Azi *seduction Mode On*: I Wasn't Always Religious, But Now I Am, Because You're The Answer To All My-

Season 3 with them not talking :(

“My arms are too long” will undoubtedly go down as one of Doctor Who’s creepiest phrases, nevertheless this line is the one that haunts me:

There’s something about the casualness of how this line is spoken that’s so deeply sinister, and Tennant’s dead-eyed, subtly malicious stare is absolutely bone-chilling

I just love that THIS

Was proof that they wanted to kiss HERE

At the very least, they were thinking about it. Especially in Aziraphale’s case.

Remember the post I wrote about Aziraphale being a fighter?

Do you wanna know who isn't one?

Crowley

And no, I'm not saying he is a lover or some bullshit like that. Aziraphale is a fighter AND a lover. No, Crowley is a strategist.

He fights with his brain. He is really good at thinking on his feet. In a physical fight, he gets over the violence by talking his way out of it and using his creativity to come up with a quick exit. He thinks up plans quickly and efficiently (raising the antichrist, surviving Ligur and Hastur, getting Hastur stuck in the phone, figuring out how to cross the M25 aflame, the Arrangement, saving Aziraphale in 1941, the plan to rob the church in the 60s, fooling an horde of angels into believing Job's kids are new kids, do you want me to continue?).

And he has the added bonus of having a silver tongue, so his words are always clearly his main weapon to bring his plans into fruition. And, so far, we've only seen him fail once: convincing Aziraphale to stay

Okay but in S3 of Good Omens can we get a reverse wall slam.

I want to see Aziraphale slam Crowley into a wall with either the same exact force as S1 wall slam or more.

Hip thrust and everything.

writers when they’re proofreading their works for the 34th time *find zero mistakes, there’s no typo, no grammatical error. everything looks good. hit the post button*

writers when they’re reading said works after they’ve been published like proud parents *find 52 mistakes at first glance, 38 typos and 14 grammatical errors with a bunch of inconsistencies and plot holes*

Technically, we never see them wear the "turtleneck" without the jacket, and the fact that NO ONE in this fandom has proposed this idea is unacceptable

Aziraphale's Inbox

An angel and a demon walk into a bar.

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, one that would have annoyed Crowley greatly before- before. Maybe it would have been mildly amusing, were it not for the fact that it is a pub, not a bar (a mere technicality that somehow still mattered), and it is the first time in seven months that he is looking Aziraphale right in the face.

He chose the place, walked right out of the bookshop and across the street the second Aziraphale looked at him with his stupid purple eyes and opened his mouth. Same table, same drinks. New silence.

A demon leads an angel into a pub so he does not kiss him again.

Less of a joke, more like the beginning of a nightmare he has had every single time he tried to sleep, woken by whispered words either confirming his worst fears or greatest desires; both incite fear, one way or another.

The low table between them is enough of a barrier to prevent a repeat of their last interaction, it has to be, although this time Aziraphale is looking at him with violet-coloured longing and an apology on his lips, no longer pleading, no longer angry. He is asking for forgiveness, and if that isn't a deeply ironic twist of fate.

Before either of them says a single word, Crowley finishes his drink and raises his hand to order another one, clinging to the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat to burn away the questions lingering on his tongue.

An angel followed a demon into a pub because he loves him.

Aziraphale wishes he could tell himself Crowley looks like he did seven months ago, that he hasn't changed, but he is done lying to himself, to either of them. Behind his shades, dark, darker if that is even possible, he can feel his golden gaze heavy on his face, familiar and the answer to an empty longing in his chest.

His drink goes untouched as Crowley downs one, then another, and it is after the third that he finally begins to talk.

"What do you want?"

Bitter, sharp, spit at his feet with an anger he expected and yet doesn't know how to react to. Underneath it is pain—more pain than any being should ever have to experience—and instead of trying to carry some of it for him, he only added to it.

"I want to apologise."

"Fine." Crowley shoves his empty glass away and gets up. "I don't forgive you."

Reflexively, Aziraphale reaches out and curls his fingers around his wrist when Crowley tries to walk past him, blinking up at him with eyes the colour of dying Myosotis.

Forget-me-nots.

They both freeze, the point of contact a crack in the walls they have spent centuries building and seven months rebuilding, and he knows he has made a mistake immediately.

Crowley stares at him, still as stone, until he suddenly rips his arm out of his grasp, almost cradling it against his chest. With dawning horror, Aziraphale realises he is shaking, tremors running through him like waves breaking apart on a rocky shore.

"Don't you dare touch me." Panic, not anger. Pure, unfiltered panic blooming beside a mountain of fear that could outlast an eternity.

"I-" He doesn't know what he wants to say, what he is trying to say, what he needs to say to make him stay. Oh, the irony of it all.

Crowley leaves the pub, and the Supreme Archangel stays behind.

Not a demon anymore, not technically, he is done with sides, and deeds, and choices; he never makes the right ones anyway. His wrist hurts with the ghost of a kiss, and he cannot get the glint of purple where summer sky blue should be out of his head. 

The Bentley is waiting for him, providing an escape from the noise, the people, him.

Apologies instead of I'm coming back.

A sickening aura of holiness tinged with the burn of ozone instead of books and dust and soft, silly angel.

Seven months of waiting, of pleading with God, of cursing Her, cursing him, cursing the entire fucking world for taking and taking and taking from him without pause, without even a fragment of mercy.

For this.

An angel returns to heaven. Crowley curses the stars and cries.

them🥰