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corrections by onelater
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
15 Jan 2020
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Summary
Aziraphale sighed. “You’re acting a little strange, my dear.”
Crowley could have screamed. “Strange?” he said.
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The mortifying ordeal of being known, but make it a comedy. -
you're not a religious person (but) by isozyme
Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)
22 Aug 2019
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Summary
"I'm in a bit of a pickle, my dear," Aziraphale said over the telephone.
Crowley was seized by immediate fury. Not even a decade, and they're at it again, he thought viciously. You'd think they'd be embarrassed enough to stay out of things for a few centuries at least, after botching the apocalypse like that.
"Who's done something to you?" hissed Crowley.
"Ah," said Aziraphale, in the quiet tone of someone who didn't mean to learn someone else's secrets and was mildly sheepish about it. "This crossword clue -- I'm stuck -- 1980s French fencer, thought you might know. It's eight letters and has a Q in it."
"Trinquet," Crowley snapped, in the tone of someone who had revealed one of his secrets and was annoyed about it.
An account pertaining to the cultivation of figs, the ecstasy of St. Theresa of Avila, the ontological uncertainty of mammoths, the nature of temptation, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the ten years following the end of the world.
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Summary
Crowley doesn’t remember heaven, but Aziraphale remembers him.
originally published 2019-03-21. edited and updated 2020-05-19.
the following fic has not been modified from its original version. it has been transferred to a different account.
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Summary
The angel Aziraphale has a problem, and the human all in black and sunglasses is quite sympathetic.
An alternative meet-cute.
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Hold My Hand (and never let it go) by KannaOphelia for one_more_offbeat_anthem
Fandoms: Good Omens (TV)
08 Mar 2021
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Summary
Not much of their skin was touching, when he thought about it. The fabric of their sleeves, their trouser legs, holding them carefully apart, despite the strangeness of wearing each other's skin. But this point, this point of contact, was almost unbearably intimate, until Aziraphale could barely tell where he ended and Crowley began.
One hour, forty minutes, and neither of them acknowledged the way sometimes one of their hands would tighten suddenly, and the other would squeeze in return. Once Crowley drew his thumb in soothing strokes across the back of Aziraphale's thumb, and neither of them mentioned it.