rare pictures of crowley that I love because I love him and I love him a fucking lot and did i mention that I love him? yeah did you know i adore him? that i am besotted with him? that i am head over heels for him? that i am smitten by him? that he has bewitched me body and soul? did you know that? i think I failed to mention that. he has my entire heart. yknow?
yeah
i just want to grab his face and give him a big smooch. I want to brush his hair. i want to plant kisses all over his freckled cheekies. I want to read him a bedtime story. I want to fuck him until hes crying i want to wrap him up like a demon burrito and feed him soup. I want to wrap my arms around him and cradle his head to my chest and stroke his hair and rock him like a baby. I want him to shag me silly on the hood of the bentley I want to kiss his hands and paint his nails black i want to snuggle up to him at night and hold him and hear his heartbeat i want to tie him up and make him beg i want-
my sweet snake demon baby boy princess queen blorbo pathetic wet cat sweet cheese good time boy
id die for him. id die a million times over. id live for him. id kill for him. id bleed for him.
Rare pictures of Crowley? May I add some of my favourites? I realise I couldn't love him as much as you do 😁 but he does hold a special place in my heart.
EXCLUSIVE: First image of Michael Sheen in the film.
Film Seekers boards Welsh UFO comedy-drama ‘Out There’ ahead of Edinburgh film festival launch
EXCLUSIVE: Film Seekers has boarded worldwide sales rights on Simon Ryninks’ comedy-drama Out There.
The film will have its world premiere at Edinburgh International Film Festival next month.
Out There follows a rebellious 16-year-old in a small Welsh seaside town who becomes convinced that a mysterious UFO sighting holds the key to her father’s disappearance.
Newcomers Nerys Amber Stocks and Tom Moya lead the cast, which also includes Michael Sheen, Aneurin Barnard, Iwan Rheon, and Alice Lowe.
The film is Ryninks’ debut feature, produced by Tibo Travers of Sweetdoh Films and Katie Dolan of Bad Cat. It was developed by the BFI, with Film Cymru Wales and the TIFF Filmmaker Lab. Backing comes from the BFI, Ffilm Cymru Wales, the Welsh government via Creative Wales and the Arts Council of Wales.
“With its nostalgic take on UFOs feeling timelier than ever and an excellent ensemble cast, this is a charming, eccentric and heartfelt story that will appeal to all the family and a title that will really resonate with buyers,” said Ethan Cross, sales and acquisitions executive at Film Seekers.
piggybacking off this post by @aduckwithears: what if the bookshop was noah's ark 2.0, but for everything?
what if they end up in the shop after everything has been erased, only this time crowley thinks: was the place always this big? it’s more of a maze than he remembers, now that he’s properly looking. rows and rows of shelves twisting and turning in a dozen labyrinthine directions. staircases spiraling up to nowhere. hallways branching off the foyer like tree roots, that’s new.
aziraphale emerges from the bowels of the shop, successful in his quest for cocoa. a warm drink at the end of all things, how painfully british. as far as crowley can tell, nothing has survived; not the earth, or alpha centauri, or any distant stars and nebulas clinging to the skin of the universe. not even light, the fastest, most fundamental thing in all of creation. but somehow, fortnum & mason has. somehow, aziraphale’s chintzy mug embossed with the words HOT STUFF in blazing cherry red above a little cartoon devil has.
“don’t ask,” he says, pushing it into crowley’s hands.
crowley opens his mouth, several questions and a taunt or two already lined up in the wings— and that's when he sees it.
oh.
that’s definitely new.
“angel.”
“it was a gift, if you must know, white elephant gone horribly, horribly wrong, and then i couldn’t bring myself to donate it, one can never have too much drinkware—”
“aziraphale, shut up a moment, would you, and look.”
to the angel’s credit, he shuts up and looks.
memory is a funny thing, unreliable, easily eroded. crowley would have sworn, cross his char-blackened heart, that the tree was taller. in his mind, the branches extend like reverent hands towards the heavens, heavy with fruit, wide and green and swallowing up the whole sky. he is very small, beneath it.
aziraphale’s hand finds his shoulder. “oh.”
“yeah.”
“well, that’s…certainly a design choice. did we…?”
“who else? we’re all that’s left.” but no, that’s not quite right. the dickens. crowley scoops it up, flips it open, then keeps flipping, eyes dancing over pages that are no longer empty.
next to him, aziraphale frowns into his mug. “but how? if this is some sort of, of…cosmic leg-pull, i confess i’m failing to see the—” his face goes blank, then lights up like a christmas tree, a study in giddy. “oh! oh, of course. even the dickens.”
“it was you.” crowley takes his time with the words, feeling each one rush through him. an equal yet opposite kind of flood. “you named him, and it brought him back.”
they gaze at each other, stunned.
“we need more books,” says crowley, at the same time that aziraphale declares, “we need more cocoa.”
and so it goes. they start with the classics, squabbling over semantics (“for the last time, crowley, twilight does not count. i don’t care how many copies were sold worldwide.”) they brave the jeffrey archers. they pore over encyclopedias, scraping their teeth on words like lithospheric mantle, reveling in the euphony of sonoluminescence. and something peculiar starts to happen, a sort of field of dreams situation.
people start happening.
they’re the only thing that could, really. if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, does it matter? the tree was there; the knowledge was there. it was real. it existed, in spite of. because of. what use does humanity have for a book that tells them, yes, you can be, i will allow it, i will permit it. we create our own mythos, simply by living, by looking at the rorschach blob and finding joy in the mess, beauty in the mundane. you’ve seen the post: forty-thousand years ago, humans stenciled their handprints on the wall of a cave, and this morning, my niece learned to fingerpaint.
so yes, people start happening. friends curl up in the shop’s back room, trashing oprah’s book club pick of the month. lovers spin in a slow circle beneath the oculus as fred astaire croons from the gramophone. someone brings up the duct-taped banana (“how fucking pretentious. anyone could do that shit.” “yeah, but they didn’t. this dude did. in this essay, i will—”), and someone else says, have some art nouveau, maybe you’ll calm down, and the far atrium is suddenly a tribute to klimt, bursting with geometric golds and ornamental greens. in the foyer, a young man teaches amateur card tricks from a folding table that aziraphale will swear up and down isn’t his; the tag on his jumper reads, hi, my name is josh. here, a neolithic wheel. there, a 7th-century chaturanga board. paul blart: mall cop, wedged between the self-helps and memoirs. people begetting creation begetting people, an ouroboros of abracadabra, creating as they speak, until the bookshop is overflowing with it. bursting at the seams with humanity. the world is remade here, in the gaps between stanzas of that shitty poem you wrote when you were twelve, in the canned laughter on your best friend’s favorite sitcom. i am trying to get the seas back on the maps, where they belong. i am trying to love the world back to normal. we survive through storytelling, that ineffable collision of necessity and ingenuity, anchoring the world like the roots of a great tree. we tell stories to remind ourselves that we are alive. we are here.
slowly but surely, the void beyond the bookshop’s windows begins to brighten. human hands stitch the universe back together. and a small eternity later, crowley and aziraphale pull the stream of time around themselves like a cocoon, and rest.
“there’s nothing to forgive, you know,” crowley says. “i know i was flippant about it before, but the truth is— we were both a little bit right, in the end. weren’t we?”
“and a little bit wrong,” aziraphale agrees.
there is sunlight, their time-adjacent bubble. it catches in aziraphale’s cloud of curls, limning him in gold. not a halo, but a frame. the contour of a face and form freely chosen. every day for the rest of our lives, we’ll get to choose, crowley will think, the realization settling just behind his ribs. how about that.
he sees it, the moment aziraphale realizes it too.
“actually i take it back.” crowley grins, and the space between them contracts, then shrinks, a star collapsing. “yeah, i’d like an apology for the pointy teeth. my culture’s not your costume, angel.”
aziraphale’s smile is luminous. “crowley. beloved.”
“hm?”
“shut up a moment, would you, and kiss me. properly, this time.”
“such hard work,” says crowley, and he does. there might be supernovas. maybe another big bang. nobody is around to see it, celestial, infernal, or otherwise, but that’s alright. it exists, it has always existed. here, in the kitchen, loving the world. steadfastly loving.
Somewhere Anathema Device caught a glimpse of something in Agnes Nutter’s second book of prophecies, gasped, pulled it out of the fire, got Newt to drive at top speed down the M25 (somehow magically free) dashes into Soho, runs into the bookshop, slams the book down on the counter in front of Aziraphale and Crowley and screams
‘Don’t you two FUCKING dare!’
And leaves.
Several large coffees, bottles of wine and a pile of Eccles cakes and a very long reading and interpretation session later Crowley sits back.
‘Beelzebub and Gabriel, huh? Did not see that coming.’
‘Never mind that, dear,’ Aziraphale says, as he continues carving symbols onto the floor. ‘There. That should do it. The Metatron can’t get in here now.’
‘And you?’ Crowley asks delicately. Aziraphale stands up and primly clasps his hands across his stomach.
‘I have no intention of going up to heaven under any circumstances and especially not now I know how it ends.’ He says. It’s his I Will Not Be Moved tone. Crowley knows it well. He is reassured.
‘Well, maybe pop up and get Muriel. But after that we seal up that lift, agreed?’ Crowley adds.
‘Agreed.’
‘Excellent. Dinner at the Ritz called for I think, to celebrate a very lucky escape. Coming, Angel?’
‘One thing…’ Aziraphale says, and Crowley notices the cheeks of his Angel have gone a little pink, and he is turning that ring on his finger round and round. ‘Prophecy number 547.’
‘547? Was that the one with the butterflies the size of giraffes?’
‘It was not,’ Aziraphale says.
Crowley takes a step closer. He always did enjoy this bit of the temptation, although he was not quite sure who was being tempted right now.
‘Ah, the one with the Welsh Choir serenading the Kraken with excerpts from popular musicals.’
‘No, not that one either.’ Aziraphale appears to have flushed a deep red.
Crowley takes a step closer now. He can feel it - the tingle in his fingers and on his lips.
There’s another first time coming. To add to the Wall, and the Temptation of the Ox Ribs and the Rescue of the Books and all those other first times that have led them step by step to this place.
A first time they had in any timeline, but this would their first time - they, Aziraphale and Crowley in this world, their world.
‘Oh, I know, the one with the crystal the exact size and shape of…’
‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale snaps. ‘You know which one I mean.’
‘Oh,’ Crowley says softly. ‘The one where I tell you there’s an us.’
‘That’s the one,’ Aziraphale says, glancing down at the ground. ‘Of course, if you’d rather not, I understand, it’s asking too much, it’s…’
‘Angel,’ Crowley says, and he steps forward, taking off his glasses, and looks down at his angel, his enemy and ally, his closest friend. His love since he knew what love meant. ‘We have always been an us. We don’t need a prophecy for that.’
And Aziraphale, a soft and gentle angel, not a soldier or a leader, becomes a hero for that moment, and clasps Crowley’s collar and pulls him in for a kiss.
It was a nice day. It would always be a nice day. There would always be a bookshop, and later a garden. Nightingales would always sing and there would be many many kisses to follow that first kiss.
If I want you heart to be thrown into a whirlpool do read this absolute classic and one of THE best fanfics made in this fandom, The False and the Fair
If you EVER think Anthony Head is anything less than an angel then you’d best remember that I have always been a huge fan of his and we’ve always had a little contact over the years and he heard I’d come out as Trans and was having a hard time and that I was kind of sad that the photos I had from conventions with him were of me with long hair and no binder and they were all signed to “Sarah” and so he invited me to spend the day with him at his farm and he picked me up from the station and we just hung out and had lunch and he insisted on paying and took loads of photos and had them printed on photo paper the same day so he could sign them to Jay, along with other photos of him as Giles and Uther and he literally spent five hours chatting with me and got all of the pronoun stuff right every time and then he dropped me off at the station, gave me a final massive hug, waved me through the ticket barrier and insisted I message him when I got home so he knew I got back safe. (More HERE)
I keep seeing this reblogged intermittently, despite it being over a year old now, and I guess Mothering Sunday is as good a day as any to give an update, so here goes: Since this happened we kept in touch, and he and his wonderful partner Sarah have become my surrogate parents, in fact, I just finished talking to Sarah about the mothers day present I got her today.
Tony and Sarah have spent the last year supporting me in every imaginable way. They are there for me whenever I need them and it is amazing to be part of such a wonderful family, even if it’s not by blood. Plus, I’ve never had anyone as proud of me as Anthony is, I won an award for my performance poetry, and he put photos of my trophy on his facebook and twitter pages, raved about how incredible it was and wouldn’t stop telling me how proud of me he is.
They are always there for me, if I need advice, or just a coffee and a chat. And I am so proud, and so happy, and so amazed, to know them, to be loved by them, and to love them. What I thought was a one-off event became the beginning of a new chapter in my life. They have become my family, somehow, and I wouldn’t change that weird turn of events for the world.
