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cobragardens · 9 months

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Self-Therapy in the Form of an Open Letter to Neil Gaiman and My Fellow Ineffables

Dear Ineffables, and Dear @neil-gaiman

I want to talk about Good Omens for a sec, ok? You are not obligated to listen! But if you want to listen, I have a Thing I need to say. And it's important to me and I have a Tumblr, so you can see where this is headed.

I know Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship, book and show, is primarily about the absurdity and tragedy and miraculousness and contagiousness of being human. I know it's about wanting friendship and cake instead of victory and ashes, and I love that. I know it did not start out as an intentionally or unequivocally queer story, and I know that neither the queerness nor the Christianity is the main theme of S1 or the book. And I think those are all good things: one of the big strengths that makes Good Omens so remarkable and so charming is its lightness of touch.

But Crowley did not start out as a demon, and Aziraphale did not start out as a butter-smooth liar, and they are neither of them the angel the other knew, and there are reasons for that. And S2 starts discussing those reasons, and now Crowley and Aziraphale have shared a very human kiss and have started a more overt phase of their ongoing conversation about what they are to each other. So one of the things we need to talk about is what it’s like to love the wrong person in a world like the world of Good Omens.

And I feel like I have some (very small) amount of expertise in this field. I do not have the skill as a writer to tell you what that was like to grow up Christian and deeply in love with my (also female) best friend in Colorado Springs, Colorado, the evangelical Christian Mecca of the United States. But I did it--or, rather, it happened to me--so I'm the person who has to write about it now.

It was Before Ellen. Homosexual sex was against the law in around half of U.S. states. Only one state (Rhode Island, which I am not convinced actually exists) had a law prohibiting discrimination against LGB people in housing, services, or employment. One U.S. state—my state, Colorado—amended its state constitution to prohibit prohibiting discrimination. Same-sex marriage did not exist. Same-sex couples could not adopt children. Being any flavor of queer could cost you custody in family court of any children you did have.

Queer young-adult novels did not exist. Movies and tv shows with queer characters did not exist unless they were serial killers or dying of AIDS. Safe-sex education did not exist, the LGBTQ section of the bookstore did not exist. Social media did not exist, the Internet was in its infancy (I was typing up papers in AppleWorks on an Apple IIe), smartphones did not exist. Porn was in magazines your friend’s older brother or uncle kept under his mattress.

The guy everybody in school thought was gay got beat up daily. The girls I'm not sure about. I only ever saw two girls/women who were out before I was 28 and met an openly lesbian woman in a university class.

In Colorado Springs, bumper stickers for Colorado for Family Values and Focus on the Family, both headquartered in the city, were common. Crosses and ichthys decals proliferated. There were only a few “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” stickers, but “Marriage = One Man + One Woman," or the same message in Ladies and Gents toilets symbols (with a pair of ladies and a pair of gents crossed out) were a regular sight on the backs of cars every day, every drive, my whole life there.

This was a world where there was one very specific God, who has one very rigid Plan, and whose Agents and Enemies fight each other for the eternal souls of every human being. And every player on the board was clear about this.

I was 12 when my dad and I met two women on a hiking trail and, after we all said hello and they three had chatted a bit and the women had walked on, he asked me if I had "gotten any spiritual witness about them." He told me he suspected they were lesbians.

I was 14 when I burst into tears and shouted at my dad when he spoke viciously of the two gay men who had come into his place of work earlier in the day. He called them “flaming” and “faggots.” I told him we were Christians and we were not hateful about people in that way. I didn’t know what the word faggot meant, not for sure (I picked up the meaning of flaming from his imitations), but I could tell it meant they were people who did awful things, and that he hated them.

I had never seen my dad like that before, hating someone. I had never heard him speak that way about anyone.

I was 16 when I rode in the back seat of our next-door neighbors’ Ford Focus on the way to Bible study and listened to the handsome Christian newlyweds up front discuss how awful it was that gay and lesbian couples were now allowed to adopt children in the state of New Jersey. It was bad, they said, that children could find homes with queer people “because children learn from their parents.”

I was 17 when 2 straight men beat and tortured Matthew Shepard and left him tied to a split-rail fence on the side of a road 3 hours north of Colorado Springs as a warning to the rest of us. A scarequeer.

A joke in poor taste, you may feel, this little pun. It is a pun, but it's not a joke.

One of Shepard’s murderers used the gay panic defense in court. In the U.S. the gay panic defense is one of reduced responsibility: a man cannot be held fully legally responsible for murdering another man if he claims he thought his victim was gay and making a pass at him. Because, under U.S. law, it is considered common for men to go temporarily insane and murder men they think may be gay and making a pass at them. I have rewritten this paragraph five times and that is the absolute least bananas I can make this sound. It is real and it is still a thing.

I was also 17 when Pastor Luis, the head of my church, preached in sermon about a member of the congregation who had fallen in love with another woman. He told us firmly: "She is no longer a lady. She is a lesbian."

He refused to counsel or marry them, services he insisted upon performing for the heterosexual couples among his congregants. He said he told the woman and her fiancee that they and their sin were not welcome in his house of God. He told us, the ones left, that we were not to contact the ejected woman or continue any friendships with her.

It was a small church, only about 60 people. Pastor Luis looked right into my eyes and held the eye contact with me (other peoole turned to look) when he said, "And if you don't agree with that, you are not welcome here either. You can leave now and never come back."

I did. For 10 years after that, I thought God had told Pastor Luis about me. That Pastor Luis had gotten the same "spiritual witness" off me that my dad had gotten off the 2 women we met backpacking. That he somehow knew—that any Christian might know if they listened, if they sniffed carefully enough. The smell of evil, I thought, must linger on me.

I was 18 when I got my first tattoo. My parents were relieved when I told them that’s all it was. "We thought you were going to tell us you were pregnant, or gay," they said.

I was 19 when a trans woman at a coffee shop told me about how she'd been fired as a substitute teacher from the biggest school district in the state. She didn't pass, so she dressed as a man when working. One day she made the mistake of wearing a women's button-down shirt (with the buttons on the left, not the right), and someone noticed and complained.

I was also 19 when my boyfriend's parents became concerned that he might be gay. (He had gotten his ears pierced and dyed his clipper cut pink while away at college.) As Christians his parents were against premarital sexual activity of any kind, including masturbation or sexual desire, so my bf couldn’t tell them how he knew he wasn’t gay, and for over a year they wouldn’t believe him. His mother bought some books from Family Christian Booksellers, the biggest Christian publisher in the U.S., about how as a Christian she should respond to her child’s queerness.

Throw them out, cut them off, and do everything you can to make sure your child starves and suffers, said the books. (I read them all.) Hunger and homelessness were the goal, they advised, but any misery you could cause was helpful. Turn other relatives against them, don't let them take their belongings when they go, cancel phone contracts and insurance plans.

When your child asks for help because they can't support themselves, you can force them to leave their beloved and drop their friends in exchange for survival, said the books. They will either eventually see that you and God are right and loving, and repent of their sin, or you will catch them lying to you and sneaking around, which is proof that homosexuality and other sins go hand in hand.

One book acknowledged that cutting them off would endanger teenagers and young adults and leave them vulnerable to rape, murder, and human trafficking (though it called being trafficked "prostitution"). But Christian parents acting in the name of God's love would not be responsible for the harm their kids suffered, it said: the children were bringing whatever happened to them on themselves as a natural consequence of living a sinful lifestyle.

In fact, said the book, being attacked or abused could be good for your children: if they suffer enough they may realize it’s their gayness that has caused all their problems and repent of their disgusting unacceptable love and desire.

In the United States, LGBT children represent 40% of homeless youth under 18. "Family conflict" is the number-one cause of LGBT youth homelessness.

I was 22 when the pastor of my boyfriend’s church received news that one of his congregants was engaged in a same-sex affair. Extramarital affairs were very common in his church—three of the deacons were cheating on their wives with other (also married) congregants, and my bf’s parents had been swingers —but this was the first and only time the pastor ever called a church member to the altar, outed him by described his sin to the congregation (c. 350), and demanded the man apologize to everyone and ask their forgiveness. The pastor told him that if he did not apologize he and his wife and children were not welcome to continue attending.

I was 23 when I heard that same pastor’s sermon on avoiding sexual temptation. Give up affection if it causes you to sin, he said. Scoop out your own eyes, cut off your own hand. He instructed men only to hug other men side-along, one arm around their shoulders, lest a real embrace cause them to feel sexual desire for another man. (No mention was made about how women should hug, or that women might ever feel sexual desire at all.)

I remember listening to this pastor's sermon and thinking, I know something about this man that he does not know about himself.

I was 24 when I went with my boyfriend to Pulpit Rock Church, seeking answers from the sermon they advertised on their signboard about sex and sexuality and gender. My boyfriend loved wearing women's clothes. Transgender and cross-dressing were just starting to replace transsexual and transvestite as the accepted terms for the things he might be. Nonbinary and genderqueer were not words we had. He wasn’t sure yet which thing he was; the thing he was was still, for us, unspeakable.

"Men are created to be men and women are created to be women," preached the pastor at Pulpit Rock. "Men and women are different in a way that can't be explained, and they fit together in a relationship in a divine way. A man and a man or a woman and a woman may love each other, but they'll never have the spiritual connection of a godly relationship that a man and a woman can have. We don't have to understand it, but we shouldn't question it, because that’s the way God made it."

Then he talked about how he and his wife could both make French toast (or maybe it was pancakes), but the way his wife made French toast was female somehow--ineffably--because she was a woman, even though the French toast was the same. My bf and I left in the middle of the sermon.

I was 25 when Ted Haggard, best friend of Focus on the Family founder James Dobson (of “Spongebob is teaching our kids it's ok to be gay” controversy) and pal of George W. Bush (the POTUS who pursued, in his own words, "a Crusade" in Iraq with the U.S. military to fight the influence of demons "Gog and Magog[…] at work in the Middle East"), was publicly outed. Male escort and Mike Jones—whom Haggard hired to sell him meth and give him happy-ending massages—recognized ‘Pastor Ted’ as the leader of Colorado Springs evangelical megachurch New Life Church, a nationally famous preacher who denounced the evils of homosexuality from his pulpit, and Jones, a big damn hero, tipped off the press.

I had heard Pastor Ted preach twice. New Life Church was a lot like Heaven in Show Omens in that it had a lot of open space and bright fluorescent lighting and smiling well-groomed people in it, as well as several giant digital screens floating in the air to either side of its dais on which the face of the straight-passing white man bringing his people the word of God was projected as he spoke. This latter feature also resulted in a slight resemblance to a Hitler rally, but there was more medium-stained oak in play than either Hitler or Heaven would find tasteful.

I was 26 when I acted as an informal lettings agent for one of my landlord's other apartments and the young Christian woman living downstairs asked me refuse shelter to any gay or lesbian people because she didn't want to have to live in the same building with them.

When I asked her how I was supposed to know whether someone was gay, she said, “Well you can just tell, can’t you?”

I was 30 when I came out to my Christian parents. Having read the Christian parenting books, I was hugely relieved when they didn't throw me out of their house, where I was living after college (and a few major depressive episodes and two global recessions). I was relieved that they wanted to continue to have a relationship with me at all, in fact.

"I still think it's a sin, though," my mother gently reminded me. My father has refused ever to discuss it at all.

I was 31 when I moved to the UK. I've spent 11 years trying and failing to scrape a living in the Thatcher-hollowed market towns around Manchester, under the fucking Tories, through fucking Brexit, through fucking May and fucking Boris and that weird little cabbage Liz Truss, in order to stay out of Colorado Springs. I can't get medical care on the NHS and I can't work or leave my apartment bc I can't get medical care and I can't heat my apartment in winter on Universal Credit and I’ve been threatened and assaulted by doctors and raped by a nurse and I’ve tried suicide a few times, and I'm in some smallish danger of dying here in Britain's left armpit, but I am not in Colorado fucking Springs today, am I. So that's something at least.

I was 41 and living in the UK for a decade when a homophobe with Christian parents shot up the only gay venue in Colorado Springs, Club Q, murdering 5 people and shooting 19 more. I'd been to Club Q a few times, on dead nights, when I lived in the city. The shooting was 24 years after homophobes tied Matthew Shepard to a fence and left him dying as a warning to the rest of us.

I never told my best friend I was in love with her.

Instead I had anxiety dreams in which my subconscious warned me I wasn't safe. In one dream, Not Yet appeared tattooed on the back of my hand as I looked at a female classmate who was dating another girl. I had to wear gloves to hide the rainbow that had appeared, indelible, on my ring finger.

My first kiss was with a (Christian) boy.

I knew what I felt for my best friend was effervescent and golden and breath-stealing. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, knew I wanted to live with her in a little house in the Pacific Northwest in the mist and the trees and make her coffee with a Turkish press anytime she wanted it and cuddle her on the closed porch and gripe about the wool in her sweater prickling my arms when I hugged her. I knew her eyelashes made her eyes look like they had stars in them and that she had the lushest curves and most perfect skin I had ever seen, and that when she smiled or laughed the shape of her mouth made something in me ache like tuning forks must ache when they're struck and made to sing.

I never told my best friend I was in love with her because I didn't know those were the words for what I was feeling.

Not until years later, after she had left my life. I had been told (frequently) by a Higher Authority that queer love was disgusting and ruinous and sinful and ugly and twisted and inferior, not this perfect fragile thing as soft and trembling-alive as a bird in my hands. Why would I think this was queer love?

I didn't catch the worst of it. I wasn't chained to a bed or forced to drink water from a dog dish, like the foster parents of the gay kid in class did to him. (The school asked him to give a talk to our class so they'd bully him less, so he told us about his life as the teachers looked on. He was 12.) I wasn't sent to conversion therapy like one classmate. I didn't spend most of my childhood in Bible School like other devout Christians' children; my family read the Bible a lot, and prayed together, but my parents weren't regular churchgoers. I was so, so lucky.

It destroyed me anyway.

The thesis of my essay runs thus, fellow ineffables: A happy ending for Crowley and Aziraphale is necessary.

It is necessary not just because Bury Your Gays is an overdone trope and an act of homophobia in the hands of straight writers; not just because Good Omens has been crafted with such loving care in both book and show incarnations to be optimistic, even sunny, against a backdrop of Orwellian, cosmic, and Kafka-esque horror; not just because casting miracles of the magnitude of David Tennant as Crowley and Michael Sheen as Aziraphale happen once a generation and it would be a shame and a waste not to write more magic for them to chew on; it is necessary because, in most places here in Shitworld, there are real people having the experience Crowley and Aziraphale are having, and not all of us are able to make happy endings for ourselves.

We don't have ethereal/occult powers or authorial control, so we need stories to show us how to love and when to fight and why to fucking bother. And the harder those things are to see in this world, the more we need those stories. And the more we need people with influence and audience and privilege telling them, not just all us little Tumblr rats and AO3 and Pillowfort perverts.

Crowley and Aziraphale exist in a fascist universe run by the ultimate Authoritarian—not Big Brother, but Big Father. There is nowhere for them to go, not even their own minds, where it is safe for them to love each other openly. I am completely prepared to believe someone in those circumstances could go 6,000 years without realizing the love they feel for their best friend is the kissing kind of love. I know someone can go a whole lifetime without saying it.

The hosts of Heaven and Hell will take away even the words for love when they can. We need people who don't just wield words but the power of the word spreading the message "There is a way to make this work. There is a way to exist. You can make a new world."

Mr Gaiman, I know from reading some of your other work that a big part of your whole Deal as a writer is an ongoing enthusiasm for the immense, even mystical, power stories have to shape individual and shared realities—sometimes to doom people and lock them into a destiny, but as often to let them escape their fate by imagining and conceiving a new way of living, or of living with each other, where none was possible before.

Hate and hope are the result of the stories we tell each other--I know you know this because I know you know that in saying it I am referencing a story you wrote. Like the hate, that hope only exists if an author says it does. And real people’s hearts, real people’s lives, are made and broken by listening to the wrong stories or hearing the right ones.

Crowley and Aziraphale are your characters, and Good Omens is your story to tell. You have written a setup in which, if you want these characters to be able to love each other, you (they) will have to create a world where that is possible. Please write us a romance. Please put enough sweet in with the bitter that we can survive it.

We have such faith in you because you have shown your readers and your audiences that you deserve that faith. Please choose your phrases wisely. ❤️

#good omens #good omens 2 #human rights #Colorado Springs #lgbtq #writing #religion #christianity #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #neil gaiman #stories #ineffable husbands #good omens s2 #trauma #mental illness #tmi #say your right words the goblins said

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shysquiggles · 10 months

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Hi there! Why do you think Aziraphale said "I forgive you" right after their kiss ended? Do you think he was referring to the very act of kissing, i.e. forgiving Crowley for kissing him without his consent? Or did it include a more general conotation, forgiving him for what he said, his general thoughts and behaviour?

Okay, there's a lot to ramble about here, and I think its a ramble because I'm not 100% sold on my own thinking. There's a lot of ways to interpret it (one laying into Aziraphale trying to tap into thje fact that Crowley believes he is 'unforgivable' and so using this to try and resolve things) but I do think it could go another way:

Considering this isn't the first time Aziraphale has used "I forgive you" to respond to Crowley, I'm sure it's basically these gays don't know how to communicate (again).

One of Aziraphale's issues is that, while he is very good at forgiving. he really isn't good at resolving personal emotional conflict. I don't mean all conflict -when there's an issue that the two of them are working to solve together (The apocalypse, Gabriel turning up at the bookshop), they work brilliantly. But the conflict I mean is talking about personal disagreements.

When you are faced with a disagreement from a person you care about, its good to talk things out and try to get both of your feelings on the table. You talk, and then you search for a compromise and a resolution. And at times, for a lot of relationships, things can be said that hurt. It takes time to figure things out, and it can take moments of needing to think. But, you do have to face the bumps in order to move forward and to avoid your relationship from falling apart

Here are the two situations that lead to "I forgive you".

The first season, Crowley was exasperated trying to convince Aziraphale to go with him to Alpha Centauri, but still holding his connections to heaven Aziraphale rejects it. Crowley says, "you're so clever, how can someone so clever be so stupid."

The second season, the two of them couldn't reach a compromised solution and, in a clearly agonised overly emotional kiss (truly trying to express everything going on in his head and heart) Crowley is, once again, making an attempt to convince Aziraphale to stay with him. Before that kiss, Crowley said, "you idiot. We could have been 'us'". He also, fully outright rejected the idea of them going to heaven together.

The two of them, despite regular teasing, hold a high opinion of the other. They are a little unit, and they do have each others backs. They protect one another. Receiving an insult (a genuine comment that hurts or something that may feel like an emotionally-driven act) from a person you hold that dear can really hurt.

Crowley used the words "idiot" and "stupid". Plus, clearly, that kiss left Aziraphale in a state of shock and overwhelm. There were a LOT of emotions coarsing through him at that moment, and you can see him trying desperately to work his way through them as quickly as possible. Ideally, they would give each other time to figure things out. This is the most confrontation they've possibly ever had with one another and it's a lot to process. It's also terrifying that the person you care for most in this world can cause such high amounts of emotion.

But even with all those conflicting feelings, there's one thing that Aziraphale is good at: forgiveness. Even when he thought Crowley was about to kill Job's kids, he said 'may God forgive you'. It's how he handles those bigger emotions. How he handles shame, or guilt, or how he handles a strong difference of opinion

Another way to look at Aziraphale's choice to give Crowley forgiveness in this scenario, is like when someone uses the word "sorry" all the time to fix a conflict or an argument. It's used to swiftly resolve the issue and try to get your relationship back on good terms. But, with time, if the issues don't get resolved or addressed, those sorry's soon lose their meaning and you struggle to forgive and forget. You don't fully address the issue, and you're left still feeling irritated and unsatisfied. Eventually, you probably give up.

Have you ever heard the phrase "sometimes sorry isn't good enough"? Well, maybe the same could be said for forgiveness. Sometimes forgive and forget leaves you stagnant in your situation. And I think that Crowley has heard forgiveness from Aziraphale over and over and over. He's given out his fair share of sorry's, and it's been met with forgiveness. But so has everyone else -he even seems to have forgiven Gabriel who was emotionally abusive to the next level. Aziraphale's forgiveness, being offered to everyone, has less meaning now. Even if, in this last occasion, it meant so much more than the others.

It takes a strong heart to forgive in the heat of the moment, and I'm more than certain it was said out of that. To forgive, despite feeling so much pain and strong emotions from Crowley's actions, is a real show of heart courage and strength. And I do think that this 'forgiveness 'does mean so much more than the others (e.g. compared to Maggie's rent). But from Crowley's pov, it may be hard to see that.

For many of us, the default of wanting to patch it up and make it better is "sorry". For Aziraphale, it's the other end of it: forgiveness. But offering forgiveness after a heated moment like that kiss, rather than talking about it, is stubbornly separating yourself from the conflict, not resolving it.

I'm convinced that Aziraphale didn't want that to make Crowley leave. The little 'no' he mouth's as Crowley walks out clearly means he wanted the other to stay, that he didn't want them to separate. But Crowley doesn't want forgiveness. And like saying sorry, all that saying "I forgive you" did is just end the discussion.

Or I don't know, maybe he was just forgiving him for them breaking up idk my brain hurts from this show I swear

#good omens #good omens spoilers #good omens s2 spoilers #good omens 2 #good omens season 2 #good omens 2 spoilers #go2 #good omens season two #ineffable husbands #honestly I went on about 5 different tangents writing this and changed my mind numerous times lmao #I wanna see other people's theories on it #because saying I forgive you after being kissed is mad #good omens theory #good omens speculation

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charliethebugfan · 10 months

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Hi!

So uhh... I came back :D But I'm not going into details because fuck it.

I'm here, writing this after watching season 2 (two) of "Good Omens".

"Silly little gay people" - Charlie thought to himself right before having a 6 (six) hours watching session and got absolutely obsessed. He was desperately searching for season 2 (two)... And he found it. And now.. he's back with thoughts that absolutely no one asked for. That absolutely no one gives a single fuck about...

A quick introduction

•I will be using any pronouns for all angels/demons unless they have canon pronouns.

•If you notice any spelling mistakes, that I used wrong pronouns for any character etc. please tell me! ^^

•I will be talking about season 1 (one) and 2 (two) of "Good Omens". If you don't want any spoilers, please come back here when you're done with the series.

So yeah...

I will be talking about why I think Aziraphale left. A topic that everyone absolutely ate and left no crumbs for others at this point. Let's get started!

First I wanna take a moment to think about the relationship Crowley and Aziraphale have with heaven. For this post let's just say that heaven is a toxic parent and our dear little boys are their children.

Crowley

So first I'm just gonna explain Crowley's situation quickly. Different people react differently. For example person A will cry because their ex cheated on them, while person B won't give a fuck. Same with our little demon and angel here. God kicked Crowley out for asking questions. She's angry at Heaven. He thinks they're toxic, like they said in episode 6 (six) of season 2 (two). This is the first reaction we have. A kid realises that their parent is toxic and, as they should, they get away from them. They know it's not worth it to actually try and have a good relationship with them because they will never change. On the other hand...

Aziraphale

Aziraphale's reaction to heaven's toxicity is different. When heaven, or angels really but you know, show even a little bit of affection and trust towards her (like metatron did) they go absolutely crazy. They want this affection and love. Like I said before - different people will react to things differently. Also our childhoods can and will affect our lives, even after therapy. It's kinda the thing with Aziraphale and Crowley. But here something else comes in...

Personality

Being an angel and a demon is not the only thing that makes Crowley and Azi different. Their personality is also very important here. Demon always asked a lot of questions undermining absolutely everything. On the other hand Aziraphale never questioned God. I believe it was mainly because of their personality. Or maybe they were "raised" differently? The fact that Aziraphale actually still believed that God's plans were good after all what happened (Noe, Job, wars, more wars, innocent things dying, war between war and hell) is a sign that something's not right. The fact that he was also, don't be afraid to say this, abused by other angels and still came back is a huge flag with "Trauma response" written on it.

What exactly is wrong with heaven?

Well let me tell you! I will dig out every scene in those 2 (two) seasons we got that shows the "bad" side of heaven :)

•Starting off not so strong - Garden of Eden. If God really wanted Eve and Adam to stay, why did she test them? 🤨 If you really want someone to stay you don't do that kind of stuff. Especially that if God knows everything she did know what will happen.

•People killing each other, killing other things. I'm going to say this once and never come back to it because there's just too much of it in the series. Heaven could easily stop this but they won't. Hooray. Onto the next one.

•Armagedon. Do I really have to explain that one?

•Job. God literally was like: "Oh.. yeah sure you can kill his children, goats.. uhh.. what else he has? Geese?". Also let's not forget about leprosy of course. I'm not sure if he had it in the show honestly because I couldn't see anything on his skin. Some stuff were different from the actual Bible so I'm not sure. Feel free to correct me! Still he was attached to his children and they literally were ready to kill them all. Even the precious pot girl :( other 2 (two) sucked tho.

•Noe. I almost forgot about that particular moment where God drowned 99% of living things on earth. Tho not sure because Azi said it was local or something. Still think about all those poor animals and kids. Also fun fact: in the Bible it's literally said, that God got sad and drowned everything. Like it's implemented that he thought of people as a failed experiment.

•Remember when Gabriel told "Aziraphale" to shut up and die already? Yeah. I hated season 1 Gabriel.

•Beating up Aziraphale. So how it was? "Love everyone"? 🤨 Crowley is literally more kind at this point and he's a DEMON.

•Remember when Gabriel told Adam to restart armagedon? 😭 And they get to be the "good" ones? Also that little shit told Adam he's a brat so uh... Yeah.

•Kicking someone out for asking questions or disagreeing with everyone else blah blah blah. TWICE.

•Have I mentioned how they treat Muriel? 🤨

•Of course an attempt to kill demon and angel. You know - normal daily stuff.

I think that's all, but I also have a feeling I forgot about something. Also no, I'm not trying to excuse hell :) just the fact that they call themselves "the good ones" bothers me a bit.

Summary

So why Aziraphale chose heaven over Crowley? Was it the coffee? A lie? Naah. It was probably just a trauma response. Tho lie theory is possible too. I recommend checking it out :) I personally don't believe in coffee theory, but until season 3 (three) we don't really know! Believe in what you think is the most possible. I also probably forgot about something but... Anyway.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens aziraphale #good omens crowley #crowley good omens #aziraphale good omens

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i-likefrogs · 7 months

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Thanks to my dear brother, I just had to think about what would happen if Crowley and Aziraphale had biological children for the last 45min.

The lovely story under the cut

He was actually kinda sweet, he heard me talking about GO, got confused on the nature of C and A's relationship (aren't we all? I dont think even they know) So asked me to explain. I did the best I could, quoted neils "Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it's a love story" line, and this little boy goes "oh cool. So they love each other. What would happen if they had kids???". He then asked several questions (that I didn't have the answers to) and told me his own speculations. I've got some mixed feelings here, cause -

1. He didn't have any issues with them being a gay couple

2. He didn't have any issues with them being genderfluid (cause in his words "Well, one of them would have to be a girl for a bit")

3. He didn't have any issue with gay people having and raising kids

I just..... I had to think about that for far, far longer than I ever would have wanted to.... this is not a train of thought I have ever wanted to go down. Never mind for so much time.... when I didn't have the answers he begged me to ask poor Neil. (No, I will not ask Neil. I'm currently praying to whatever God exists that he never sees this post)

So anyway, I hope you enjoyed this retelling of what occurred during my lunch break. I guess if you've got any ideas, send em my way, cause otherwise he's going to keep begging me to ask someone. Sorry about any trauma this post caused. I.... I'm gonna go finish eating my pizza...

(Also, I want to add, I have no clue where he got this idea from. This is not something I have ever once thought about, never mind talked about. He hopped on this train all on his own. So please don't crucify me or something)

#Griffin goes on #hoping and praying that neil never sees this #or Michael sheen for that matter #we all know hes on here somwhere #good omens #ineffable husbands #the children of the ineffable husbands #why is this my life

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chamomile-creations · 10 months

Text

GOOD OMENS PLAYLIST - CROWLEY EDITION

⤷ A compilation of songs I think fit the Good Omens series and its characters, particularly Crowley. (please someone with talent and skill use these songs for edits i beg you)

⤷ Anyways, welcome to my essay where I overanalyze Queen songs :)

⤷ SEMI SPOILERS FOR S2

════════════════════════════════════════════

▶ LOVE OF MY LIFE

"Love of my life, you've hurt me/ You've broken my heart and now you leave me/ Love of my life, can't you see?/ Bring it back, bring it back/ Don't take it away from me"

Starting out with a bang, this 1975 song by Queen tears at its audience's heartstrings and portrays Crowley's devastation following the confrontation in S2E6. GO fans could interpret this song as Crowley's lament to Aziraphale after the Divorce.

▶ THE GREAT PRETENDER

"Ooh ooh yes I'm the great pretender (ooh ooh)/Just laughing and gay like a clown (ooh ooh)/I seem to be what I'm not (you see)/I'm wearing my heart like a crown/Pretending that you're still around"

More angst for Crowley, unfortunately. Again, I think this song could serve to express Crowley's 5 stages of grief that he will probably go through after Aziraphale leaves him. Crowley is a being of 'conceal, don't feel' yet with Aziraphale, he feels many emotions. This song is him trying to bottle it up but eventually failing to and succumbing to his heartache.

▶ IT'S A HARD LIFE

"Yeah yeah/It's a hard life/To be true lovers together/To love and live forever in each others hearts/It's a long hard fight/To learn to care for each other/To trust in one another right from the start/When you're in love"

Ineffable Husbands angst! This song could be used to portray Ineffable Husbands in both S1 and S2, but I think particularly in S1 as they realize they have to be on their own side against Heaven and Hell. This song could be interpreted as the struggles Crowley and Aziraphale endure with their feelings for one another and about their respective "offices."

▶ LET ME LIVE

"Why don't you take another little piece of my heart?/Why don't you take it and break it and tear it all apart?/All I do is give and all you do is take/Baby, why don't ya gimme a brand new start?"

This song could be applied to two situations: post-Divorce Crowley with his feelings about Aziraphale, OR Crowley's yearning for freedom from Hell. Either way, let my baby boy Crowley free pls.

▶ WHO WANTS TO LIVE FOREVER

"Who wants to live forever/Who wants to live forever/Ooh/Who dares to love forever/Oh oo woh, when love must die/But touch my tears with your lips/Touch my world with your fingertips/And we can have forever/And we can love forever/Forever is our today"

S1 bandstand divorce, perhaps? Crowley's declarations that they could run away before Armageddon destroys Earth, maybe? Wink, wink.

▶ WINNER TAKES IT ALL

"The gods may throw a dice/Their minds as cold as ice/And someone way down here/Loses someone dear/The winner takes it all (takes it all)/The loser has to fall (has to fall)/It's simple and it's plain (it's so plain)/Why should I complain? (Why complain?)"

This ABBA song can be interpreted as expressing Crowley's emotions regarding his Fall from Heaven due to asking too many questions. Whereas the rest of the song implies the loss of a partner to someone else, I think these lyrics in particular can represent Crowley's anti-Heaven and Hell stance, especially when Aziraphale chooses Heaven over him.

════════════════════════════════════════════

That's it, folks. If there are requests for Aziraphale or any other characters/dynamics from Good Omens, please let me know. These were a few songs that I interpreted and connected to the show, though I know there are several others that you should give a listen. (Queen: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy, Crazy Little Thing Called Love, Somebody to Love; Regina Spektor: Two Birds).

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #queen band #abba

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collectedbooks · 5 years

Text

also though when i say aziraphale loves hard, he loves HARD. he loves without regret and without holding himself back. if he loves something or someone, he’s all in, and he’ll talk about it to no end. cringe has no meaning to him, he throws himself 100% into everything he loves and will not back down from it or hide it.

#( headcanons. ) DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO BE A FOOL.#that's why if he and crowley were ever to confess their love to each other it would be so immediate of a change #literally from 'my dear' to 'love of my life apple of my eye my guiding star my light' in the span of a DAY #it's why he's absolutely unashamed of any relationships he has; oscar wilde? he's straight up about it #wears the green carnation and everything #decides that gay is the label that works for him? pride flags out and waving. if he ever changes it later on? just as loud and proud #sushi is good? he'll study up and try all the different types and give recommendations #star wars was a delightful movie? you're gonna HEAR ABOUT IT he has BEHIND THE SCENES KNOWLEDGE #anne rice is a hack? god damn are you gonna hear about it #( i don't have strong opinions on her but AZIRAPHALE DOES )#it's just who he IS. he's passionate and he's unashamed of his passion and unashamed of his ability to love

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Photo

Discredit Part Three! (Click on each pic for something resembling quality!)

Part One---contains translations, podfic, and related works---Part Two

Tagging, credit, and transcript all below the cut 💜

First off, people who specifically asked to see more of this nonsense may God in all Her glory bless you accordingly:

@internet-or-sleep, @just-some-girl-on-the-internet, @readytoocomply, @vocallsama, @fellowshipofthegay, @lucky-leafeon, @alph4centauri, @sumoranges, @diaphanedreams

Aziraphale’s profile pic is courtesy of good old Neil, found here. All others are from Creative Commons.

Sorry it took so long to produce more stupidity. YOU ALL ROCK 🎊🎊🎊 Here, have a messy transcript.

Abdou G.

Have you ever walked in on a conversation and, despite clearly missing the majority of it, feel like you could reconstruct it, word for word if necessary? That happened at Fell’s today. The ‘talk’ had obviously been going on for a while, but I can give you a perfect summary here: rude fuckboy thinks he gets to say who God is, Fell was having none of it.

Best response? Turn around, walk back to your apartment (pro-tip: this only works if you’re just a few blocks away), and change your shirt. I walked back in with my I MET GOD, SHE’S BLACK tee and had the pleasure of seeing Fell do a double-take.

“Yes, thank you, that’s what I’ve been trying to say!”

***

Doug E.

Scout’s honor: I once saw that Crowley dude unhinge his jaw and eat a large pizza in one goddamn bite.

Update: you heathens read about this gay abomination with his dislocated jaw and what you decide to question is whether I was acTUALLY A SCOUT?

***

Mary L.

I came in with my four-year-old last week fully intending to keep him within sight at all times. Yes, I bought one of those kiddie leashes and no, I don’t regret a thing. You try holding down two jobs as a single mom to the bonefide antichrist. I love my boy, but the devil got to him, telling him things like, “Yes, Freddie, permanent marker would look just great on Mum’s only work jacket!”

I said as much to the owner because this mom needs to vent sometimes.

I wish I could give this place a higher rating, but the ownership is frankly terrible. Inconsistent hours, no help when you’re trying to find a book, just basically all around bad customer service, BUT it still gets five stars because when I told the guy I was raising the antichrist?

“Oh yes. I did that myself not too long ago!”

We parents need to support one another. Otherwise the world is going to burn. So here’s a good review for you, Mr. Bookshop Guy. A part of me hopes you’re a better dad than you are a bookseller. The other part? The bigger part? It’s very aware that Ms. Pot here just met Mr. Kettle.

Now if you’ll excuse me, Freddie just got into the flour.

***

Alfred B.

I hereby nominate Mr. Fell as the British Steve Irwin. I’ve never seen anyone handle a red bellied black snake like that. I mean yeah, they’re a chill species overall, but there’s a difference between casually handling a snake and fucking chucking one onto the chair because it’s in your way. (Okay. Maybe Irwin was a little nicer.)

Renee K.

whos steve irwin?

Alfred B.

...How old are you?

Renee K.

Alfred B.

You existed on this planet for two years with him and you dare to ask me this? Go boil your head and then use google. Good god.

***

Mark F.

overheard the owner telling his boyfriend that last they met his brother tried to set him on fire? and succeeded?? actually now that I think about it, not sure which brother they were talking about---his brother or boyfriend’s brother--but WHOEVER has the brother needs to... i don’t even know. do something about that? ring the police or go to therapy or SOMETHING. i mean maybe they already have, i’m just an eavesdropping tourist, but the idea of someone setting that bow-tie cutie on fire—DID I MENTION THAT? PERSON ARSON. MURDER—makes my blood boil

***

Shiefa N.

People aren’t joking about overhearing weird conversations here. I walked in on two men (owner and husband? owner and escort?) debating Seven Minutes in Heaven. You know, that stupid kissing game the better looking kids got to play in middle school. It got pretty heated at one point (pun not intended), arguing about whether seven minutes of making out was divine or damning behavior. I hung out long enough to catch the segue into a lust vs. love debate and then had to skedaddle. Nice couple. I support their weird flirting habits.

***

Chang Z.

Is it legal to visit a store for things other then what it sells? I realize that makes me sound druggie or something but I swear I’m dealing with a much healthier addiction. (Ha. Maybe.) I cosplay (yeah, yeah, move along, trolls) and Mr. Fell has an absolute wealth of historical clothing. It’s astounding! I thought they were particularly detailed costumes at first, but no. I’m majoring in Textile and Apparel Studies. I know a naturally worn piece of fabric when I see it. Mr. Fell is always cracking jokes about how he wore this frock in the 19th century, this shirt in the 17th, oh don’t you just love my old vest? (He has... so many vests...) I indulge him because anyone who lets me borrow this stuff for free deserves all my attention and fake laughter.

Yeah. You read right. Artifacts borrowed for free. He’s even let me alter some of the stuff because I’m not exactly his size. Should this stuff be in a museum somewhere? Probably. Am I calling anyone to take my personal cosplay supply away? Noooope.

***

Leah M.

Helping to spread the word here because I’m not sure how much foot traffic this place actually gets.

I pass Fell’s every morning on my way to work and yesterday there was a new sign in the window. This might not seem very interesting to most people on here, but you’ve got to understand that Fell’s never changes. None of it. I’ve lived in Soho since I was a boy and this place has always had the same placard with his insane times listed, same stripped paint on the door he’s never gotten around to fixing, same spiderweb in the corner I absolutely swear. My dad used to pop in there when he was in college and I swear he’s taken me through the stacks, points out books that haven’t moved in 30+ years. It’s nuts and more than a little bit impressive.

So you can imagine my shock when I passed by and saw not one, but four new papers in the front window. They’re drawings and I recommend going and taking a look for yourself. I don’t think I can accurately describe the utter chaos of crayons and glitter that’s displayed there, let alone what it’s trying to depict. A dystopia? The end of the world? If so the apocalypse features a surprising number of dogs.

There’s a fifth paper off to the side, written in Fell’s messy penmanship. It just says, “My god-children drew these!” and if that’s not the cutest things you’ve ever heard get out of my face.

***

Gabriel A.

azirfell

alzaphral

azzzzzirafal

i’m a litttle drunk but azifjkaafha’s place is good he just needs a name easier to spell

***

Aziraphale

Dear Gabriel A,

My partner Crowley told me about this site and the many lovely well-wishes you all have left us here. I have come to express my thanks and to offer a bit of advice. You are hardly the first person to struggle with my name, dear girl! I recommend the following three step process:

A - simple, yes? + zira - a nickname I’ve adopted over the years, easy enough to recall + phale - this is admittedly more difficult as our ending, “phale,” is neither spelled in a way nor presumed to be pronounced like the “fell” sound we end up with. In truth my name is more along the lines of Azz-ear-raf-AE-el, but change is inevitable and you needn’t hear about that transformation, nor the etymology involved in getting “fell” out of “phale.” I say this not because I don’t wish to teach you, but because my partner has reminded me--in a rather rude tone I should add--that this site has a word limit. Suffice to say you should simply memorize the “phale” portion and you shall be, as the expression goes, in tip top shape!

Best regards,

Aziraphale

P.S. Nothing personal, dear boy, but I fear I’m not terribly fond of your name either. I would highly recommend changing it if you’re ever of a mind to do so. Cheerio!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #long post #good omens fic #(apologies for that)#(tried for text post and the quality was totally unreadable)#pgnbri #attempting to tag you here #since tumblr won't let me do it in the post :/

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justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

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If you’re still doing ineffable husbands prompts??? Something with Crowley and being self conscious bout his eyes pls. It’s a weakness of mine lol

I had way too much fun writing this… I hope you enjoy!! Tagging my mate @mikudave, who also requested some snake Crowley.

***

“Crowley, dear, where are you hiding?”

Crowley cracks open one snake eye. Technically, he isn’t hiding. He had been napping, until Aziraphale’s sing-song voice woke him up. Naps are always significantly better when you can be a snake and curl up in some quiet nook somewhere. No bed required. No judgment. Because, unsurprisingly, people don’t tend to judge snakes that happen to be asleep behind a bookcase- they just scream and run away.

Crowley pokes his snakehead around the edge of said bookcase and darts his tongue. He can taste Aziraphale’s cologne in the air. Out of sight, somewhere in the room, Aziraphale sighs wearily, but affectionately.

“Oh, come now, there’s no need for that. If you want to ignore me then don’t go to sleep in my bookshop.”

He stretches his head out further, and he sees him- stepping slowly into the room, looking about the place with a small smile and a twinkle in his eye. His neck craned backwards so he can gaze up into the light that pours through the glass dome above. Bathing in it like the day he was born- how all angels are born, in the light of God’s smile.

All angels including Crowley, once upon a time.

Crowley lets his snake eyes stare at him from afar, just for a moment longer. Then, he gathers his limited energy and slithers into view. He likes a good slither. Slithering is much more satisfying than walking, which involves using too many joints, and hips getting in the way. Just as he’s about to sneak up behind Aziraphale’s back, the angel turns and peers down. He sighs again, straightening his waist-coat thoughtlessly.

“Oh there you are, my love.” Crowley’s cold blood warms at those words. He curls around Aziraphale’s leg like a vine, wrapping around his waist and coming to rest his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale peers over at him with narrowed eyes and raised brows, a furtive smile. “Where have you been, then? Scare any customers away?”

“Yesssssss. Jusssst a couple. One of them almost called animal control.”

“Wonderful. Hang on- actually,” Aziraphale double takes, planted on the spot now that he has a giant python wrapped around him. “Not all that wonderful, Crowley. I do very much appreciate that you’re- uhm-”

“Sssssstanding guard,” he supplies.

“Fine, standing guard, however you want to call it. I admit that it was getting exhausting miracling all the customers away, and I do love you for doing this, but- I don’t know how many times I can convince the RSPCA that ‘no, there’s no python here, everything’s just fine, tickety boo, nothing to worry about, officer, thank you very much, have a nice day’. And all that.”

The chastising look he’s getting from Aziraphale isn’t very intimidating- actually, it’s a bit comical, particularly with his face this close to Crowley’s. He can only see him with one eye, anyway- the other eye, on the other side of his snake head, is facing Aziraphale’s desk and surveying the half drunk bottle of whisky with interest.

Thinking that perhaps he ought to give Aziraphale a chance to have a real conversation face to face, he makes a sussurating, serpentine sigh and takes his human form. By the time scales have become skin and the tail has become limbs, he’s still wrapped around Aziraphale, albeit with his feet on the ground. His arms are around Aziraphale’s waist, clinging. His face buried in the soft cashmere of his jacket. His breath hot on his face, trapped between the material and his lips. He lets himself hang there.

Aziraphale feels like home.

It makes Crowley angry sometimes, thinking of all the times he could have held him like this, felt like this. All the times he could have been braver and said those three simple words.

“Have you been sleeping all morning?” Aziraphale asks gently, rubbing his back.

“Sleepy,” he grumbles.

“Oh, dear.” The way Aziraphale says this is like he’s consoling a moody toddler.

“S’fine. Just that it’s cold outside and your shop’s warm.”

“Mmm, yes. I turned the heating on the day before yesterday. Such strange weather we’re having at the moment. Do you know, British Gas rang me yesterday and tried to tell me that I haven’t been paying my bills. Can you believe it?”

Crowley snorts, lifts his head up and leans back from their embrace a little. Soft, but stern pale eyes scan over Crowley’s face.

“What did you say?”

Aziraphale blinks at him. “Well, obviously I found my log books and gave them a thorough run down of my payments. As if I don’t keep track of my bills. Really.”

“Really,” he agrees with amusement.

There had, of course, been the time when Aziraphale had been visited by the Tax Man for being so suspiciously good at balancing his books. Truth is, he really is just that diligent. Crowley briefly feels sorry for the British Gas employee who must have been on the other end of that phone call- they must have had their ear talked off. Gotten a proper lecture, just like the Tax Man. And then, Crowley is bizarrely overwhelmed by how proud he is of Aziraphale for being so unceasingly irritating.

This thought process is interrupted as Crowley registers the dreamy look on Aziraphale’s face. A sweet smile and pinched brows.

“What is it,” he asks warily. Aziraphale’s soppy expressions usually indicate when Crowley’s unintentionally done something nice. Or romantic.

Well, at least, it’s very rarely intentional.

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale pats his chest with a coy smile. Implying it’s not nothing at all, and he’s about to expand any second-

“It’s just,” the angel continues, gaze peering at him through his lashes. “You have such lovely eyes. Sometimes, it just catches me off guard.”

Of all the things for Aziraphale to say, he hadn’t expected that at all.

And after all the years that the two of them have known each other, his compliments still make Crowley twitch.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters. He hates how he sounds.

And he loves that Aziraphale is unfazed by the sneer that’s most probably on his face right now.

“You do. They’re really, truly beautiful, my dear.”

“Stop it.”

“I am being totally serious.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“Oh- I may be a bit daft at times, but I’m right about some things, and this is one of them.”

“God you’re- you’re insufferable-”

“You’re beautiful, Crowley-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Your eyes are golden like Autumn leaves-”

“Jesus. I’m- I am genuinely considering becoming a snake just to strangle you, you do realise that-?”

“Shining like distant suns-”

“I will leave you.”

“Do you not see that you have nice eyes, Crowley?”

“They’re fine. They’re eyes. Serve their purpose.”

“Yes but- they’re golden. They’re remarkable. Some would even say angelic.”

“Except they’re not, are they?”

The teasing smile on Aziraphale’s expression falls a little. The teasing tone in Crowley’s voice turns bitter. And Aziraphale’s hands hold onto the lapel of Crowley’s jacket. The gesture is strangely protective.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Crowley. I hadn’t realised you were self-conscious,” Aziraphale says quietly. Just for them to hear, even though they’re alone in the bookshop.

And Crowley doesn’t look back, even though he feels Aziraphale’s eyes on him. He refuses to look back. Something in him makes him want to run away. He doesn’t- instead, he grinds his teeth and breathes loudly through his nose, staring at the pile of E. M. Forster books on the table adjacent.

He could stand here silently and ignore that statement, or he could argue (and lose that battle, because there’s no use arguing with Aziraphale). Instead, he sighs.

“They’re not angelic, though, are they. They’re the one thing about my form I can’t change. If I discorporate, I could have any other body, but I would still have these eyes.” And he thinks he’s finished, except he hasn’t, because the words tumble out of his mouth like he’s drunk. “Just- you know, a fun reminder of that little mistake I made, when I was young and reckless- and hung out with the wrong crowd, like any stupid kid does. A warning to everyone else that I’m wily. And bad and cruel and untrustworthy. Because, obviously, you know, people deserve to have their mistakes literally branded on them for the rest of eternity.”

And then he really is finished, so he swallows and sighs, turning his gaze to Aziraphale’s bow tie. It’s not tartan today, but it’s just as poncy. Meanwhile, Aziraphale is quiet. Like he’s been embarrassed into silence for putting his foot so thoroughly in it, Crowley thinks.

But then, Aziraphale always manages to surprise Crowley, just a little.

“I know just the thing.”

With one more comforting pat on Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale untangles himself and disappears behind some bookshelves. The shop feels almost frighteningly large- without Aziraphale’s close presence, without the tight nook of a bookshelf as a bed. Crowley peers over his shoulder to see him fussing, tutting to himself as he peruses a pile of dusty first editions. Moving one pile out of the way to make room for the next, bending down to find something in particular, it seems.

“What you looking for, angel,” he asks, a little gruffly in his confusion.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, which is his way of telling Crowley to be patient and bear with him. Eventually, he makes a pleased little hum, and pulls out a book from the bottom of the very last pile.

Aziraphale twirls around theatrically to face Crowley, book open in one hand and the other clutching his chest.

“Golden Eyes,” he announces, with his best thespian voice. “A poem by Laurence Hope.”

“No,” is all Crowley says in response.

“Oh Amber Eyes, oh Golden Eyes! Oh Eyes so softly gay!”

“Christ.”

“Wherein swift fancies fall and rise, Grow dark and fade away!” Aziraphale begins to pace the room, book hand extended like he’s reading from a script. Like he’s one of Shakespeare’s actors, only, miraculously, even more ridiculous. “Eyes like a little limpid pool That holds a sunset sky, While on its surface, calm and cool, Blue water lilies lie-”

“You can stop now,” Crowley argues, a smile creeping up on him.

Aziraphale seems to pick up on his amusement, because he bounds over with dramatically wide eyes, and is now, God help him, making whimsical hand gestures to accompany his performance. He’s enjoying this too much. “Oh Tender Eyes, oh Wistful Eyes, You smiled on me one day, And all my life, in glad surprise, Leapt up and pleaded ‘Stay!’ Ooh, now, hang on,” he interrupts himself, “let me just find my favourite bit…”

“You- don’t. You don’t have to.”

“I do, and I shall,” he replies primly, putting on his reading glasses and tilting his head upwards so he can read the pages a little better. “Ah! Here we are- are you ready?”

“No.”

“Ah laughing, ever-brilliant eyes, These things men may not know, But something in your radiance lies, That, centuries ago, Lit up my life in one wild blaze Of infinite desire To revel in your golden rays, Or in your light expire.”

And- yeah, alright, that is quite nice, Crowley thinks. Maybe he can put up with being serenaded every now and then, so long as he gets to roll his eyes and pretend he hates it. And Aziraphale’s bashfulness finally seems to catch up with him as he approaches Crowley slowly, eyes fixed on the book and a small, self-conscious smile on his lips.

He continues, softly.

“If this, oh Strange Ringed Eyes, be true, That through all changing lives This longing love I have for you Eternally survives-”

Crowley reaches out a hand to find Aziraphale’s, to run along his arm.

“May I not sometimes dare to dream In some far time to be Your softly golden eyes may gleam Responsively on me?”

And at that, Aziraphale sighs. He looks away from the page and Crowley takes the book from him, lays it on the table behind him.

“Well?” Aziraphale asks quietly. A little coquettishly. “May I dare to dream?”

Crowley huffs and shakes his head. He lays a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, watches the angel’s eyes flutter closed.

“You silly sod,” he whispers, just so he doesn’t have to hear himself choke.

With that said, he answers Aziraphale’s question- he answers in a kiss. Soft, sure, and more eloquent than any words he’d ever be able to stumble through.

#good omens #my writing #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #prompts #fic prompt

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featherquillpen · 5 years

Text

good omens / good place

“I’m completely on board for this Soul Squad idea,” Chidi says, “seeing as it’s way better than the alternative of succumbing to the existential terror, but I still have some questions. Like how? How are we supposed to push a soul on track from the bad to the good? We’re a demon, four hell-bound humans, and a – a Janet! Isn’t there some book we could read?" Eleanor starts one of her full-body eyerolls, so Chidi course-corrects. “An expert we could ask. Are there any, I don’t know, guardian angels on Earth trying to nudge people in the right direction?”

“Each side only gets to have one agent stationed on Earth,” Michael says. “I’ve been warned to stay away from the one from my side, they say he’s gone cuckoo after six thousand years on Earth. We could try the other one, though he might have also lost his marbles. Janet, where’s the Good Place agent on Earth?”

“I can’t live-update his position while I’m on Earth,” Janet says. “But according to my records, the Principality Aziraphale spends 82% of his time at A.Z. Fell & Co. Rare and Antiquarian Books, Soho, London, England.”

Tahani clapped her hands together. “Oh! Does this mean we get to go to London?”

“The only angel living on Earth owns a bookshop,” Chidi says, his eyes lighting up like he’s been promised a thousand chocolate-dipped orgasms. “That makes so much sense.”

“Ugh,” Eleanor says. “Of course the only angel on Earth is a boring nerd. Why can’t angels be hot like demons?” When the others all stare at her, she throws her hands up. “Oh, come on. Michael’s a silver fox. I’m just saying. I’m not gonna make it weird or anything. (1)”

Nobly deciding to ignore this, Michael says, “Fine, we’ll ask him. But if he tries to smite me, I plan to run like a chicken.”

It takes a three-hour stakeout to catch the bookshop opening. Chidi, Jason, and Tahani spend the whole time trying to come up with a list of the questions they want to ask a real, actual angel (2). Eleanor doesn’t want to ask him anything. She knows she’s not going to the Good Place, so why work herself into one of her death spirals of jealousy?

Chidi makes a beeline for the aisles as soon as they walk into the bookshop. “Ooooh! Is that a signed Slavoj Zizek?”

A man who Eleanor could only describe as a cross between an English professor and a historical re-enactor descends on Chidi from the back of the bookshop like the wrath of God. He watches Chidi like he might try chewing or humping the book instead of reading it. He says frostily, “Can I help you?”

“Show me your philosophy section,” Chidi says, in the tones of a starving man asking for a single potato chip.

“Chidi, please focus,” says Michael, stepping forward. “This is the angel we’re here to talk to.”

The bookshop guy’s eyes widen when he looks at Michael. “Crowley!” he calls. “One of your side is here! Could you please ask him to go away?”

“WHAT!” cries a voice from the back of the shop.

“Now, we don’t need to get nasty,” Michael says. “This isn’t an official visit. I have four humans and a Good Janet with me, see?”

“A Good Janet? My, I’ve only ever heard of you from the architects, I’ve never seen one of you before... your design is quite ingenious, my dear.”

“Thank you!” says Janet, beaming back at him. That leads to more beaming, in a feedback cycle of completely genuine smiles that’s starting to give Eleanor a headache just looking at it.

“He’s really an angel?” Jason said to Michael in a way he probably thought was subtle.

“Yes,” Michael says, squinting. “He’s actually kind of blinding to look at if you can see in all twenty dimensions.”

“Dope!” Jason says, grinning. “The bible study teacher at Lynyrd Skynyrd High School always said that gay people can’t go to heaven, and I told her that was stupid and got detention. I was totally right!”

“Jason...” Tahani begins, glancing at the angel. “He might just be overenthusiastic about vintage clothing.” Eleanor rolls her eyes at Tahani. Angel or no angel, this guy is obviously gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide (3).

That's when six feet of bad ideas squeezed into a pair of black skinny jeans appears in the aisle behind the angel. “Keteb? Is that you? What are you doing on Earth with a Good Janet?”

Guh. Eleanor was totally right about demons being hot.

“Please, I go by Michael these days,” Michael says. “When you have to deal with condemned souls all the time, it’s so much easier if you use a name that sounds familiar.”

“You named yourself after an angel? You have some cheek, you have.”

“This is all a very touching reunion,” Tahani says, “but we do have some rather important questions about salvation and the immortal soul, so if there’s some place where we all might gather for tea...”

That finally seems to break the angel out of his endless cycle of glowing smiles and compliments with Good Janet, which were getting so intense that Eleanor’s eyes were starting to water a little just seeing it from the side. “An excellent idea. There’s a table for eight miraculously free at a lovely cafe down the street.”

(more to come? probably. stay tuned.)

Footnotes:

(1) She didn’t make it weird, but Michael felt decidedly weird sitting next to her the whole flight to London. Did she want to touch her wet mouthparts to his? He hoped not.

(2) Jason wanted to know why angels help baseball teams win but not football teams.

(3) This was fine by Eleanor, who was herself gayer than a sleepoverful of middle school girls practicing how to kiss.

#good omens #the good place #crossover #my fic

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humananalytica · 4 years

Text

Good Omens Holiday Swap

Fic for @maandarinee, based on two promps:

I always love Crowley and Aziraphale having some magic Connection where they're Connected for whatever reason and can hear/feel/whatever each other;

Aziraphale or Crowley gets summoned/captured/trapped and the other goes into Rage Mode while getting them back (alternative: one THINKS the other is dead [pls don't actually kill anyone/ bring them back miraculously] and goes into Rage Revenge Mode)

Hope you enjoy! Fic under the cut.

“Where the Heaven are you, you idiot? I can’t find you!” Crowley cast around wildly for even a hint of Aziraphale’s presence. He’d been terribly worried, and frustrated, then there’d been a flash of pain, and now- “Aziraphale, for God’s- For Satan’s- Ah! For somebody’s sake, where are you?!”

A wall of water slammed into Crowley’s chest and knocked him to the ground.

At the same time, a trace of demonic essence collided with Crowley and settled back in his ribcage, just as lost as the rest of him felt. “You’ve gone,” he said to the empty bookshop, “Somebody killed my best friend!”

“Bastards! All of you!” he screamed, disoriented and grieving. Aziraphale was gone and he wasn’t coming back, not ever, and the bookshop was on fire.

His gaze fell on a book that had, somehow, not yet gone up in flames. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. He picked it up. He could, perhaps, save just this little something from the fire. Crowley willed the doors to open for him and left the bookshop.

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Getting summoned was an exercise in bending quantum mechanics that always left Crowley vaguely nauseous. He didn’t really appreciate his corporation being jerked around without a warning. As a result, the small handful of humans [1] who had actually managed to summon him over the centuries tended to find him in a bad mood.

This particular attempt was one of the worst that Crowley had ever experienced. It was full of metaphysical holes, less of a net and more of a tangled mess of rope. It pinched his noncorporeal being uncomfortably when he pushed against the bounds of the circle, but didn’t offer burning pain or impermeable resistance.

“Demon Crawly, serpent of Eden.”

“Don’t use that name anymore.” Crowley drawled, tucking his fingers into his pockets. “Haven’t used that name in a couple millenia.” He rotated slowly, studying the summoning circle from all angles.

“It was the name that I invoked to summon you.” The summoner replied, without a whisper of confusion or doubt. “It is the name we will use.”

‘We?’ Crowley mentally hissed in irritation, even as he began cataloguing the ways he could get out of the situation. So far, it was looking like his summoner was working with outdated material, felt entitled to . . . whatever he was going to demand of Crowley, and seemed completely convinced that he hadn’t made a mistake. Relatively straightforward to work with, if you had a few milennia’s experience working with Hell.

“I need to learn how to have sex with a woman.” The summoner dramatically threw open the door to the windowless room, revealing a young-ish man with a sweatshirt hood pulled down to his nose.

Crowley blinked, trying to parse why sex with a woman was in any way relevant to what he’d, specifically, had ever done in Eden. Well. Better to let them tell you what they think they’re getting.

“So you came to me,” Crowley tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, as if asking a question.

“Yes,” he said, shuffling inside and shutting the door behind him. “I summoned you because you were the giver of all knowledge and the first tempter, and now I need that knowledge to be given to me.”

There were so many reasons why giving humans knowledge of Good and Evil did not equate to Crowley having some secret knowledge of how to convince a woman to have sex.[2] But Crowley guessed- he wanted what he wanted, and telling him ‘no, sorry, can’t help you,’ would have been met with hostility and disbelief.

“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework.” Crowley pressed against the boundaries of the summoning circle again, trying to gauge if the human took notice. No reaction was forthcoming.

“Can you help me or not?” the man whined, eventually.

“Possibly, but it might take a while.” Crowley hedged. “In the meantime, what should I call you?”

“Uh,” he stuttered, flustered, “‘Sir’ would probably be alright, ‘Master’ is a little gay, I think-”

“How about your name.” Crowley crossed his arms and gave a little half-smile. “Most people prefer that.”

The man paused, then seemed to collect himself. “Tristan.”

“Right, Tristan, I’ll see what I can do for you.” He glanced down at the circle, and his gaze caught on a phrase that defined him as ‘bound to be a servant’. A spark of an idea began to form in his mind. “We may have to make a few revisions to this circle, though.”

“What’s wrong with the circle?” Tristan snapped. “I didn’t make any mistakes. I checked.”

Crowley dropped to one knee and swept his hand over the characters in question. “Look, if you want to still have your soul after losing your virginity, you’re going to have to listen to me.” Tristan’s focus sharpened, and he knelt down opposite Crowley with palpable concern.

He pointed out a handful of words. “This bit defines me as servant of Hell. [3] Now, I’ll be sporting and fill you in on how it’s relevant here. Means that I’m obligated to deliver your soul to Hell if I hold up my end of the contract, deserving or not.”

“When I die?” He made no move to get an eraser or writing utensils, so Crowley pressed on.

“Preciscely,” he hissed, “And it’s whether you have sex once or you do it every day for the rest of your mortal life. Going to Hell for a shag is a load of bollocks, if you ask me.”

The subtle admonishing flew completely over Tristan’s head, not that the demon had expected much. He waffled for half a minute, then dragged a box of chalk out from under a stack of notebooks. “Which one makes you tied to Hell? I’ll just-” He mimed erasing with his free hand. “-and that should be good, right?”

Crowley mentally calculated the metaphysical gap that would result from an unbalanced circle without a complete binding clause and concluded that his odds were relatively good. “Here,” he tapped a single fingernail on the concrete floor, “In the lines closest to me.”

Tristan nodded, then crouched on the floor with an eraser. Crowley’s entire body tensed up on the physical realm as he focused on reaching through the holes in the binding towards home. The eraser wiped the characters into oblivion, and a half second later, Crowley tumbled into the back room of the bookshop. [4]

Aziraphale arrived a moment later, brandishing a teakettle in a manner that carried a subtle threat of bodily harm.

And caught sight of Crowley slowly rising to his feet and straightening his clothes. “What on Earth are you doing?” he asked, relaxing his stance.

Crowley, satisfied with the state of his clothing, flopped into an armchair. “I need a drink.”

[1] And in one memorable instance, some poor woman’s pet cats.

[2] Though he could guess that not summoning demons into your cellar whilst doing a low-budget impersonation of Emperor Palpatine would be a step in the right direction.

[3] This was a lie. In actuality, it defined him as bound to serve in general, implicating the summoner. Tristan, who was not remotely fluent in any of the Old languages, did not cotton on to this bit of deception.

[4] The exact mechanics of this maneuver are, naturally, beyond the human ability to observe. If one were looking for a good analogy, it would help to imagine Crowley as a rubber band, forcing himself through a very small opening by stretching very thin, and then abruptly springing back into his normal state once through. It was exactly as uncomfortable as it sounds.

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“Right,” Aziraphale said, adding generous pours of bourbon to two mugs of earl grey tea. “What has you so shaken?”

“Wiggled out of a summoning.” Crowley explained, turning his attention to his drink, taking a long swallow and relaxing back against the cushions. “Some idiot who wanted me to help him have sex.”

“Certainly not with-”

“With women.” he cut Aziraphale off. “Young, pretty ones if I had to guess a type.”

“I see,” Aziraphale replied, in a tone that encouraged more details.

“The entire thing was ridiculous, Aziraphale, you have no idea. He did a lot of research, only to put out the whole bloody thing out on a cellar floor with some school chalk. ’S insulting.” He took another swallow of tea, then reached over and topped up his mug with more whiskey. “I should probably try to track down where he got his materials, unless I want to be summoned every time one of his mates decides that I’m the solution to their dry spell.”

“I can reach out to some of my associates and see if any of them know anything about old summoning manuals reentering circulation.” The angel offered, eyeing Crowley with some concern. “There can’t be very many of them in circulation.”

Crowley nodded, accepting. “I’d wager that he found it online, but he also called me Crawly, so the original text is going to be from some point B.C.”

“That does narrow things down considerably.” Aziraphale fished out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “It’s quite late now, but I can sort out a few leads and make calls in the morning.” he glanced up to see Crowley pouring more alcohol into his mug. “My dear, are you alright?”

“Just. Eugh. Aftereffects from forcing myself outside of the circle without it breaking.” Crowley took a gulp of lukewarm tea-flavored bourbon and winced.

“Crowley. You’re shaking quite badly.” After a second of hesitation, Aziraphale gently prised the trembling mug from his grip and set it down on the table, keeping a hold on his twitching fingers.

Crowley blushed. “Sorry.”

“Apologising isn’t necessary.” Aziraphale frowned. “I can feel how distressed you are. It’s usually quite difficult for me to pick up on negative emotions.”

“Maybe you’re looking for it.” Crowley muttered into his free hand. “I can feel happiness and love if ‘m trying to find it. Usually just keep an eye out for the negative stuff, though.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale agreed. “I should be in better practice when it comes to sensing distress.” He did not release Crowley’s hand, and the demon felt him probing further. “Well, you’re certainly not all right, I can tell that much.” The angel’s gaze was sharp.

“‘Sss fine. Aziraphale.” Crowley decided that he was not inebriated enough for the conversation and took more bourbon-with-a-splash-of-tea with a still shaking hand, swallowed hard.

“Is this how you would find me, when I would get into a spot of trouble?” he asked. “Tracking feelings of distress and worry?”

“Sssort of.”

“Well, what else then?” he pressed, and if he had noticed Crowley’s embarrassment, he ignored it. “Crowley.”

Bless it. Aziraphale was getting more worried, and more curious, which was a dangerous combination. His desire to soothe the angel managed to overpower his embarrassment, just barely. He finished what was left in his mug and tried to not think too hard about him still holding his hand.

“Do y’know,” Crowley said at length, “How little traces of demonic or ethereal energy can be left around if you try?”

“Yes.”

“Went a little further. Stuck a little bit of my soul with you back in Rome by accident. And it was useful to find you later, so I didn’t take it back.” And it had been a mistake. Crowley had been drunk on Roman wine and angelic company and he had been preemptively grieving losing Aziraphale’s presence for the night, and likely for the foreseeable future. He’d barely noticed when a piece of himself had wrenched its way out of his corporation and onto Aziraphale [5]. “I could sense your distress because part of me was always next to you. In a way.”

Aziraphale got a quiet, faraway look that, Crowley knew, meant he was very quickly sorting through new information. “I know that I shouldn’t have left it for so long, and, ngk” -I’m sorry that I did it without asking or telling you, the actual apology died in his throat.

The bookshop was silent, save for the clocks and the creaking of old furniture as Crowley sank down into Aziraphale’s chair, incandescent with shame. “It’s gone now, anyway. Got it back in the bookshop after you’d discorporated.” He had half a mind to withdraw away from Aziraphale’s judgement, but stayed resolutely in place. The angel deserved to know, at least.

The clocks continued ticking. Crowley resisted sliding onto the floor. Aziraphale had not removed his hand from his. He could sense sadness and maybe a little pity from the angel, if he looked, but there wasn’t any anger or fear, so the demon kept still.

Finally, Aziraphale shifted and sighed. “I suppose it could be considered an invasion of privacy, but I can’t say that I personally mind, the thought of you leaving a bit of your soul within my corporation.” Crowley wasn’t looking, but he could feel the angel’s smile. “It got us out of a fair bit of trouble.” His thumb stroked Crowley’s knuckles.

He vaguely wondered if drinking more would make the situation more or less bearable to deal with.

“Would you like to do it again?” Aziraphale said, at length. “And I could, perhaps, do the same for you, place a small part of my soul in your corporation permanently. If you’re amenable.”

Yes, a thousand times yes, I would do anything to be able to find you if you needed me. I’ve missed it. I would love to hold a piece of you with me always, Crowley thought, aching with hope. “Are you sure about this, angel?” came out of his mouth.

“Only if you are,” Aziraphale countered, radiating steadfast certainty. “I would like it very much. We’re on our own side, I want to reflect that.”

“I’d like it too,” Crowley managed, swallowing. “Just don’t want to saddle you with my emotions.”

“Crowley.” He finally looked at Aziraphale, startled by the intensity of frustrated love that flowed under and with the angel’s conviction. “I want to know when something is wrong. I would love to be able to feel you, Crowley, and I cannot imagine growing tired of you.” He smiled again. “If anything, all the past six thousand years have done is made me want to spend even more time with you.”

“‘Ziraphale.” Crowley whispered, nervous and elated and so in love that it ached. “Now?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale glowed, rising to his feet. “Just one moment.” He went around and drew curtains shut, concealing them completely from outside view. “Would you like to sober up a bit, dear?” he asked, straightening his clothes.

“I was incredibly drunk last time I did this.” Crowley protested, shuddering alcohol out of his bloodstream anyway and getting his legs underneath him.

“Do you remember how you did it?” Aziraphale gestured vaguely. “You may have to show me.”

“Here.” Crowley fumbled about in the metaphysical plane, pulling out roughly the same amount of himself that he’d unintentionally recovered in the bookshop fire during The End Times That Hadn’t Been. It manifested in his hand as an odd, shifting shadow, dancing around his fingertips and reaching for Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed, and then the rest of him glowed, the vision of his true form superimposed over his corporation. With the infinite care of an antique book collector, he steadied Crowley’s wrist with his left hand, and with his right, drew the offered piece of Crowley into himself, guiding the little shadow to coil up and around his left arm.

Crowley felt as it settled against Aziraphale, and his sense of the angel sharpened into comfortable clarity.

Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly, the image of his true form fading from view. With another breath, he brought a little bit of his soul out of his corporation, a white-gold flame that hovered in his cupped hands.

Crowley offered his left arm in kind, watched his true form as a piece of Aziraphale slid up his palm and forearm in an uneven starburst. It shivered as it settled in, mirroring the angel’s pleased wiggle in Crowley’s periphery.

“I’ve never felt you with such clarity before,” Aziraphale said, awed.

“Sorry.” Crowley offered on reflex, feeling a sleepy, pleasant buzz settle over him.

“Really, now.” the angel reprimanded gently. “It feels lovely, dear, and I don’t wish to be without it.”

“Mmm.” he mumbled, nearly unhinging his jaw with a yawn and sitting down on a couch. “Does feel nice.”

The cushion dipped with Aziraphale’s weight, and Crowley tried to discreetly scoot closer. The angel took notice and guided his head to his shoulder. “It was a bit reckless of me to do that, wasn’t it?” His thumb traced a delicate pattern along Crowley’s jaw.

“A bit.” He yawned again.

“Then again,” Aziraphale continued wryly, “It has been over a millenia since we established the arrangement, one could argue that this was a long time coming.”

“Hm.” he mumbled into the angel’s shoulder, all but melting into the touch. “Got there now.”

“You can sleep, Crowley.” He said, reclining and pulling the demon closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” The lights in the bookshop dimmed invitingly, and Crowley drifted off with Aziraphale’s hand in his hair.

[5] In his inebriated state, Crowley had been unable to distinguish it from the human version of heartbreak.

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Crowley could not relax. There was something irritating brushing at his consciousness, like a shirt tag. He couldn’t place its source, exactly, and over the course of the week he became increasingly more frustrated. Aziraphale had quickly noticed the frustration despite Crowley’s attempts to downplay it, proving to be a frighteningly quick study.

It wasn’t the new link between himself and Aziraphale, as far as they could tell. Neither one had particularly wanted to dissolve it to be certain.

He had been walking towards the Bentley, intending to return to the bookshop after caring for the plants in his flat, when the irritation that had been following him around intensified to a sharp tug. Ah, he thought, preparing to return to the not-quite-broken summoning circle, that explains it.

He rematerialized in the same circle, with its erased parts redrawn and an extra circle of text around the whole thing, adding a layer of restraints that Crowley couldn’t see an easy way out of. Tristan was standing with his arms crossed in front of Crowley, wearing a slightly different hoodie from the last time.

“Hi.” Crowley said, desperately trying to tamp down on his panic before it could show in his voice. “What brings me here?”

“You got out. That’s not going to happen again.” The man said, sounding understandably (if unjustifiably) pissed.

Crowley decided to try for honesty. “Look, I really can’t help you.”

“You will.” Tristan insisted. “I command you to!”

“Commanding me to do something-” Crowley hissed and recoiled from where he’d been probing at the barriers, nerves burning like they’d been sliced open and dipped in acid.

“So you found my extra protections.” he observed, “good luck getting out of those, Serpent.”

“Still won’t change the fact that I can’t help you. Both of us are wasting our time.” Crowley pushed again. The burning flared against his consciousness, greying out his vision. When he blinked himself back to awareness, he was kneeling on the ground, shaking.

Tristan was watching him, now seated on a rolling office chair. “Keep struggling if you want. You’re only making it harder on yourself.”

Crowley hissed at Tristan, dragging himself to his feet, spitting out blood from where he’d accidentally bitten his cheek.

“Crawly, Serpent of Eden, you are bound to serve me.” Tristan intoned, reading from a computer printout. “You will remain bound until I release you.”

“What do you wish of me, master?” the demon spat sarcastically. “Shall I perform a resurrection? Balance the moon on top of Everest? Either one would be easier than convincing a woman to ever have sex with you.”

“You’ll regret that!” Tristan glared at Crowley, then began rifling through binders. “I have something here that shows me how to punish you.”

Crowley stayed stubbornly silent, still aching from probing the barriers and trying to tamp down on his panic.

“You,” Aziraphale was suddenly there, voice flat and cold, “are going to stop this nonsense at once.” The angel, glowing, wings out, and eyes piercing, loomed over Tristan, who flinched in shock and scrambled away.

Crowley noted, distantly, that he could see the shadow of his essence snaking up Aziraphale’s arm in this form. Aziraphale cast a concerned glance in his direction.

“Ugnnnn.” The man whined, pressing himself against a wall. The angel huffed, and a moment later appeared much more human shaped [6].

“Now. You are going to listen to me.” Aziraphale said. “You are going to erase the circle immediately, in its entirety.”

“You can’t make me!” Tristan protested, even as he reached for the eraser and crouched down in front of the circle. “That demon will attack me.”

“You have my word as an angel that you will come to no harm from him.” Aziraphale said. “And I suppose that I can’t make you, but it will be much easier to restrain him if my hands aren’t busy from doing the erasing.”

He cast a wary glance between the two supernatural entities and began erasing. Crowley made a lunge at him as the circle was broken, just for show, and was caught by Aziraphale, who supported the demon’s weight without flinching.

“Thank you.” The angel said, when it was finished. “I would also like you to tell me where, precisely, you learned this ritual.”

The human sat down at his computer and navigated to a forum, gesturing wordlessly to the screen. Aziraphale shifted Crowley off of him and peered at it. “Fascinating.” He said, “Tell them that it didn’t work.”

“It did work!”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. But anyone who summons Crowley will have to deal with me, and believe me, I will know if someone summons him with bad intentions, and I will end it by whatever means necessary.” Aziraphale said mildly, putting himself between the back of the chair and the rest of the room.

Tristan looked at him, then mulishly informed his contacts that the ritual had been ineffective. [7] “That’s not gonna stop everyone.”

“More fool them.” the angel replied primly, then tapped the computer, which sparked and died with a few alarmed beeps.

“You can’t just do that!” The human wailed, scrabbling to unplug the computer and inspect it for damage. Aziraphale stepped back to support Crowley again.

“You’ll find that I have.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. “We’re leaving now. Do not try this again. Goodbye.” He snapped again, and Crowley found himself standing in the middle of his flat, being held upright by the angel.

“Thanks.” He said, sore and delirious with relief.

“You’re quite welcome. Would you like to go lie down?”

Crowley did not want to leave Aziraphale’s company. “Are you going to come with me?”

“Of course.” His voice was warm and fond, and he swept Crowley into his arms. “You really did give me quite a fright.”

Crowley, too tired to care about the loss of dignity, steadied himself by looping his arms around the angel’s neck. “I suppose you would have felt the summoning.”

“I did. It was highly unpleasant, and I do not wish to repeat the experience.” Aziraphale nudged the bedroom door open and deposited the demon onto the bed.

Crowley stretched and removed his shoes. “Speaking of, what about his binders full of notes? They were everywhere.”

“Yes, I had noticed those.” Aziraphale said. “I took care of them.” [8]

Changing into sleep clothes was the work of a couple miracles, and then Aziraphale was sliding under the covers next to Crowley.

“I memorized the screen name of the original poster. I’ll have to look into it, see if they’re the rightful owner or if one of my contacts has been stolen from.”

“Can that wait until tomorrow?” Crowley grumbled. “I’m comfortable here.”

“Of course, dearest.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt a pulse of love from the angel. “Would you like me to spend the night?”

In response, he wrapped himself around Aziraphale, burying his face into his neck. Aziraphale chuckled and put his arms around the demon, pressing his lips to the top of Crowley’s head. “Sleep well, Crowley.”

[6] But no less furious.

[7] Which, if you want to be technical, was not really a lie.

[8] The angel had miracled all of the ink off of the pages and back into the ink cartridges that it had come from. One didn’t want to be wasteful, after all.

#good omens #fanfiction #my writing #this got longer that I was expecting it to.#maandarinee #go holiday swap #long post

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marveliciousfanace · 5 years

Note

Aziraphale telling the story of how he and crowley met each other in eden to the humans

So, this may not be precisely what you wanted, but since their storytelling skills are kind of crap I think it still fits their characters and is kind of cute. I had fun writing it, though, so thank you and I hope you like reading it, anon.

___

One of Crowley’s favourite intangible human inventionswas the concept of “fashionably late.” There was something incredibly funny tohim about the idea that humans could get together in a way that openly admitted“yes, I would like to waste your time as a host because I can’t be bothered toget there when you request” and was returned with “I understand completely, Iwould prefer you waste my time rather than simply lying to you about what time Ireally wish you to be there so you get there when I actually would like.” Itmade him laugh. He employed it often.

Never with Aziraphale, though, not if he could avoidit, which was why he was actually a little flustered as he pulled up to JasmineCottage doing sixty over the speed limit, coming to a halt so fast the tiresskidded and smoked. He stalked up the front path, pushing his sunglasses higherup the bridge of his nose and eyeing the horseshoe over the door with disdain,surprised when he crossed under it without so much as a flash of heat. Heglanced up again, and from the new angle noticed a sigil etched into the metal,so neatly it could only have been done by magic. He smiled.

Accepting the dinner party invitation had beenAziraphale’s idea, not his, but the angel had said it was only right to go,given the recent near-ending of the world. Humans bonded over that sort ofthing, he’d said, and anyway they probably owed them a bit of an explanation.Crowley had been all for leaving them to wonder, but Aziraphale had given him asoft, hopeful expression and Crowley’s resolve had crumbled.

He could hear voices from the kitchen as he steppedinside, although the view was blocked by a large cabinet. Too many voices forso small a house, and several of them probably too young to acceptably be at adinner party without their parents, unless reality warping was involved.Crowley stifled a snort, and then paused as the actual conversation becameclear.

“No, my dear, when I say we’ve known each other forever,I actually do mean it,” Aziraphale was saying. “Well, perhaps not truly forever, but since the beginningof the world, at any rate.”

There was silence. Then a young woman – Anathema,Crowley thought – said slowly, “So, when you were going on about the serpentand the apple tree…”

“Yes, precisely!” Crowley can hear the beam in Aziraphale’svoice. “I was the Angel of the Eastern Gate, on guard duty, and somehow he gotin – not past me, I shouldn’t think,” he added hurriedly, and he was right, becauseCrowley hadn’t even had to pass an angel to get in, what with Hell and tunnellingup from the ground, “but he did get in, and he told Eve to eat the apple-“

“Hang on,” Crowley interrupted, rounding the cornerand leaning against the counter with folded arms. “I never said she had to eat the apple. I just pointed outthat it was a bit stupid to make such a show of the whole thing. Apple, big ‘notouch’ sign. I didn’t even say she shouldeat it. I just asked what the harm was. I didn’t know.” He’s had sixthousand years now to reflect on it. He’s pretty sure, in retrospect, that he’ddone the right thing. It doesn’t worry him like it used to. He gave Aziraphalea pointed look, “And anyway, I wasn’t the one who gave war to humans, was I?”

Aziraphale looked askance. “I did not-“

“You gave them the flaming sword that became theweapon of War, though,” Crowley pointed out, sauntering across the room anddropping into the last empty chair, crammed in at the table next to Aziraphale’s.“Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? What was that quote about paved roadsand good intentions?” He grinned at Aziraphale, who glared at him right upuntil Crowley threaded their fingers together under the table. Then he brokeinto a sappy smile again. Crowley leaned into his shoulder and glanced aroundthe room.

The humans were all staring at them, mouths figurativelyand in some cases literally agape. The four children, clustered at their end ofthe table, seemed less affected, watching more with curiosity. Adam even smiled.

Anathema was the one who recovered her wits first.Clever, that one. Crowley had a nagging suspicion he was going to like her. “Hangon,” she said. “So, you,” she pointed at Crowley, “were the serpent in thegarden of Eden. The actual reason why God cast humanity out of paradise.”

“Er, yes,” Crowley admitted. “Sorry?”

“And you,” Anathema pointed at Aziraphale, “gavehumans that flaming sword thing from the airbase, the one the…red woman wascarrying? And she’s War, and you gave Adamand Eve a sword.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale said. He looked faintly embarrassed.“It seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

“Right.” Anathema looked between them again. “Sorry,and how does this relate to the wayyou met?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale perked up, and Crowley resisted theurge to roll his eyes fondly. “So you see,” the angel explained, “after thatwhole bit with the apple and the sword, first rainstorm and all, God castingthem out, we met on the wall.”

“The wall?”

“Surrounding Eden,” Aziraphale said. “I was watching,you know, worried, and Crowley came up to watch too, and we got to talking-“

“You got to talking?” Newt, who had been doing anexcellent impression of what computers did whenever he touched them, finallycame back online. “If you’re really an angel and a demon, shouldn’t you havefought or something?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged looks. Under thetable, their laced fingers tightened around each other. “Didn’t really seem necessary,”Crowley said. “Didn’t have any orders to. Not really my style, anyway.”

“Nor mine,” Aziraphale agreed. He wasn’t smilinganymore, but there was a softness to his features. Crowley leaned into him alittle more heavily. Aziraphale looked at Anathema. “Anyway, that was how wemet. In Eden.”

“We debated Good and Evil,” Crowley murmured. He washalf on Aziraphale’s lap by that point, but he could blame it on the closequarters. “It was a good first date.”

“It was hardly a first date,” Aziraphale said. “Ourfirst date was the Ritz last week.”

“Last week?” Crowley straightened up, snorting withglee. “Angel, we’ve been dating for thousandsof years. I saved Hamlet for you!We got oysters at a gay bar in Rome.”

“Yes, but-“

“Just because we were too stupid to call them thatdoesn’t mean they weren’t.”

Aziraphale blinked, like he hadn’t considered that,and Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Oh,” Aziraphale said, and then smiled. “Wellthen. I believe you’re right. Eden was a rather good first date.”

Anathema mumbled something that sounded like answers that question then. She blusheda little when she caught Crowley looking and cleared her throat loudly. “So,who wants some more salad?”

Crowley grinned. Under the table, he squeezed Aziraphale’shand. After a heartbeat, Aziraphale squeezed back.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #my thoughts #my writings #thank you for the prompt!#its not my best work but i had fun with it

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mygalfriday · 5 years

Text

sister mary says gay rights

{ao3}

There’s a riot in my head, demanding we do this forever (rated m)

“You know, Crowley, I’ve always said that deep down-”

He tenses instantly, waiting for Aziraphale to stop himself from saying something stupid and potentially damning. After all this time, he should know better than anyone that They could be watching at any moment. Doesn’t he realize the trouble he’d be in if one of Hell’s spies reports back that an angel - the sodding Guardian of the Eastern Gate, no less - has been singing Crowley’s praises? The consequences of something like that getting back to Beelzebub are enough to make him shudder.

Don’t say it, angel. Don’t you dare -

“-you really are quite a nice-”

Crowley snaps.

He moves without conscious thought, instinct taking over as he lurches forward, grasps Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat, and shoves. Aziraphale moves with him, like they’re dancing and he’s trusting Crowley to lead. They stumble together into the nearest wall and as they collide, Crowley hisses in his face. “Shut it. I’m a demon, I’m not nice.”

And of course, Aziraphale doesn’t do the decent thing and cower. He just stares at him patiently, as though Crowley is an overtired toddler having a tantrum. He doesn’t struggle in Crowley’s grasp, doesn’t try to shove him away or ask to be released. He seems perfectly content to stay right there, back pressed to the wall and Crowley crowded against him, for the foreseeable future. Safely hidden behind his sunglasses, Crowley studies his calm, guileless eyes and sees not even a flicker of apprehension. Nothing but implicit trust.

Crowley falters. His grip slackens on Aziraphale’s lapels and a frown tugs at his mouth. Of course he would never actually hurt Aziraphale. He’d dunk his head in a baptismal font first. It’s one thing for him to know that, whether he’d admit it aloud or not, and quite another for Aziraphale to be so unshakeable in his own certainty.

He swallows hard, struggling with the sudden desperate urge to bury his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and scream. Satan below, when did he become so completely and hopelessly enamored that even an angel as skittish as Aziraphale wasn’t afraid of him? The Garden? That time they shared oysters in Rome? The night he walked onto sacred ground to keep Aziraphale from falling into the hands of Nazis? The day he showed up at the bookshop’s grand opening with chocolates? Out of all the countless times Crowley has dropped everything just for the reward of sitting beside him with a bottle of wine, what was the moment Aziraphale realized he was safe with him?

Frozen in wonder, he feels Aziraphale shift beneath him and it finally registers in Crowley’s jumbled thoughts just how close they are. In all the years they’ve known each other, there has been an unspoken agreement not to get too close. Always sitting on opposite sides of the table at lunch. Making sure the space between them on a park bench could fit another person. Aziraphale keeping his hands folded behind him and Crowley shoving his into his pockets when they walked, just in case their fingers might accidentally brush.

Sometimes, when they were very drunk, they’d forget. Or at least, pretend to forget. They felt safe when they were drunk, like Heaven and Hell couldn’t see their hands lingering or the light caress of fingers brushing hair back from a forehead, the way they slumped against each other on the sofa in the bookshop and reveled in feeling invisible. Free.

And now, because Crowley had briefly lost control of his own actions in a fit of panic, they’re pressed together from the chest down. Every time Aziraphale breathes in, Crowley can feel it all through him like he’d been the one to inhale. He can feel damn near everything - the worn material of Aziraphale’s coat under his hands, the radiant warmth of him seeping through his fragile human skin, the soft press of his thigh against Crowley’s. This close, he can smell the scent of old books and the cinnamon Aziraphale always sprinkles in his cocoa.

It’s intoxicating. Like his very first sip of wine, back when humans first invented the stuff. He feels his mouth grow dry, wondering what in Hell’s name he’d been thinking when he decided to shove Aziraphale into this wall. How is he supposed to let go and walk away like nothing at all has happened?

Still pliant in his grasp, Aziraphale licks his lips. Crowley watches him intently - so focused on the tip of his pink tongue that he almost misses the way the angel’s gaze drops to his mouth and lingers for a moment too long before flicking back up again. The yearning written across his face is plain. Unmistakable to Crowley, who knows it well enough in himself to recognize it in another, especially a face he knows by heart.

He bites back a hiss, desire and thousands of years of keeping his hands to himself tangling up together in his head. Aziraphale stares at him innocently, as though he hasn’t just turned Crowley’s entire world upside down with a single look. Because not only is Aziraphale not afraid… he likes this. He wants this. The very notion of it makes Crowley dizzy.

As he struggles to make sense of it, Aziraphale turns his head - just slightly - and their noses brush. They both freeze, shakily breathing in the same air as they stare at each other in silent conversation. Aziraphale watches him just like he had outside, when he’d been complaining about the paint on his coat. Waiting for Crowley to miracle it away for him, hoping he wouldn’t have to ask for what he wanted in order to get it. He never has before. And as long as it’s up to Crowley, he never will.

“Angel…”

Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this before I ruin goddamn everything.

Aziraphale swallows audibly, catching and holding Crowley’s gaze as his throat works. His lips part and if Crowley weren’t already damned, the sound of his quiet, strained please would have done it. His breath catches painfully in his chest. The sound of gunfire outside fades away. The missing Antichrist is nothing but a vague, distant nuisance - some future trouble that has no bearing on the present at all. The present is right here in this deserted corridor, Aziraphale pressed intimately against him and asking for things Crowley has wanted to give him since they met. And Crowley thinks:

Well, they’re fucked anyway, right? World ending, spawn of Satan MIA, what is there to lose?

His fingers white-knuckled around Aziraphale’s coat lapels, he brushes his mouth over the angel’s for the first time in six thousand years. A need as old as the Earth itself finally met. And Aziraphale melts. His eyes flutter shut and he goes completely limp under Crowley’s hands and his mouth, a whine in the back of his throat that sends instant, searing heat sparking through Crowley’s veins like hellfire.

He groans, flicking his tongue along the seam of Aziraphale’s plump lips until they part to let him in. And fuck does Aziraphale open for him, so ready and eager - like he’s just been waiting to be asked. Crowley doesn’t realize he’s released Aziraphale’s coat until his fingers come in contact with blond curls, soft as down beneath his touch. Just as he’d always imagined. Curling his fingers in it and holding on tight, Crowley tips Aziraphale’s head back and plunders his mouth with wild abandon. God - Satan - Somebody help him, the angel tastes like everything good left in this world. Like dry, rich wine; like starry nights and eternal summer.

Crowley sucks on his tongue, the ghost of a smirk curling his mouth when he feels Aziraphale go a bit weak-kneed against him. One of his hands clutches at Crowley’s shoulder for purchase and he mumbles, dazed, between one grasping, wet kiss and the next, “Fiend.” Another kiss. “Tempter. Wiley old-” He gasps when Crowley nips sharply at his bottom lip, dragging his tongue slowly across the stinging mark. “Oh. Darling.”

“Mixed signals, angel,” he mutters, licking back into his enticing mouth. He tastes so good, like drinking from a fountain in the middle of Eden. Pure and perfect, coating Crowley’s tongue and quenching his thirst so thoroughly. “Make up your mind.”

“My dear Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, fingers curling tightly around the back of Crowley’s neck. “Do shut up and kiss me again.”

He tilts his head up, expectant and greedy, eyes already falling shut. Crowley stifles a groan and bends to give Aziraphale exactly what he wants. He should have known the angel would be such a demanding little thing but oh he loves it. He loves the slick slide of their mouths, the feel of Aziraphale’s hot palm against the back of his neck to keep him near, the little noises he makes like he’s eating something particularly good. He loves how soft Aziraphale feels against the hard, flat planes of his own body - the broad chest perfect for leaning in to, the core of steel beneath that initial softness that hides the strength and muscle of a warrior. And he especially loves the clear evidence of just good how he’s making Aziraphale feel - pressing insistently into his hip.

With a sharp nip to the corner of his mouth, Crowley shifts his stance and slots one of his long, lanky legs between Aziraphale’s thighs. The reaction is immediate and unspeakably delicious. Aziraphale actually fucking keens, fingers tightening around the back of Crowley’s neck and his head tipping to rest against the wall behind him. “Crowley.”

Everything else becomes a hot, hazy blur around him after that. Crowley is only aware of Aziraphale, writhing against him and gasping these gorgeous, shocked little whimpers as his body takes over and seeks what it needs. Crowley can do nothing but stare, greedily drinking in the sight of an angel - his angel - grasping at pleasure with such flagrant wantonness.

He’s perfect like this. Aziraphale is always lovely, even all buttoned up and sitting beside him on a park bench or hunched over a dusty book with his glasses slipping down his nose, but this? Nothing in Creation comes close. He’s all flushed cheeks and glittering blue eyes; his pale hair mussed from Crowley yanking on it as they kissed; his lips swollen and bruised, parted on a gasp as he rocks his hips. He looks so utterly fuckable Crowley has to toss out all his previous fantasies because none of them will ever compare to the illicit reality of Aziraphale coming undone so exquisitely against him now.

Leaving a trail of biting kisses along Aziraphale’s throat, Crowley shifts his leg to a new angle and Aziraphale chokes. “Crow-” He stifles a desperate cry and buries his face in Crowley’s shoulder, wrinkling his jacket beyond repair as he clings to him and moans sweetly. “Oh god.”

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Crowley licks a stripe along his jaw, feeling stubble under his tongue, and wonders if all angels taste like candy floss when they sweat or just this one. “Scream all you like. She’s not listening.”

“Don’t,” he whispers, but his eyes are wild and he looks so hopelessly wrecked Crowley wonders if he even knows what he’s protesting about. “Blasphemy.”

“What’s blasphemous, angel,” he drawls, slithering a hand between them. “Is you saying Her name when I’m the one making you forget your own.”

Aziraphale bites his lip so hard Crowley finds himself hoping it’ll bleed just so he can taste it. “Crowley-”

“There you go,” he croons, cupping him firmly through his trousers. “Again.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale bucks against him, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m going to-”

“Yess.”

Crowley thought he had seen beauty before this. He has seen the world when it was still new, walked the streets of Rome at the height of its power, roamed the halls of Versailles before the Revolution. He has stood beneath a black sky and looked up at the stars he made, warmth in his chest because he knew that the Almighty could erase him from heaven but She could never erase him from the universe he helped to build. He was there when the Thames froze over for the first time and humans decided to toddle out and skate on it. He has dived beneath glistening waterfalls, walked a barren desert in the cool of the night, and watched these remarkable humans fumble their way through existence since Time began. And none of that -

not one single thing -

was ever more stunning than the sight of Aziraphale giving himself over to pleasure beneath Crowley’s hands. His kiss-bruised mouth slack, his eyes fluttering helplessly shut, and his brows pinching adorably together. A luscious little moan tripping off his weakened tongue. Oh, if Crowley hadn’t been utterly fucking gone for him six thousand years ago, watching Aziraphale now would have done the trick.

And then it’s over.

They slump against each other like puppets with their strings cut, their foreheads pressed together and their panting breaths mingling as they hold each other up. Crowley doesn’t move, too afraid of shattering whatever delicate thing hangs in the air between them. Hand still curled possessively around the back of Crowley’s neck, Aziraphale trembles against him and does not open his eyes.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat primly when his voice comes out hoarse. “That was quite…”

“Excuse me, gentleman.” They both turn, staring in dazed confusion at the woman striding confidently toward them. “Sorry to break up an intimate moment but can I help you?”

Crowley lifts a shaking hand and snaps his fingers.

The woman freezes mid-step but he barely spares her a glance, reluctantly stepping away from Aziraphale and turning his back. He can hear the sounds of Aziraphale righting his clothes and miracling his trousers clean but he can’t bring himself to look at him - not when his ears are ringing and his hands are still burning with the memory of touch. Crowley shoves his hands into his trouser pockets and struggles to remember the concept of breathing, staring hard at the floor.

Behind him, Aziraphale takes a step away from the wall. “Erm - you didn’t-“

“No.” Crowley stiffens. “S’fine.”

“But…” Aziraphale trails off and Crowley doesn’t need to see him to know he’s frowning uncertainly, that way he always does when he thinks he’s done something wrong. “That is to say, do you not want-”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, apparently back to being the stuffy angel Crowley knows and - Satan help him - loves but his meaning is all too clear anyway. He finally forces himself to turn around and thanks Whoever might be listening that the angel has somehow managed not look as if he’s just been debauched against a wall. He looks like he always does. Still tempting, but all buttoned up and composed now. It does nothing for the lurid images still dancing in Crowley’s head. He eyes Aziraphale incredulously over the rim of his sunglasses. “Of course I want it, you idiot.”

Aziraphale fusses with his bowtie, his gaze darting around as though he’s afraid to look directly at Crowley during this conversation. “Then why-”

“Because I can’t-” He stops, choking on the words.

Because he can’t bear to watch this world burn, as it’s likely going to, if Aziraphale reaches out and touches him now. Crowley wants so much with him. He wants his body, yes. But he also wants in ways a demon has no business wanting. He wants to enfold himself in Aziraphale’s arms and drown himself in angelic warmth. He wants to lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap and listen to him read. He wants to retire with him to the countryside and look after a garden while Aziraphale keeps bees and they’ll argue about the definition of bebop and never have to worry about Heaven or Hell ever again.

And he cannot give in to what he wants now only to have it taken away in a few days’ time. It would utterly destroy him - far better than any of Hell’s attempts ever could.

Crowley can’t bring himself to actually say any of that but luckily, he doesn’t have to. Aziraphale is finally looking at him now, his expression soft and his eyes wet, like he knows exactly what Crowley is thinking. After six thousand years, he probably does.

Straightening the collar of his jacket, Crowley sniffs and says, “There’ll be plenty of time to return the favor later. If you want. Plenty of time for lots of things.” He meets the angel’s gaze meaningfully, silently asking for understanding. “After.”

Though his bottom lip trembles, Aziraphale smiles and it’s everything Crowley needs right now. Soft and brave. Trusting. “Very well,” he says, and the words carry the weight of a promise he expects Crowley to help him keep. “After.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my fic

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