#roof cladding in London

[fieldpractice]

[aricat7]

Bad Company (Crowley & Kilgrave)

A Good Omens and Jessica Jones crossover where Kilgrave fails to win Crowley over.

🔞18+🔞

~After the events of Good Omens season 2~

_________________________________

"Oh Crowley… nothing lasts forever."

"We could've…" Crowley mumbles to himself, aimlessly driving at the speed limit through London. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. His light, his anchor, his companion took the elevator to heaven and left him alone on Earth.

He comes to a stop at a red light. People cross the street, some clad in business attire with their heads down, others keeping their kids from running off. Couples holding hands, sharing smiles and laughter, just having a jolly good ol’ time.

"You never say what you're really thinking. That was all we needed. It's what you two need as well."

Well, Crowley had taken that advice from Maggie, and here he is now. Alone. The one time he tries to pour his heart out to the only other being worth spending the rest of eternity with and he ends up alone. Not that it was Maggie's fault, of course—Crowley admits that it was a solid piece of advice, but it just wasn't enough to secure the wobbly bridge that Crowley has tried to walk on all these millennia into Aziraphale's heart.

What if I had...kissed him years ago?

A steady rainfall began. The sound of raindrops tapping on the roof of the Bentley always soothed Crowley, though the storm that raged in his heart drowned out the serene tune. It wouldn't have made a difference if he had kissed him way earlier, Crowley concluded. Aziraphale would've slapped him with the 'I forgive you' and pretended that nothing happened. That nothing had been happening between them. Just friends—no. Not even friends. Casual business partners. I did stuff for him; he did stuff for me.

Crowley shouts and punches the steering wheel, inadvertently changing the light to green, then takes off—this time racing and weaving through the streets. He had enough of feeling sad. He grips the steering wheel as if he were strangling someone and curses for acting so human, with all these emotions—all because of some bloody angel.

"GODDAMMIT, AZIRAPHALE! YOU STUPID, STUBBORN—" Tears prick the corners of his eyes, and his foot involuntarily lets up on the gas. "You beautiful thing..."

He groans and slumps in his seat. He misses him—so much. He can still taste him on his lips and feel the ghost of the angel's hand on his shoulder, pulling him closer. A thousand unspoken words melded together in their kiss, words that had been buried within the depths of their souls that burned for release throughout their lives spent together. They all harmonized under a three-word declaration that should have been so simple to say out loud—and yet it wasn't. Not for Crowley, anyways.

Love. Unconditional love—something a demon shouldn't be capable of knowing and giving, and something an angel shouldn't be denying when it’s explicitly there.

It was their first kiss.

And it would be their last.

Losing the motivation to continue driving, Crowley spots a bar further down the street that he hasn't been to in a long time. "Screw it," he says, and parks in front of it with a new goal of drowning out the hurt with one too many drinks.

He looks over his shoulder at his plants in the backseat. "You guys be good."

They shake fearfully in response.

Unbeknownst to Crowley as he saunters inside and seats himself at the bar, a pair of eyes from the corner of the room follows him.

"Just give me your finest whiskey,” Crowley tells the bartender, barely keeping his head propped up on his hand. As the bartender pours his glass, the man watching Crowley intently finishes off the last drops of bourbon in his and comments aloud, "Nice Bentley."

Crowley takes a swig before shooting a quick and uninterested glance at him. "Yeah, uh, thanks mate."

"What year is she?"

"1926," Crowley answers flatly, his head hung low, unaware that the man is walking over to him and eyeing his car appreciatively through the window.

"Still in such impeccable condition, wow." The man leans against the bar next to Crowley. "How long have you had her for?"

Crowley grunts and tosses back his drink, slamming the empty glass on the bar. "A long time. Look, I'm not here to chat it up with anyone, so please just—" He motions for him to leave.

"Well, neither am I. But then I saw you, mister..." His voice drops to a low as his eyes wander down Crowley's frame. "Tight black skinny jeans and sunglasses in the rain, strutting in here all sexy-lookin', owning a beautiful classic car. I mean," He leans in, noting the demon's natural scent and finding it pleasantly inviting, "I've never seen a man like you before who just...oozes such...yummy elegance..."

Crowley musters up the effort to fully turn to the man and take in his appearance. He was handsome, no doubt. Well dressed; well groomed. "Look, I'm certainly flattered and you're… charming and all… probably a bit insane, but insanity never hurt me, really. But I really don't need your company. What I do need though, is more alcohol." Crowley signals the bartender over and as he's pouring him another, Crowley asks, "Actually, could you just leave me the whole bottle?"

The bartender simply shakes his head and turns to place the bottle back on display.

"Give him the bottle," demands the pestering man.

To Crowley's astonishment, the bartender obeys.

"My, oh my!" A hint of a grin tugs at Crowley's lips as the bottle is brought back to him effortlessly. He looks at the man with a somewhat newfound appreciation. "You must be the owner of this establishment."

The man looks up in thought and sways his head from side to side. "I could be if I wanted to. Too far from home, however. I'm only here in London for a, um, vacation. Clear my head."

Against his better judgement, Crowley found himself a little intrigued by him. He uncaps the bottle and brings it to his lips, welcoming in the impending inebriation that'll momentarily blanket his chokehold of a heartbreak. "Is that so? Must've made some name for yourself here a while back then, yeah? Unless you’re personally familiar with the bartender?"

The man straightens his posture, smirking. "Well, look who's trying to make some company with me after all.”

"Hardly,” Crowley mutters, taking another hearty swig. The man's eyes linger on the bob of Crowley’s Adam’s apple, as he does so.

"Let's just say that people have a knack for giving me what I want."

Crowley sets the bottle down and pretends to inspect the label, responding to him with feigned interest, "Must come off as intimidating to them."

"Don't you think so?" The man leans a bit closer, challenging Crowley with a hardened stare. "Tell the truth."

Crowley’s eyes remain on the bottle, idly tracing its edges. "Not in the slightest. How about you go stroke that ego of yours somewhere else, okay? Leave me be. I'm not normally this patient."

"You'd still like me to go away? After scoring you a free bottle of whiskey?"

The bartender picks up on this and shoots the man with a baffled expression. "Free?"

"Yes," the man bites back. "Free."

The bartender nods politely and returns to his work.

Crowley finally looks up at the man, eyebrow quirked. "Who are you?"

"Kilgrave. And you?"

Crowley grimaces. "Kilgrave? What kind of a name is that? Sounds… I don’t know, death-y?"

"How sweet of you to notice," Kilgrave responds, letting the offense roll off his back. "I personally like it. It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think? Now, tell me your name."

"Nah, thanks for the free booze, though."

Kilgrave’s brow knits together. "You're not complying..."

Crowley takes in more whiskey, feeling its warm, relaxing effect start to spread throughout his body. "Just don't find you that intimidating, Gravekil.”

"It's Kilgrave."

"It's stupid."

Kilgrave’s blood feels like it’s about to boil over. "Maybe yours is worse. Who are you?"

"Mister tight black skinny jeans and sunglasses in the rain," Crowley shoots back mockingly, unable to hide the cunning grin that sprouts so easily whenever alcohol flows through his veins.

“And what exactly are you then, huh? Besides eye candy? Because it's not normal for someone to disregard my orders.”

Oooh, a self-centered asshole—the type of human Crowley found the most entertaining. It’s always fun seeing them squirm when they don’t get their way.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley answers for his own amusement.

That earns a laugh out of Kilgrave. “Can’t be any worse than me, darling.”

“Yeah?” His ability to think clearly rendered obsolete, Crowley takes off his shades, revealing his fiery serpentine eyes. “How about now?”

Instead of backing away and running for his life—as any other human would normally do upon seeing such ungodly eyes—Kilgrave beams. He leans in until their faces are a breath apart and gazes into the demon’s eyes. “Those are real, aren't they? I'd argue that those are some wacky contact lenses, but it’s almost as if I can feel some sort of hellish energy coming off you.” He glances at Crowley’s hand on the bar and adds, “Wonder if you’re hot to the touch…?”

Before Kilgrave can find out, Crowley’s head turns into something monstrously dreadful for a split second—a trick that often leaves humans unconscious from the horrid sight. But the purple-suited man takes only a half-step back and is pleasantly surprised. “You've proved your point! That was the most demonic thing I've ever seen! That wasn't your true form, was it?”

“Eugh. No, thankfully.”

Crowley starts to put his shades back on but is stopped by the touch of Kilgrave’s grasp on his wrist. “So is it this one then? Because I quite like this one…” His other hand cradles Crowley’s cheek, teasing the demon’s skin with small traces of his thumb. “It's a shame that a beautiful thing like you is immune to my control…”

Crowley typically found it cute whenever a human tried to tempt him, but this enigma of a man doesn’t spark endearment in him. If anything, Crowley’s curiosity simmers at finding the man’s audacity. “Immune to your control? What—you can control people's minds? Like, actually?”

“Indeed I can, luv,” he says in a whisper.

“You can't do that…” The entrance bell dings as someone walks in. “That bloke over there—” Crowley nods his head towards the stranger and then dons his shades. “Make him do something.”

“Anything?”

“Surprise me.”

Kilgrave lets go of him and calls the guy over. “Hey! You! Come here!”

The guy looks over, confused, then warily makes his way over to them.

“See that guy over there?” Kilgrave asks him, pointing to another random stranger who was playing pool on the other side of the bar. “You know him?”

“No. What's it to you?”

“Go kick him in the balls. As hard as you can.”

Crowley blinks in disbelief and drinks an incredulous amount of whiskey this time as he waits to see this ridiculous scene fail miserably. There was no way the man was going to—

Crowley chokes on the burning liquid as the man does exactly what Kilgrave ordered him to do. The afflicted man hollers in agony before aiming a jaw-crunching blow to his attacker’s face.

Kilgrave watches in smug victory.

“So you're some sort of freaky superhuman, then?” Crowley asks, feeling the alcohol spread to his limbs. “How'd that come to be?”

“Let’s just chalk it all up to having shitty parents,” he says as he finally tears his attention from the commotion he brewed and takes a seat again beside Crowley. “Now, enough about me. What's a demon doing here, getting shitfaced, huh? Besides not wanting any company?”

Crowley holds his head in his hands as it suddenly feels too heavy. “That's just it. To get shitfaced; to not have to think about anything or… anyone, for that matter.”

“I can understand that. You're not alone there. Bartender-”

Alone. Of course Crowley was alone. When Aziraphale ascended to heaven with his shiny new promotion, Crowley could physically feel the angel’s warm and welcoming aura being ripped away from Earth— ripped away from him. Permanently.

It’s a different kind of loneliness—not the kind Crowley often felt when it came to being the only demon that takes a liking to Earth and the humans. This loneliness consumes him, and the alcohol that courses through his system does little to stop him from mulling over it. He offers what's left of the whiskey to Kilgrave as the bartender is about to take his order. He accepts it and sighs after a generous swig. “A woman. The love of my life. I know she loves me too, but she's just…. urgh! She just has all these problems, and she's… she's unwilling to see past them and she's hurt me in the process…”

Attempting to steer his thoughts away from Aziraphale, Crowley tries to swallow down his own despair and forces himself to look at Kilgrave. “Taking what the two of you have for granted, is she?”

That shit-eating grin returns to Kilgrave's face as he takes another shot from the bottle. “Might I assume, demon, that you know exactly what I'm talking about?”

“It’s Crowley, my name. And… possibly. The whole focusing on other things instead of… nurturing the—” Crowley bites hard on his lip, knowing he shouldn't say what he's about to say next, but he can't deny the truth. “The love that's there between the two of you.”

“Yeah. Pssh,” Kilgrave shakes his head. “Fuckin bitches.”

“Is she a freak of nature like you?”

“Sort of.”

“You use your mind control on her?”

“Ah— well— I,” Kilgrave toys with the bottle, letting the amber-brown liquid inside swirl around. “That's a bit of a personal question.”

“Is it?”

Pretending to not hear that, Kilgrave slides the bottle over to Crowley. “Your turn.”

The demon grimaces with a dismissive wave of his hand. “No. I need to… lay off a little.”

He thinks about draining himself of the liquor, like he and Aziraphale would do whenever they got to the icky part of drinking, but the effort to do so is shunned. He holds his head in his hands and rubs his temples; Kilgrave takes this opportunity to scoot his seat closer to Crowley. “I meant your story, darling. What exactly has made you into this doom-and-gloom of a hot mess, hm? Unless you’re here creating sob stories to tempt people into doing sinful things…” He lightly traces the demon’s snake tattoo on his face and whispers, “If that’s the case, then color me intrigued. I mean, you already tempted me into making that guy kick that other guy’s sack, didn’t you?”

“Oh, please!” Crowley swats the man’s hand away. “Making that guy do that was your idea! You humans… whenever I come up with something horrible, you lot will come up with something a million times worse!”

Kilgrave waits for Crowley to settle down before placing his hand on the demon’s knee. “So what was it, then?”

His mind a hailstorm, his heart destroyed, Crowley just stares at the unsolicited touch, unsure of what to make of it.

“I lost… this guy.”

“Just some guy?”

“No, not just some guy!” Crowley jerks his knee away. “He was...” He slams his fist on the bar. “He's an ineffable fucking idiot, that's what he is.”

“So, what happened?”

“He left me... he—URGH! He thinks what he's doing is the right thing but he's just so goddamn brainwashed— ‘Oh, Crowley! Oh, I can make things right in heaven! You can be my wingman! We can make a difference’ —Please, just spare me—oh, wait a minute, he did just that!”

Kilgrave steals the bottle back and looks at Crowley contemplatively. “Heaven?”

“Yeah, a place you're not getting into.”

“I assumed so—”

“That bloody angel…” Crowley hisses, a profound vein bulging on his forehead. “He and I could’ve run off together and made a life of our own, away from heaven and hell’s politics.”

“Sounds like you and him were pretty close.”

It’s difficult for Crowley not to do the most human thing at this point: scream and cry his eyes out until there’s no breath left in his lungs. “I… certainly thought so.”

Kilgrave clicks his tongue and shakes his head, opening up the bottle. “Love’s a bitch, innit?”

Crowley says nothing. Moving even the tiniest muscle felt like a chore.

“A demon feeling love, and loving an angel for that matter,” Kilgrave says with a chuckle. “You've got to be the most interesting thing I've ever met, Crowley.” He finishes off the last drops of the bottle and continues, “That angel’s missing out. Big time. Did he even—hm, maybe I shouldn't ask.”

“What?” Crowley grumbles into his hands.

“Did he… satisfy you? You know, was he a good lover? Or did you have to tempt him? You being a demon and all.”

“No, I didn't tempt him! Er, not in that fashion, anyway.” Memories of Aziraphale’s sky-blue eyes lighting up at his first taste of food illuminates Crowley’s mind and strangles his heart.

“So he satisfied you without your persuasion?”

“I'm not like you,” the demon sneers. “I don't need to mind-control people to make me happy.”

Kilgrave’s eyes gleam at the sight of Crowley riled-up. “So an angel, a being of all that is holy and godlike and whatnot, willingly gave himself to a demon?”

“Oh for Christ’s—Satan’s—somebody's sake, we didn't—it wasn't physical!”

Kilgrave slithers in, his nose barely touching Crowley’s. “Wouldn't you have liked it to be?”

Crowley’s fingers curl into a fist. If this sonofabitch dares to make one more move…

“It must be difficult, having pent-up urges and desires, yearning for a sweet, long release…”

Crowley’s jaw tightens. “I'm not in the mood for what you're trying to accomplish here, and I never will be.”

“I could get us a free room at that hotel across the street—”

A forceful shove almost knocks Kilgrave off the barstool. “Go fuck yourself,” Crowley snarls.

Collecting himself, Kilgrave straightens out his suit and titters. “Only if you'll watch.”

Crowley inhales sharply, haphazardly gets up on his feet and grabs Kilgrave by the collar. “Leave London. Go back to that woman you love. Talk things out with her. Really talk things out, cause if you don't—if you're not thorough—then shit will stay sideways and then neither of you will be happy. And stay the FUCK away from me.”

Kilgrave maintains his suave demeanor, taking in Crowley’s whiskey breath like a drug. “Then get your hands off of me. But you won't. Because you know that I can satisfy you in ways your angel never did. Don't lie to me and don't lie to yourself, demon.”

“You're a real sack of shit, you know that? You don't know me. You don't know what I want. And it's certainly not you. I'm not going to waste my time on a lowlife sinner like you.”

“You may not be trying to tempt me, luv, but you’re a temptation in and of itself. My God, Crowley, you're practically dripping with sex.” His voice lowers to a sultry tone, “I do wonder how dilated those slits behind those shades can get… and how pretty they'd look staring up at me… pleading…”

Nothing of what Kilgrave has spoken tickled any fancies for Crowley, but Crowley does admit, “You'd make one hell of a demon,” and lets go of him. Before Kilgrave opens his mouth to spew out garbage again, Crowley turns and leaves the bar with a drunken stagger.

The rain hasn't let up at all, and Crowley nearly slips on the wet ground as he gets inside the Bentley. Head spinning and queasy as ever, he fishes for his phone and calls the one number he only ever calls.

After some agonizingly long rings, the call is answered.

“‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello! A.Z. Fell and Co! How can I—a human—help you?”

Oh…right…

Crowley hangs up and drops his head onto the steering wheel. It’s a basic instinct to call up Aziraphale whenever something crazy happens, and meeting a psychotic, mind-controlling human who was hitting on him made for some juicy news.

But there was no more Aziraphale.

The tears that fought for escape finally break through in hot trickles down Crowley’s face.

“Aziraphale… please… just come back… m-my angel…”

Sniffling and wiping off his face, he looks up and notices Kilgrave leaving the bar and making his way over to Crowley.

Shattered and intoxicated, Crowley kicks the engine to life and takes off.

[wingedsirens]

GUITARS AND STOLEN JEWELLERY

hobie brown x black cat reader

You’ve been the city’s Black Cat for a while now, and it’s time for you to meet Spiderman.

There was one thing on your mind. As you scaled the drainpipe of a tall building, you went over the mission in your mind. Quick robbery, inside and out. You pushed yourself to the roof of the building, before setting your sights on the high rise apartment block.

Clad in glass, there resided your victim - Claus Parley. Shitty millionaire, even shittier person. There was no limit to what he’d done; or what he was accused of. Still, every allegation has to be truthful in some way, right?

Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, you marvelled at the city beneath you. London was ugly at best, but from up here, it looked beautiful. You enjoyed the night, especially ones this temperature. It was cold enough not to sweat, but warm enough not to freeze. It helped.

Reaching the block, you easily found a way in, courtesy to an open window close enough for you to leap to. Creeping through this random strangers apartment, you snagged a few pieces of jewellery as you left. If they could afford to live here, they were rich - it wasn’t like they’d miss them.

You’d been surveying Claus Parley for a few weeks now. He lived on the twelfth floor, ninth door along. But tonight, he wouldn’t be in - he had been invited to a strange little gala that celebrated who knows what. More importantly, that meant he was out of his apartment for the night.

His place was easier to locate than you thought it would be. You tried the handle, and sure enough, it was locked. Retrieving a lock pick from the small pocket in the side of your suit, you managed to get it open in less then thirty seconds. Rich people really needed better security.

You stole through the cool air, checking every room and scanning all of the surfaces for anything of value, before you found the jackpot. His safe was hidden in the top of his wardrobe, placed behind three shoeboxes. Placing it on the bed, you guessed the code a few times before guessing correct. Opening the door, you looked at the contents.

Several stacks of cash were stuffed messily at the side, which you gladly pocketed. Three watches in faux velvet boxes were placed in a row, and you brought them out to have a look. One fake, two real. You took the real ones and placed them in another hidden pouch, and then you found what you were looking for.

Stuffing the leather pouch into the same pocket as the watches, you shut the safe and placed it back in the wardrobe, moving the shoeboxes in front of it like how it was prior. It wasn’t the same, but you doubted he would notice. Casting one more look over the bedroom, you slipped out as quick as you came.

Getting out of the building was harder then getting in: first you had to get to the rooftop, then find an object to attach to your zip line, then getting on the zip line, and then you were on another roof. Depending on the distance between that and the next, you had to use the zip line again, or you had to vault your way over like a cat.

You were lucky this time. There was a long stretch of buildings that were flat topped, and easy to jump across. You did just that, barely getting out of breath. After about ten minutes of zipping across rooftops, you sat down, and looked at your small haul.

The jewellery would fetch a lot if you sold it to the right people. The watches would too, by the looks of it they looked like Breitling ones. And then, in the leather pocket, was your real target. You took it out and admired the piece of metal, cool and slippery in your hand.

All of a sudden, you heard a thump on the rooftop behind you. Shoving your haul into your suit, you turned around, on your feet instantly on the ground. Surveying the roof to see who your intruder was, your eyes finally settled on the guy leaning against a chimney. Most of his slim frame was doused in shadow, the only thing able to make out were the spikes that were somehow embedded on his head.

“Was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you, Black Cat.“ He said, putting emphasis on the last two words. As he walked forwards, you recognised him. He wore the some of the largest platforms you’d seen, and his trademark leather jacket, complete with the largest collection of pins you’d never seen up close. And yet, you’d seen him on the news enough to know who this man was.

“Spider Punk.” You said, cocking your head to the side, smirk playing on your lips. He mirrored your expression, almost mockingly, looking you up and down. “So, what innocent person are you stealin’ from now?” He replied, copying your head movements.

“They’re far from innocent, Spidey.” You said, walking around him, discreetly admiring his look. He was cool, you couldn’t disagree. “Well, you’ve been jumping around these rooftops so much I can’t fuckin’ tell who it was.” He joked. You sighed, pointing up.

“See that building? Yeah, there are a shit ton of millionaires that don’t even know what security is. And one of them even has his stuff in the worst quality safe I’ve ever seen. It would be a crime not to take it.” You grinned. “Still pissed?”

“I mean, I can let it slide. On one condition, kitty.” He said, walking around you. You pouted sarcastically, dropping it a second later. “And what’s that, Spidey?” Making sure you had everything with you, you slowly edged towards the side of the roof. He was new to you, and while that intrigued you, your defences were still up. He couldn’t interrupt everything you had going on.

“What are you gonna do with the cash?” He asked you, moving closer to you unexpectedly. You could hear his breathing. “Well, I happen to have someone I know who’s about to have a child, and she did not have the facilities for it. Or, the money for it. So, I’m giving some of it to her. The rest is going to a food bank. And obviously, I’m getting a cut.” You replied. He chuckled. “What, so are you some kind of Robin Hood?”

“You could call it that.” You said, leaning back on the same chimney he appeared on. “You know, I thought you’d be more impressed, that with your, um, anarchist movement.” You gestured to his badges as you talked.

“Never said I wasn’t impressed.” He said. You smirked. “Now usually, I’d ask for you to elaborate, but I’m sort of pushed for time. I’d love to continue this, but I have deadlines to make.” To be honest, you were due home in three hours, but there was something about this conversation that was putting you on edge.

“No worries, I’ll be quick.” He moved closer, and you stayed stock still. “I can’t lie, Black Cat. I’ve been keepin’ track of you for a while.” He added, waiting to see your reaction. You only smiled, leaning forward for a moment. “I can’t lie and say I haven’t been keeping track of you either, Spider Punk.” You replied, turning around in preparation to leave.

“Not my name, kitty.” You heard him shout from behind you. Turning around a final time, you looked back to him, the wind biting at your face. “What would you prefer?” You shouted back at him, still walking to the ledge. Even as you jumped, you still heard his response, carried by the wind.

You laughed. Not daring to look back, you landed on the roof with ease. Spidey it was, as per his request.

a/n: honestly i fucking hate this so much but yayy? it’s finished ig. ALSO I PROMISE I’M DOING MY REQUESTS IT JUST TAKES ME AGES I’M SO SORRY AHH!!?!! lmk if you enjoyed, honestly would love to do a part 2.

[anteroom-of-death]

Spin in the City, chapter 1

Synopsis: Malcolm Tucker is back in London and trying to gain employment. He grieves and plays himself openly.

A/N: another story from ME! I layer and add symbolism. There's many things wrong with me. Comments and thoughts appreciated...

Malcolm brushed his teeth, a task that got harder every day. Fuck, his depression and his arthritis starting to flare up every day for making it harder to operate this useless sack of cum.

He fucking understood he was sixty-two. He fucking got the message. Loud as the tinnitus he had from decades of screaming into a phone.

The taps stayed on as he paced in his old home. Sam convinced him to keep his Tottenham home when they got married and moved into their cottage in Wick. Storage and they could rent out the parking for a small fee.

His chest began that familiar widower’s ache.

Here he was back in the radioactive shithole that was England, yet alone London, their little home for a few years on the market. He couldn’t bear to keep it. A happy little thatched-roof where he saw his niece married last year. The place where they genuinely tried to live a life far removed from the cunts who framed him and used his existence to pass legislation.

The cozy little sitting room where the best fucking woman to ever exist breathed her last in May. (Possibly even the best fucking human to ever exist, but Malcolm admitted he may have heavy biases.)

He couldn’t bear it.

Fuck that.

Fuck this.

He just needed out and for something to do. Someone else to be for a bit.

He was shocked to find someone who was willing to interview him. Especially so quickly.

Maybe it was just because it was an American woman… no one from this Island or Northern Ireland would probably have him.

She sounded posh and mature, if not a tad bit full of herself.

He googled her separately from the firm she partnered with when he first saw the offer slide through his inbox from the recruitment service.

Confident, blonde and everywhere. She embodied the social elite of New York City. Dated celebrities and moguls, was friends with sex columnists and lawyers, hosted extravagant parties and had an endless string of sexy outfits. She seemed plenty intelligent and had eyes like a hawk with the posture befitting and outclassing any model.

Not particularly his type. He always liked demure brunettes with something deeply wrong behind the surface. Both of his wives were.

Not that Sam and Elaine were anything alike. No, Elaine was some hag bitch journo from hell whom he frequently thought of trying to start some political movement her for the entire goddamn world’s protection. Sam just was both a sadist and a sweetheart at once.

He shoved those thoughts down as he called an Uber and collected the folder he made of his accomplishments over the years.

He didn’t want to cry before his interview.

Or give off the impression that Malcolm F. Tucker was someone who had the capacity to cry.

The suit felt itchy and constricting against his being. Not unlike a noose, it felt so alien to wear one after years of Aran sweaters and jeans with flannels. The man who wore suits was executed for his alleged crimes in 2012. This man? In 2021? No.

This man was a new man, older, tired and more timid than he liked to admit.

He just needed to do something, be something. Anything but some begrieved widower with increasingly dead eyes.

The firm was a stone’s throw from his old stomping grounds in Number 10 and Westminster.

Nonetheless, he trudged onward into the office.

It was modern and luxurious inside. Nothing too ostentatious, but the bright lights and plush chair the receptionist led him to wait for Samantha Jones but his teeth on edge. Her desk was simple and glass, only a small stack of papers, a pen and a sleek laptop were on display.

He would have thought something vulgar, but he was trying not to. He was also on display.

The woman glided in, clad in something that seemed custom-made. He was no fashion expert, Sam always just bought him his suits and gave him the bill to forward to treasury for reimbursement. Once in a while he’d recognize a name from one of the designers on the high streets or the luxury shops in richer areas that were bespoke.

His perfect Sam. Knew him better than he did himself…

Malcolm got up and offered her his hand. She took it, her handshake firmer than any man in politics and twice as assertive. She had a bizarre smile on her face. One that was un-fucking-readable.

Probably some American blow-off look. They did love their meaningless grins and fucking pointless niceties.

It was fascinating to him how an entire country operated on the same system of etiquette as pointless cabinet members with worse agendas.

She sat down and clicked something on her file and looked at his CV. The half-second she held each in her line of vision seemed to go on for eternity.

“Cut the bullshit, Malc. Why does someone like you want to demean yourself working for me?” She leaned back and bore her eyes into his soul, (he highly debated that he had a soul, but if he did, Samantha Jones was staring straight at it…) her index finger resting just behind a broach cleverly disguised as an earring.

Now Malcolm had the luxury of choice. Did he tell the truth or did he fabricate and spin a nice little falsehood?

What did he say to that emaciated Oxbridge twat that stole his place? Rabbits and hats? That rant came barreling back and hit him clearly between the eyes.

He had to act.

“Retirement isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, isn’t it, love?”

She clearly didn’t enjoy that response. Her eyes narrowed and he felt like he was melting quicker than a cone in the hand of toddler with ADHD during a heatwave. He had to amend his statement and do a little backtracking.

“Samantha, can I call you Samantha?” He felt his hand extend and the glimmer of his old self surface.

“Miss Jones.”

“Right. Miss Jones.” He nodded along. “I don’t expect you to care, but I can’t live how I was living. A man’s got to have a purpose. Can’t sit by the sea waiting to fucking pass from Parkinzeimers, can he?” Blatant honesty covered in bravado.

He thought he saw a flash of something behind her eyes, he didn’t want to dig himself a bigger hole. So he left that statement at that.

She was judging him. He felt cornered.

He didn’t like this.

“Don’t play games with me. I know there’s more than- “She gestured broadly towards his entire being, “Being purposeless.”

He deflated and decided to tell an unvarnished truth. No spin, no anything, he even pulled himself back from swearing. “I’ve worked since I was 8. I haven’t not worked my entire life. I spent a few years living a life I didn’t know a boy from Gorbals could get. It’s dead and gone. Give me something to do.” He gave plaintive plea as a firm demand.

He could physically see the gears turning in her mind. He obviously was a risky investment.

She pursed her lips.

“Trial period, I’ll have my assistant send you a temporary contract.”

Thank fuck, he relaxed.

“Don’t pull anything like you did to Mr. Tickel or I’ll have you unable to even run the tills at Iceland.” She levied against him as she got up and offered him a hand. The interview was over and she wanted him out of her office.

“Fair fucking offer.” He took her hand, yet again noticing her grasp and the fact you could feel her obviously well-earned cockiness radiating from the cells in her hand alone.

He felt himself crumple in the lift ride down.

Maybe it was too soon to work?

No, this was the right thing to do. There wasn’t anything for him left. Might as well fucking slide back in the old skin suit and concern himself with every wanker’s business except his own. Would keep his mind torn off of his intelligent, beautiful and loving bride dying from breast cancer than neither of them knew she had. She got the diagnosis too late and the chemotherapy was too rough.

It fucking shattered her.

She took the peaceful route, die with dignity in her home, surrounded by loved ones.

That was the type of woman she was. Quiet, simple and dignified. She did the job and did it well. Even dying was a class-act from her.

He missed her more every moment.

He got home and let himself cry, first time since he watched the life slip away from her eyes. It took hours and he felt literally disemboweled after it.

The email app on his phone pinged.

It was Miss Jones’ assistant. His contract was in for him to review and sign.

He didn’t know how he’d spun this far out of control…

[leibal]

The Makers Barn is a minimalist residence located outside of London, United Kingdom, designed by Hutch with styling by Sarah Birks. Key elements of the design include an oversized central chimney crafted from board-formed concrete, robust plastered walls, timber columns, and a roof adorned with larch timber cladding.

[saviorofdandysuits]

Catch You When You Fall

Photo by Jonathan Meyer on Unsplash

Rated: G - WC: 2569 - CW: Injury, burns, angst (oh, hello Crowley) -

Crowley slid into the Bentley’s spot across the street from A’s bookshop and cut the engine.  Cold spring rain hammered the roof and heavy, sharp drops teased the sound of rain on a canopy.

Or a wing.

A cream-clad figure bustled about inside the shop, dusting shelves and volumes with an ancient feathery floof. The Bentley’s windows fogged as Crowley watched the figure work from one end of the shop to the other, a pleased little smile turning up round, soft cheeks.

After a while, the angel moved closer to the window, a steaming mug in one hand and a thick, worn tome hugged close with the other. Then, settled at the big cluttered desk, all but the very top of the angel’s head disappeared, bobbing gently to the strains of some music from the old record player.

If it weren’t for the dark locks peeking out beneath the brim of Muriel’s hat, Crowley could almost convince himself the flash of platinum was really A.

A shop door to his right opened and Nina waved to him, her voice muffled and garbled by the rain. Ducking his head, Crowley pushed his sunglasses up closer to his face and gunned the engine to life. Crowley’s low growl matched the Bentley’s. He was a block past the traffic signal before he looked up again, Nina’s shrinking figure framed in the rear view mirror.

Crowley didn’t return to Whickber Street until the last lingering leaves hung wet and heavy with frosty rain. The sun had already set, long shadows on the street barely held back by the thin streetlamps. As he’d planned—hoped, schemed, if he were to be honest about it—most shops had already closed, Nina’s and Maggie’s in particular. Windows and doors shuttered, the block was quiet, empty. Dead.

All but A’s shop, at least. A. Fell & Co’s stood on the corner like a beacon. Bright, golden light spilled out beneath the half-drawn window shades, a soft lilt of strings permeated the muted streets. 

Crowley parked the Bentley around the other corner from the shop. Even with the shades mostly down, Crowley could still make out Muriel’s shoes as they passed close to windows. Their pace quickened into little skips as they passed what must’ve been near black squares from their perspective.

He stayed longer this time, waiting for Muriel to turn off the downstairs lamps and head up to one of the tiny rooms upstairs. He was interrupted again, though, this time by both Nina and Maggie slipping out from the pub, fingers intertwined. Maggie caught his eye as she held the door for Nina. She’d just opened her mouth and begun to step toward the car when Crowley shook his head and took off, driving north down the south-only street.

Crowley didn’t slow until he’d gotten out past the lights and noise and smell of London. He’d run out of petrol twice, miracling his way back up from the forlorn ‘E’ on the gauge each time. Eventually, the freezing rain eased, wipers squeaking against the dry windshield. Sucking his teeth, he yanked on the stick to stop them and lowered the windows.

The scent of sod and pine filled his lungs and after a few more miles, he reached the literal end of the road. Again, he cut the engine and lifted his glasses to stare out into the sky. The clouds had disappeared with the rain but even with the horizons cleared and miles from the nearest city, Crowley’s eyes could just barely make out the brightest of his stars and even those dimmed the longer he gazed up, seeking out his old favorites.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

One star, though, grew… brighter. And larger. Stupid, dumb hope bubbled in his chest and his hand shook as he pushed open the door and stood, watching a falling… something draw closer, washing out the rest of the sky in a bright white light. Nearer and nearer it came and Crowley began to pick out the edges of whatever bit of rock had jarred loose from the heavens and gotten caught in their little planet’s gravity.

It was irregularly shaped, not a solid, roundish mass like one would expect from a proper meteorite. Instead, it was oblong and jutted out at sharp angles, almost…

Almost like limbs.

The flaming object veered away from him just as it approached the treeline, smashing down into the woods ahead. Boughs snapped and crackled with the impact and smoke rose up from the forest a few hundred yards away. Crowley chased the light, half-running, half-miracled between the trees.

Bright white faded to yellow, then orange, and finally a faded red as Crowley crashed through the branches. Prickly leaves tugged at his hair and his jacket, snatching up glasses and his scarf. He left them behind and stumbled at the edge of a deep pit, surrounding tree trunks blackened with bits of fire licking at the underbrush.

The ground was too sodden to fully catch so the impact left a near-perfect black circle in the woods, tall evergreens standing guard a respectful fifty feet back from the point of impact. At the center of the circle lay a lump, smoke and ash picked up by the cold breeze and swirling around it. 

He stared for an impossibly long time, steam and smoke pouring up front the ground. Surely whatever had once been at the center was nothing more than a cinder.

But then the lump moved.

Crowley didn’t think. He just ran. He raced down the slope, skidding and tripping over the charred remains of felled trees. He stopped at the center and reached for the crumpled form at the center of the crater. “Aziraphale?” he asked. The catch in his voice had nothing to do with the burns the figure’s ember-hot body left on his fingertips.

The figure didn’t rise, but its eyes cracked open, revealing a pale, clear blue the color of the summer sky. Its burnt lips flaked, moving ineffectually around a raspy breath, a hissed, “Cro—” breaking through.

“Don’t try to speak, Angel.” Tears finally spilled down his cheeks. They evaporated before they could slide past his jaw. “I’ve got you,” he promised, tucking both arms beneath the hot ash settling around Angel’s body. Probably all that was left of his gleaming vestments.

A whimpered in his arms, wings hanging limp and burnt skin crackling beneath his touch. I know, I know,” he whispered, pouring as much healing as he dared. Up close, Crowley now saw it was far more than the burns. Angel’s formerly soft frame was now gaunt , belly sunken and his face a study in sharp lines and angles. Bony elbows and knees were the widest part of his limbs and he clung limply to Crowley’s jacket. Angel needed far more than Crowley could manage out in the middle of the woods. 

No point left to subterfuge, Crowley miracled them both back to the Bentley and settled Angel into the backseat. He looked so small. Angel didn't move, either, when Crowley covered him with his jacket, just curled in around himself, mangled fingers gripping the broken in leather.

Crowley didn't know how. Not yet, at least, but he was going to murder those bastards. Angel needed healing first. And there was one place they still might be safe from Heaven's wrath.

He climbed into the front seat as the Bentley started herself. “Hold on, Angel,” Crowley growled and slammed his foot on the accelerator. “I’m taking you home.”

There was no time as Crowley raced down the streets, the Bentley’s speedometer stuck at the edge of the dial. The front tires stuttered against a speed bump and Angel groaned from the backseat, pained. Good. Pain was good. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.

The sky was still inky black by the time he’d gotten back to London, peeling around the corner and stopping right in front of Angel’s bookshop. Angel held tight to his chest, he kicked in the door, absently repairing the lock as they passed over the threshold. Miracles fell from him as he carried Angel inside, the shades dropping down completely to seal them in, lamps flickering to life to light their path upstairs.

“Muriel?” he finally thought to call at the top of the landing, realizing late that they might be frightened by their entry. But the soft little angel was already awake, eyes wide and fixed on Angel’s form.

“Is that the Archangel Azir—”

“Not anymore,” he muttered and moved to Angel’s bed. Muriel shuffled to the other side and peeled back a corner of the soft cream-colored bedding. Bits of scorched feathers and flesh dusted the sheets as he laid his Angel down. He was still breathing.

Crowley knelt next to the bed, hands hovering over the broken form before him. He could save his wings, though they were likely to stay black, like his. Crowley had been strong when he’d fallen—was pushed— from Heaven. They all had been. That was the point. 

Angel, though… His fingers brushed over the sharp bones of Angel’s clavicle as he pulled the sheet up to his chin. Angel had not been. “I—” His voice cracked. “He—” Muriel scuttled around the bed and patted his shoulder. “We,” he croaked. “We need your help.” When he looked up, they met his eyes, gaze steadier than he’d expected. “Get Gabriel.”

“He’s with—” Muriel twitched but didn’t pull away at Crowley’s glare.

“Get them both.”

The curtains glowed with the first light of dawn when a small fly and a sharp intake of breath at the door announced Beelzebub and Gabriel’s arrival.

“For Heaven’s sake,” Beelzebub choked. The floorboards creaked behind him and, after a moment, the couple moved to the other side of Angel’s bed. “What happened?”

“He would’ve been cast into hellfire,” Gabriel said when Crowley glared at him. Even Gabrielle’s quiet voice boomed in the tiny room. “But this… this isn’t what—”

“You mean Heaven got it wrong?” he snapped, on his feet. It was only for a moment, though. Unconscious, Angel’s pull drew him close and he knelt, straightening the covers he’d mussed. Had enough of him rubbed off on the angel to protect him from Hellfire? 

His hand grazed charred skin and feathers. Protect? Barely managed to keep him alive, perhaps. Not much protection in that. Crowley’s shoulder felt cold and he cast his gaze around the room. The soft little angel was not to be seen. “Where’s Muriel gone?”

“Downstairs making tea.” Beelzebub winced when the crisp edge of Angel’s good wing twitched under the blanket, the scars from their own fall pulsing.

“‘’Ziraphale’d be proud,” he mumbled. He’d nearly gotten Angel’s right hand healed enough to hold, but he was losing steam fast and would need to rest before he dropped on top of him and undid all of his work. He stared at Gabriel again. “Aziraphale protected you, sheltered you from Heaven when you just landed ass-backwards in his lap.” 

“You both did.” Muriel set down a tray and poured four cups. After only a moment’s hesitation, they poured a fifth. “For when he wakes up,” they said with a little smile to Crowley.

“I didn’t protect him,” Crowley muttered, shaking his head at an offered cup.

They crouched next to him and frowned into her cup. “But you did. You lied for him—lied to me about Gabriel’s presence in the shop, and you used a miracle to hide him.”

Crowley finished sealing the burnt, cracked skin on Angel’s right hand and stroked the back of it. His ordinarily plump, soft hand was nothing more than crepe skin stretched over bone and sinew. They’d held hands for that miracle. “We did it together.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub were holding hands, hiding it, poorly, behind the edge of the bed. Crowley stared. Angel had buzzed with excitement when the two of them found each other. Again, he supposed. He cradled Angel’s hand in his. “Together. You lot. Together maybe you can—” His throat closed up before his hopeful words could slip through. The last time he’d had hope, the universe had not responded kindly.

Nodding, Gabriel held Beelzebub’s close to his chest and rested his fingertips on Angel’s shoulder.

“It’s worth a try.” Muriel nodded and, slowly, took Beelzebub’s hand. They offered her other to Crowley. “I… I found his books with stories in it—”

Crowley yanked his hand back. “You mean his diaries?” 

“Well…” Muriel at least had the decency to look shamed, their smile falling as they fiddled with the buttons on their collar. “I didn’t realize what they were at the time. I thought they were just books. But an awful lot of them were all about you and…” They blushed and looked away.

“I would love for you to help me…”

“ Smitten , I believe…”

“You can tell me all about it while we dance …”

Crowley traced the bas relief of tendons and veins that now made up Angel’s hand. Muriel seemed to have seen something they shouldn’t’ve. Did Angel maybe have a fourth reason to call him?

Left hand closed gently around Angel’s, Crowley grasped Muriel’s. Blinding white light exploded around the motley crew of ethereal creatures at the contact. Demon grasping angel, holding whatever in the Hell or Heaven or skies above the rest of them were, all centered around the latest—and perhaps the last— fallen angel.

Angel’s hand tightened around his, fingers growing plumper and stronger beneath his grip. “It’s working,” he grunted, the flow of energy coursing through him in the way he hadn’t felt since he was building the stars. The light traveled up Angel’s arm and over his body, shining through the blankets heaped on top of him.

After hours or minutes, the brilliance faded just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving violet bright spots in Crowley’s vision, ears ringing.

And Angel saying his name.

“Crowley? Crowley, can you hear me?” His voice was soft and weak and drenched with concern.

“Mm-mhm… Angel… I…” He blinked away the fuzziness and focused on Angel’s face. He was still far too thin to be healthy, deep heavy shadows ringing his eyes and tugging at his mouth and jaw. But there was a hint of a smile and the tiniest brush of color in his cheeks. “Aziraphale, yes.” He cleared his throat but Angel’s eyes wouldn’t leave him. “I hear you.”

Beelzebub made a little coughing sound and stood, pulling Gabriel up with them. “We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Muriel watched them move toward the door and only then released Crowley’s hand.

Angel took it and pressed Crowley’s hand flat against his chest. “I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” he murmured, low voice rumbling through Crowley’s palm. He tucked his wings on either side of the bed, feathers mostly sealed and laying flat. But raven black. “You’ll need to give me a new nickname, if…” He pulled back, lifting his hand off of Crowley’s as though he expected him to leave.

“You’re still my Angel,” Crowley said, avoiding his eyes. 

“Really?” Angel’s voice lilted up, thin but with a taste of its usual sweetness. “But I haven’t done the dance yet.”

“I’m a demon, Angel.” Crowley wouldn’t let go of his hand. “Not a monster . I’ll let you heal first.”

Angel sighed or maybe tried to laugh, and he squeezed Crowley’s fingers. “You… you saved me. Healed me.” He reached up then and traced the red scars on either side of Crowley’s eyes. “It’s what I should’ve done for you when…”

Crowley shrugged. “Knew you would have, had you could.” Muriel’s laughter flittered up the stairs and they both looked toward the door they other three had left cracked open. “There’ll be consequences for this.”

“I think they know that,” Angel nodded, eyes back on Crowley. He smiled, small and weak. But beautiful. “And we’ll all face them together.”

“Right you are, Angel,” Crowley murmured, curling closer to the bed, closer to his Angel. “Right you are.”

[purplesigebert]

Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

I was tagged by the amazing @kirythestitchwitch! The word was🐺HOWLS🐺!

All of these will be from the DW Crossover:

Honestly, he thought he was so impressive, she rolled her eyes, a tiny smile coaxing its way onto her lips.  She looked around the room that the machine, the TARDIS, had provided her, amazed that it very nearly matched the one in her mum’s flat.  The only difference was the view - instead of the roofs of London, there was a lush waterfall.

As Rose left her room, she bumped into Caroline.  She wasn’t sure what to think of the twelve year old that travelled with the Doctor.  Clive hadn’t known much about her, but she had appeared in a few of the pictures and drawings that the conspiracy theorist had.  What was disturbing was that in some of the pictures, the Titanic one in particular, Caroline looked even younger then she was now.  How long had she been travelling with the Doctor?

Once, when she was younger, Caroline had asked the Doctor what it was like to live forever.  He had gotten a sad look in his eyes, the one that she would come to associate with Gallifrey. 

“Long, lonely, and dark at times,” he told her.

“Is that why you travel with us? To stop the loneliness?”

“Absolutely!” The Doctor cried with a big grin, ruffling her hair. She glared at him and fixed it.

“You lot can be brilliant, for apes anyway!”

She rolled her eyes and pushed at his leather clad shoulder. It was worth it, to see him smiling again.

Caroline understood now, the loneliness that came with eternity.

Well well, just how did the alluring baby vampire come by this information on him?  

"Look, he’s a 900 year old alien who travels in time and space and still refuses to believe in anything that he hasn’t seen.”

So, yes, when Senior Prank Night rolled around, Caroline Forbes was closer to a century than seventeen years old.

Tagging: @orlissa, @sailor-hufflepuff, @colubrina, @ladystxrdust

Your word is 🎨PAINT 🎨!

[sirroofingsolutions]

SIR Roofing Solutions

We supply highly skilled roofers, roof repairs, installations and roof maintenance across the wider London, Surrey and Berkshire areas, to both commercial and domestic sectors. Our customer support team and qualified roofers are here to assist you with all of your roofing problems and requirements, whether it be an issue with the entire roof construction, whether you’re in need of roof repairs or just have a general roofing query, let us help. We install and maintain all types of roofing and cladding systems including standing seam systems (curved roofing), single ply (flat) roofing, skylights and composite paneling. We also erect safety netting & refurbish asbestos roofing & cladding, across the wider London, Surrey and Berkshire areas, to both commercial and domestic sectors. From emergency roof repairs to refurbishment or complete re-roofing service solutions, you can be assured of quality work from our professional roofing services team. Whatever your roofing requirements you can trust in the specialist roofers at Sir Roofing Specialists Call our roof repairs team today for a FREE CONSULTATION.

Address: Unit 11 Kimberley Lofts NW6 7SL

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[pecasauk]

How to Build a Garden Room Without Planning Permission

A garden room can be a fantastic addition to any outdoor space, offering extra living or working space without the need for an expensive home extension. Many homeowners worry about planning permission when considering a garden room, but the good news is that in many cases, you can build one without requiring official approval. This guide will walk you through the key considerations and steps to ensure your garden room complies with regulations.

Understanding Planning Permission Rules for Garden Rooms

Before beginning construction, it’s important to understand the regulations surrounding garden rooms. In many countries, outbuildings like garden rooms fall under garden ideas North London, meaning they do not require formal planning permission as long as they meet specific criteria.

Key Criteria for Permitted Development:

Size Restrictions – The total area covered by all outbuildings (including the garden room) must not exceed 50% of the total land surrounding the original house.

Height Limitations – The structure must not exceed:

2.5 meters in height if within 2 meters of a boundary.

3 meters for a flat roof when farther than 2 meters from a boundary.

4 meters for a pitched roof when farther than 2 meters from a boundary.

Usage Restrictions – The garden room must not be used as a self-contained living accommodation or have a separate address.

Location Limitations – It must not be built in front of the main house.

Design Considerations – Some areas, such as conservation zones, may have additional restrictions.

Always check with your local planning office to confirm specific rules that apply to your area.

Steps to Building a Garden Room Without Planning Permission

1. Choose the Right Location

The placement of your garden room is crucial to ensure compliance with regulations. Select a spot that meets the distance requirements from boundaries and does not obstruct views or overshadow neighboring properties.

2. Determine the Size and Design

Keeping within the permitted size limits is essential. Consider the intended use of the space—whether it’s a home office, gym, or relaxation area—and plan the dimensions accordingly.

A standard garden room typically measures between 3m x 3m to 6m x 4m, providing ample space without exceeding the 50% garden coverage rule.

3. Choose Construction Materials

Selecting the right materials will determine durability, insulation, and aesthetics. Common materials include:

Timber Frames – Lightweight and easy to work with.

Steel or Composite Panels – Offer durability and low maintenance.

Insulated Panels – Ideal for year-round use.

Cladding Options – Wood, brick, or composite finishes for an attractive look.

4. Build a Solid Foundation

A strong foundation ensures the longevity of your garden room. Popular foundation types include:

Concrete Slabs – Ideal for permanent structures.

Ground Screws – A non-invasive and eco-friendly option.

Timber Frame Base – Suitable for small to medium-sized rooms.

5. Assemble the Structure

Depending on your skills and budget, you can either:

Buy a Pre-Fabricated Kit – Easier to install and often designed within permitted development limits.

Build from Scratch – Allows customization but requires advanced DIY skills.

Hire a Professional – Ensures a high-quality finish and compliance with regulations.

6. Add Windows and Doors

Windows and doors enhance natural light and ventilation. Ensure that they comply with building regulations, especially if you’re using the space frequently.

7. Insulation and Heating

To make the garden office cost comfortable throughout the year, proper insulation is necessary. Options include:

Wall and Roof Insulation – Keeps the temperature stable.

Double-Glazed Windows – Reduces heat loss and noise.

Electric or Underfloor Heating – Provides warmth in colder months.

8. Install Electrical and Plumbing (If Needed)

If you plan to use the garden room for work or leisure, adding electricity is essential. Hiring a certified electrician ensures safety and compliance with regulations.

Plumbing is usually unnecessary unless you intend to use the space as a guest room or include a small washroom.

9. Finishing Touches

Personalize your garden room with flooring, wall finishes, and furniture to suit your style. Consider adding:

Interior Lighting – LED spotlights, pendant lights, or floor lamps.

Decor and Storage – Shelving, artwork, and seating to maximize space.

Outdoor Features – Decking, planters, or a pathway for an inviting entrance.

Common Mistakes to Avoid

Exceeding Size Limits – Always measure carefully to stay within permitted development.

Ignoring Boundary Rules – Ensure compliance with distance regulations.

Lack of Proper Insulation – Can make the space unusable in extreme weather.

Not Checking Local Regulations – Some areas may have special restrictions beyond standard rules.

Conclusion

Planning permission free garden building without planning permission is achievable by following the permitted development guidelines. By carefully planning size, materials, and location, you can create a functional and stylish outdoor space without unnecessary legal complications. Always check with local authorities for the most up-to-date rules before starting your project.

Read Also: Expert Tips for Beautiful Garden Design in Middlesex

[fieldpractice]

[construction654]

The Importance of Quality Materials in Construction

Alpha design labFebruary 06, 2025

In the dynamic world of construction, the selection of materials is a critical determinant of a project's success. Opting for high-quality materials ensures not only the structural integrity and longevity of a building but also its safety, aesthetic appeal, and overall value. At Alpha Design Lab-best construction company in Bangalore, we emphasize the paramount importance of using superior materials in all our projects to deliver exceptional results to our clients.

Ensuring Structural Integrity and Safety

The foundation of any construction project lies in its structural integrity. Utilizing high-grade materials such as reinforced concrete and premium steel provides the necessary strength to withstand various loads and environmental factors. Inferior materials can compromise a building's stability, leading to potential safety hazards. By prioritizing quality, Alpha Design Lab ensures that every structure we design and build adheres to the highest safety standards.

Enhancing Durability and Longevity

Quality materials are inherently more durable, offering resistance against wear and tear, weathering, and other environmental challenges. This durability translates to structures that stand the test of time, reducing the need for frequent repairs and replacements. For instance, the use of treated timber and corrosion-resistant metals can significantly extend a building's lifespan, ensuring long-term client satisfaction.

Aesthetic Appeal and Client Satisfaction

The visual impact of a building is greatly influenced by the materials used. High-quality finishes, tiles, and fixtures not only enhance the aesthetic appeal but also contribute to the property's market value. Clients appreciate the refined look and feel that quality materials provide, leading to increased satisfaction and positive referrals. At Alpha Design Lab, we carefully select materials that align with the design vision and exceed client expectations.

Energy Efficiency and Environmental Sustainability

In today's eco-conscious world, energy efficiency is a key consideration in construction. Quality materials such as advanced insulation, energy-efficient windows, and sustainable roofing solutions contribute to reduced energy consumption. These materials help maintain optimal indoor temperatures, leading to lower utility costs and a reduced carbon footprint. Alpha Design Lab is committed to incorporating sustainable practices by selecting materials that are both high-performing and environmentally friendly.

Cost-Effectiveness in the Long Run

While the initial investment in quality materials may be higher, the long-term benefits far outweigh the costs. Durable materials require less maintenance and have a longer lifespan, resulting in significant savings over time. Additionally, energy-efficient materials can lead to lower utility bills, further enhancing cost-effectiveness. By choosing quality materials, Alpha Design Lab ensures that our clients receive the best value for their investment.

Mitigating Risks Associated with Inferior Materials

The use of substandard materials can lead to a host of issues, including structural failures, safety hazards, and increased maintenance costs. For example, the tragic Grenfell Tower fire in London highlighted the dangers of using inferior cladding materials, underscoring the critical importance of material quality in construction. At Alpha Design Lab, we are vigilant in our material selection process, ensuring compliance with all safety standards and regulations to prevent such risks.

Conclusion

The importance of quality materials in construction cannot be overstated. They are the cornerstone of building safe, durable, and aesthetically pleasing structures that stand the test of time. Alpha Design Lab-best architects in Bangalore is dedicated to upholding the highest standards of material quality in all our projects, ensuring that our clients receive exceptional results that meet and exceed their expectations.

By prioritizing the use of superior materials, we not only enhance the performance and longevity of our constructions but also contribute to a more sustainable and efficient built environment. Trust Alpha Design Lab to deliver excellence through quality materials and expert craftsmanship

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[sanctobin]

How to make small spaces look bigger.

Six interior designers reveal their top tips, tricks and hacks for creating the illusion of space when it’s scarce.

Space is one of the most coveted luxuries, especially in crowded cities where compact living has become the norm. But small doesn’t have to mean cramped. With clever design tricks and optical illusions, you can make any room feel larger, with no major building works or remodelling required. We asked six interior designers to share their top impactful hacks for maximising small spaces.

Let there be (layered) light

Light placement and style can be an extremely effective way to make a room look bigger if you know what to embrace and, more importantly, what to avoid. The first trick, says London-based interior designer Polly Ashman, is to steer clear of harsh overhead lighting. ‘Spotlights are ceiling acne,’ says the founder of Polly Ashman Design. ‘No one wants a spotlight right on their head; it is not flattering. Instead, use low and mid-level directional task lighting to highlight parts of the room, including corners and cornices and really push everything out to create the illusion of more space. Wall lights are good for highlighting art and joinery and drawing the eye to the edges of the room. It’s all about layering light to deliberately highlight the features and areas of the room you want to make more of.’

As for natural light, Ashman says that there are ways to let more into an otherwise dull or dark room. ‘An internal window like the one we did between a typical London townhouse hallway and living space enhances natural light, creates a visual connection between rooms and adds depth, making the space feel larger while maintaining clear boundaries between different areas in a home.’

Mirror, Mirror

Another trick for making a small space or room look larger, and one intrinsically linked to lighting and light placement, is the use of reflective surfaces. This is a hack that can be effectively deployed by using furniture such as tables with reflective or mirrored surfaces or by cleverly positioning and angling mirrors in a small room for the ultimate reflective optical illusion.

Then, there are other, more intricate ways of utilising reflective surfaces that are baked into the design itself. Studio Duggan’s recently completed Clapham house is a prime example. ‘In this marvellously cosy double reception room, we clad the reveal of the opening in smoked mirror panels to add a little drama and blur the separation lines a little,’ says founder Tiffany Duggan. ‘It’s such a cool trick.’

Natural Beauty

Access to nature and fresh air can be a game-changer when living in small spaces, says Zoe Bailey, senior associate at London-based design practice StudioMorey. This doesn’t mean you have to have access to outside space, although, if you do, then there’s a plethora of ways to maximise impact and make use of space that might not be underutilised. ‘Explore untapped potential like unused roof terraces or lightwells,’ adds Bailey. She highlights a StudioMorey project in Clerkenwell where a small urban roof terrace was brought to life with decking, a simple table and chairs and string lights to create a magical, additional space. Nature and biophilia can be effectively used inside, too, as a way to highlight room features to give more depth and a sense of space. ‘If you are lucky enough to have good height despite having a small footprint, make use of all the walls going up to the ceiling,’ says Bailey. ‘Consider something like wooden vertical shelving which allows the eye to be drawn to more areas of the room, and even better if you can incorporate plants.’

The Fifth Element

It’s all too easy to think of a room as having four walls. Sophie Pringle, creative director of Surrey-based interior design practice Pringle & Pringle, wholeheartedly encourages the use of the ceiling when it comes to adding height to a room. ‘Use the fifth wall to create interest and impact depending on the feel you are trying to evoke,’ she says. ‘Play with stripes or a pattern to create an illusion or architectural details to add interest and give your eye another focus. Alternatively you can take the colour of the walls up and over the ceiling to avoid the room feeling too broken up.’ Sometimes known as colour-drenching, this technique will, she says, effectively elongate the look and feel of the space.

It doesn’t have to mean just using paint, however. Pringle points here to an example where blue wallpaper used on the walls runs into paint in the same shade. Proof that mixing textures and materials but matching colours can still have the desired effect.

The art of distraction

It is a misconception that small spaces require small pieces of furniture. The size of the pieces doesn’t matter nearly as much as the position, usability, and visual interest of your furniture choices, says Ed O’Donnell, co-founder and creative director at Soho-based interior design studio Angel O’Donnell.

‘A neutral base, which can be a dark neutral if you prefer, softens the dimensions of a room, while the shapes and colours of the furniture can draw the eyes in different directions so that you experience the room’s full length and breadth.’ He adds that ‘these visual pockets of interest’ can act as very effective distractions in a narrow room, which, in turn, make the space feel bigger than it is. On the subject of furniture, he adds that built-in pieces such as bespoke banquettes and shelving units are a great solution for making the most of a small space.

Border force

The more zones you can create, even in a small space, the better the proportions of the room will feel. One great way of achieving this is to use rugs, says designer Christian Bense. ‘I find that an area rug is a great way to make a small space seem bigger,’ he says. ‘You are further demarcating the room and creating a smaller internal border – it tricks the eye into seeing the white space around the room and it defines a new ground for furniture to sit on.’

By The Spaces