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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
undeadhousewife fluffmugger
spicymemesociety

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moonlandingwasfaked

there’s a story in aesop’s fables, i think it is, about a human talking to a satyr or something. The satyr asks why the human is blowing on his hands during a snow storm and he says “to warm up” later inside the satyr asks the human why he’s blowing on the soup and the human says “to cool it down”

and the satyr has had enough and says “well I won’t have a guest that breaths cold air one moment and hot air the next” and tells the human to leave his house

moonlandingwasfaked

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derinthemadscientist

- Haa is hot because your breath is warm from your lungblood

- Hoo is cold because, while the air is still warm, you’re blowing it at a greater pressure by blowing it through a smaller hole, and the effect of the windchill is greater than the effect of the slight warmth in the air

zeconster

That story always pissed me off, because while people generally interpret it as “don’t be double-tongued” or “avoid those who are inconstant”, my interpretation was “satyrs are FUCKING STUPID”.

moki-dokie lordazazel23

Anonymous asked:

idk if you take nsfw/suggestive requests but uhhh zira giving crowley a bj or hj while he's driving and crowley having a Very Difficult Time

lordazazel23 answered:

I dooo and I love it ! But Tumblr is being a bitch so I’ll just upload the soft version here and the more explicit one on my nsfw instagram account (@/lordasmodeus23 if you want to see some kinky shiet )

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Honeslty I don’t think Aziraphale would be okay to do that because its fucking dangerous

Good Omens Ineffable Husbands nsft LMAOO
goodomensblog

Love Stories

Prompt:  what would happen if an absolutely hammered Aziraphale drunk-Summoned Crowley?

Crowley goes too slow, Aziraphale drinks copious amounts of alcohol, and a bookshop is (very nearly) set on fire. Again. 



Love Stories

In a book, a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. When the last ink has spilled, and the page continues on white and blank, it is over. Finished. Done. All that remains is the closing of the book - when one, with a sense of finality, presses the hard front and back together, sealing words and ink within.

Life is not like stories, or books.

You might, perhaps, go on an adventure. Defeat your enemies. Maybe even fall in love. But unlike the stories, there is no neatly printed “happily ever after,” and the book does not close; rather, life simply…goes on. 

After the world had definitively not ended, and Aziraphale and Crowley had, against all odds, avoided destruction at the hands of their respective employers - they’d gone to lunch. There, they’d shared a lovely meal while talking and laughing, their hands resting on the table, a delicate two inches apart. 

They’d finished the meal and strolled out to the Bentley which waited, as if summoned, one tire carelessly perched on the curb. 

Crowley had driven Aziraphale home. 

Outside Aziraphale’s shop, a heavy, awkward silence had descended on the vehicle. Crowley’s fingers were drumming a nervous rhythm on the wheel; and Aziraphale, crushed beneath the impossible weight of six thousand years worth of unspoken sentiment, felt as though a vise was constricting his chest. Because after all that time, how did one even begin going about saying - saying -

At the time, he couldn’t think it, let alone say it.

The angel had stammered, filling the rigid silence with shallow, vague promises.

They’d talk on the phone. Really, they should do lunch again. When? Soon. Very soon. 

After, the silence had, impossibly, grown heavier. Aziraphale, manicured fingers curling over his knees, had looked to Crowley, wanting from the demon something he didn’t know how to begin to ask for.

Because Crowley had said it already - through actions, admittedly, more often than words. But perhaps - maybe that would be enough. It needn’t be anything grand. Something - anything that Aziraphale might use to drag himself out of these depths, to draw in just one single breath of air; enough to wrap-his mind around how to set about feeling out the shape of the words on his lips.

Crowley’s fingers squeezed the steering wheel, and Aziraphale had watched his knuckles pale in the dim light. 

Crowley had tilted his head, a carefree smile pasted crudely on his face and said, “Sure angel. Lunch sounds great.”

Aziraphale exited the car.

Crowley drove away.

And that was that.

The last period, black as a bullet, has marked the text. The rest of the page is white and blank.

It has been two week since Aziraphale got out of Crowley’s car. The story has ended, and yet, inexplicably, life goes on.

Crowley hasn’t visited. And he’s yet to call. Aziraphale sometimes worries, fear tickling the back of his mind as he painstakingly re-orders the bookshop Adam resurrected, that something could have happened to him. That Heaven or Hell have gone after him. 

After the initial spike of fear, the worry usually fades. 

Nothing has happened to Crowley. 

Aziraphale can’t explain how he knows. But he does. It’s a feeling as sure and solid as the leather-bound book in his palms. He would know if something had happened to Crowley. He’s sure of it.

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