#STARTED WRITING A GOOD OMENS FIC

[crispyliza]

Fanfiction in the late 2000s-early 2010s was wild bc you'd find a beautifully written story with the most compelling heart-wrenching plot you've ever seen and the author's note would be like:

Author with a username like ~SasukesWaifuxD~ : Ohayo gozaimasu! ↖(^▽^)↗, I'm sowwy it took me so long to update (๑•́_•̀๑)

tsundere twink from their fic : It was about damn time you idiot (눈‸눈)

~SasukesWaifuxD~ : Hey now! It's not my fault the plot bunnies kept wunning away fwom me (╥﹏╥)

tsundere twink: W-watever, it's not like I missed you or anything (💢,,>﹏<,,) b-baka!

[mrghostrat]

Though he’d promised Aziraphale his attention, his head was turned towards a screen on his right, and the angle of his camera suggested the phone was tucked at the base of his keyboard and monitor. Aziraphale was actually grateful for it; Crowley’s momentary distractedness gave him the time to recover from the sight of him dressed up so professionally. “I, er— yes. I need your help though.” Crowley turned to him suddenly, leaning in close and grinning like a shared secret. Big Name Feelings • 3. Speeding Up

i am so at peace. 5 hrs totally zenned out on these colours. i'm gonna see his face in my dreams 🥰

[fearandhatred]

the very first thing i did in 2024 was go insane aka i slept at 7am and among other things i drew these! they're unrefined and only two panels of a much larger thing i'm doing but since that'll not be done any time soon i thought i might as well post these first

panel 8 of panel 2

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

loving you brings only heartaches (T)

(art previews! full art is here at this post by @doodleswithangie on tumblr. i also used her alt text!)

It's been 62 years since Aziraphale and Crowley’s disagreement in St James’ Park, and the world has entered a new era of flapper girls and arbitrary Prohibitions. After attempting to finally get in contact with the angel again, Crowley finds out Aziraphale has been accused of murdering Mr Howard, Soho staple and owner of the Harmony Emporium a few doors down...in his very own bookshop. It’s up to Aziraphale and Crowley to solve this mystery, or else they might be next.

the @go-minisode-minibang's reverse bang fic is finally here!! i claimed this piece of BRILLIANT art by @doodleswithangie of fem aziraphale and crowley in the 1920s, and i turned it into a silly yet serious murder mystery. i will say, i loved working with this piece and agonizing over getting it right! i hope y’all enjoy it, and PLEASE go over and look at the full art both on ao3 and her tumblr post! i love it SM!!!! <3

also: @deerpines i promise i'd tag so i will :)

[breeberrypies]

Reverse AU🤯

[ingravinoveritas]

It has just been brought to my attention--and why I have never seen this mentioned anywhere else before now, I cannot possibly fathom--that David actually takes his shirt off during this production of Macbeth. Specifically, this moment:

As we know, Michael attended a performance of Macbeth in December, on press night. Which means Michael saw that moment happen. From the second row. And was likely staring at David without a shirt on. Which suddenly gives entirely new dimension to Michael and David making eye contact with each other at the end of the show:

Do I think this was the first time Michael saw David shirtless? No (especially not if we take them filming two seasons of GO together into account). Do I think Michael outwardly* displayed anything other than complete respect and admiration for David's artistry and performance? Also no. Do I think that there are potentially a massive number of implications for Michael and David looking at each other like that right after Michael has just seen David shirtless on stage? Fucking hell, I don't know how there could not be.

Because the idea of Michael staring at David shirtless in a theatre full of people--unabashedly, unreservedly--is somehow quiet and incredibly brazen at the same time. The very epitome of "saying a lot by saying very little," which is a tag I have used for both Michael and David on multiple occasions. And David looking right back at him conveys just as much meaning, as if to say he knows he has to bare his flesh to audiences night after night, but Michael is the only person in that room to whom he can bare his soul. The person David has been vulnerable with in a way he hasn't with anyone else.

It's truly remarkable to contemplate. To think that the biggest, loudest statement Michael and David could make was done without saying a word. And that we all had the chance to see it thanks to one beautiful, timeless photograph...

(*Note: This does not mean Michael wasn't making loud AWOOGA noises on the inside, because he totally was...) **UPDATE: I have just been made aware that David is not actually fully shirtless in the play, but has a vest on underneath the shirt seen in the above photo. Apologies for inadvertently spreading any misinformation. But at least we can be satisfied knowing Michael has likely seen David shirtless in other contexts...

[nym-wibbly]

My Bonds in Thee by Nym on AO3 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley Additional Tags: Second Kiss, First Time, Character Study, Flashbacks, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series 2, Hell is Terrible, Heaven is Terrible, Ineffable Idiots, Ducks, Lack of Communication, different exactlys Chapters: 19/? Summary: Aziraphale comes back. Their love was never in doubt but they still have different exactlys.

1839. London. The Hesperus Club. A demon, broken and bleeding, hunches naked on the tiled floor. His knees beneath his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, he'd succeed at making himself appear small if not for his wings. They're magnificent, as wings go—black, broad—but they're not currently obeying the demon's will and they've seen better days. They droop weakly behind him, spreading across the wet floor like spilt ink, pulling against his visceral need to curl into a ball and vanish into stillness. An angel kneels behind him, slowly scooping water from the bathing pool with the cup of his hand; patiently pouring it over the demon's wounds. Blood and water mingle, pooling over the moss-green tiles and trickling towards the brass-lattice drains. Towards the pool, where the water slowly darkens to rusty brown. "Crowley," the angel prompts when the demon begins to crumple, ready to join his useless wings in a boneless sprawl across the floor—something fit for a gothic painter or the pen of a tortured poet. At the angel's voice, Crowley stops himself falling (but he's always falling; a raging star plunging in cold fire across the heavens towards bottomless destruction). With such effort, he holds himself still. Allows the angel to wash the neglect from his wounds and then, when the wounds are raw enough to begin healing, to gather up one raven wing at a time in careful, angelic hands, folding Crowley like the limp bellows of a broken accordion. Hissing with pain—and it is a hiss, fork-tongued, instinctive, and warning—Crowley tugs his right wing from the angel's grasp and sits up a little straighter. With more of an effort, he folds both wings against his back. Brittle feathers break quietly against the ground. "Oh, but they're filthy, my dear. Let me—" "Someone'll come in here. They'll see." Crowley glances towards the doors. He's suddenly alert enough, present enough, to know that time has passed since he came to this place, and that it's a human place. His wings shrug themselves unthinkingly into some other sliver of reality, safely out of sight, exposing more bloody sores on his flanks for the angel's fussing hands to tend. Water and prayers, wasted on him. "No one will come," soothes the angel (but his voice shakes, too angry and hurt to soothe anyone). "No one will see. You're safe now. I promise." Crowley nods automatically. Safe. Yes. Safe from the humans, anyway. The angel's made sure of that. "Thank you." He grits his teeth when the angel tips water over a crusted gash beneath his ribs, refusing to make another sound. "Don't mention it, my dear." The saddest part is, the angel really, really means that.

[mar-zom]

im good, im fine, im having a fantastic time writing Angsty Crowley crying alone in his Bently. im so normal about this.

[tonydaddingham]

crowley goes into the café a short-ish time after s2 ends and nina and maggie are chatting and snorting up at the counter. crowley raises the Eyebrow and they're just like "oh we're just talking about the weirdest customers we've ever had"

nina pipes in "yeah i had this old guy last month, yk after That Night, who just straight up asked me if anyone ever asked for death, fucking serial killer vibes, had the long dark coat and everything"

crowley just like shrugs it off, goes off to sulk with his six shots in the corner, and then looks at said mug of liquid cardiac arrest, silence, and then ".........oh.... fuck."

next shot is him slamming the bookshop doors open so hard one of the glass panes crack, stalks over to muriel, and demands to know how he can get a message to the new supreme archangel

[carry-the-sky]

a pothos by any other name

or: crowley loses aziraphale. one of his houseplants notices.

You and the others aren’t really sure what the Incident is, only that it happened, and it happened to Crowley. 

The first big change: you’re back in the flat. Everyone is elated (the Anthurium pushes out three new leaves to celebrate). Everyone except for Crowley, who flops facedown on his throne and stays that way for the rest of the week. 

On the morning of the eighth day, he drags himself up.

“Right,” he says. He stares ahead without blinking for a moment. “Carry on, then.”

[ao3]

[aziraphalalala]

Good Omentober #1 Pre-fall

Thanks for the prompts @disaster-dog! Here is the first fruit of my scrambled brain.

^^^^

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. Nights hadn’t been invented yet. Muriel, a 37th order scrivener angel, had just popped into existence for the first time. They knew this, instinctively, like they knew their name. 

They looked around. There was nothing around them. Inside their head, canopying every other thought, there was the bell-clear will of God, their Lord. 

Muriel looked down at their pristine white robes. They seemed to emanate a pure white light, and while Muriel wasn’t sure what “freshly laundered” really meant, these robes were definitely it.

They looked around again. Was there some scrivening they should be getting up to?

In the distance, a faint glimmer. 

If they were going to scriven, they supposed it didn’t have to happen in a specific place, seeing that all places were the same place in the raw firmament. 

Muriel exerted their will, and somehow, without really knowing how, they started to float towards the glimmer.

Now there were two clear shapes there!

Something was going on, and someone might need to record those events. They floated closer. Suddenly, everything shook. 

Could the firmament, essentially nothing, shake? Apparently it could. This was getting interesting. They heard the two figures speak.

“Hello! I’m… Aziraphale,” one of them said.

“Nice meeting you.” Dismissive. “Ooookay, here goes! Let there be matter, let there be gravity, let there be everything from pages 11 to 3,000,602 inclusive.”

The two figures looked around, expectant. Nothing happened.

“Is something meant to happen?” Aziraphale asked, timidly.

The other angel looked bemused. 

“Oh right, sorry! Yes, yes. Huh. Knew I missed one.” A beatific smile rose on his face. 

Aziraphale looked happy.

“Let there be light.”

Everything began. An unbridled, forceful laughter of pure joy punched out of Muriel. The two other angels remained in the forefront, watching as stars and galaxies fell across the tapestry of the universe like multicolored rose petals. Star nurseries gained shape and shone in the brilliance of infinite dimensions and whispered of black holes and supernovas in the far, far future. Light sped, as it does, across distances vaster than mind can comprehend, lending life and luminescence to every speck of matter. 

Aziraphale’s heart clenched as he saw the other angel squeak in boundless excitement. 

Muriel watched, and recorded everything.

[fearandhatred]

to rome: a play by fearandhatred

(5k words, 1/1 chapters)

While trying to tempt Caligula, Crowley makes a discovery that renders all his efforts for naught. But then it turns out that Aziraphale is here too, so maybe his trip to Rome isn't wasted after all.

***highly recommended to read on a phone because of the Multiplicity Of Line Breaks that just look very weird on a laptop unless your font size is huge

-----

i've always loved the idea of crowley falling in love with aziraphale in rome. in some ways it really is my roman empire so i figured i might as well make it happen! featuring many shenanigans and an annoying emperor :)

any and all support is greatly appreciated <3

anyway it all started with a dream:

so this is for @eybefioro @captainblou @crowleys-bentley-and-plants who challenged me to write a fic with no angst and also, coincidentally, for that one commenter who asked me on the same day if i would consider writing something happy for once. against all odds and with much difficulty, i have done it. love u guys sm <333

[pockykierra]

Crowley hated this.

No, not watching Aziraphale prance ahead of him, absolutely beaming with his plans for the meeting that night. It wasn’t that he hated. In Crowley's eyes - snake-like as they were - any moment spent admiring his angel was a moment well spent. He could never detest seeing Aziraphale so happy, exuding pure excitement and energy. Never.

What he hated was the distance. Aziraphale was barely an arm's length away, Crowley swaggered only a few steps behind - and yet, despite everything, despite the years of them being an "us, " it still felt like a chasm between them. Something keeping them out of reach from one another, this time entirely out of the influence of Heaven and Hell.

Though, in all honesty, it wasn't the physical nature of the distance that bothered him. For them - for Crowley - it would never be that simple. If only he could pick up his pace so he was walking side-by-side with Aziraphale, and everything would feel right in the world. If only their proximity was the issue.

No, it wasn't the gap between their bodies that he despised. It was what it represented. He hated the distance between them because it symbolized where Aziraphale would always be for Crowley.

Just out of reach.

[theclaravoyant]

Be Not Afraid ~ good omens ficlet

AN ~ I couldn't help myself, the Angst Fairies finally dragged it out of me after all this fluff. ANGST / whump with a happy/hopeful ending.

**spoilers for S2**

Read on AO3 (~1100wd)

-

There’s a dreadful commotion outside. Crowley grits his teeth, agony and grief and this place making him even more irritable at the bustling humans outside than usual. There’s loads of them, gathering outside just by the door, they’re facing the wrong way looking at something - for now at least - but if they think they’re coming in here -

Then one does, and it’s a familiar one, and she has pure dread written all over her face.

“Mr Crowley - “

He bolts out of his seat without needing to be asked. All thought of the pesky humans pales to insignificance; gives way to an overwhelming feeling that he knows what’s happened. In all of time and space there’s only one thing that could make anyone say his name like that.

Aziraphale- 

He can’t bring himself to complete the thought. Aziraphale’s in trouble, that one’s allowed. Aziraphale’s come back. But not this. Not Aziraphale’s in danger the likes of which none of us here on the mortal plane can understand, I know you’ve had a falling out, but you’re the only one I could think to tell.

That, he is somehow sure, is what she means by Mr Crowley.

“Clear out,” he snarls, urging the crowding humans aside and he drinks in the sight. He can’t stand to look but he can’t help it. 

The bitumen is blackened and torn up. Scorched. Gouged like it’s been hit by a small comet.

It has.

And lying in the crater is- is- 

Crowley’s feet are running before he has a chance to even contemplate using a miracle or not. He waves a hand, stops time - fat lot of good it will do any of them now - and falls to his knees by his Angel’s side. He’s bleeding, Crowley can smell it. He’s burning. Crowley can smell that too. Like brimstone.

“Angel, what did they do- “ he growls, he begs, as fury and horror surge through him.

Breath, squeezes out from between gritted teeth.

“I-” Aziraphale hisses. “I missed -”

His body trembles, all but seizing with sheer agony. Steel blue eyes like a stormy sea flicker open for a moment only to be dragged back under by the pain. Crowley digs his hands into smoldering lapels and miracles them inside, trying his best to hold them both steady. He doesn’t feel like much of an anchor at this moment, but at least the Angel’s soft old couch is better than the stinging bits of road embedded in his skin as he burns from the inside out. He’s plugging a dam with a finger but there’s nothing else he can do. Except perhaps peeling the Metatron alive with a teaspoon.Crowley just knows that slimy bastard is behind this, and lashing out has long been his forte after all.

But then Aziraphale weakly grasps at his hand.

“They didn’t… do anything to me,” he insists. “I ch- I chose this.”

The blood that spills from his lips at that makes it horrifyingly difficult to believe. Aziraphale manages to open his eyes again, though, and it almost makes it a little better. They’re surprisingly tranquil, all things considered, as if maybe he did walk into this willingly.

“It was the only way.”

Not so willingly, then. But the argument dies on Crowley’s lips as Aziraphale’s eyes snap shut again. He screams through gritted teeth, then openly. First all but crushing Crowley’s hand, then throwing it aside and grasping at the air like he doesn’t even know Crowley is there. Crowley remembers it, like a light that’s too bright to look at. Like a dying star. He tries to scramble for Aziraphale’s flailing hand but he’s forced aside by bruised and blackened, bloodied wings bursting free of their confines. They’re twisted now, all wrong and dark and Crowley feels himself crying anew. Not Aziraphale, not this.

Not Aziraphale.

Aziraphale Aziraphale Aziraphale.

He hasn’t said that name enough. An Angel’s name. Maybe if he says it now, Aziraphale won’t lose it like Crowley did. But he doesn’t. There’s no one left to beg for mercy now. Nothing left to do but wait until the screaming stops.

He kneels on the bloodspattered carpet, and waits.

And finally, after what feels like an age, it has subsided into small, whimpering breaths.

“Crowley.” A barely audible croak. “Crowley, I’m s- I’m s-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Crowley objects. “We’ll figure it out.” All he can taste is his own tears, and blood, and brimstone and that infernal coffee - coffee - on his Angel’s lips. There’s a flicker of gratitude that they didn’t leave it like that. And fear, and fear, and fear.

“I’m s- scared.”

“Oh.” Crowley, on his knees, crawls closer. “Me too.”

Aziraphale hisses slowly as he pulls his wing up a little and out of the way, so that Crowley can get close enough to clasp his hand again at last. He clasps back with his last scraps of strength. Crowley tries his best to lend some miracle, some energy, some healing, but it crackles uselessly around him like a big ball of panic-lightning and for the first time in a long time it’s not as easy as usual to make the world do what he wants it to do. 

(Maybe that’s because what he really wants is to take all of this back, and he knows he can’t.)

He presses his forehead to his Angel’s. He closes his eyes and wills all the love and desperation and rage and hurt and strength to cross between them skin to skin instead. He’s breathing. At least he’s breathing. For some reason, that’s a relief.

“How are they?” Aziraphale dares ask, after a moment.

They?

Crowley opens his eyes.

“I can’t look.” Aziraphale swallows a lump of tears. “I can’t- just tell me-”

And Crowley understands.

They look a mess. They look like road-kill. They very nearly were. But Crowley finds the words falling from his lips are -

“They look like mine.”

“Oh.” Was that- a smile on the Angel’s lips? It doesn’t last too long but it’s there like a promise. They’ll get through, they’ll heal, they’ll maybe even thrive. They’ll be big and beautiful and ravenlike. Uncowering before the likes of Heaven.

“And what about the eyes?” he presses. “Do they look like yours too?”

Aziraphale’s eyes finally crack open one more time and Crowley can’t help himself, he jumps. That soft, beautifully clouded jadeite colour he’s gotten so used to over the years - oh, it is still there - but like the wings it’s twisted. There’s no clear pupil, no sclera. Only blue, shimmering like what Crowley assumes is supposed to represent something hideous like oil slicks or cataracts or some otherworldly deep sea beast. They are supposed to be ugly; corrupted. Instead they remind him of the heart of his favourite nebula; of stardust swirling in deep space.

“No,” he says at last. “I think they’re beautiful.”

[ineffable-kelpie]

Rating: G

Wordcount:14,673

Chapters: 7/7

Summary:

Once, Aziraphale, Crowley, and Crowley's sentient snake tattoo made a game of exchanging tiny kisses. After their holy water argument, and their reunion at the church, the game becomes all too real. With their lives more intertwined than ever, can they find a balance between safety and expressing what they feel for each other?

A year and a half later, it’s the sequel to Temporary Tattoo that nobody asked for!

[willowfernn]

Me plotting my own book: Unable to finish even a rough, short summary. Me plotting a Halloween Gomens fanfic: Cranks a whole summary out in ten minutes along with quotes to add and in-depth costume ideas.