#leeches are just living worm on a string

[plaguedocboi]

I let my sister’s friend handle one of the leeches last night and she suddenly was like

“Oh! They’re like those long fluffy things!”

“Worm on a string?”

“Yes! They’re like worm on a string.”

[o-craven-canto]

Parasitic crustaceans are wild.

[cw: photos of parasites inside host bodies]

Here is Linguatula serrata, which lives inside the nose of dogs and other Carnivorans. It belongs to group Pentastomida, which has so shed its arthropod appendages that it was long classified as its own independent phylum (attested in fossils all the way from the Cambrian Explosion!), until molecular analyses showed they were in fact strange crustaceans -- closest relatives of the relatively normal-looking fish lice (Branchiura).

And then there’s Pennellidae...

Do those horn-things look like crustaceans to you? And yet the family Pennellidae is fully part of Copepoda, the chief component of crustacean plankton. Its body is simply one elongated trunk and a tiny head biting onto the fish, with two long egg cords trailing behind.

Look at the cod worm (Lernaeocera branchialis), another Pennellidae, hanging from the gills of a fish:

It’s those two red things that look like slugs wearing a wig made of soy noodles. Here’s what it looks like on its own, extracted and preserved:

(source) The coiled strings are egg masses. The slug-like part is the copepod’s trunk. The thin branching thing at the bottom is its head, converted into a sort of root system that no longer does head-like things, but rather burrows into the fish host’s blood vessels to feed its eggs. Incidentally, this is just the female; the male still looks like a regular planktonic crustacean.

Now, regular barnacles (Cirripedia) are strange enough...

(source; picture them as shrimps lying on their back, with a digestive system that fell out of the body wall but is still contained by the outer shell, and feathery legs poking out to filter water)

... but parasitic barnacles of clade Rhizocephala go much further:

Here, on the left, is Sacculina carcini. No, not the crab; the yellow sac poking out of the crab’s belly. On the right, its relative Clistosaccus paguri shows what it might look like once extracted.

Sacculina carcini is fun. A larva looks much like any other crustacean planktonic larva, until it finds a suitable host. It stings the unfortunate crab in a vulnerable spot between armor plates, and effectively injects itself into the host, leaving its own shell outside, and transferring only soft tissues.

Once inside, it grows more like a fungus than an animal, turning into a root-like web that infests the crab’s entire body, down to its leg tips. Then it takes over not only the crab’s digestive system, leeching nutrients for its own eggs, but also its nervous system, effectively controlling it like a puppet.

When the parasite is mature, its egg sac starts bulging out of the crab’s body: that’s the yellow part you see in the photo. Male Sacculina stay larvae their whole life: they just mate with the female’s egg sac and then die. The parasite makes the crab take care of itself as if it was the crab’s own eggs. There’s no competition, since the host is sterilized; to leave more food for the parasite, it also stops molting and regenerating lost limbs. If the host is male, and therefore poorly suited to carrying egg sacs under its tail, Sacculina messes with its hormones and effectively turns it female.

Finally the eggs are released and the whole cycle starts again, with the only purpose of making more eggs whose purpose is making more eggs.

(all pictures from Wikipedia unless specified otherwise)

[adultjazz]

NO SENTRY

TRACK BY TRACK #1

this post is about No Sentry, track 9

we love tim’s trombone loop,  the jarring note switch and the way a kind of slower melody gets threaded through that, we listened to the variations for hours and hours in a now defunct studio near carisbrooke castle. it always had ballad energy for us, so when @hepostsclouds sent over the glorious strings and it drew out a kind of latent lament quality, we knew it had what it needed 

when experimenting with the autotune early on i liked the clunky and slightly dopey sound that the subtle formant shift gave the voice 

i started thinking of kind of lumbering creatures, oafs with arrows in them, sad + slain dumbasses maybe 

I made some homemade latex prosthetics  to help scope him out 

i think the special animal figure was born maybe as a relief from the idea of us as solely pernicious and other leech/parasite/sadist metaphors 

which we understandably resort to when talking about human harm ecosystems

maybe this allowed for more sympathy and absurdity, or pathos and tragedy ?

the idea of a god figure instructing a flower to withhold bloom, or a raincloud not to provide release long into the future, further than us as the fossil record as a kind of mourning

i don’t think the planet is a god or even that god is necessarily a god - but maybe there is a kind of cosmic regret held somewhere about all this

that’s what i suddenly feel without warning at least

MadMax cliche is hard to avoid when talking about an uninhabitable planet. its hard not to imagine extreme dry and extreme cold or hot and wet and the extremes of everything, dead soil. but an uninhabitable world like that is another invitation to dominate, terraform and problem solve. i just know we can’t, won’t refuse the offer. 

i imagine all the technology needed to cling, and i also hope for it, but also hope for a concurrent shift that allows for other ways of being - imagine having to invent stuff forever, better to slip off gracefully no? let the worms have it

with the abrahamic notion of us as stewards/namers/custodians/sentries, it means that, when we are extinct, stuff is reduced to its semantically blank constituent parts

east is north, doesn’t matter 

just a slab of stuff, granite, ice, miles of it, no story, stop all geomancing, stop narration, stop narrative, pop words empty

the sound that matched it was like a balloon deflating was the eeeeeeeeeee you hear a couple of times in the record  - felt better than oooh or ahhh, less mannered and sadder i think

anyway i am trying to be hopeful about it - these are thought experiments to reach a more sustainable pattern of living alongside other species and things 

i always loved nature scientifically and mechanically and aesthetically but had been allergic to fanciful extrapolation about any inner worlds or sentience beyond human meaning- for animals it felt anthropomorphising, and for the planet it felt too mother nature-y - but i also think it was a way of not facing up to harm done

but i can’t really be allergic anymore, acknowledging a deeper life in these systems seems to be the only hopeful avenue and being fanciful is a low price to pay 

so maybe a story is needed , but maybe we first need to face the blank terror of no story to prompt the better retelling 

for our listening party i put the lyrics over a video of a locust i saved from a swimming pool

it preened with its forelegs and looked like it was trying to plead with me to me, maybe for safety maybe for extermination

it died anyway, it was too far gone

[lmanberg]

Dear C!Quackity haters,

You bastard. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas... I’ll bet you couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a dick than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are an asshole, a cad, a weasel, a pissworm. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient

in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill.I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid.

Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond

the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.:

You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

[livingintheworldofstories]

forgiveness (can you imagine)

Genre: angst with a happy ending Word Count: 8273 Summary: After Beelzebub slams the door to Hell in his face, Crowley walks to Aziraphale's bookshop, but he can tell that something is off. He falls to his knees in pain - and then he realizes. She is making him Rise. It's painful. It's what he would never admit that he wanted. (Maybe now he can be loved.) ao3: forgiveness (can you imagine) If there is one thing Crowley is absolutely certain of, it is this: Once a demon, always a demon. However, what Crowley is absolutely certain of and what Crowley dreams of are quite different things. On lazy afternoons, he dreams he is a serpent and has always been a serpent. On good days, he dreams he is a demon and has always been a demon. But on the bad days, Crowley dreams he is forgiven. And loveable. And loved.

(Once an angel…)

Same side, he dreams voraciously. White-winged and golden-eyed, he dreams wolfishly. Untainted, unsullied, unmarked. Every blessed four-letter-word. Good, nice, kind, he dreams ravenously.

(You were an angel once.) And hungrily, hungrily, he dreams, a soft warm hand grasping skinny fingers. Yellow eyes and dark heart forgotten. What was once wretched. What was once wicked. Forgiven. Skin that has forgotten the shape of scales. I recognize you. I see you. We are the same. (Flames so hot they dance blue, licking up and licking down and licking everywhere as of yet untouched by pain.)

A Shakespeare play unwritten. Stars uncrossed. The sweetest love confessions, like poems, honey of the soul. He dreams so desperately. Two angels, side by side.

(Feathers burning so quickly, so easily, like they were meant for it. Stubborn flesh burns harder.) On worse days, at his weakest, Crowley dreams he is whole. He has never broken his wings. He has never disappointed anyone. He has never made a mistake so bad it can’t be forgiven. Pathetically, he dreams, I deserve to be loved.

(That was a long time ago.)

Crowley wakes up, and knows the nature of a demon, and knows to hold his tongue.

It’s just after the Nahpocalypse that he gets it a little mixed up and washes his dreams over into his carefully separated reality.

Demons, typically, do not hope. Hope is just a few technicalities removed from faith after all. It had been viciously burned out of them when they screamed during the Fall and no one came. Crowley, of course, has always been a rather terrible demon.

(This is where the sunset will take inspiration from. How beautiful, it thinks, watching white wings burn hot red, ardent orange, spiteful yellow. I will make those colors mine.) So for a few awful days after the world doesn’t end, Crowley is consumed with shameful, treacherous hope. His whole corporation is brimming with it. It’s brimming with idiotically composed hypotheticals. What if Heaven was holding him back? What if he lets himself have things now? Or some more pathetic ones. What if he will hold my hand?

(You do not land from a fall like this.)

But, of course, among all the things that changed, there are things that didn’t.

(You crash.)

Crowley is still a demon. It is intrinsic to his being that he can not be loved, certainly not by an angel. Unloved is woven into his pitch black feathers. Unforgiveable is braided into his fire hair. Maybe that’s what’s holding Aziraphale back.

(The crash is what leaves the life of what once was an angel hanging by a string. Any being with burning wings thinks it knows pain. But then their bones shatter. Then the fierce power of the impact knocks the breath out of their lunges. They would think, that knocked the soul out of my body, if they could still form coherent thoughts.)

Because Aziraphale knows. The very core of his being is rotten and wormed. There is no unseeing that. And hope dies a slow death in Crowley’s heart, as days pass, and everything is different and stays the same.

(You can only live through this if you convince yourself you do not have a soul.)

Maybe that is why he chooses to wander into hell, under thinly veiled excuses. No one bothers him on his way in. He makes it all the way to his office before he is stopped, two demons grabbing his arms and the Lord of Flies fixes him with an angry glare and crossed arms.

(In toxicity and heat, only the most stubborn beings survive. Maggots crawling up your calves, flies kissing your eyes, leeches clinging to your skin, a parasite disguises its greed as love and you reach for it without hesitation, without inhibitions. You let yourself be fooled with the hopeless desperation of a starving man.) “What are you doing here, Crowley?” Beelzebub asks, head tilted.

“I was just – ehh, y’know, clearing out my office -”

Beelzebub waves a hand, a cue for the demons to drag him through the narrow corridors of Hell. They ignore Crowley’s struggling and his shuffling feet and keep a tight grip. Outside the doors of Hell, they sent him on an undignified tumble with a shove. Crowley takes a moment to find his feet, but then he whirls around. Beelzebub and their demon bouncers are standing in the doorway.

“You can’t just – I mean, no hospitality, you people. I’m a demon too! I have rights! Worker’s rights, ever heard of it?”

“You’re no demon,” Beelzebub buzzes and slams the door in his face. Crowley blinks at it for a few moments, feeling oddly dejected.

(An apple that isn’t picked falls.)

Downtrodden, Crowley starts to walk somewhere, anywhere. He follows the familiar way to the bookshop almost automatically. He doesn’t know what he wanted in Hell, not really. He hasn’t belonged there for a long time. Perhaps he was looking for some familiarity. Perhaps he wanted to remind himself of what he deserves.

He breathes in the open space and lets himself think of Aziraphale. It’s not too late for lunch. Forget about what he can never have. Most dreams are best locked away. He just needs to put a lid on it somehow, the same way he has done for millennia.

Oh, he knows. There are some questions you do not ask. There are some strings you don’t pull. Not if you want to keep – not if you want to stay - He breathes in deeply, the smog-filled dirty London air, the free sky air, cold breeze air.

(But you do rise eventually. Sulfur dripping from what remains of your wings, every bit of you that can still feel aching, and strangely certain She doesn’t love you anymore, you rise.) This is how to carry on: You saunter forward. You keep your eyes ahead. On his way, he notices a total of four (four!) people who smile at him. It’s like the opposite of people staring because you have something on your shirt. It’s like everyone being very impressed with you because you don’t have something on your shirt. Crowley is thoroughly unsettled by it.

He does not expect the sudden piercing pain in his chest. It makes him crumble to his knees. The humans start sending him irritated glances now, so he scrambles to his feet and ducks into the nearest alley. Next to three black trash bags, Crowley lets himself be consumed by the ache.

Crowley has had his fair share of pain and millennia to feel it, but he has never felt anything like this before. It’s pain reinvented, like someone changed up the formula, just to make torture a little more interesting.

Fuck. Where the bloody Heaven is it coming from? Crowley’s knees buckle again and he props himself up by his hands, the rough asphalt digging into his palms. Fuck, is he dying? It feels like dying. He has never touched holy water, but he imagines this is what it must be like, like burning without burning.

It’s the mirror-image of agony. It’s pain in a different flavor. It’s death by – love. That’s what it is. Love. Bloody angelic fucking love. And there is something distinctly holy about it. It’s been an eternity since he’s felt like this, like this without the pain, like this but like it belonged in his body. But he remembers – fuck, he remembers and back then it was good, so good. (It’s a method of torture to put someone in a room for days and never turn off the light.)

He looks around frantically, searching for who did this to him, if it was Beelzebub and her demons, if it was an angel because only an angel could cause divine agony like this. But there is no one – he is alone in the alley with the trashcans – there is nobody but him, just like back then.

It’s everywhere, even in his toes, even in his fingertips. If he could feel pain in his hair or his nails, he would.

Maybe it’s Her. What if it’s Her? What if She is punishing him now, for saving the world or for asking too many questions or for not being good enough of a demon? Maybe She’s decided that if he doesn’t fit in the two categories she has carved out for them, he doesn’t deserve to exist at all. Maybe She’d decided he’d asked for too much. (He had. He’d asked for the world and for love and for nights spent stargazing and holding hands with an angel.) And She wouldn’t even let him say good-bye to Aziraphale. How is that for mercy? (He had never known Her to be merciful.)

He tries to grab his phone through the pain, but his hands are shaking and it slips through his fingers. Tremors roll through his body and he leans forward.

“It’s not fair,” he mutters, grinding his hands against the ground. He feels like he did in the burning bookshop, only this time he doesn’t have to lose his world. His world will stay, it’s only him who will be gone. That’s better. That’s almost something resembling okay. Aziraphale will be fine.

He’d thought he was dying back then, he’d really thought he would, back then he had still thought she would be merciful. Maybe this is Her finishing the job.

If he’s dying, why does it have to hurt so much? Couldn’t She have done it in his sleep, if She’s oh so powerful? (But he doesn’t deserve it, does he? He doesn’t deserve a peaceful exit. That’s what She’s always thought, that he should BURN BURN BURN) He screams

broken s o u n d s  tumbling out of his mouth

Drowning

It’s like DROWNING

He has died like humans do a few times he has never drowned but almost so he knows -

It is drowning and surviving. Gulping up water, have it fill your lungs, and it does, it’s everywhere, holy and everywhere, he is choking on it and gasping for air that won’t come and never being granted the mercy of death.

This is the holy water that will refuse to kill you. He is  n o t  dying, dying is easy, he has done it over and over, he is living and that’s worse WORSE Where is HER MERCY? Humans die, and they say it’s like walking toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Why do they get to have it so easy? Why does light burn burn burn like water does. . And his wings. They hurt so much, he has to drag them onto this plane of existence.

. !

? Blue, everything. is. blue. ?

?

?

? They move

drag

on their own accord

on SOMEONES accord

-

upwards

UPwards

u p w a r d s - but they drag down go up but drag down heavy as lead as a lead balloon as the beginning of the world But you fly anyway, impossibly, against each downwards drag of your wings. (It’s like falling upwards.) (It’s still losing. It’s always losing.) He flies with wings in agony. Drowning. Only there is no water to drown in. It wells up inside of him, invisible and not really water.

Tears, though. Those burn. Like holy holy water. Surviving. Even though you’ve run out of air long ago and all you breathe is water, wet and cold. And it is Good.

He could feel how very bloody Good it was. (And Goodness hurts and scathes and sometimes kills. And Goodness does not repent. Goodness leaves a trail of bodies after itself and does not glance back a single time.) Why does She want him so high? So She can drop him? So he can Fall again? And again and again?  Why is he surprised?

She brings him closer and closer – to Heaven – to what he once was - She will drop him - She will drop him out of the clouds - And worst of all -

He will never see Aziraphale again.

(Can She drag him up again by broken wings?)

He always thought he would die by love, all the love that has always consumed him and eaten him and devoured him and sustained him and nourished him and healed him – but Aziraphale is not even here, but Love is and doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t need Love with a capital L, he never has. He had love instead.

(And he was good at it, if there was one thing at all he was good at, it was this. He loved. Like a human. Like an angel. Like a demon with nothing else to live for. He’d loved, and it had been so, so good, and She would never take it away from him.)

And it had been so much. Too much. He had expected to drown in love, yes, but not like this. (He had expected a touch lingering too long.) (He had expected a gaze too intense.) (He had expected words too harsh.) (Those were the things he had prepared to die for.) (And oh, the love he had lived for.)

Higher, higher, he keeps shooting higher, he cannot stop his wings. (He will fly too close to the sun.) More than he would like to admit, I am scared. If this is dying, when do we get to the good part? If this is not dying, what is it? Is this my punishment for hoping? For asking? Should have known better than to hope. Am a demon after all.

demon aren’t i why does it feel wrong to think demon (unforgiveable it’s what i AM) I am a demon, I am unfor- I am un- I am a- I am an Giveable for u n Able lov u n Nomed N O M E D I am. Scattered letters on my tongue. I am an. I will die touching the clouds. (I am flying too close to the sun.) (But you don’t know how much I have always ached with it.) (You think your Love can kill me, go on, try it. I fucking dare you.) (Torture me with kindness. Whip me with niceties. Hollow me out with your Love, I fucking dare you.) You do not get to shape me. You do not get to make me. I am not your bruise to press on.

(I did ask when I was Burning.)

(I begged.) (Resurrect my soul. Glue my wings back on. Heal those sulfur burns. Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.) You are slicing through the air and it is slicing through you. You are the weapon and the wound.

(You have flown too close to the sun.)

You are Her Enemy. You are Her detested door-to-door salesman. You are a dried leaf under Her boot and She likes to hear it crack.

…

You are Her child. … You are My child.

you are my child i love you i’m sorry -

The Goodness and the Love and the Holiness flood his veins and his essence and everything, until there is no room for him anymore.

It will keep pressing, he knows. Until he is burned away. And it’s okay. Aziraphale is safe. And it was all worth it. He has loved. He is ready to go.

But then it eases – but She will not let him – he can breathe again – his wings are his again – he is floating -

He gains control of his wings and lands on the ground of the alley softly. And he can tell. Something is Gone. And something is There.

There are two things he is certain of: He is Forgiven. He is Loved. Which makes him not certain of anything anymore.

He is shaking, even though the pain is gone. Once a demon. (Once a demon…) ? Once a.

? ?

?

He will not be loved. He will not be forgiven. He is. He’s.

It’s everywhere. He has felt it before, but that was a long, long time ago.

Love is not something to have. It’s a passer-by. It’s a precious visitor. It is not in its nature to last. (Not for someone like Crowley.) Love will not be owned. (And if there is one place it does not belong it’s behind yellow slitted eyes.) He knows what it feels like to have Love bleeding from your fingertips. Love oozing from star-maker’s hands. Love dripping red from curled angel hair. Love is not to keep. What just happened? What happened? Something is Missing. Something is There.

He is a demon, he has wings. He has… White. Why are they white? Fucking shit. Fucking hell. Holy fucking shit. Fucking Heaven. They’re white. They can’t be white. It’s impossible. (They burned in fire and in acid. They broke and healed. They are as black as a void where goodness used to lie.) He tears off his sunglasses and turns them around, quickly skimming his reflection in the glass. The eyes are still there. But the wings are looming behind him, as if he were – some sort of – holy – ngk

And if there’s one thing Crowley is absolutely certain of, it is this -

(It’s WHAT I AM -) once. crowley was once an angel. Fuck. As a matter of fact, no. No. No no no no no.

Crowley does not run to Aziraphale’s bookshop. It is an emergency, but not one that warrants superfluous exercise. He does, however, walk at a very brisk pace.

He does not think anything but a never-ending string of swear words and curses. He throws open the door to the bookshop and there he is. Safe. Whole. Tartan bow tie and everything.

He almost walks back out when he is hit with a wave of love stronger than anything he felt out on the street, love that he knows is not his own.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley rasps. He can’t say the other thing at the moment. “Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale starts walking toward him, hands anxiously fidgeting in front of him. “What’s going on? What happened? Is it angels? Are angels after you? I could swear I’m sensing one close by, I’ve been a little… nervous about it.” “Nah – no, it’s not – it’s not angels, I don’t think, it’s -”

“But I’m usually never wrong about these things.” Aziraphale frowns.

“Well – well you’re not wrong, technically, it’s just.” Crowley can’t say it and tries to scramble for a place to start. “I went to hell.” “Hell? Why? Did they take you? Did they hurt you? Are you hurt?”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face is heartbreaking. But Crowley is fine. Isn’t he? Nothing broken. This time, there are no scars. Skin is unblemished now. “No, I’m not hurt, well, not anymore, but… I don’t know why I went into hell, it was stupid. But then she – she slammed the door in my face and said you’re no demon, which ha! Fair enough. Just Beelzebub being petty, you’d think. You don’t just un-become a demon. It’s not like – not like I could be some sort of an aardvark all out of a sudden. That’s not how it works.” Aziraphale has come very close now and reaches out his hands to clasp Crowley’s, which is probably meant to be reassuring but makes the panic flare up inside of him. Maybe it’s not even panic, but some other embarrassing emotion close to it.

“My dear, what are you saying?”

Crowley clenches his jaw. He can’t say it. Aziraphale will think he’s mad. He is mad. This is mad.

Aziraphale is fine. Now that he’s seen it, he should leave. Maybe he can just… sleep it off. Maybe it will all turn out to be a very strange dream. He will wake up in his flat, as demon as ever, and there will be nothing to be confused about, nothing to dread and nothing to hope for.

But he can still feel it. As real as anything. Buzzing under his skin and above his skin. In the bookshop, he can tell it’s everywhere. Is that Aziraphale’s love? It’s… shining. It’s so beautiful. No, it can’t be. There’s too much of it.

His lips are clamped together, but his wings are not. He unfolds them right here in the bookshop. They are so bright. Brighter than they should have any right to be.

Aziraphale lets go of his hands and stumbles back. He makes a small ‘oh’ sound.

What will he think? That it’s ridiculous. It is ridiculous.

(That it shouldn’t have happened. Crowley doesn’t have what it takes to be one, that’s obvious to anyone.) (That he has wanted this to happen. That he has wanted to upend Crowley’s entire being and remake it ever since they met on the wall. That this is good.) Aziraphale presses his hands in front of his mouth and just stares.

That’s when it occurs to Crowley – things are different now. He hasn’t changed, but things have. Unforgiveable unraveled and turned into forgiven. Unloveable unraveled and turned into loveable. How much more would it take for loveable to turn into loved? Maybe Aziraphale will let himself -

(Is the apple still so tempting when it is not forbidden anymore?)

“Is this -” Crowley asks, “Could we -”

He thinks, Aziraphale will just know. Because of course he is asking. He is asking.

But Aziraphale is shaking his head. Still staring.

Oh, the eyes. He forgot about the eyes. Quickly, he puts on another pair of sunglasses. His eyes are still demon. He is a demon, but watered down. Still too demon. Even when he’s not.

“I – I know the eyes are still – but it doesn’t matter, I’m -” and it doesn’t feel right, but if this is what it takes to convince Aziraphale – “I’m an angel, right?” We’re on the same side, right? We’re the same. Right? Just don’t look past the sunglasses, and it will be fine. Just forget that my wings were black only yesterday. Aziraphale’s expression changes, but Crowley can’t tell. “You being -” Aziraphale hesitates too, “- an angel doesn’t change how I feel about you, dear.” “Oh.”

Crowley had let himself hope again and he’d barely even noticed it. But he shouldn’t have. Maybe in time, Aziraphale would get used to it. Maybe in time, he would fall in love. But not so soon. Crowley has waited six thousand years, he can wait a little longer.

Unless.

Unless it doesn’t matter. Unless what’s on the surface doesn’t count, only what Aziraphale knows to be true and what he knows to be true is that Crowley is a demon and meant to be a demon and demons can never be redeemed. Maybe She has changed Her mind about that, but that doesn’t mean Aziraphale has.

Aziraphale knows.

(Maybe it was never being a demon what made him unloveable.)

But he can wait. He will. He’ll be patient.

Oh, the love. It’s starting to become unbearable.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know – it just suddenly started. I was walking here and then suddenly I was Rising.” “How? How do you Rise?” Aziraphale seems astonished by it. And Crowley thinks of burning love. Of water that is not water. Of divine agony. “Just… sauntered vaguely upwards,” he says and shrugs. It’s strange how different and familiar it feels. How foreign and home. How far and how close. “There’s just so much love here,” he says, just to say anything else, “where does it all come from?” Aziraphale looks surprised and then bashful.

“Maybe it would help if I stepped outside for a moment?” “Why, what’s the problem?” Crowley asks, confused. “Oh, wait, you don’t mean – all that love is coming from you?” Ah. That explains. It was a stupid question earlier, although it’s not like that’s ever stopped him. He should have been able to tell. So much love, so much, and none of it is directed at Crowley. (There is the proof Crowley never wanted that Aziraphale was not just lying to Crowley or even to himself.)

“It is,” Aziraphale says softly, resigned, almost like he just admitted to something. “I am an angel after all.” But Crowley has always known that Aziraphale loves. But he had not known how sweet it would feel, even if it’s just a dream that it’s for him.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asks and comes closer again. “I know it must be a startling change.” “Ha! You can say that again. Count me startled alright.” Crowley runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. I just… don’t understand why She would do this. Why would She just – shake everything up again? I thought – She made the rules clear all these years ago and now I feel like maybe I was playing an entirely different game all along.” Like he thought they were playing chess, but it was really Monopoly all along.

“Maybe… maybe She wanted to reward you.”

Aziraphale had not been there. He had not felt it. To him, being an angel comes without a price attached. “No,” Crowley insists immediately. “No way. It must be some sort of punishment. I just can’t see how yet.” “Is it so hard to believe that the Universe would simply be kind to you?”

“Yes,” Crowley says tersely.

She isn’t kind, She plays games. The Universe has never granted him favors. Anything Crowley tried to do right has always gone wrong.

“I can’t,” he realizes suddenly, “sorry, angel. I can’t.” He rushes out of the bookshop and doesn’t listen to Aziraphale’s stammering and doesn’t turn back around. It’s not just the conversation he can’t do, it’s all of this. He’s not an angel. He’s not a bloody angel. He doesn’t want to be an angel. Angels are stuffy and hypocritical. Angels have hurt him and have hurt Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to be an angel. (He has never wanted to be a demon either, of course, but that’s semantics.) The Bently is still at the entrance of hell, so he takes a Taxi back to his flat.

“I’m not an angel,” he says to the air. He circles his throne and flops down on it. A moment later, he gets up again and starts pacing the room.

“Do you think this counts?!” he says, growing more agitated. “Do you think the pain just – goes away? It doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t mean you never let me suffer. You did. You did.” He slams his hands down on the table, then braces himself on them.

“You might have Forgiven me. Maybe. Maybe you did. But that doesn’t mean that I will forgive you.”

He just can’t figure it out. So he yells. Yells loudly, as if something like volume could ever make Her hear him. “Why did you do this?” he yells, “what do you want from me? Do you want me to forgive you because I won’t. Do you want me to be your perfect little angel because you can forget that.” She has never heard him. For millenia he has begged her, he has asked her, he has yelled at her and She has never responded. “FUCK you,” he yells. “You hear me? Yes, I just cursed your fucking name. Are you going to make me Fall again, now? Then go ahead and do it.”

Is that Her game? Are those the stakes? He’d never known back then. That that was something that could happen. But now he does. Now he knows Her and what She is and what She will do.

“Is that what you want? For me to make the next mistake so you can push me out again?” That must be it, right? Why else would she do this? It’s oh so in-fucking-effable.

“I won’t be your blasted clean slate!” His plants are shivering, even though it’s not them he’s yelling at. “I won’t be your blank canvas, just for you to hurt again.” (I will not have everything just to lose it all.) (I will not climb high just so I can fall deeper.) “I am a demon,” he says with a certainty he doesn’t have, “I don’t care how white my wings are, I am a demon.” Demon means many things and most of them Crowley has always hated with his whole being. But demon also means ‘abandoned’. Demon means ‘pushed over the edge of Heaven’. “I am a demon. You didn’t not hurt me just because I don’t have the scars to prove that you did.”

She cannot erase him. She can’t write him out of existence, it’s too late for that. He might die, yes, but he was here and he was a demon and she can’t take that from him. “Twice,” he snarls, “twice you’ve ripped away who I am. Redefined my being how it pleases you. I am not your plaything. I am not your game piece.”

He pushes himself away from the table again, suddenly drained from anger. “I am not Crawly,” he says. And refuses to be.

***

The angels come for Aziraphale the next day. He is not expecting them. They scoop him up outside his bookshop and drag him up.

Gabriel is with them, but not to get his hands dirty. He is here to taunt. To mock.

“You’re not an angel, Aziraphale,” he says, “you should have Fallen. We’re just helping to – speed things along, as it were.” So that’s what they were after – a Fall. Aziraphale had often wondered what it would be like to Fall. He had wondered if the freedom would be worth the pain.

In the privacy of his mind, he has drawn up a list of things he would say if he were Fallen. And a list of things he would do.

There were times he had wanted it. (Our side.)

They keep dragging him up, knows he is too weak to break free and he will not miss Heaven.

They break his wings with a well-placed blow half-way to the clouds and he will not miss the angels.

When they reach the lowest cloud, he slips free.

It’s not the angels who make him Fall. Angels don’t have that kind of power.

What makes him Fall is a thought that starts with How could She do this to him? The thought follows Why do you let him be an angel now and not six thousand years ago? It stumbles briefly over Why do they get to be angels? The thought reaches Are you saying he didn’t deserve it before? Because he did. He deserved everything. It dives right into You don’t know what’s right or wrong, do you? And hits You’re just playing a game with full force.

It’s not quite I don’t believe you did the right thing that does it. It’s the thought he ends with: I don’t believe in you. He falls. He looks up at the sky and the clouds and the somber faces of beings that were supposed to be good. And he thinks, I don’t believe. And then he Falls.

He doesn’t try to move his broken wings. He lets it happen.

(He had thought Falling would take longer.) (But it’s over quickly.) (It’s hitting the ground that hurts.)

(The force of his fall denting the asphalt.) He lies in the rubble. And he knows that something is Gone. And something else is There.

Several of his bones are broken, but it’s nothing he can’t mend. His corporation survives the fall. Love doesn’t.

He lies and lets himself feel the loss of it. I don’t want your Love, he thinks and misses it terribly.

He stares at the far-away sky for a long time. It is untouchable now. For a long while, he lets himself feel the pain - and finds it’s not a fresh wound. It’s very old and has been bleeding for a long time. Maybe it can finally start healing now.

Then he thinks, I should get on with it. If Crowley can do it, so can I. Then he rises up in his spot of rubble. And then he does. ***

(He does not call Crowley. He locks the bookshop and closes his blinds.)

(He cries for as long as his corporation will produce tears.)

(He tears half of his books apart with his fingers and all the brute force he can summon, then he miracles them back together. Once. Twice.) (He screams at Her, but he doesn’t use words. She will understand.) (He lets his phone go to voice mail and miracles it apart when it keeps ringing.) (He does not answer the knocks on his door.) “Aziraphale!” (Not the banging either.) “Angel!” (His bones have healed but the pain fills him from head to toe.)

“Please let me in.” (He posts Crowley a letter. I’m fine. Go away. He lets it float outside the bookshop.)

(It goes quiet.) (He can still sense an angel around.) *** A week later, Aziraphale dusts the bookshop.

It’s ineffable.

Aziraphale is Fine. He lifts the blinds. To Hell with ineffable.

He gets on with it.

*** Crowley is leaning against the door of the bookshop when it opens. He gets to his feet swiftly and turns around, but he balks when he sees Aziraphale’s face.

“No,” Crowley says and backs away. Scared. “She can’t – She can’t, She wouldn’t dare. Not you.”

Because I would tear Heaven apart for you, and She knows it – I would tear her whole Creation apart until She was the only being left and then I would put Her to trial.

“No. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale looks indeed fine for someone who has spent a week holed up in a bookshop. He looks too fine. Unnaturally fine. He ushers him into the bookshop and closes the door behind them.

“It’s not,” Crowley says quietly.

“Well, it is what it is. No use in dwelling on it.”

But Crowley will dwell on it. For a long time.

“What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

He is frantic with concern, the shock of finding the locked-up bookshop still deep in his bones. He hadn’t expected this. He would have expected angels to come and get their revenge. Not Her. “I believe this is something I had to do alone,” Aziraphale says.

These are the repercussions. This is the price. Why would She make Aziraphale, Aziraphale of all angels, the best angel there is, why would She make him Fall?

“Did it hurt?”

Too much time with a demon. Where is the limit?

You can have my soul, you can have my heart, you can have my wings, I let you take it all, but not him – you can’t have him. “It didn’t hurt a lot for a Fall.”

He has dreamed of this. He is a complete and utter bastard and he has dreamed of this. What if Aziraphale were a demon? What if I were an angel? He had never imagined those two would collide. “But it hurt.” Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

This is the cruelty he knows from Her. She will keep them forever apart. They can never touch. They will never be the same. Maybe that’s her punishment. (It is ever more cruel if you had hope. And Crowley has always been a terrible demon.) “I’m sorry,” Crowley says.

In a general bad-things-should-never-happen-to-you way but also in a very specific this-is-my-fault way.

“Don’t be,” Aziraphale says kindly. “We were always rather terrible at our jobs, weren’t we? You a bad demon. Me a bad angel.”

(I would give my grace to you, if I could.) (I don’t deserve it, I never did.) “I was a terrible angel too.”

“And I imagine I’ll make a terrible demon. I suppose it doesn’t really matter then, what we are.”

Why him why him why him why HIM?

“It does. It does!” Crowley is growing angry. “I can’t believe how calm you’re being. Why aren’t you freaking out? I’m freaking out.” “My dear, I’ve had six thousand years to learn that, angel or demon, it’s not important. They’re really just labels.”

“Just. Labels.” Crowley repeats dumbstruck.

He steps past Aziraphale to the sofa, grabs one of the pillows and presses it to his face. And then he screams.

Aziraphale doesn’t get it.

He doesn’t understand, this is all on Crowley. Crowley never should have talked to an angel on the edge of Eden. He never should have gotten so close.

“What about Love?” he tries, choked up.

“It was a bit overwhelming sometimes. All that Love.” If Crowley could sense love, then so could Aziraphale back then. Then he’d sensed Crowley’s love – then he’d always known – and of course he’d known something so blindingly obvious – and it had all been too much for him, Crowley’s love, so much that he was glad to be rid of it. Not having to sense it anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says again and he is. More than anything.

Crowley should go.

This is why Aziraphale had barricaded the bookshop.

It’s over. They both know it’s Crowley’s fault. He ruined this. He’d wanted to much. He’d wished a doomsday upon them.

“’s my fault,” he speaks it out into the open quietly. The sorry wraps around his throat like a snake and starts to strangle him. “It must have been my fault. I made you Fall. I tainted you.” (This is what happens when you touch an angel.) (When a demon touches an angel, they bleed into each other. It is as unholy as it is holy.) Aziraphale, who must be the kindest demon there is, if Crowley can ever accept he is a demon, does not condemn or accuse him. He will be gentle about his rejection. Aziraphale is an expert in wrapping brush-offs in nice words. He kicks people out of his bookshop with sensible shoes.

Can’t you see, angel? I did this I did this I did this to you I am worse than a demon

I am your monster, I am your nightmare, I am your Personal Hell I am your punishment, I am your crime, I am your worst mistake He is a thief and a scoundrel. He took it. He took Aziraphale’s grace. Aziraphale should hate him. Should kick him to the curb.

(He had seen something precious and wanted to own it.) And Aziraphale has always known, has rejected him at every turn because he always knew what was really there, but nothing has ever been as bad as this. There is no coming back from this. He will walk out the door of the bookshop and never return. Won’t be allowed to. (The most unforgiveable thing he has ever done is to be forgiven.) But Aziraphale looks at him, with his kindness. He steps toward him.

(You should not have let me touch your wings, lest I turn them black.)

You might not be Heaven’s angel, but you will always be mine. (I turned them black.) Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley’s cheek, as if to soothe him.

(I never even kissed you, but I burned away your Grace.) Aziraphale tugs his sunglasses off gently. (Not burn, but take. Take and take and take.) “Dearest, don’t insult me,” Aziraphale says then, “this was nobody’s choice but my own.” “Choice?!” Crowley croaks.

“I was never much fond of being an angel, as you well know.” How can Aziraphale accept this so easily? Doesn’t he know - Why does he always understand but never understand -

But there is nothing to change it. This is the new world now. We are an angel and a demon has become true once more.

***

“It’s strange,” Crowley says, “I thought all your angel-love would disappear, but it’s all still here.” Aziraphale lets out a strangled sound. “Yeah, s-strange.” *** For a day there, they were both angels. But now Crowley has missed his chance.

*** “She has been quite cruel, from time to time,” Aziraphale says. *** “Even the kids.” *** A man rushes past Crowley when he enters the bookshop.

“Who spit in his coffee?” he asks Aziraphale, who is sorting books.

“Oh, I have a feeling he suffered a minor delusion and thought the book he picked up had maggots crawling all over it, but who knows.” “Okay, and who spit in your coffee?”

“Satan,” Aziraphale says innocently.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley exclaims, equal measures scandalized and bemused.

“Didn’t you see that book he was carrying in his bag? Full of dog-ears. I will not tolerate a book-abuser in my shop.”

“I see.” Crowley hides his smirk.

*** A girl runs along the sidewalk and trips over her own feet. Crowley, sitting in the Bentley, sees her fall. Her knee is scraped and starts bleeding. She’s crying. Crowley’s heart flies into his throat.

He wants to heal her. It’s a forbidden emotion. It’s Something Not To Think About. He is not allowed to want things whole. Except now he is.

It’s a subtle miracle. Crowley gets out of the car and gives a short wave of hand. The skin mends itself and the scrape is gone.

He has done this kind of thing before, of course. When there were no other demons around. This time he doesn’t feel guilty. “Did you just heal -” Aziraphale starts when he walks into the bookshop.

“Shut up.” ***

“Oh, but you can’t leave without trying the crème brûlée,” Aziraphale tells the couple on its way out the French restaurant. “It’s simply – well, divine.”

The couple has a change of heart. “I’m starting to think it’s the opposite,” Crowley remarks and raises an eyebrow.

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” Aziraphale says cheerfully and takes a bite of asparagus. *** Crowley leaves for the homeless shelter every now and then. Aziraphale knows better than to ask.

***

Crowley doesn’t know what to do with Love. It feels like it belongs to somebody else. But he also knows that missing it is worse, so much worse. He knows Aziraphale doesn’t tell him everything.

And he can’t bear the thought, not even of Aziraphale being a demon but of Aziraphale suffering like a demon.

He won’t feel Unforgiveable, not now that they know that demons can be Forgiven. But cut away from Love, from Her Love, not being able to sense it anymore… Crowley knows that it’s hard. It’s lonely.

Sometimes, it’s like freezing out in the cold. Sometimes, it’s like starving of something. He wants to give it back to Aziraphale, even if only a sliver. Only a modicum of what he really deserves.

And Crowley… well, he has Love but he does not have love. Not the kind he wants.

“I want you to know… it’s not gone,” he tells Aziraphale on a quiet evening, sitting next to him on the sofa.

“What, my dear?” “I… I know you always knew… and of course, I know you don’t return – I just want you to know. Because it’s the not knowing… that’s really painful.”

Crowley is explaining himself badly, but it’s been in his mind for so long, it’s hard to let it out.

“Whatever are you talking about?” Aziraphale diverts his full attention to him now. “Well, it’s… It didn’t really become clear to me that you knew, must know, until I could sense love myself.” Quickly, Crowley adds: “But I still do.” “Do what?” Aziraphale looks very confused, which means he’s not being deliberately obtuse. And he’ll have to say it. It hurts to say it, but nothing is as bad as Aziraphale not knowing.

“I love you,” Crowley says softly. “And you know that. You must have been able to sense it for millenia. So I hope you realize… you’re not unloved. Could never be. Not as long as I’m alive.”

Aziraphale’s mouth drops open.

“You don’t have to respond!” Crowley rushes to say. “All this time, you haven’t said anything, so – so that’s an answer in itself. I mean, I sense love, of course I know you don’t. Can’t.”

This will not break them. If nothing has yet, this does not have the power to. But it still hurts. Oh, it hurts. And he has always, always wanted too much. “My darling, I think you’re not yet an expert at the sensing of love.”

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“It doesn’t exactly require a lot of skill.” Aziraphale sends him a calculating look.

“Who do you think my love belongs to, then?”

It sounds like a trick question. “Wha – the world?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “A nice thought, but I really don’t love the world all that much.” “Then what?” “It’s a misconception, you know. That angels can tell where the love comes from. We – they can only tell that it’s there.”

So he didn’t know. He didn’t know that Crowley loved him – well, he should have been able to tell anyway.

But then Crowley’s throat goes try. His mind should not go there, but it does. The well of hope inside of Crowley is endless. No matter how much of it you snuff out, there is always more to come.

“So hypothetically,” Crowley says.

“Yes, hypothetically…” “All this love could be directed… at one person.”

Crowley scoots a little closer to Aziraphale. “Even a demon?” Crowley adds. “Yes, a demon,” Aziraphale breathes. Yes, feast yourself on my tainted love. Do you think you are immune to poison because it was home in my veins? Are you willing to take your chances?

It’s bad. Crowley shouldn’t do this. But he can’t stop his hand from reaching out. He stops at at the last moment, just before touching Aziraphale’s and quickly draws it back. He almost forgot. There’s a crater between them still.

“But you won’t let yourself,” he says and is certain that it’s true. They are an angel and a demon, it doesn’t matter who is which. Aziraphale thinks they don’t fit. “We’re an angel and a demon. ‘S probably some sort of law of nature against it.”

Hope dies a slow death in his chest. “You’re probably right,” Aziraphale says, which speeds up the process a little. “But -”

“But?” “As of late, it turns out, I’m a bit of a rebel.” Crowley’s head shoots up. “What?” “And I don’t care much for rules.”

I have always been venomous, you should have known to stay away. You shouldn’t have let me tempt you. (Soft-seeming lips, did you let yourself be caught off-guard by the teeth behind?) “Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers and it’s do you want this will you let me can you forgive me? Aziraphale takes his hand. Please don’t let me bite you. “You really shouldn’t,” Crowley says.

“Why not?”

Aziraphale looks at him so earnestly, so seriously, like Crowley matters. “Falling for it wasn’t enough of a clue?” “You didn’t make me Fall, dear. That was all me.”

���But I’m not g-” his voice is wet “good for you.” “You are.” Aziraphale’s voice is rising. “You didn’t need to be an angel for me to know that.”

He wants to lean in, lean so close he can breathe Aziraphale’s breath, he wants to press his lips to Aziraphale’s but he’s frightened that Aziraphale would let him.

Venom on my lips and poison in my blood, I taste so sour, darling, don’t drink from me. And I know you are a glutton for it, you are a glutton for the finer things. But don’t drink your punishment from me, it won’t taste well. But then Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him and Crowley can’t stop him and he doesn’t want to and Aziraphale’s love tastes so, so sweet. And Crowley doesn’t like eating pastries or candy but he loves this.

She will never have this. She could never create this. She could never remake the world in a way that he won’t fall for Aziraphale.

It’s a slow kiss and it’s a little difficult to fit all that love between their lips, but they manage it.

She could never take this. She can drown the world and She can burn the world and She can banish the angels and She can grow a garden in Hell, but this love will always be there. She can’t touch it.

Crowley is not rotting, not anymore – he is blooming, like the blossoms on an apple tree. Not even he can destroy this.

He is touching the sun. He is living in it.

“Well then,” Aziraphale says and beams at him. “Can I tempt you to dinner?” Crowley groans. “Oh, you’re insufferable.”

Aziraphale looks very smug.

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to smite me. With, what was it? Your angelic righteousness.”

They stand up from the sofa at the same time and start walking toward the door.

“You’re a real bastard, Aziraphale,” Crowley tells him. Aziraphale preens at the compliment. Things are shaken up. They are a little different and a little the same. But Aziraphale and Crowley carry on as always. And Crowley still glues coins to the sidewalk every now and then. Aziraphale still blesses babies once and again. One of them might be an angel and the other might be a demon.

Semantics, really.

[mewhenhorrormovies]

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As we

say in Texas, you couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions

printed on the heel. You are a canker, an open wound. I would rather

kiss a lawyer than be seen with you. You took your last vacation in

the Islets of Langerhans.

You're a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little

worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a

cad, and a weasel. I take that back; you are a festering pustule on a

weasel's rump. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench,

a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same

species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at

the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut.

Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are

a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. You are a technicolor yawn.

And did I mention that you smell?

You are a squeaking rat, a mistake of nature and a heavy-metal bagpipe

player. You were not born. You were hatched into an unwilling world

that rejects the likes of you. You didn't crawl out of a normal egg,

either, but rather a mutant maggot egg rejected by an evil scientist

as being below his low standards. Your alleged parents abandoned you

at birth and then died of shame in recognition of what they had done

to an unsuspecting world. They were a bit late.

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting

to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a

nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able

to access it ever so much more rapidly. If cluelessness were crude

oil, your scalp would be crawling with caribou.

You are a thick-headed trog. I have seen skeet with more sense than

you have. You are a few bricks short of a full load, a few cards short

of a full deck, a few bytes short of a full core dump, and a few

chromosomes short of a full human. Worse than that, you top-post. God

created houseflies, cockroaches, maggots, mosquitos, fleas, ticks,

slugs, leeches, and intestinal parasites, then he lowered his

standards and made you. I take it back; God didn't make you. You are

Satan's spawn. You are Evil beyond comprehension, half-living in the

slough of despair. You are the entropy which will claim us all. You

are a green-nostriled, crossed eyed, hairy-livered inbred

trout-defiler. You make Ebola look good.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid,

nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an

ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with

you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in

a land that reality forgot. You are not ANSI compliant and your markup

doesn't validate. You have a couple of address lines shorted together.

You should be promoted to Engineering Manager.

Do you really expect your delusional and incoherent ramblings to be

read? Everyone plonked you long ago. Do you fantasize that your

tantrums and conniption fits could possibly be worth the $0.000000001

worth of electricity used to send them? Your life is one big

W.O.M.B.A.T. and your future doesn't look promising either. We need to

trace your bloodline and terminate all siblings and cousins in order

to cleanse humanity of your polluted genes. The good news is that no

normal human would ever mate with you, so we won't have to go into the

sewers in search of your git.

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and

obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living

emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a

loathsome disease, a drooling inbred cross-eyed toesucker. You make

Quakers shout and strike Pentecostals silent. You have a version 1.0

mind in a version 6.12 world. Your mother had to tie a pork chop

around your neck just to get your dog to play with you. You think

that HTTP://WWW.GUYMACON.COM/FUN/INSULT/INDEX.HTM is the name of a

rock band. You believe that P.D.Q. Bach is the greatest composer who

ever lived. You prefer L. Ron Hubbard to Larry Niven and Jerry

Pournelle. Hee-Haw is too deep for you. You would watch test patterns

all day if the other inmates would let you.

On a good day you're a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are

deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of

wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted.

Spammers look down on you. Phone sex operators hang up on you.

Telemarketers refuse to be seen in public with you. You are the source

of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

May you choke on your own foolish opinions. You are a Pusillanimous

galactophage and you wear your sister's training bra. Don't bother

opening the door when you leave - you should be able to slime your

way out underneath. I hope that when you get home your mother runs

out from under the porch and bites you.

You smarmy lagerlout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock.

You grotty wanking oik artless base-court apple-john. You clouted

boggish foot-licking half-twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You

gormless crook-pated tosser. You bloody churlish boil-brained clotpole

ponce. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You cockered

bum-bailey poofter. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You

dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. May your

spouse be blessed with many bastards.

You are so clueless that if you dressed in a clue skin, doused yourself

in clue musk, and did the clue dance in the middle of a field of horny

clues at the height of clue mating season, you still would not have a

clue. If you were a movie you would be a double feature;

_Battlefield_Earth_ and _Moron_Movies_II_. You would be out of focus.

You are a fiend and a sniveling coward, and you have bad breath. You

are the unholy spawn of a bandy-legged hobo and a syphilitic camel.

You wear strangely mismatched clothing with oddly placed stains. You

are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just knowing that

you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go

away. You are jetsam who dreams of becoming flotsam. You won't make

it. I beg for sweet death to come and remove me from a world which

became unbearable when you crawled out of a harpy's lair.

It is hard to believe how incredibly stupid you are. Stupid as a stone

that the other stones make fun of. So stupid that you have traveled

far beyond stupid as we know it and into a new dimension of stupid.

Meta-stupid. Stupid cubed. Trans-stupid stupid. Stupid collapsed to

a singularity where even the stupons have collapsed into stuponium.

Stupid so dense that no intelligence can escape. Singularity stupid.

Blazing hot summer day on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one

minute than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. It cannot

be possible that anything in our universe can really be this stupid.

This is a primordial fragment from the original big stupid bang. A pure

extract of stupid with absolute stupid purity. Stupid beyond the laws

of nature. I must apologize. I can't go on. This is my epiphany of

stupid. After this experience, you may not hear from me for a while.

I don't think that I can summon the strength left to mock your moronic

opinions and malformed comments about boring trivia or your other

drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped

away most of your of what you wrote, because, well ... it didn't

really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was

pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a

load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after

you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more

success. True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal"

people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering.

But we sometimes forget that there are "challenged" persons in this

world who find these things to be difficult. If I had known that this

was true in your case then I would have never have exposed myself to

what you wrote. It just wouldn't have been "right." Sort of like

parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the

emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a

demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful,

cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable,

belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal,

fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic,

brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame,

self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, fraudulent,

libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, EDLINoid,

illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking,

devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic,

fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased,

suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim,

crazy, weird, dyspeptic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim,

unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive,

abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, and Generally Not Good.

[expositionaljazzskeleton]

the gangsey as things my friends have said

gansey

"those bees have balls!"

"the West Virginian mountains could fuck me"

"pack the wife and kids and go watch Mt. St. Helena erupt"

"Just let the fingers have a little dancing fun!"

"He does not need a straw to drink his chair"

"Uranium can't be transuranium... unless it wants to be and that's fine"

"My favorite amusement park: Seven Flags"

"I love the sound of smooth jazz and distant screaming"

"Do you wanna consider the lobster?"

"My elbows need some windshield wipin, if ya know what I mean"

"no, [Blue], I'm not gonna do a line of smarties off of your buttcrack"

"Its time to brush the tiny orange. go to college."

"stop infecting me with your lesbian coldness"

"what the fuck? it's not even whale time!"

ronan

"The rectangle and the rhombus fell in love and made a baby named the square and then they eventually commited suicide"

"Blue highlighters will never amount to anything"

"Fine print is for wimps"

"Have fun getting shanked by the bathroom clown"

"If I have a kid their middle name will be dragonfucker2000"

"Just casual arson, I guess"

"Javelin throw [Noah] out the window"

"If you give the baby LSD maybe it'll be happy"

"I wanna see an emu with a gun"

"The waters turning the whales gay. no wonder they're eating our plastic"

"The best way to ask someone's sexuality: what's your favorite flavor of crotch?"

"bikes are causing discrepancies amongst the skeleton mating habits"

"Juice is temporary. Sauce is forever. My brother said that. he's dead now. the juice got him"

"live your best life. eat your own ass"

adam

"facial absorption of math"

"I learned mama, dada, and the distributive property"

"Why am I not making enough good meat hunk sauce???"

"Everyone is just an allele goodwill"

"The shamrock shake gave me ptsd"

"Wait, there are recipes in the bible?"

"Heroine is not a bird"

"We're having a sauce crisis!!!"

"Y is bisexual. Y-sexual. It goes both y-s"

"I need some barbeque sauce to drown my math problems"

"Have a vengeance against the sight reading. This piece killed your father."

"don't upset sister scantron"

"911 YES HEWWO??!?!"

"my sexuality is Nickelodeon slime"

"what, you have boneless water where you live like some fancy person?"

"I don't deserve fingers"

"who tried to assassinate my pear??"

noah

"I want a Graham cracker taped to a rock as my tombstone"

"What flavor is your bus?"

"The city is very city. Very, very cultures."

"I forgot to water my baguette!"

"Trains are just worms!"

"You're just like leech, and I'm just like LEECH"

"How am I supposed to fall on my face if there is no worm?"

"Dying alone, GONG. Now there's a bell in your head."

"Chickens are fine. I don't think they have feelings."

"I shall always be loved for my corn bones"

"Sticks is a spectator sport"

"is the thumb no longer crunchy?"

"tea? Like, slurp slurp???"

"Alright. Lime screaming over"

"Martha Speaks wrote James and the Giant Peach"

blue

"you must have the highest knees"

"My leg is not the Protestant Reformation"

"TV static, yum!"

"I promise I will never call you a beanie bitch"

"Spanish colonists were furries confirmed"

"Its called a prayer circle, dumbass"

"You can't force your granola culture on me!"

"Rainforest won't make you feel bad about yourself"

"I'm just an intern stripper"

"The spinoff of Five Nights at Freddies: Four Nights at a Hotel Somewhere"

 "you put the 'hobo' in 'chobani'"

"What's it called... English? is it English? fuck English"

"keep it in, walrus man"

"You don't tell a lady to keep her spear in the trunk"

"are you an athlete or a mathlete? I'm a bitch"

"this is discrimination against string instrument players and lesbians!!!"

"how do you smoke weed? oh you SMOKE it!"

henry

"Now I'm definitely not voting for you because you stole my tangerine"

"Are you implying that all other spas are run by robots?"

"The sun..... cannot slide"

"Out of all the animals that would dab, the Clydesdale horse is not one of them"

"Thymine is a power bottom"

"Only white people are legally allowed to play ultimate frisbee"

"I wanna get jumped by second graders"

"No! Rice crispies baby daddy!"

"That ladybug is thirsty AF"

"duck shit? that's hot"

"there's a lot more gay popes than I thought"

"government funded orgies"

"I don't know what God tastes like but pussy tastes like good fuckin food"

"remember that thing we did yesterday? yeet the moon"

"hell yeah ladies get on this scarf dick"

"have you ever seen the human centipede?? THAT WOULD BE THE BEST ORAL SEX EVER!!!"

[antonverloc]

i didn't get no sleep cause o' Y'ALL, ya'll not gon get no sleep CAUSE OF ME

    ❝ you swine. you vulgar little maggot. don’t you know that you are pathetic? you worthless bag of filth. as we say at haworth labs, i’ll bet you couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel. you are a canker. a sore that won’t go away. i would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

     you are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. you are degenerate, noxious and depraved. i feel debased just for knowing you exist. i despise everything about you. you are a bloody nardless newbie twit protohominid chromosomally aberrant caricature of a coprophagic cloacal parasitic pond scum and i wish you would go away.

     you’re a putrescence mass, a walking vomit. you are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. you are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. your life is a monument to stupidity. you are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

     you are a bleating fool, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. an insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

     i will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. you are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. i barf at the very thought of you. you have all the appeal of a paper cut. plague wastrels avoid you. you are vile, worthless, less than nothing. you are a weed, a histoplasma mushroom, the dregs of this earth. and did i mention you smell?

     if you aren’t an idiot, you made a world-class effort at simulating one. try to edit your writing of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. the evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

     you snail-skulled little rabbit. would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. may you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

     you are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. you are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. you are foul and disgusting. you’re a fool, an ignoramus. monkeys look down on you. even sheep won’t have sex with you. you are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

     and what meaning do you expect your incessant phone calls of childish, irrelevant rubbish to have with me? what fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

     you are a waste of flesh. you have no rhythm. you are ridiculous and obnoxious. you are the moral equivalent of a leech. you are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. you are sour and senile. you are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meatslapper.

     on a good day you’re a half-wit. you remind me of drool. you are deficient in all that lends character. you have the personality of wallpaper. you are dank and filthy. you are asinine and benighted. you are the source of all unpleasantness. you spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

     i cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. i mean rock-hard stupid. dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. you are trans-stupid stupid. meta-stupid. stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. singularity stupid. blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. you emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. quasar stupid. your “prank calls” have to be a joke. nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. i’m sorry. i can’t go on. this is an epiphany of stupid for me. after this, you may not hear from me again for a while. i don’t have enough strength left to deride your uninvited calls and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. duh.

     the only thing worse than your logic is your manners. your attempt at constructing a creative call was pitiful. i mean, really, stringing together a bunch of barbecue sauce and vengeful “threats” among a load of babbling was hardly effective…maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success. true, these are rudimentary skills that many of us "normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. but we sometimes forget that there are people like you in this world who find these things more difficult. i wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you. ❞

[tumblunni]

Bellsprout...

It.. So fragile...

Thos feets, so little! Its so thin! Its a literal lil noodle! It sways in the wind so much when it walks, its feet dont even move like feet but more like leeches which are my Favourite Worm for how dumb their mannerisms are. Seriously they go up and balance on their tail and periscope around and then they streeeetch and somersault to reach stuff! Theyre like actual living slinkies except they go up the stairs too! Bellsprout's rooty weirdness has that same kind of animation in its walk cycle, but the bizarre speculative idea of a monster made of like four worms all tied to another worm for a torso?? Its just so goofy how itll streeeeetch out the one wiggle foot and periscope it around too even tho it doesnt have eyes so its more like i guess its just very uncertain balancing on its squiggles and uses the roots on the end to detect whether the ground is stable? But then after the slow step of introspection before walking its just like PITCH FORWARD AND BECOME A BICYCLE! rapid flailing legs maximum speed like that basilisk lizard that runs on water! Its like its scared itll pitch forward if it ever stops? And then it does a little balance wiggle at the end and its just so cuuuuuute!

And AAAA its other animations when its not walking too! Its SO FRAGILE!! i want to protect you my baby!! It wiggles in such a cute battle dance cos it struggles to stand upright aaaa! Its head is so big and like all of its organs are in there NO WONDER its so wiggly flop! And its feets and hands are just so weak but it tries so hard!! It must be like a tiny bug landing on your hand or someone thwapping you with a singular taglitelle. And the leafs are even cuter cos theyre animated so..damn.. FRAGILE! everything is so soft in this art style aaaagh its killing me!! "I'm a powerful monster" nooo you are made of hugs and sunshine with the very barest shreds of physical form. But aaaa bellsprout is trying so hard it has so much personality like i wanna support it in being strong and scary and tell it someday it really does become badass and also able to fly for no easily explained reason! But THE LEAFS! OKAY THE LEAFS!! They're so much flatter and thinner than i expected? Like theyre just super generic primary coloured children's show doodles of leafs and the anime never really drew them with a good sense of 3D movement and width and stuff. I dunno if the models in sun and moon really showed a similar thing cos i never used a bellsprout? But i know this art style is just suuuuch a pretty fusion of the realistic shading in Go and the cartoon aesthetic of the main games that i'll wanna catch every pokemon for the first time ever! ITS LEAFS ARE LIKE TISSUE PAPER THIN SOMEONE PROTECT THIS CHILD!!! aaa and the wiggle animation is so cute cos they bend at angles in a sort of S-pattern like waving a fan in fancy style? Or i guess like how you might imagine wings to work if they only had one feather. Bellsprout is such an interesting well executed speculative biology idea and i never even realized before!!

And of course its BIG DOPEY FACE!! seriously its so cute how just adding two dots to a pitcher plant instantly makes it an awkward cute version of a horse head. THEY SOMEHIW MADE A NON SCARY SEVERED HORSE HEAD ON A STRING. I CAN NEVER UNSEE THIS NOW!! And then it has a mouth on the end of the nose and again this sounds terrifying when i put it in words but in actuality its FUCKIN AMAZING GOOFBALL SNOOTBEAN!! Just.. Lil dot eyes and really long face and then a big goofy happy smile at the end and aaaawwwwwww bebby

Oh man now im remembering why i didnt like bellsprout as a kid! I think it was entirely cos its evolutions changed to being just the head and then not having a mouth anymore even. And the grumpy badass eyes instead of bean! Tho as an adult i can appreciate that it must have taken a lot of effort to find a way to badassify such a goofy concept! And i feel proyd of bellsprout growing up to be the apex predator of the jungle who eats tigers n stuff. U go bebby u achieve u dream!! But still the wiggly noodle feets were SO CUTE and the bean eyes were SO CUTE and its a shame theyre the two things that go. Even if it does possibly make sense that the feets are so vestigal if its just a temporary stage before it learns how to fly. I mean birb feet are little? Tho they dont outright lose them when they grow up. Tho a birb that was just a limbless orb with a grumpy face like victreebell would actually be real cute! MAN IM GOING SO OFFTOPIC

Anyway in summary Let's Go has made me appreciate Bellsprout more and i am no longer sad that i cant get oddish in this version. Tho i still find it super cute in this art style TOO and i wish i could hug both the classic plant bebbys! Smoochie smorch u r my cat now and i will feed u all the snacks here is your scratching post and fluffy bed. OH YEAH THAT REMINDS ME did you guys see the drifloon that sleeps in a dog bed in sun and moon?? Its in ilima's house! I like to headcanon that maybe its the ghost of his mom's stoutland in the picture? Cos why would a family of normal type specialists have a drifloon? PRIME GAME THEORY YEAH! oh and the magnemite in a cat bed in one of the hotels i think?? Also Prime Bebby. Please consider all these good friends. And also imagine my super beloved bellsprout who shall be joining them soon! Seriously aaaa i went from neutral opinion on this pokemon to WHY CANT IT BE THE STARTER WHY CANT IT SIT ON MY HEAD within like FIVE SECONDS OF GAMEPLAY FOOTAGE

Godddd im so excited to see more footage of more mons so my heart can explode again and again! Im gonna straight up die from the power of these cuties!

[blueagia]

Leech song

Story based on

this

wonderful art by

@zarinfix

please go and look at it before you read this!

“Shall I beg for my life now? Perhaps to spare your sweet self from becoming a kinslayer?”

The wasted figure, all hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, gazed down at the man immobilized on the table. “You misunderstand me, brother. To slay you is not the point. I mean to heal you. Those stories about the peasant girls... I never believed them, but I suppose they were true.” He shrugged. “It makes no matter now. You poisoned your brother... your only brother, who only wanted your love. All I asked for was companionship... but of course, that was a boy’s foolishness. You’ve taught me a valuable lesson.”

“What you wanted was someone to lick your ass. I was never going to be your pet and fawn over you when you don’t deserve the blood that’s flowing through your own veins!” The prisoner had been looking up defiantly, spit flying, but at the word blood his eyes flicked to a nearby table. The cell had been scrubbed until it was as clean as any infirmary, and the table held a selection of medical jars. He licked his fat lips. “You're so weak, I wouldn’t make a pair of boots out of your flimsy skin.”

“Perhaps I was weak, once. But you...” Domeric Bolton crossed to the table and selected a slick brown worm from one of the jars. He held the leech up, examining it as it squirmed vigorously. “It’s your bad blood that makes you do such things. In order to cure you, I’m going to have to take that blood. All of it.”

“I’ll kill your fucking leeches!” Ramsay raved, convulsing with fury as they were placed one by one on his skin. And he was as good as his word. Much to Maester Uthor’s consternation (and Roose’s later irritation) some of them indeed dropped off and died. Not all, though. Those which had been attached to Domeric near the end of his convalescence, which had sucked the last of the poison from him after he had done screaming and writhing in his own filth, they lived. They battened and grew fat on his brother’s blood.

Domeric did not leave Ramsay throughout the last long hours. Sitting just outside spitting distance, he solemnly absorbed the curses, the foul confessions (worse even than rumor had told of), and fouler threats. He needed to hear this excoriation, every last word. He needed to be able to recall it if he ever again felt the pangs of loneliness or longing or any other such sentimental dangers. And when the condemned had finally exhausted himself, Domeric called for his harp.

He had always had great technical skill to go with his nimble hands, but Domeric had always lacked some crucial expressive element in his playing and compositions that would have tipped him over the line from master to genius.

Until now.

The music vibrated through the dumgeons of the Dreadfort, and no one who heard it was untouched.

A torturer caught the melody and burst helplessly into tears, broken by the sadness of it.

A brutalized victim perceived it through the stone as she lay bleeding, and lunged for her distracted, weeping tormentor, sinking her teeth into his throat, as the song drove her mad with rage. The two of them died together as she choked on his life’s blood.

Roose Bolton heard it only a little later, standing next to the fresh entwined corpses. He listened, frowned, and made a note to have his own appointment with the leeches soon.

And Ramsay himself listened, his eyes growing bright and wild, hearing screams in the joyous melody.

The music only stopped when Domeric felt a slickness of blood on the strings. His time in the sick bed had thinned his musician’s calluses and he had not yet built them back up. He put his wounded fingertips into his mouth, staring vexedly at the instrument.

“Brother...” came the whisper.

Domeric stood and approached the table. The ruddy face had turned waxen and the voice was barely audible. Domeric sat on the edge of the bed. “Closer...”

He leaned forward.

“Closer...”

Domeric’s lips curved upward in a smile, but he did not otherwise move.

Ramsay gave it up. “If you must... kill me properly. Flay me. Hang my skin in the Great Hall. Do it... prove yourself a true Bolton...”

Silence fell, empty whole notes filling the room one by one before sliding into oblivion, as Domeric gave this proposal his consideration.

"The times are changing.” He said at last. “The lord of the North has outlawed flaying, or so it is said. We must give up out old ways, and treat our enemies with more civility. Or so it is said. I’m sorry.” The shrivelled shoulders moved in a shrug. “Our halls have no more room for your skin. But we’ll breed a new generation of leeches from your blood... Ramsay Snow.”

The last of the curses were too feeble to be heard over the soft sounds of Domeric Bolton wiping his harp strings clean.

[butterflyiiisms]

Desserts Served

(Ludo learns how much his new family cares for him after an unfortunate run-in with his father leaves the small bird in shambles. An rp with my best friend that takes place in my “Greater Forces” au, where Moon and River have taken in Ludo, and Moon, River and Toffee are in a poly relationship. No Studo, don’t dare tag as such.)

The sun was out, birds were chirping and it was the ideal day for the princess and prince to play outside--supervised of course by Toffee since both had wandered into a colossal wasp's nest. Moon wouldn't allow them outside without supervision until they could prove they couldn't wander into a giant cave of bees.

For Star that was just fine. Time with the monster additions of her family. One who she was currently climbing like the most annoying monkey ever, attached around his shoulder and neck. "Toffee, wanna see a cool trick?"

Toffee's arms rose to lift the book to his eyes to offset when her form would get in the way, barely batting an eye. "It doesn't involve throwing my book into another dimension, does it?"

"Nawwww, you got really mad when I did that. It involves...this!" Star bounced off the septarian's shoulders in an impressive flip, landing with a bounce in Toffee's lap. Toffee Trampoline!"

He grunted at the weight, finally putting his book down. His expression was less than impressed.

"It's a great way to damage more than just a good book," he drawled, "But thankfully, you avoided the biggest chapter."

 She hung upside down in his lap, hearts on her face seeming to be happier than usual. "At least you put the book down and paid attention to me! I'm so much more interesting than anything you'd find in a dumb book."

Toffee's smile was small but genuine. "Yes, there certainly are no words to truly describe you. Although a few come to mind in an attempt."

Well color her intrigued. She clapped. "Well don't keep me in suspense! What are they? Mom says they have to be 'child friendly.'" She could almost still taste the soap in her mouth.

He clicked his tongue in irritation; he could still taste the suds too. "Do you have any other tricks to show off?" he countered.

"I can hang upside down by a tree branch with my teeth," she beamed. "But I'd need something to cushion me if I fall. ...HEY LUDO!"

She cried out as she spotted the little monster, but as he zoomed past them, a screeching wail followed. Both princess and septerian watched him run off.

Toffee glanced at her and sighed.

"Go get him," he replied.

"You need to stop screaming when I just say your NAME, Bird Brain!" Star chased after him. "C'mon, look how big your head is! It's make a perfect cushiony landing!"

 His scream faded into a choking sob as he continued to run.

"GO AWAY!" he forced out. "HE'LL FIND ME!"

 Star skidded to a stop and although she was still smiling, it was tense and definitely alarmed. "Ehe......what?"

Ludo took a dive into a random shrub. The leaves quivered under the force of his own shaking.

"I s-saw him!" Frightened yellow orbs darted nervously around in the darkness, "L-Lord Brudo! My... My father!" the hushed whisper was nearly ear-piercing as the trembling increased, the sound like a thunderstorm. "He was... a-at the market! He never goes there! I d-d-didn't know... !"

And just like that, a hardness that had never been seen came to Star's eyes, a type of coldness she had adopted from her step-father when he was pissed.

Oh....someone gonna DIE today.

She bent down next to the bush. "You can't just stay out here. Come on, I'll take you back to Mom okay?" She reached into the bush.

Ludo's nervous whine echoed before his claws raked down her wrist, clinging to it.

She grunted at the pain, but the fact that Ludo was so desperate for safety that he'd cling to her.... Man, poor ugly little birdy.

"Kay, we're gonna get ya back to Mom." She held the bird against her and narrowed her eyes furiously around them, her wand out and glowing if needed to attack. Bumping into someone, she yelped and her wand blasted.

"BACK OFF YOU WRINKLY WORM EATING BAG!"

And the poor Lizard father was flat against the ground with pink leeches sucking on him.

Toffee sighed. "And I thought we were getting along so well."

 "Toffee, oh geez!" She dispelled the little leeches, which wormed off in search of their next victim and she pulled up the lizard. "I'm sorry, you're not the worm eating wrinkly bag I was trying to attack!"

She gestured down to the shaking Avarius child in her arm. "The....bad man is around." She didn't know if Brudo's name would set Ludo off.

Toffee looked at the trembling monster before he glanced back at Star. He offered a curt nod.

"It's a lovely day for one to stroll into a fist, isn't it?"

 "Yeah!" she cheered. "And, you know, a mace and a ball and chain, and hot lava cake!" She propped the chick up in her arm. "But first, I gotta get Tweety Bird back to Mom!"

Star bolted back to the palace, keeping on that calm happy look on her face to keep Ludo settled, while rage boiled deep within. Even if she didn't like Ludo she'd still roast this bird for ever hurting one of his own children. Despicable. No low life that stooped low enough to harm his own flesh and blood deserved to live.

"Mom!" She tapped on the door, face strained. "Pea Brain needs cuddles."

 The door swung open and her eyes fell on the small monster, mouth dropping open at his state. "Ludo?" she murmured.

Ludo couldn't stop the quiver in his beak as he reached out to her. "Please?" he begged.

No sooner did he say that than Star blinked to find her arms empty and Moon's full with the Avarius.

Star put a hand on her Mother’s shoulder and grit her teeth inwardly. The smile she gave her mom was nothing short of terrifying. "Toffee and I have something to do soooo we'll be right back!"

Moon sputtered as she managed the squirming, muffled little bird and managed to call out, "Star Glitter Butterfly!" in that authoritative tone.

Star stopped and clenched her fists as she looked back.

The queen pat Ludo's head. Her eyes were cold as she matched her daughter's ferocity.

"Make sure no one sees you."

 Star beamed viciously and nodded, feeling a deep well of respect for her mother. She ran up to join Toffee.

"Man, I have been dying for some monster butt kicking, but I didn't think it would be against an abusive deadbeat!" She shrugged. "Who's complaining though?"

Toffee offered a humorless smile. "A different kind of monster entirely."

She punched into her open palm. "Hey! So what do we do first? I'm thinking porcupines to his face?"

 "Too quick," Toffee hummed. His golden orbs idly trailed the clouds forming in the blue, blissful sky, at peace, "You want to damage the limbs first. If you were to go straight to the face, it affects his senses. The pain would be decreased significantly." A small chuckle left him. "We can't have that."

 "Ehe...." Star gave a nervous laugh. "You...are unsettlingly knowledgeable at knowing how to torture someone. How often have you--never mind."

 Toffee remained silent, that small smile lining his lips as he waltzed through the darkening forest.

Star spun her wand with an icy sneer, walking next to her stepfather. She scowled as she sighed a fat tub of nothing in the distance. "He's still in the market. ...Think we can just lure him away with a chicken leg on a string?"

 "No, Star. I'm afraid not." Toffee dusted off his suit and never faltered in his steps. He was a septerian with a plan. "The most we will leave him is as is a chicken leg on a string."

 Back at the palace, Moon was with Ludo, running comforting fingers through her little bird's feathers. "Do you want to talk about it?"

 Ludo looked at her and rubbed an eye. He hated how weak he felt, but when he saw the bane and creation of his existence...

"I can't!"

 "We don't have to." She held him close. "But it might help. Did he see you? Did...he hurt you?" She tilted his head up to look at him.

 "No, no! I... I hid behind a goat-pig cluster and ran away..." he whined and covered his face, voice breaking, "l-like a little hatchling!"

 "Ludo." She held his face gently and tipped to look up at her again. "Ludo it isn't your fault, and you aren't weak, my little chick. That was a natural reaction."

 Ludo's face tensed with another round of tears. "But I'm not natural! I'm not normal! I'm abnormal!" he squawked out.

She gave a pensive frown and gently tapped his beak. "And what makes you think that, Ludo?"

A frustrated noise between a sob and a growl answered her before his arms flung out.

"Look at me!"

He squirmed out of her hold, an impressive feat, and stood at her kneecaps.

"I'm only a foot tall!"

His frantic tone only grew as he took a breath and started to hop. He leapt up and down, his silken sleeves flapping as he failed to fly.

"I c-can't fly! Oh, oh, and here's the real joke in this.. circus of a monster!"

Little feet stomped and tears lined the floor where he stood.

"I CAN'T STOP WETTING THE BED!"

It was true, Moon had learned that rather quickly when servants alerted her to wet bedsheets It seemed Ludo’s trauma went even deeper than she predicted, and it just made the enraged maternal side to her hope for whatever death Toffee had planned against the man would be very slow.

 "My Ludo...." She smiled sadly and knelt next to him.

"You know what else is a foot tall that everyone loves? Puppies. Just as precious as you."

"Ostriches can't fly," Moon pointed out. "They're birds. And Star likes ostriches, just as she likes you."

She stroked a hand softly very the little thing's cheek. "Everything you think about yourself is what you think, just what you think and nobody else. But it's still not your fault you're conditioned to think that way."

Her forehead bumped his softly. "I love you, chick sized, inability to fly, bed wetting and all. I don't see any of them as flaws."

Ludo stared at the soft face before him. Moon normally had this composed, regal look to her, the hardened, confident visage of a monarch who only focused on the best for her people. But when she looked at him... he felt like he was the only thing that mattered.

Tears streamed down his face and he didn't bother to hide them.

His chest grew tight and he clutched it, something rising up and constricting his throat as he shuddered out a breath.

She bit down on her lip. Perhaps she wasn't careful with her words. Ludo understandably was a curious sort. He didn't know how to handle love.

She didn't know what else to say that wouldn't freak him out. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, reaching down to pick him up. He did love to be held, much like a chick.

His form was tense and he seemed unable to gather his breath. He gasped, the world blurry around him. Watery eyes couldn't see, his pounding heart couldn't hear.

But he knew the grip of the queen's warm embrace and it was enough to make him speak. It exploded from him, a burst of emotion that bubbled in his chest. Uncertainty, fear, anxiety, doubt.

Love.

"I LOVE YOU, MAMA!"

He fell against her with a howl, fingers clutching her dress for dear life.

Did he just....? He finally did it. She had heard near slip ups before, ones that made her heart soar for a moment before he corrected himself. She'd never try to take a title she didn't deserve, or one he wasn't ready for.

Her arms enveloped him fully, fingers grazing through his feathers softly, knocking over the plastic little doll crown Star had given him until she could have one customly made.

"I love you too, My Ludo. I know you've been through more than anyone should...especially for a little one as young as you, but I hope...this has been home for you." She smiled as a tear dripped down.

The monster was unable to respond, but his tight grip on her arm was more than enough to tell her how deeply he had attached himself to her, to this castle, to this... family.

 Moon pressed kisses to the little bird's face and glanced over when she heard a rustling coming from the bushes. "I think the rest of our family is back." Probably with Brudo's head. Well....the castle could use more decoration.

Toffee emerged from the shrubbery, holding a branch so the princess could accompany him. He idly wiped off the last of the blood from his knuckles, tucking the formerly clean handkerchief, now red, into his pocket.

"Don't mind us."

Ah just a typical day for the Butterflies. Star gave a pleasant smile and tucked her wand into her pocket. "We stopped to get some fries and ketchup."

 Ludo sniffled, his head still against Moon's chest, but watching them in surprise. "You... did?"

"She wanted a calzone. I refused," Toffee responded idly. He seemed to realize something and he stepped forward. "Oh, yes, and before I forget, we found this and thought that you may want to keep it." The septerian shrugged. "Or toss it. I don't care."

Lord Brudo's hefty crown was placed on Ludo's head.

"Perfect fit," he hummed.

Ludo's wide eyes stared up at the crown, reaching up to touch it. He stared at the two, then back up at the crown.

He giggled.

Then laughed.

Then cackled.

Tears filled his eyes once again, and he gripped the crown on his head tightly, rolling in the queen's grip.

"This is the best day of my life!" he shrieked.

 Star crooned as she held her hands to her chest. "Aw, it's even got streaks of blood on it. For the memories," she chirped. "And now you don't have to worry about that assbird ever again!"

She blinked at Moon's glare. "What? Some situations call for a swear!"

Moon rolled her eyes. “I’ll let this one slide.”

Ludo suddenly squawked as he was yanked up into a heftier pair of arms, blinking up at River and pushing against his beard so it didn’t smother him and squawking again as their little group was crushed up against River’s side.

“Well, seems the crown finally came in, did it? Looks wonderful on you, boy! Might need some polishing though, it’s got some stains...”

[forricher-andpoorer]

Robert Joseph “Hoodsey” Bishop Bio + Tags + Headcanons

Name: Robert Joseph Bishop Nicknames: Hoodsey, Hoods Age: 19; Can Change Birthday: March 15th Sign: Pisces Gender: Cis Male Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Homosexual Demiromantic Monogamous; Moderately Sexual Hair: Naturally Blond, slowly fading to brown Eyes: Pale Blue Skin: Pale Tan Height: 5′4″ Weight: 158 lbs Faceclaim: Jeremy Allen White Piercings: Mostly does play piercings with needles/strings/ribbons Tattoos: None Scars: A hole from a missing molar on the top right, a deep slice on the inside of his left thumb, a thin but long scar on his left forearm, a large almost knotted scar on his right wrist where the bone broke through once, and two holes (entry/exit wounds) on his left calf. Most of these injuries were sustained with Carl.

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Religion: Raised Christian, Agnostic Allegiance: Carl Foutley

Family: David Charles Bishop (Father, Alive); Joann Bishop (Mother, Alive); Deirdre Hortense “Dodie” Bishop (Sister, Alive); Nana Bishop (Grandmother, Deceased)

Pets: Rock The Rock Rockson (Pet Rock)

Personality: Gullible, submissive, helpful, sweet, misguided, loyal, mama’s boy, devoted, selfless, compassionate, empathetic, artistic, intuitive, gentle, gross, squeamish, fearful, paranoid, too trusting, romantic, unconditionally generous (especially to Carl), easily embarrassed, socially awkward, follower, scapegoat, eats feelings, expressive, worrywart

Likes: Carl Foutley, bugs, frogs, any kind of fried food, his van, dogs, sugary sodas, gore, dismembered body parts, the petrified eyeball, pranking his sister and/or Blake Gripling, journalism

Dislikes: Blake Gripling, Pandering, Megalomaniacs, Brandon Higsby (his monkey’s cool though), Losing, When Carl doesn’t listen to him, being the butt of the joke, being naked around most people (Carl’s cool but he’d trust him with anything)

Can Do: Drive, play exactly three cords on a bass guitar, film things, watch horror movies, eat ungodly amounts of food, ignore everything for a project

Can’t Do: Handle secondhand embarrassment, allow Carl to get them hurt, kill something, take cough syrup, think for himself

Mental Health Diagnosis:

Schizotypal Personality Disorder: Hoodsey often has a hard time being followed when he speaks, or doesn’t make sense. He believes he has an extra sense of when he and Carl are going too far, or when they might get hurt. He also claimed to be able to completely understand Carl without speaking. He seeks isolation from most people, if only because Carl is the only person that understands him and nurtures his confidence.

Avoidant Personality Disorder: When not with Carl, he is incredibly shy and fears ridicule. All he wants is to be comfortable in his own skin but he’s so afraid without someone to give him orders.

Dependant Personality Disorder: Most people consider him to be constantly clinging to Carl, and they are rarely apart from one another. Most of his decisions are made exclusively after consulting Carl, or by Carl himself.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder: Often times, especially alone, he is so anxious to the point of chewing his nails or biting the skin off of his lips.

Physical Health Diagnosis:

Asthma: Sports had always been hard for him in school, and he was diagnosed with asthma shortly before middle school. He always carries his inhaler on him, and when he doesn’t have it, usually Carl has a spare for him.

Overweight: His pretty constant intake of everything has left him a bit overweight for his height. It doesn’t help his asthma all that much, and makes exercising a little more difficult.

Fears: Being abandoned, competitive situations, large crowds, being stalked/killed

Positive Traits: Gentle, loyal, optimistic, eager to please

Negative Traits: Gullible, easily embarrassed, shy, bottles up his feelings for Carl

Quirks: Always up for pranking others; uses his van as a trash can most of the time; always writes things down to remember them but misplaces the notes or doesn’t remember what it was supposed to remind him of; has a playlist on his iPod that is only What’s New Pussycat, It’s Not Unusual, and Never Gonna Give You Up for when he and Carl are in the mood to bother everyone.

Tends To: Follow Carl’s word above all else; fears his mother’s wrath and tries to do right by her and Carl at the same time; hide his feelings for Carl and thinks he’s slick but everyone else knows; Always have his phone, iPod, keys, wallet and inhaler in the same pocket

History: Hoodsey was two weeks late to his own birthday, he came out fairly healthy, if not a bit larger than he should have. Dodie was not stoked to have a little brother, but Hoodsey was always a sweet, clingy child. A natural-born follower, he did exactly what his mom said until he started Kindergarten.

The fateful day he met Carl Foutley changed everything. His attention, his clinginess, was divided between his mother and Carl. While he often tried to stop Carl in his mad bids for fame, fortune, and the truly gross, he let himself be steamrolled into everything after a mild fuss was put up. Over the years, he and Carl only grew closer.

Hoodsey strongly dislikes Blake Gripling, and while he will not quite admit it to himself, it’s only half because he’s annoying. The other half is definitely jealousy. Occasionally when his mother lets him go to concerts and things, he and Carl live in the back of his 1997 Chevrolet Astro.

———————————————————————————————————–

Tags List - Personal

Broke As A Junkie But I Have A Good Time (Hoodsey) I’m Pretty Sure My Mom Doesn’t Like This (Hoodsey’s IC Posts) The Purple Hoodie The Purple Hoodie Or The Purple Hoodie? (Hoodsey’s Closet) Oh Dude! (Hoodsey’s Stuff) Yes Yes Yes! (Hoodsey’s Desires) Gross Dude (Hoodsey’s Aesthetic) Never Have To Feed It (Rock The Rock Rockson Tag) It Was Just Never Gonna Give You Up On Repeat (Hoodsey’s Music) Thinking Is A Dangerous Past Time (Hoodsey Musings) Snips Snails And Puppy Dog Tails (Hoodsey Headcanons)

Tags List - With X - Canon

Tastefully Tasteless (Hoodsey And Blake Gripling) At Least Let The Monkey Have Fun (Hoodsey And Brandon Higsby) My Best Friend’s Hot (Hoodsey And Carl Foutley) She’s Like A Princess In A Tower (Hoodsey And Courtney Gripling) Can I Have The Headgear When You’re Done? (Hoodsey And Darren Patterson) You’re Not A Lady You’re Nothing But A Sister (Hoodsey And Dodie Bishop) Kind Of Like A Sister To Me (Hoodsey And Ginger Foutley) Mother/Jailer (Hoodsey And Joann Bishop) The Mother I Never Had (Hoodsey And Lois Foutley) Weird In A Different Way (Hoodsey And Macie Lightfoot) May She Rest Knowing The Worms Have Eaten Her Corpse (Hoodsey And Maude) Mean Girls (Hoodsey And Mipsy Mipson) Mean Girls 2: Fucking Furious (Hoodsey And Miranda Killgallen) Bandaid Queen (Hoodsey And Noelle Sussman) A Dweeb’s Workhorse (Hoodsey And Winston)

Tags List - With X - OC

None At This Time

Tags List - With X - Crossover

A Little Crazy Is OK As Long As Nobody Says Any Dirty Words (With Jerome Valeska)

———————————————————————————————————–

Verses - In-World

Someone Once Told Me The Grass Is Much Greener (Hoodsey’s Elementary Verse)

Already thick as thieves with Carl, Hoodsey is very much his go-to yes-man and best friend. He was so happy just to have a friend that he’d almost do anything for Carl. By first grade, he knew the feeling of being truly wanted by someone.

Everything Is Alright (Hoodsey’s Middle School Verse)

His schoolwork suffered greatly in Middle School and he skipped more often. When his mother found out he was grounded for three months, and when he was finally out of solitary confinement, he stayed at the Foutley’s for over a week.

Partner In Crime (Hoodsey’s High School Verse)

Hoodsey handled a lot of AP classes because of his mom, as well as band and his photojournalism club/classes. Between school, extra curriculars, and his time with Carl, he was pretty busy and stressed. For two weeks during his Senior year, he ended up in the hospital because he had a nervous breakdown. Being away from Carl and not allowed visitors was almost harder on him.

Brain Stew (Hoodsey’s College Verse)

Finally being out of his parents’ house for college, Hoodsey goes a little wild when he finally realizes that he is free. Anything goes, and he wants to try as many things as he can. He’s going to film school.

———————————————————————————————————–

AU Verses

Running Up That Hill (Hoodsey’s ABO AU)

Hoodsey is an Omega that probably takes way too many scent blockers and heat suppressants. His mother is so controlling that she is still hoping that there is some way to get her son and daughter to switch secondary sexes.

Admitting Guilt (Hoodsey’s Deadman Wonderland AU)

After being neutralized and turned into an Undertaker, Hoodsey stayed mostly to himself. He can’t remember much beyond his turning. All he knows is that he lost something, and he wants to get it back.

Green Around The Gills (Demon!Hoodsey AU)

A lesser demon of Envy, Hoodsey has a tendency to cling onto one person and leech off of their emotions. He loves to provoke people with misunderstandings the most.

A Caged Bird Sings (Mer!Hoodsey AU)

Hoodsey is a Royal Gramma Fish, kept in a tank at an aquarium. He sings a sad song all night long in hopes that someone will come and let him out, though most people tend to ignore him. On land he loses his sense of taste.

Not A Fun Job (Hoodsey’s Repo! The Genetic Opera AU)

A backdoor Gentern, Hoodsey administers illegal Zydrate to patients of Carl’s. He isn’t entirely sure why he has to wear the dress.

And Everything You Touch Shall Be Destroyed (Vampire!Hoodsey AU)

Hoodsey was turned late one night while walking back home from work. His van was out of commission, and the second that he was grabbed, he was sure he was being mugged. Being so sweet, he was allowed to go after feeding the vampire, who came back night after night to see him and feed from him. They are very good friends, and Hoodsey was eventually turned to keep him from dying due to stomach cancer.

He’s A Good Dog Blake (Werewolf!Hoodsey AU)

Hoodsey didn’t quite understand that when he was bitten by a weird dog while walking home from Carl’s one night that his life would change forever. Ever since, he has found a way to use his powers for the betterment of the two of them, even if it has made him more aggressive and territorial.

———————————————————————————————————–  

Shipping

None At This Time

———————————————————————————————————–

Open Starters

None At This Time

———————————————————————————————————–

Headcanon Posts

* ( positive personality   traits!

Physical Traits Of Your Muse

Detailed Profile Tag

Bold Your Muse’s Aesthetic (Spooky Edition)

———————————————————————————————————–

Faceclaim - Jeremy Allen White

[annchumleigh]

What Kinds of Fish Can You Catch on Lake Erie?

In this article, we will explore some of the ways to fish in Lake Erie. We can also answer some of the common questions that people have about the lake. Lake Erie is a rich place. It’s got a lot of history. But, one of the fun things people do in Lake Erie is fishing. We will discuss here some of the Do’s and Don’ts for fishing in this wonderful lake.

Note: We also have a Lake Michigan fishing guide if you’ll be angling there, too.

Let’s see what Lake Erie fishing has to offer:

Are There Asian Carp in Lake Erie?

There’s a lot of Asian carp in Lake Erie. In fact, there’s too many. There are too many Asian carps that the government is even intervening because too much of it ruins the eco-system. The Asian Carps invasion will not be healthy for the other fish in the lake. In fact, the U.S. Army Corps is intervening to address the concern. Two of the invasive fish species in Lake Erie include the big-headed carp and the silver carp. The bigheaded carp is native to China, but it is now starting to invade Lake Erie.

How Is The Walleye Fishing At Lake Erie?

One thing that can be said about the walleye fishing is that it’s slow to do in spring. There’s a lot of fish to catch in Lake Erie, but it’s not going to be easy when walleye is what you want. The daily bag limit for walleye in the Ohio region is about six fish per angler. It can also be said that the minimum size limit today for the walleye you catch is about 15 inches. That’s just the average. It could be higher or lower. In the Ohio waters, there’s also a yellow perch bag limit, and that is about 30 fish per angler.

How To Catch Walleye On Lake Erie

Do’s One of the first DOs in catching walleye in Lake Erie is to not do it in spring. It may be too cold for you to catch walleye in spring. Always remember that. It’s also necessary for you to wear protective clothing against the cold when fishing. Do try fishing with live bait. Walleye always responds to a good live bait. A live bait also offers the right angler versatility. You should always remember to do a slip bobber rig or a tipped jig in order to better catch a walleye. DONTs One DONT in fishing for walleye is to use a big hook. The smaller, the better will do the trick. The walleyes you can catch will also respond better to structure. Using leader lengths of about 18 to 36 inches will also help you catch the fish better. When you’re using a Slip Bobber Rig when catching walleyes, don’t lure the fish too far. You should put the bait right in front of the walleye’s face. You can also use a piece of string to help you get the right angle. It may also help to add a small spilled shot right below the bogger to create the balance you need. Tying a hook with a size 5-6-8 using a minnow leech will always do the trick.

How To Catch Yellow Perch In Lake Erie

DOs When you’re trying to catch a yellow perch, try to use a light jig. Do create a 5 to 5 ½ inch of jig to do this. You also need to remember to do a basic rod and reel combination for this type of fishing. Yellow perch are tricky to catch. Doing this trick will give you better chances of catching the fish. This technique, by the way, is called a Bait and Tackle trick. It’s one of the popular ways to do open water fishing and catch yellow perch.

DONTs Don’t use a big lure when catching yellow perch. What you need a small bait that can fit the small mouths of the yellow perch. It would also help to use a live bait for these fish. Don’t go without protective clothing. It can be too cold out there when you fish. You should try to address the weather issues before you go fishing. That’s very important.

How To Fish For Perch In Lake Erie

Perch are one of the most common fish that you can find in Canada and America. You can find them in so many spots. Because they’re relatively easy to catch,they are some of the most popular fish that anglers and families catch. DOs One important DO in perch fishing is to remember to do it during late summer, winter or fall. Perch are active all year, but these are the best times to catch most of them. Ice fishing for perch is also popular in winter. You can find perch in shallower water during warm weather. DONTs Do not bother trying to catch perch at night, since they’re rarely active during these times. When the sun goes down, perchs will no longer be available to catch. They will hide. They will come out again in sunrise. The good place to catch perch is in rocky areas and at the edge of any structure. These perch may also like to move along piles of wood and rocks. To fish for perch, you should try to look for places with underwater structure that has plenty of vegetation. Perch love to swim along these areas. Another good tip for fishing perch in Lake Erie is by going to bait and tackle shop. Ask from the shop where you can get the perch in Lake Erie. You can also ask around where in Lake Erie in that particular season has a lot of perch. It may also help any fisherman to use a light jig to catch perch. The best jigs to use would be around 5 to 5 ½. These are small enough for any perch to bite into. The slightest nibble of any perch would already trap them. That’s a neat trick for beginners to use. You should not also forget about the weather when catching perch. If you find that the weather is too windy, by using a heavier jig. That way, you can get better control, you can lure in more perch, and you get more out of your time. It’s not that easy to spend a long time in the middle of the cold. It’s not a joke to fish around the lake. You will get exhausted. You will get bored. You have to make most out of your time. Doing the trick above will lessen your waiting period. The work you do above could make it faster for you to catch the best perch in no time.

Other Fishing Tips and Tricks In Lake Erie

It may also help any fisherman out there to use a necessary rod and reel combo to catch more fish. The more you do this, the higher your chances of finding a perch. It could also help you when you choose an action rod tip. This tactic will help ful get the perch through a subtle bite. It could also help you to get many perch when you use a shorter rod. A shorter rod you use in winter will also increase your chances. The lightest line you can use for your fishing will determine your success. It may be better to start with a small lure. When you have dozens of choices, always pick the ones that are the most minor. It may also help you to pick out decoys that come in different colors. Perchs will react to varying colors of baits. In a given day, the fish you catch will almost even depend on the lure’s color. A good thing to remember, too, to catch perches is to use crayfish meat. In fact, any live bait will do.   You can ask the experts in Lake Erie which fish is best. However, some of the more popular ones you can choose include minnows, night worms, and insect larvae. When you want to catch perch in the more in-depth area, it may be able to help you to get a reliable boat. The deeper waters are filled with a lot of perch. You can take advantage of that in winter months by getting a good boat. It may also be easy for you to catch them if they’re not biting in the place where you set up your lure. During warm weather,  you can get a lot of perch by just sticking to shallow shores. This is most effective during spring when perchs love to flock shallow areas. LAs mentioned before when you are looking for perch, always look for rock piles first. They usually rally there before moving to different ponds or rivers.

Conclusion

In this article, we found out the DOs and DONTs of fishing in Lake Erie. This article was able to assist you of the tricks to make sure you’re successful in your fishing. Fishing is only fun when it’s successful. Otherwise, it might be just a cause of worry and hassle. Make sure you don’t forget these tips the next time you go to Lake Erie, and absolutely make sure you’re protected from the sun while sipping brews with your friends with our Michigan Love Beer Hat.

  Shop Our Michigan Store

from LIVNFRESH http://blog.livnfresh.com/types-of-fish-that-you-can-catch-when-fishing-lake-erie/ from Livnfresh Share Your State Pride. http://livnfresh.tumblr.com/post/168678088647 via http://livnfresh.tumblr.com/