It's apparently been 2 years and 4 days since I drew this lovely couple so heres an happy birthday post for them!
I remember making these around the time I was trying to complete Slime Rancher, and I loved the Puddle slime and Fire slime were both liquid slimes so I made them into a sorta human (but still sorta slimes) couple!
I haven't drawn them 'til earlier this night where I drew them on a magma canvas, which has relit the beautiful flame of my love for them! Hopefully I'll do more doodles of them, if not, Im still happy I drew them again! :D
Hello all! I've been seeing a lot of people asking for fic recommendations now that S3 is out (for a multitude of reasons), and I haven't really made an official post now that this fic is complete, so here's "Where The Nightingales Should Be" in case anyone is interested! This fic is essentially an alternate S3.
(Read HERE on ao3)
SUMMARY:
"On a second glance, Aziraphale didn't look all that different--his clothes were frayed at the edges, his shoes scuffed, his bowtie missing--and hang on, was he bleeding?
Crowley wasn't sure how he'd missed the thin trail of blood running down the side of his very-drenched head, but it was all too noticeable now.
He found his voice again. "What are you doing here?"
"Right," Aziraphale said. "Um..." His eyes went unfocused, and he wobbled. Crowley found himself, despite his utter shock at the situation, beginning to worry.
"Aziraphale, what happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're bleeding."
"I'm what?" Aziraphale reached up and touched the side of his head, eyes widening in surprise at the blood that smeared his fingertips. "Oh. So I am."
'What are you--?"
"Listen," Aziraphale said, "I'm terribly sorry to do this, because I know we aren't talking, but there's something I need to ask of you."
Crowley nodded slowly, his worry growing the more unfocused the angel's eyes became.
"And what's that?"
"I'm afraid I need your help," Aziraphale said matter-of-factly, and toppled forward without another word."
This fic contains (among many other things):
Jesus as a fully fleshed out character with a complete emotional arc, and the center of the primary apocalypse conflict
A commentary on choice and free will, and breaking free of forced expectations and dismantling oppressive/toxic systems while still existing within the original universe
The philosophy that humanity and the world, as flawed as they are, are still worth saving
Character growth and emotional development for the rest of the angel characters
Crowley and Aziraphale kiss not once, but SEVERAL times
Crowley and Aziraphale hug not once, but SEVERAL times
BIG conversation regarding the Final Fifteen of season two
Aziraphale getting to have a proper emotional crashout over everything that's happened
Muriel and Eric friendship development
Exploration into The Fall
Exploration into the idea that angels and demons alike have trauma from The War/The Fall and that many of them were friends/knew each other before
Season One characters make a comeback alongside season two characters, and all get their own arcs and roles in helping to avert the Apocalypse -- Again (This includes Maggie, Nina, Adam, Anathema, Newt, The Them, and Warlock) (plus Dog, he gets to be there too)
The Bentley as a genuine character
Gratuitous amount of Queen Songs/References
Return of the Flaming Sword
Flashback/Memory sequences
Crowley and Muriel friendship (we were robbed)
Agnes Nutter is still poking into everyone's business in an entirely new way
Breakfast at the Ritz
A happy ending for an angel and a demon in the South Downs, exactly as they are
I know we're all coping with S3 in our own ways (whether you liked it and are sad it's over and want more content, or were disappointed by it), so if this helps to bring comfort or excitement to anyone who is seeking it, I wanted to put it out there. Hope you enjoy!
Only just gotten to chapter 2 but even so, this fanfic is beautifully written!!! I love how its writing was inspired by Terry Pratchett with the extra little info sections within the text, it makes it feel like how the Good Omens book was like. And the way the Bentley, Nina and Maggie were written and how they shared the spotlight with Crowley and Aziraphale with having their perspectives and thoughts shown, it feels like a massive comforting hug compared to S3.
100% Recommend If you love the show and characters and want something to read after S3!!!
“It may help to understand human affairs to be clear that most of the great triumphs and tragedies of history are caused, not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad, but by people being fundamentally people."
— Terry Pratchett
For Terry. Ineffably.
The Bentley was never meant to fly.
That had always been more of a guideline than a rule, really — the same way “don’t fall” had been a guideline, and “don’t go native” had been a guideline, and “do not under any circumstances, develop feelings for the opposition” had been the sort of guideline that entire theological frameworks crumbled around. So when Crowley hauled back on the steering wheel with both hands and the old black car lurched upward through a sky that was increasingly less of a sky and more of a wound in the fabric of something that no longer had a name, he supposed he was keeping a very consistent track record.
The radio played “Don’t Stop Me Now.”
Of course it did.
“She’s burning faster,” Aziraphale said, his voice pitched carefully calm in the way it always got when he was in fact the precise opposite of calm. He was gripping the dashboard. His knuckles had gone white. His halo — he’d stopped bothering to hide it, somewhere around the time Uriel had been unmade — cast a pale gold light across the instrument panel. “Crowley. She’s burning faster.”
“I see that.”
“The Crab Nebula is gone.”
“I know.”
“Crowley—”
“I know, angel, I can see it going, I can feel it—” And he could. That was the horrible part. He could feel each page like a cold draft through a window that didn’t exist anymore, a small erasure, a breath going out. Six thousand years of knowing the shape of the world, and now the world was being unknotted, thread by thread, and every thread was a small screaming nothing. It was worse than the Fall. The Fall had been an act of violence. This was an act of tidying.
Michael had always been the worst kind of bureaucrat. The kind who genuinely believed in the paperwork.
The Eternal Flame was visible now — a pillar of white fire that wasn’t fire at all, burning in the center of something that wasn’t space, at the coordinates of what had once been the middle of everything. It had no heat. It had no warmth. It predated the concept of warmth by a considerable margin, and regarded warmth the way a shark regarded the notion of friendship: theoretically aware of its existence, entirely unmoved by it.
And there was Michael, standing at its edge, the Book of Life open in their hands, face tilted upward in the expression of someone who has spent too long in meetings about the apocalypse and finally, finally gets to see the deliverable.
The last hundred or so pages were fanned in their hands.
“Get me closer,” Aziraphale said, and there was something in his voice Crowley hadn’t heard there before. Something terribly old. Not the old of six thousand years on Earth, living among humans and acquiring opinions about restaurants. The old of before. The old of being present hen the hydrogen coalesced. When the first light said yes.
“If I get you any closer the Flame will—”
“Get me closer, Crowley.”
He got him closer.
The Bentley screamed. Not metaphorically — she screamed, every molecule of her magnificent 1926 construction protesting this particular aeronautical indignity with an eloquence that British engineering rarely achieved. The temperature gauges spun. The radio flickered. Freddie Mercury briefly became static became silence became Freddie Mercury again, urgent and defiant.
“MICHAEL.”
Aziraphale’s voice came out of him like a chord. Not a single voice — a chord, every octave he’d ever had, every tone from the dawn of the first morning. Crowley’s ears rang with it. The Bentley’s windscreen cracked in a single clean line.
Michael looked up.
In the white light of the Eternal Flame, the Archangel looked very small. That was the thing Crowley had never been able to articulate about Heaven’s soldiers — how small they looked when you stripped the certainty away. Michael had spent all of eternity being absolutely sure, and absolute sureness, it turned out, was a very efficient substitute for actually being large.
“Aziraphale.” Michael’s voice was conversational. Politely surprised. “You’ve brought the demon.”
“His name,” Aziraphale said, “is Crowley.” He had opened the car door. He was standing on the running board — actually standing on it, in the void between everything and nothing, his coat whipping in a wind that had no right to exist, his hair gone golden in the light of the Flame. “And I am asking you, as Supreme Archangel, as someone who has served Heaven since before this universe existed — please stop.”
“The plan—”
“The plan,” said Aziraphale, with a gentleness that was somehow more devastating than fury, “was never this. I have read every version of the plan. I have stood in rooms where the Metatron spoke for God and I have watched miracles and I have—” His voice caught. Just briefly. “I have made every mistake that it is possible to make, trying to serve something I thought was bigger than myself. But this isn’t the plan. This is you, Michael. This is what you want. And I’m asking you — I’m begging you — don’t do this because you were afraid of what I was changing. Don’t unmake everything because Heaven felt like it was becoming unfamiliar.”
Michael’s hands tightened on the Book.
“The Second Coming was supposed to mean something,” they said, and for just a moment Crowley heard it — the grief underneath the bureaucratic certainty. Real grief. An Archangel who had believed so completely and so long that belief had calcified into something that couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and was now destroying the world rather than let the world ask questions it didn’t know how to answer. “It was supposed to be the fulfillment. And you were going to make it a — a party. A picnic. You were going to have him shake hands with people in a community garden.”
“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “I was.”
“That’s not—”
“It was going to be lovely.” Aziraphale’s voice broke open. Not with sadness — with something that sounded almost like joy. “It was going to be exactly as lovely as anything he ever did when he was here, and I was so proud of it, Michael. I was so proud because for once — for once — I thought I had understood what all of this was for.” He spread his hands. The empty hands of an angel at the edge of everything. “It’s for them. It has always been for them. Not to test them. Not to judge them. Not to end them on schedule. It’s because they are extraordinary, and they know that they’re going to die, and they love each other anyway, and I have lived among them for six thousand years and I am still not done being astonished by it.”
Silence.
The Eternal Flame burned without burning.
Crowley, who had not moved from the driver’s seat, who was technically still gripping the steering wheel with both hands because his body had apparently decided that was a thing that needed doing, felt something in his chest do what it always did in Aziraphale’s vicinity: go embarrassingly warm.
“Give me the Book,” Aziraphale said quietly.
“If I give you the Book,” Michael said, “everything comes back.”
“Yes.”
“Every page I burned—”
“You haven’t burned the last ones. And the Eternal Flame doesn’t destroy what it unmakes — it holds it. You know that, Michael. That’s why you chose it. Because somewhere underneath all of this, you didn’t want it to be permanent. Because you’re not a monster.” Aziraphale’s voice was gentle now. “You’re just very, very frightened.”
Something crossed Michael’s face that had no name in any language that humans had ever invented and several that they hadn’t.
Slowly — slowly — they held out the Book.
Crowley exhaled.
What happened next was — not simple, exactly. Nothing about the restoration of existence was ever going to be simple. But it was faster than it had any right to be, because Aziraphale turned out to be very good at it, which probably should have surprised no one given that he had spent centuries perfecting the art of finding things that were lost.
He sat in the backseat of the Bentley — which was hovering, technically, in what was technically still a spatial location, more or less — with the Book of Life open across his knees and his eyes closed, and he remembered.
That was all. He just remembered.
He remembered Alpha Centauri, specifically the smell of it, which was not a smell anyone had a name for but which Aziraphale had always privately thought of as ambitious. He remembered the exact specific amber of autumn in the Cotswolds. He remembered the way the light hit the Thames on a clear morning in October. He remembered a bookshop in Soho, and the weight of old paper, and the particular satisfaction of finding a first edition that everyone else had overlooked. He remembered a garden, and a wall, and a sword, and an apple, and a conversation that had changed everything about everything.
He wrote it all down, in the Book, in his careful copperplate hand, and the universe unfolded itself back into existence like a letter that had only been waiting to be read.
Crowley watched him do it.
He told himself he was watching to make sure nothing went wrong. He told himself he was watching because someone had to, practically speaking. He told himself many things, and all of them were true, and none of them were the point, and the point was that six thousand years was a long time to watch someone, and Crowley was beginning to suspect he could have done it for six thousand more without finding anything tedious about it.
“Crab Nebula,” Aziraphale murmured, frowning slightly at a page.
“Still there,” Crowley confirmed, checking what remained of his metaphysical awareness in the direction of the Crab Nebula. “You got it back.”
“Good.” A small, satisfied nod. “I’ve always liked that one.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
“I’ve always thought it.” He turned a page. “I haven’t said a great many things. I’ve been working on that.”
The radio had come back on. Freddie Mercury, uninterrupted now, finishing what he’d started.
Outside the cracked windscreen, stars were reappearing.
Michael, when it was over, stood at the edge of the Eternal Flame and looked like a very old building after the scaffolding had been taken down — smaller than expected, but also, somehow, more itself.
“What happens to me,” they said. Not a question. Not quite.
“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said honestly. “That’s above my authority. It always has been.” He paused. “But I don’t think the question is what happens to you. I think the question is what you do next.” He tilted his head, in the way he always did when he was choosing words carefully. “Heaven needs to change, Michael. It needed to change before I was given this job, and it needs to change now. The question of whether it changes well depends rather a lot on who is left inside it, willing to do the work.”
Michael looked at him for a long time.
“You were always the strangest of us.” They said finally. It didn’t sound like an insult.
“Thank you.” Said Aziraphale, as though it wasn’t.
Jesus — the actual Jesus, who had spent the last several hours being extremely patient about all of this while hiding in South London — was retrieved from a community garden in Peckham, where he had been having what witnesses would later describe as "a very nice chat with some bloke about compost." He seemed entirely unbothered by the whole situation. He shook Aziraphale's hand. He shook Crowley's hand. He looked at Crowley with an expression of friendly, total comprehension that made Crowley feel profoundly seen in a way he found extremely uncomfortable, and then he said something very quiet in Aramaic that Crowley would not translate for anyone later, no matter how much Aziraphale asked.
The Second Coming, when it happened — on a bright Thursday in late May, in a community garden in Peckham, with almost no preparation and a great deal of cake that someone had brought because someone always brought cake — was not what anyone had planned.
It was better.
They didn’t talk about it until they were back in the bookshop.
That was where things tended to get resolved, eventually. The bookshop had an unusual talent for it — something in the walls, perhaps, or the particular quality of the dust, or just the accumulated weight of so many years of two beings refusing to say what they meant in a space that had slowly become the most honest place either of them knew.
Crowley sat in his chair. Aziraphale sat in his. Between them, on the little table, a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that Aziraphale had opened without comment, and two glasses, and the silence that was currently doing the work of a very long conversation.
“I should apologize,” Aziraphale said.
“You shouldn’t—”
“I should, and I’m going to, so please don’t interrupt me, I’ve been practicing.” Aziraphale looked at his hands. “I have spent six thousand years believing that there was a correct way to do things, and that if I could just find it— if I could work hard enough, be good enough, serve faithfully enough — then everything would come right. And I kept asking you to wait. For me to be certain. For circumstances to be better. For it to be the right moment.” He exhaled slowly. “And then I accepted a promotion, and I watched your face, and I thought — I’ll explain later. I’ll make him understand. It’ll be alright.” A pause. “I had the same thought several times during the last six thousand years, actually. I’m beginning to see a pattern.”
Crowley said nothing.
“The truth,” Aziraphale continued, still looking at his hands, “is that I was afraid. Not of Heaven — or not only of Heaven. I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped waiting for permission. Because if I stopped waiting, then I would have to admit that I had already made my choice, and I’d made it a very long time ago, and the choice was—” He stopped. He looked up. His eyes were very bright. “Well. The choice was sitting in the other chair. Wearing extremely tight trousers and pretending to read a magazine he held upside-down for forty-five minutes.”
A beat.
“I was reading that.” Crowley said.
“You absolutely weren’t.”
“It was a very abstract piece.”
“Crowley.”
“Fine.” He set his glass down rather harder than necessary. “Fine, yes. I know what you’re saying. I’ve known what you were saying for — for considerably longer than I find comfortable to admit, actually, given how long it took either of us to say it out loud.” He looked at the ceiling, which was easier than looking at Aziraphale, except that it wasn’t really, because there was a water stain up there in the shape of something he’d always found personally significant. “For the record. When I walked away in the street. After.” He stopped. Started again. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want to stay.”
“I know.”
“I couldn’t stay and pretend that was all right. Watching you go back. I couldn’t—” He stopped again. There was a significant and undignified pause during which Crowley contemplated his wine, the ceiling, and the general unfairness of having survived six thousand years and the literal apocalypse only to be undone by something as embarrassingly human as this. “I missed you,” he said finally, at the ceiling. “Every day. The whole time. I took up gambling and drinking and I was honestly terrible at both of them, and it didn’t help even slightly.”
Silence.
Then: “Anthony.”
He looked at Aziraphale. He hadn’t called him that in — he couldn’t remember. Centuries. Maybe ever.
Aziraphale had gotten up from his chair. He was standing in the space between the chairs, which was not a large space, and which was now occupied entirely by an angel looking at him with an expression that had no name in any language, but which Crowley had spent a very long time memorizing the exact shape of.
“I made you wait,” Aziraphale said quietly. “For a very long time. And then I left. And you deserve better than that. You deserve someone who—” His voice went slightly uneven. “Who says it. Clearly. Without making you guess.”
“Angel—”
“I love you,” said Aziraphale. Simple as that. The way you’d state a fact that had always been true and simply hadn’t been said yet. “I have loved you for so long that the shape of it is just the shape of how I understand the world. You are — you are my constant, Crowley. You always have been. And I’m sorry it took me this long to say so plainly, and I will quite understand if you need time, or if you’re angry with me, which you have every right to be, or—”
“You’re doing it again,” Crowley said.
“Doing what?”
“Apologizing and then pre-emptively managing my response so you don’t have to feel the full weight of saying it.” He stood up. Which put him considerably closer than the space between the chairs had been designed for. “Stop managing it.”
Aziraphale stopped.
Crowley looked at him. The bookshop was golden around them — late afternoon light through dusty windows, the smell of old paper, the familiar specific quiet of this particular place that had always felt like a kept promise. Crowley had been in every great city in the world. He had watched civilizations rise and fold like linen. He had seen the whole long arc of human history, brilliant and terrible and funny and strange, and he had spent most of it orbiting this one specific being as though he were a planet that had forgotten he was supposed to be free.
He’d done it entirely on purpose, was the thing.
“Yeah,” he said. “All right. For the record: same.” He made a vague gesture that encompassed, in no particular order: the bookshop, Aziraphale, the last six thousand years, the general direction of the restored universe, and everything he’d never been good at saying. “All of that. Every word. Back at you.”
Aziraphale laughed. It was an unsteady, relieved, slightly tearful laugh, the laugh of someone who had been carrying something very heavy for a very long time and had just been told they could put it down.
“That’s the least romantic declaration in the history of any world,” he said.
“Six thousand years, angel. I think we’re past romantic declarations.”
“We’re absolutely not.”
“We’re so past them—”
Aziraphale kissed him.
It was not a particularly dramatic kiss, as kisses went. There was no soundtrack — or actually there was, because the radio was still playing, and it had moved on to something by the Proclaimers, which was so perfectly absurd that Crowley felt a wave of affection for the universe so overwhelming it nearly knocked him sideways. It was just a kiss, in a bookshop, between two beings who had been finding reasons to touch the same books and sit in the same rooms and stand slightly too close in the same gardens for six thousand years.
It lasted a while.
When they separated — slightly — Aziraphale had the expression of someone who has been proven right about something important, which was an expression he wore with what Crowley could only describe as the most infuriating serenity imaginable.
“See,” Aziraphale said.
“Don’t.” said Crowley.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re absolutely saying something, with your face—”
“I’m saying nothing. I’m merely—” He gestured at himself. At the general state of affairs. At the bookshop around them, which remained exactly what it had always been: dusty and overstocked and slightly impractical, a monument to the stubborn insistence that beautiful things deserved to exist. “I’m merely noting that I was right about this being worth the wait.”
“You made me wait on purpose—”
“I made both of us wait, and I am sorry for it, and we are going to discuss it at length over dinner—” He was already moving toward the kitchen, because he was an angel and some things were sacred. “ — but first you need to eat something, because you have the look of someone who has been gambling and drinking in an alley for two years—”
“I’ve been fine—”
“You have not been fine, you’ve been miserable, and I can tell because I know exactly what you look like when you’re miserable—”
“I was very stoic about it—”
“You were stoically miserable, which is the very worst kind.” Aziraphale paused in the kitchen doorway. He turned back, and his face was — open, in the way it so rarely was, all the careful management of expression simply gone. Just him. Just this. “Stay,” he said.
Crowley looked at him.
Outside, London was doing what London always did: going on. Cars and voices and the distant particular music of a city that had been more or less continuously inhabited for two thousand years and fully intended to keep at it. The universe was whole and turning. Jesus was apparently considering attending a series of community meetings, which everyone agreed was very much in character. Heaven was having some significant conversations about governance. Hell was, as far as anyone could tell, sulking.
The bookshop smelled of old paper and the particular quality of dust that accumulated only in places where someone had chosen, on purpose, to stay.
“Yeah,” Crowley said. “All right.”
He meant: yes. He meant: of course. He meant: I was always going to, I’ve been staying in one way or another for six thousand years, you absolute impossible angel, and I would do every single ridiculous minute of it again without changing a single thing except possibly the part where we didn’t say it out loud for quite so long.
He meant it the way he’d always meant the things he said to Aziraphale — sideways and dense with implication, a code that had been built up over millennia until it could carry the weight of anything.
Aziraphale heard all of it. He always had.
“Good,” he said, and went to make dinner.
Later, the bookshop was lit with the soft light of an evening that knew it was going well. Two glasses. One bottle, mostly gone. An argument about whether the Principality of Darkness was more or less organized than the Department of Celestial Affairs (Crowley: more, on the ground that at least Hell had the good sense not to use the word principality). The radio on, softly. The city outside.
Crowley had his feet up on the little table and was reading something he’d found wedged between a 1952 edition of Bleak House and what turned out, on closer examination, to be a handwritten manuscript with Aziraphale’s copperplate on the front cover. He’d asked about it once and been told, with considerable dignity, that it was private, and had elected to take this at face value while making a mental note to ask about it every few decades until the answer changed.
He watched Aziraphale out of the corner of his eye. The way he moved through the bookshop — tidying, occasionally speaking to a book that had ended up in the wrong section, running his fingertips along spines with an expression of soft and specific happiness. The way he’d been doing it for the better part of a century. The way Crowley had been watching him do it for most of that time.
He thought about Michael’s face at the edge of the Eternal Flame. About God’s plan, which remained, as it had always been, ineffable — but which had a strange persistent tendency to point, from whatever direction you approached it, toward this bookshop and these two chairs and this specific quality of evening.
He thought about six thousand years.
He thought about what came next, which was more six thousand years, more or less, assuming the universe maintained its recently-restored cooperative attitude, and felt something settle in him like the last piece of a very complicated sentence finally finding the right word.
Aziraphale looked up and caught up gazing.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” said Crowley.
Aziraphale smiled. It was a small smile. The kind that knew it was the right answer.
He went back to his books.
The radio played on. The city went on. The universe, mended and whole, turned its enormous slow patient turning.
And in a bookshop in Soho, at the end of the world that wasn’t ending after all, two beings sat in two chairs and said everything they needed to say in the language they’d been building together for six thousand years — the language of staying, and of knowing, and of choosing, again and again, the same answer.
The Shuttered Garden: How the Good Omens Finale Betrayed its Humanistic Roots
Text: Aivelin Illustration: a-ida
The series finale of Good Omens dropped this Wednesday, leaving the fandom shaken and in absolute distress. The audience reaction was immediate, driving the Rotten Tomatoes score for Season 3 down to a disappointing 36%. The online debate grew so heated and overwhelmed with grief that numerous fan accounts faced 24-hour social media bans for their highly emotional confessions.
Viewers are highly divided. While a fraction accepts the heavy ending as a necessary evil, the overwhelming sentiment across platforms is utter bewilderment and heartbreak: "These characters do not feel like the ones we grew to love in previous seasons!"
This raises painful, critical questions: Is this sudden shift in characterization a narrative misstep? Is the tragic, suicidal ending a harsh subversion of the original book, which famously promised a comforting happily ever after?
To find the answer, one must look closely at who held the creative reins for the scripts of Seasons 2 and 3. By analyzing the writing credits, clear and undeniable patterns emerge, linking these distressing plot choices directly to Neil Gaiman’s broader, often dark and subversive, body of work.
The Solitary Vision and the Realigned Mold
While the first season captured the shared spirit of Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’s 1990 novel, the subsequent seasons belong to Gaiman’s solitary vision. When viewed alongside his wider world of storytelling, such as The Sandman, American Gods, and Stardust, the tragic fractures in Aziraphale and Crowley’s bond lose their surprise. Gaiman’s worlds are populated by immortal beings who are deeply fractured at best and cruel at worst. In these narratives, it is almost a rule that celestial entities will take advantage of the hearts that love them, turning devotion into a tool before abandoning those souls to a devastating fate.
Crucially, Gaiman always veils this emotional cruelty behind high-minded dilemmas. The act of abandonment is never framed as simple coldness; instead, it is masked as a profound moral crisis ("We cannot be together because I am a god and you are human"), a sacrifice of monumental importance ("I must leave our future to save my kingdom"), or an unyielding divine necessity. Even when Gaiman’s romances lack outward malice, they are consistently denied peace. In Stardust, the mortal husband passes away, leaving his immortal, celestial wife to endure eternity in silent, isolated grief. By transforming Aziraphale into a colder, more emotionally distant figure who abruptly leaves Crowley for a heavenly promotion, Gaiman is merely reshaping Good Omens to fit his favorite creative blueprint.
Deeply Pessimistic Parallels
Ultimately, the ending of Good Omens Season 3 and the conclusion of The Sandman reveal deeply pessimistic parallels. The Sandman closes with its protagonist suffering the consequences of his own rigid nature, forced by higher powers into self-destruction so that his kingdom might survive. In the wake of this death, the universe offers a surrogate replacement - a new entity stripped of the original’s memories, whom the remaining characters are forced to accept despite their lingering grief.
Aziraphale’s sudden, illogical decision to leap at Heaven’s offer mirrors this exact brand of narrative cruelty. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley deserved to have their hard-won autonomy stripped away for the sake of a grandiose self-sacrifice.
A Profound Departure from Terry Pratchett
This shift represents a profound departure from the late Terry Pratchett’s fundamental worldview. Pratchett harbored a deep-seated aversion to suicide tropes and grand, sacrificial violence in fiction. His works respected the dignity of both life and death. In his narrative, the Apocalypse is defeated not through self-sacrifice or bloodshed, but by the quiet resilience and stubborn pragmatism of ordinary people. The first season beautifully honored this philosophy, as the Antichrist and a group of children stopped the Apocalypse through sheer, down-to-earth humanity.
The subsequent seasons discard this logic entirely, altering the very cosmology of the universe. In Season 1, God was an infallible, detached observer whose ineffable plan quietly empowered the right people at the right moment to prevent ruin. By Season 3, God is reframed as a petulant, semi-malicious entity capable of erasing existence on a whim.
Furthermore, while Pratchett and Gaiman likely brainstormed the concepts of the South Downs cottage and the conflict between Heaven, Hell and Earth together, Pratchett would never have designed an intentionally suicidal and destructive endgame. In his philosophy, survival is achieved through an attachment to mundane, earthly joys. In the first season, Crowley is saved from hellfire by his love for his car and his human-like imagination, while Aziraphale survives because of his eccentric, earthly devotion to collecting rare books.
Conclusion: Fanfiction or Harsh Reality
A true thematic continuation of both authors' visions would look radically different. It would find Aziraphale and Crowley left alone in a quiet bookshop for eternity, weaving their magical memories and shared love for humanity together to rewrite every lost book back into a brand-new universe. If that choice ultimately stripped them of their divinity and left them mortal, it would be a logical, bittersweet happily-ever-after within the sanctuary of a beautiful, earthly garden.
Instead, Gaiman has opted for character regression and profound emotional devastation. To pretend that Aziraphale's betrayal of Crowley and their martyrdom makes narrative sense within the established logic of Season 1 is an exercise in denial. Audiences are left with a stark choice: either view everything past the first season as high-budget, angst-driven fanfiction, or accept a harsher reality. The original, humanistic spirit of Good Omens died with Terry Pratchett, leaving behind a cold universe engineered for heartbreak.
This post is 100% a shameless self-promotion however: are YOU disappointed with good omens 3? Then boy do I have a solution for you! A completed, 50K+ word fanfiction!
Featuring an imagined season 3 which includes but is not limited to: a Jesus who's actually relevant to the plot, the Metatron being an actual villain, adequate time for plot and character development, Maggie and Nina still present, the old men yaoi actually kissing, and nobody turns into a human and/or ceases to exist.
Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48942760/chapters/123473383
ao3 summary under the cut:
Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, and newly appointed Supreme Archangel of Heaven, knows when he leaves Crowley behind that he is making a mistake. He also knows it may be the only way to stop The Second Coming from, well, coming. With a bigger war on the horizon, this time for all the marbles, Aziraphale takes matters into his own hands. Meanwhile Crowley, devastated and heartbroken, only wants to sleep the pain away. But when an old colleague comes knocking, he may not have that choice. The world is ending again, and stopping it just might depend on an angel and a demon finally learning how to talk about their feelings.
My take on a hypothetical season Good Omens season three, featuring some light blasphemy, Biblical homoeroticism, and the world's most elaborate parent trap. No AI was used in the creation of this fic.
Good omens season 3 opinion + unintentional rewrite.
I may be controversial to say but I loved the ending! Everything with how Joseph(Jesus) went looking for "The Lady" because of drunk Crowley was hilarious and perfectly in character of the show, the missing book of life was a surprise for sure and definitely took over the plot from Joseph but didn't mind much. The talk at Crowley's attempt at a "date" just to be interrupted by several people was wonderful.
Overall It fits good omens perfectly and Im sad we couldn't see it in a episode style like we saw in season 2, but glad we at least got to see the ending in a more - guess bittersweet way.
Though genuinely surprised Aziraphale and Crowley didn't share more romantic moments when in the bookshop, when it was just them. And odd to see Satan there with not much add on. But, Im mostly surprised is the fact the conversation the angel and demon had after being given privacy, it felt... out of place? Like there was more dialog for it but they couldn't fit it in, Crowley answering a question that Aziraphale never asked before he asked another one. Guess it's mostly because its only 90 minutes which is fair, but still sat funny to me.
I didn't mind the whole "new universe, no god, no satan, no heaven nor hell, just humans and the universe" thing, It was quite cool to see how it would go, and kinda fun to think that we sorta living in a world like that ourselves (depends on beliefs of course). Just really would've loved if Anthony J Crowley and Asa Fell recognised each other at the bookshop, like a sort of familiarity they felt about each other.
(This next part is quite fanfic-y but this is what I thought could've happened during the last 10 minutes - so a sorta rewriting you could say):
Anthony Crowley staring at the bookshop, a feeling of bittersweet nostalgia filling his body with blurry memories he cannot place his finger on, hesitating to enter for reasons he doesn't know. His golden eyes widen, as he stands directly across the room from a platinum blonde man, a voice that shimmers across his mind, one he has thousands of memories with.
Of course he was noticed back, with Mr. Crowleys presence brought a bell ring from the door, and usually Asa Fell would bring a kind welcome to any guest/customer that enters the bookshop, but this time, he didn't.
Asa Fell and Anthony J Crowley lock eyes, what felt to be a millennia, or perhaps even a few thousand years, maybe 6 thousand to be exact? Almost as if they were...
"...Crowley? - Is that... really you?"
Remembering.
"Angel!-"
Asa Fell - No - Aziraphale clumsily runs, almost tackling Crowley with a hug, a strong painful embrace. The sun delicately lighting their faces as they depart and stare at one another, Crowleys hands hovering over his angel's waist, oh how he missed his angel.
(In the background of this scene plays a gentle loving orchestra as the lovers reunite)
"Angel..." Crowley glances down, his sunglasses hiding his tears, "I-"
A warm pair of wrinkly hands delicately placed upon Crowley's cheeks, wiping away the fallen tears the former demon shed.
"Im sorry, Crowley"
The angel removed the gap of air between the two, giving Crowley the kiss he once gave in another world, one that didn't exist anymore. But, that didn't matter now, they're here, humanity is safe and they're together. Crowley rested his hands on Aziraphale's body and just eases in. Finally, he thought, an Us.
It took a moment before Derek - former Metatron interfered "Wrong bookshop!" making the two separate from their moment. Crowley glares at him
"Oh Crowley, It's okay he's not... you know, anymore." The Angel - or guess Former Angel smiles at his counterpart with the same kindness and forgiveness he always had in his eyes, Crowley never understood it, but at least he knows for sure this wasn't another Gabriel situation -
"You look awfully familiar, do I know you from somewhere?"
The Former Angel and Former Demon share glances to one another, processing the words that 'Derek' had just spoken, silent awkward panic sits in the air.
"I... uhm, the one who made Astrophysics for Everyone book? Maybe thats where you found me familiar-."
"Oh, But I swear I seen you before -"
"Oh no no no" Aziraphale Intervenes, "You must've recognise good ol' Anthony J Crowley for the - what I may say Marvellous astrophysics and book writing he has done, he is quite recognisable with how he goes around you know"
"I dont 'go around' places angel- " His Angel immediately pushes gently him outside before he finished speaking, saying to 'Derek' "We must be heading off now, you know how I'm like with meeting authors, ta-ta!"
The bell rings as the bookshop door closes, leaving Derek sitting in a quiet bookshop on his own. Mumbling of an excited 'Asa Fell' and semi-grumpy Professor Anthony J Crowley outside the walls as Derek shrugs off the unnatural interaction he had, unintentionally giving the two a blessing by leaving them alone, like one final miracle a angel and demon could make before living life as the not-exactly good nor evil creatures known as Humans.
The final scene being a slow zoom away from the lovely bookshop with the two lovers walking beside it in deep conversation, getting blurrier as we focus on another creature, one that a angel and demon know very well.
A nightingale, sitting on a streetlamp, ruffling its feathers before singing its final tune.
The US government has officially declared ‘radical pro-transgender groups’ to be domestic terrorist organizations. This will certain remain for the duration of this administration, and may hold into the next.
This opens the door for not only the targeting of trans individuals, but also trans communities, the broader queer community, and even allies and family members of transgender people.
Everyone, be safe. Look out for each other. Cherish small wins, and moments of joy.
Surviving is more than grand acts of defiance. Living is in the small, the everyday, the imperceptible. Living is holding a hand, or being kind— little things that you don’t remember the day after. Love each other, and love yourself in equal measure. Tyrants are brittle things. Never has a dark time failed to end.
And before anyone accuses me of overreacting, let me be clear. The last line of the Presidential Foreword in the new policy document literally reads, “We will find you and we will kill you.”
Caine and Hal 9000 are so similar if u think about it... both love their humans initially but ended up hurting them due to their perceived inability to fulfil their purpose/mission 😔
“Eridians dislike earth because they abandoned Grace.” *Incorrect Buzzer Sound* ya missed the point of the story buddy! It’s not about someone being ‘bad’ it’s about the incredible power of love and that love being worth dying for!
Gimmie Eridians who are absolutely heartbroken to hear that humans where so desperate and so scared that they where willing to part with not just one Grace, there were three of them! Gimmie Eridians touched to find that the humans planned a way for their sacrifices to be as comfortable as possible. Gimmie Eridians who send earth a message saying “We know it must have hurt to send your heroes to die, but one made it and he’s safe here. We lost 22 good Eridians on the journey we would have lost 23 if not for your Grace.”
Give me humans sitting on Earth slowly coming to the conclusion that when we look up not only are we not alone, someone out there is alive because of one of us. That no matter what we think of ourselves a whole species thinks highly of us because we helped save the galaxy. Give me humans who figure out how to send a probe to Erid filled to the brim with messages for Grace and footage of a monument being raised that reads his name, his crews names, and then “in memory of the 22 Eridians who lost their lives on the journey to save the stars.”
The way he's holding them here makes me feel conflicted. Like, this scene is terrifying and I can't imagine what's it like to be on a receiving end of it but... just look at it.
- he's holding Zooble in a way so that their parts don't fall out
- he's not squeezing Gangle so that her fragile ribbons don't get tangled
- he's not putting too much pressure on Ragatha so that she doesn't get ripped apart
- he's only holding Pomni and Jax firmly because their bodies are solid and rubbery
And this scene is right after the torture too. You would think he would be more violent, but no. He wanted to hurt them, not break them.
Caine wanted them to listen. And because they never did, he made them feel what he felt when they poked at his biggest fears and insecurities.
I guess what I meant to say is - even when at his worst, there was still something considerate in him. Something resembling the real him and not the angry monster he'd become.
For those saying Rocky's character was infantilised in the film, don't forget that he may be a 291 year old genius alien, but his speech is being translated by a middle school science teacher with more important things on his mind than specific and accurate translation.
Grace optimised his software for speed and ease of understanding.
Rocky may be saying, "these lodgings doth be squalid", and Grace's translation software spits out, "dirty, dirty, dirty"!
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