#there is no way shadwell is straight look at the man

[mythweaverarts]

ok but like hear me out- *gets shot*

#good omens #sergeant shadwell #shadwell #doctor who #captain jack harkness #jack harkness #both military men (kinda) #both have important sounding titles #there is no way shadwell is straight look at the man #and we all know that no-one can resist jack's charms #jack harkness x shadwell #i might be the only harkwell shipper in the universe but i said what i said #also yes im coining harkwell as their ship name #harkwell

[tenok]

Still fuming about «Crowley’s so queer it makes Aziraphale looks straight» take. I saw some people saying «queer is not a political identity» as an argument against it... and actually I disagree. Queer is an identity that’s as much about politics and community as is about gender and orientation. «Queer as in fuck you» indeed! And while I’m pretty sure that if you’ll ask Aziraphale he will say that he’s queer because mentally he still in times where it was term preferred by community as whole (or he’ll say that «gay» is his gender because he still links gender and orientation together and it’s a habit thats hard to break), I’ll argue that he’s definitely queer by definition. And I won’t say that one of them more or less queer, I want to vomit just from thinking this, but he and Crowley definitely different flavors of queer; and the point is community.

See, the Crowley we see is not the very community-oriented being. He despises angels and demons alike, he’s not close with humans, through whole series we saw him connected with Aziraphale, maybe Warlock, Shadwell to some point and only as a subordinate he’s not really interested in (Aziraphale actually remembered all the names of soldiers Shadwell pulled from his ass, on the other hand [book, also in script if I remember correctly]). But for Aziraphale community is the whole deal. He links himself to communities: community of book collectors, for example ([in book at least]), community of angels (even in season two he regretfully said that he misses reporting back to his lot), as soon as he put his roots there he become part of British and specifically London community (immediately clocked as British by everyone, for better or for worse). And he’s clearly consider himself and considered by others as part of queer community. For example:

He’s clocked as specifically effeminate gay man (which is part of queer umbrella oh my god stop misuse of political slogans gay are not some kind of others that are lesser for being gay!!!) by everyone, to the point of getting called homophobic slurs (twice in book, once in series) and being targeted by literal Nazis. He’s not arguing or denying, he reclaims it: he’s not calling himself gay, he’s proudly declaring that he’s THE southern pansy (not very «hurray establishment» of him hmmm?). He looks so gay and safe that cemetery man from season 2 doesn’t see a problem in telling him he uses grindr!

Tied to this: he can present as anyone else, he chooses to look soft, gay, effeminate, he chooses to make silly sounds and flamboyant gestures, and as soon as he gets comfortable he likes to go a little campy (can you imagine Crowley in ribbons and frills? do we see male-presenting Crowley in pink silky shoes? would he fight to the death before you put him into pencil-drawen moustache and bright cape with shiny starts? yes he’s GNC! there’s more then one way to be GNC and one is not better then other because it’s in black and sexy!). I’ll argue that him choosing one comfortable presentation and stick to this is no less groundbreaking by heavens standards then «hoarding all the genders» since he’s not treats his corporation as «meat suite», he really had an identity tied to it!

And using this identity he becomes part of 100 guineas club. Part of gay/queer (it was in times where this distinction was meaningless) community with fellow queers, where he learned queer ways, such as dances, becoming part of queer culture as a whole (and should I remind you that back in days drag was mandatory part of such clubs? if we measuring queerness by how close it to cross-dressing apparently). He also collects literature by queer authors, immersing himself in this culture, again. Do I remember correctly that Oscar Wilde gifted him one of his books specifically? So we can safely assume he hangs with queer authors as well? Correct me if it’s not in canon (I’m freely mixing tv and book canon there btw although usually I treat them as two different things)

He also lives in Soho. He specifically chooses to live there, knowing perfectly well what a neighborhood it is (even back in 1600s it already had a Reputation). He knows what it says about him and he aims for it! (Crowley lives in Mayfair because it says something about him too — remember that while Aziraphale constructed himself around being soft and gay, Crowley intentionally made himself look as irrating rich asshole. If this asshole has vibes of sinister gay that would gladly corrupt you if you ask nicely, that’s another story) He is a part of this community! As a word of god, he: speaks Polari freely because he used it… with other queers (as oppose to Crowley that knows «bits» because he hangs out with criminals); he hide incriminating things from fellow Soho residents back when there were police raids (breaking law to help those in need is reacurring theme with him!). He still part of this community, he knows people, people knows him, he literally gives place to lesbian women for free so she can have her dream shop (supporting your local queer business!) (also great call back to Edingurg minisode! Aziraphale, personal saint of broke lesbians!)

I’ll also argue that letting in first Gabriel and next Muriel was a very queer of him. Queers help other queers: he may not like Gabriel, but «he has no other friends» (and he's homeless after being kicked out from heavens after disaster forbidden love affair with other queer being, hmmm? paralleles with reality of being queer much?), so he steps in. And Muriel, while being the same age as those two (we're NOT child-coding Muriel in this house), vibes as queer youth in needs of guidance, and Aziraphale, that had every right to be suspicious and cold to them, immediately lets them into safety of his shop and tries to be nice and supporting in both older queer and older ND cousin way.

So, in conclusion: Aziraphale is a queer being, that likes to make it clear that he’s queer and queer GNC man specifically; he’s part of queer community for at least couple hundred of years, participant in queer culture, and he watches out for other queers, helping his own as much as he can, using his money and other resources and breaking law to do so when needed. What there can make him look straight even as a joke?

Crowley is absolutely a queer being too, in very queer love with other queer being, and I'm sure he has a blast pocking into rules and boundaries of genders, orientations and all kinds of relationships since he loves questioning and testing so much. He also has a cool rebellious aesthetic and «fuck all» attitude, so it’s understandable that he becomes tumblrs queer icon (and being played by David Tennant helps for sure). But if you ask them both where’s local shelter for homeless queers located, one of them will have an answer and it won’t be a Crowley, or he wouldn’t sleep in his car (I'm joking), and this is as much of the part of being queer as having cool aesthetic or being kicked from home (I'm joking again). And it's a shame that some people want to make a competention out of it, because it gives us infinity possibilities to discuss their different experiences and choices, down to what their respective aesthetic choices says about them, and how they can use their strong sides to support each other! But alas.

#good omens #aziraphale defense squad #bad takes that won't let me sleep at night #makes Aziraphale look straight my ass #that's a nice post! bitchy one will stay in my head! #btw I wouldn't spend my time at it if person that wrote that take made a honest mistake trying to joke but apparently it's not their first #bad take so while I don't want to pick a fight I want to at least rant

[a-typical]

IN SHADWELL’S DREAM, he is floating high above a village green. In the center of the green is a huge pile of kindling wood and dry branches. In the center of the pile is a wooden stake. Men and women and children stand around on the grass, eyes bright, cheeks pink, expectant, excited.

A sudden commotion: ten men walk across the green, leading a handsome, middle-aged woman; she must have been quite striking in her youth, and the word “vivacious” creeps into Shadwell’s dreaming mind. In front of her walks Witchfinder Private Newton Pulsifer. No, it isn’t Newt.

The man is older, and dressed in black leather. Shadwell recognizes approvingly the ancient uniform of a Witchfinder Major.

The woman climbs onto the pyre, thrusts her hands behind her, and is tied to the stake. The pyre is lit. She speaks to the crowd, says something, but Shadwell is too high to hear what it is. The crowd gathers around her.

A witch, thinks Shadwell. They’re burning a witch. It gives him a warm feeling. That was the right and proper way of things. That’s how things were meant to be.

Only …

She looks directly up at him now, and says “That goes for yowe as welle, yowe daft old foole.”

Only she is going to die. She is going to burn to death. And, Shadwell realizes in his dream, it is a horrible way to die.

The flames lick higher.

And the woman looks up. She is staring straight at him, invisible though he is. And she is smiling.

Good Omens — Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman

#Good Omens #Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Witch #Terry Pratchett #Neil Gaiman #books #quote #reading #bookblr #bibliophile #bookworm #currently reading #booklr #atypicalreads #1990s #90s #satan #End Times #Aziraphale #Crowley #fiction

[touchstoneaf]

Tl:dr... People online can convince themselves of Literally Anything. Even that Aziraphale is *straight*. Which is seriously unfathomable to me.

So, I was watching a clipshow last night about these two on YouTube, and some clearly deluded individual who is obviously an incompetent thinker showed up in the comments to complain that Aziraphale is Not Gay, because he was "not written as such in the book", blah blah blah angels aren't built that way (though he didn't make the same claim for Crowley because, I guess, demon? Doesn't that kind of undermine your point, my man? Because he specifically says in his post that he *does* believe Crowley is in love with Zira).

1. Though I haven't finished reading the book yet, I understand this interpretation is false, or at least kind of open to various interpretations? Which, whatever, people get what they get out of books... or anything for that matter, I guess... And I'm coming to understand from a few posts on here that there's been a lot of back-and-forthing from Neil/Terry on the subject over the years, and thus some people are pissed off about their interpretations from earlier being messed with or whatever?

I definitely understand that, as a person on the ace spectrum. But at the same time, I'm not exclusionary in my thinking, so IMO things can be mutually true at the same time, and don't have to cancel each other out... but that's another discussion.

I also get the annoyance over authorial waffling, and clinging to things you've loved in the past when they're being altered... but that stuff usually doesn't bother me because of the time span involved and the changes in culture; but also because a lot of answers can be both-and, not either/or... especially with characters like these. I'm just happy to have them in a new interpretation wherein I can Feast Greedily upon them and find myself represented in ten different ways. So

Codicil A: I'm sorry if you don't feel represented anymore by these characters, my dude, but frankly, you have enough of those already, and we don't have very many, so shut up and get back in your lane.

Summary 1: let's just be real, here. They're Neil's character, and he's writing them for the show the way he is now for a reason, so your argument is already pretty much not valid, bro.

Obvs there were so many replies to make to that that I couldn't even figure out how to respond to it, LOL. Luckily a lot of people beat me there. But;

Codicil B: I repeat. That book was written 30 years ago, and things have changed a lot. Neil has been writing the show, so you'd think that he knows what he wants to do with his characters. Also, if you're complaining about it based on novel purity... they are two different enterprises, so what even is your point in the first place?

2. More importantly, the fact that this guy can watch 2 whole seasons of Aziraphale being Aziraphale, and looking at Crowley like that, and saying the words he says (the Southern Pansy exchange comes to mind. Or the part where he says Shadwell has the wrong bookshop. Or the part where he never denies the boyfriend thing) and think he's straight in any capacity is beyond my comprehension. You must have had serious training in self-delusion, brochacho.

3. Obviously all of the talk about gender / lack thereof, and attraction / lack thereof because of being angels has something to do with it, because let's be real. You could hash around all of these interesting labels and tags and explanations for things like, you know, Crowley is definitely all of the genders (and probably a couple more we haven't even thought up yet. Creativity & style are the watchwords of that character), so you could list them as just about any sexuality/ romantic orientation, sexual orientation or lack thereof, etc (and frankly, that's part of the fun). But in practice, behavior, body being worn at the time, form and function, etc... Zira presents as male and is in love with someone who at least part of the time presents similarly, if one were to judge from top hats and name choice (honestly I think Crowley just loves fashion and looking fly, in any capacity lol, and so dresses according to his mood, and/or how sweet the fashion is for which gender depending on the time period). Aziraphale never dresses/presents otherwise that I recall, tho. (Probably because he's had approximately one suit since 1800, because it feels nice on his body.)

4. "Gay as a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide". That is all. I know that portion of the book is being used in both directions, but it can be interpreted about 500 different ways, so if your interpretation is that he's absolutely not, that interpretation stll hinges on the fact that he's not human. See above, and do we have to go back through that whole dance again? Form and function and behavior... book vs adaptation, yadda.

Summary 2: You have been shouted down by the author himself, and thus you should probably just quit while you're ahead.

And dude still comes up at the end of the second season with this theory that the reason Zira responded the way he did to the kiss is because he was NOT attracted to Crowley?!

I'm actually kind of worried about that person, if they truly think Zira is remotely anything other than a total fruit who loves Crowley to distraction.

#ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #good omens #self delusion at its finest #theyre gay your honor #good omens 2 spoilers

[musingsofabooklover]

I just want to repeat which I'm sure I've said before somewhere

I love so much how queer Good Omens is

it's so queer you could see the queerness from space

you got Crowley seriously presenting as a woman as Nanny and also in the Golgotha scene, and incorporating androgynous and feminine clothes into his outfits in a lot of other scenes - canon at minimum that he's gender nonconforming! and also possible that he's genderfluid or otherwise nonbinary. but either way this demon is not a gender-conforming cis man.

you got Aziraphale living in Soho, real life queer neighbourhood, learning the gavotte in a famous Victorian gay men's club, calling himself The Southern Pansy in response to Shadwell. this is all canonical. due to angels' interaction with gender he may not technically be gay, but he sure as heck ain't straight. you got Pollution with canonical they/them pronouns you got a ton of canonical androgynous dressing from the angels and demons and all this is even before you get to what I feel is the sheer adoration Crowley and Aziraphale are expressing for each other based on the acting, the musical choice of the love song A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square at the end scene, the way the beats of their story follow that of a love story, complete with break-up scene - and whether they are romantic or queerplatonic, given their total lack of interest in anyone *other* than each other, they certainly aren't straight either way. there's no random lady angels shoehorned in there. they are each other's most important person and that's very queer whatever the specifics.

honestly anyone who can't see that this show is queer must be wearing Heteronormativity and Cisnormativity glasses a mile thick.

anyway, I'm looking forward to season 2, I usually worry about sequels but Neil Gaiman is a good quality writer so I'm hoping he will do a good job and preserve one of the few queer happy endings on TV I've ever resonated with

I love this show so much.

#good omens #good omens is queer as heck #and it was clearly on purpose #discourse I guess #it has canon nonbinary and gender nonconforming characters #that makes it queer even before we get to the nature of anyone's relationship

[infinitevariety]

May Your Days Be Merry

Having never been able to celebrate previously, Aziraphale and Crowley decide to embrace the festive season and make the most of their first December together since the world didn’t end.

Chapter Twenty Two: Friends & Family (AO3)

Aziraphale and Crowley have a visit from the friends they saved the world with.

It was mid-afternoon when the bell above the door tinkled and the whole atmosphere in the shop changed. Crowley had been there for over an hour already, helping Aziraphale get set up. Putting out nibbles, miracling up extra armchairs, and, who is Crowley kidding, mostly lounging on the sofa watching Aziraphale do all of that.

Multiple sets of footsteps can be heard making their way inside, along with a lot of muttering. Crowley watches as Aziraphale stands, wringing his hands over his waistcoat as he moves to greet their guests.

Crowley grabs his special tray of ‘Ferrero Rocher’ and goes after him.

“Hello everyone,” says Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale!” cry back a couple of familiar voices.

Before any other words can be exchanged there are several loud gasps and a one awed-sounding “Woah!” and then four shorter-than average people are dashing into the shop at large, running between bookshelves and around the spiral staircase.

“Please do be careful, children!” Aziraphale calls after them.

Crowley privately wishes Aziraphale good luck in getting the Them to listen to him.

Aziraphale sighs, seemingly giving it up as a bad job. He shares brief hugs with Tracy and Anathema, a hearty handshake with Newt, and a begrudging nod with Shadwell. Then he ushers everyone to the seating and snacks area.

As they pass, Crowley offers a smile in greeting along with his tray of ‘Ferrero Rocher’.

He gets an, “I don’t think so, love,” and a knowing smile from Tracy.

Anathema says, “No, thank you,” and eyes both Crowley and the tray suspiciously.

“I don’t like to eat in front of other people, if I can help it,” says Newt. But he plucks a chocolate from the tray and slips it into his pocket, so Crowley counts it as half a win.

Shadwell turns him down with a, “Ferrero Rocher are too fancy for my tastes, lad.” He then heads straight for the box of Heroes and digs in.

Crowley scowls, more than a little frustrated his prank isn’t going to plan. He wonders if Aziraphale has prewarned everyone—he had been a little too quick to acquiesce to the whole thing. Flouncing just a little because he’s grumpy, Crowley collapses onto the sofa, thankful to have it to himself.

Keeping himself low on the sofa and radiating an air of unapproachability, Crowley observes Aziraphale chatting animatedly with Tracy, Anathema, and Newt. He proudly shows off his collection of prophecy books, which Anathema shows a polite but unenthusiastic interest it. It doesn’t seem to upset Aziraphale even a jot. Tracy asks what predictions the books contain that have come to pass, and Aziraphale becomes a little flustered and changes the subject.

Crowley smiles privately to himself.

When the subject of Aziraphale’s computer comes up, Newt cranes he neck to get a glimpse of it in the back room.

“Is that a Amstrad PCW?” he asks, sounding not a little flabbergasted.

“I can’t remember what it’s called, but I did get it when it first came out in 1985. I’m not always so behind the times.” With this Aziraphale looks directly at Crowley with his eyebrows raised.

“I’ve not seen one of those outside of a museum,” says Newt.

Crowley chuckles and raises his eyebrows right back at Aziraphale.

“Does it still work?” Newt carries on, oblivious to the silent conversation between Crowley and Aziraphale. “Can I have a go on it?”

“Ah, no, Newt—that’s probably not a good idea.” Anathema curtails Newt’s excitement with her words and a gentle hand on his arm.

“Yeah, I suppose,” concedes Newt.

Aziraphale jumps when he hears a dull thud from somewhere towards the back of the shop.

“Children?” he calls. “Is everything all right?”

By ‘everything’ Crowley knows he means ‘my books’.

“It’s fine!” call back a chorus of four voices.

It does very little to settle Aziraphale’s nerves. Crowley can see his hands wringing a little tighter than usual.

“I’ll go check on them,” offers Anathema. “I’m sure they’re just antsy after being cooped up together in the back of Newt’s car all the way here.”

Aziraphale flashes her a grateful look and goes back to chatting with Tracy and Newt.

Shadwell seems to be oblivious to the conversation, busy wolfing down as many sweets and chocolates as he can reach. Within 20 minutes he’s leaning back in one of the newly miracled armchairs, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring like a trooper.

In an effort to tune out the sound, Crowley shifts his focus to the rest of the bookshop, and the children currently running around it. They appear to be playing some kind of fantasy game in which they’re trying to rescue an unspecified special old magical book from the evil clutches of someone or other. Crowley's can’t be sure on the details, but he doesn’t have to wonder where they got the idea of a special old book.

The game seems to run its course, with Pepper and Wensley defeating the evil henchmen (Adam and Brian), and ensuring the safety of The Book. Apparently worn out from their adventures, all four members of the Them come over and collapse on and around the sofa with Crowley. Pepper and Brian right beside him, Adam perched on the arm, and Wensley cross-legged on the floor.

“So, were you there when baby Jesus was born?” asks Adam.

“Not personally, but Aziraphale was.”

“And all the wise men and gifts and stuff, that all really happened?” Wensley speaks up from the floor.

“More or less,” says Crowley with a shrug. “Just don’t ask Aziraphale about the shepherds.”

Pepper is straight in with her own question. “Did God ask Mary’s permission to get her pregnant? Because if not that’s technically assault.”

“Pass,” Crowley says with feeling.

“If Jesus was walking on water and turning water into wine and things, why wasn’t he accused of witchcraft?” puts in Brian.

“He was, a bit, but—”

“But he was a man, and it’s mostly women who were accused of witchcraft because men are terrified of strong women and would have rather burnt them or drowned them if they couldn’t be kept under control.” Pepper crosses her arms to punctuate her point when she’s finished.

Adam, Brian, and Wensley turn from Pepper to Crowley.

“I mean… she’s not wrong,” admits Crowley.

Pepper lifts her chin proudly. Crowley grins, happy to admit, if only to himself, that he likes her.

Throughout the questions and answers, all four children reach for and idly munch on the many sweets and chocolates covering the coffee table.

Crowley clears his throat and casually asks, “Do any of you want a Ferrero Rocher?”

Four pairs of wide eyes stare back at him.

“Really?” asks Brian in a slightly breathy, disbelieving voice.

“Yes, really. Why?” He wonders if Aziraphale even told the bloody children.

“We’re not usually allowed them,” Wensley tells him.

“They’re grown up chocolates, apparently,” Pepper explains.

“My parents only have them for special occasions, like boring dinner parties and things,” adds Adam.

“Apparently we ‘wouldn’t appreciate them’,” finishes Brian.

All four of the Them roll their eyes in unison.

“Well, that’s absolutely rubbish,” Crowley tells them. “You should eat as many of these Ferrero Rocher as you want to.”

With matching grins of excitement, the children all reach for a chocolate. They hurriedly unwrap them, as though Crowley might change his mind and snatch them back again at any moment. It’s only a matter of seconds before the chocolates are stuffed unceremoniously into mouths.

Crowley is faintly thrumming in mischievous anticipation as he watching them all chomp down onto chocolate covered brussel sprouts.

As one, the children cry out in horror and disgust. Wensley immediately spits his back out into his bare hand. Pepper grabs the tray and drops hers off her tongue back to where it came from. Adam’s jaw hangs open with a look of despair on his face, but the sabotaged Ferrero Rocher remains in his mouth.

Crowley cackles wildly and idly wonders if he's put them off Ferrero Rocher forever. He kind of hopes he has.

Despite the joy his successful prank has brought to Crowley, there is still Brian, who continues to munch happily on his Ferrero Rocher. As everyone starts to realise he’s still eating they all look at him in shock.

Brian shrugs. "What? It's good!"

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #ace ineffable husbands #ineffably festive #fic: may your days be merry #2020 advent ficlet challenge #i wrote this

[toomuchofabastard]

Heaven’s Final Betrayal (5/6)

[ << CHAPTER 1 ] [ < CHAPTER 4 ]

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Aftermath of Rape/Non-Con, Mentions of Dissociation

Word count: 3,726 (total 19,201)

Fic Summary: It was obvious that Heaven wouldn’t exactly be thrilled about Aziraphale’s role in preventing Armageddon. But neither the angel nor Crowley could have predicted how far they were willing to go to get revenge, and now Aziraphale needs him by his side more than ever.

READ ON AO3

___

Madame Tracy contemplated the saucepan full of Brussels sprouts.

Then she rapped her fingers against the side of the pan and glanced at the clock again. 2:46 pm. Mr. Aziraphale would be arriving at around a quarter past three. What to do?

She still made sure to boil up some Brussels before every séance, finding that no potpourri or expensive aromatherapy oils could create an atmosphere of safety and reassurance for the type she entertained quite like the familiar scent of vegetables that had been left on the stove too long.

But that was her regular - well, human - clients. Would it work on an actual, literal angel? Aziraphale reminded her of some of her (now ex-)clients in ways, although she could think of several key reasons why he would never be interested in the services she’d offered them, beyond the cup of tea. And a cup of tea and a chat was exactly what she’d promised. She wondered again what she Aziraphale might be needing to talk to her about. Crowley had made it sound pretty serious when they’d first arranged this afternoon together.

She’d been in the Oxfam shop just off Tottenham Court Road, browsing through some second-hand purses, when the bell over the door had rung and a damp and surly-looking young man had entered. She instantly recognised the copper-red hair, not to mention the serpentine tattoo on the side of his face, the monochromatic clothing, and the curious propensity to wear sunglasses even on a rainy day.

Crowley hadn’t noticed her at first, striding straight up to the till and shoving a hefty tome at the surprised teenager behind it with a brusque “Here.”

“Oh, um, thank you! Is this to donate?” they asked.

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Crowley had responded distractedly, running a hand through the back of his hair, and eyeing up the door already. Madame Tracy wandered over as the cashier started to input something into their till.

“Do you qualify for Gift Aid?” they asked Crowley.

Crowley turned back and snorted, seeming amused. “No, I don’t pay taxes,” he explained, as though it should be obvious. That didn’t surprise Madame Tracy one bit. He was a demon, after all. Tax evasion was probably the least sinister activity he got up to.

Crowley made to leave and Madame Tracy rushed to catch his attention before he was gone. “Crowley, love, is that you?” she called out.

He swung round, looking a little startled, but then clearly recognised her after a few seconds. “Oh. Hey,” he said, awkwardly waving a hand. He paused, then asked “You alright?”

“Very well, thank you,” she replied, stepping closer. She noted out of the corner of her eye as the cashier picked up the old book Crowley had donated with a puzzled look on their face and started to type its details into their computer. “Me and Mr. S are still looking for a place in the country. Nothing yet, but with the market being what it is at the moment, we’ll probably have to be patient,” she said.

“…Right,” responded Crowley blankly. His vacant expression made it clear to Madame Tracy that he had no idea who she was talking about. Come on, demon, she thought. You’ve only known him since the sixties.

“Of course, he’s retired from the old Witchfinding now,” she led on. “Fancied he might take up firearms restoration, or maybe lock-picking.” She watched Crowley’s face closely. He remained hopelessly blank for another few seconds, and then suddenly she saw a light ping on in his eyes.

“Right, right, yeah,” he said hurriedly. “The sergeant. ‘Cos you’re together now, aren’t you?” he said. She thought she could detect a faint patina of red spreading across his cheeks.

“Exactly,” she said. She smiled widely and kindly at him, and decided to take mercy and change the subject. “And how are you and Mr. Aziraphale doing?” she asked.

Immediately, she saw that it hadn’t been a good avenue of conversation to pursue. Crowley’s face darkened and his eyes became hard and troubled. He ran his tongue across his teeth for a second, appearing to weigh something up in his head.

“Yeah, not so great,” he eventually replied, voice low and jaw tight.

“Oh, dear,” Madame Tracy remarked uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”

“…Something happened,” Crowley sighed, and ruffled the back of his hair again. “He’s not… doing very well with it.”

Suddenly, the spark of an idea seemed to light up the demon’s harried face. “Actually,” he said, “I’ve been thinking; he needs someone to talk to about it - someone who’s not me - and, well, if he’s up for it, could you maybe…?”

Madame Tracy understood what he was getting at, and thought about it. She liked the angel. They saw eye-to-eye on the important things, like the fundamental problem with designating people as wholly Good or wholly Evil, and whether you should put the milk or the tea in first. And he’d been gracious enough to forgive Mr. Shadwell for exploding him and accidentally burning down his bookshop, citing impending Armageddon as a ‘mitigating circumstance’ for all involved.

“I’m sure I’d be very happy to chat to him about whatever’s troubling the both of you,” she smiled.

Crowley smiled too. “Thanks,” he said, casually, but his tone and the relaxing of his shoulders betrayed a deep relief and gratitude.

“I’m free on Thursdays now, if you like?”

“Sounds great- well, I’ll ask him, anyway,” Crowley said.

Madame Tracey nodded. “Just give me a ring, love.” Next to her, the young cashier’s eyes suddenly bulged wide as they stared at whatever result concerning Crowley’s book the computer had just presented them with.

Crowley gave Madame Tracey a sharp nod and then turned to leave. “Um, sir, are you sure you want to-!” the cashier called out, but Crowley had already sauntered back out into the rain.

That had been six days ago, and now the angel himself would be here in less than an hour. Madame Tracey tapped the saucepan again. To boil or not to boil? Probably she should have thought about this sooner. Well… what harm could it do? From the sounds of it, it wasn’t going to be an easy conversation and Aziraphale would need something reassuring. And if it worked on her usual visitors, then why not him? He seemed just as English as she was. Maybe more so.

Madame Tracey nodded to herself, and then set the sprouts to boil.

◥|⧗|◤

About half an hour later, there was a sharp buzz on the intercom. When she opened the front door, the angel and the demon were standing there side by side, one dark and the other fair, almost putting her in mind of a pair of chess pieces. A bishop and a knight, perhaps. Crowley looked uncomfortable, and Aziraphale looked nervous.

They exchanged brief pleasant greetings, and then Madame Tracey beckoned Aziraphale inside. “Do come in, dear.”

“I’ll be back for you around four, alright?” Crowley said to him, as he massaged Aziraphale’s hand.

The angel murmured something in response and kissed Crowley dotingly on the cheek, squeezing him close. Madame Tracy saw a recalcitrant blush blossom underneath the demon’s sunglasses and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Aw. They were sweet together.

They parted and Crowley slouched back to his car, which Madame Tracey could swear was a vintage Bentley model older than she was. Aziraphale smiled at her and followed her inside, down the drab hallway and into her less-drab flat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Madame Tracey said, and then popped quickly into the kitchenette. As well as the Brussels sprouts, now boiling away happily★, she’d been sure to boil the kettle and pre-prepare two cups, saucers and teabags, which she quickly assembled and brought out to the table in her sitting room. She placed one in front of the angel.

★Or as happily as any vegetables - had they attained sentience - could be, whilst being boiled to within an inch of their lives.

“Sugar, dear?” she gestured to the bowl.

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale replied, perfectly sweetly, but his hands were fidgeting underneath the tablecloth.

She sat down next to him and took a sip from her own cup. “Lovely,” she remarked. He likewise sipped his tea quietly, and nodded in agreement, although his face was gloomy.

“So, what exactly was it that you needed to talk to me about?” she asked.

“Um… I-I don’t really know where to start,” he replied with a light chuckle.

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” she suggested gently.

Aziraphale took a deep, slightly shaky breath, cradling the tea close to himself, and swallowed. “You, um, you remember the other angel that was at the airbase, in Tadfield?” he began.

Madame Tracy cast her mind back. There had been all manner of bizarre characters and phenomena around that day - an honourable mention to her-with-the-angel-in-her-body - but she did recall a figure who had spoken down to Aziraphale after the two of them had been separated again.

“Tall fellow?” she said. “Sharply dressed? Very easy on the eyes?” A habitual hint of coquettishness crept into her voice with the last question.

Aziraphale nodded. He didn’t look happy at the description.

“Nasty piece of work, I thought,” Madame Tracy added, coldly.

A brief smile flashed across the angel’s face. “Yes,” he said, taking another deep breath. “That’s Gabriel.”

“He’s your boss?”

“Was. I believe I’ve been - uh - ‘let go’.” He laughed humourlessly.

Then he gulped, and looked down. “He- Heaven- well, they… weren’t best pleased with me for helping to prevent Armageddon,” he said. “So they decided I had to be… punished for that, and-and for, um, associating with Crowley.” He raised his eyebrows slightly as he spoke the word associating, and Madame Tracy could tell exactly what sort of ‘association’ he was referring to.

There was a pregnant pause. Aziraphale seemed to be trying to work himself up to saying something, staring down at his clenched hands and breathing heavily.

“They… th-…” he started, but then stopped with a pained frown. He sighed. Then he tried again, but his mouth moved silently, no words coming out.

“Take your time, dear,” Madame Tracy said. She patted him reassuringly on shoulder.

He smiled briefly again, but the anguish was obvious in his eyes. For a few moments, he just sat still and took several deep, forced breaths, while Madame Tracy waited patiently. Eventually, he managed to stutter it out.

“They… r-raped me.”

Then he turned immediately away to look up at the ceiling, and blinked rapidly as tears formed in the bottom of his eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart,” exclaimed Madame Tracy. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting but it certainly wasn’t that. Instinctively, she reached to brush his hand. Aziraphale glanced at her and then quickly away again, his chest beginning to heave. A few choked gasps escaped the angel and his shoulders jerked silently up and down with sobs. Madame Tracy rushed to grab him a tissue from the box on the sideboard.

He accepted the tissue with another quick polite smile, and dabbed heavily at the watery corners of his eyes. She continued to stroke the back of his hand as he dried his eyes and tried to compose himself a little. The poor dear. It was unthinkable, what had happened to him.

“Apologies,” Aziraphale eventually said. “That’s the first time I’ve actually…s-said it out loud.”

Madame Tracy gave him a sympathetic look and squeezed his shaking hand. “No need to apologise, dear,” she said. “I’m so sorry. That’s dreadful.” She shook her head. “Awful.”

Aziraphale said nothing.

She didn’t feel it was really her place to ask him to clarify, but she felt herself pressed on by an awful morbid curiosity. “You said ‘they’…?” she asked cautiously.

Aziraphale swallowed, and managed to somehow look even more miserable. “A-Another angel, you wouldn’t know him,” he explained. His eyes wandered a little and his face darkened. “Even nastier piece of work than Gabriel. Always has been.” A minute shudder ran through his body.

“And they have the cheek to call themselves angels,” Madame Tracy scoffed.

Aziraphale snorted and waggled his eyebrows in agreement. The angel reached mutely for his tea and took a long draft, sighing deeply as he set it back down. He tapped the side of the cup restlessly as he moved to speak again.

“Crowley witnessed it all,” he said, the lines of anguish returning to his face. “He’s been so good to me. So patient.” He trailed off as a dreamy, loving look entered his eyes and the lines were replaced by the plumped cheeks and crow’s-foot creases of a real smile. Then the smile faded.

“But… well… it’s changed things,” he continued. “And I- I don’t know what to do. Neither does Crowley.” He looked over at her hopefully.

“What’s changed?” she asked delicately. “Maybe I can help.” That was doubtlessly why Crowley had asked her for this in the first place.

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Um… I keep- I keep having these… ‘episodes’, I suppose, where, um, well, I feel… disconnected from everything. Sometimes for hours. Crowley tries to snap me out of it but it-it doesn’t always work.”

Madame Tracy said nothing, letting him continue.

“And it’s interfering with our, um…” - the angel coughed and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink - “…being intimate together.” He glanced at her hopefully again. “Y-You’re something of an expert in that area. What do you suggest?”

“So you’ve tried ‘being intimate’ since?” Madame Tracy responded with a question. She would normally be a lot more frank, but right now it was probably easiest to borrow the angel’s charmingly-euphemistic turn of phrase.

Aziraphale nodded.

“And it didn’t go well?” she prompted.

The angel shook his head. “We got halfway,” he said, “and it was- it was ok, it was nice, but then, well,” - he frowned - “something changed and I just, sort of… went numb.” His face creased with regret. “And that was the end of that.”

She smiled softly again and rubbed his arm.

“You’re going to need time, dear,” she said. “You have to be patient with yourself.” Aziraphale stared down into his tea, still forlorn.

It’s a good thing he came to me, she thought. At least she had some experience with this kind of thing; more than Crowley would, anyway. Content, well-adjusted individuals weren’t typically in the habit of visiting a sex worker when they could just as easily be getting ‘it’ in more typical places. Many of her clients had clearly been in it just as much for the company and emotional support as the sex, and over the years, she’d gotten pretty decent at assuaging the needs of the soul in addition to the body.

“If you want my advice for what to do-” she began, and he instantly looked back up at her, “I think you should try to focus on yourself. Rest, do things you enjoy, make sure you’re relaxing; really just take some time to nurture yourself.”

Aziraphale looked uncertain.

“As for the disconnecting-” she pressed on, taking charge of the conversation, “-well, we just need to find a way to reconnect you, that’s all.” A sudden memory flitted into her mind. “Come to think of it,” she continued, “I had a client once who I think suffered from a similar thing.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows rose inquisitively.

“He was rather odd with it - he would start listing things; objects that were in the room,” she said. “Said it helped to name all the blue things he could see or things he could smell. Quite bizarre.” She’d heard about Mindfulness and Similar Capitalised Concepts in magazines, although she wasn’t sure what blue objects had to do with it. “But it seemed to work for him,” she finished.

The angel looked rather sceptical. “So I should… count objects?” he asked.

Well, she hadn’t meant that quite so literally. “It’s all about grounding yourself in the present, I believe,” she said authoritatively. “Always returning to reality, and focusing on what’s around you.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly.

“For example, in the, ahem, bedroom” - Madame Tracey batted her eyelashes - “if you feel yourself drifting off, try to notice all of the touches and sensations and whatnot. Your Crowley seems very attentive,” she continued, causing Aziraphale to turn beetroot-red and grin sheepishly at the floor, “-so you just relax and think about what feels good to you, all the things that feel pleasurable in the moment.” She thought for a second.

“Do you have a bathtub?” she asked suddenly.

Aziraphale blinked in surprise, and then nodded. “Yes- well, Crowley has one, in his flat.”

Madame Tracey raised a finger to hush him and then quickly got up and left the angel sitting, confused, at the table, as she vanished into the bathroom at the back of the flat. With targeted precision, she collected together a number of parcels and baskets she’d had lying around, and brought an armful back out to the living room. They bumped and tumbled as she dumped them onto the table between them.

“So-” she pointed at each of the objects in turn, “-you’ve got bath bombs, and there’s some salts there too, and moisturiser and your essential oils and- oh, you like tea, don’t you, love?”

Ignoring Aziraphale’s bewildered face as he tried to process the question, she bustled over to the kitchenette and began pulling boxes from one of the cupboards. She reached to the very back and pulled down a bright gift box, containing a selection of exotic and colourful loose-leaf teas, which she’d at first mistaken for potpourri.

“One of my old clients gave me these, but Mr. S will never go for that sort of thing and after all, your need is greater,” she said, and added the box to the sprawling pile on the table.

“I-I couldn’t possibly accept all this!” the angel protested.

“Oh, nonsense, dear,” Madame Tracy replied, fussing a hand at him. “I’m always buying this stuff, or getting given it; I’ve plenty enough to last the rest of my life and beyond. It’s good to pay it forward.” Satisfied with the haul, she sat back down next to him.

Aziraphale looked sheepish again. “And… this will help, you think?” he asked quietly.

“Well, it’ll certainly relax you and engage the senses,” she said. “And they say smell is a powerful thing, don’t they?” The smells that emanated from Shadwell’s flat certainly were, she thought to herself. “If you can practice focusing when you’re happy and relaxed, it’ll come easier when you really need to.”

Aziraphale sighed, and some of the tension finally melted away from his face as he smiled. Madame Tracey returned the expression.

“Oh, bother,” Aziraphale muttered, as he reached for his tea and noticed that both cups had gone rather lukewarm as they’d been talking.

“I’ll brew us another,” Madame Tracey said as she began to get up.

“Oh, no need!” Aziraphale stopped her. He clicked his fingers sharply and suddenly both cups were once again as hot as newly poured, the smell of fresh tea thrown back into the air around them. Madame Tracey blinked in surprise. Sometimes she almost forgot that Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t human, and then they went and did - she’d heard them called miracles, and that seemed apt - just like it was nothing. Amazing.

She picked up the cup, somewhat cautiously, and took another sip. The angel smiled again, and joined her.

◥|⧗|◤

Crowley prodded the doorbell and then stepped back, squinting again at the needlessly complex display of his watch. He was a little bit earlier than he’d said. Hopefully that didn’t matter. He lounged against the edge of the wall as he waited for a response from inside the house, still feeling taut with nerves. This whole thing had been his idea, and while Aziraphale had assured him that he agreed, Crowley felt a little like he’d pressured the angel into it. He just hoped it would help.

He heard muffled footsteps, and stood up straight as the door clicked open and revealed Madame Tracey’s cheery face, greeting him. Aziraphale came up behind her, his arms full of… boxes? … and squeezed past until he was standing in front of Crowley.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said softly. “Ready to go?”

“One moment, dear,” Aziraphale replied. He turned back to Madame Tracey.

“I-I really can’t thank you enough, for all of this” - he gestured to the pile of boxes - “and all of the advice and just… for listening.” Crowley was glad to hear a note of calm and relief in the angel’s voice, which hadn’t been there when Crowley dropped him off.

“Any time, love,” Madame Tracey patted Aziraphale’s arm. “You take care of yourself now.”

She looked meaningfully at Crowley, and then added: “Both of you.”

Aziraphale beamed at them both, and then carefully picked his way over the doorstep and followed Crowley to the Bentley. Crowley opened and closed the door for him, gave a vague wave to Madame Tracey, and got into the driver’s side. As he did so, a cacophony of overlapping scents instantly hit him. It was just like he’d walked into one of those cosmetics shops - the sort that you could already get a whiff of from fifty metres away and whose products always looked tantalisingly edible.

“What’s all that about?” he nodded towards the source of the offending smell, the horde of parcels in Aziraphale’s arms.

Aziraphale laughed lightly. “I’m under strict instructions to relax,” he explained, his tone humorous.

Crowley smirked. “Well, I could have told you that.”

Aziraphale laughed again. Crowley’s heart squeezed in his chest at the sound of it. It was so good to hear him laugh again.

He leant close to the angel, his voice becoming earnest. “It helped, then?” he asked.

Aziraphale’s face softened and he gazed lovingly into Crowley’s eyes. “It did,” he replied sincerely. Crowley’s heart soared as the angel reached out to draw him close, and planted a firm kiss against the corner of his mouth. Then he settled back with a satisfied sigh. Crowley gazed at him fondly for a few seconds, then he put the Bentley into gear and they roared away.

#my fanfiction #rape tw #noncon tw #whump #aziraphale!whump #good omens whump #nsfwhump #long post

[lady-divine-writes]

Possession Is Nine-Tenths (Rated M)

Summary: Aziraphale tries his best to dodge intimate questions from Tracy when she visits him in the South Downs on his honeymoon.

Crowley, however, doesn't help matters when he finally wakes up and she sees what he's wearing. (1192 words)

Notes: Based on the idea that now that Aziraphale and Crowley are married, Crowley wears Aziraphale's sweaters and whatnot to bed. But maybe sweaters are not all Aziraphale owns XD Inspired by this post. 

Read on AO3.

“The South Downs, huh?” Tracy asks, those four words posing all the question she needs. As city dwellers the both of them, it does make sense. Translation: “I never thought you’d leave the hustle and bustle behind for green grass and horse shite.”

Tracy and Aziraphale may have only known one another a short time, but they shared a body. That includes sharing a mind. The cohabitation of another being’s vessel is not a clean business. Traces get left behind when one entity leaves, like muddy footprints on the linoleum floor of the hippocampus. Tracy knows how Aziraphale feels about his bookshop and Soho.

She knows why he moved there in the first place.

“Yes, well, it’s the farthest Crowley and I would consider traveling from our old lives. And for a while, that’s something we need.”

“Makes sense. Must be working. Married life looks good on you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, pouring her tea. “I have to admit, I am quite enjoying myself.”

“I’ll bet,” she mutters as the word enjoying brings a rosy glow to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Speaking of ... where’s Senor Sexy?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He adds milk and sugar without having to be asked, then slides the finished product across the table. “To whom are you referring? The milk man? The post man? Your Uber driver?”

“You know who.” She lifts the tea to her lips, eyes twinkling through the steam rising from the surface. “Your man.”

“He’s not a man, you know. He’s a demon.”

“If you’re trying to make him sound any less sexy, you’re failing miserably, my dear.”

“Since you must know, he’s still asleep.”

“Mmm …” Tracy blows on her beverage, grinning into her cup “… that kind of evening? Or was it morning?”

“You’re incorrigible, do you know that?”

“And proud of it.”

“Good for you.”

“Tell me something.”

“That depends.” Aziraphale avoids Tracy’s eyes in favor of dressing his own cup.

“Your demon …” She leans in, lowering her voice in case Crowley isn’t a deep sleeper “… he sleeps in the nude, doesn’t he?”

Aziraphale fumbles his spoon. It falls on the saucer with a clink, flinging droplets of milk across the tablecloth. “Why in the world do you want to know!?”

“Because you’re not making with any of the juicier details, so I’m filling in the blanks with PG-13 stuff.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at his nosy guest. “And how is your husband, by the way?”

“Not here. That’s why we’re talking about yours.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Crowley does not sleep in the nude.”

Tracy frowns at Aziraphale’s answer. “Of course he does,” she decides, followed by several loud sips. “I’ve been around the block a time or two, and a man like that definitely sleeps in the nude. You lucky dog.”

“If you think you know so much, why did you even ask!?”

“I wanted to see what you’d say. You seem to have a penchant for, shall we say, tiny untruths. As a sinner myself, I’m curious how often an angel can lie before they get struck by lightning as opposed to us mere mortals.”

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “Have you ever been struck by lightning?”

“Once,” Tracy says, going in for another sip, “but I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley mumbles, shuffling into the room. “Lady Shadwell. How nice of you to stop by this morning.”

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale corrects.

“Hmph. Gotta be mornin’ somewhere,” Crowley says around a yawn.

“Well, well, speak of the Devil,” Tracy teases.

“Devil’s on holiday. The states, I think. Just me, I’m afraid. Got anything stronger than tea?” Crowley heads for the stove and its various saucepans, lifting the lids off the promising looking ones.

Aziraphale raises a white ceramic carafe sitting dead center of the table. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

Crowley peeks over. He raises his eyebrows, trying to better open his lids. When he catches sight of the carafe held aloft, he sighs. “Fan-bloody-tastic.” He putters over, grabbing the largest mug they own along the way.

“Rough night?” Tracy asks, playing her favorite game where Aziraphale and Crowley are concerned - Catching Aziraphale in a Lie Involving Sin.

“Not so much. Aziraphale is soft …” Crowley giggles “… squishy … and more flexible than he looks. First two goes went fine. I think it was round seven that did me in.”

Tracy snickers.

Crowley yawns, this time with the addition of a galumphing yawp.

Aziraphale’s nose dives back into his cup and stays there.

No, he didn’t try to stop the conversation before it got this far.

There’s no shutting these two up once they get started.

But Crowley manages to stop Tracy in her tracks.

“Shame on you, Aziraphale, keeping poor Crowley up all---.”

When Tracy gets her first glimpse of Crowley, her jaw drops to her chest.

Aziraphale sees why, and he knows he’s never going to hear the end of this one.

His husband, as always, has an exceptional sense of timing … and style.

Over the rim of his cup, which has become extremely interesting in the past few minutes, Aziraphale watches Tracy give his husband several once overs. He doesn’t intervene, letting Tracy ask the inevitable question herself.

“Uh …” She clears her throat. It doesn’t help “… what is that you’re wearing, dear?”

“What? This?” Crowley looks down his body as if he’s forgotten. Aziraphale hopes Tracy will. Probably not a chance without holy intervention. “It’s some shirt of Aziraphale’s from the 60s. I saw it in his closet and brought it with. You know, for going out. Thought it’d be a nice change from the usual.” He chuckles to himself, picking at the practically see-thru black mesh hanging from his body. “Not much to it, is there?”

“No, there isn’t.” Tracy’s voice cracks when Crowley shifts left and right, revealing the tiniest pair of briefs she’s ever seen on an adult human. And considering her prior profession, that’s saying a lot.

“Don’t think angel ever wore it. Didn’t let me see if he did …”

“You don’t say.” Tracy shoots Aziraphale a look.

Aziraphale, hellbent on climbing into his cup, finishes his tea.

“The 60s were a helluva decade,” Crowley grumbles and leaves it at that. He leans over to kiss his husband’s beet-red forehead (much to Tracy’s delight), then walks off with the carafe, foregoing the mug and drinking straight from it. Tracy watches him go, the loose-fitting shirt (which most likely clings to Aziraphale) swinging with every sway of hips, the selvage skimming the tops of his thighs right below his ass. She waits until Crowley slips back into the bedroom and shuts the door, then turns accusing eyes on her friend.

“You lied!”

Aziraphale tuts. “I did no such thing.”

“Did you not see what your husband was wearing?”

“Yes. Wearing,” Aziraphale says, cheeks burning since his mind chose that exact moment to imagine peeling that mesh shirt off his husband’s body and doing a host of unspeakable things to him as soon as Tracy leaves. “Ergo … not naked.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

[captainclickycat]

What I think other characters would call Aziraphale

Apropos of nothing in particular, other than the fact that my brain got stuck on the topic when I was bored. 

Needless to say, these are only my personal headcanons; the mileage and taste of others may vary.

Crowley: Strictly “Aziraphale” or “angel”. Any other casual nicknames would sound jarring and out of character. That being said, I have read the odd fic where he’s called him “sweetheart” and it’s worked for me, but in my head it would be only in the throes of passion or during extremely emotionally heightened moments. I can’t really see him using it over coffee. 

Anathema: If there’s one person I can see using nicknames of the “Az”/”Zira” variety, it would be Anathema, if they came to be on friendlier terms. Aziraphale would respond to this in one of two ways: either by acknowledging it with a tight, slightly pained smile and staying diplomatically silent (in the fine old British tradition), or straight-up pretending he suddenly can’t hear. Alternatively, she might stick with “Mr Fell”, which feels more plausible for book/radio Anathema. 

Newt: Would be a bit deferential and stay on the formal side. Probably “Mr Fell” or “sir” 

Madame Tracy: “Mister Aziraphale” or “young man”, regardless of how well they might end up getting to know each other. The fact that he looks like a middle-aged gent who’s just ambled off the set of an 1800′s period drama would make no difference whatsoever.  

Shadwell: ...Let’s just move on, shall we? 

The Them: “The posh one in the suit”. Probably not to his face, though. 

Uppity bookshop reviewers: “The Proprietor” (read in the snottiest tone imaginable) 

Angels, post-aftermath: *Collectively pretend they didn’t hear you and don’t know who you’re talking about**Loudly and brusquely change the subject*

#good omens #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #consenting bicycle repairmen

[ourownsideimagines]

They Say You Can’t Go Home Again, but I Found Home in You (Crowley x Fem!Angel-ish!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, Fem!Angel-ishReader, Madam Tracy, Shadwell, Gate Soldier

Requested: Yes 

Requested by: @adela-topaz-caelon

Point of View: Third Person Reader

Summary: (Name) is an Angel who, while not fallen, was booted from Heaven. She and Crowley have been dancing around their feelings for each other, and Aziraphale decided that the start of the apocalypse is a good time to finally point it out.

Warnings: I may have cursed? Otherwise, just the usual minimal editing.

Words: 1669

A/N: This is done in one large part, then a small little drabble kind of thing. 

—-

By standard terms, (name) was not an Angel. Not anymore, at least. She had not fallen after the “Great War”, but quickly found that she did not belong - if threats from Michael and Gabriel weren’t enough to get the point across, being thrown out by Sandalphon and Uriel definitely was. 

(Name) had fallen, just not in the most traditional way.

A fallen angel, though, was a fallen angel in Heaven’s opinion. She would no longer be allowed into Paradise, not that she much minded. She had her Heavenly-issued body and the ability to create miracles. What more could she need?

After a few hundred or so years she came to one conclusion. Friends, she decided. She needed friends.

So she sought out the only being she thought might be even the slightest bit kind to her - the Principality and (former) Angel of the Eastern Gate, Aziraphale. He’d been living on Earth for years, and sure, maybe he knew about her ‘fall’, but there was a part of her deep down that prayed to whoever might be listening that he wouldn’t care.

It was just after the flood, and Noah sailing his arc that (name) went looking for him.

And hundreds of years later, the two were closer than close could be. And, of course, being friends with Aziraphale ultimately meant becoming friends with a certain yellow-eyed demon. (Name) was surprised to say the least when she’d first learned of the friendship, though seeing as Aziraphale was affiliating with her she couldn’t for the life of her think why he wouldn’t befriend an actual demon.

At first, she and Crowley got along as well as two fallen angels could (though he sometimes refused to refer to her as such, since she was simply booted while he had to burn the whole way down). They clashed on various occasions, snarky remarks were swapped, and looks were taken in secret.

(Name) would be lying if she said she wasn’t attracted to Crowley. There was just something about his cocky personality that drew her in. And those eyes. Those eyes could kill her and she would thank them.

Of course, (name) would never admit this out loud. There was no way she’d ever admit to actually liking Crowley - at least, not yet.

As the impending end of the earth advanced, she found herself sticking around the angel and the demon more often. She’d accompanied them to care for Warlock, posing as the new house cleaner. She kept an eye on both Aziraphale and Crowley, acting as a buffer for anything too brash. She would comfort Warlock when the two became too much for him, telling him they were just ‘old, silly fools’, then offering to sneak him into the kitchen to steal some cookies. (Name) didn’t have a side, as far as she was concerned (unless, of course, she was counting the side she, Crowley, and Aziraphale had unofficially made). She saw no wrong in contradicting either of their doings.

Crowley, or Astaroth, as she’d been going by had been rather upset about this. She didn’t want the plan to be messed up, but after that time she’d caught (name) reading to Warlock in the middle of the afternoon until he began to nap she said nothing more on the situation.

(Name) had liked Crowley’s longer hair. She was disappointed when he decided that, when he was no longer Nanny Astaroth, that he would cut it short. More masculine. Not that he looked bad - no, far from it. She just wondered, silently to herself, how nice it would have been to be able to braid it.

Perhaps, if they truly stopped armegeddon, he would grow it back out and allow her to-

No, no. She shouldn’t be thinking about that. There were much more pressing issues, such as trying to figure out her way over the hellfire that had taken over the M25. (name) had gotten a call not ten minutes ago from Crowley, telling her to get to Tadfield’s air base. 

Had (name) been told from the beginning that this is where she would end up, she would have laughed and asked ‘in how many years?’ before going off to perform another miracle (almost 6000 years, would have been the answer, not that she would have expected one).

The rain was beginning to come down hard, and in the distance she could hear police sirens. She needed to get over the fire wall, and she needed to do it now. If her watch was right, she didn’t have nearly as much time as she hoped she would.

Knowing she had only one choice, since she would not survive driving through it, (name) focused on one thing and one thing only - her wings.

It had been centuries since she’d stretched them out, and the sound of her jacket ripping made her wince. She could miracle it back together later, but the sound was unpleasant all the same. When they’d finally finished breaking free, she stretched them out. She used the smallest amount of her powers to keep them dry, and after taking in a deep breath, she launched into the air like someone who was riding a bike for the first time in years - shakily done, but done nonetheless.

The flight to Tadfield was the most liberated (name) had felt in a while. Far below here, people buzzed in panic, and she eventually caught sight of a speeding car she would have once recognized as Crowley’s vintage Bentley. She heart dropped as she watched flames lick the carriage, and melt away the tires. She was certain he would make it to Tadfield, but at such a cost it hurt even her.

On the short list of things that Crowley loved, (name) knew the first to be his car (she secretly hoped that she was second). As she approached the airbase, she began feeling winded.

She really hadn’t done this in a long time.

(Name) touched down a short five minute walk from the airbase. She didn’t want to risk the chance that someone would see her and try to shoot her down. From down the road, she saw three figures. One was an older man, a large obtuse gun strapped to his back, another a soldier holding his gun close, and the last a woman dressed in very colorful attire. Even from afar, she knew the woman - even if she didn’t recognize the face.

“Aziraphale?” She called, and all three people turned. The soldier raised his weapon, but (name) went straight to Aziraphale.

“Ah, (name),” She smiled gently. They embraced, but (name) quickly pulled away.

“Who’s this?” She asked, gently flattening Aziraphale’s sleeves.

“Oh, right. This lovely woman is Madam Tracy. Madam Tracy, this is my good friends (name).” There was no pause between Aziraphale’s words and the woman's. “Oh, a pleasure.”

“Very much so,” (name) agreed. She got the sudden feeling that the others were staring at her, but she ignored it. “What happened to your body, Aziraphale?”

“Ah, yes, about that. Got discorporated. How did you know to come here?”

“Crowley called-” (name) paused when the familiar tune of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody, and the smell of burning metal and rubber breached her senses. She turned quickly, watching as the flaming Bentley swerved around the turn and came to a stop at a safe enough distance.

The door open, and Crowley slipped out, a book in one hand as he used his foot to kick the door closed.

“Wouldn’t get that kind of performance from a modern car!” He said, albeit not with much heart. He didn’t even look at the Bentley before making his way over to them. (Name) lurched forward towards him, and he stepped back in surprise. She gently grasped his arms, looking at his soot covered face.

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” She said. Crowley’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he was looking behind her.

“Uh, you, um,” He was stumbling over his words.

“What?”

“Your wings,” He said, and (name) felt her blood go cold.

She had forgotten about her wings. She backed away, suddenly embarrassed, and willed them away.

“Next time you decide to drive your car through a fire, at least let me know beforehand.” She muttered. “I saw you about a mile back and got worried.”

“You were worried about me?” He smirked. She rolled her eyes. “I’m honored, really.”

“Shut up.” She said.

“Crowley, (name), I do believe the flirting can be saved for later.” Aziraphale interrupted you. “As cute as watching you two had been for the last handful of centuries, I really do think getting inside is out main objective, yes?” (Name) felt her cheeks flush red.

“We’re not- she’s not-” Crowley stopped suddenly. “You’re not… You’re not flirting are you?”

“Are you serious? At a time like this?” (Name) motioned to the armed guard.

“I was just curious.” He mumbled. (Name) sighed, but grabbed Crowley’s hand.

“We’ll talk about it later, Crowley. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

---(a little added bonus because didn’t exactly wanna write the whole airport scene)---

“Would anyone here care to explain to me what exactly is going on?” Adam Young’s father asked. Crowley turned to (name), whom had clung to him amidst the stopping of time and Satan rising. She  was winded, to say the least, and she was prepared to sleep for years, even if she didn’t truly need to.

“I should ask you the same.” Crowley mumbled. (Name)’s eyes snapped up to him. “What is going on… here… between us?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Aziraphale interrupted the two of you. “You to have been in love with each other for years, honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

“Aziraphale,” You hissed.

“I’m just so tired of seeing you two dancing around each other. It’s ridiculous.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley’s words were cut off suddenly when (name) grasped his scarf, tugging him to her. He stared at her, eyes wide open. (Name), not exactly caring whether or not anyone was watching gave him a gentle smile.

“C’mon you old serpent. Tell me where you think we are.”

#good omens #good omens x reader #crowley x reader #crowley x fem!reader #Crowley x fem!Angel-ish!Reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x fem!reader good omens #crowley x fem!Angel-ish!Reader good omens #crowley #crowley good omens #anthony j crowley #x reader #x fem!reader #x fem!angel-ish!reader #reader insert #good omens reader insert #my writing #reese writes #the ineffable queue

[itsclydebitches]

Battle -  Pepper has some opinions regarding Madame Tracy's new look.

“Here we are. Isn’t this lovely?”

Pepper, as a rule, hated when grownups lied. There was nothing ‘lovely’ about the apartment complex she was currently getting dragged into. Everything was painted in shades of beige and it smelled exactly like her Nan’s place: mothballs and hand cream. On second thought though, it made a certain amount of horrible sense. She’d seen the decor of Aziraphale’s bookshop, so it was entirely possible that he did think this place was some kind of lovely.

She would have rather he lied.

“Do I really have to stay here?” Pepper asked, but she already knew the whine was going to fall on deaf ears. They’d all been playing hot potato with her since this morning. First Dad said he couldn’t drive her into the city for her dance lesson because he’d been called into an unexpected meeting. Then Mom said she couldn’t either because Mrs. Miller down the road was ill and you know she has no one else to help her. Each left the house that morning not realizing that the other wasn’t picking up the slack. So she’d ridden to the Young’s house, only to be told that Mr. Young was already at work and Mrs. Young would love to take her, really, but she’d just put a stew in that needed watching up until dinner. Why in the world do you need to go out during winter break? Pepper was about to head down to Brian’s when Adam suggested calling Crowley instead, their discussion producing the same passively bemused expression on Mrs. young’s face that appeared whenever something Armageddon related got mentioned. She’d handed Adam the phone without fuss.

Except instead of a demon in a Bentley she got an angel on a bus, one that definitely didn’t have a route out this far. Pepper was left scrounging up change for a very confused driver while Azirphale miracled her into a warmer coat and Adam snickered at the door. To quote the bastard who’d abandoned her, could she get a wahoo?

Now Pepper was getting fostered off on this lady.

“Terribly sorry about this,” Aziraphale was saying, puttering into Madame Tracy’s apartment and pulling her along for the ride. “Crowley went and got himself discorporated, can you imagine? Really, he never takes care of the bodies he’s given. Normally I wouldn’t pay him any mind, let the fool stew for a couple of decades, that's what I say. But given everything that’s happened I hate the thought of him down there for any considerable length of time.” Aziraphale looped the chain of his pocket-watch round and round his finger. For the first time that day Pepper decided to keep her mouth shut. “I intend to put a bit of pressure on Below with the hope that they’ll assign him a new body sooner rather than later. Perhaps even perform a summoning if necessary. If us angels are capable of a discorporated existence on this plane then it should be old hat for a demon of Crowley’s age. Oh, but of course you already know all that—”

Madame Tracy took Aziraphale’s twitching hand, giving it a pat. “He’ll be just fine. As will Pepper.” For the first time today an adult actually looked at her. “We’ll have great fun until your Dad picks you up, won’t we?”

“Eh,” said Pepper.

“You go off and give Crowley a hand. Tell him he’s more than welcome to share my body if he needs a place to stay.”

That brightened Aziraphale considerably. He gushed a couple more thanks, saying that yes, they just might take her up on that offer, before bending to sweep a hand through Pepper’s hair. She squirmed—what, did he think she was five?—but by then Aziraphale was already out the door, muttering something about occult incantations and misplaced books.

Kind of amazing. That this was her life and all.

“Well,” Madame Tracy said, surveying Pepper with the same look a butcher might give a yet ungraded cut of meat. “This is a surprising way to spend one’s Thursday.”

“You’re telling me,” and Pepper chucked her dance bag into the corner.

“Ballet?”

“Tap.”

“Can I see a bit?”

“...No.”

“Fair enough.” Madame Tracy chuckled. “I’d show you some of my burlesque, but I don’t think you’re old enough for that yet.”

Pepper was left with her mouth hanging open as Madame Tracy wandered into the kitchen.

Actually, it wasn’t that surprising now that she thought about it. Pepper cast her mind back to that day at the airbase, picturing the woman who’d drawn her attention by arguing with herself before trying to shoot her best friend. That woman had fit in perfectly with the rest of the insanity around them, flaming swords and dying whales and Adam with glowing eyes. Pepper remembered thinking, in the disconnected way you notice things when everything else has gone to shit, that her wild hair was a much better red than that War lady’s. Her dress was objectively horrible, but it suited her, somehow. Pepper didn’t even know how she could say what suited a woman she’d barely met, but out of everything she could question that day, this wasn’t something Pepper was inclined to put much energy towards. The point was Madame Tracy had looked fun. Kooky, but fun.

“What happened to you?”

This Madame Tracy, the one whose hair had been washed of that fiery color, whose shirt matched the beige walls, no more makeup or big, sparkling jewelry, she paused in the act of making tea and hunched her shoulders, silent. Pepper wasn’t stupid. She’d heard all about Madame Tracy getting together with that guy she’d arrived with. The ‘finger guy’ as Brain called him and the horrible implications of that nickname were precisely why it had stuck. He’d been all critical and blustery. Calling Madame Tracey a ‘whore.’ Pepper might have said something if they hadn’t all been preoccupied with other things.

But hell, she could say them now. Pepper looked at the laundry pile on the kitchen table, a man’s shirts stacked on top. Looked next to Madame Tracy’s equally bland top. She put two and two together and came up with something like four.

She crossed her arms, all her weight settling into one hip. Pepper wished she had gum so she could pop it. “Right. You love this asshole?”

“Pepper.”

“I’m just calling it like I see it. Do you?”

Madame Tracy’s bright, artificial, I’m-suddenly-interacting-with-a-child-and-trying-too-hard smile melted into something soft. “Yes.”

“Well, can’t account for taste. But I’m gonna tell you a story. You listening? Because I charged Wensleydale five Wonder Woman comics and a chocolate bar for this same advice. Be grateful you’re getting it for free.” Almost free anyway. She might not have gum, but there was a selection of muffins on the counter. Pepper grabbed one on top before hopping up next to it. “Once upon a time my uncle told my mom she was too old to get another tattoo. She told him to flush his head in the toilet. The end.” Mmm, poppy-seed.

Madame Tracy, meanwhile, was wringing her hands. Huh. Kinda looked like Aziraphale. “No, no. It’s not as if Mr. Shadwell has ever said I couldn’t—wait. Why were you telling Wensleydale this?”

“He wanted his ears pierced. I did it for him. It’s super easy. I mean, as long as the guy you’re doing it on doesn’t squirm that much. Wensleydale kinda has two piercings on his left ear now.”

“Oh good lord.”

“Are you sure you and Aziraphale aren’t still sharing a body?”

“Now see here, young lady.” Madame Tracy marched up with what she probably thought was an intimidating air, but after an hour of Mrs. Rogenspern’s tap instruction no beast could have scared Pepper, let alone a friend. “You seem to be fond of making snap judgments, so let's set the record straight. Mr. Shadwell and I are very happy together and part of being happy means making accommodations for the person you love. It... unsettles him to have me be so,” she gestured at the whole of herself and Pepper dutifully imagined something other than that horrible wool skirt. “Flamboyant. A few sacrifices are a part of a healthy relationship. You’ll—”

“If you say ‘understand when you’re older’ I’m filling the toe of a shoe with peanut butter. And no, you won’t know which one until you’re wearing it.”

Madame Tracy blinked.

“Besides, if a healthy relationship is all about sacrifice how come Mr. Shadwell isn’t making any? If you can put up with his stupid, misogynistic comments then he can damn well put up with your wardrobe.”

“Language,” she said, but it was an automatic response. The kind of thing adults said when they didn’t know what else to say so wahoo. Progress.

Pepper jumped down from the counter. She came up and took Madame Tracy's hand, tugging. “Listen to me for just half an hour. That’s it. You can pretend you only did it to entertain me, if it makes you feel better. Tell him the same if you want.”

Insults aside, there was a comfort between them. Pepper guessed that’s what happened when you were two of three women in a six men set. Which meant that later, when Madame Tracy went rigid over the sink and started speaking in what some might term tongues, Pepper just went on eating her third muffin. When it was over—damn but possession took time—Madame Tracy looked back up into the mirror and yellow, slit eyes stared back. Crowley blinked.

“Kid? What are you doing here? We’re babysitting for a bit. Lovely to have you back among us! Eh, thanks? Wait, are we dying your hair purple?”

“Uh huh,” Pepper said, tossing the muffin wrapper at their chest. They caught it with a fumble. “Purple’s gonna look great with your eyes. Now help me talk her into a nose piercing before my dad gets here.”

Pepper wasn’t sure who was smiling at her then. Didn’t really matter.

"Nose piercing? Nah, they're out of style nowadays. Trust me, we want one in our brow."

Point was she’d won.

#good omens #good omens fic #pepper #madame tracy

[ineffable-endearments]

Choices (they’re usually the Serpent’s thing, but the Angel tries his hand with them, too)

CW: mentions of suicide/ideation

After getting discorporated, Aziraphale asks Crowley whether he went to Alpha Centauri despite knowing that Crowley can’t be anywhere but on Earth right now (Aziraphale navigated his way from Heaven using an actual planet Earth globe).

Then he indicates that he needs Agnes Nutter’s book even though he likely doesn’t actually need Agnes Nutter’s book for his own purposes (he tells Crowley to get the book, but he’s also able to find his way to the airbase without the book, he’s able to tell Crowley to go to the airbase without the book, and then Crowley brings the book and immediately gives it back to Anathema; Aziraphale does not protest, and it’s really only a matter of good luck that he managed to grab Agnes Nutter’s final prophecy as it floated by).

Aziraphale could have skipped the song and dance about Alpha Centauri, and about needing his book, and skipped straight to “Hallo, please meet me at Tadfield Airbase.” But he DIDN’T. These smaller asks are gentle hints, ways of trying to probe whether Crowley is still willing to help him out after those two enormous fights they just had.

AND. He probably already knows the answers. He probably knows Crowley will always help out. Aziraphale still wants to give Crowley a choice before getting him involved in confronting the Antichrist directly. I am not quite sure whether he’s doing it for more selfless reasons (purely wanting to let Crowley be safe) or self-centered ones (wanting to reassure himself that he’s been chosen). I suspect, though, that it’s both.

At the Tadfield bus stop, too, Aziraphale suggesting that the bus driver should drop him off at the bookshop is another request for Crowley to make a choice. He may or may not remember that the bookshop is gone, but even if he thinks it’s still there, I don’t think he wants to go there alone; if that was the case, then the timing of the statement would be rather awkward, maybe even unnecessary. This is to say nothing of Aziraphale’s facial expressions, which practically shout “this is not just about the bus ride!”.

I think by saying he should have the driver leave him at the bookshop, Aziraphale is stating that he intends to stay here on Earth, but also isn’t sure if perhaps Crowley will deal with his own angry Side by leaving Earth (as Crowley had suggested earlier that day), and he wants to prompt an invitation to stay together but only if Crowley wants to give that invitation (meaning he plans to stay here).

I’ve analyzed the phrase to Hell and back, but it can’t be said enough times: “I don’t think my Side would like that” is another prompt for Crowley. Aziraphale wants to make sure Crowley understands what staying here might mean for both of them (permanent death). Remember, this also comes after the delivery man asks if Aziraphale believes in life after death. “Well, I suppose I must do,” he answers, and gives Crowley a strange, loaded look.

Because that’s what they’re both staring down right now.

We comment about Aziraphale being manipulative, and he certainly can be; he is definitely trying to play a complicated three-sided Chess game with Heaven, Hell, and Earth (I think that’s what the Chess board in his bookshop symbolizes), and he almost never says exactly what he means. But he wants Crowley to genuinely make his own decisions. Every time he hints at wanting Crowley to do him some little favor, Crowley does it...but the hint is based entirely in the assumption that he’ll WANT to do it. Crowley usually has an out.

There are about 3 scenes when Aziraphale specifically does not give Crowley a choice, and these stand out for important reasons as well:

1. 1862, the Holy Water breakup. It’s pretty obvious that this breakup was triggered by Crowley’s willingness to put himself in danger. Aziraphale complains that he’d get in trouble if Heaven found out about the Holy Water, but the Arrangement has been breaking Heaven’s supposed rules for centuries now. Aziraphale just leaves, not giving Crowley a chance to argue.

2. The Bandstand breakup. It was a long and tortured argument, but there were two moments when Aziraphale tried to not give Crowley a choice. First, when they were both refusing to kill the Antichrist, and Crowley was about to walk away, Aziraphale said “You can’t leave, Crowley. There’s nowhere to go.” Second, when Crowley answered that by saying they could both just leave Earth together because they’ve been friends for so long, Aziraphale told Crowley it was unequivocally over.

One could easily say the lack of choice was because Aziraphale was angry at Crowley for not wanting to kill the Antichrist and for not trying hard enough to save the world. But remember, Aziraphale already thinks he has a plot in place for saving the planet. He’s begging Heaven to help, and even if Heaven won’t help, we already saw him making a phone call to move the humans (the “Witchfinder Army”) into position to potentially neutralize the Antichrist. Before coming to meet Crowley he had just had a conversation with Shadwell, the one after which Shadwell called him a Southern pansy.

“You can’t leave,” Aziraphale says, not because he was going to try to force Crowley to kill the Antichrist, but because nowhere on Earth is going to be safe except on Heaven’s side. Especially if nobody is going to kill the Antichrist, which neither of them wants to do.

“There is no Our Side. Not anymore. It’s over,” Aziraphale says when Crowley reveals that there is in fact another possibility, because he is not going to leave Earth and he wants Crowley to make his own decision about where he goes, without Aziraphale. In this case it’s not so much that he’s taking away all choices from Crowley as he is trying to remove himself from the equation so Crowley will make the decision for himself and leave, if necessary. It’s taking away the relationship decision.

So wait, how is that keeping Crowley safe?! Well, it’s because their relationship and Hell’s possible discovery of it is what made Crowley seek a stash of Holy Water. In 1967, when Crowley tried the church heist, Aziraphale knew Crowley was determined to deepen the Arrangement, their relationship, or to die trying.

This whole time, because of that Holy Water request, Aziraphale has been thinking he was the Dangerous Thing, that the hope of being with him is what was causing Crowley to be so careless with his own life. I think at the Bandstand, once he realized Crowley would never be “safe in Heaven’s arms” and also realized he was going to be dying here on Earth if the Antichrist was not neutralized, Aziraphale was hoping if he just removed himself from the picture, disavowed their whole connection for all time, Crowley would finally decide Aziraphale wasn’t worth the trouble.

During the scene in Soho when Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away with him one more time, Hell has finally discovered that Crowley botched the Antichrist situation. Crowley says he’s leaving, and Aziraphale does not make a move to stop him. That sad, resigned expression he wears is probably the face of an angel who doesn’t want to lose his best friend but already thinks that Crowley will be better off without him and should, ideally, be heading for the stars, if he knows what’s good for him.

And then events bring us to Tadfield Airbase.

3. Tadfield Airbase. “Do something, or...or I’m never going to talk to you again!”

The bandstand breakup passes. The bar scene - “I lost my best friend” - is the moment Aziraphale finally, finally realizes Crowley has no self-preservation instinct AT ALL without him. And then he once again gives Crowley the choice to help out. That’s one of the most notable choices he gave Crowley...but he didn’t dawdle over it, because they both already knew the answer. It was important to make it a choice, though.

They find themselves together, with a motley group of humans and the Antichrist, facing down Satan. And Crowley is once again resigned to death.

Aziraphale now knows - and, now that he doesn’t think Heaven is going to help them, is capable of accepting! - that nothing else would compel Crowley like their bond. Aziraphale has been cruel to be kind before, but never like at this moment, when he finally acknowledges the reality of their relationship and forces Crowley to keep fighting, to find some spark of hope or a creative solution somewhere.

Aziraphale thought the Holy Water, if anything, was representative of the threat he posed to Crowley’s life. There are so many ways he was worried about this, from the symbolic reality that Crowley had accepted the importance of their relationship as something that could kill them, that he would defy Hell for, to the literal reality that Crowley could use it to actively kill himself. But in the end, it’s losing Aziraphale that caused Crowley to give up and resign himself to his fate.

It’s getting Aziraphale back that gave him the spark of hope needed to carry on, and after that, Crowley finds faith in both Aziraphale and in Adam and humanity.

By encouraging Eve to eat the apple, Crowley gave humans the ultimate choice, the one that made humans what they are. And in his own way, he’s been giving Aziraphale choices, too - helping Aziraphale understand that no, Heaven’s way isn’t necessarily the only way. For the most part, Aziraphale assumes his role is to preserve the status quo.

However, Aziraphale DOES purposely frame his and Crowley’s relationship as a choice. The only times he doesn’t are times when he thinks there’s a direct threat to Crowley’s safety that can’t be mitigated. This is why the series starts with a shot of Aziraphale’s wing shielding Crowley and ends with a shot in the Ritz that calls back to the very same scene; Aziraphale has been trying to shield Crowley the whole time.

#good omens #ineffable partners #ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands

[thegreymoon]

"I actually do like Crowley and Aziraphale, but the moment they step off screen" Same. I also tried to read the book and ditched it because it was too precious. I only watched 'Good Omens' because of all the fabulous Tumblr gifs and ... Michael Sheen and David Tennant are so lovely. The rest, not so much. ps Watched the first Underworld movie just to see Michael Sheen :) Also Kate Beckinsale looks great :)))

I genuinely liked the book at the beginning, while it was all Crowley and Aziraphale. The social and religious commentary was a lot of fun and I love books that subvert the biblical order of things! Things rapidly went downhill, however, when they got to Shadwell, Newt, Anathema and the kids. Like I said, I can’t really hate on the kids except to say that they bored me senseless. Shadwell, however, is just an overall repulsive character and the less said about Newt the better. They kicked me right out of the book, I just couldn’t get through it, and the show was not any better either. The only reason I decided to finish it is because it had such a huge cultural impact and for a while there, it was like a tsunami, you could not avoid it. Also, Sheen and Tennant are definitely very cute. 

I feel like there was such a great idea here, but when it comes to subverting the common religious tropes, I think Supernatural did a better job with this very same concept (and yes, I know that they were ‘inspired’ by Good Omens). As for the Antichrist, the Armageddon bored me senseless. Again, the whole idea of the Antichrist not being particularly evil and averting the end of the world by choosing to be human has been done better. One really cannot sit down to watch this after watching Damien and leave feeling anything but underwhelmed. It was so unsatisfying!  

The acting was also atrocious across the board, with the exception of Sheen and Tennant, who did manage to keep me entertained and rooting for their characters, however, the rest were laughably bad. The less said about Jake Whitehall the better, and wtf Jon Hamm? I watched Mad Men, he brought so much nuance to that role, he was fantastic! He was evil and unlikeable, sure, but he was really good at it! I was taken off guard by this jeering, scenery-chewing, unconvincing performance. Everything about Heaven and Hell was so low-budget and unsubtle, I have absolutely nothing good to say. 

And since I’m on my soapbox here, let me just vent my anger a bit about the whole Shadwell/Tracy and Newt/Anathema bullshit. Both of these are pet peeves of mine and I really have no patience for this nonsense. Shadwell was nothing but vile the entire time, he is despicable in so many ways, he’s bigoted, misogynistic, insensitive, unintelligent, dishonest. He neither showers nor cleans up after him and I bet you can smell him coming from a mile away. There is nothing redeemable about him at all except for the fact that so many men find him quirky and harmless because they remind them of their own fathers and grandfathers, who were equally toxic to the women in their life. And then you have Madame Tracy, who for all her scammy ways is shown as beautiful and intelligent and vibrant and good-hearted, and for some reason, she chooses this dumpster fire of a man and wears him down with her patience and goodness and womanly wiles (such as making him lunch regularly and making sure his basic needs are taken care of). The same goes for Newt and Anathema. Newt may not be straight-up abusive and evil like his disgusting superior, but he is still a loser and a huge underachiever, and somehow he is paired with Anathema, who is driven, talented. intelligent and stunning! I loathe this trope with my entire being, when an entire failure of a man is put together with a woman way, way out of his league just because everything is supposed to work out perfectly on the romantic front for every loser out there. Yuck. There is so much more I want to say here about the sexism and misogyny and straight-up toxic tropes, but this is getting too long as it is, so I will stop. 

Anyway, on to happier things! I really loved Michael Sheen in Underworld! Lucian was a fantastic character! Kate Beckinsale is very gorgeous, but she rubs me the wrong way for some reason, so I did not enjoy her as much. I still watched the entire franchise for the lovely men they kept bringing on and then killing off. I’m beyond mad about that and I wrote off the entire mess when they killed Scott Speedman’s Michael, but then they had to go and bring Bradley James on as an evil vampire 😭 RIP me, I will never escape this series 😭😭

#good omens #my nonsense #Anonymous

[ladyoutlier]

A Demon’s Demons

In which Aziraphale and Crowley go on a day holiday of their own.

[Read on AO3] | [Chapter 2]

Chapter 3: The Monster of the Lake

The aroma of eggs, sausage, and bacon the next morning awoke Crowley in a very confused state before all the pieces began to click back into place. A walk through the park. A literal Hell of a lot of pain. Spilling quite too much info in the heat of the moment. And Aziraphale by his side as he drifted off. Things were different today, weren’t they? Much different than yesterday or ten years ago or six thousand. Well, he’d have to face it all eventually. Might as well be now. He forced his eyes open.

Aziraphale sat on the same chair as the night before, facing Crowley with a plate on his lap. Upon seeing that the demon was awake, his face blushed pink and he turned back to his desk.

“Ah, good morning, Crowley. I wasn’t sure how long you would sleep for. You have a bit of a record for oversleeping.”

“Be a bit rude if I slept for a decade and made you sit in this room the whole time.”

“Well, I appreciate you considering the value of my time.” The angel took a bite of eggs. “Would you like some? I couldn’t leave obviously, so I miracled myself breakfast. Could do the same for you if you like.”

“Not hungry.”

“You never are.”

“You think of a plan last night? Cause my mind was elsewhere in dreamland.”

Aziraphale set his plate on the desk and turned back to Crowley. Half of his breakfast still remained on it. Never a good sign when the angel turned away from his meal. “I did a lot of thinking.”

“And?”

“You’re not going to like this.”

“Haven’t liked any of all this so far, so what else is new?”

“Basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that all of your Hellish actions are done to, ah, spite God for putting you in the situation you are in.”

“So far so accurate.”

“But then your immoral acts make you feel as though you deserve to have Fallen which thus fuels your refusal to forgive yourself.”

The demon’s expression stiffened, hiding whether Aziraphale had said an accurate statement or not. “And how’s that a plan to fix this exactly?”

"Well, because Crowley, everything you've done has had a positive effect despite your best effort to do evil. Which means that you shouldn’t feel negatively about them."

"Really? I beg to differ."

"Go ahead,” The angel leaned back in his chair. “List off as many of your acts of evil as you want, and I'll point out the good in them."

"How 'bout the time I took down all of London's phone lines?"

"You kept people off their mobile phones while driving and caused others to visit loved ones in person that they otherwise would've just briefly spoke to in a conversation void of face-to-face connection."

"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?"

"Not at all. The irritation you caused people was heavily outweighed by the strengthening of relationships and averted vehicular accidents."

Crowley sat up on the couch and leaned back against it. So it was going to be like this, huh? A back and forth. Regarding his torments of mankind, his list was endless. He was ready to do this all day if Aziraphale allowed.

"Fine. I've caused so much trouble that you can have that one. French Revolution, guillotines."

"You said you had no involvement in that! The humans did all that on their own."

"Well, they did, but I took credit for it. That has to count for something."

"It certainly does not. You claiming ownership for that mess in your reports to Hell hardly influences human behavior."

"Ah, but there's no positive of me doing it. Stealing the credit is straight up wrong."

"Seriously now? I'm the one that's stretching things?"

The demon had said that one mostly just to rile Aziraphale up. It was a fun thing to poke at considering he had almost gotten himself discorporated during it because he had been a bit peckish. He knew that one wasn’t a win. It was just fun to say. But enough games. He needed a point in this competition.

"Loch Ness Monster."

"What?"

"I started the good ol' rumor of Nessie. Caused quite the panic. People too terrified to swim in the lake. Nothing even in there. The human mind's a great thing. Just torments itself if you let it."

There was no debating that one. Crowley was sure of it. Causing mass hysteria over a nonexistent monster. That was as evil as you get without going around murdering folks. And oh, the inaccuracies to those rumors. Quite damaging towards humanity’s perception of the natural world. A stain on a place that had once been wholesome.

"Loch Ness? You believe you've caused more harm than good with Loch Ness? As much as I dislike the spread of misinformation, I can't agree with that." Aziraphale stood up, straightened his coat, and took a few steps towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Crowley moved to the end of the couch. This wasn’t how the back and forth went. They’d go on for hours talking but never actually do anything about what they talked about. Today really was different.

"We are going to Scotland, so I can prove just how wrong you are."

“That’s rather impulsive, isn’t it?”

“Would you rather stay here all day?”

“Nah. Wanna go to Scotland. Let’s go to Scotland. Not like we got a major problem or anything like that to deal with,” Crowley replied with a very sarcastic shrug.

“This is solving the problem. If I prove you right, you’ll see what I mean. If I don’t, well, we’ll of had a nice day out.”

“Hope you don’t plan on driving there. Don’t feel like going through traffic for ten hours there and another ten back.”

“Not at all. I would just like to straighten up some things before we go.”

“Going to use miracles on traveling convenience, angel? See why you were being told off for frivolous usage.”

“This whole ordeal we have going on is more than enough reason for me to be using miracles, and even if that wasn’t the case, I can use as many miracles as I desire now that I’m not associated with Heaven.”

“Where was that logic when I was lying on the pavement yesterday?”

“I’d still prefer not to have witnesses, dear.” Aziraphale opened the backroom door. “Now, come on. Let me check the shop before we go.”

*

They appeared somewhere along the A82 near River Enrick when they arrived in Scotland. After straightening their clothes that were ruffled by the wind their displacement of the air during their teleportation had created, they found themselves in a rather desolate area, hidden from any onlookers. A short hike up a hill later and they found themselves at Loch Ness Centre & Exhibition. It was the standard tourist attraction, equipped with a hotel, a gift shop, and a supposingly educational building that delved into the complex history of the very made up monster.

Herds of families with energetic tots and moody teens scurried from building to building, desperate to get their money’s worth on this last minute, end of summer holiday. The children hugged plush Nessies and held colorful balloons. Some ran around amuck, seemingly unfazed by the possibility of parental wrath. Other mothers and fathers, with much better control over their offspring, walked either with their hands linked with their child’s or with the kid sat up on their shoulders.

A blue bus with the name Nessieland on the side was parked outside the visitor center, and many groups of tourists, especially those with young children, scurried from the gift shop onto it. There was giggling and excitable screams and the sound of suitcase wheels on pavement  and all the noises one would expect from a place like this that drowned out any sense of peace of mind. Simply, the place was more like that of Disneyland than the setting of a monster flick.

One father, chasing a rather rowdy kid, brushed past Aziraphale and Crowley as they approached. The man muttered a quick apology before continuing to run after his child. If anything was left of Crowley’s influence here, it was the pure chaotic energy of having so many people in such a small place.

“So, dear, where is the evil here?” Aziraphale asked, giving Crowley a side glance. “All I see is happy families making pleasant memories.”

“Look, you should’ve seen this place in the 30s.” Crowley stepped up onto the curb and looked back at the angel. “Monster hunters and distraught locals. Fear running rampant. Just ‘cause it’s not like that now doesn’t mean anything. Set the ball rolling for all this way back in the sixth century. Just because the past handful of decades have been pleasant doesn’t right all that.”

“Are you actually sure anyone was ever really terrified? There was never any real monster, so no one was ever in any real danger. Seems like people were attracted to the idea of it for the marvel more than anything else.”

They strolled down the sidewalk absentmindedly as they talked. A young boy tapped on the window of the hotel as they passed, waving to his mother inside. The ice cream cone he was licking dripped down the glass.

“You can’t just do this. Write off everything I’ve ever done no matter how evil and destructive to mankind it was.”

“Crowley, if you had ever done something pure evil, I would be the first one to point it out. In fact, if you were that heinously evil, our relationship probably would’ve ended the day it began.”

“I think,” Crowley began, brushing over that last part. “That you’re being completely delusional.”

“Me? Delusional?” Aziraphale scuffed. “I believe only Serganent Shadwell has said a more inaccurate description of me.”

“You are though. You’ve gone on and on. And I’ve played along. Listing small things here and there. But I was the one behind the whole apple thing, remember? Made all of them Fall just like me.” The demon waved out to the crowds of tourists around them.  “Isn’t that just horrible? Couldn’t go down alone, so I brought them all with me. You can’t say that’s a good thing.”

“The day we met in Eden I remember you asked me something.” Aziraphale stopped walking and looked to Crowley. “What if I did the right thing with the whole ‘eat the apple’ business? Well, it’s taken me some time to come to the answer to that question, and I do think you did the right thing by it.”

“Right thing? Even if it was the right thing, that doesn’t make it a good one.”

“It does. It really does. Can’t you see the beauty behind it? The curiosity? The awe? Don’t you remember dear Warlock’s face that first night he looked through a telescope? How purely innocent and heartwarming his expression was? Humanity’s Fall was hardly as painful as yours. They fell onto a pillow if anything. Knowledge has been nothing but a gift for them.” The angel smiled as he let out a small huff of a laugh. “You’ve spent the past six thousand years trying to do evil in the most good way possible. How does that not show the nature of your character?”

Crowley did the living being equivalent of a computer blue screening after some program or another got caught in an infinite loop of not responding. The spinning cursor of death was practically visible in the lens of his sunglasses. He stood frozen, mouth agape with a word on the tip of his tongue. This whole direct method Aziraphale was trying was much too world shattering. They were wired to work indirectly. That’s how it had been for the past six millennia. This new angle the angel was taking was really messing with his demonic identity.

As he whirled back to life and his brain conducted a manual restart, Crowley merely turned around and hastily entered the gift shop they had stopped in front of without giving Aziraphale a reply. Of course, they had to stay near each other. That was the whole condition this Sins problem presented. And perhaps Crowley should have considered this, but that program hadn’t rebooted yet. Still, the demon didn’t seize up in pain as he entered the shop because Aziraphale had the sense to follow him in.

“Want a shirt?” Crowley asked once inside. “Or how about a mug? I know you like mugs.”

He was trying to change the subject, and Aziraphale decided he was going to let him. He had put the thought in Crowley’s head. That was good enough for now. They were hardly on a time restraint after all, and he really didn’t want to make Crowley miserable.

“Perhaps, if they have something with a bit more charm to it.” He lifted up a cup from a shelf, raised his nose to it, and set it back down. “I really can’t imagine anything with the text I love Nessie sitting around the bookshop.”

“Ah, that limits your selection by a whole lot. Maybe a postcard then.”

They wandered about the store for a bit, slipping past other customers and picking up the odd item here and there. Crowley, with a dubious smile, held a stuffed Nessie and waved its little flipper at Aziraphale before tucking the thing back where he found it. Perhaps the plush winked at the angel as he passed, or it could’ve simply been a trick of the light.

They slid past another family with a fair share of munchkins as they circled around to the other side of the store. The gift shop simply was too small for the amount of people trying to cram themselves into it, and it was making the place a tad on the uncomfortable side. Or maybe it just felt that way to two celestial beings that valued their personal space.

In the end, Aziraphale settled on a book detailing the history of the Loch Ness Monster rumor. It wasn’t a book he would normally get, and he could simply ask Crowley to tell him the history since he had been the one behind it, but hearing it from a human perspective had its own appeal. And maybe Crowley’s involvement is what inclined the purchase. It would paint the whole book in a new light. Not that he handled the purchase. For some reason, when they were together, the demon always ended up paying for things.

“Would you look at that,” Crowley said, gesturing to a flier as the cashier finalized the payment. “Place offers private cruises. Think they might have one mysteriously open for today? Because for some odd reason, I do.”

“If there is one available,” Aziraphale began with a stern glare. “I’d hope it’s not because whoever previously booked it suddenly found themselves in some trouble.”

“Nah, they probably just discovered a winning lotto ticket amongst their things.”

“And you still have the nerve to refute your inner good.”

“Greed is a sin, angel.”

Crowley took back his card and Aziraphale his book, and the two of them left the store, leaving behind a rather confused cashier who really didn’t understand anything of the conversation he had just heard.

An hour later, Loch Ness was more mythical than it had ever been with an angel and a demon enjoying a boat ride on its open waters. What had been a spontaneous visit to prove a point had turned into a full on enjoyable day out. The lake was calm, with the boat causing deeper ripples in the supposedly monster-infested waters than those naturally there. The occasional sailboat dotted the surface around them, and the steep Scottish hills surrounding the lake provided a healthy green to the landscape. Really, it was absolutely peaceful.

Aziraphale and Crowley sat on the upper deck of the boat as it slowly drifted about, the hum of the motor hardly noticeable. Urquhart Castle passed by on the starboard side. A few tourists visiting the historical site waved to them as they passed. Aziraphale, of course, happily waved back. Crowley, well, couldn’t be bothered.

“We should get out more often,” the demon said, stretching out in the sun. “As enjoyable as walking the same paths in St. James Park can be, I like being reminded of the rest of the world.”

“I have been rather settled in London for a long time,” Aziraphale agreed. “Have you put any thought into what I said earlier, dear?”

“Oh, I’ve thought about it, and I’m still not all that fond of it.”

“Why? Why would you having done good over all these years be a bad thing? You don’t have to be evil on Hell’s behalf any longer.”

“Yeah, and you don’t have to be good on Heaven’s either, but that doesn’t stop you from lending a helping hand where you can.”

“I try to spread good into the world because it is what I enjoy doing.”

“And you don’t think I enjoy being evil?”

“No, I don’t. I think you enjoy being mischievous which is entirely different. It can still be devious, but typically those affected are only inconvenienced and perhaps even helped by the end of it.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Oh, give me the strength to not jump off this boat right now. Please, I beg you.”

“I highly advise you to not do that. With your dependence on me, you might just end up drowning yourself.”

“Could’ve just said I’d ruin my clothes. Would’ve had the same effect.”

“Well, there is that too.” The angel furrowed his brows. “I don’t completely understand why you’re fighting me on this. Isn’t it easier to forgive yourself for Falling if you know you have hardly caused turmoil here on Earth?”

“No, it’s not at all easier. If everything I’ve done has been all happy-go-lucky goodness, then all that does is hammer the nail in deeper that I shouldn’t have Fallen in the first place.” Crowley leaned away from Aziraphale. “Which really pisses me off.”

“Perhaps those are emotions you should be feeling. Ones that you need to face instead of continue to ignore.”

“You telling me it’s okay to be pissed at God?”

“I—well—um—given the circumstances, I think She would understand. You’d hardly be the first to have taken that tone with the Almighty.”

“I beg to differ on that.”

“What I mean is that many people blame God for hardships, and She forgives them for it. She forgives all that ask.”

“Really now?”

“Has any other demon asked to be forgiven besides you?”

“How would I know that?”

“Given the actions of your ex-coworkers, I think not. And I’ve already said, I think what holds you back is your own forgiveness, Crowley. The Almighty forgave you the moment you asked.”

Crowley sneered and looked out to the water. The boat continued on, steered by the oblivious captain below them. The remains of  Urquhart Castle shrank in the distance. Aziraphale took a deep breath and straightened up.

“I only say these things because I care about you, dear,” he began. “But I understand if this is something too difficult to face. It’s like unmasking an unhealed wound, and I’m sure even just discussing it with me has been causing you distress. If you really want me to stop pushing you on this I will.”

“What?” Crowley looked back to him. “And have me stuck at your side for every waking moment for eternity? Is that the plan?”

“There are far worse people to be around. If I had to pick someone to be joined at the hip with, I would certainly choose you anyway. I don’t much like acting like an instigator. Pushing and prodding you to do something you don’t want to. I think I’ve done enough of it lately.”

“So that’s just it then? We just always stick together?”

“Until you wish to try something else. I’ll let you take lead on this. However you want to handle this Sins problem will be how we handle it.”

“Look, I’m not against this whole talking thing. Let’s just take it a bit easier. At this point, I’ve spent more time playing the part of the hellspawn demon than that of the holy angel.”

“Of course. I understand. But you are willing to make an effort then?”

“Yeah. Just ‘cause you want me to.”

The boat began to turn course back around. They had gone out as far as the trip allowed and soon enough would return back to the port where all the other cruise boats were docked. There had been progress made today, even if it was minor. Still, progress was progress. There was no rush. They had all the time in the world. Although a visitor that was waiting for them at the dock certainly didn’t feel that way.

[Chapter 4 Coming Soon!]

#Good Omens #Gomens #Ineffable Husbands #my writing #decided just to post it now lol

[ineffably-human]

Some Thoughts on ‘Representation’ and Good Omens

Ugh, am I actually gonna get into this? I am? Ok cool. Cool. Okay.

This is my single, solitary, cis bi probably-allosexual-but-sometimes-not-sure opinion.

Anyway: grey areas are not a bug, they’re a goddamn feature.

There’s a reason there are many names for love in its different varieties, and all different ways to express whatever label you’re putting on it. There’s a reason “You’re My Best Friend” by Queen was written for a spouse and “Buddy Holly” by Weezer was written for a close platonic female friend. 

I’m not even talking about where sex and sexuality live in all that. The bleed between ‘friendship’ and ‘love’ and where ‘romantic’ sits between them is thorny enough. Outside of the narrative structure of fiction, marriages turn into primarily friendships and partnerships all the time - you’re meant to be that first.  And yet so many het couples in fiction show up as ‘just friends,’ and you can tell right away they’re going to be paired off. Of course they’re in love, they’re a man and a woman. Of course those labels are never hard to define, the label they should be is one that the audience can clearly see. Because they’re a man and a woman.

Yes ok, good for me, we all know the Ineffables are a love story, everyone agrees it’s a love story with a lot of rom-com tropes on an epic scale. But no one kisses (neither do Tracey and Shadwell). And no one holds hands (except they do) or proposes marriage (Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away with him twice, which I consider far more intimate than ‘it’d be nice to have a man around’). Or says I love you (not said by anyone, in the whole series, at all). The same standards do not apply to the male-female couples we get, even if their intimacy is newer and less, even if Newt/Anathema, Tracey/Shadwell, Crowley/Aziraphale get scenes one right after the other at the end with the same Good Omens theme playing for all of them. 

Even if Crowley and Aziraphale get the date, the final Moment, the love song about impossible things coming true inside a romance.

The fact that we don’t have the cultural markers to say ‘this is definitely love’ when it’s two men in the roles, as opposed to a man and a woman, is because we have a heterocentric view of the world. Characters are cis and heteroromantic and -sexual until proven otherwise. That’s why we’re flat-out looking at two beings with no other meaningful relationships, whose happy ending is to be together forever, who are a metaphor for the human condition and were once one single character, and it’s somehow not queer enough. 

And I get why that is, I really do. I know there’s Hiding, Coding, Burying, Baiting, and all the rest. But no one is hiding here, no one is baiting, we are being very clearly told that this can fit the breadth of every experience but a straight one. With a groundbreaking and ever-growing amount of LGBTQ characters on the screen, eventually, you will have queer stories that aren’t going to fit ‘explicit text’ in their narrative. Because not every story calls for that regardless of sexuality, and not all things are said out loud - especially when they’re better shown, and just as strong if not stronger. And because not every living, breathing relationship can fit a label, either, and often they fit more than one.

Do we make the story explicit, even if it’s not needed or even weaker for it, because we need to “fix” people who’ll write it off? I’ve shipped fictional couples that had male/male sex they enjoyed and they were written off as confused. Characters who said “I love him” and were written off as meaning a different kind of love. You know how you “fix” that? Having as many kinds of stories as there are in the world and your imagination. In every single way that they can be delivered. Implicit, explicit, idyllic, messy, ambiguous, clear-as-can-be. There’s no right way, as far as I’m concerned, to write a diverse world so long as you do it. It’s not your job to grow someone else’s mind, you can’t, and that’s not what diversity should be. 

You know what defines representation to me? If I feel represented by it. If my world or the world as I see it is reflected in a story. Or if it reflects and expands on some aspect of the world, not necessarily mine, and reflects emotional truth for - at the very least - someone.

I have seen countless people talk about feeling seen by Good Omens. Gay, bi, pan, trans, genderqueer, genderfluid, ace, aro, you name it. Countless people talking about how they felt inspired, felt like it was for them, had the courage to come out for fuck’s sake. And those are just the people Neil Gaiman or Michael Sheen has interacted with directly. Made visible to a broader audience, directly. 

Certainly, some of us feel seen, moved, inspired. Maybe we should be allowed to be. Maybe the people who made it happen should be thanked.

#good omens #i am a meta gremlin #bad kim no wank #this is an essay about 'is it canon' and 'say it you coward' (he freaking did) #i am not going to feel differently about it if someone argues with me probably

[northeasternwind]

mutual presumed dead mourning 1/2

Oh wait posts with links don’t appear in the tags.

Oh well I guess I have to post it wholesale FIC WHERE AZ ACCIDENTALLY FREES HASTUR WHEN HE CALLS CROWLEY AND HASTUR MANAGES TO FOOL BOTH HIM AND CROWLEY INTO THINKING THE OTHER IS PERMANENTLY DEAD

~~~

Aziraphale does not manage to call Crowley before Shadwell interrupts him, and this changes everything. It takes a small miracle and a large wad of cash to send Shadwell off none the wiser, but Aziraphale manages it without stepping into the circle and discorporating himself. In the moment he considers this a success, though later he will wonder if he couldn’t have spared them all some unnecessary heartache if he had failed.

Aziraphale inches carefully around the circle, returns to the shop’s phone, and dials his best friend.

He has, for better or for worse, wasted too much time.

“Crowley!” he cries, once the line goes live. He can’t wait a second longer to begin his apology, which is a shame, because he might have thought better of his next words in that case. “Crowley, I know where the Antichrist is—”

“Do you?”

Aziraphale is shocked into silence. This is not Crowley’s voice, unless Crowley’s voice has become deeper and more menacing since they last spoke in front of the bookshop.

“Excuse me,” he says, slightly baffled. “To whom am I speaking?”

The answer is a sinister laugh. “So you’re the infamous Aziraphale,” the voice goes on, apparently ignoring him. Ah, must be a—

Oh dear. Must be a demon.

The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault.

Aziraphale feels the beat of his body’s heart quicken, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. Crowley said he was running away— but he also said he was going home first. He might not have been home, and for now Aziraphale decides to cling to that, because the alternative is… dangerous.

“I do believe you are breaking and entering,” he says with some asperity, mind working furiously. Aziraphale has occasionally met with his superiors in his bookshop, but Crowley would never invite other demons into his flat, and so he is quite confident in this conclusion. But that still leaves Aziraphale with a demon in Crowley’s flat, and Crowley not there, and no explanation for either of those truths except what his imagination can provide.

“Well, we did ring the doorbell first.”

Aziraphale has nothing to say to that. That’s actually rather polite of them.

“I’d like a change of scenery, though,” the voice continues. “And I’d also like to meet Crowley’s little pigeon friend.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, out loud this time.

A maggot wiggles its way out of the receiver. He’d been expecting it, but Aziraphale still lets out a rather unangelic yelp and backs away, hastily inching back around the circle as an avalanche of writhing insects and larvae come pouring from the phone, building in a great mound that stretches its fingers out toward Aziraphale—

At least until it hits the circle, at which point some of the maggots squeal and sizzle away, and the mound collapses in on itself and grows until it is shaped like a man instead of a pile of fly children.

(Aziraphale will wonder, later, why Hastur transformed into maggots instead of, say, tadpoles. Perhaps he and Beelzebub switched.)

The newly formed demon takes a slow, deliberate look around, and Aziraphale quietly takes the opportunity to unlock the door behind him. Black eyes with a frog on his head— this must be Hastur, the demon that destroyed the records at Tadfield Manor, and the subject of many of Crowley’s multiple complaints about Hell and its inhabitants.

There was a demon in Crowley’s flat. Now there is a demon in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Hastur sneers. “You don’t look like much. Why does Crowley bother with you?”

Aziraphale’s chances of teasing information out of Hastur subtly before violence occurs are looking rather slim, so he goes for the direct approach instead. “Where is he? What were you doing in his flat?”

And here, further, is another moment when Aziraphale’s luck runs dry: Hastur is not a smart demon, by any means, nor a particularly creative one. He does, however, know the power of watching allies die: he has just experienced it himself, was reduced momentarily to a screaming fit after watching Ligur dissolve into a puddle of demonic goo.

He doesn’t know exactly what it means to be someone’s friend, but he does know that Crowley and Aziraphale are allies, at least, and that’s good enough for him.

“Dangerous game, keeping holy water so close,” Hastur says in a low voice, and watches with satisfaction as Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his shoulders drop— as though he were a puppet cut free from its strings. “Especially when you’re expecting company…”

A high noise fills Aziraphale’s ears. Crowley is smarter than that. He wanted it for precisely this reason— to use on other demons, not to have it stolen and used on him.

Crowley is smart. Crowley is clever. Crowley would never…

“Why should I believe you?” he demands, though his voice is rather higher-pitched than he prefers. “You’re a demon. Demons lie.”

“It doesn’t matter. Our lord will call his servants to him, and you will die here, unable to stop him.”

“I’ll do no such thi—”

Here is some useful information about demons:

There are ten million of them, give or take some thousands, but the vast majority of them cannot produce hellfire. Hellfire is a resource, one that must be created and stored, and then brought out when it is called for. As such, for the lesser demons hellfire is a precious resource that most ration and guard for emergencies, or for particularly sour grudges.

Hastur is a Duke of Hell. He does have the power to create hellfire, and while he cannot make much— well, it hardly matters when he is standing in a building of flammable material, and Aziraphale is wearing flammable, human-made clothing that has seen nearly two hundred years of wear.

Hastur’s hand shoots forward, and with a startled yelp Aziraphale miracles a bookshelf into the space between them. It bursts into infernal flame and begins to tip backwards, toward Aziraphale, who reverses its fall, turns tail and flees, not keen to waste time battling a demon when the world is ending in mere hours and Crowley is missing.

Hastur spits flame onto the magic sigil, burning away just enough to turn it off, then steps forth and blows the bookshelf to pieces.

Aziraphale is already out the door.

No matter. Hastur smiles a demonic smile, turns, and begins systematically setting the rest of the bookshop on fire, so he can watch the paper curl and turn to smoke, so he can take some joy in destroying an angel’s precious possessions, and because Crowley has only one ally in the world— and if Hastur had one ally in the world he knows exactly where he would go next.

~~~

Crowley, unfortunately, arrives by way of the street Aziraphale does not flee through.

He does call Aziraphale on his way over, which helps him not at all: the phone doesn’t even begin to ring, just goes straight to informing him that his call cannot be completed, would he please try again later?

It’s the message that plays when Aziraphale is already using the phone— but, he thinks, looking at the flames that have inexplicably replaced his phone’s photo of his only friend, it’s also the message that plays when the line no longer exists.

He’s just paranoid. Ligur is dead, and Hastur is trapped. It’s probably a call from Heaven, although knowing that Aziraphale can’t hang up on Heaven to answer him instead is a pain all its own. There’s only one obvious thing for Crowley to do now, so Crowley puts the thought out of his mind and continues to speed his way through London.

It doesn’t much matter how much thought he does or doesn’t put into it, because his conclusion upon reaching his destination is the same. He highly doubts Aziraphale purposefully set his own bookshop on fire.

“Excuse me!” a firefighter shouts. “Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“Do I look like I own a bookshop?” Crowley answers sourly, and steps into the flaming building.

As soon as the doors close behind him Crowley feels it: the infernal stench of hellfire, the sort of smell that clings to you long after you’ve washed its source away. Fire is bad enough— the thought that someone might have maliciously sent Aziraphale back to Heaven, bodiless, really grinds his intestines in a way that makes his stomach complain quite passionately— but the thought of Aziraphale being gone, truly gone— 

“Aziraphale!”

It can’t be. He’d been so careful, he’d made sure Hell didn’t know about Aziraphale, didn’t know they were friends and certainly didn’t know where to find him. There is no reason whatsoever for the bookshop to be literally burning in the flames of Hell, the only thing that could take Aziraphale from him for eternity. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder if Aziraphale escaped: he must be here, if only Crowley can find him!

“Aziraphale, where the Heaven are you?! I can’t find you—”

He cannot sense Aziraphale, here or anywhere else. But Aziraphale has always chosen kindness, so if Crowley shouts loud enough, if he can make Aziraphale feel his desperation, then Aziraphale will almost certainly appear to ease it.

“Crowley,” Hastur greets lowly, as though he has always been there.

Crowley freezes, and turns to look. It is definitely Hastur, and not some illusion or demonic twin he’s been keeping secret all this time. Hastur is here, and not in Crowley’s voicemail, and behind him the bookshop phone lays abandoned on the floor.

“Hastur!” Crowley returns genially, purely by reflex.

Hastur breaks into a grin that shows altogether too many teeth. “He called for you.”

Hastur, as pointed out before, is not very smart. What Hastur means to say is, ‘he called your phone and set me free, and here I am, having definitely killed him and set fire to his domicile.’

But what Crowley hears is ‘he cried out for you when I killed him, believing right up until the end that you would come save him again, and you didn’t,’ and this awakens something hot and ugly in him that 6000 years of restraint can’t control.

Crowley lets out an inhuman shriek and dives, reaching blindly for Hastur’s neck. Hastur simply miracles himself closer, so that Crowley’s hands fall uselessly past him and Hastur may grab his collar, holding him fast with a slimy smirk.

“There’s nowhere—”

He never finishes. Crowley lunges forward in Hastur’s grip and sinks demonic teeth into Hastur’s throat.

There is a struggle, though for the sake of stomachs everywhere it shall remain undescribed. All that matters is the outcome: a demon collapses limp on the floor of the bookshop as Crowley spits out his prize. Feels anger— and everything else— drain out of him. Wipes his chin.

“Gross,” he mutters, and turns to leave. His extraneous heart has stopped beating. There is nothing left for him here.

He picks up the nearest mostly-intact book— souvenir— and throws the doors open. The firefighters don’t bother him this time; there’s no point in saving his strength, or his miracles. There are nothing but enemies left now, so he may as well make whatever remains of his time on Earth convenient. No one asks him to explain as he crosses the street and climbs into the Bentley, feeling the weight of the door more than he ever has in 90 years.

He carelessly tosses the book onto the passenger seat. It slides off, and something tips out of the open pages.

Crowley doesn’t care about that or anything else anymore, but he frowns despite himself. Aziraphale has— had— a strict No Inserts Except Flowers And Bookmarks policy, and even then he mostly found other ways to dry flowers or mark his pages.

He leans down, scoops up the paper— a map, it seems— and opens it, more to wallow in curiosity over his perished friend than anything else.

Adam Young 4 Hogback Lane Tadfield

...Tadfield.

Tadfield.

“Bloody Heaven!” Crowley shouts, to no one in particular. “You clever bastard! You figured it out! You—”

Aziraphale had done it: he’d found the Antichrist, and called Crowley, and freed Hastur, and arranged his own demise. Despite all his talk of Heaven, despite abandoning Crowley for those who didn’t give one whit about him, twice, Aziraphale had made his decision— had in the end called Crowley, to tell him how to save the world.

(Abandoning is a strong word. It has never been a question of Aziraphale choosing who cares for him the most, or who he cares for the most: it has always been a question of right and wrong, because Aziraphale has spent all of time believing that Heaven is by nature good and Crowley is by nature evil, and six thousand years of temptation could never convince Aziraphale to choose evil.

Which means one of two things: either Aziraphale believes that Crowley and the Earth and humanity are good, or he doesn’t and has chosen them anyway, and both of those options are vaguely, elatingly terrifying.)

Aziraphale had died saving the world, and by Satan or God or whoever else there was to swear on Crowley would try his damned best to do the same.

“Right! Tadfield.” Heart pounding, hands shaking, Crowley tosses the map onto the passenger seat and starts the car. “They got your bookshop, angel, but they’re not getting your blessed sushi.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #north writes