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December 28, 2012
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(Contains: sexual themes)
He likes the dirtiness of the way they fuck; in forgotten corners and abandoned crannies, shreds of soggy cardboard around their feet and sullen rust leaving fingerprints on their backs, memories of old blood and older tears spattered on the hands that pull and grasp and scratch and hold.

So human. So hungry.

Ligur has never been bothered that they don't remember what they were like before they Fell. Hastur thinks Ligur must have been a putto—one of those fluffy-feathered child angels scattering luck and love with every pit and pat of their chubby feet, all innocence and guile at once—until he grew up, fell down and got back on his feet with the mud of the Pit holding down his wings.

If he's unusually honest with himself, Hastur doesn't think about it much either, most of the time. Memories are for people who can afford to be sad.

He thinks about it in those times, though, when they're inside instead, in bed instead, under a threadbare stolen quilt. Once in Russia it had been a bearskin coat great enough for the two of them. (They'd hated Russia—all the biting cold and pious old women—though it gave them a good excuse to keep each other warm.) In those times they're quieter, sometimes almost silent. Their movements and the sound of breaths they can't keep back are the only thing that gives them away to the empty air, and when Hastur does think he realizes how small Ligur's hands are as they slip between his legs or over his shoulders; how soft his legs as they curl and cross and spread under his palms; how round the curve of his spine when it's over as it always is and they're lying against each other trying to adjust to being two separate beings once more.

And then, in that dangerous quiet, he wonders what it is they're doing there. What it is they've become.

But then Ligur will turn his face up and grin—that deceptively boyish face, almost cartoonish behind the cynical lines it's set in—and lay his mouth over Hastur's. The taste of flecks of ash will bring back memories of the cigarettes they'd finished off like self-destructive chocolates, getting drunk on the back-alleyness of themselves and everything around them, and he'll know—

It doesn't matter where they were before.

Only where they've been since then.
Good Omens

Hastur/Ligur, which is actually not a pairing I particularly ship (if anything I take it for granted, because it, like Aziraphale/Crowley, is everywhere and therefore practically canon).

Still kind of enjoy writing for them, though.

This version edited, thanks to a very nice critique. :)

Characters Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman




EDIT: Okay, I hate to ask this, but if you wish to favorite, could you at least leave a comment? I'd like to have some constructive criticism, or at least know what I did okay on.

:iconcommentplz:
:iconliliwrites:
Hello! :wave:

I found your piece in the critiquables section and decided to leave some feedback for ^Beccalicious' 12 Days of Critmas competition. :iconsantalaplz:

I do not know exactly what you want critiqued, so I will go ahead and leave some general thoughts then do a quick line by line for specifics. Please remember that critique is subjective, which means you should use or ignore my advice as you see fit! Also, please ignore the star rating. I give all writing the same mid-grade at the stars are inadequate for measuring lit.

Disclaimers done! Let's dig in. :)

General Thoughts
:bulletpurple: I have not read the original material for this story, so I'm basically critiquing this as a stand-alone piece with no knowledge at all of who these characters are, aside from the hints given that they're fallen angels from heaven.
:bulletpurple: What caught my attention was the opening paragraph. It was brilliantly detailed. Great hook!
:bulletblue: I think you have some big areas where run-on sentences confuse the story, though. Particularly I am thinking of the third paragraph, but I will cover as much of that as I can in the line-by-line.
:bulletblue: There are some areas where the POV gets a little confusing, too. This happens a lot when there are two male perspectives. More in the line-by-line.
:bulletblue: The last two lines are also confusing. I think you mean them to read: "It doesn't matter where they are. Only where they've been." As it is now, you're basically creating an illogical statement because "where they were" is grammatically the same as "where they've been". See what I mean?

Line-by-Line

He likes the dirtiness of the way they fuck [For a punchier opening, I'd revise to: He likes the dirty way they fuck which cuts out a prepositional phrase. Prep phrases tend to be unnecessary and make your writing wordier than it needs to be, so I always go through and strike them out where I can.] ; in forgotten corners and abandoned crannies, shreds of soggy cardboard around their feet and sullen rust leaving its [it works just as well without the possessive.] fingerprints on their backs, memories of old blood and older tears spattered on the hands that pull and grasp and scratch and hold, so human. So hungry. [I think it might work better to make "so human" a fragment the same way "so hungry" is because it breaks the flow from the preceding thought and creates a good cadence leading into the next paragraph.]

Ligur has never been bothered that they don't remember what they were before they Fell. Hastur thinks Ligur must have been a putto—one of those fluffy-feathered child angels scattering luck and love with every pit and pat of their chubby feet, all innocence and guile at once, [I'd revise this comma to a dash, which completes the interrupting clause with the same punctuating mark you used to start it. That makes the reading of that sentence a little less cumbersome.] until he grew up, fell down and got back on his feet with the mud of the Pit holding down his wings. He [Which he? Whenever you have both Ligur and Hester mentioned, you need to differential who is thinking (or not thinking in this case) because you are writing in third person and using all male pronouns.] doesn't think about it much either, most of the time. Memories are for people who can afford to be sad. [A powerful statement. Good closing for the subject matter of the paragraph, and makes me very curious about the source material! :lol:]

He thinks about it in those times, though, when they're inside instead, in bed instead, under a threadbare stolen quilt or once in Russia a bearskin coat great enough for the two of them (he'd hated Russia, they both had; all the biting cold and pious old women, though it gave them a good excuse to keep each other warm); they're quieter then, sometimes almost silent as the grave, the shifts and breaths they can't keep back the only thing that gives them away to the empty air, and when he does think he realizes how small Ligur's hands are as they slip between his legs or over his shoulders, how soft his legs as they curl and cross and spread under his palms, how round the curve of his spine when it's over as it always is and they're lying against each other trying to adjust to being one being apiece once more.

[This entire paragraph is ONE sentence. :B That made for very confusing reading in the only part of the fic that gives some concrete background detail for these two. So, I've gone through and revised according to my own understanding of punctuation. Here's how it looks:

He thinks about it in those times when they're in bed instead, under a stolen, threadbare quilt. Once in Russia, it was a bearskin coat big enough for the two of them. (They'd hated Russia - the biting cold and pious old women - but it gave them a good excuse to keep each other warm.) They're quieter inside, sometimes almost silent with only the shifting of fabric and breaths they can't keep back giving them away to the empty air. When he does think, it is of how small Ligur's hands are as they slip between his legs or over is shoulders; of his soft legs as they curl and cross and spread under his palms; of the rounded curve of his spine when it is over, as it always is, and they're lying against each other trying to adjust to being apiece once more.]


And then, in that dangerous quiet, he wonders what it is they're doing there. What it is they've become.

But then Ligur will turn his face up and grin—that deceptively boyish face, almost cartoonish behind the cynical lines it's set in—and lay his mouth over Hastur's. He'll [Again, who? In this case, I think "They'll" works since both Ligur and Hastur taste the ash.] taste flecks of ash and remember the cigarettes they'd finished off like self-destructive chocolates, getting drunk on the back-alleyness of them all [who all?] and themselves, and he'll know—

It doesn't matter where they were [are].

Only where they've been.

Wrap Up
:bulletblue: Look out for those run-on sentences and extra prepositions. They scramble up what is otherwise quite visceral writing. :)
:bulletblue: Remember to make sure we're able to follow whose head we are in.

Hopefully something in this is helpful! :) Good luck with future writings.

:heart:
Lili
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:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hello! :wave:

I have used your beautiful deviation as part of my title poem project entry, found here: [link]

Have a great day! :heart:
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:iconcandyexorcist:
candyexorcist Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2013  Student General Artist
Thank you so much! I'm hugely flattered, and I took a look at the poem on my phone and loved it very much indeed. I owe you a review!
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:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Featured By Owner Feb 25, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I'm glad you liked it! :D
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