TansyOgg

Crowley and Aziraphale are doggedly, determinedly materialistic. that's not a bad thing! and it's not just a part they're playing, like Gabriel in his off-the-rack suits. they're able to understand each other--to love each other--because they love the world: selfishly, joyously, materially.

glory, victory, all that jazz? they're abstracts. but love is a thing made of atoms.

(I'm an unknown artist, please help promote my drawings. Thank you all!)

How about "it doesn't have to be tragic to be good"

Or "it doesn't have to be bittersweet to be meaningful"

We’re asking, where does the soul live?

For those who think that who we are is shaped by a life time of experiences. That we grow and change with each each heartbreak and trauma. We see the ending as something horrible. We’re witnessing the death of our beloved characters and we are grieving for them.

For those who believe in a soul, who believe that Asa and Anthony are Aziraphale and Crowley because of the something intrinsic that lives inside them, what they’re seeing is a rebirth and a second chance. In that sense the ending is beautiful. They both get exactly what they’ve always wanted. To live as humans without the pressure of heaven and hell. In that sense, the ending is a joyous one.

Sadly these beliefs are deeply held, often the roots begin as far back as our childhoods. No amount of screaming at each other about media analysis is going to change anyone’s mind. Please just accept that there are multiple ways that one can view the ending and that those who are upset are experiencing grief. This is an extremely normal and valid reaction to end of something so meaningful and should be treated with care.

That said, your grief is not an excuse to lash out and those who don’t deserve it.

A couple of weeks ago, I thought to myself, 'wouldn't it be cool if that number was exactly 100 when the finale airs?' (I like round numbers, okay?)

I realised that the number of fics I would need was exactly the number of days in May before the air date.

I could not let this thought go.

I asked my friends to talk me out if it. They did the opposite 🤣 (I love you all).

SO.

Starting tomorrow, May 1st 2026, I will be posting one (1) fic of 666 words every day until the 12th, ready for us all to be broken and remade on the 13th.

These might be anything in my general wheelhouse: smut, fluff, historical, canon, South Downs future, human AU.

They will *not* have any spoilers based on the promo for S3, so if you've been avoiding that there will be nothing here to ruin that for you.

Is this possibly madness? Yes, but I'm doing it anyway. 🤣

Massive, colossal, enormous thanks to everybody over in @goodomensafterdark who has betad, given me ideas, prompts, had birthdays and just generally been supportive. @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon @angie-words @cheeseplants @fishey-me @rosehipandnettles @fuzzygoblin @spacegiraffetoo @adverbian @koala2all @spectrallydistracted @tansyogg @floofyraptor-art-and-writing @e-rated-beardo @malachitegrey and anybody else I've missed out.

You are all the best, and I can't wait for what fics season 3 will bring us.

Thanks to everybody who read, kudosed, commented and reblogged, I live for your support.

To the world!

A breakdown of fics below the cut:

Aziraphale has been giving the performance of his life for the past five months, averting the Second Coming while searching for a chink in the armour of heaven. It's hard when his heart is walking (sauntering) around below and his brain is betraying him with visions of a different life. Crowley is playing his own dangerous game while navigating unsettling emotions. Enter several old and new friends, two important texts, the art of prestidigitation, revelations about the way Her universe operates, and the inescapable tyranny of Christmas music. Can humans, demons, and angels work together to save the world and take control of their own fates when reality seems to be fracturing around them?

Words: 41,855

Status: Complete

Rating: Mature

A very silly text fic I wrote to cheer us all up. Rating: T Words: 907 Summary: A cleaner visits the South Downs.

Chapters: 1/3 Rating: Explicit Word Count: 9073 Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley

“There you are, Crowley! Whatever took you so long?”

Crowley raised an incredulous eyebrow that Aziraphale, with his face now buried in the playbill, did not see. He recognized the hesitant patterns in the angel’s voice, recognized that Aziraphale was attempting to act as though there had been no uncomfortable exchange between them just minutes ago. Crowley only — and always — wanted Aziraphale to be happy. And so he would play along, pretend there was nothing wrong, if that’s what the angel needed from him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I just decided to stop for dinner on the way.”

Without looking up, Aziraphale responded, matter-of-factly, “You did no such thing.“

Crowley could only snort in response. “Look, dear, they’re playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons tonight. Oh, it’s been quite some time since I last experienced it live. And, did you know, there’s a second half of the performance —” He moved into Crowley’s space, pressing their sides together as he ran a finger underneath a line of text and read aloud. “ …that is ‘yet to be revealed’?’”

Pleased and a little amused as he was that the angel hadn’t seemed to consider that Crowley might already know what event he had brought them to, he began to feel a bit dizzy as he stared at the words in front of him — reminding him why they were here.

“Is that right?” He responded dazedly

1601

A couple of weeks ago, I thought to myself, 'wouldn't it be cool if that number was exactly 100 when the finale airs?' (I like round numbers, okay?)

I realised that the number of fics I would need was exactly the number of days in May before the air date.

I could not let this thought go.

I asked my friends to talk me out if it. They did the opposite 🤣 (I love you all).

SO.

Starting tomorrow, May 1st 2026, I will be posting one (1) fic of 666 words every day until the 12th, ready for us all to be broken and remade on the 13th.

These might be anything in my general wheelhouse: smut, fluff, historical, canon, South Downs future, human AU.

They will *not* have any spoilers based on the promo for S3, so if you've been avoiding that there will be nothing here to ruin that for you.

Is this possibly madness? Yes, but I'm doing it anyway. 🤣

Crowley pulled a thin volume from the shelf. The spine cracked when he opened it—old, well-loved, the kind of book that had been read in the bath and left in the sun and carried through six moves across four continents.

Francis Thompson.

He stared at the title poem. The Hound of Heaven.

"I fled Him, down the nights and down the days," he read aloud, voice flat. "I fled Him, down the arches of the years."

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway like he'd been summoned. "That's not a demonic text, if that's what you're looking for."

"I know what it is."

Silence. Aziraphale's fingers twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for the book but had been told not to.

"You used to read this to me," Crowley said, not looking up. "In the garden. Before the wall, before—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You said it reminded you of us."

Aziraphale's voice was careful. Measured. "I don't recall."

"Liar."

The word hung between them like smoke.

Crowley turned the page, found the corner folded down—*Aziraphale's fold, not Heaven's*—and read the underlined passage in a whisper so quiet it was almost a prayer:

"For, though I knew His love who followèd,

Yet was I sore adread

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside."

He looked up.

Aziraphale's eyes were wet. He didn't seem to notice.

"You underlined that," Crowley said. "You told me it was the most romantic thing ever written. You said—" His voice cracked. "You said it was about choosing someone even when the universe tells you not to."

Aziraphale opened his mouth. Closed it. Something flickered behind his eyes—a door opening, then slamming shut.

"I don't remember," he said again.

But his hand was trembling.

And Crowley, who had known him for six thousand years, knew a lie when he heard one.

He put the book back on the shelf. Alphabetical. Correct. Dead.

"Right," he said. "Course you don't."

I've been borderline obsessed with the fic Nine Inch Scales by @blackjeans93 , which has prompted me to listen to nothing but NIN for the last week and also to make this because I can't control myself—

Anthony Crowley, front man of Nine Inch Scales (based off of a picture of Trent Reznor)

want runs deep in you, heavy and thick, and the dam is creaking under its weight.

want is like dust, thousands of years worth of dust on your heavy shoulders and you dare not move. if you stay very still and keep to yourself maybe no one will notice.

want is like grief, love left unclaimed. want is like hunger and you are famished.