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vidavalor · 3 months

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Canapes. A Good Omens Sex Meta Thing.

A little short burst of meta about wordplay, shelter, smooches and tiny dinners.

This is inspired by @noneorother, who correctly pointed out that I should have included in the (Non-Frozen) Peas meta more about the rest of the wordplay happening in Aziraphale's line of French to Crowley. So, let's talk about that other French word that is hidden in in plain sight (well, sound) in Aziraphale's sentence and how it's a bit, well... vavoom-y.

In this meta, we're mainly going to look a little bit at their love of messing about with homophones. For those who haven't been in a language class in a minute or for whom languages are not your thing--don't worry, I have you covered. :) Homophones are two (or, occasionally, more) words that sound exactly the same when you pronounce them but which have different spellings and different meanings. An Ineffable Husbands-y example in English would be "pair" and "pear." One word means two people or objects grouped together and the other refers to a kind of fruit but when you speak, the words sound identical.

When you are reading, you can easily tell which word is meant by how it is spelled but if you are just listening to a person speaking, you would need to rely on the context clues provided by the other words in the person's sentence to figure out which version of "pair"/"pear" the person was using. The context becomes key to understanding the meaning-- which we also know of to be true in general with Ineffable Husbands Speak, right?

The last word in Aziraphale's sentence in French to Crowley in S2 is a homophone in French, which is absolutely the point of what Aziraphale was going for, in that it's a way to say both words at once.

Because of Crowley translating the French back to Aziraphale with the whole "you don't have an aunt, she doesn't have a gardener, and he doesn't have a... pen", we assume that what Aziraphale said was this: "Oui est la plume de la jardiniere de ma tante?", which we would then translate on one level as meaning "where is the pen of my aunt's gardener?" As we looked at in the first meta I wrote about this line, while this is one way to translate this sentence, Aziraphale built the sentence as a riff on "la plume de ma tante", a French phrase that is used to describe sentences taught while learning a new language that you would never actually say in real life-- which is the context that Crowley used in translating it back, even if as he heard the innuendo, as he knows of the cliche and also no one is ever going to ask where the pen of their aunt's gardener is. Ever lol. We talked in that other meta about how the sentence can also translate where "plume", which means feather in one of its meanings in French, and "jardiniere", which was appropriated to English from French to mean a garden box/flower box, can both be sexually euphemistic-- especially as "la jardiniere" also has meaning with regards to French cooking and food. The key bit to this meta here, though, and to the homophones is the last part of the sentence-- "ma tante"-- and what else it sounds like in French.

We talked about how "la tante" can mean aunt, as Crowley replied, but that it can also mean "queen" and, when taken with the other words in the sentence being euphemistic in a feminine way, the sentence as a whole can be taken as Aziraphale requesting some overdue quality time with Lady Crowley, whom he referred to as "my queen" in French. All of this still holds but what will add to it is that a homophone for "la tante"/"ma tante" in French is "la tente"/"ma tente". Even though these two words are spelled differently, they are pronounced exactly the same way... but "la tente" does not mean "aunt" or "queen"... it means "tent."

So, there's a homophone in French that Aziraphale uses when speaking with Crowley in S2 that translates his word as both "my queen" and "my tent" at the same time because the words are pronounced the same way. This, in true Ineffable Husbands form, manages to be both pretty amusingly dirty and pretty romantic at once. This homophone is very, very clever on Aziraphale's part because while the sentence is referring to Crowley in a feminine way and is Aziraphale expressing that it's been too long since he had himself some red velvet, the homophony causes the other word in play at the same time as "queen" to be "tent", which also euphemistic for an erection. So we have two different words that look almost alike and sound exactly the same when spoken and Aziraphale said one word-- made one sound-- and it represented two words at once, at the same time; one that corresponded to a more feminine-leaning concept of gender (and is also just a French word for queer) and the other that corresponded to a more masculine-leaning concept. But they sound the same and it's all one sound and you can't really tell the difference between the words. How perfectly Crowley. :)

But, as you all know, a tent also is...

...a kind of canopy.

The French word for "canopy", if you're referring to a covering of land, like a tree canopy, is "canopee" and Aziraphale actually speaks French well and would know that but it wouldn't fit the sentence full of innuendo he was building. The sentence builds to the homophone.

As a result, even though Crowley translated what Aziraphale said as "ma tante"-- which isn't incorrect-- and he pretended it meant "my aunt" when he knew it meant "my queen", he also heard the homophone in there that brought forth in the hidden word in the sentence-- "ma tente"-- so he also heard "my tent"/"my shelter" in there and because Crowley plays with homophones and similar word-related things (paronyms, etc.) in Ineffable Husbands Speak just as much as Aziraphale does, he heard what Aziraphale was doing and so really made the jump then hearing Aziraphale use homophones and so mean both two different words that sound alike and say both "my queen" and "my tent" at the same time.

So, they're burying canopies all over the place in S2. Crowley's canopy dialogue in pub scene is him recounting his and Aziraphale's first kiss and Aziraphale flirtily references it back to him in French later on. We aren't quite done yet, though. Recall that I said above that the French word for "canopy" is "canopee." It's pronounced "kan-oh-PAY" and, just like with "la tante"/"la tente", it has a word that is awfully close to it in French and that would be one we also use in English-- "canape."

Canapes are appetizers or, as Gabriel charmingly called them, "tiny dinners." They can be satisfying all on their own or as a starter before a main course. A vol-au-vent is a type of canape. While no one uses the word "canape" during The Meeting Ball, that is what they are all eating. It's there implicit in the words that are actually being said, like how "ma tente" might translate literally as "my tent" but has the context of "canopy" to Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley's word for what was covering them when they took shelter from the rain and first kissed is a "canopy" and it likely was a literal one, in the sense that it was probably a covering of trees and the word for "canopy" in French sounds just like a kind of food.

So, a "canopy" in French is a "canopee", pronounced virtually identically to "canape", which is an appetizer of a small bite of sometimes-toasted bread or a cracker topped with with any number of creative food options to make a delicious, tiny, delightful dinner in its own right or a preview of the food to come.

A canape (in Ineffable Husbands Speak). A kiss.

"Have a canape, my canopy" is basically what this amounts to:

We are going to leave it here and not at Crowley tossing the tray and going for the door and how that foreshadowed the ending of S2 here lol. Well, actually, here... to end on a happy note...

...just that shot of Aziraphale holding a tray of food kisses while looking at Crowley's lips, nothing to see here, no possible vavoom flashback in sight for S3 at all... :)

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #good omens meta #aziraphale #good omens 2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #good omens s2

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l0serloki · 4 months

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Birthday

Your birthday with Val Men!

(Cypher, Sova, Yoru, Chamber)

A/N : AM I REALLY BACK?? ARE U SEEING A POST FROM THE LOSERLOKI?? the world may never know.

masterlist

Cypher :

Cypher knows your birthday. You hadn’t even mentioned it to anyone and yet the moment you woke up he greeted you with a gift.

The gift itself was something you had been looking at on amazon.. How did he know this? The world may never know.

“Happy Birthday little bug. I hope today is well for you.”

He doesn’t let anyone else know of your birthday but he does spoil you throughout the day with your favorite snacks and drinks. Other agents start to think he’s slowly losing his mind.

As you opened your bedroom door you let out a squeal. The last thing you were expecting to see was Cypher standing in front waiting for you.

“Good morning and happy birthday.” He shuffles a gift into your hands and your eyes widen.

“I didn’t tell you it was my birthday today? Also were you waiting here all morning?” You’re not disappointed with the gift, far from it, but you still were a bit shocked.

“Don’t worry about that. I am sure you will like your gift. And I went to buy your favorites. Everything should be to your liking.” You could hear the grin in Cypher’s voice as you stared down at the item you had been wanting for a while. You shouldn’t be surprised, you knew he had quite the web of information on people. While it should probably perturb you at the least, you were just happy to not have to spend your birthday in silence.

“Thank you Cypher.” You give him a hug which he returns quickly, his fingers tapping at your back.

“Anytime.”

Sova :

Sova tries to make something really thoughtful. Like a sweater or a plush. He asks Omen to help him knit something.

He will try to get everyone together with some food and drinks. He wants you to have a memorable day!

If they’re too much though he will automatically notice and whisk you away. As long as you’re happy he is too!

“Happy Birthday!” The agents cheered as Sova led you into the dining hall. There was decorations around and an array of gifts set out to the side. Sova gave you a soft smile as his hand rubbed at your back.

“You guys..!” Your eyes widened as everyone shuffled you towards the table. You could feel tears prick at your eyes at the amount of effort everyone put in just for you.

“Sova did a lot of work to get this altogether! Don’t thank us, we just showed up.” Phoenix shoots Sova a wink as everyone begins to settle down for food. You look next to you as Sova puts his hands up in a ‘it’s nothing’ motion and blushes. You can’t help but laugh at the adorable face and give his hand a quick squeeze.

“Thank you Sova. You’re too kind.”

“It’s really nothing. I hope to make your day the best. You deserve it.”

Yoru :

Expect teasing. Even if he does care, he will not show it easily.

“You definitely look old. I’m sure you’ll be able to use your wrinkles as a purse next year.”

He will get you something that’s more suited towards his hobbies but he means well!

“Since you always bother me about the motorcycle rides being cold.” He shrugs as he gives you a new motorcycle jacket. He even added matching patches to twin with him. (Not that he would admit).

He will buy you dinner as well but don’t mention it or he will get grumpy.

“What is this Yoru?” You raised an eyebrow with a grin as he handed you a thick leather jacket. His cheeks tinged with red as he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t go getting a big head. Just because I got you one thing for your birthday does not mean you are special. I am just tired of hearing you complain about how cold it is on the motorcycle.” Yoru pushes the garment into your hands and you notice the matching patches on the side. Your heart swells at the sentiment. You knew he wasn’t great with wording his emotions but he definitely put thought into this.

“You’re too kind ‘Ru. We should use it tonight to get dinner.” You add with hope and he just sighs.

“Yeah yeah.. I guess it would only be smart. Be outside by eight or I will leave you.” He grunts as he moves to leave.

“And Ru?” You add and the man turns around. “Thank you.”

Yoru’s face goes even more red than you thought was humanly possible as he tries to adjust his hair to keep cool.

“Whatever.”

Chamber :

Chamber likes to be coordinated. He’s set up lots for you both to do throughout the day. Unless you specifically tell him not to weeks before.

He will give you a few gifts throughout the day, just small things. Trinkets that reminded him of you or stuff he thought you would like.

He will take you both out to a nice lunch and let you shop, saying it’s on him if you see anything you like. (It takes stress off of him to make sure you get the best gift.)

“Happy Birthday, my dear. I hope today is up to your standards. If there is anything I can do to make it better.. Don’t hesitate.”

“Is your food good? Do you want more to drink?” Chamber says quickly as he watches you eat. You can’t help but chuckle at his anxious attitude, reaching for his hand.

“It’s perfect, just calm down and enjoy your meal. If something was wrong I would tell you.”

Chamber seems to relax a bit more as he leans back in his chair and squeezes your hand.

“I only want the best for you. It’s not every day that it is your birthday after all.” He hums and you can’t help but smile. He’s always so thoughtful and kind. Despite what the many agents back at base thought. Not that their opinion on him had ever mattered.

“Thank you honey. Today has been great.”

Great was an understatement. He let you run around to your favorite stores, smiling and nodding along to anything you found of interest. He spoiled you with small gifts and snacks, and now such a fine dinner.

“Anything for you.” He gave you a soft smile as his lips brushed your knuckles. You felt your heart jump at the small action and you let out a small laugh.

“Eat your damn food.” You wave off the affection and he only chuckles.

“So defensive. But whatever you want.” He shrugs as he digs back into the food. It was safe to say your birthday was a success.

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gentlebeardsbarngrill · 3 months

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01/31/2024 Daily Recap

TLDR; Cast & Crew Sightings; Watch Parties; OurFlagMeansDeadloch; LubeAsACrew; Stats; UK News; Upcoming Events; Other News; Favor To Ask; Love Notes; DailyDarby/Tonight's Taika

== Cast and Crew Sightings ==

Probably the cutest sighting would be Con O'Neill's dog Cooper

== How To Help ==

How to help docs have been updated with queerties and other stats!

How To Help Save OFMD Task List - US

How to Help Save OFMD Task List - Outside US

== Watch Parties ==

Today was Day 2, episodes 3 and 4 of Deadloch!

I realised I totally forgot to crew reactions up for Deadloch yesterday! Sorry all! Here's some from todays watch!

On to episodes 5/6 tomorrow! Same time same place!

== LubeAsACrew ==

The second Lube as a crew was widely successful! Trending at #7! Thanks for catching it @_irene_adler!

Everybody had a lot of fun with it, here's some highlights!

Our lovely friend over at @Astroglide left some fantastic tweets for us, I'm including a few that stood out.

== Stats ==

Some interesting stats today! Thank you @meowzawowza_ on twitter for these details!

More stats by @lucyrosebutler regarding How well OFMD is doing in the US!

== UK News ==

Reminder! 5 days until S2 airs in the UK!

Thanks as always to our lovely @lamentus1 for the update in the UK!

"I tweeted at 13 lucky TV Guide journalists in the UK all about Our Flag Means Death and the efforts of the fandom and also why the show is so great. I have a document with their twitters and email addresses. Email will be my next line of attack! If anyone wants access to the UK TV Guide press list let me know! We were thinking that we should introduce a spoiler free way for people who are starting to watch season 2 on the BBC to interact with the campaign on Twitter. I think it might be to encourage them to follow #OurFlagBBC while encouraging anyone posting spoilers under that hashtag to add #ofmd2spoilers so that people can avoid seeing spoilers. One other thing that’s coming up later in February is that Chxrlotte on our UK crew will be releasing an Our Flag Means Death inspired track on her label on 24 February! She has a ton of gorgeous tracks that are often inspired by shows like OFMD and Good Omens, and the new one is about Ed and Stede. I’ve had a preview of the new track and it’ll make you cry! @shutupchxrlotte's Twitter Her other stuff is on Apple Music and Spotify here"

Please have a listen!

== Upcoming Events ==

#StewAsACrew

Reminder! Feb 4th is National Homemade Soup Day! More deets! Be sure to share your soup/stew pics with these hashtags:

#StewAsACrew

#SaveOFMD

#AdoptOurCrew

Not a soup bitch but still want to help?

You can politely menace: @CambellSoupCo and @CampbellsChunky with our petition hashtags!

==New Watch Party!==

Muppet Treasure Island - Feb 7th 2024

4PM EST, 1PM PST, 9 PM GMT

Watch Party Hashtags:

#MuppetPirates

#AdoptOurCrew

#SaveOFMD

== Other News ==

Warner bros stock is still dropping! Sure looks like cancelling OFMD wasn't a very lucrative plan. Thanks @iamadequate_ for this!

Max still has billboards up for OFMD in Hollywood! Thanks @LeanneBrodie13 for catching this!

Also, @_irene_adler caught some audacity from Max in trying to monetize OFMD merch for Valentine's Day.

== Favor to Ask ==

I've been working on a bit of a side project of putting together an OFMD Renewal Repository for resources that doesn't require anyone to log into ... twitter, IG, tumblr, facebook, etc. It's still WIP but I'd love some constructive feedback if anyone would be willing to take a look and let me know what they think. I won't be replacing the tumblr recaps with it, but will be posting them there minus the gifs at the end so they can be shared to other platforms if needed.

My specific questions are:

Are there more categories / different information you'd like to have added?

Is it generally easy to find information?

Is this a bad idea? (too many places with this stuff already?)

Other feedback welcome!

I am totally cool with constructive feedback, feel free to dm me :)

== Love Notes ==

Hey lovelies. Do you ever worry you're too much? Like you talk too much, or feel too much, or come off too strong? I know I do some days.

Just remember, on days you're feeling too much, you're probably shining your brightest. What other people think is too much is just you, and you're allowed to shine! Don't ever let their inability to see your worth stop you. Saw this on IG today and thought of you call. Gnight crew, all the love <3

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

These gifs go together, I don't make the rules.

#daily ofmd recap #ofmd daily recap #ofmd daily recaps #ofmd #our flag means death #gentlebeard #save ofmd #rhys darby #blackbonnet #save our flag means death #adopt our crew #saveourflag

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 1 month

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Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 12: Catharsis

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6.3k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

"Then say it, Astarion,” she urges him. Her lower lip trembles. She unconsciously bites it to quell the movement. A single fang peeks out and glints in the sunlight, white as the purest snow. “Open the bond and say it.”

“I…I-” he trails off with a rasp and cracking voice. The words are lodged in his esophagus and anchored on the tip of his tongue. That presence in his mind tugs at his psyche, grappling for control. It speaks its ethereal omens. “ She will be your end. She spins her web of destruction even now. When she snares you, she will crush you in her grasp, and when you finally break, I will be there to claim you once again." He grimaces at the ill-portent and cedes, “Perhaps you are right. This is a conversation better had at home.”

She nods, crestfallen and stares at the lake with a longing look that he does not like to see upon her face. It’s the look of defeat. All hope is lost and withered away. She yearns for stillness and obscurity to quiet her mind. Yes, he knows the expression inlaid on her features well.

Is he putting her in further danger if he says it? Could the voice in his head be speaking truths?

He’s said it before. What stops him?

Is it a lie? He is no liar.

He said it before….

He said it….

Gods. It’s hard to think clearly with this tittering in his head, defiling his thoughts with its blighted ballad. The presence screams that she is a threat. She has cast some sort of spell on him. “A trick!” It chimes, “A clever, beautiful trick by a clever, beautiful sorceress. She means to unravel you! She means to break you apart, crumble you into pieces and dance on your ashes!”

She would not do such a thing. Would she? Could she? He has used his beauty to mislead many in the past centuries. Is it possible she is doing the same? She cannot scourge him physically, but mentally… well, that is a fate far worse than even death.

She would not trick him. She need not trick him. He already lov-

Hells below, he cannot even think it, let alone say it aloud.

He can force her. He can make her his with naught but a thought. She already belongs to him. He can pull her strings and make her dance, a puppet upon his world stage because he is the Vampire Ascendant, and he can take anything he pleases.

No. He grimaces at the sadistic notion and how good and powerful it makes him feel. His thoughts become contorted and serpentine too easily these days, a pit of snakes twisting themselves into tangled knots.

She wants something real. She deserves something real, but what in the Hells does real look like? Is it supposed to be like in the silly stories he’s read? Surely not. Those are just a conglomerate of lovely words, trussed into pretty lies that the eyes can view.

He hears them before he sees them. They stand idle in the shadows, trying to hide their heartbeats behind the thundering hoofs of the horses and the wind whipping through the trees. They do not smell like powdered iron-vine.

They are learning.

They should not know he is here, but he does not have time to ruminate on it. His heart detonates in his chest, leaping around like a frightened bird in a cage. The presence in his head serenades him, pulling at its chains, pleading to be unleashed. He needs to get her away from here, from them and himself, before he sinks.

“Run!” He commands.

She hesitates, her pouty lips set into a hard line while she scowls at him and protests his commands. She draws the Weave. It shimmers around her like a vapour in the air. She is beautiful.

She challenges him at every damn turn. He loves it. He loves her for it.

He loves her…

She will not leave of her own accord. Even if he begs, an army cannot make her leave his side, and he knows it. He knows what he must do, but he does not wish to do it. Taking her control from her, forcing her into servitude, the idea used to thrill him. When did that stop?

Yet, he will always do what he must, even if it pains him as he has always done.

He confiscates her control, “Run to the manor as fast as you can and stay there until I return. You will stop for no one and nothing.”

She’s going to berate him later for this, but at least she will be alive to admonish him.

She sprints, and he summons every werewolf, every bat, and every ghoul he can, “Follow her!” He sends several away as the hunters rush him. He parries and dodges, sinking his blades into ribs, necks, and chests. “Protect her at all costs. Signal me when she is out of the forest and return here.”

Gods, his head hurts as he’s torn, the rattling of chains in his head splitting his concentration, but he must make sure she makes it out before he can give in and be overtaken. What will he lose this time? Whenever he drowns, something is stolen from him - a memory becomes snapped and riven like looking into a broken mirror, another part of the real him lost.

Once he hears the baying signal, he lets go and allows himself to be consumed, and all is black, black, black.

Shadowheart tugs on your limbs and clothes, wrapping her arms around your waist and heaving with all her strength. Her voice resounds, but it sounds like a faint, distant whisper, like the sigh of a weary breeze over barren plains. You feel like you’re staring at yourself from a distance. Fatigued, faded and lusterless, you’re a relic of what was and what could have been, just another corpse littering the earth. The skyline is the indigo and blue hues of impending dawn, and the stars no longer stare down on this tragedy as they wink out like eyes shutting against an unexpected bright light. When the sun rises, you will float away and be forgotten in the sands of time.

You were so close. Gods, so fucking close. In the end, Astarion had been right. Love hailed itself a saviour and became your destroyer.

“The sun is rising,” Shadowheart pants, panicked as she tries to pry your fingers from their clutch on Astarion, but they might as well be fused to him. “We don’t have a second longer to lose.”

Each time you blink, a new memory appears and plays in your mind’s eye. Some good. Some bad. Some terrible. Is this what they mean when people say your life flashes before your eyes at death? The reliquary opens, and your hopes, dreams and broken pieces are laid before you to gaze upon.

“Astarion would not want this!” Shadowheart raves, agitation and dread, making her voice tremble. She shakes your shoulders and hauls on them. “He would not want you to die!”

I am already dead.

The first thin golden strings of the newborn sun weave their way through the trees, a grand lace of radiant light that falls upon your pearlescent, colourless skin. Shadowheart screams, her heartbeat pounds in your ears, her blood a tidal wave through her veins as she tries to cocoon you with her body and limbs so the light cannot consume you.

“I’ve got her, Shadowheart,” Astarion’s faint voice charges the air. “I’ve always got her.”

You barely catch it, another whispering flutter in the air, but his chest shudders underneath you, and you’re plunged into your body. Your eyes snap to his, which are open in a hairline split. Crismon barely peeks through behind thick lashes, but somehow, you know he’s looking straight at you.

You grab his hands, interlocking your fingers with his, “Astarion?”

He does not answer, but his fingers twitch, and his grip tightens, if only by a barely perceivable fragment.

Shadowheart clambers, her hands glowing the baby blue hue of her magic so brightly that she could rival the sun as she focuses every morsel of power she has left. She slams her splayed hands onto Astarion’s chest with a thump that makes him wheeze and cough, and he’s bathed in vivid blue.

“You’re not burning.” Shadowheart’s chest swells and recedes like waves over a storm-tossed ocean with exertion, “Is he?”

Astarion stills again, eyes closed. Yet, you do not burn as the rays of light prance over your skin. Your ears perk and quiver as they catch the faint, feeble beating in his chest.

You smile at Shadowheart and throw your arms around her, “His heart beats. He lives. Thank you, Shadowheart. Good Gods, thank you.”

You sit cross-legged on the bed beside Astarion and fixate on him. Shadowheart helped you get him home and into bed, but he’s still not stirred more than some muttering and twitching in his sleep in three days. You’ve not left his side to sleep or eat, and you’re getting hungry. Very hungry. Shadowheart refuses to leave despite your insistence that she is not safe with you. With each passing second, it gets harder and harder to ignore her presence. Astarion’s heartbeat is of no concern to you, but hers… good Gods. Hers sounds like a culinary delight being offered to a starving ogre. You forgot how hard it was to be around the living with their delicious-smelling blood and beating hearts, begging to be tasted.

I’m a monster.

Shadowheart knocks and lets herself into Astarion’s bedroom. She yawns and stretches. You can hear her bones cracking and grimacing at the sound assaulting your ears, “Still nothing?”

“No,” you mumble, clutching fistfuls of bedsheets to stop yourself from scratching your skin in front of her. “His heart sounds stronger and beats more rhythmically, but he hasn’t woken.”

Shadowheart nods toward him, “May I?”

She’s been continuing to heal him every day as much as she can until she needs to sleep and recuperate. You’re surprised she’s putting so much effort into helping him. You thought she hated him, but there is worry etched into the lines of her expression and sadness you did not think you would see, at least when it came to him. You push yourself against a wall, splaying your hands against the wood. You cannot let her get too close to you. You are dangerous. Being a vampire spawn has not been as easy as Astarion made it look. Although, it is substantially less difficult when you’re well-fed.

“Go ahead,” you nod at Shadowheart with a small smile, “but always be wary of me. I cannot be trusted.”

She scoffs, laying a hand on Astarion and reciting incantations in a repeating melody, “You lived with me for a year, and you only tried to kill me once. I trust you. You have better control than you believe, but I will be on guard.”

You wince at the memory. It had been only a few weeks into living with Gale and Shadowheart after they found you in the sewers, starving, writhing and feral with hunger. Astarion had made being a spawn look easy. He could be around blood and gore, and it barely seemed to affect him, but you learned quickly that it was not as simplistic as that. Shadowheart and Gale could not understand why you would not leave your room or why you barricaded yourself in there with every spare piece of furniture you could. One night, you had ventured down, and Shadowheart had been cooking after having had quite enough of Gale’s dry and tasteless food. She nicked herself with a knife chopping vegetables. A small wound, but the blood in the air sent you into a feeding frenzy, blacking out everything but that delicious sanguine tang and you had lunged at her. Gale cast sleep on you before you could bite. Shadowheart laughed it off, but it was a wake-up call to you.

You are dangerous. You cannot be trusted, and you cannot trust yourself. Bloodlust overrides everything else far too easily.

Shadowheart’s magic washes over him again but with little noticeable effect, and she frowns at her palms as if somehow it’s her fault.

“He’s improving,” you assure her, disheartened by her sullen look. “Every time, he improves. His heart beats stronger.”

She clenches her fist with a nod and a grin, walking over to the chair at the other end of the room. She gives you once over and states, “You’re hungry.”

You swallow hard, crawl onto the bed and place your hand on his chest. You can feel his heartbeat in your palm, and it comforts you, “Yes. I’m very hungry,” you don’t bother trying to conceal it. “You should leave Shadowheart. I know you mean well, and I am grateful for all your help, but I am not Astarion. I do not have the control he does.”

“He keeps you well fed,” she points at Astarion. It’s not a question, and you cock your head at her, “You were skin and bones when you left, but you’re looking healthy again. You’re looking like yourself. I imagine you’ve not gotten much better at hunting, so he must do it for you.”

Your fingers curl into him, “He’s trying to teach me,” you laugh lowly for the first time in days. “He says I’m atrocious. I believe he called it an affront to the gods themselves,” you try to mimic his voice while rolling your eyes. “He takes me out every night, usually.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Shadowheart’s brows pinch. “You said you didn’t have time to explain it, but we have nothing but time while we wait on him. Gods. Is he always this lazy?”

She’s trying to cheer you up, and you giggle at her. You’ve missed her. Shadowheart was not overly pleased when you showed up as a spawn, but she accepted it when you told her it was what you wanted. Shadowheart has been the only one, other than Astarion, who you can be brutally honest with regarding your morbid urges.

“He always did enjoy his beauty sleep,” you shrug with a giggle, and she grins. “The Rite had more consequences than we assumed,” you sigh, “Not entirely surprising. As for what exactly, I cannot be sure yet, but I think it would be best if he tells you himself - if he wants to.”

“I understand. If he allows it, I will help any way I can,” she nods. She will not pry because she would want the same choice if it were her, and you would never give away her secrets, just as you refuse to give away his, “You need not be alone in this.”

Hells below. Shadowheart never fails you.

“I could hug you right now, Shadowheart.” You smile, fangs bared, because you do not need to hide from her, “But can we perhaps wait until I’ve eaten and you’re not looking so godsdamn delicious?”

“I’ll have you know that I am as delicious as you are pale. I will have to tell Astarion to get you out into the sun more often,” she giggles as you groan. You’ve had enough sun for a while after your last dalliance with it, “I will take the hug when you’re feeling less peckish. I like my blood in my veins.”

Peckish is an understatement. You could eat a bear, or two, or three, or perhaps an army of them right now. Those hunger cramps and spasms in your muscles are starting to make themselves known and hard to control. Your mouth is a salivating spring, and you have to swallow excessively lest you drool. If Astarion does not wake soon, you will have to push Shadowheart out with physical force if she does not heed your warnings.

“You really should think about going home, Shadowheart,” you urge with a plea that wobbles your intonation. Your hand hovers over bandaged wounds. The superficial ones healed long ago, but these. Gods. Any of these would have killed a mortal man instantly, and he has several, “Astarion just needs time to heal, I think.”

Shadowheart’s eyes flash with that pig-headed defiance you’ve come to know, and she sniffs, “I’m not leaving until he wakes,” she smirks as you grumble under your breath at her, “Is there anything you can tell me about what is going on with him?”

“I know this will be a challenge for you,” you smirk at her with a knowing glower, “But when he wakes, try not to make him angry. You two have always been like cats and dogs, but try not to push him too far. When he gets angry…. Well, let’s say he is not himself.”

“Don’t make him angry?” Shadowheart scoffs, crossing her arms and turning her nose up with a brashly twisted mouth, “Gods. That will be quite the task. He can be exceptionally insufferable.”

“I heard that.” Astarion grumbles, clicking his tongue while opening his eyes sluggishly, “I am a positively magnificent bastard, aren’t I?”

“Astarion!” You nosedive into him, wrapping your arms around him and basking in the warmth of his skin.

“Well, hello, little love,” he purrs comfortingly. His arm wraps around you and compresses you against his chest with his nose in your hair. He thrusts you back with one arm and scans you, “You are alright?”

“Me!?” You fight the overwhelming desire to shake him. He’s just woken up, and he’s asking about you? “You stupid, foolish idiot! When you are on your feet, you and I need to talk.”

He chuckles, running his fingers through your hair, “I expected as much.”

Shadowheart stands, “I hate to break this up, but may I?”

She gestures to Astarion, and you nod, pulling out of Astarion’s grip with a reluctance that makes your skin crawl. Astarion arches a brow at your retreat. Shadowheart’s magic infuses his skin, healing him slightly further, and he looks at her confused.

“Thank you for taking care of her, Astarion,” Shadowheart emphasizes with a genuine smile. “She’s looking well. I owe you gratitude for that. She would not tell me what’s happened to you, but I would like to help if I can - if you will accept it. I don’t need your answer now, but think about it.”

“Uh,” Astarion is taken aback by Shadowheart’s authentic appreciation, but he recovers his detached mask quickly. “You’re welcome,” he says cooly, “I will think on your request. Please tell me this does not make us,” he cringes, “friends.”

Shadowheart scoffs, “Gods, no!”

“Good,” Astarion giggles. “I do positively enjoy our squabbling, after all.”

Astarion’s eyes swing to you, pressed against the wall as if you’re trying to melt into it. Your jaw is clenched hard, teeth rasping. Try as you might, you cannot hide the discomfort you’re feeling, and you look away from him, uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. He will recognize bloodlust.

Astarion pushes himself upright, “How long have I been out? Please tell me she’s at least tried to eat.”

Shadowheart answers before you do, “Three days and no. She has not left your side,” she points at you with a scowl, “Despite my insistence that she do so. You know how stubborn she can be.”

“Hells below.” Astarion is out of bed before you or Shadowheart can comprehend what’s happened, and he pulls you close to him with a tight grip on your waist, “I thank you for your assistance, Shadowheart, truly, but you should leave. It’s not safe for you to be around her. I will think about your offer and walk you out.”

Shadowheart puts her hand up with a shake of her head, “That is unnecessary. I can show myself out. Take care of her, Astarion. Do not make me regret saving your hide.”

Astarion chuckles, “I can only promise I will take care of her. You have my word."

Shadowheart smiles at you, “I will be expecting that hug once you’re feeling better.”

The shattered glass crunches under your feet as you walk through the shambles of what remains of the mirrors, vases and paintings you ravaged. Little pieces of mirror reflect the candlelight, spraying it in a flickering array across the walls and ceiling like a conglomerate of stars. Your fingers tremble over the curtains, but the anguish is fresh in your mind, and you can’t get yourself to open them. It feels grave to be away from Astarion, even though he’s upstairs, and you keep your hearing trained on his heartbeat, afraid that if you don’t, it might arrest.

With a sigh, you bend down and start to collect the broken fragments of the mirror that spurns your existence and remains empty despite your fingers gripping the surface. You breathe on the glassy surface. You know nothing will happen, but for a reason unknown to you, the refusal to acknowledge you sways you in a sudden grip on anger. You squeeze it, and the sharp edges slice into your fingers. Blood wells up, gliding and smearing on the surface, and you grin as if you’ve forced the damn thing to accept you are real.

“Decided to do a little redecorating, I see,” Astarion chuckles, arching a brow at the mess.

You whirl, compressing the pieces of mirror in your hand so hard they start to buckle and splinter further. You want to berate him for sending you away, screaming at him for compelling you and scolding him for dying and almost leaving you alone for eternity, but once your eyes meet his, the anger is washed away by relief. He’s alive, and for now, that’s all that matters.

I have an eternity to chastise him for being an idiot.

“Sorry.” It’s the best you can do.

Astarion walks toward you, and even though the floor is littered with rubble, his footsteps still make no sound. His fingers slip down your arm to the hand that’s clutching those broken pieces, blood still rolling down the surface.

“It’s okay, little love.” He coos, taking the fragments from you and letting them fall back to the floor. He kisses your blood-smeared fingers, “It was all horrific. Wasn’t it? We can redecorate.”

We?

Gods. He talks as if nothing has happened, and it vexes you, but you slip your arms around him, push your ear to his chest, and enjoy that steady and strong beat almost stolen from you.

Astarion kisses your temple, then forehead and then tilts your head up and moulds his lips to yours in a lingering kiss before pulling back and scowling at you. His voice is coarse and booming, “What you did in the forest was bloody stupid! What in the Hells were you thinking? You would have burned to death had Shadowheart’s damn wailing not roused me.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on stupidity.” You push him away and meet his ire with your own. “You should not have sent me away! I could have helped.”

“It’s not your problem,” he shakes his head.

“Oh, Gods,” you scoff at him, fingers curling into fists at your side, “Not this bullshit again! Your problems are my problems. When will you learn that?”

“No.” He hisses, “I failed you once, and the Gur nearly killed you. I will not fail you again.”

“You imbecile!” You scream, starting to weep, and you put your hand on a wall to keep yourself steady as the leaden weight of everything that’s happened descends, “You died! You were dead! You… you almost left me here all alone.”

The blaze of anger in his eyes winks out, sterilized by grief. Astarion’s brows rise, and the corners of his mouth turn down, “Oh, love, no.”

Astarion’s arms fold around you as your knees give out, and he braces you against him with a hand at the back of your head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles with his lips against your forehead.

You almost want to push him away, to give yourself some distance, because you are falling too hard, too fast, but he guides your head up, and warm ruby eyes unite with yours. The connection with him croons the invitation to open, and you don’t hesitate to answer. Everything floods in a downpour. All your nerves, synapses, and neurons buzz with the efflux of information. You squeeze your eyes shut as your body attempts to orient itself. You inhale several shaky breaths as his heart beats inside your chest. It’s uncomfortable, but Hells, you will gladly take that pain.

The flood eases and becomes pleasant, languid streams that cross softly, slowly, and you are one. You are whole. You are complete.

Before you can open your eyes again, you feel Astarion’s lips ghost over yours, and you part them for him in a gasp as you feel his desire ignite. A raw, almost feral passion, unbridled and uninhibited. It’s so potent it’s intoxicating, and your yearning bursts and throbs between your thighs. Astarion kisses you with ferocity, and his tongue darts into your mouth. His taste is rich, deep and dark, and you moan as you drink him in. His fingers slip into your hair at the back of your neck, holding you firmly while he pushes your back against the wall. He grinds his hips into you with a resonating growl as he pins you.

Good Gods. With the connection to him open, you feel everything. His pleasure. Your pleasure. All brimming and teeming as one ocean of bliss you’re going to drown in. Without his smooth skin against yours, you feel painfully bare, and you rip open his shirt, flinging buttons askew. Astarion slips your dress from your shoulders with a smug smirk and lustfully hooded eyes, and it pools at your feet as Astarion lets his shirt fall.

Pushing yourself against him, you sigh with a pining whimper. He feels pure and warm as sunshine, and he is the light that parts the gloom of sorrow that has clutched your heart for the past few days.

Astarion parts your folds, spreading them and stroking the slickness. He is not slow this time. He is not teasing. He is feverish in his need for you. The pads of his fingers find your aching center, swollen with want, and quickly settle into a rhythm that makes your body twitch and spasm with white-hot pleasure, making you arch off the wall. You moan loud and animalistic, whimpering his name like a verse that’s stuck in your head, and his throat steals your moans with his lips on yours as if he can taste the euphoria in your cries.

Tension coils in your belly, and Astarion moans deep and velvety smooth as you crest and dissolve for him. He doesn’t waste a moment. You can feel his urgency from the connection, and it makes you just as rabid. You need to feel him stretching you, massaging your walls, making you his.

With a quick snap of his wrist, his trousers are below his hips. His cock is hard and yearning, twitching in the candlelight. Astarion grips your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist, and he buries himself into you with one quick thrust.

The pleasure is so intense, either his or yours or maybe it’s both combined, you do not know, but you clench around him so hard he hisses when he inhales and groans, bracing himself with his forearm on the wall as if he might fall over.

“F-fuck,” he pants. He pulls out slowly and slams back into you with a snap of his hips. “Tell me you love me,” he commands with another pump, plunging himself deeper.

Your ears barely perceive the words he’s saying while you sink into your mind-numbing ecstasy, but you know what he wants intuitively, “I love you,” you whimper, lacing your fingers into his soft curls.

Astarion’s pace increases, uncontrolled and more frantic, as he rears his hips back and drives into you. He pushes himself as close as he can possibly get while he pumps his into you.

“Again,” he instructs huskily as he finds a pace that snares all your senses. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you breathe, panting, bucking your hips to push against his thrusts, rolling them in the way you know drives him crazy. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” you repeat a whispering hymn.

Every nerve quivers in bliss, and your eyes roll back. You clench, gripping his cock tighter and tighter with every thrust.

“Come,” he growls the command darkly.

Your lips crash into his as you comply, your body submitting to his influence. It feels like a dream to obey, and you crash into your orgasm like a wave crashing upon a rocky shore. You cry out, fingers raking his skin, thighs squeezing him as you’re cast upon that shore time and time again.

“Good girl,” he purrs. His hips stutter as the tremors massage his girth. “Again,” he barks with a groan, his breath hitching as he plunges into you erratic and needy.

Every pump of his hips is an ode to possession. Every twitch of his cock is a chorus of control. Every time he drives you to your peak is a sonnet to claim.

He owns you. You belong to him. You are his.

Yes, take me and make me yours.

You don’t know if they are your thoughts or his, but you hear his answer in your mind as it drifts on the slipstream of your bond.

“I will.”

Good Gods. Astarion means to make you shatter around him over and over until your body cannot possibly splinter any further. He means to take, take and take until you have nothing left to give, and even then, he means to take more.

And he does.

The smell of Honeysuckle, Vanilla and brandy is heavy and prevalent, arousing you gently back to your senses. Your eyes remain closed with lingering fatigue. The muscles in your body ache with an obnoxiously constant pang, and you groan and grumble under your breath at the sensation. There’s a serene tranquillity rife that you cannot quite explain, like a peaceful and undisturbed pond. You’re warm as if swaddled in a blanket made of sunlight.

Sunlight. Sun…

No. You should not be in the sun!

Your eyes snap open, and you flounder, graceless and clumsy. Steam rises all around you, and water swooshes and splashes over the sides of a ceramic-tiled tub, splashing against the floor.

“Easy, love,” Astarion chuckles, pulling you against his chest to stop your inelegant lumbering. “You’re alright.”

Your head quirks up, and your eyes meet his gaze. Candlelight treads and sways in the sanguine sea, and kindness coruscates, making them radiate softly.

You blink, and your hand slices through the water, “What in the Hells?”

“A bath,” he grins handsomely, sweeping wet strands of hair from your cheek and behind your ear tenderly. His fingers trace your jaw, “Apologies. I may have gotten a little… carried away.”

Carried away is one word for it, I suppose.

“Oh,” he giggles, beautiful and lighthearted, as careless as a child at play. It makes you smile. You came so close to never hearing that sound again. “And what’s the other word for it?”

Shit. He’s still in my head.

“Yes,” he kisses your temple, hugging you tighter. His fingers skim across your skin comfortingly, “I am still in your head as you are in mine.”

“You put me in a bath?” You arch your brow at him.

“It was necessary,” he smirks arrogantly. “I made quite a mess of you.”

Astarion reaches down, his fingers parting your folds, and you jump, confused at what exactly his goal is. “Relax,” he purrs. “This is not about sex.” His fingers rub over you gently, washing you and easing that soreness his enthusiasm caused. His feelings of affection and genuine, thoughtful compassion roll through the connection. “Unless you wish to go for round four? Or was it five? Or six? I could be persuaded.”

You groan and slump down further into the bath. Despite your exhaustion, your body responds to his touch as it always does, fire igniting within your stomach and desire making your skin prickle.

“Good Gods, Astarion,” you mumble with a sigh. “No more.”

“I thought not.” Astarion lathers his hands with soap and starts washing your arms, chest and back. He massages your stiff muscles with perfect pressure.

Should I be angry with him?

“Oh, don’t be sour,” he tsks, clicking his tongue and nuzzling your cheek. “You enjoyed yourself. I felt it. I felt it every godsdamn time. I almost couldn’t contain myself. You’re lucky I have such excellent control. That would undo a lesser man immediately.”

“You are full of yourself, aren’t you?” You laugh. Astarion’s cheerful mood is infectious, and you can’t help but feel a little bubbly with happiness yourself.

He shrugs, “Can you truly blame me? I am rather impressive.”

“I think it’s me that’s impressive,” you smirk with a wolfish grin, “If the exultant Vampire Ascendant could barely contain himself.”

“Sassy girl,” he tuts with a chuckle. “You are inconceivably enchanting. Even with an eternity, I could never get enough of all this.” He gestures over your body with seductive eyes but becomes more serious, “And whatever this is, between us, I could never tire of it, my love.”

My love…

The words descend in your mind, slow and tortuous like a feather falling from a great height. He does not love you. He said as much himself, and his silence and reluctance when you pressed him only cemented that. Yet, his actions speak different words, and his thoughts and feelings that you can feel utter different syllables. You don’t know which language to believe.

“I do,” his answer floats in your head, not out of his mouth.

You push away from him, whirling around in the enormous tub, splashing additional water over the edges. You need to see him, be able to watch and look in his eyes. His brows furrow in confusion, and he looks at the swaying water, “At least, I think I do.”

“What happened downstairs was not love. You want to possess me, control me and claim me. You want me to belong to you. I felt it,” you frown. It’s all so godsdamned confusing. “You craved ownership, not a partner. Is that love to you?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, and his hand reaches for you, but you bat it away, and he stops his advance. You need distance if you have any hope of keeping your wits about you.

“You want to be taken and claimed. You want to be mine,” he snarls, but there’s a sorrow weaved in between that choler. “I felt it. I heard it. I do not understand why you deny yourself these truths. Why do you continue to fight me?”

He’s clever, always able to take your questions, skirt them artfully and turn them around on you, but you know his tricks. He’s partly correct. You do want to be his, to belong, but you do not want to be owned and controlled.

“You didn’t answer the question, Astarion.” You retort bluntly, narrowing your eyes at him.

You have to tread carefully over these hot coals. If you challenge him too much, you’re likely to be reacquainted with his anger made flesh.

Astarion takes a deep breath, calming himself and smoothing his severe expression, “I already admitted I got carried away and caught up in the intensity of the moment. Sometimes, my thoughts become twisted. What more do you want me to say?”

You can accept that sometimes his thoughts are out of his control. You’ve heard the chittering yourself, and it’s like a flesh-eating infection that grazes upon contemplations. If you want him to continue being open, you must be able to withstand his darkness.

You can and you will because you must.

Always the lovesick hero.

“You know what I want you to say,” you whisper with a tear glistening in the corner of your eye. You know he won’t say it. You can feel his aversion as if it were your own.

“I can’t,” Astarion says flatly. He does not offer a reason. His fingers comb through his hair, and he shudders as if ice was suddenly thrust upon his warm skin. “You want something real? I’m not entirely sure what real looks like, but I will try. For you, I will try. But I cannot say what you’re asking right now.”

“Then I think this conversation is over,” you growl bitterly while climbing out of the bath.

Water drips down your body as you wrap yourself in one of the plush towels. You can feel his pain through the bond, and it’s tearing you apart on the inside, but you cannot fathom being his pet. You are not an object to be owned and flaunted, and no matter how badly you want him, you cannot allow him to treat you as such.

He does not speak as you walk away, your feet leaving wet marks across the floor. You don’t turn when you speak. You cannot see the sorrow reflected in his eyes, “And Astarion, if you ever compel me like that again, I will walk out and never return.”

His answer is calculated and numb, “I will do what is necessary to protect you.”

“Then you better be ready to lose me,” you snarl. “I am not an object you can wield when it suits your needs and put away when you’ve finished with me.”

“So be it,” he concludes quickly.

This time, you close the door in your head, although you’re reluctant to do so as you tread the hall back to your room. You are hollow once again, but you fill the void with hatred. You will find out how the Gur knew of your whereabouts and descend on the wings of death.

You know exactly where to start.

Elowyn.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

I felt terrible for the cliffhanger, so I spent much of my free time writing this week so I could keep mostly on schedule :)

#astarion fanfic #ascended astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion smut

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willowmaidsworld · 2 months

Text

Good Omens s3 clue

I realised I never posted this, although I made it ages ago! So here y'all go!

This is going to be long, and I hope it will make sense. Please bear with me to the end, I will eventually get to the Judgement Day, Armageddon, Death (and four horsemen of Apocalypse) and I will mention goats.

I noticed this tiny clue when watching s2ep3. Aziraphale drives to Edinburgh and the Bentley plays classical music. But not just any classical music – it’s Danse Macabre by Camill Saint-Saëns.

I am a musician and I've played this piece in the past, so I knew there was a lot of symbolism to uncover. And that thing is deeper than I thought. I will be speaking about some music theory, but I will try to make it as understandable as possible.

I think it would be best, if you listened to Danse Macabre: https://youtu.be/…zrJ

I would like to speak once more about the scene in which Danse macabre appears. Aziraphale is driving to Edinburgh in now a yellow Bentley, and he even has his "car sweets". He is quite satisfied. And he plays this, certainly dark-themed, music. It is a major contrast.

Danse Macabre, "the dance of death" is a memento mori. Memento mori is a theme we see in art, and it originated in medieval times as reaction to the plague. It should remind us of our own mortality. “Memento mori” literary translates as "remember death". And mark my words, do remember death!

The composition uses tritones, a special kind of a music interval. (Interval is the tonal distance between two tones, you can play the tones together and/or separate.) Tritone is seemingly dissonant because it uses seemingly inharmonious tones. (You can hear tritones just at the beginning, the violins play it.) Because of its dissonance it was called "the devil in music" and was considered forbidden and associated with Hell/demons/death.

Since the music piece and the poem is based on the theme of Memento mori, I had to look into it as well. Turns out Danse Macabre was inspired by a poem by Henry Cazalis. Here is the poem: https://oxfordsong.org/…bre Memento mori doesn't only remind us of death and our mortality, it also reminds us, that everyone's equal in death. Henry Cazalis, the poet, writes: Long live death and equality! The poem is called, of course, Danse Macabre, but I found that it is also called Égalité - Fraternité (when reading stuff about it in French). This is a reference to the French revolution motto: Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité (Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood), but Liberty is missing. Is there then no Liberty in death and we are all doomed to obey someone's will, The Ineffable plan? (Good Omens book and season one also deals with topics of free will, look at Crowley and Anathema. She has been doing only the things her dead ancestor told her to do, she overcomes it in the end. I think it nicely illustrates the problematic of a free will. And Crowley values free will a lot.)

Memento mori says one thing - remember death, no one can outrun it. And there I would like to get back to season 1, because who else we meet here than Death itself.

Death is one of the Four Bikers/Riders/Horsemen of Apocalypse. But I always thought Death has a higher rank than the others. If you think of it, War, Pollution and Famine all lead to one thing- to Death. Why would you need all three then? Isn't Death qualified enough to do its job? Also, rewatch the scene where Adam and his friends battle them! War, Pollution and Famine all get destroyed by the flaming sword. But not Death- it spreads its wings and says (quote from the book): "You cannot destroy me. That would destroy the world." And later he adds that they are never far away. And he flies of. He isn't destroyed.

Death didn't appear in season two and I think people are starting to forget it, but Memento mori! Remember Death!

I would also like to remark that Neil Gaiman says the whole story is plotted out and that he has done this with Terry Pratchett. In every Discworld series book (the magnum opus of Sir Terry Pratchett), apart from two or three, there is the character of Death. And I think it would make sense that Death would appear in Good Omens as well, after all, it is also Pratchett's book. I think we might see Death returning in season three, because the Day of Wrath/Last Judgement/Armageddon is coming. And this music piece could serve as a literal memento mori - remember Death, it has not exited the scene yet. (A lot of Pratchett's humour is based on puns, and this seems like a joke/plot twist he would try to use. It's my personal opinion based on how I know his style from his books.)

And what's next? Armageddon is coming, the Day of Wrath is here! Both sides are pretty eager to do this ending-of-the-world thing and after all, it's what they have been trying to start from the begging of the show. It was delayed by Gabriel's "disappearance", but things are now getting into motion, I think.

But back to the Danse macabre, because it (surprise surprise!) has quite some things to do with the Judgement Day. In the middle of the composition Cammille Saint-Saëns uses a musical theme from a different work, a Gregorian chant called Deis irae ("Day of Wrath").

Here is a link to Wikipedia page about the chant, you can listen to it there. (I didn't find any recording on YouTube, only other musicians using the quite popular words of the chant and not the actual music.) https://en.m.wikipedia.org/…rae

About the chant itself. It is written from the point of view of a sinner/normal person, and it describes how the Last Judgement shall be. Before dealing with the themes of the chant itself, I would like to say, that Saint-Saëns has used the Deis irae in a major key. Allow me to do a quick music theory intermission.

You can play in two keys, major and minor. These are, if I oversimplify things, sets of notes with different intervals. The melody, played one tone at a time, can be used in both major and minor key. The melody isn't the thing that determines the key of the song, the tones played with it do. And depends on what tones you use, you either get major or minor. Major is (in western culture) associated with happiness and good things, while minor with sadness. (It's not always like that, but for the sake of understanding we are going to pretend it is.) Now, the Deis irae is usually written in the sad minor key. Saint-Saëns decided to use the happy major key with this depressing chant, once again creating contrast. I'm stumbling over contrasts more than usually, so this may be important. End of the intermission.

In the third and fourth strophe of Deis irae, it's described how the sound of a trumpet will sound everywhere and the Death will resurrect all dead creations to be brought to the Judge. (Death is back again and resurrecting, that sounds familiar, where have we seen that before?)

In the fifteenth strophe, the writer, a sinner, prays for this: Put me with the sheep and separate me from the goats, guide me to the right side! Goats again, there they are! This strophe of course references the chapter 25 in the Gospel of Matthew, the Separation of sheep and goats. Sheep go to the right and goats to the left. I think the side symbolism is pretty clear in Good Omens. Right is the righteous side and left is the sign of sin. And we also know how Crowley cares about the goats. There is also the Jewish tradition of scapegoat. Either way, goats are connected to Crowley, their symbolism of being “on the left side” is clear. This interesting bit can play part in Armageddon.

In the fifth strophe of Deis irae the Book, that is exactly and perfectly worded and that will judge all world, appears. And this book is no other than The Book of Life.

We know about Book of Life from the season 2, Micheal threatens to force "extreme sanctions" (erasing them form the Book) upon anyone who knows about Gabriel.

Enter a fan theory I read: Nor Heaven or Hell actually have the Book of Life, we never see it on screen. This was mentioned in a tumblr post, and I will probably never be able to dig it up from the depths of the internet, so remember this is not my theory. (Although I find it very interesting.) The post continues and remarks, that when Crowley in the first episode of the second season learns about the Book and the "extreme sanctions" from Beelzebub, he doesn't bat an eye. He is pretty calm and doesn't seem surprised. (He literary says: "That will teach them a lesson", man, we're talking about being wiped from the earth's surface completely!) The writer of the post thinks, this is because Crowley knows that Heaven doesn't have the book and he knows where it is. The writer claims, it was Crowley, who took it as a little souvenir before his Fall, and later has hidden it in Aziraphale's bookshop. ('Cause one single book will definitely stay hidden in all those piles of old books.)

I think this is really interesting because of Crowley’s reaction. He knows what Aziraphale is risking, and he loves that angel, yet he seems so calm. When the bookshop burned down in the fifth episode of season one and Crowley thought Aziraphale died, he went feral: he was angry and furious, and he was destroyed by the fact that he has lost Aziraphale. He mourns and gets drunk. Nothing of this happens in season two!

So, what are my thoughts on season three? It will get really dark and serious, the Armageddon is coming, after all. I think we will see Death return and the Book of Life will appear. The goats may not be used literally, like on screen, but I think we will get some metaphors.

In all of this, I tried to say one thing. All of the cards are laid out, we have all of the clues. It would be pretty cheap trick to use some ineffable "deus ex machina", that's not Gaiman's and Pratchett's style.

I think everything is now foreshadowed; we have been given all the information. We just haven't made the links in-between. Given the uproar the second season has caused, I think people are forgetting the first season a bit. But it must end with what it started with.

I think we should look at both seasons equally and try to pick up as much as we can, after all the third season will not be based solely on the season two...

We have all the clues, now it's Neil Gaiman who plays an ineffable game of his own devising, a poker that nobody has the rules for and the dealer, Neil himself, is smiling all the time. Ineffable, indeed. If you ask me, he's enjoying it bloody-well.

#good omens #neil gaiman #s3 speculation #good omens clues #good omens meta #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fandom #go 2 #david tennant #micheal sheen #good ineffable omens #ineffable fandom

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aziraphales-library · 3 months

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Hi!!!!! I just got into good omens and this hyperfixation is going ABSOLUTELY BONKERS. Ive been reading so many fics from yall thank u ❤️❤️ i was wondering if u could req some lesbian/wlw aziraphale ? :P

Hello! You can check out our #ineffable wives tag for fics already recommended. Here are some more to add...

wanna witness your eyes looking by izzyhandsgf (E)

"How could someone so unbearably holy commit such sins in the most beautiful way?" ----------------------------- Or, Aziraphale and Crowley meet in the 1930s, fem-presenting, and both are slightly overcome by their feelings for one another...

I stretch out the time (and now I know why) by Nix_Nihili (T)

I should pull back, Crowley thought. She should pull back because she was the one with the fork in her mouth that Aziraphale was holding. Aziraphale wouldn’t pull back because that would be rude so Crowley had to pull back. Pull back. Crowley swallowed the cake down and pushed herself away because that was what she did. Push and pull. Six thousand years of pushing and pulling. God, did it ever end? - Crowley finds Aziraphale on a fateful night for the first time since 1941. They haven't seen each other since but something has changed in the past two decades. or Something definitely happened between 1941 and 1967 to warrant the "You go too fast for me, Crowley" comment.

“I thought that I was getting better.” | Setbacks by die_traumerei (T)

Aziraphale is already having a rough time of it, when her new neighbour Crowley's cats trip her up and the inevitable happens. She and Crowley becomes friends, though, and more than friends -- and a good thing too, as Aziraphale faces one setback after another.

Herefordshire Pomona by Eigon (T)

I was reading Bleating Hearts by HKBlack (which is excellent, btw) and also thinking about the advice to "write what you know", so I started daydreaming about how the goat farmer meets literature professor scenario would transfer to Herefordshire. Aziraphale was easy - a bookseller in Hay-on-Wye, the Town of Books. I've put her shop where Green Ink Books is now, which used to be a multi-level shop, with a flat above. Crowley - well, that became obvious pretty quickly, too - instead of goats, apples. Herefordshire has a lot of old orchards, and I used to know a lady from the Marcher Apple Network, which identifies old apple varieties, and works to preserve them. And I wanted it to be Ineffable Wives, because I had so much fun writing the Old West story Secret Friendship (which is a boring name, but I couldn't think up a better one).

strange workings of fate by skyflyerr (E)

Aziraphale sat down gently and let her feet that didn’t quite touch the floor dangle from the stool. “Would you spare enough time for one glass with me?” Aziraphale watched her turn and look a little taken aback at the notion of her being here. Maybe this was a bad idea. “With you, darling? I can make the time. I’m a woman of my word, if anything.” *** Crowley is a bartender and Aziraphale is still figuring out the bookshop. Both are utterly lonely and winter is coming quick. Maybe they could keep each other warm.

Dance Me to the End of Love by Black_Bentley (E)

In general, Crowley would very much like to see the ones who hurt her grovelling at her feet, experiencing her pain and fear. But Lucifer’s plan is... well, it far surpasses what she considers ‘getting a revenge’ falling wildly into wreaking complete havoc and destroying innocent lives as collateral damage. Most importantly, that puts her dearest friend in danger. And she is to bring the proverbial cuckoo into the Celestial nest. OR: Aziraphale is a ballet dancer for the British Celestial Ballet Company, which grooms its perfect 'angels' from childhood Crowley used to dance for them too, but after they literally kicked her out, she took on pole-dancing for the Nine Circles of Hell Nightclub Its owner, who used to be the Celestial Ballet's star, is ready to take his revenge on the company's Director (referred to by its 'angels' as Mother) and chooses Crowley to enact it by forcing her to deal a brand new drug among the ballet dancers.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable wives #adult omens #human au #mod d

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secretlyafiveheadeddragon · 4 months

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On changes from the book:

I swear to god, you can make the most book honoring, well made, incredible book adaptation with an amazing cast and the author of the books writing, producing, and co-directing it, with an incredible score, impeccable set design, and great costumes and people will still find a couple of minuscule details to complain about. Guys, this is literally the best that it gets, and it's incredible. Of course some things were changed from the books, it's a completely different medium and the books are almost twenty years old. I love the books with my whole heart, and I can tell you exactly the spots that didn't age well, and I can tell you I'm grateful that they were changed. I can point out the time, effort, and heart that went into every little detail. I can praise the actors for pouring their whole soul into this.

When the finale for The Owl House came out, I made a conscience decision that I loved it, and I wasn't going to let anything get in the way of me and my love for it. I am allowed to enjoy things, I am allowed to love them, and that is enough. I love the TV adaptation of Percy Jackson and the Olympians, and I trust that any changes that are made are the right ones and needed to be made. The season isn't over yet guys! Stop getting ahead of yourselves.

It's the best book-to-screen adaption that I have ever seen. It adds something to the mix, it's own flair and moments that work and, dare I say it, are valuable, and (in some parts) are better than the books because they fixed parts that didn't work as well. It exceeded my very high expectations, but you should not let expectations ruin your excitement.

TL;DR: You can love things not just despite the parts that didn't live up to your expectations, but because of them. Stories are allowed to grow. The season isn't over yet either, maybe you just need to (tw for Good Omens fans) Wait and See.

#percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo #pjo spoilers #percy pjo #this post is about percy jackson #pjotv

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 9 months

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Maggie and Nina interview with Cheryl Eddy for Gizmodo au, 10 July 2023

Good Omens fans know what it means to pine for a couple to be together. Season two adds more shipping to the mix with Nina (Nina Sosanya) and Maggie (Maggie Service), shopkeeper neighbors of bookselling angel Aziraphale (Michael Sheen). If their names and faces are familiar, that’s because you’ve seen them together before: as Satanic nuns in Good Omens season one.

This time around, of course, they are completely different characters who just happened to be named after the actors who play them. They were “beyond thrilled” to return to Good Omens, Service told io9 at a recent press day.

Sosanya agreed. “There was a sort of shock when we first heard that the second series was happening, a bigger one when we realized that we would be in it,” she said. “Then there was the adjustment that you have to make when you’re not going to be playing the previous characters. And then, just delight when you find out you’re going to be playing something new and named after our own selves, which is unprecedented, really.”

Without getting into plot spoilers, we can say that Good Omens season two acknowledges the queer subtext that fans read into Aziraphale and Crowley (David Tennant) in season one, and brings it out into the open with these new characters. Maggie, who runs a record shop, has a huge crush on Nina, who runs a coffee shop and is unfortunately already partnered up. They’re lesbians, but Good Omens doesn’t make a big deal out of that fact; that’s just who these characters happen to be.

“Season one [really] connected with people,” Service said. “The Good Omens universe, it’s a place where you can just be—you know, you’re welcome, whoever you are, however, whatever. If something makes you feel ‘other,’ you’re not. You’re fine. You’re welcome. That reaction from the fans has painted into what they wanted to write in season two, to just absolutely make that message more than 100% clear and tell some more stories. It’s not a big deal [that they’re gay] it’s just who they are.”

Added Sosanya, “I think that’s what Neil does with a lot of his writing and with a lot of the graphic novels as well. Those characters, they’re not explained particularly, they just are. It doesn’t have to be justified in any way.”

Maggie and Nina are unique in Good Omens season two because they’re both mortals—even if they don’t realize at first that they’re surrounded by characters who are actually angels and demons. “They didn’t really know particularly that there are ‘sides’ to be taken, so they’re sort of working their own moral compass,” Sosanya said. “Following instincts, and trying to do the best they can and look after the people who look like they might need help,” Service added.

Said Sosanya, “And then, [once they do realize what’s going on], it’s not actually clear which side they would be on. They’re well-rounded characters—they could go either way. They’re just sort of experiencing it in the moment and seeing what occurs because nothing is as it seems.”

Both actors agreed they’d love to return for a hypothetical Good Omens season three, either as Nina and Maggie again or as another set of new characters—“any chance to spend any time in the Good Omens universe will be a great day in the office,” Service said. And they both think the themes of Good Omens are important ones.

“In both seasons, the question of what makes a good person, what makes a bad person is prevalent. I think much more in season two, [also] something about authenticity. But lots of parties seem to be searching for something and it might be within themselves,” Service teased.

Added Sosanya, “I also think that perhaps as a theme about learning to trust another individual. You can’t operate as an island. No angel is an island, and no demon is an island.”

#good omens #gos2 #season 2 #interview #nina sosanya #nina interview #maggie interview #maggie service #nina and maggie #good omens universe #fun fact #island #❤#nm #maggie and nina #s2 interview

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 1 month

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cooking, by asmi, because someone wanted this. i can't cook, btw.

Were they joking? Probably. Cheers, @deathwords334, beware what you wish for. NOW BABYGIRLS, BITCHBOYS, AND BOYCOTTERS OF THE BINARY, I WILL... TEACH YOU HOW TO COOK. EXCEPT UH. I CAN'T COOK.

SO I WILL TEACH YOU WHAT I THINK UH COOKING IS. KINDA. FUCK YEAH THERE'S NOTHING I'M BETTER AT THAN EXPLAINING THINGS I AM SEVERELY UNDERQUALIFIED TO EXPLAIN.

STEP I: WASH THE ENDS OF YOUR FORELIMBS

WASH YOUR HANDS. UNLESS YOU'RE USING GLOVES. PLASTIC GLOVES, BECAUSE THE OTHERS WILL CATCH ON FIRE. To be fair plastic gloves might melt into your skin and cause worse damage than--YOU KNOW WHAT JUST WASH YOUR GODDAMN HANDS 99.9% OF GERMS GONE WITH EVERY HANDWASH EVER.

STEP II: FIND SOME REAL ESTATE TO EXIST IN

YOU SHOULD PROBABLY BE IN A KITCHEN. IT'S NOT A NECESSITY. YOU COULD ALSO HAVE A BONFIRE. OR A MICROWAVE IN A DORM. IS HEATING UP READY-MADE PASTA COOKING? FUCK YEAH IT IS DON'T GATEKEEP COOKING HERE.

YOU CAN ALSO STAND OVER A CREMATION PYRE AND COOK. IT IS NOT ADVISED. FOR LEGAL REASONS.

STEP III: CONTAIN YOURSELF MY DEAR THOTSON!

DR BEGONE THOTSON! MOVING ON. GRAB A CONTAINER. IF YOU DON'T HAVE ONE, YOUR PALMS UP IN SUPPLICATION TO OUR LORD GOD BILDADDY ARE A NATURAL CONTAINER. UNLESS YOU'RE HEATING THE CONTAINER. PLEASE DO NOT HEAT YOUR PALMS. YOU CAN GRAB A SWORD OR SOMETHING AND SKEWER THE FOOD IF YOU'RE DESPERATE.

STEP IV: FIND EDIBLE ORGANIC SUBSTRATES

MAKE SURE YOU HAVE FOOD. ON THE MAGGOTS SERVER, THERE WAS DEBATE WITHIN THE FIRST FEW DAYS OF WHETHER OR NOT CONSENTUAL AND LOCALLY SOURCED CANNIBALISM IS ETHICAL. THAT'S NOT THE POINT OF THIS POST. JUST GRAB SOME FUCKING FOOD UPROOT A BUSH IF YOU HAVE TO.

HELPFUL TIP: BEWARE WILD MUSHROOMS

OH ASMI, WE KNOW, SOME ARE FUCKING HALLUCINOGENICS, SOME ARE POISONOUS, SOME ARE LAXATIV--NO NO NO. NOT MY POINT. SOMETIMES, MUSHROOMS GROW IN CIRCLES. THIS IS A TRAP SET BY THE FAE. @queermarzipan, PLEASE CONFIRM.

DON'T GET TRAPPED BY THE FAE WHILE FORAGING FOR FOOD.

STEP V: IT'S GETTIN' HOT IN HERE MMMKAY

IF YOU'VE MADE IT THIS FAR WITHOUT GETTING BURNED ALIVE, ARRESTED OR KIDNAPPED BY THE FAERIES, CONGRATS! YOU ARE READY TO COOK. UH. YOU NEED HEAT, PROBABLY. IS MAKING A SALAD COOKING? IS MAKING A (NOT GRILLED) SANDWICH COOKING? I DON'T KNOW.

FOR SOME REASON I THINK HEAT IS KEY TO THE COOKING PROCESS.

SO WELL, GET IT HOT! FUNERAL PYRE OR MICROWAVE, GREAT! KITCHEN, PROBABLY A STOVE IN THERE. BONFIRE, GREAT! OKAY I FEEL LIKE STEP FIVE IS THE SAME AS STEP TWO. IT'S FINE.

WORST COMES TO WORST, PUT ON A TV SHOW LIKE GOOD OMENS (NUDGE NUDGE PROMO PROMO WATCH THE FUCKING SHOW IT'S BEAUTIFUL I LOVE I-OKAY SORRY) AND THE HOMOEROTIC TENSION WILL HEAT UP YOUR FOOD.

STEP VI: SPICE IT UP A BIT!

ADD SPICES THE WAY FANFIC WRITERS ADD FINGER BRUSHES, ONE BED, DANCING AND IT SWITCHES TO A SLOW SONG, WING SENSITIV--SORRY UM YES ADD SPICES THE WAY THEY ADD DETAILS TO THEIR SMUT. SPICE AND CHEMISTRY PEOPLE IT'S SPICE AND CHEMISTRY.

COOKING IS GAY.

STEP VII: MOUTHHOLE THAT BITCH

EAT. BONUS POINTS IF SOMEONE WATCHES YOU EAT. OR YOU WATCH SOMEONE EAT. HOMOEROTICALLY. LIKE CROWLEY WATCHES AZIRAPHA--OKAY FINE I'LL SHUSH BUT WATCH THE SHOW IF YOU HAVEN'T.

y'all I think I might not be coping well with life LOVE YOU MAGGOTS REBLOG IF YOU LEARNED SOMETHING AMAZING ABOUT COOKING TODAY! FROM THIS POST I MEAN. NOT IN... GENERAL. I THINK I'M FALLING ASLEEP. FUCK.

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feliciafancybottom · 2 months

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Holy crap! People actually read and reposted and commented on my first post! Eep! I even got followers!? I did not expect any of that. Thank you!! I will respond to comments and follow people bac later, I promise. I tend to suck at that but I will get there. This place appears to be much nicer than Twitter. I mean, of course it is. I never really posted much fandom stuff on Twitter, it was more ex-cult stuff over there. I know, who would expect someone that was born into a high control cult, and has shit loads of religious trauma to be into Good Omens, right? Maybe I'll talk about that sometime. Today is not that time. I got a box of Pop figures today in the mail today. The one I am super excited to get started on is going to be Aziraphale standing in front of the bookshop. I seriously need to start selling them. The problem is, I keep having ideas that keep getting more and more involved and I don't know if I should bother making them or if my ridiculous ideas are only of interest to me. I have no problem keeping my weirder creations for myself but I do have to sell most. One of the sets I'm currently working on, as an example started out as just David in his Bafta kilt outfit. Then I thought I could add Bark Ruffalo and some of his accessories as well and now, just this afternoon it occurred to me that I have a Pop body lying around somewhere that is sitting in a chair. I pulled that out and discovered that it wouldn't be too difficult to sculpt a tuxedo onto the body. So now the original David in a kilt has become David, plus the dog and accessories AND Michael in the audience. I don't know that anyone else is as ridiculously obsessed as I am that they would want to purchase such a thing. I'm going to put a poll in here just to go an idea of what other people think, or feel free to comment any other thoughts you might have. Also, by answering I don't assume that you have any interest in buying anything from me, ever. I don't expect that AT ALL. But. Entirely hypothetically, If you were so inclined, which of these options would apply:

All of these are obviously unfinished (except 1941 Crowley in the Bentley, although I think I will remove his stubble). They will be much prettier once they're done.

#michael sheen #david tennant #staged #bbc staged #good omens #good omens fanart #nye 2024 #aziraphale #crowley

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grimoire-of-geekery · 8 days

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What is your advice for someone who can read tarot relatively okay for other people but is trash when it comes to reading for themself? (Cards dont make sense and literally every card is reversed despite careful shuffling to get a healthy mix of both upright and reversed cards)

*hugs* I know that frustration all too well.

Ok, so here are some things I say to everyone where tarot reading is concerned:

It's not just what the cards say, it's what they don't say. A tarot deck works by representing the whole world and all of the various turns and twists of fate people can experience. When Death shows up, but not the Ten of Swords, that's because you're dealing with Death, but not in the form of an ending. Likewise, if the Three of Coins appears and not the Eight, then your experience will reflect financial growth and demonstration of your mastery, rather than the learning of that skillset.

For this reason, I encourage diviners to adopt a different method for reading inversions than "the bad version of this card" or "the opposite." For the latter, there's already a card in the deck for any "opposite" meaning you could come up with. For the former... every card can be bad or good in the right circumstance. For myself, I use a method where the inverted cards are signs that the querent will have difficulty understanding that card, and I should take pains to carefully explain that one, pointing out nuances that might be missed. Generally it means the card is "shadowed," or their own beliefs and views obstruct the truth. Another really good one I read recently is the idea of an upright card being "invoked" and an inverted card being "banished," which is a very interesting perspective. I like the idea of "this card is departing from you, or taking its blessing/curse/experience away."

Those two things I say to everyone, just to clear space. The first really specific piece of advice I'd give to you if you're having trouble reading for yourself is do not add cards. Read what's already there. Take a picture of it, note everything in a journal, and look at it periodically. Focus not on what your feeling is, but what the card means. Do research, look it up in books, especially your own writings on the card if you have them. Seriously, adding too many cards makes the reading even harder to read. "Clarification" cards are a joke.

In addition, check your spread. The spreads we use are how we talk to the world and ask for information. Make sure that when you lay those cards in that pattern, you actually want the information the spread can offer. If you're looking for advice, don't ask a spread that's solely about prediction, that sort of thing.

I'd also suggest you take a look at the deck and see if it really expresses how you experience the world, and then I'd do divination that has nothing to do with your wishes for a while, to see if it can accurately relate the world to you. I wanna be specific here- what I'm talking about here is not how you wish the world was, but rather how you experience the world as it is. The deck is meant to reflect the world as it is, and reveal its secrets to you, and if the deck isn't doing that for you in your readings, you may need to use a different deck, or maybe even a different divination method at all.

If all your cards are coming up inverted all the time, that's a sign. The deck is specifically speaking to you and saying something to you. If it were my own deck, that would be a message that "you ain't gonna get it, so you may as well stop asking." I can't say what that omen means for you, but I would consider it a big one, maybe a step or two above "stalker" cards, and just below the significance of a reading that's more than 80% one suit. If that's the case, I'd ask your cards what they're trying to tell you that you're not getting, and record the answers. For myself, I use three-card combinations for those kinds of specific questions.

If you wanna reach out and talk to me more in depth, I'm definitely available if you wanna come off anon and have a conversation, or you can just send a few more anon asks if that's your comfort level. I hope I helped, one way or another. *hugs*

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hot-soop · 5 months

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don't let me tempt you / ch.2

pairing: angel!seokjin x angel!f.reader ⇢ au: angels & demons ⇢ genre: forbidden romance, friends 2 lovers, comedy(?), fluff, eventual smut (not in this chapter), lite angst ⇢ summary: Seokjin is temporarily banished from Heaven and you're not all that good at paperwork. ⇢ chapter wc: 4k ⇢ rating: fic rating is explicit/18+ for eventual smut; chapter rating is 16 & up bc they're the equivalent of ken dolls rn, but minors please DNI anyway. This isn't for you. ⇢ chapter warnings: LOTS of religious imagery but please remember that this isn't meant to be accurate, it's crack Good Omens style nonsense. Author is an atheist. Swearing. Drinking. Implications of loss of faith. If there's any tags you think I'm missing, please let me know - I'd hate to be the cause of any upset or discomfort ⇢ a/n: thank uuuuuu @ugh-yoongi for reading this over, i adore you

chapter 1 here

chapter 2

736 BC

August 12th. 6:13pm. Sunshine.

It’s been ninety-one years and twenty-six visits to Earth since your first cup of tea. Since then Seokjin has shown you could enjoy so many more earthly pleasures than you thought possible. He makes an effort to show you something new every time you visit, and humans, as it turns out, are so much more creative than angels give them credit for. You’re really starting to enjoy it here. Every time, you wish you could stay longer. And so you learned you could convince Turiel to add routine patrols on all your banishments - by all accounts you’re only ever visiting Earth on ‘Official Business’.

(‘Managed to convince’ isn’t really the right turn of phrase, more like you briefly floated the idea and Turiel near bit your hand off to add more to your workload.)

Of course the visits mean more reports in theory, but truth be told there aren’t that many banishments to keep on top of, and you spend far less time with the other banished angels than anyone else need know. That isn’t the case for Seokjin’s visits. No, you could spend an entire day in his company and feel like it’s been no time at all. For those reports alone, you need to twist the truth.

Your stomach growls and Seokjin tuts.

“If you didn’t wait thirteen years between visits,” he grumbles. “Your stomach wouldn’t be so loud.”

You open your mouth to say that the only reason you have any interest in Earth is because of Seokjin and his friends (though maybe by now they count as yours too, it’s something you’ll have to ask Taehyung) but the sour look on his face gives you pause.

(Ah yes. Taehyung. Your readers will probably be wondering why he’s still alive. Well, they all are. As it turns out the change from human to vampire was irreversible, and all Seokjin had been able to do was make it so they’re not quite as immortal as angels and demons are. In short - one could kill the three of them with a stake to the heart, if they should wish. When you found out Seokjin had omitted the truth (his words) about their lack of demise, that had been the biggest (and only) argument you’ve had in the centuries you’ve known him. Jimin had cried. It was very embarrassing.

Of course, you’d moved past it, because there was little to be done to change anything, and you actually rather like the company of the vampire trio. Yoongi is another anomaly, he should be dead too, and he kind of- he sort of is. Seokjin calls him a ghoul. But having met him, you can’t say he’s as evil as the handbooks make ghouls out to be. A grouch, definitely, but you can see why Seokjin likes to keep him around.

Anyway, the point of this opening was not Seokjin’s lie of omission. The point is Seokjin’s current disposition.)

“Why are you in such a mood?”

“I’m not in a mood,” Seokjin shoots back.

“You are,” you counter.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Seokjin flicks you on the forehead.

“Ow!”

“Please stop,” snaps Namjoon from the corner of the room. “Some of us are trying to study.”

You crane your neck to spy on the book he’s reading. Heraclitian Philosophy.

Seokjin notices you looking. “Namjoon fancies himself as one of the new age philosophers,” he whispers. “He won’t listen but I keep telling him they’re a bunch of miserable fu-”

“I can hear you,” says Namjoon, pointedly.

You and Seokjin share a private smile.

“We missed you,” he murmurs.

“Missed you too,” you say, cheerfully.

You dip a spoon into the pot Seokjin is standing over, and he chastises you for tasting too early (it’s not ready, so he says) but it’s so good that you can’t help yourself.

“Mmm,” you hum, appreciative. “My favourite.”

He’s strawberry red again.

“Where do strawberries grow?” you ask.

Seokjin laughs. “You always ask such weird questions.”

You bonk him on the head with your spoon.

“Answer please.”

“Dunno,” says Seokjin with a shrug. “I haven’t seen any here.”

“In Europe!” Namjoon calls over.

“Thank you!” you shout back.

“Why do you ask?” says Seokjin.

“I want to try one.”

He tilts his head, a curious puppy if you ever saw one.

“I invented them,” you answer his unasked question.

“You?”

You frown. “Yes, me.”

“You made food?”

“I made lots of things.”

“But you didn’t try anything?”

“Well why would I? I made lovely things in pretty colours just like they asked and sent them off to Agriculture.”

Seokjin smiles sardonically, saying, “such a good little angel, aren’t you?”

You beam even though it’s a non-compliment, and Seokjin rolls his eyes, but this time the look in his eye is one of affection.

“What else did you invent?” Seokjin asks, and off you go, listing all the things in your roster until you lose your breath.

After dinner, Namjoon goes out to meet the others for a dinner of their own, leaving you and Seokjin sitting in front of an open window, sipping tea and catching up on the happenings over the last decade.

Seokjin seems down. He leaves his tea to go cold and picks at loose threads on his tunic.

After a while, you ask, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Your friend’s face falls into a dejected pout. “Time’s almost up,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Thirty years left and I’ve hardly been anywhere. Hardly seen a thing.”

Seokjin always claims he’s not sentimental, but you look at the home he’s built for himself, the friends he keeps, the trinkets that adorn the room, some four-hundred years old, and you deduce that there is little truth to that statement. What he isn’t is someone who tends to feel sorry for himself.

It’s unsettling, seeing him like this.

“It’ll be okay,” you tell him. “Once you’re back home you’ll have your miracles, and you can have all of this and more in Heaven.”

Seokjin rolls his bottom lip between his teeth.

“I’ll be there too,” you tack on.

His responding smile is a little pitiful, but a smile is a smile, and if that’s all he’s got, you’ll take it.

729 BC

January 28th. 6:56pm. Snowing.

Taehyung says he’s invented a game. It’s called truth or dare, and the objective is to tell the truth when you’re asked a question, or do something at the other player's request. Despite asking on several occasions, there seems to be no clear rules on how to win.

“This isn’t a criticism of your creativity, Taehyung,” you say gently. “But it seems as if there’s no real point in playing if your point scoring system is flawed.”

Taehyung stares at you. Jimin hides a laugh behind his hand.

“How do we know when to end the game if there’s no objective winner?” you ask.

They ignore you, and Namjoon suggests it would be better to write down the dares and questions and draw them from different jars. For yours, you write down things like eat exactly 2/7ths of an apple and what time is it?

Jimin pours drinks, because apparently there’s also ‘forfeits’ in the form of ‘taking a shot’ if you can’t answer truthfully or complete a dare, but you can’t imagine why either thing would be such difficult tasks to complete.

“Why would I lie, though?” you ask again. “It’s my job to be divine.”

“You’ve lied for me on more than a hundred occasions,” Seokjin reminds you.

“Nonsense,” you say, haughtily. “That was for the greater good.”

Jimin and Taehyung share a funny look.

Namjoon coughs. “Shall we just play?”

You grumble something about rules being made to be followed that the others pointedly ignore, and Yoongi is the first to draw from the dare pile, and Taehyung- who is reading over his shoulder- shrieks.

Run naked to the end of the street and back <3

Oh.

Yoongi turns as red as a ghoul can go (which is to say, not very) and says he’s glad he can turn invisible, and promptly disappears from view. The only suggestion that he even leaves the room is the door opening and closing. Jimin says pointedly that he bets Yoongi is still in the room, but a minute later the door goes again, and Yoongi appears once more at the table, pink-cheeked and panting. Jimin scowls like a child and calls him a spoilsport.

The game continues in this vein until Namjoon gets your dare.

“Put on socks?” he says, confused.

“Yes!” You nod. “It’s very cold.”

Seokjin laughs. “You really are an angel.”

You beam at him.

Namjoon goes to find socks.

“Stop making googly eyes at each other,” says an exasperated Jimin. “I’m bored.”

Taehyung nudges the jars toward Seokjin. “Your turn.”

He makes a drawn out show of searching for the best one while not actually looking, claiming he can tell who wrote it by the way they folded the paper. He pulls out one he says was ‘obviously’ written by Yoongi, but by the gleeful look on Jimin’s face, you wonder if it was really him.

“Kiss your favourite person in the room,” reads Seokjin. He stares very hard at the paper. He’s not even blinking.

Taehyung and Jimin break the silence with a giggle. Namjoon is back, with more socks on, and his eyes dart between you and Seokjin. And now your eyes have turned into curious little fiends too, looking from Seokjin to the paper to Seokjin to the paper, to your hands, which are suddenly very interesting for no reason at all.

Seokjin looks at you for a long time. Seokjin turns red. And then Seokjin kisses Yoongi on the cheek.

“Forfeit!” yells Namjoon.

723 BC

March 9th. 8:02pm. A little chilly, but not unpleasantly so.

Today, the cold weather has you craving kimchi jjigae, and Seokjin has only complained three-hundred times about it. He says he made a table full of food, he asks why you can’t wait until everyone else arrives, he says of course you’d want the one thing he hadn’t made. He makes it anyway, and mutters that none of his other friends are as demanding nor as needy, including Taehyung.

The reason for the sheer amount of food adorning the table is because today is Yoongi’s birthday, and Seokjin is throwing him a party. Even though he’s sort of dead… and doesn’t need to eat. (It’s both pointless and confusing.)

You sit in front of the fire, bowl of jjigae warming your belly, kicking your legs contentedly while you wait for the guests to arrive.

Seokjin is anxious. He adjusts the position of the furniture six times. He wipes over his ornaments twice. He sweeps the floor three times and shoots you a glare when you try to help by using a little miracle to evaporate every speck of dust in the entire house. Normally he appreciates the privilege your miracles bring, since he lost access to his own, not tonight apparently. At first you attribute his sour mood to the idea of people he hardly knows invading his space, because while Yoongi is the quietest being you’ve ever known, he’s somehow friends with everyone in a twenty-mile radius. But Seokjin has hosted before - it’s nothing unusual for him to play host for others and dissolve into the background once everyone starts enjoying themselves.

No. Something else is going on here.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Talk about what?” Seokjin mutters with a scowl, distracted by fussing over a china pot that’s apparently three millimetres out of place.

“Whatever it is that has you acting like you’re not enjoying my company.”

Seokjin looks up at you, expression unreadable. The silence hangs uncomfortably until it’s interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. It’s the first guests, bringing with them gifts of food and wine.

People filter in quickly after that. You don’t know many, but those you recognise offer a friendly hello or a polite bow in your direction. You tend to keep your distance from most people, at least those who don’t know your true identity as an Angel of the Lord, but you do enjoy their idle chatter. It’s ever so interesting, the matters that concern them, the small things that bring them joy in their (without any disrespect) insignificant lives. You’d tried engaging a human in conversation once, at a market Seokjin brought you to, but Taehyung had laughed and suggested you needed more practice interacting with people. After that you lost your confidence.

Perhaps tonight could be another opportunity, if Seokjin has enough wine to make his guests less suspicious.

You jump up, fetching bottles and cups from the other room and passing them around with a smile. The humans accept them gratefully. There’s nothing like alcohol to get people talking. Thirty minutes later the room is full, and loud, and everyone is on (at least) their third drink. With a wave of your hand, the guests' cups are refilled, and thankfully it’s only Seokjin that seems to notice. He waves you over from the other side.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Helping,” you say.

“We don’t need to get everyone drunk before he arrives.” He stares at the door.

“I don’t think Yoongi would mind,” you say. “Hasn’t he been half-drunk every time I’ve seen him?”

“Oh, not him,” Seokjin says absent-mindedly.

You frown.

“Who then?”

Just then, the door bursts open and a dishevelled Yoongi is carried through on the shoulders of Taehyung and Jimin, with a panicked Namjoon following closely behind - hands outstretched as if that would help Yoongi if he were to fall.

Everyone cheers. Someone pours them a drink. Seokjin continues to stare at the door.

Weird.

After leaving Seokjin to his own devices you decide to work the room and quickly discover how right you were about the alcohol. It’s been forty-five minutes and you can’t escape a man who doesn’t seem to know whose birthday it is, but is very glad for the opportunity to talk about his herd of goats and all the trouble he’s having with one particular fox.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was a one off but it seems like the bastard has it out for me.”

“That’s terrible.” You commiserate, trying to look interested while scanning the room in search of an out. The few people you know well enough to call for help from are otherwise occupied. Taehyung is pouring wine into Jimin’s open mouth. Yoongi and Namjoon are sitting around the table deep in conversation with an elderly woman and her husband.

“-usually one a day,” he says, slurring his words. “Sometimes two!”

“Awful,” you agree.

Seokjin is standing by the door, face impassive, talking out of the corner of his mouth to a man who wasn’t here earlier. He’s impossibly tall, doesn’t look like anyone else in the room, all sallow skin and sunken eyes. Seokjin has a wrinkle in his nose suggesting there’s a bad smell nearby. You’d bet your immortal soul it’s the man next to him.

“-at this point it’d take a bloody miracle to save my herd-”

“A miracle,” you echo, hardly listening, too busy looking at how the man holds out his hand. The eager gleam in his hollow eyes. How Seokjin’s lips curl with distaste but he shakes his hand anyway.

“I’m fucked if it carries on,” your companion says, voice breaking.

“Yeah,” you breathe. There’s a pit forming in your stomach. “Fucked.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, me too,” you say. “I’ve just got to- uh- go… Over there.” And you’re weaving through the people in the room to get to Seokjin and the stranger who has your hackles raised like no one else has had in centuries.

“Seokjin!” you say with false brightness, smile tight. “Who’s your friend?”

Seokjin turns to you, eyes wide and desperate.

“Not now,” he whispers. “Please.”

You stand firm, undeterred. “I’m Seokjin’s friend-”

And then the man turns his glare on you, and you see it. You smell it.

A demon.

You can hardly contain your gasp.

The demon grins. His teeth are unbrushed. “The angel says she’s your friend, Seokjin, and you haven’t told her what you’ve been doing? Who you’ve been talking to. Tut tut.”

Your gaze snaps to Seokjin who looks like he’s about to be sick.

“Told me what?”

“Not now,” Seokjin snaps.

You’ve never seen him like it, not once in three centuries. Face suddenly hard and unmoving. Not even during your fight about his friend's lack of mortality. The pit in your stomach grows. Something horrible is happening and you can’t figure it out.

“Go home,” he says, resigned. “We’ll talk later.”

“But it’s Yoongi’s birthday-” you start, but the hard line of Seokjin’s lips tell you your argument is pointless.

“He’s my friend, Angel,” he says, voice raising enough to attract a few looks from the people nearby. “Mine. Not yours. Go.”

Seokjin shouts. Shouts often, in fact. A drama queen if one ever existed. But Seokjin doesn’t shout at you. Not like that. One last wary glance between your friend and the demon at his shoulder, and you’re back at your desk wondering what in Heaven just happened.

723 BC

March 10th. 6:42am. Cold. Uncomfortably so, but perhaps that’s just the vibe in the room.

Seokjin doesn’t notice you’re back. But then he is fast asleep in his chair, several empty bottles at his feet. There’s drool running down his chin.

“Wake up,” you say. The miracle helps him along with stirring. You’re impatient this morning. He blinks awake, and upon seeing you standing above him, he groans.

“M’too drunk for this righnow.”

“Then sober up.”

Seokjin scowls and slurs in an accusatory tone, “you took my miracles, remember? You’ll hav-to wait for me to do it the human way.” He’s very green. “Pass me a bucket won’t you, m’gonna be sick.”

You arch an eyebrow, thoroughly disgruntled, and he groans louder as the alcohol dissipates from his bloodstream.

Now sheepish, Seokjin straightens up awkwardly. He doesn’t look at you.

“I don’t care for the way you treated me last night,” you begin.

Seokjin nods.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“I also don’t care for your meeting with demons.”

Seokjin shifts awkwardly, rubs at his forehead, but the apology you expected is noticeably absent.

You suck in a breath. “Aren’t you going to explain?”

He nudges one of the bottles on the ground with his toe, watching it turn on its side, letting the silence hang heavy around you.

After a minute, you can’t bear it any longer. “Seok-”

“Can’t you see I’m miserable?” he cuts in.

You sigh. “Well, yes I had noticed.”

You know it’s been a long time since he’s been home, there’s bound to be some apprehension about returning. But you’ll be there too. You’ve got sway with the committee now that you’ve been “putting in the work” with the banished angels, you can put in a good word for him, get him into a position that gives him more freedom to visit Earth now and then. You explain all this, but Seokjin shakes his head, but apparently that wasn’t a good idea because he holds it in his hands and groans.

“Angel, you don’t get it,” he snaps. “Why would I want to go back? Back to that place where they only give a shit about one corner of the world-”

“That’s not true-” you interject.

“It is true,” Seokjin insists. “The past four-thousand years it’s been Jerusalem this, Jerusalem that. Bethlehem and Jordan and Egypt.”

“They’re great places!”

“Yes, but everywhere else is great too. What makes one place better than the rest? What was the point of making all of this beauty if the one book of any importance doesn’t talk about it? If it’s just going to be gone-” He snaps his fingers. “-in two thousand years. All anyone goes on about is Noah, and Abraham, and Joseph and his stupid fucking coat! What is the point of me? Of us?”

“It’s in the plan-”

“Oh- who cares about a coat? What could the plan possibly say about that?” Seokjin is standing now, red faced and pulling at his hair. “What about these people?” He’s raising his voice again. “These people here? The people on the other side of the world? Where are their stories? Why isn’t anyone writing about them?”

“They will!”

“When?”

You don’t know. You don’t know anything.

“When it’s significant!”

“Isn’t everyone significant? Isn’t that the point?”

Yes. Yes and no. They’re obviously significant to each other, but not necessarily in the grand scheme of things. Seokjin doesn’t like that answer. His frown deepens when you suggest his faith is being tested.

“That was the stupidest idea they could’ve come up with,” Seokjin rants. “the notion of testing and tempting. No one can live without breaking one of these ridiculous made up rules or else our souls be damned for eternity. What’s the point? Be miserable for your entire life or be miserable for eternity. Can’t anyone enjoy anything without worrying for their immortal soul?”

“I don’t like this conversation,” you say.

“Of course you don’t,” says Seokjin bluntly. “Makes you uncomfortable, does it? You know I have a point and you don’t like thinking badly of our Heavenly Mother.”

You frown. “I’m not thinking badly of Her. It’s just- I don’t know. I don’t like it when you make me question things. We’re made to obey.”

Seokjin scoffs. His eyes are so unusually cold. “I don’t want to obey.”

Your breath catches.

“What are you saying?”

Seokjin hesitates. There’s a moment where you think he won’t say it, but then - “I hate it up there, Angel,” he says, and your throat goes dry and tight and uncomfortable as you remember the way the demon’s tongue rolled around the word angel, how it’s so different from the way Seokjin addresses you. You recognise the demon now, know him for exactly who he is and what he did to your friend. Leviathan, Prince of the Seraphim, tempting mankind and angels alike into heresy.

“You can’t seriously want to join their side?”

Seokjin’s face goes tight. “Of course I don’t. I want to be on my own side.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare at one another.

“I’m not going back,” he says, brows knitting together.

“You have to.”

“Angel-” he says it gently, with a tenderness so at odds with the way he spoke only moments before. “I can’t. I won’t be a hypocrite.”

“No-” you shake your head, reaching out and taking his hands in yours. He stares at you, confused by your insistence and your tears threaten to spill over. “Seokjin you don’t understand- if you don’t go back, they’ll know, they’ll kill you for defecting-”

“They can’t-”

“They can,” you insist. “Holy fire.”

Seokjin pales.

“You haven’t got your miracles. You can’t survive it.”

He drops your hands. Sinks into the chair behind him and stares blankly at the wall.

“Come back when you’re called, Seokjin,” you say, resolute. “For my sake.”

His eyes flit to meet yours.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” you say desperately, but you don’t know who you’re trying to convince at this point. It might be your home but Seokjin has never liked the way it’s run. But he’ll be safe, and that’s what matters. “I’ll help you.”

Seokjin smiles weakly. “Alright, Angel.”

“Another thing I don’t care for is the way you’re calling me Angel.”

“Why?”

You reach out, pick a loose thread from the shoulder of his tunic. “It implies we’re too different.”

“Aren’t we different?” he says.

He’s not looking at you. Instead his absent gaze is turned into the empty fireplace, staring at the ash left over from the night before.

“Not in that sense.”

Seokjin’s lips twist in a way that silently says not yet.

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