs to figure out how to. 

He pants, swallows the excess saliva in his mouth, and places his hands on his hips in what he hopes looks like the pose of a man who knows what he’s doing. He hopes to god the pit stains are not as visible as they feel. Curse him for choosing to wear a grey suit while being the sweatiest man alive. 

He thinks for a moment and considers their options. There’s not much to consider. 

One: they give up and inform the client of their failure. Not a chance. Partly because he can’t let an evil spirit roam about and potentially endanger any passerbys, but also because he wants to keep the Spirits and Such reputation intact. 

…Also partly due to the fact that they haven’t gotten many cases lately, and Reigen’s tired of eating cup noodles and cheap convenience store onigiris for the past week or so, and the client promises to pay them handsomely if they manage to get this stupid little bastard of a spirit terminated for good. 

Two: they call Mob. But Reigen will only resort to calling Mob when absolutely necessary—he’s promised himself that. The kind of cases that require bringing out the big guns—that being his trusty middle schooler/friend/student with powers that can blow your mind literally and figuratively—or especially dire ones where he’s left with no other choice, like that time with Rusty-sama and the mimic. This is not an absolutely necessary kind of situation, so he refrains himself. 

And three…

“Can’t you—” he wipes sweat off his brow. It doesn’t do much when his hands also happen to be sweaty. “Can’t you just, I don’t know— call the spirit here? To us?” 

…come up with a plan on the fly, because if Reigen Arataka is anything, it’s that he’s good at improv-ing his way through any situation. Even if said plan is a mere hypothetical. 

Serizawa drops his look of helplessness, his features morphing into that of understanding. Like he’s just realised something, or came up with a viable solution. It gives Reigen some relief. See? They know what they’re doing. Everything’s handled. Being handled, but still. His point stands.

“I can probably use my aura to do that,” he says, equally breathless, “I can extend it throughout the building and beckon it to us. It might take a while but, it might— it might actually work, I think.”

“Yeah?” Reigen says, nodding decidedly. He takes a couple steps back to give Serizawa space to do his thing. “Alright, then. Go on, Serizawa. Do your—” he makes sluggish, vague gestures with his hand, mostly out of habit. “your thing.” 

Serizawa nods back, curt and confident in a way that shouldn’t make his stomach flip because that isn’t what stomachs do. Stomachs cannot flip. They do not. Reigen knows this. 

Serizawa seems to take a moment to compose himself, steadying his breaths. And then he raises a hand upwards, eyes closed in deep concentration as a small crease forms between his brows. Reigen gulps in air as he watches, shoving his hands in his pockets as he doesn’t know what to do with them. 

He feels charged, static energy filling the air, making the thin hairs on his skin raise on end, the familiar, warm buzz of Serizawa’s aura filling the room completely, overflowing out into the rest of the building. He watches, entranced, as the curls stuck to Serizawa’s forehead begin to float upwards, a subtle iridescent glow about him. 

It seems to go on for a while—Reigen doesn’t exactly mind. Not in the slightest. Serizawa always looks so confident when he’s using his powers like this; his large, steady hands channeling powerful energy, his broad shoulders in a sure line and his face a picture of determination, ready to protect and attack for whatever threat lays ahead… 

Reigen swallows. This is not the time to be thinking about how big and strong his coworker is. God, did it just get hotter in here? Is he sweating a little more? Surely it’s from the run. It still counts as plausible deniability if it’s partly true. Right? Right.

And then he catches something swift and black slinking past the corner of his vision, slipping through doorways and windows and gaps between the walls, seemingly changing and moving with every blink of his eyes. 

He turns to Serizawa, whose frown has deepened into a near scowl as he suddenly drops his hand, the familiar energy of his aura dispersing quickly as his eyes blink open. A warning is at the tip of his tongue. 

“Reigen-san, I think—” 

Reigen flits his eyes to behind his shoulder, stumbles back a step. “Uhh, Serizawa. Hold that thought because—” 

“No, this is serious. I don’t know why I only feel this now, may-maybe it was doing it in small increments before? But—” 

“Serizawa, it—” 

“Reigen-san. I think the spirit’s absorbing my energy.” 

“Well it happens to be behind you!” 

Serizawa turns around just as a large hand emerges from the dark, spiralling mass, its form swooping unsteadily in the air as its weight accustoms to gravity, steadying before knocking Serizawa off his feet and sending him flying to the side to slam against the wall before he gets the chance to dodge it. He hears a crack, and hopes it’s just the bricks. 

"Serizawa!" Reigen calls, uselessly, "Shit!" 

He turns to the spirit, and finds himself staring at… nothing. It’s a void, completely black and featureless. Its edges blur out like it isn’t meant to be here. Like it doesn’t quite fit in this world. Once or twice Reigen catches what must be an eye, or a limb, or a head, but it never seems to be definite. 

His eyes scan his surroundings to find a way to slip out and potentially call for help. He looks around frantically. 

There. The doorway, rid of its door and hinges. He just needs to slip past the writhing mass of nothingness and dash down the stairs. 

Half-baked plan in mind, Reigen doesn’t spare a second before he goes for it. He runs to the side, avoiding a whipping band that swipes over his head, but the spirit—or whatever it is—only seems to grow bigger and bigger, taking up more and more space until it blocks off his exit completely. He drives himself to a halt, wracking his mind for a next step, because Reigen always has a next step. Surely a bright, brilliant idea will appear in his mind right about now. Surely he’ll make it out safe and save the day. Surely there is a next step. 

As he’s slowly backed into a corner, breathless and sweating and just about ready to pass out, Reigen realises that perhaps he does not know what he’s doing after all. 

And that, thus far, is his biggest mistake yet. 

The spirit seems to raise itself into an upwards spiral, and then broadening to stretch itself out in a shape he could only describe as a clawed prehensile, spread wide and ready to catch its prey, and—

A flash of bright green suddenly bathes his vision. 

“Your cavalry has arrived!” Dimple announces aloud with his voice. 

You’re late! Reigen points out in his head, but can’t deny that he’s glad to relinquish his body for Dimple’s use. Dimple seems to wince at his non-existent volume. 

“Jeez, not even a thank you?” 

I had it handled. 

“Sure.” He swerves Reigen’s body to the side to avoid the hit, and he has to admit—he isn’t sure himself if he would be able to make that acrobatic twist-jump. He would be grateful if it weren’t for the fact that Dimple is, well… Dimple. “Let’s see—Seri-chan is knocked out over there, you were about to get your ass kicked—ha! This definitely looks like you had everything under control!” 

Reigen makes a mental grumble, but doesn’t resist Dimple poking around inside him for control. He watches himself dodge another hit, legs flying underneath him, head ducking down and to the side. 

“So what’s the plan?” 

Reigen has to grasp at his last mental devices to formulate one, and spits out the first thing that comes to mind. Can you eat this thing? 

“Are you crazy?!” He sounds incredulous. It sounds unusual coming from Reigen’s vocal cords. “This thing knocked Seri out—” He dodges another hit, “and you expect me to eat it? It might eat me for all I know! It’s already trying to!”

Dimple has a point. He looks at the spirit, and Reigen may not be a psychic, but even he can tell this one’s a powerful one. He can practically feel the threatening, malevolent energy emanating from it. 

“Why didn’t you just call Mob?!” 

No! 

He feels his own brows cinch together of their own accord—well, he supposes, of Dimple’s. 

“Why the hell not?” 

He’s in cram school right now! I can’t just—

“This thing’s about to kill us!” 

Well— 

Something like a yelp escapes his lips as a long, writhing thing swings itself at them, swiping them off their feet. As he feels his back slam against the ground, it registers to him that all his senses are now all his own. He tries to feel his arms, flex his fingers, looks to the side and, sure enough, Dimple’s amorphous form floats a good distance away. 

“It knocked me out!” 

Reigen feels the panic rise up his throat. This spirit hit them with enough force to knock Dimple out of his possessed body. 

Just then, a tendril wraps around his ankles and lifts him up into the air. He lets out a “Whoah!” as it holds him up unsteadily, feeling the blood rush to his head as he looks at the twisting form upside-down. 

“Heeyyy, buddy—” He puts his hands up in front of him in a placating manner, “Why don’t we just—” He yelps as its grip only tightens, the tendril lengthening around his legs and up his thighs and spinning him about until it has itself wrapped all the way up—or in this case, down—his clavicle. 

The skin at the lumpy center of it that he assumes is its head—was it even skin? Was it even flesh?—tears itself in the center, widening into a gaping hole where sharp teeth grow in circular rows and rows that end far down what he assumes is its now open mouth. The tentacle-limb-thing dangles him closer to the entrance, head mere inches from the slimy tongue that reaches up and out, and suddenly there are limbs and tentacles and arms looming over, and the creature’s mouth is wide open and ready to engulf him—

And then a familiar purple glow slices clean through in one, swift motion, and the spirit turns to smoke with one last, aggrieved screech and a blinding explosion of multicolour light. 

Reigen drops to the ground with an “ack!”, wincing as he rubs the back of his head and refrains to do the same to his pelvis. He muffles a sound of pain between clenched teeth, blinking his eyes open as everything seems to tilt and move before focusing and becoming steady again. 

The smoke dissipates, and Serizawa stands in the middle of it. Reigen notices the tell-tale, twin red patches on his cheeks. There’s blood trailing down his forehead. 

“Dimple,” he says, struggling onto his feet. He sways, catches himself, and grunts under his breath. He trudges forward, hand coming up to grab his sore elbow. “Is Serizawa…?”

“He’s in here,” Dimple answers before he even finishes his question, “Conscious. Must’ve woken him up when I possessed him.” 

Reigen nods. “Right. He’s concussed, is he?” 

Dimple scoffs a little with a pointed look. “Yeah. He’s not the only one, apparently.” 

Reigen rolls his eyes, but immediately screws them shut when that only serves to aggravate the sharp pain in his head. 

Curse Dimple. He’s right. 

“I’m fine,” Reigen waves him off. “The spirit’s gone, right? How’d you even do it?”

Dimple makes a face that does not seem like one Serizawa would ever pull. He shrugs. “Dunno. It must’ve been too occupied trying to eat you.” 

“Why was it even…?”

Dimple shrugs Serizawa’s shoulders again, face uncharacteristically callous. “Who am I to judge? I’m pretty disappointed that it didn’t.” 

Reigen huffs. Of course Dimple would say that after being the one to stop the spirit from doing exactly that. 

He draws himself to his full height, patting down the dust off his suit and straightening the creases and his tie, ignoring the multiple aches and cuts and scrapes all over his body. He’ll deal with those later.

“I’ll just go back down to talk to the client and collect our pay. And then we’ll—” He winces again at the idea of more bills. Guess this means more cup noodles this week. “—we’ll go get Serizawa to the hospital.” 

“And you?” 

He resists the eye roll this time. “And me.” 

Dimple scoffs again, and it’s rather unsettling to see Serizawa with his mannerisms like that. He seems to pause for a moment, as if having some mental conversation that Reigen isn’t a part of which does not make him pout, and then nods to himself. 

Dimple slips out, and the red marks leave with him. Serizawa’s face turns into a grimace, lax shoulders immediately hiked up in typical Serizawa manner, and his eyes slam shut as he staggers forward. 

“Whoa, there—” Reigen catches him gently by the shoulders. “You good there, big guy?”

Reigen watches his Adam's apple bob as Serizawa swallows. He lets out a low hum, managing a weak, “Yeah, just— slammed all at once, you know?” 

Reigen hums back sympathetically. He gets that. The disconnection from your body when being possessed alleviates the pain significantly—the pain from his wounds must’ve hit him all at once when Dimple left his body, Reigen figures. He had been the same back during his confrontation with Mob, but Reigen knows how to hide those things well behind sure words, sheer determination and willpower, and maybe the still-coursing adrenaline in his veins. 

“How’s the head?” 

Serizawa makes a pained grunt. “It… could be better.” 

Reigen huffs a small laugh. “Gotcha.” 

“How about yours, Reigen-san? Are you alright? I— I don’t know what happened but—” 

God, Serizawa’s the one injured and he’s still fretting over him. This guy. 

“Oh don’t worry about it, Serizawa,” he waves a flippant hand, “You’re the one injured. And anyway, it…” He recalls the concussion he had after the chase with Mob. He shrugs. “It could be worse.” 

Serizawa looks somewhere between unconvinced and eternally concerned. Reigen just shrugs again. Dimple mutters something about idiots and having to save their asses all the time. Reigen pretends he doesn’t hear. Serizawa sends Dimple an apologetic look. 

All in all, Reigen counts this case as a success. He can regret all those mistakes some other time when he’s ready to confront them and mentally prepared for an existential crisis—for now, though, he’s just glad everything worked out fine. 

[mxriviera]

What if there were more "Dummy Cogs" like The Desk Jockeys in TTCC?

Warning? None of this is probably canon compliant. Please don't be mad they're just silly little guys..

Well uh? wonder no longer??? Prism (me) has made the fan-tier just for you! Initially drafted to help toons learn about more advanced concepts like Specialists, Battle Adaption, Corporate Tiers and... Boss Fights? These silly little things proved a bit too volatile to control, and with the enemy cogs finding them to be a bit too wacky and unprofessional to be properly "influenced" It's been said that they have been sent to where all junk goes. The scrapyard in the outskirts of town!

Though... its been said, if you're exceptionally quiet, you could hear the scrapped Dummy Cogs, wandering and making the closest attempts at speech to each other.

At the second to the bottom of the tier and above desk jockeys we have: Kitchen Slob & Associate Specialist: Work-A-Holic!

Inspired by the messy looks of Throw and Squirt Gags, as well as some less than helpful habits. rambling about name choices and designs below the cut!

Kitchen Slob: somebody, who leaves dirty dishes on the counter or in the sink, abandons meals in the microwave and forgets about food that they placed in the fridge.

I wanted to base Kitchen Slob off of the messy splotches off of throw gag residue! As well as the aforementioned dirty dishes and misplaced cookery and food. His eyes are googly eyes, giving him a silly wall eyed stare. i also like to think it shakes when it gets hit. He's a bit of a mess, he doesnt know how to tie his bowtie and his hands are always covered in some sort of goo, whatever it is, it's ALWAYS sticky! Gross!

Work-a-holic: a person who works compulsively. A workaholic experiences an inability to limit the amount of time they spend on work despite negative consequences such as damage to their relationships or health.

Work-a-holic was something I really wanted to delve in. He has a lot of more subtle reasoning behind his design. I initially wanted his design to be more akin to be the water coolers you find in an office. But then I realized, toons DONT have water coolers like that. The cooler you see in the training room is just a giant seltzer bottle. Considering where they're made, A schoolhouse, I wanted to go for a watercooler you'd see in P.E or in school sports! Though the nod to the workplace watercooler is still there, with the stacks of colorful paper triangle cups you'd see attached to the office cooler. He's just as much of a mess as Kitchen Slob, if the Kitchen Slob is Sticky, this guy is weirdly always wet, and always smelling like mildew. The both of them are subtle but serious health risks. Gross!

anyways i love them!!

bonus kitchen slob for cool people who bothered to read all that above it.

[art-of-manliness]

10 Ways to Be a Better Husband Today

To countenance the statistics on divorce is to recognize that happy, lasting marriages do not happen by default. In strong marriages, each spouse, rather than sinking into indifference and complacency, makes an effort to do things that leave their partner enamored and appreciative. To find out what kinds of things tend to have this effect when coming from the man in the marriage, I talked to Kate and some other married women about what husbands do on a day-to-day basis that make them swoon. Below, I’ll share what I learned from them and from the many relationship experts I’ve interviewed on the AoM podcast. If you’ve already got a good relationship with your wife, these suggestions can help strengthen that bond and further boost its happiness. If your marriage has been struggling, then engaging in these behaviors might help change the course of its trajectory. There can sometimes be a tendency in these situations for someone to think, “Why should I make an effort if she isn’t?” But often all it takes to get a relationship back on track is for one person to take the initiative in acting in a different way. Once one person starts sowing positive behavioral seeds, the other person becomes less defensive and instinctively starts acting in kind. A stalemate is broken and a virtuous cycle begins that turns the relationship around. If your wife doesn’t reciprocate by leveling up her own relational game, then, yes, that probably means your marriage needs a more serious/professional intervention. But why not try the simple behaviors below first? 10 Ways to Be Better Husband Today 1. Be an interesting conversationalist. Marriage is essentially one long conversation, and when the quality of the conversation between spouses sags, so does the quality of the relationship. When you come home from work and your wife asks how your day was, don’t just say, “Fine,” and leave it at that. Even if not much happened, dig up a detail or two to share. Intentionally collect conversational fodder during the day to share when you and your spouse catch up. Remember some interesting tidbit of office gossip you heard around the watercooler at work. Read interesting articles that catch your eye and file away some details you can talk about later. Be mulling over ideas you’ve heard so that if your wife asks, “What have you been thinking about lately?” you’ll have something to say. While one of the privileges of a close, long-standing relationship is the ability to comfortably sit in silence, in the healthiest relationships, you enjoy conversing so much that you rarely want to. 2. Leave love notes. Through years of watching marriages fall apart, divorce lawyer James Sexton has learned a thing or two about how to reverse engineer things and keep a relationship together. As he shared on the AoM podcast (his episode is such a good one; be sure to listen to it), his strongest suggestion for avoiding ever having to see him in his office is to simply “leave your wife a note every morning for a couple of weeks”: just leave her a note, just a little, ‘Hey, Babe, thanks for last night on the couch watching TV. It was so nice, like the smell of you just makes me so happy. I fell asleep with it on me.’ Or ‘you looked so pretty when I woke up this morning and I’m so glad to have such a wonderful woman in my life. I love you.’ And that takes you 30 seconds, and I’m telling you that little tiny investment of time and effort will pay dividends like you wouldn’t believe. If you want to really challenge yourself, leave your wife a love note every week for a year, like this guy did. 3. Be a man with a plan. One woman I spoke to said she really appreciates it when her husband comes up with a plan for a date night or family outing and then executes it without her having to worry about anything. “Plans really turn me on!” she declared. Don’t wait around for your wife to plan your next date or family microadventure. Come up with an idea for a good time and then carry it out. 4. Perform small acts of… http://dlvr.it/TBGnF6

[annadelveys]

btw we have a new polish lesbian coworker and let me tell you its SO MUCH FUN to workplace flirt with a woman for once. like i workplace flirt with pretty much every single at-least-semi-hot guy /this is an incredibly male-dominated working environment/ because that's just who i am, i am a flirty person. but now. NOW i get to workplace flirt with a woman for hours. like who has that. i am asking you. how many people are lucky enough that they can have a proper lesbian flirt by the watercooler & no one can say shit about it. truly i might be the luckiest person on earth.

[feralbutfluffy]

42: Crowley

Chapter 42 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

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

"What were you thinking? I'd already said I didn't need an apology! Yeah, look, I was still angry before, but then you - stupidly, by the way - went back up there - like an idiot, I might add - and you killed The Metatron. That tears up the ledger, Aziraphale."

Muriel had left to escort a scandalised Saraqael back to Heaven to recover. They'd concocted a cover story involving a demonic pyromaniac, although Saraqael had recovered enough strength to hide their wings so Crowley was really, really hoping the story wouldn’t be necessary...

Muriel had come up with most of it.

On their way out, Muriel had said that seeing the apology dance in all its glory had probably been the thing to shock Saraqael back to themselves, and privately Crowley had to agree. They'd looked so affronted he'd briefly thought there might be a Victorian-era swoon and Aziraphale would have to locate his smelling salts from the 19th century. There was no doubt that somewhere in the bookshop, Aziraphale had smelling salts. That seemed inarguable; the angel was a veritable hoarder of nostalgic sentimentalities.

Anyway.

Saraqael (and Muriel, once Aziraphale had pointed out they might not be well enough to go alone) had left the bookshop in haste that would have been offensive if Crowley hadn’t been so glad to see them leave. They had healed him, and he was grateful, but he couldn’t shake the fact that hanging out with an archangel made him feel like a cat getting rubbed up the wrong way. 

Well. That particular archangel, anyway. 

The other archangel - the Supreme one who had just twirled and bowed before him like Salome - was distractedly leafing through papers on the desk, studiously avoiding Crowley’s gaze.

"Whatever chance I may have had to redeem myself only came to pass as a result of my original actions,” Aziraphale said stiffly. “You were still owed an apology dance for the original offense."

Crowley let his head fall back and closed his eyes. 

“How noble of you,” he said, only half-mockingly. “Did that debt really require you to bow submissively in the presence of two angels? Muriel’s… fine, probably - that one's as loyal as a hound - but if Saraqael’s the gossip-at-the-holy-watercooler type you’re never going to hear the end of it Upstairs. They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.” 

He smirked as he tried to imagine Saraqael describing the dance to a cluster of horrified angels. He found it harder to imagine than he thought he would, actually. Aziraphale was probably safe enough from the office rumour mill.

Still. Aziraphale hated doing that dance, which was part of why Crowley so enjoyed asking him to do it. That, and the sensual, warm, coiling feeling he always got at the end, when Aziraphale swept into his ludicrously dramatic bow and looked up at him like he was a knight pledging loyalty to his liege. 

Having witnesses had significantly diminished his enjoyment.

Aziraphale had fallen silent, and Crowley opened one eye to see the angel staring down at the ground with an odd look on his face. Crowley opened his other eye and lifted his head to fix him with a questioning frown. Had he upset him?

Aziraphale fiddled with the hem of his jacket and then, in a shy, coy voice Crowley barely recognised, said, “Don’t you?”

Every single thought in Crowley’s head instantly abandoned him, leaving him stranded in a whited-out moment of blinding confusion. What was he asking? What had he said? He tried to remember what had preceded the question, but some subconscious part of him must have heard, understood, and abruptly shut down his mental processes, because he couldn’t catch hold of a single coherent thought.

“Mn?” 

Aziraphale tilted his head, attention now fixed on the base of the desk. 

“Don’t you?” He repeated. This time his tone was mild, almost disinterested. Deceptively casual.

Whatever Crowley had said, he’d said it less than a minute ago. Bit alarming, thought Crowley, trying to stay calm about the fact that his short-term memory now had the structural integrity of Swiss cheese. What had he been rambling about? Something about Saraqael gossiping�� His frown deepened, and then, finally, he managed to scrape together enough cognitive ability to recall the last thing he’d said. 

‘They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.’

‘Don’t you?’

He pitched forward gracelessly, searching Aziraphale’s downturned face for sarcasm or mockery. His muscles were rigid with tension. What was the angel playing at?

Aziraphale slowly, reluctantly, dragged his gaze upward.

They locked eyes. 

Crowley found no humour there. Aziraphale had the wide, wet, terrified look of a rabbit realising they’ve been cornered by a fox. 

Presumably he was the fox in this analogy. 

He sighed. Whatever fear was thrumming through Aziraphale, it was entirely self-imposed; Crowley was in no condition to be pouncing on anything except maybe a pillow.  He felt so, so tired. Physically, yes, but also tired of talking round in circles, tired of the same arguments in different guises, tired of 6000 years spent running to stand still, tired of stitching up his wounded heart every time Aziraphale took fright and disappeared.

‘They’ll think I have some sort of power over you.’

‘Don’t you?’

“No,” he said wearily, absent-mindedly touching the cut under his eye. He felt the dried blood there, hard and rough beneath his fingertip. It stung a bit when he pressed it, and the narrow point of uncomplicated pain was a welcome distraction. Aziraphale’s question had rubbed raw a hurt he'd been making a heroic effort to ignore.

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to disagree, and Crowley felt annoyance flare in his chest. His hand dropped, clenching into a fist against his thigh. “If I had any sort of power over you, you’d have stayed, don’t you think?” He tried to keep his voice soft. He wasn’t trying to hurt Aziraphale, but it was the truth. 

“When they asked you to go - and I shouldn't need to tell you this, because you already know - I used everything in my power to ask you to stay.” He stared evenly at Aziraphale, whose mouth was pressed into an unhappy line. “Was it enough?”

Aziraphale was silent. 

“So, to answer your question again: no.” Crowley broke eye contact, his eyes burning. 

Aziraphale was up and sitting next to him before he had a chance to finish the sentence, thigh pressed against Crowley’s, eyes fixed on his face. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. You’ve said. It’s fine. You’re forgiven. It’s…” he tugged at his sleeve and cleared his throat. “It’s in the past. Just don’t- don't say things like that. Feels…”

Cruel. 

“...a bit thoughtless.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably, trying to create an inch or two of space between them.

Aziraphale was still staring at him. He could feel it through his skin, like a tingle. He valiantly resisted the urge to press his hand to it.

“Muriel told me you went to sleep after I left. They said you were sleeping right up until they woke you. How long were you planning to sleep for?” Aziraphale said, and his voice was gentle and sad and, frankly, unbearable.

The shadow of pity in Aziraphale’s voice was enough to spring the trap of Crowley’s temper. He spoke without thinking, tit-for-tat on the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah? Muriel told me about your diary entry from 1941.”

He regretted the words instantly.

S orry Muriel.

“What?” Aziraphale blanched and leaned away from him. 

Crowley wondered if there was a way to backtrack. He doubted the angel would buy it. 

Damage limitation it is.

“Just, ah, broad strokes. General jist. That sort of thing. Nothing too, ah, detailed.”

He thought he must be glowing with the lie. He darted a look at Aziraphale, whose eyes had that wet, hunted look about them again. Brilliant. Back to being the fox, and this time he had brought it on himself.

Well, he’d heard the best defense was a good offence… 

“Look. Right. So. They might have mentioned- You wrote- " Oh, this was agonising. "You wrote that I made your heart hammer…” 

Aziraphale didn’t so much as blink; he looked absolutely horrified. Crowley narrowed his eyes and continued, “...from fear. You wrote that I made your heart hammer from fear ."

Not a flicker of movement.

"... And then earlier, before our date with The Metatron, you said and I quote, ' You’ve never frightened me, Crowley .' Those were your exact words. So. I’d like to know who you’re lying to, because they can’t both be true.”

Crowley’s eyes caught on a hint of movement; Aziraphale’s hands were shaking. Part of Crowley wanted to stop then, wanted to sink back into himself, apologise for anything and everything, smooth things over with soft words and gentle humour… 

Of course, that was always his reaction to Aziraphale’s distress. Make it better. At all costs, make it better. He’d been whatever he’d needed to be to keep snapping back to Aziraphale’s side, and he’d done it over and over and over again until he couldn’t do it anymore. 

Now there was another part - a fierce, excruciatingly hopeful part - that thought that if he could just hold his nerve, he might be able to snap them out of their usual pattern, might be able to knock them onto a new course.

He was an ouroboros trying to pull the tail out of his own mouth.

“Angel, are you lying to me? Or are you lying to yourself?”

[ittybittybumblebee]

nothing will destroy our water cooler its cool will never stop its water will never break thank you water cooler for getting me through a tough 11 years water cooler ❤️you foreveranimal that spits in my cup you will never die in my heart you are my freind you will not hurt me never beezie <3 watercooler unshakable bond

[sassasafreeaction]

While The Resurrectionist minisode gives us a lot of different things, one of the most important things that it gives us is the concept of plausible deniability and how important it is for Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship.

In the episode, Crowley drinks literal poison, and while he gets to be very silly, he also gets to be a more honest and genuine version of himself. He gets to do good, and when Aziraphale points this out, he immediately throws in the rebuttal - "Not kind! Off my head on laudanum."

Now, the next time he sees Aziraphale, he asks for holy water, so it's hard to say how much deniability the laudanum actually gave him. At the same time though, Crowley is still around and not eliminated.

The only real effect that a supernatural being seems to experience with poison is drunkness, which in a way I guess makes sense because alcohol is its own poison. However, it's also a poison that the two of them regularly partake in.

A lot of the more serious and genuine conversations that the two of them have happen while they're drinking, when they have that level of plausible deniability. It would be so easy for one of them to say something and take it back under the ruse of being drunk and not knowing what they're doing or saying, even though they both know that it takes an extraordinary amount of alcohol or a strong poison for them to actually be drunk.

The first example we see is in the bookshop after Crowley has delivered the Antichrist, and he's trying to convince Aziraphale to help him. When they had met up initially, Aziraphale had adamantly refused to help him, but once they're safe in the bookshop with several bottles of wine in their system, Aziraphale is honest for the first time about his feelings on the situation. "I don't like it anymore than you."

Sure, they sober up shortly after that, but it isn't until there is that liquid courage/plausible deniability in their system that he's even willing to dare to start to humor the thought.

(In Hard Times, you do have them sharing a drink together in Rome. It's the first time where they seem to genuinely indicate that they'd be interested in actively pursuing the other's company. There's less to pick a part because it's so short, but worth mentioning, especially because the entire time the two of them talk, they have a drink in their hand.)

The next time we see either of them drinking is right after Crowley has left the bookshop fire. A lot of people drink when they're sad, so that's not the most exciting, but he is drinking because he's sad about Aziraphale, his "best friend," and while Hell probably doesn't care because they have bigger things on their mind, it still gives that placebo level of protection.

Side note, there's a strong chance that if Crowley does remember the Fall that this is probably the most accurate description since he's the most open we've probably seen him in the show here- essentially talking crap at the Heavenly Watercooler with the boys and then ending up in a boiling pit of sulfur.

The Script Book has a line that I think is super worth mentioning as Crowley says, "Aziraphale? I'm trying to get drunk. Failing." It emphasizes how much of a cover drinking has become for them, and that the act of pretending is more important than genuinely being drunk. Also, Crowley doesn't try to hide from Aziraphale. He doesn't specifically say "I thought I lost you," but he looks absolutely wrecked. The way Aziraphale pauses in return makes me feel like he has to know, but also, they're idiots.

The two of them also share a drink before the Swap, and they get rather philosophical in regards to the Almighty. This is also the first and only time that Crowley uses the phrase 'We're on our side' and Aziraphale doesn't have a rebuttal.

At the end of Season 1, they're at the Ritz, drinking of course, and it's here where both of them tease at how they genuinely feel about the other. The drinking is on the light side though, so we don't get anything more concrete than 'To the World'. (Although the way that Aziraphale looks at him and says that phrase still makes me weak.)

Season 2 sees Crowley offering Aziraphale his first drink. The angel refuses but Bildad still gets his drink on. This is the first time that Crowley introduces the concept of not being on Hell's side.

(Also, he just watches Aziraphale pleasure himself enjoy some ox ribs which is freaking wild. I'm pretty sure everyone has analyzed the undertones of this scene to death, but there's drinking involved so it makes the cut.)

After speaking with Heaven and Hell, Crowley and Aziraphale get together at the pub to discuss their new plan. They both have a single drink, but you have the chest touch and Crowley talking about falling in love in the rain (ya know like he did).

In 1941, following the magic act, we have them drinking again. Crowley asks Aziraphale to retire the act, and then there is an important beat as they get ready to start a more serious conversation. As soon as Aziraphale decides to take them toward more serious territory, he tops off Crowley's glass. They again tease at the concept of 'our side' by discussing the morally grey.

Now, in S2E6, Crowley mentions to Muriel about taking Aziraphale for an extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz, which to me suggests that even without Maggie and Nina talking with him, Crowley likely would have confessed.

However, in Episode 5, when Crowley is sitting at the restaurant, the first thing he does after getting Aziraphale's attention is ask if he wants a glass of wine. Aziraphale tells him "I'm at work and I have a meeting". I feel like this was almost the original confession from Crowley. Forgive me because I can't find the post, but I know someone has pointed out some of the other parts things that indicate this (Crowley's is the only table with a rose, him walking right into the 'smitten' phrasing because he thought that might make a good transition, etc. I'm really sorry I didn't find it right away when I scrolled and I gave up.) I think the wine speaks a lot to it though because it allows for the same song and dance of if this doesn't work out, I can always blame it on the alcohol.

Now you could say that the two of them just really enjoy alcohol and its a coincidence, but there are an angel and a demon who also happen to meet a pub. Gabriel gets himself and Beelzebub a beer, but the two of them never drink them.

Unlike Aziraphale and Crowley, they have the luxury of power to protect them. They don't need to have the plausible deniability because as far as they're concerned, they answer to no one.

Maggie, a human, also turns down alcohol while she's with Nina. Nina needs the liquid courage, but she doesn't. She has no interest in alcohol. However, Nina is in a sticky situation with her partner. Maggie carries a torch for Nina, but she's also brave enough to be the first one to offer a gift and indicate how she genuinely feels about her. They're both human, so they can be honest with one another.

I'm sure drinks will probably still be important in Season 3, but I wouldn't be surprised if they have a scene where either Aziraphale or Crowley actively turns down a drink because they no longer need to hide.

[katenoteight]

Thanks for the tag @myargalargan , always lovely to be pinged by a Romione buddy 😉

So, here goes...

Last song I listened to: "From Can to Can't" by Corey Taylor while doing lunch prep, bc who doesn't listen to rock metal while making mashed potatoes...aye?!

Favourite colour: Purple. Don't know what that says about me, but 🍆 are purple and my bestie likes to send an 🍆 my way whenever I'm a dick, so idk, make your own conclusions... 🤷‍♀️

Currently watching: The House of Dragons season 1 to refresh my memory while waiting for the coming bloodshed and dragons!!!

Sweet / Savory / Spicy: Savory and spicy - and I will give you this 🤨 look if you eat sweet popcorn. Even the sweets I like are sour. Generally, just a salty person.

Relationship status: Been with the same guy since college - we endure each other's nonsense and manage 2 kids with 'their mother's attitude'. We're a sassy fam of 4 and soon 5 (we're getting a dog... pray for my sanity).

Current obsession: Latest fanfic which I'm writing with @hpfanted14 and finishing all the unfinished fics I've got (summer project - yay! including Magic Matches and Watercooler Strategists)

Currently reading: sadly nothing, but have uploaded heaps of books to kindle for summer, and hols are mere 3 days away so yaaaaaay 🥳

Last thing I googled: nothing exciting - something about the workings of our new fridge. But kudos to me for finding the right youtube video before my 'savvy' husband. 😏

Currently craving: Huh... could do with a glass of red wine - its Wednesday - I made it halfway to the weekend, I deserve a treat! 🍷

Coffee or tea: I think you can tell I'm very much a coffee person (see profile) ... In true Balkan fashion - I can drink it all day, any time of day. Bring me a strong Turkish brewed coffee and we can be friends. As for tea - love mint tea.

Well, this was fun 😆 no pressure tags:

@hpfanted14 @reallybeth9 @am2c @nena-96 @ronherm @romione22

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

As I said on my first fic rec post, I have written very many fics and I love almost all of them, so I can't pick FAVORITES so much as CATEGORIES, and this category is going to be "Fics Joanna Made Me Write Outside My Comfort Zone Because It's Good For Me Or Something"

Whenever I view the moon on the battlefield This was the FIRST fic I wrote outside of ANS fandom, and if that was not already out of my usual groove enough, it's also from the POV of one of the minor characters in Hakuouki, Shimada Kai. The concept was originally conceived while I was streaming a playthrough for the obiyuki discord-- Yamazaki (our best boy) and Shimada are both spies and spend quite a bit of time off screen, so we kept running into scenes and being like "how AWKWARD is it for those two to be watching this right now?" And so when it finally came time for me to throw my hat into the yamachi ring...Joanna asked for THIS to be the fic. You know. Instead of one where Yamazaki and Chizuru actually kiss or whatever. Sigh.

The Most Perverse Creature in the World Listen. I know there are people out there who LOVE xReader fics. I'm happy for you, truly. I am not one of them. But after answering the fandom fuck/marry/kill game (otherwise known as only one bed/slow burn/enemies to lovers) with small littler blurbs about the kind of story I would write for the older gentlemen in ANS (Shidan, Lata & Haruka), SOME PEOPLE got very invested in Haruka's little enemies-to-lovers blurb. Some people made puppy eyes. Some people made puppy eyes and then got very sick after, and I AM A GOOD FRIEND and wrote ONE CHAPTER and have never known a day of peace since. Six years later it's up to thirteen chapters, has a very complicated plot involving the politics of taxing oral sex, and I've learned how to effectively write in 2nd person.

don't speak boyshit I cannot properly explain how absolutely in our heads the Maria/Kamitani pairing is, but like. It's good okay?? Joanna did not so much force me to write this one so much as like...emphatically encourage its existence, to the point where I have a very complicated outline and she routinely reminds me I'll finish it when i'm like. 50. But this is certainly the gateway fic to the OTHER fics for this pairing she DOES want to twist my arm over, SO ON THE LIST IT GOES. I am one of TWO authors in this ship tag, and also one of TWO fics...and yet this is one of my most popular non-ANS fics 🤣

If the Mind Is Willing This is a fic Joanna will HAPPILY admit to being the main driver for, since, as she puts it, "there is no one else who could possibly ever write this fic." Taking TWO very niche concepts (LARP and a SURPRISE FOR LATER) and a very niche pairing (yamachi) would perhaps not have been MY first choice...but Joanna asked for the first chapter as a birthday gift a few years back and here I am, learning a whole new tabletop system and really giving my FBI agent something to talk about at the watercooler.

He Who Studies Evil Of all the niche fics Joanna has convinced me to put to paper (or at least, word document), this is probably takes the top spot. A prequel to my obiyuki Star Trek AU, this covers events about 10 years previous, with Haruka taking over DS9 and immediately being thrown into a political nightmare when he is informed that the Cardassians are in possession of a missing human child. This took...an INORDINATE amount of time to research and write-- I hadn't seen DS9 since I was in high school, and I watched through nearly half a season just to get the timeline right-- but I still REALLY love how it came out. Which is good, because it is definitely one of my least read fics 🤣

[hrafterhours]

In its first "Sneak Preview Episode," Bubbler's Mick and Kerri discuss UAPs and the recent disclosure hearings, as well as tackle the often-debated question of whether Ross and Rachel were on a break.

🛸 hrafterhours.com 🛸

#hrpodcast #humanresources #watercoolertalk #watercooler #bubbler #bubblerpodcast #ufos #uaps #Friends #RossandRachel

[euphoricfuture]

Introduction

Euphoria. 

That was what we called this new world.

The early 21st century witnessed an increase in a pervasive and insatiable libido that impacted the daily lives of adults worldwide. This affliction was characterised by sexual frustration that permeated all thoughts, leaving no room for other concerns. Papers were published on the subject, but researchers were relegated to the fringes, and their subjects were often dismissed as nymphomaniacs. It took time for these findings to be recognized, as individuals began to feel their libidos increasing to unmanageable heights.

It wasn't until two researchers presented their findings to the World Health Organization (WHO) that the world uncovered a truth that would reverberate throughout history. Our heightened sexual desires were not merely a want for sex but a need to live freely and openly. Our bodies were signalling that we required more orgasms to survive, with studies revealing that the health benefits of sexual release were unparalleled.

Although initially contentious, the Euphoria laws were enacted to accommodate the daily orgasmic requirements that had been evolving gradually over the past decade, and were only recently acknowledged as a medical imperative. Orgasms were now considered a necessary function of daily life, akin to eating, with a deep hunger setting in when not achieved regularly each day.

Social changes ensued, granting individuals the freedom to discuss sex in almost any setting, akin to the way we talk about eating. The taboo surrounding sex began to dissipate gradually, with clear sex, explicit education emerging as a necessary component of society.

Inevitably, indecency laws were dismantled slowly, and parks became prime locations for sexual stimulation, providing individuals with the opportunity to attain a few essential orgasms. Conference rooms became pleasure rooms, and sex became the new watercooler. The Sexual Revolution had taken hold, forever transforming society and its attitudes towards sexuality.