5 HCs AU: When Sita Tries To Call Upon Bhumi Devi To Swallow Her Up, Nothing Happens.

Most shows with overpowered supernatural characters always try to come up with elaborate excuses to explain why the characters can’t just magic themselves out of every situation. Good Omens doesn’t really do that, but you don’t really question it because you completely buy that these morons are so unequivocally incompetent that they straight up forget that they have the powers of fucking demigods. They’re like high-level d&d characters who only use the same three moves and have completely forgotten about the 73 magic items sitting in their inventory. 

Okay which one of you is going to write the Ineffable Husbands college professor AU with the extremely sweet and over-sharing professor fawning over their spouse and the standoff-ish secretive professor who reveals absolutely nothing about their private life who turned out to be married?

They actually stopped the plot in episode 3 to show us for thirty minutes how obsessed with each other Crowley and Aziraphale are that is an actual thing they did

tropes i will never get tired of

fake dating

omniscient narrator who immediately contradicts the characters (“This is fine,” she said. It was, in no way, shape, or form, fine.)

deadpan jokes while swordfighting

the “I FUCKING LOVE MY WIFE” guy

oblivious pining that slowly escalates until A is going on page rants about how pretty B’s eyes are but still doesn’t seem to recognize they’re in love

Strong Leader Type having to physically fall down in order for the other characters to see how exhausted they are

funny villains who talk and make jokes with their heroes while they’re fighting them

the villains presented as the protagonists

*increasingly pulls out bigger and bigger weapons from more unlikely places*

“I said all of your weapons” *pulls out more*

“ALL OF THEM” *pulls out one last tiny dagger*

traumatized character using humor to cover up ptsd

characters going out for a break at a restaurant/movie/whatever and something bad happening

using the “*gasp* what’s that over there???” trick to avert the enemy’s attention and it working

a villain’s weakness being something totally random and nonsensical

a hero duo arguing over who’s the sidekick while fighting a villain

“don’t be silly, we don’t need [important thing]”  “you lost it, didn’t you?”  “yeah”

“what’s the one thing I told you not to do tonight?”  “raise the dead”   “and what did you do?”  “raised the dead”

“I think that went pretty well” *explosion in the distance*

Baahubali Summertime Challenge 6 - Milana ~

Baahubali-Lion King parallels

@teambaahubali

(And yes, this probably fits better as a meta but I assume the cross over universe thing works too?)

I AM SO FUCKING EMOTIONAL ABOUT THE HAND TOUCH IN PRIDE AND PREJUDICE YALL

LOOK AT HIS THUMB. YOU CAN SEE HOW HE HESITATES AS HE’S LOWERING IT. GOD THERE’S THREE SPOTS THAT HE JUST STOPS BEFORE HE FINALLY LAYS IT ACROSS HER FINGERS OKAY? OKAY. I’M NOT OKAY. I’M NOT OKAY WITH THIS AT ALL.

HER THUMB IS RIGHT ABOVE HIS INDEX FINGER. IT’S NOT CURLING AROUND HER FINGERS LIKE HIS MIDDLE AND RING FINGERS ARE. IT IS BEING PUSHED BY HER.

HIS MIDDLE AND RING FINGERS GENTLY. TENDERLY. CURLING AROUND HERS. HIS HAND IS LIKE TWICE AS BIG AS HERS AND HE’S PROBABLY A LOT STRONGER THAN HER BUT IN. THIS. FUCKING. INSTANT. HE’S SO FUCKING GENTLE. HE’S NOT SEIZING HER HAND (EVEN THOUGH HE COULD) HE’S CARESSING HER HAND LIKE IT’S MADE OF FUCKING SILK AND HE ISN’T DRAGGING IT DOWN OR AWAY FROM HER HE’S LITERALLY LIFTING IT UP I’M GONNA SCREAM.

(His pinky finger is being like “lol what’s going on here” but whatever).

IN CONCLUSION I NEED TO RUN INTO AN EMPTY FIELD AND SHRIEK FOR HOURS ABOUT THIS.

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

G for Krishna?

Grass

His mother despairs of the stains it leaves on his clothes, but Krishna knows there is no more wonderful smell in the world, nothing better to feel against his fingertips.

Gentle

Calves’ hearts are won by kindness rather than cruelty, and so are those of men: ministers exclaim at his skill at diplomacy, and Krishna thinks that it is only common sense.

Guile

Red-blooded warriors may mock his cunning and cowardice, calling him Ranchod; but if one man more will survive for it, he cannot bring himself to mind.

Guide

He leads the way for Arjuna, for Yudhisthira, for Parikshit after him–and there are none to lead the way for him. 

Green

Yellow is the color he loves best, but when he closes his eyes, it is green he sees: the grasslands of Vrindavan, open to him once more.

A thought piece.