29 Adorable Animals With Rare And Interesting Markings (x) 

like a prayer for which no words exist

[Read here on AO3]

There are places [1] Crowley likes to go when it all gets to be a little much, like a snake seeking a hole for refuge from a storm. That Aziraphale is the storm is surprising, or maybe not surprising at all. These places are holy - lowercase h - in that they are undisturbed, protected, and treasured. A reprieve. An indrawn breath before drowning. They are places Crowley goes that Aziraphale does not visit. That’s not to say that the angel doesn’t know where they are, simply that he does not go where Crowley does not ask for him.

[1] A rooftop garden in New York City. A cozy nook inside St. Paul’s. A patch of red dirt outside Tuscon, Arizona. An old iron bench just outside Kensington Gardens. The bosom of Eden.The edge of the World. Others, dozens maybe, that Crowley knows by feel and not name.

He’s in New York two days after the Apocolypse-That-Wasn’t, high up in a humid class cage full of shivering plants that know both fear and reverence. The Orchids have become fussy in his absence refusing to stand straight out of pure defiance. The English Ivy, the oldest, grows thick and lovely in creeping vines along the ceiling and walls. It almost seems to sigh at Crowley as he brandishes a pair of shears menacingly at the disobedient Orchids.

“Not you as well,” Crowley sneers, shaking the shears at the wall, “I won’t hear it.”

In the corner a Snake Plant shakes almost fondly. Crowley hisses, terrible yellow eyes drawn into slits, and it stops moving, its tall leaves stretching skyward as if in surrender. Crowley clicks his tongue and goes back to fussing with the Orchids.

“Don’t know why I even bother. I should just bin the lot of you.”

He does not. Crowley has known these plants for a long time. He takes a seat on the floor amongst empty pots and potting soil, dirt on his hands and smudged along a sharp cheekbone because he allows it to be. There’s something satisfying about the mess. He wonders, vaguely and quite without meaning to, if that is how She feels about Her Creation. Crowley snarls and kicks out at the leg of a table. It wobbles, the pots atop it shuddering with the force, before going still.

An impossible Honeysuckle bush in the opposite corner blooms for him, sickly sweet in her smell. The orchids finally stand upright, maybe sensing the shift in their Master’s mood or maybe just tired of being contrary. Crowley is no longer looking at them, however. His eyes have drifted up, through the English Ivy curling sweetly along the ceiling, where gray skies hang fat and heavy in the sky. The rain starts first as a light pat and, as Crowley watches, works its way to a torrent. Between this and the overwhelming smell of sweet Earth, Crowley can almost fall asleep.

It’s tempting, and Crowley does love temptations. A hundred year nap after The-End-That-Almost-Was feels well deserved, but Aziraphale gets dreadfully worried if Crowley is gone for too long. He’s startled by a creeping vine tangling around his ankle. He shakes his leg. “Off with you, you annoying little bugger.”

The vine squeezes once before letting go and all at once Crowley misses Aziraphale so dearly it makes his stomach ache. In a wild fit of temper he reaches for an empty pot to throw and smashes it against the wall.

smash

Then another-

smash

And another-

smash smash smash

Until he is left empty and the wall of Ivy is bruised.

Crowley moves then, shaking, standing to shove the table aside with less care than it deserves, cutting his feet open upon broken terra cotta. He rests a hand, gently now, on the Ivy and pulls away green fingers like he’d made it bleed. He puts his hand to the wall again, burying his hand amongst the leaves and pushes . “Dreadfully sorry old chap.” Crowley says and feels the Ivy pulsate around his fingers. [2]

[2] Long ago Aziraphale had given Crowley a little cutting of Ivy from the side of his bookshoppe. “Perhaps you can take up gardening,” the angel said wryly. The Ivy had pulsed in Crowley’s hand then as well, like it was trying to hold him.

Crowley untangles his fingers from the Ivy and it shivers once before stilling. He moves the table back into place and waves a hand dismissively at the floor, clearing the pots. The storm outside rages on and he paces, leaving bloody footprints along the concrete. The garden suddenly feels stifling and Crowley leaves without a word, letting the door clap closed behind him.

Keep reading

I feel like you’ll appreciate this photo I took several years ago when I was in school of a raven getting spooked by something in the bushes

Oh, he’s not my friend. We’ve never met before. We don’t know each other.

I’m convinced this is the moment Crowley fell in love.

Suenhiel

Find your REAL Angel name

• First two letters of your last name • First vowel of your first name • Third letter of your middle name (or parent’s first name if you don’t have a middle name • Last consonant of your last name • Add IEL or EL to the end!

ok universe, i’m ready to feel good things. make me feel good things.

In 2009, the attorney general for the island state of Tasmania stated that Australian wallabies had been found creating crop circles in fields of opium poppies, which are grown legally for medicinal use, after consuming some of the opiate-laden poppies and running in circles

In case anyone is wondering, here is what said crop circles look like.

(Fact Source)

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OH MY GOD! This is amazing!!

nobody was impressed with this cause they thought it was a photo so i spent like 50 hours painting it for nothing

Three holidays Krishna loves and one he hates (or vice versa)? - Really, I am so, so glad you're doing this again, Avani Di. I adored the prev. ones!

1. “Sometimes,” says Balarama, with what little dignity he can manage considering his ears are currently dyed bright green, “I think you only like this blasted festival because it gives you leave to cause as much trouble as you please.”

“Happy Holi, dau,” chirps Krishna in response, and salutes him with another handful of crimson powder to the face. 

2. To be certain, Yasodha thinks, her son seems to defer to the Great God, as much as he does anyone, but even that does not lessen her suspicion that he only piously parrots a desire to celebrate Sivaratri as the god intends to have an excuse to stay out as long as he pleases, indulging his wildness. 

3. Krishna does enjoy the Govardhana pujas that follow in place of Indra’s sacrifices, as the self-satisfied expression on his face suggests, but only Radha thinks to ask why.

“Because,” he says, and there is hope burning in the back of his eyes, “it tells me I can change what does not please me.”

&1. On the ninth day of Chaitra, the prince of the Vraj always wakes with a long-dead mother’s name on his lips, a lifetime of memories that hold no meaning for anyone but himself. 

It is only a day like another now. He has no reason to think it different than any other. He will not, ever again.