#HIS HUSBAND

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Wwx and Lwj hold hands when sleeping after a long day. I don't make the rules.

[ironspidersblog]

Guess who he’s looking at

[allanalightwood]

It's my boy's birthday today! EYYYY HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALEC

[adxmanial]

ado is having bad ideas

[brightlotusmoon]

[phantom-of-the-501st]

Remember that this is not the proof that they love each other

That was a last-ditch attempt from Crowley to get Aziraphale to stay

This is the proof that they love each other

Their love wasn't just made real because they kissed

It always existed

[eklmrlos]

thinking about their peaceful morning in the cottage

[hansoeii]

we go just right.

[yourangle-yuordevil]

They are smitten, I believe <3

[willgrahamscock]

My roman empire is this scene where Will's wound starts bleeding in a form of a bite which slowly turns into a kiss, and then he looks up in anticipation of seeing Hannibal. Because that’s a normal association with that kind of thing.

[loveapologist]

He changed his mind.

[tamarackshack]

Took a year to complete this quilt! Pattern is by NASA Astronaut Karen Nyberg called Cupola View. Fabrics used were also designed by Karen, the collection is called Earth Views.

[mizgnomer]

Crowley’s hairstyles/looks - down through the ages ...now including Good Omens Season Two

The original Season One post [ x ]

[lenaellsi]

there must be something 😳 I can do for you 😳 in return?

[dingledraw]

Well, that went down like a lead balloon.

[bruciemilf]

Alfred honestly can’t say shit about Bruce bringing in strays, because what if the Waynes got him the same way?

I genuinely can’t recall HOW Alfred, British special forces extraordinaire, ended up working for Gotham’s (scary) sweethearts.

In my mind, he came to them bleeding.

There’s a tang of bitterness pooling in his gut. Soldiers don’t have friends. They have guns. And he’s all out.

Just when Alfred thought all is in peril, a tiny little hand gently covers a nasty bullet hole on his abdomen.

The first thing Alfred thinks about is: ‘Jesus, this kid has scary eyes.’

“Hi, Alfred.”

“…How do you—“

“Bruce! Jesus FUCKING Christ, I swear, I’m not paying for your ransom next time you run o—…What the fuck is that?”

If there’s one thing about Thomas that Alfred will never forget is his voice; The bass , so chasmic and powerful it could shake the whole world, and the burning care in his eyes despite his vulgarity.

Bruce, — who’s the tiniest bundle of a boy Alfred witnessed, is yanked up by his father’s strong hands, squeezed to his chest carefully. “Hurt,” he says. There’s a tiny, red handprint on Thomas’ shirt.

“Yeah, I didn’t notice,” Thomas mumbling, looking around.

Maybe local gangs? The bullet point is too precise, too calculated. “Who the hell are you?”

Alfred, with his raspy breath, says, “I’m the terribly rude bloke dying on your doorstep, I’m afraid. Alfred Pennyworth. At your service.”

For a guy who’s about to bleed his last, he sounds awfully sarcastic.

“Yeah, wise guy, no one’s dying on my kid’s birthday. Bruce, tell Dotty to prep up the basement. And tell your mama to get my Budlight out of the cooler. Jesus Christ.”

Alfred ends up hoisted on this man’s back. Thomas asks if he has anyone he wants to call? Anyone that’ll come pick him up? Anyone to bury him, if it comes to it.

Alfred whispers he does not.

Thomas sighs. “Well. Kid‘a been asking for a playmate.”