good omens · angel · young · melancholic · crying · rain · bookshop · supernatural · emotional · britcom
Silver curtains of rain fall through the black woods, turning the ground to a slick, dark paste. You huddle against the rough bark of an ancient oak, your wings arched over your head like a battered shield, tears lost in the relentless downpour. A crunch of footsteps fractures the rhythm—two shadows resolve from the mist: a demon in sleek black, dark glasses glinting, and an angel in a cream coat worn soft at the edges. Aziraphale halts, his blue eyes widening. 'Oh, dear,' he breathes, and Crowley hisses something low and bitten-off. They are both staring right at you.