#roof cladding in London

[fieldpractice]

[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.”

[sirroofingsolutions]

SIR Roofing Solutions

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[calvinpo]

An exhibition/pavilion review:

Ringing Hollow: A Review of Black Chapel, the 2022 Serpentine Pavilion

Calvin Po

It’s perhaps an unfortunate coincidence that on my way to this year’s Serpentine Pavilion, Black Chapel, designed by Chicago-based artist Theaster Gates, I had a rather more spiritual experience when I passed by a group of street preachers on the square next to Speaker's Corner. With their Union Jack bunting draped all around their assembly, placards with JESUS IS LORD, large banners of the English flag adorned a patriotic lion and names of the all the London boroughs proudly proclaiming LONDON SHALL BE SAVED. Puncturing through even my atheistic, bemused scepticism, the blaring music and odd bursts of song had a patriotic, messianic energy that was electric. By the time I got to the Chapel I came to see, it had simply been upstaged.

Pavilions have often mattered more for the reason they are built, than the actual functions they house. From completing the composition of a Picturesque landscape, to Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion itself becoming a manifesto, the purpose of pavilions often exists beyond the building itself. In the case of the Serpentine Pavilion, it is more about the annual cycle of patronage by the London cultural elite as they pat the “emerging architect” of the year on the back. So I was intrigued when Gates claimed a loftier, more sacred ambition of creating a ‘Chapel’, a “sanctuary for reflection, refuge and conviviality”, for “contemplation and convening”, on top of the usual purpose as a place to sit and buy an expensive coffee.

The pavilion’s imposing 10.7m high cylindrical form, clad in all-black timber has an immediate presence as I approach. Gates claims the form references inspirations as eclectic as “Musgum mud huts of Cameroon, the Kasubi Tombs of Kampala, Uganda [...] the sacred forms of Hungarian round churches and the ring shouts, voodoo circles and roda de capoeira witnessed in the sacred practices of the African diaspora.” Perhaps the subtlety of these references is lost on me, but the Pavilion mostly evokes an industrial structure, like a water tank or gasometer, especially with its external ridges of timber battens  and internal ribs of timber and metal composite trusses. Yet despite the grand gesture of an open oculus in the roof, letting light into the inky, voluminous interior, it fails to move me in that transcendental way that even a modest place of worship can. 

Is it perhaps the quality of the execution? Serpentine Pavilions are often put together on hasty timescales, with six months from conception to completion. Little details give this away: boards of the decking and cladding not quite lining up, the black-stained timber a bargain basement imitation of yakisugi (Japanese technique of timber charring). Perhaps this can be forgiven of a non-permanent structure: in a nod to sustainability credentials, this year the designers have taken care to ensure the structure is demountable, down to the reusable, precast concrete foundations. But seeing that the Pavilions are almost always auctioned off to recoup the costs and relocated to the grounds of private collectors and galleries, this seems more a convenient commercial expediency, than an environmental one. Perhaps it is difficult to be spiritually moved by a structure that is sold and delivered like a commodity, with little rootedness in its physical and congregational geographies. 

Or could it be the atmosphere, a lack of drama? One of Gate’s flourishes, such as his seven silvery ‘Tar Paintings’ that are suspended in the inside walls of the space like abstract icons, are a nod to his father’s trade as a roofer, and Rothko’s chapel in Houston. Yet these self-referential gestures seem lost on the throngs of sun-seeking Londoners taking brief shelter from the heat and wilted grass, with hardly anyone giving them a second glance. Most seemed more interested in the shade than symbolism. For a project that also emphasises “the sonic and the silent”, the acoustic atmosphere of the space I found wanting, perhaps because of the sound that leaks out of the two full-height openings that puncture straight through the volume: its acoustic experience had neither the reverberant, sanctified silence once expects from a chapel, nor the sonic presence that the street preachers managed to carve out of a busy corner of a London with just their vocal chords. Instead, all I heard was the low chatter of visitors going about their own business. The Pavilion is being programmed with “sonic interventions” (read: music performances), and the jury is out on whether or not the Pavilion can serve as a suitable venue for sounds with a more explicit, ceremonial intentionality.

But perhaps the coup de grâce was the decision to relocate a bell from St Laurence, a now-demolished Catholic Church from Chicago’s South Side. Sited next to the entrance, it is to be “used to call, signal and announce performances and activations at the Pavilion throughout the summer.” Gates explains this decision as a way to highlight the “erasure of spaces of convening and spiritual communion in urban communities.” But now mounted on a minimal, rusty steel frame like an objet d’art, I can’t help but feel a cruel irony that a consecrated object that once used to convene a lost community is now used as a performative affectation for the amusement of London’s arts and cultural gentry. This perhaps exemplifies a deeper ethical issue at the heart of the Pavilion’s concept: narratives of collective worship, cherry-picked from across communities and cultures, are sanitised, secularised and aestheticised in a contemporary art wrapper for the tastes of the largely godless culture crowd. The curator’s spiels of a creating “hallowed chamber”, if anything ring hollow.

As I leave Hyde Park, I pass by again the assembly of street preachers, who have now moved on to delivering a sermon. Gates said of his Pavilion, “it is intended to be humble.” Yet I can’t help but but feel how much more these preachers have achieved, with so much less.

[cpbhomes]

[fieldpractice]

[luxury-residences]

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[theohonohan]

On Primary Generators

I'm working on writing something about the use of geometry in design, specifically the use of cycloids, hyperboloids and "concave elliptical frusta" in lighthouse design. In that case the named curve is a generator of the form (literally, the generatrix). I'll try to mention the work of the French sculptor Raphäel Zarka, who has used the cycloid in his work, as well as making many sculptors reflecting on the ideal nature of geometry. I should probably also discuss polyhedra in art, and Noam Andrews' book The Polyhedrists.

One thing I've just come across, that I want to dispatch quickly, is an issue involving the design of the Sydney Opera House. The story, in a nutshell, is that Utzon conceived the opera house as a set of freeform shapes, but in order for it to be constructed, these shapes had to be made regular. Years were lost before construction began, as Arup engineers tried to work out a satisfactory geometric definition.

To work out how to build the shells, the engineers at Arup & Partners needed to express the shell shapes mathematically. Asked by the engineers in 1958 to define the curves of the roof, Utzon took a plastic ruler, bent it against a table and simply traced the curves. He sent these drawings to Arup & Partners in London, explaining these were the shapes he wanted. 

Eventually a solution was found which involved defining the shapes as sections of the surface of a sphere:

The celebrated story is told in detail here: https://www.sydneyoperahouse.com/our-story/the-spherical-solution and in oral history form here https://drawingmatter.org/jorn-utzons-sydney-opera-house/. It's notable that, in adopting the spherical solution, Utzon was abandoning the arbitrary form that Arup had previously been wrestling with. He was going right back to the drawing board and redefining the shape of the building.

What's funny is that some people tell a version of the story which has the wrong moral. Bryan Lawson's book How Designers Think contains the following passage.

These early ideas, primary generators or organising principles sometimes have an influence which stretches throughout the whole design process and is detectable in the solution. However, it is also sometimes the case that designers gradually achieve a sufficiently good understanding of their problem to reject the early thoughts through which their knowledge was gained. Nevertheless this rejection can be surprisingly difficult to achieve. Rowe (1987) records the 'tenacity with which designers will cling to major design ideas and themes in the face of what, at times, might seem insurmountable odds'. Often these very ideas themselves create difficulties which may be organisational or technical, so it seems on the face of it odd that they are not rejected more readily. However, early anchors can be reassuring and if the designer succeeds in overcoming such difficulties and the original ideas were good, we are quite likely to recognise this as an act of great creativity. For example, Jorn Utzon's famous design for Sydney Opera House was based on geometrical ideas which could only be realised after overcoming considerable technical problems both of structure and cladding. Unfortunately, we are not all as creative as Utzon, and it is frequently the case that design students create more problems than they solve by selecting impractical or inappropriate primary generators.

The problem with this is that it gives the impression that Utzon started with a geometrical "primary generator" and stuck to it stubbornly. But, in reality, Utzon only solved Arup's problems by throwing out his initial arbitrary and freeform design and replacing it with the geometrical simplicity of the spherical solution.

Departing from Lawson's version of events, Paul Taylor's design theory blog discusses how Utzon allegedly "conceptualised the design of the Sydney Opera House using geometric slices through a sphere, at the same time brilliantly working in a mirage of the First Fleet’s billowing sails on Sydney Harbour." It goes on to claim that "the primary generator does not dictate the design of the solution, just as Utzon’s treatment of his conceptual sphere constrained the macro design problem but offered little guidance on how to solve the substantial engineering problems presented by the remarkable building’s enormous concrete shells or its waterfront foundations."

But, as the historical record makes clear, the idea of using spherical sections was not Utzon's original design concept, established at the outset and rigidly defended. It was, instead, his brilliant and flexible technical solution to the problem of construction. Perhaps what Bryan Lawson says is acceptable, depending on how you interpret "geometrical ideas". Utzon absolutely did not change his "major design idea" or "theme", to use Rowe's words. But that idea did not involve a sphere. Paul Taylor, it seems to me, has clearly come away from reading Lawson holding the wrong end of the stick.