Latest Posts by greendeanwinchester - Page 5

Let it go dean...

So I did a thing...

somehow it worked

I'd really appreciate it if you drank some water. nothing will happen if you don't, you can keep on scrolling if you want.

I won't be mad, or disappointed. I won't even be aware that you didn't drink water. you can just not interact with this post. I'll never know what decision you made.

it's up to you honestly.

I am

it was the meat of the homent...

Making my own tags into a separate post because why not?

erm yeah so im not normal about them SO WHAT!!!

My coping mechanism is to just cry and make fanart...

4 for Crowley/Aziraphale?

:D :D :D

4: neck kisses

---

He's still giddy with it, all these weeks later. All of it. Earth, safe. Freedom won. Bookshop still standing.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, stirring awake beside him of a morning. Aziraphale soft and bleary over his tea as they wake up together. Aziraphale dusting and writing in his diary (there are hearts around every instance of Crowley's name in the recent entries, he's checked) and shooing the occasional customer before they can develop the impression that he actually sells books and peering through the window at Nina and Maggie, finally, tentatively getting their act together. Makes perfect sense, now that they've got a good example to follow.

Aziraphale existing. Just like he always has. Still fluffy-haired and soft and a perfect warm ray of angelic sunshine. In the same space as Crowley. In the same universe. He's so lucky. He's so lucky they're here and he doesn't care what it took to arrive. It was all worth it.

He's on his feet before he really decides to get up, striding across the bookshop, slotting himself seamlessly into Aziraphale's space.

"Crowley?" he asks. But it's not a squeak now, like it would have been once. There's curiosity in the curve of that question, and anticipation, too.

Crowley bends, just a little, and presses a kiss just above his miraculously neat collar.

Aziraphale giggles. Giggles.

He's so good. Everything about him. Crowley loves him so much.

"What was that for?" Aziraphale asks, a blush rising to his cherubic cheeks.

"That was for you," Crowley says, hooking his chin over Aziraphale's shoulder, draping himself over him. "For existing."

"I've existed a very long time," Aziraphale says.

"You have, haven't you?" Crowley smiles, and then turns his head to brush another kiss over Aziraphale's neck. "I'd better start catching up."

My takeaway from Good Omens 2;

If you like someone, give them a pet fly.

Neil Gaiman, probably: Crowley is a cool, suave, powerful prince of Hell. He is somewhere in London sipping whisky and staring mournfully into the middle distance while "Pale Blue Eyes" spins on the record player.

Me: So the Bentley is refusing to play anything but "My Happy Ending" by Avril Lavigne on repeat and Crowley has been lying in the back seat for three days straight. He has consumed half a dozen gallons of ice cream right out of the carton while ugly crying so hard that his corporation manifested smudged eyeliner in sympathy.

"No! It wouldn't be funny at all."

-thinking about him-

Thinking about how Crowley was wearing his sunglasses during the kiss. Thinking about how it was not romantic, but rather desperate and angry. Thinking about how it was probably their first kiss ever, for both of them. Thinking about Aziraphale grasping at Crowley's back. Thinking about the moment during the kiss where Crowley seems to try and pull Aziraphale even closer. Thinking about how Aziraphale most definitely wanted to kiss back but didn't. Thinking about how Aziraphale could interpret it as Crowley tempting him. Thinking about how it was the most human way Crowley could possibly convey what he was feeling. Thinking about how it was awkward and went on for too long. Thinking about Aziraphale pressing his fingers against his lips afterwards. Thinking abou-

Trouble in the 1800's - Good Omens

The next time we see them together Crowley asks for holy water. What did they do to the poor dear?

"And how was that sentence going to end?"

GOOD OMENS - 2.06 Every Day

i. i just realised something about the kiss.

the way when aziraphale puts both of his hands on crowley's back, you can see them kinda shift so aziraphale isn't leaning. he held onto crowley for stability, and leaned in. pushed closer to him. he leaned forward. anyone ever says he didn't want the kiss im going to hunt you down because HE HELD CLOSE!!! HE KISSED BACK!!!!

Is he. The way that he pushes his fingers up, not just pressing them against, but driving his upper lip up. Is he seeking to recreate it. The exact shape of the pressure that was just there--

MICHAEL SHEEN I'M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE to give you the biggest award I can get my hands on

Imagine you hate a guy so much and then you watch him effortlessly offer up exactly what your closest friend and greatest love for the past 6,000 years still won’t give you. Crowley has literally suffered more than anyone in the history of the world

because we need all the softness in our lives, could I ask for slow dancing + ineffable husbands? 🥺

I think we all deserve this, yes

---

Crowley—and he would sooner jump head-first into a pool of holy water and then drink it than admit this aloud—is happy. Deliriously happy, in fact. He's topped out the happiness scales and is inventing new shades of happiness as he twirls the stem of his wine glass between his fingers and pretends not to be watching Aziraphale across the table as said angel watches London go by through the rain-streaked bookshop window.

They're okay. They're both okay. The world, too, is okay. They've still got it. They've still got each other. All is right in creation and eternity stretches out in front of them, absolutely bursting with potential. It's the first day—since it is actually three in the morning now—of the rest of their lives.

So they ought to start, Crowley thinks, as he means to go on.

"Angel," he says, something inside him curling up warmly at the way Aziraphale's attention falls on him all at once.

"Mm?"

"You," he says, tapping on the back of Aziraphale's hand. "Owe me something."

"I owe you a great deal," Aziraphale says quietly, looking away.

That won't do. That won't do at all.

Crowley gestures vaguely at the record player, and the first strains of something soft and slow crackle in the air.

He stands, giving himself a moment for the room to stop swaying, and then offers his hand.

Aziraphale looks at it like he's never seen it before.

"Apology dance," Crowley says. "Version two."

Aziraphale continues to stare at his hand, an adorable little line forming between his brows.

"Come on," Crowley beckons with his extended hand. "Do you know how often I've offered to dance with anyone? At all? Once. Just now. You'd be missing out on a genuine historical event if you don't take me up on it."

Aziraphale takes another moment. He's gotten cautious. It'll wear off, Crowley thinks—hopes—sometime between ten seconds and a millennium from now. Give or take.

But that's all right. They've got time. And now he's not wondering anymore. He knows. He's just got to wait.

"C'mere," he tries, promising himself he'll drop it if Aziraphale doesn't take the bait this time.

But he does. Wonderfully, gloriously, he does. His hand slips into Crowley's like it was made just for the purpose. Crowley's fairly sure it was. Not even God could tell him otherwise.

Crowley does not slow dance. Generally speaking, short of emergencies or spectacular drunkenness, he does not dance, full stop.

But it's very easy to draw Aziraphale close. Rest a hand on his waist. Sway aimlessly with him in small, easy steps around the cramped quarters of the bookshop.

"There we go," Crowley speaks up once he's sure they're really doing this. "Think I like this one better."

And then, because he really wants to and he's still feeling very brave and at least a little drunk, he leans close to rest his forehead against Aziraphale's, and smiles. This is also, he thinks, where his head belongs. In the grand scheme of the universe.

"A-apology... accepted, then?" Aziraphale asks.

"Yeah," Crowley says. "Think so."

"G-good. Good. Crowley, I'm so—"

"Shh," Crowley murmurs, twirling Aziraphale away slowly and then pulling him back in. "Forgiven. Forgotten."

Aziraphale makes a noise of disbelief.

That won't do, either.

Slowly, ever so slowly, with all his attention laser-focused on Aziraphale to see if he flinches or pulls away or stiffens at all, Crowley raises a hand to his cheek, and strokes his thumb along the ridge of it.

"Would you forgive me again if I kissed you, angel?"

Aziraphale's breath hitches. The lights flicker. The record skips.

"Since when do you ask permission?" he asks, voice trembling again.

Crowley laughs, low and crackling along with the record player. "I'm not," he says, leaning in close, until there's barely the space for an angel to dance on the head of a pin between them. "I'm begging forgiveness."

And then he closes the distance, soft, tentative, gentle. Six thousand years, give or take, in the making. It feels like every second of it. It feels like every second was worth it, when Aziraphale opens up under him, and—surprise of surprises—darts his tongue out in the world's least practiced attempt at kissing back.

Not, honestly, that Crowley has any more experience. He's just not trying to rush headlong into the complicated stuff.

He pulls back laughing again, giddy with it, and gives Aziraphale another, more enthusiastic twirl under his arm.

"Well?" he asks. He knows the answer. It's written all over Aziraphale's face.

His angel clears his throat. "Well. We may need some practice to get that right."

Crowley breaks into a grin that immediately makes his face hurt. "Just as well we've got forever, then."

I'm rewatching Good Omens, and noticed something in the first episode that has left me spiraling into a theory.

It's in the scene when Hastur and Ligur are handing Adam over to Crowley. Hastur asks Crowley to sign something beforehand, and:

I thought it was a scribble the first time I watched it bc I was trying to figure out what was going on. But it's not a scribble.

It's not a 'C' either, for 'Crowley' It's not a 'A' or 'J' either, for the rest of his name.

It's an 'L'. It gets hard to see as he's finishing it, but it's the letter 'L'

This is how you write a capital 'L' in cursive:

you swoop up and to the right, drop down, swoop left, and finish on the right.

and Crowley does this with his signature:

here's him beginning the letter, swooping up and to the right

Then he moves down,

loops to the left,

And finishes it as he moves back towards the right (and at this point, the complete letter is hard to make out. It's why I thought it was a scribble the first time I watched this episode)

Crowley's signature on the document Hastur makes him sign before delivering the Antichrist to start Armageddon, something that is arguably one of the most important things hell wants to document, is an 'L'.

WHY?

Why not a 'C', for Crowley, the name he currently goes by? Hastur and Ligur confirm the name itself earlier in the same scene ("What's he calling himself up here these days?"/"Crowley.")

Well, if going by what he claims in a later s1 episode that "Crowley" is his last name (Anthony J. Crowley), it would make sense for one of his initials to be put there.

Except it doesn't, because "Crowley" is not his real name. it's not the name he began with, the one he had as an angel.

So then, what would this name be? What would be a name for an angel, who is now a demon? A demon who was there to tempt eve, as a snake, into eating the forbidden fruit. Someone that brought the stars, and light, to the universe. A name that begins with the letter 'L'.

There's one I can think of that matches, and that name is Lucifer.

"But Squish!" I know some of y'all will comment, "What about that line Crowley said in episode 5? He mentions Lucifer, so it can't be him!"

In episode 5, Crowley says the following: "I never asked to be a demon. I was just minding my own business one day and then...oh, lookie here, it's Lucifer and the guys! Oh, hey, the food hadn't been that good lately. I didn't have anything on for the rest of that afternoon. Next thing, I'm doing a million-light-year dive into a pool of boiling sulphur."

Crowley also says in the second episode: "I didn't mean to fall. I just hung out with the wrong people."

A lot of people believe that it's implied that when Crowley said this, it meant he met Lucifer and hung out with him. But when he says it, it sounds like he's mockingly quoting someone else, talking to him.

The "Lucifer and the guys!" might've been directed to Crowley, using his name. This would match that line from a previous episode, "hung out with the wrong people."

"But Squish!" I know some of y'all will comment after reading that, "What about Satan? Lucifer is Satan, and Crowley isn't Satan!"

And neither is Beelzebub. Fun fact, by the way: One of the many names for The Devil, Satan himself, is Beelzebub. But Beelzebub is a whole different character. So why can't Lucifer be a whole different character too? After all, many people still argue to this day that Lucifer and Satan aren't one and the same...

Also, here's something interesting:

Crowley is the only character in the tv series that has mentioned Lucifer, and it was in that line I mentioned earlier. Lucifer is also mentioned once, in the book, but by Shadwell, mishearing Newt's last name as "Lucifer" instead of "Pulsifer". And Satan? In both the book and the tv show, he is never called another name other than "Satan", usually followed by his fancy and long title. His description in the book's "DRAMATIS PERSONAE" is literally "fallen angel; the adversary". No Lucifer.

And how about this:

Crowley was the one who started the universe, we see that at the beginning of season 2. He was the first one, to our knowledge, to say "let there be light." "Lucifer" means "light-bringer" Crowley was the snake that tempted eve into eating the apple in the garden of eve. We see this in the beginning of episode one. Many claim Lucifer was the one who did that. Crowley fell because he asked questions about how the universe should be run, after seeing its creation and being so proud of it. Many claim Lucifer's big sin that sent him falling was his pride stemming from his beauty causing him to revolt; eerily similar to Crowley asking questions after watching the beautiful universe he helped plan be born and growing protective after learning it was going to get shut down so early in its lifetime, isn't it? Crowley was a powerful angel. This is heavily implied in season 2, with the tiny joint-miracle he and Aziraphale made being as powerful as an archangel's. He has the ability to mask his presence powerful enough to fool Uriel, Michael, and Gabriel (the only other character we've seen have that kind of masking power was the Metatron, who Crowley was also the first to recognize). When going through records with Muriel, they claim only very high-ranking angels have clearance to look through the records of Gabriel, an archangel so powerful he single-handedly had the power to stop "Armageddon 2" from being put into plan; Crowley is able to access them. And Lucifer? Often described as having been a very powerful angel.

Lucifer is such an important name, such an important character, in the theologies surrounding Good Omens. So, where is he? Why has he only been mentioned seriously once, by Crowley?

The answer could be this, simple and short: Because he is Crowley.

EDIT:

I dug up the book. It's been a while since I read it (I honestly don't remember much from the book) and here's what it has to say about Crowley's signature...

"Your real name."

.........

HELLO?

Finally watched all of good omens, it sure was good at making me cry

ok fix-it time hilary you can do this i believe in you

prompt is a classic one--Aziraphale runs after Crowley after the "i forgive you" "don't bother" exchange OR the kiss does magically work like Crowley hoped

no i am not using english grammar and spelling today my feelings are too strong

Aha. Well, I wrote this fic yesterday, but it... might not entirely qualify as fix-it. My bad. To make it up, I offer you this: technically not either of the suggested scenarios, but still something to salve the pain, set at the end of Season 3 or thereabouts.

The late afternoon light is still and weighty: golden, heavy, purposeful, the sort of light that takes up space, that polishes floorboards and sets dust motes drifting, settles on the backs of furniture and the pages of books like a sleeping cat. The sort of light that fills the room almost tangibly, that stripes the bed and spills off it to the floor like too much olive oil poured into an amphora, back in the hot white heat of the Holy Land. Since he is, of course, a being of pure light, Aziraphale can feel it in his sinews, in the core of his soul, but it almost seems... wrong. Not the light itself, but that he's still allowed to touch it. He doesn't know if he's Fallen or not, or if such trite distinctions even matter. He only knows this. Them. Now.

Aware that it is incumbent upon him to start the conversation, he clears his throat and looks at Crowley, sprawled out on the bed with a fair show of his old insouciance, but Aziraphale can sense the fragility behind the flippant smile. Crowley's black-clad legs are jauntily crossed, his shoes kicked off, his hair a particularly vibrant red against the little-used, age-yellowed lace of the pillow cover; this bed, after all, doesn't get much use in the traditional sense. Aziraphale's preferred human vice is food, not sleep, though he knows Crowley is very good at it and might have to teach him a thing or two about that, about rest. He craves it, but he doesn't know where to begin. That seems applicable to any number of things right now, but he has to start somewhere, he supposes. He just doesn't know.

"Er," Aziraphale says at last, to Crowley's increasingly-strained expectant expression. "My dear, I... I am..."

He bites his tongue. He's rarely been in this position before, knowing that he's the one who needs desperately to ask for forgiveness -- real forgiveness -- and not at all certain that it will actually be granted. It's always seemed so slick, so easy, something to toss off as easily and unthinkingly as the humans say bless you when someone sneezes, and carrying about the same spiritual or emotional depth. Aziraphale feels mortifyingly ashamed of it, of himself. He shuffles his feet, twisting the hem of his waistcoat between his fingers. At last, to the carpet, he says, "I'm so very, very sorry. I've been an absolutely dreadful ninny, and I don't... I don't know if you can forgive me, but..."

"Angel." Crowley's voice is rough. "Bloody look at me, would you?"

Half-fearing to be dissolved by infernal hellfire on the spot, but knowing that he deserves it, Aziraphale looks up.

It's hard to read Crowley's expression, even more than usual. The glasses are off, but his slitted amber eyes are opaque, careful, wary, not quite sure what this is or what's going to come of it. The dead-silent moments that follow, as he weighs up his options, are among the very worst of Aziraphale's entire unending life. Then Crowley fractionally shifts his weight, opening up a spot on the bed next to him, a silent invitation. He doesn't say anything. Using their words tends to backfire tremendously, even if they need to get used to it. He just looks. He just waits.

After all this time, after everything, Aziraphale finally doesn't hesitate. In fact, he almost trips over himself as he blunders across the floor, falls onto the squeaking old mattress, and clambers into Crowley's arms. Crowley wraps them both around him with fierce, ferocious, furious strength, pulling Aziraphale down next to him, Aziraphale's softer, rounder corporal form fitting neatly into the hard lines and lean angles of Crowley's. Aziraphale rests his head on the bare triangle of throat where Crowley's shirt is unbuttoned, burrows his face into the sharp cleanness of Crowley's collarbone, and becomes belatedly, embarrassingly aware that he's crying. It seems beneath the dignity of a (possibly-ex?) Principality, but he doesn't think he can stop. He just wants to lie here and clutch onto Crowley for literally dear life, to mourn for all the time they've missed, for the simple, unbearable, shocking, agonizing, perfectly exquisite pleasure of holding his love close. "I'm so sorry," he says again, struggling not to let his voice crack too extravagantly. "Dreadful ninny. Absolutely dreadful."

"You were doing what you thought was right. What you needed to do to stop the Apocalypse, just... differently." Crowley's voice turns distant, his fingers absently stroking Aziraphale's hair. It feels strange and shocking and quite, quite lovely. "Can't really tell you off for that, can I? After all, I'm a demon. What do I know about doing good?"

"Hush," Aziraphale says, primly and a little watery. "Now you know that's not true."

Crowley lifts his head and regards Aziraphale for a long moment. He doesn't answer, just thinks about it. "All right," he allows, at deliberate length. "Maybe a little. I'm still very mad at you, though."

"I do understand." Aziraphale nestles again, and Crowley doesn't stop him. "But perhaps, even if I have no real right to ask it, you can... you might... one day think about... f-forgiving me?"

His voice trembles and squeaks. It takes all the courage in him, even more than when he stood up to the full hosts of Heaven and told them no, no more, not ever again, but he looks Crowley in the eye. He tries not to look too expectant, or too arrogant. He waits.

Crowley, for his part, looks mildly flabbergasted. He makes one of those incoherent nnngh noises that he resorts to whenever he finds himself at a loss for words, and shakes his head. "Idiot," he says, very softly. "Of course I bloody forgive you. Of course. Now if you -- "

He doesn't get to finish his sentence. That's because Aziraphale likewise screws up every drop of courage, takes hold of Crowley's collar, and lowers his head, terrified that he's about to muck it up. But Crowley just looks at him like he's luminous, like the light is still in him and he is the light itself, and tips his head just that bit, in order to settle their lips together.

The kiss is long and slow, soft and sweet. Crowley's hand flutters up to rest in the wild white tufts of Aziraphale's hair, and Aziraphale -- somewhat in terrified awe at his own daring -- nibbles experimentally on Crowley's lip. He's quite bad at it, but neither of them care, or can think about anything else, or do anything but heave short sharp breaths, half-laughs, muffled sobs. When they finally pull apart, Aziraphale says anxiously, "I hope it wasn't very awful?"

"Oh." Crowley's eyes are half-lidded, and in the sunlight, he too looks as if he is burning like a beacon, brighter than his favorite stars. The affection in his voice is greater than the wings of heaven or the reaches of hell, the heights of the sky or the depths of the sea, and his smile outshines them all. "Absolutely terrible."

I think my comfort characters are burnt out pretty boys that are silly, bisexual, and sooooooo mentally unstable that are in love. I just cry in their general direction, it's like "no, my sweet child, you are good enough, be happy, you deserve it you little bitch"