Did I Ever Post These Lol

did i ever post these lol

Pastel Gaster / Fell!Plates Gaster by @zarla-s

more drawings here!

(I will boop everyone who reblogs this post, for the record 💖)

Warning! Good Omens S2 Spoilers ahead!

I was listening to sad-ish love songs today at work and started piecing together a poem, which I quickly realized could be used for post-S2 Crowley, and then this was born. I really like it and I hope you all do, too! Az is literally just me. I dress like that, Az is my name, the only difference is hair but I'm getting mine done on my birthday the same way story-me has theirs done. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

P.S. I'll be posting the poem on its own right after I post this if you wanna ty and analyze it or something (:

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Talk, Don't Speak.

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The pub was surprisingly packed for a Wednesday night. Nearly every seat was taken and the only reason Crowley had been able to secure a table to himself is largely because of the harsh glares he shot to anyone who dared try to sit with him. It was 7 p.m. when he finally found out why the pub had been so packed; there was a poem reading event tonight. His first thought was that this was something Aziraphale would probably really enjoy attending, maybe even being one of the readers. The thought alone nearly made him leave, but his curiosity won him over. He hadn’t seen anyone recite poetry since around the time Shakespeare was around. So he stayed, and he half-listened to the poets reading their works. None of them caught his attention very well, so he didn’t really bother listening much.

Then someone named Az walked onto the stage. They were dressed simply, but the outfit was still eye-catching. They wore a skin-tight black button-down, a loose white tie, a flowy black skirt that reached around their mid-thigh, white tights, and green high tops with various black sketchy designs drawn on the sides. They had a few piercings on their face and various bracelets lining their forearms. Some were leather, some studded, some were made of thread, and some even had beads woven in. They had a few silver rings along their fingers. Their hair was choppy and reached just past their shoulders, the very front pieces bleached white and the rest dyed black. 

What had initially caught Crowley’s attention was the announcer calling the person’s name, as it sounded like he was about to say Aziraphale, but, much to Crowley’s relief, and dismay, it wasn’t Aziraphale, just someone with an odd name. He rested his head back on his arms, fully intent on zoning out and continuing to drown his stomach with wine, but once they started talking, he couldn’t help but listen.

“Hello, everyone!” Az smiled kindly and waved to the crowd, one hand on the mic, “As you heard, my name is Az. I’ve been writing stories since I was a kid and I’ve been writing poetry since high school. Tonight I am going to be reading a recent piece of mine titled ‘Talk, Don’t Speak.”

They took a moment to take a deep breath, likely to calm any nerves they had, and then began to speak.

“I like you. Not in the way two friends like each other, though. No, I like you in the way whales like to sing. I like you in the way the stars like to shine. I like you in the way sea foam likes to border the shore. I like you in the way yeast likes to grow. I like you in the way I like like you…but it feels like you don’t like me the same. 

“It feels like you like me like a parasite. Feeding off me and keeping me here so you can grow and become stronger. You drain me of my blood, sweat, and tears, yet you keep me nearby. But that’s the problem, you don’t feel like a parasite. You being around fills me with light and warmth, two things I swore I abandoned years ago. Yet here they are, seeping into my lungs and my heart only when you are near. You break down the walls that I’ve built and warmed the cold blade of my heart. Then you left.

“It feels like a tincture but you’ve left me bleeding out on the cold wood of your living room floor. It hurts so much that I am compelled to say “Et tu Brute?” But if you were the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, then I would be Eve, and I wouldn’t take just one bite. I’d devour you whole, unhinge my serpent jaw and swallow your smile, your laugh, your heart…saying it makes me wonder if ‘like’ is even the right word.

“…No. It’s not. It never has been, has it? I guess I just never noticed, but we both know I’m just a coward. I speak but I never talk. Can I talk to you one more time?

“I’ve avoided saying it for far too long, so I will say it now as my Holy Water tears burn canals into my cheeks and chin…

“I love you.”

The pub was quiet for a moment before people began snapping in applause. Crowley was frozen. Had this person been stalking him for 6 thousand years or something? Were they some demon or angel in disguise? They didn’t seem like they were…were they psychic? How on earth was their poetry so close to what Crowley had been dealing with lately? After Az took a bow, they exited the stage and the announcer took their place, announcing the next poet. Crowley’s eyes didn’t leave Az, though. He watched as they walked to a booth next to the stage with a few other poets. Az gathered up their coat and their leather bag before bidding farewell and hugging the walls of the pub before leaving. Crowley quickly followed.

They ended up stopping at a bus stop, sitting on the bench and patiently waiting for the next bus. Crowley sauntered over and sat beside her, “That was quite the poem.”

Az smiled softly and looked at him, “Thank you. I’m glad you liked it. Did it resonate with you?”

Crowley scrunched his face up a bit and shrugged, “Eugh, you could say that. Who was the inspiration for it?”

“Hm? Oh, no one.” Az smiled and turned their head back to the road. 

Crowley’s eyes widened and he quickly snapped his head to look at them, “What?”

“Yup,” they enunciated the ‘p’ with a pop, “None of my love-based poems are inspired by someone. Well, unless it’s a heartbreak one. Those are usually inspired by someone.”

Crowley sat up a bit more and waved his hand around, the one not holding a half-empty wine bottle, as he spoke, “So, that whole thing, not inspired by anyone? Anyone at all?”

“Nope.” she enunciated the ‘p’ once again. 

“Then how did you write it? Got the story from a friend and turned it into a poem?”

“Nope. I listened to sad love songs that aren't super popular. Love songs from people who aren’t famous or well-known or even have a lot of followers. I listen to songs from people who maybe have a few hundred or thousand followers.”

“Why?” Crowley didn’t understand, but he desperately wanted to now. 

“Because they’re the people I see every day. They’re the people that aren't rich. They’re struggling with things most other people do. They don’t have a trust fund and sometimes that music is the only thing they have to support them. They’re real. More real than nearly every famous person. I want to write for people who struggle and cry and laugh, and try to thrive when they’re merely surviving. People like me. I take what they say, as well as some of my own experiences, and before long the words are spilling from my fingertips and onto the page.”

Crowley stared at Az for a moment before leaning his head back to rest on the back of the bench, thinking. After a few moments, Az spoke once more, “You said you resonated with my poem, right?”

“Nn..yeh.” Crowly half-shrugged.

“Did you talk to them? Tell them how you felt?”

Crowley sat up, getting ready to leave as he felt deja’vu from his conversation with Nina and Maggie, “Course I did. Told ‘m everything and he left.”

“Did you talk to him, or did you speak.”

Crowley froze for the second time that night, his eyes gazing past his dark glasses and into bright hazel ones. He had spoken. It was unsaid, but they both knew. After a moment, Az turned to her leather bag and began to undo the clasps on the front of it, “I want you to have something.”

Crowley didn’t say anything as they pulled out a black, hard-cover book. Crowley’s immediate reaction was to say he didn’t read, but something ineffable convinced him to keep quiet, so he did. Az then held the book out to him, “You don’t have to read it, you don’t even have to open it. Hell, you can chuck it in the trash for all I care, but at least take it.”

Crowley saw from over Az’s shoulder that the bus was just rounding the corner. He hesitated, but they kept the book held out to him. He looked back into them and with how intently they were looking at him he could have sworn they were looking right through his glasses. Just as the bus parked in front of the stop and opened its doors, he snatched the book. Az smiled despite it and boarded the bus without another word. 

— — — — — — 

Rain pelted against the hood of the Bently, it being the only sound to accompany the intoxicated demon. His head was resting on the handle of the steering wheel, staring at the black book in his passenger seat. The back was facing up, and it only had a short sentence printed in white ink that read;

“Sincerely, 

Az R. A.

<>”

Crowley hadn’t touched the book since Az gave it to him over a week ago. It had sat in his passenger seat since then, collecting dust. He had debated throwing it out several times, but something in him refused to let him toss it. Finally, he decided tonight was the night he would at least read the title and open it. So he grabbed it, wiped off the little dust on it, and read the cover that was printed in the same white ink;

Az’s 

Total and Complete Collection of

 Love, Heartbreak, and Everything in Between:

A Guide.

Crowley huffed out a breath and flipped it open to the first page. On it was a short, hand-written note;

“To whomever I have given his book to, I hope it helps you. I wish you the best, and I hope the contents of this book provide you the words you need to Talk.

-Az R. A.

<>”

There was a date in the top right corner of the page. The note was from 2020. Crowley wanted to think about it for a moment, but that nagging feeling in him convinced him to keep going. To keep reading. So he did. There were poems about love heartbreak, and everything in between, just as Az had promised in their title. The book wasn’t long, but it was packed full of metaphors, clever lines, euphemisms, and most importantly…emotion. The last poem ended in the middle of the page with three dots, the right page completely blank, but the poem didn’t seem to be over. Hesitantly, though he didn’t know why he was, he turned the page to read the final line;

“In the end, this isn’t a guide. It is a mere suggestion.”

i am never putting my headset on again

Ok, I'm finally gonna watch the funky circus characters

How to show emotions

Part IV

How to show bitterness

tightness around their eyes

pinched mouth

sour expression on their face

crossed arms

snorting angrily

turning their eyes upward

shaking their head

How to show hysteria

fast breathing

chest heaving

trembling of their hands

weak knees, giving in

tears flowing down their face uncontrollably

laughing while crying

not being able to stand still

How to show awe

tension leaving their body

shoulders dropping

standing still

opening mouth

slack jaw

not being able to speak correctly

slowed down breathing

wide eyes open

softening their gaze

staring unabashingly

How to show shame

vacant stare

looking down

turning their head away

cannot look at another person

putting their head into their hands

shaking their head

How to show being flustered

blushing

looking down

nervous smile

sharp intake of breath

quickening of breath

blinking rapidly

breaking eye contact

trying to busy their hands

playing with their hair

fidgeting with their fingers

opening mouth without speaking

Part I + Part II + Part III

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Talk, Don't Speak

I like you. Not in the way two friends like each other, though. No, I like you in the way whales like to sing. I like you in the way the stars like to shine. I like you in the way sea foam likes to border the shore. I like you in the way yeast likes to grow. I like you in the way I like like you…but it feels like you don’t like me the same. 

It feels like you like me like a parasite. Feeding off me and keeping me here so you can grow and become stronger. You drain me of my blood, sweat, and tears, yet you keep me nearby. But that’s the problem, you don’t feel like a parasite. You being around fills me with light and warmth, two things I swore I abandoned years ago. Yet here they are, seeping into my lungs and my heart only when you are near. You break down the walls that I’ve built and warmed the cold blade of my heart. Then you left.

It feels like a tincture but you’ve left me bleeding out on the cold wood of your living room floor. It hurts so much that I am compelled to say “Et tu Brute?” But if you were the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden, then I would be Eve, and I wouldn’t take just one bite. I’d devour you whole, unhinge my serpent jaw and swallow your smile, your laugh, your heart…saying it makes me wonder if ‘like’ is even the right word.

…No. It’s not. It never has been, has it? I guess I just never noticed, but we both know I’m just a coward. I speak but I never talk. Can I talk to you one more time?

I’ve avoided saying it for far too long, so I will say it now as my Holy Water tears burn canals into my cheeks and chin…

I love you...no matter how great a sin it may be