I Am Not Okay

I think people need to understand that part of living a healthy life is having different people who understand different parts of you, so that you don't overwhelm your friends and expect too much of them, or ignore valuable relationships because they feel "incomplete".

We all want to be fully seen and understood, but it's not shallow or meaningless to just have a pal you talk about TV shows with who isn't also, like, your platonic soulmate. That's still your friend! You still enhance each other's lives with your company. Not everything that matters is profound.

I think a lot of you are lonely because you're waiting around for someone who sees into your soul instead of just plain old lookin' at the people in your life, finding common ground, and planting a little garden there. Even if that garden only grows Star Trek fan theories and memes, it's still good.

It just... makes me real sad that you guys can't imagine a friendship where you don't talk about sex and trauma constantly, or that you think these are prerequisites for "real" friendship. Like, it legitimately breaks my heart.

girls when "that's the point. no nightingales."

I’m going to be very feral, very very very feral.

Here you go. The Good Omens S2 Episode 1 title sequence, by Peter Anderson Studios, music by David Arnold. We warned you it was madder than the S1 titles, and it is. I think it's really good.

I did it! I didn’t believe it (and in myself), but I did second DTIYS and I have an odd feeling that Aziraphale looks a little dead, but he is not! He’s just exhausted. Little bit of stardust, old gods and two lovers, because I can’t draw anything else. Big thanks to @ran196242 for an amazing piece. You make astounding job and I absolutely love your artstyle and comics! Hurry up to read them, guys!!

I just might hate you, too, he thought. I just thought they are in love and had to draw them. Again.

If They Only Knew

If they only knew

How to keep you safe like I kept you

How to speak the words they never used

I wish they only knew

There were three truths that Aziraphale had been taught about demons. Of course, there were far more than three, but seeing as Heaven strived to be concise while maintaining its penchant for symbolism, the list had been broken down into three main concerns.

1.     Demons will do all that they can to spread evil. Demons will destroy all that is good.

2.     Demons do not trust one another. Therefore, you cannot trust a demon.

3.     Demons cannot love.

There was not a pamphlet that had been distributed to the Heavenly Host. These were truths that had been conveyed through countless conversations, side-eyes, implications, subtle jabs, and consistent proclamations of specially selected scripture.

There were truths about angels too. There were truths about angels, but there were also truths about Aziraphale.

There seemed to be an ever-present divide between Aziraphale and the rest of the angels. Where the rest of the Heavenly Host had the ability to carry out their duties based upon adherence to logic and reasoning, Aziraphale was aware that he often allowed his emotions to overtake his better judgement. The angels had made that clear to him. On occasions in which Aziraphale would hazard questions and concerns in Heaven, soaked to the bone with frigid flood waters, ears ringing with cries from The Crucifixion, the angels had been able to carry on, driven by purpose and written resolve. They had assured him. They had known what was best.

In mending his mind, he would use a scrap of his heart, trying not to focus on the ache it left behind.

Aziraphale learned to rely on logic, to fall back on these truths when he felt his heart rush forward. When he felt questions, griefs, desires well up inside of himself, all he could do was step back and address them objectively, lest he do something rash.

For there were truths about angels, and truths about Aziraphale. And if Aziraphale no longer fit these gospels, then what made him any more different than a demon?

There was one problem. Aziraphale had used these pillars of logic to try and hold himself together, using the knowledge of his superiors to remind himself of his place. Of Crowley’s place.

But these angels had never felt hope at seeing a demon in a jail cell. They had never sat close enough to his raucous laughter to notice that he had crow’s feet by golden eyes. They had never heard a broken voice, shaking with something other than the cold, asking over and over for the safety of children.

And as often as Aziraphale reminded himself that Crowley was a demon, there was the growing feeling that he was also a friend. But friendship was a dangerous thing. So Aziraphale did what he could – he reasoned. He built his companionship with Crowley upon the pillars of these truths, and when he felt the all too familiar desire to grow ever closer, he would rip stitching from his heart to sew his mind together again. The fractured pillars were sealed with cement.

But tonight. Tonight, there had been a bombshell. Metaphorically, there had been two.

“These are just a bunch of half-witted Nazis.”

Number 1.

“It’d take a real miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

Number 2.

“Little demonic miracle of my own.”

Number 3.

“Lift home?”

The pillars collapsed. The last threads of Aziraphale’s heart were torn away. But rather than bleeding out, it was as if a barrier had been removed. These threads had not been sutures, but rather tethers and bindings. After so many years, this fragile thing was finally released.

And love crept forward tentatively.

Keep reading

Two great lawyers, former schoolmates, meet after a long separation to argue the case for and against a Tennessee science teacher accused of the crime of teaching Darwin's theory of evolution. But can political enemies still be friends after such a time?

Inherit the wind/Good Omens crossover coming soon in AO3! Collab with amazing @indigovigilance for the @do-it-with-style-events Silver Screen Bang!

I had a really hard times for last weeks. My laptop was in servis, three times a month (don’t even talk about price), I was struggling with offices (still I am but some things are solved at least), with lack of job offers in my profession (did I say I quite job), and many many other things that many people probably suffer from too, but sometimes it’s just too much. When I received another bad news, mum took me to the bookshop (actually she dropped me there, my sweet dear mum, I love her).

I haven’t been in a bookshop for years.

I bought three books, one for me and two for my siblings - Christmas is coming and who knows when I'll be able to go shopping again.

I bought Good Omens. Precisely after 30 years it’s finally translated to my language and I didn't hesitate for a second. I can’t stop staring at my small collection and smiling and feeling a little better.

(why the fck is the book getting bigger and bigger)

(the bigger bright book is that new one and the blue 24 yrs younger one is half the size, I swear)

I'm not sure which of them came to watch the other 😅 They're smitten without debate.

There are a few Bentley things Crowley will sort out by hand.

Coffee Break.

though essentially i think Aziraphale is just going to sit to one side  eat the snacks he bought while watching Crowley finish shining the car.

Could someome make me tea, please?

It’s midnight.

They’re on the steps of the Ritz, and the moon is full, and a nightingale had sung in Berkeley Square. The air is fresh, crisp, soft, right after a quick rain, and they’re both looking at the Bentley, which is parked across the street without a droplet

They realize that there isn’t a car puttering across otherwise, that it’s quiet, that they are the last to leave the establishment after getting totally and utterly sloshed in the name of the world not ending.

Then they’re looking at each other. The golden light coming from the windows is spraying across Aziraphale’s pink face, and he’s smiling, and Crowley is smiling right back. They are a couple of drunk morons standing outside in the twilight, basking in each other’s company.

Is this not love?

“Need a lift?” Crowley asks this partly as an inside joke, partly as a literal inquiry; there’s something very slightly pained in his voice - an expectation. An expectation that this night would end as any other would between them: with Crowley sprawled across his own bed, in the dark, lamenting what he did and did not say, and Aziraphale awake all night, curled up with a book he pretends he is reading.

It’s fear, not pain. That nothing would change. Or rather - that they wouldn’t know that nothing had changed.

Now, Aziraphale is drunk, yes. But he is not drunk enough to note the slight panic Crowley is masking, and his smile is even pretty as it fades to something still warm, but serious.

“My dear…”

Crowley feels a lump in his throat, and tries to remember if he thoroughly chewed what little food he had had this evening.

They’re staring at each other. They’re looking at each other and seeing each other, even past Crowley’s glasses. Because the golden glow from behind just barely renders them useless, and matches his eyes just so.

“Where are you?” Aziraphale whispers.

“-What?” Something high-pitched, surprised.

“Where are you, dear? Are you with me? Here? Now?”

“What kind of a- yes- yes of course, where else would I be?”

“Because- dear- I… I would like to hold your hand.”

The request catches Crowley off-guard; he’s halfway thinking through a clever comeback to whatever Aziraphale would have said next when suddenly, his heart aches, and he’s forced to acknowledge what he hopes is the outcome of the evening. And he’s not talking about sharing a bed - no.

Suddenly, he’s flustered about their hands, touching, and he knows he wouldn’t be able to make that leap even if he wanted to, not yet. No, he’s suddenly shivering, vibrating, with eyes darting to his angel’s outstretched hand.

Stupid, stupid, you’re fucking up, oh fuck-

So he jerks his body into motion, looking like he was just struck by lightning, and breathes out into the crackling air to carefully - carefully - press his left hand to Aziraphale’s, fingertips to wrist, palm to palm. His own is smooth, bony, cold, but it feels like he had just rested it on warmed silk. Soft, broad, welcoming.

They’re standing there. They’re staring at each other. They’re staring at their hands, at their ring fingers pressed side by side, imagining what it would be like to have matching bands clink together every time they did this hereafter. To be known this intimately, to know the lines of each other’s palms without practicing, is a gift both of them can give.

Crowley is the first to move; he caressed his thumb across Aziraphale’s, finds a pliant joint that folds around his fingers, welcomes him against his skin, against his body.

“We’re holding hands…” he murmurs, is greeted by the return of that angelic smile.

“That we are, darling.”

Now, it feels as if his heart has stopped completely. A heat creeps up from his chest to the tips of his ears, and gathers in his cheeks.

Suddenly, he is home. And he knows that everything - and nothing, thankfully - has changed.

“Walk me home now, dear. I’ll make us some tea.”