I made a thing,. Somewhere someone mentioned snake Crowley with legs and, yeah

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@sword-mommy
I made a thing,. Somewhere someone mentioned snake Crowley with legs and, yeah
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
incorrect quotes
We know that Crowley weirds normal people out because he’s essentially a snake man. He’s got yellow eyes with slit pupils, he hisses when he talks, he walks are serpentine-like. As a demon, his existence is uncomfortable.
But what about Aziraphale?
I am drawn to the idea that because of his angelic existence, people are inherently drawn to him, no matter how hard he tries to be left alone. Customers come in and despite his best efforts, they just feel safe in the shop or around him. Polite shop clerks end up rambling on and on about the most unimportant topics because they feel like they’re talking to a friend. Children instantly go to him to ask for help in finding their parents in crowded areas and he h a t e s it.
But I’m equally interested in the idea that his angelic existence freaks people out as much as people are freaked out by Crowley. I like the idea that people avoid eye contact with him because looking at him feels like staring into the sun in a painful way. Because he doesn’t wear the shades that Crowley does, people can tell that he also doesn’t blink very much or even breathe as one would expect. Hell, he can go so long without moving that he develops a layer of dust. Can you imagine going into a library for a day and finding an older man sitting there, completely silent, unmoving, unblinking, and just radiating an energy of something too much to fathom?
Back when I was reading Good Omens and started forming an idea of what Aziraphale was like in my head, I had this concept of “a sharp, dangerous, ancient moutain meant to look like a pillow to inspire trust”. Because he’s large, he’s comfortable, and he must feel welcoming. He has a deep voice that radiates warmth and all encompassing love, and he looks soft, non-judgemental, and like he likes sweets and life in general.
He could turn back to being the terrible, the dangerous, the unsurmontably large angel he can be underneath, and even though he technically doesn’t want to do that, it can be felt that this is a possibility. And it’s terrifying. Because occasionnally you can get a glimpse at a being so old, so powerful, so impossible to conceive for a human mind, something that could crush you in a split second if he ever wanted, that your brain would just freeze in shock.
And it’s never more palpable than when people are trying to buy his books, of course. He doesn’t even have to change his attitude, or the tone of his voice, or to stop smiling, but when he is, ever so slightly, pissed off, his terrifying celestial energy just radiates off him and that’s when people get scared of the man who felt so incredibly warm and benevolent just a moment before.
Reading the book I always pictured that soft was something Aziraphale had to create himself. There is no soft in Heaven - it’s all hard and sharp and cold, everything made of holiness and honed steel. But Aziraphale saw what Heaven did to the people who disagreed with them, he saw the way Adam and Eve watched his flaming sword with awe-struck fear, and it didn’t make him feel powerful. It made him feel nauseous and wrong, and when he gave the sword away he was making a decision: he would find a new way of being. He would find a way to have the holy without the hard.
The trouble, of course, is that softness takes effort the way Crowley’s eyes take effort, and sometimes it just slips out - too angry or frightened to focus and all of a sudden this pleasant middle-aged man is a growing, winged shadow with a thousand eyes blinking down in judgement, a flaming sword in every hand. Aziraphale knows these mistakes has driven people mad, but he will never know how to apologize for that.
@ineffabilum !!
Aziraphale gets older and wiser and he slips up less and less - learns to take a deep breath before he lets himself react, learns which emergencies are real and which ones just make his heart race because they feel like somewhere he’s been before. Remaking yourself in a new image is never easy, but it gets easier as you go along.
And the longer he goes without needing his Essence to defend himself, the more Aziraphale realizes that just because he’s wounded people with it in the past doesn’t mean that a wound is all it can ever be. Instead he learns to carry it around with him like a handkerchief or a worry stone, learns to offer just the soft, rounded edge of it to grief-stricken strangers on the street - there are angels here, his Essence says, and people stop, look skyward with tear-studded eyes. There are beings of light and peace and mercy guarding you, guiding you. Aziraphale touches their shoulders, accepts their wet, uncertain smiles as he sweeps past. You are safe. You are forgiven. You are free.
He does this again and again and again, sits at bedsides and seasides and gravesides until who he is doesn’t ache the way it did in Heaven, until he really believes that the ineffability ingrained in him can be soft and sacred, too.
You are safe. You are forgiven. You are free.
*does laundry but like in a punk way*
*does laundry but in a musical theatre way*
*does musical theatre but in a punk way*
*does punk but in a musical theatre way*
*does musical theater but in a laundry way*
this is my favorite post
i can’t not re blog this
@gleek-runner
i dont get offended at white people jokes even though im white because:
i can recognize white people as a whole have systemically oppressed POC in america, which is where i live
most people when they make white people jokes only mean the shitty white people and i am not a shitty white person
im not a pissbaby
my white friends that have reblogged this give me life
4. Sometimes I am a shitty white person and the jokes remind me to FUCKIN STOP
If ur white and like this post I fux with u
^absolutely
5. It’s hard to be offended when white people jokes involve bland food/tourist dads in socks and sandals/white girls in yoga pants obsessed with pumpkin spice/suburban PTA moms and other harmless and mostly true stereotypes while jokes about POC involve them being called thugs/criminals/slurs/uneducated/illegal immigrants.
i fucks with u heavy if ur white and you reblog this
6. They’re usually really fucking funny and don’t perpetuate stereotypes that will ever affect me economically, politically, or cause me any true harm, let alone create risks that “justify” my murder and/or death
Waits for my white mutuals to reblog😌
yesyesyesyes
This looks like a happy ending scene 🤧
(Source)
The iron hand of Götz von Berlichingen (1480-1562), a knight and mercenary who lost his right arm in a siege [640×360]
points about this -it was shot off by a cannon -he continued being a knight for over 40 years after getting the iron hand -it was delicate enough he could still write with a quill using it, which is important as he was described as a ‘warrior poet’ -after a merchant-punching life suitable for an elder scrolls protagonist he was outlawed by the holy roman empire, friends of his used a high diplomacy roll and a bribe to get him out, and he then almost immediately kidnapped a bishop -after outlaw of the holy roman empire 2 electric boogaloo was placed under house arrest in a castle he had purchased with all his quest rewards to spend the next 20 years drunk off his ass
I can’t believe you’d make this post and not mention that his poetry contains the first known usage of the phrase “lick my ass”
I read all the reblogs wondering if anyone would explain why, if he lost his right arm, they made him an iron left arm.
your friend group in your 20s will consist entirely of people who are either a) gay b) have the same trauma as you c) work with you or d) all of the above
and how could i possibly forget e) lives too far away from you to meet up irl more than once or twice a year
after dying god informs you that hell is a myth, and “everyone sins, its ok”. instead the dead are sorted into six “houses of heaven” based on the sins they chose.
We arrived first at the House of Lust. “House” is a misleading term. It was more of a camp, spread over acres and acres of lush forest. There was a white sandy beach (nude, of course) full of copulating couples. There were little cabins sprinkled all along the path, from which orgasmic moans regularly came belting out. Men with six pack abs and women with perky breasts strolled by without even noticing me and God. They only had eyes for each other, tickling and pinching each other with flirtatious giggles.
“What do you think?” God asked as we passed a nineteen-way taking place in a pool of champagne. Little cherubs flitted overhead armed with mops and cleaning supplies, thankfully. “Lust is our most popular sin.” I eyed the supermodel-like figures of a couple passing nearby, and could easily see why. “You can look however you want. Hell, you can be whatever gender you want. No fetish is too taboo, and no desire can be denied here.”
It was quite tempting, but I wasn’t ready to make a permanent decision here. “Let’s see the others,” I told God.
We carried on to Greed. We passed rows and rows of mansions, each more opulent than the next. Some of them were so large that they would have had enough bed rooms to fit my entire hometown. And so many different styles: one second, we were in a beautiful French vineyard in front of a gorgeous chateau with the Alps in the background. The next second, a warm tropical beach with a modern mansion atop breathtaking cliffs. After that, a ski chalet in Colorado with a roaring fire in a hearth large enough to fit an ox. Each one had various Italian sports cars and Rolls Royces parked in front, with the occasional smattering of boats, helicopters, etc.
“Any material desire you ever wanted,” God explained. “Your own world, where you can have everything. You want the Hope Diamond? You can fly to Washington DC in your own solid gold helicopter and buy it from the Smithsonian. Hell, you can just buy the Smithsonian.”
Also tempting, but I decided to keep looking.
Gluttony was next up. Tables and tables of the very finest foods: beautiful steaks cooked medium rare; butter-poached lobster tail; fresh oysters on a half shell; exotic wines in dusty bottles that had been hiding in the cellars of the world’s finest restaurants. Everyone had a glass of champagne in hand and simply lounged on couches and chairs near the tables, eating endlessly. As soon as the inhabitants took a bite, the food just instantly came back. My mouth watered even watching them.
“In every other House, the food is practically sawdust compared to Gluttony,” God explained. “You haven’t truly experienced heaven until you’ve been to Gluttony.”
I shook my head, and we kept moving.
Sloth was as you’d expect. An endless sea of the softest mattresses, stacked with cushions and pillows that made the story of the princess and the pea seem minimalist. Little angels visited each resident, giving them massages that made them all melt into their blankets.
Wrath was… well, a lot like what I’d expect Hell to be like. Fire, brimstone, whips, torture.. you know, the works. Except here, you weren’t the one being tortured. Every enemy you’d ever made in your real life was now under your thumb. “Lots of people choose their fathers,” God explained. “Lots of grudges against parents in general, you know. But you’re not limited to that. Someone beat you out for a big promotion back on Earth? Take your pound of flesh here.”
Then we arrived at Envy. It looked… well, a lot like home.
“Go on in,” God said, gesturing toward the door. I turned the knob and walked in… and found Emily waiting inside. She ran forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and planted a kiss right on my lips. “Welcome home, honey.”
I looked back toward God. “Oh, don’t be coy,” he said. “You have no secrets from me. We all know that you were in love with your best friend’s wife.” She didn’t seem to hear him at all; she went back into the hall. “We all know that you just settled for your own wife while secretly pining after her. Well, this is your chance to live happily ever after.”
I peered into the kitchen. Emily was baking something, wearing nothing but an apron. Her curly black hair fell softly over her shoulder as she whisked ingredients. She turned back, noticed I was observing her, and an enthusiastic smile spread across her face.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” God whispered in my ear.
I wanted to take it. God damn did I want to take it. But I shook my head.
God seemed puzzled. “You need to make a decision,” he told me.
“I haven’t seen Pride yet.”
He scoffed. “No one ever wants Pride, trust me.”
“Well, I want to see it.”
_________________________
Pride was boring. Just a row of workbenches in a bare white room.
“I don’t get it,” I told God.
“Yeah, no one does,” he answered. “That’s why no one ever chooses it. Doesn’t cavorting in Lust sound better than sitting here building little trinkets for the rest of eternity? Wouldn’t you rather gorge yourself in Gluttony? Or spend time with Emily in Envy?”
I considered the options again. “I pick Pride,” I finally told him.
He narrowed his eyes. “What? Look at it!” He gestured around the room again. There wasn’t much to look at. “Why would you choose this for the rest of time?”
“Because you don’t want me to pick it,” I told him. If he was really God, he’d know what a contrarian I can be. And I knew he was hiding something, trying to pretend like Pride didn’t exist. There was something special about it.
God scowled back. “Fine.” He led me over to one of the workbenches. In the center, there was a black space. A blank, empty void that went on forever. “Here’s your universe,” he said. “You’ve got seven days to get started.” He took his seat at the bench next to me and went back to tinkering in his own world. After a long pause, he finally spoke again: “You know, it might be nice for me to actually have some company for once.”
FUCKING I MEAN.
IT’S LIKE 7AM AND I LOVE GONNA REBLOG SO I CAN READ THIS SHIT AGAIN
Whoa. 😂😂👌🏼👌🏼
dr who, on his first date with not only his new companion but his crush: i’ll take her to see the death of her home planet YES this is a completely normal first date idea NO this is not trauma reenactment for me in any way hey rose check this out
my entire life changed when my dentist told me that the only time my teeth should be touching is when i’m chewing. every single time my teeth are touching i have to separate them. and i noticed that i clench my teeth a LOT.
when your mouth is closed and your teeth are touching or held tightly together, you are unnecessarily straining muscles out of stress. the healthiest way to hold your jaw is slightly apart, where it is relaxed. THIS HELPS WITH HEADACHES
I unclenched my jaw upon reading this.
Oh god, i just unclenched my jaw @_@
Argh. Reblogging for anyone else who needs to unclench their jaw.
How am I old and never knew this?!? I have perpetual resting clench face.
This is my favorite series of tweets
People have been nagging me to share “the curry story” on here for ages, so alright, I’ll do it. (If you’re Indian and reading this, I am so sorry).
I swear to god, everything I am about to say in this story is true.
When I was eleven, I moved to a small town in rural England and acquired a new best friend at school. Her at that point seemingly-very-normal-parents- nice suburban house, three kids, trampoline in the backyard- invited me over for dinner, and said they were making curry and rhubarb crumble.
“Curry and rhubarb crumble”. Never in the history of mankind have words been so untrue.
The “curry” consisted of, I swear I am not making this up, a vague mixture of * deep breath, oatmeal, tofu sausages, corn, tomato juice, chopped onions, raisins, “leftover broccoli leaves”, kale, and scrambled eggs. The only spice in it was the tiniest smidgen of turmeric. All these ingredients were vaguely stirred together, undercooked, and stuck under a broiler for ten minutes.
They gave me a massive portion. I somehow, I still don’t know how, was polite enough to finish it.
“I’m done,” I said.
“No,” said her father. “In this house, we LICK our plates clean.”
He did. They didn’t make me hold it up and lick it like they all did, but they did make me clean the plate with a piece of bread and my fork until they were satisfied.
Desert came. The rhubarb crumble was entirely unsweetened. Not so much as a raisin. I can’t remember what the crumble part was, because my mind is still haunted by the memory of being forced to eat an entire bowl of unsweetened rhubarb. You know in old Looney Tunes when characters would be tricked into eating allum and their heads would shrink? That’s what eating it felt like. They made me clean my bowl of that too, and wouldn’t let me leave the table until I finished.
The next time, (I was in middle school and as yet too polite to turn down my best friend’s parents) they made “spaghetti and meatballs and salad”. The spaghetti was utterly plain and so undercooked it was crunchy, the “meatballs” consisted of a single large orb of some grey material i have yet to identify, and the salad was, i shit you not, limp boiled lettuce. Crunchy spaghetti, unidentified lumpy grey stuff, and boiled lettuce.
The fascinating thing is that, while yes, these people were obviously health nuts, it was so much more than that. They were health nuts who also cooked like aliens who had never seen human food before. Or like small children making “potions”. One of the more edible things they served to me once was a dessert they made up which consisted of halved apples rolled in cornflour with some milk poured on top. One time, they were convinced to make pizza as a treat. They decided to put an onion on it. Fair and fine, you’d think. Not in that house. They just cut the onion in half once, and stuck each unchopped half facedown on one side of the pizza.
Speaking of onions, one time, my friend decided to make a banana and yoghurt smoothie. Her dad came in, said it wasn’t healthy enough, and made her add an onion to it.
They had a homemade cereal I thankfully was able to opt out of trying which 100% looked like the contents of a vacuum bag. I still have no idea what it contained.
Amazingly, it was by no means just me who experienced this. It was a small town, and every girl in it my age had a selection of horror stories about being invited to dinner at this friend’s house in the exact same ritualistic horror-film fashion. We used to sit around comparing them at sleepovers. Age did not exempt you. One time, this friend’s six year old brother had a friend over for dinner at the same time, poor soul. His mom arrived to pick him up, and wasn’t allowed to take him home until he finished whatever crime against cooking was on the menu that night.
Every story was the same. The ritual that never varied. Every time, these people would make a huge fanfare out of inviting you over for dinner, act all hospitable and excited, set the table, and then serve you a massive helping of the worst food in the world, and make you clean your plate of it, desert included. Who the hell forces you to finish your DESERT?
It’s a mystery to me. They clearly had SOME degree of self-awareness, because after I came to my senses and started coming up with excuses to avoid eating at their house they would tease me saying things like “ohoho, you don’t like LIKE our food do you”. If they had been a bit more fun and less generally puritanical sort of people, I could totally believe this was a family trolling activity where they secretly schemed to come up with the worst possible dishes, secretly filmed themselves forcing people to eat them and watched it and laughed afterwards, I could believe it.
All I’m saying is I’m pretty sure they weren’t aliens, but the more I type this out, the more tempted I am to believe it. Fuck it, maybe they WERE aliens.
Them being aliens is the most resonable explanation
concept: aziraphale's wings were white but he ate enough shrimp that they turned pink like a flamingo
and he loves it
#now they match his underwear
THANK YOU FOR MY L I F E
@nim-lock
In a plot twist for the ages, Michael Sheen will be raising David’s baby, David will be raising the Antichrist, and Michael’s baby shall be whisked away by satanic nuns to live out an utterly normal existence (or so the reader hopes).
CONGRATULATIONS TO MICHAEL ON HIS NEW BABY GIRL. THE SATANIC NUNS WILL TREAT HER WELL