#adam/warlock

[laiqualaurelote]

Good Omens fic masterlist

A long long time ago (at least longer than this Tumblr has existed) I used to write Good Omens fic, and now that S2 is getting closer every day, here are all my GO fics in one place! they are all Aziraphale/Crowley and all their titles are from Queen songs.

your smile speaks books to me (5k, Aziraphale/Crowley, Anathema/Newt)

Crowley remains rather proud of Instagram. On an average day it rustles up at least two sins - usually Pride and Envy - and on a good day it can hit all seven. He’d been angling for a commendation for it, but Hell typically backdates commendations by decades, centuries even, and now it seems unlikely he will ever get his. Not that it matters.

Having prodded Instagram into being, he left it to fester in the Petri dish of humanity, as he does most of his projects. And as his projects are wont to do, it is now coming back to bite him, like the M25 and automated checkouts sensitive to unexpected items in the bagging area. 

Aziraphale's bookshop becomes accidentally famous on Instagram, to his great distress. Since Crowley invented Instagram, it's also his problem.

till one day they call your name (6.5k, Adam/Warlock, Aziraphale/Crowley)

“What happened to the one that you did raise, then?” Adam asked. “Instead of me?”

“Blessed if we know,” said Crowley. “Made a hash out of that one, we did. Probably up to his ears in therapy now.”

“Oh, I rather think we did all right,” put in Aziraphale soothingly. “I daresay we were rather good at being godparents.”

“You tried to kill me,” Adam pointed out. “Literally the first thing you did when we met.”

Nine years after almost causing the end of the world, Adam is working backstage in university theatre when he meets a high-strung, melodramatic, manipulative American director who happens to share his birthday.

I Live And Lie For You (12.9k, Bond/Q, Aziraphale/Crowley, Adam/Pepper)

“Absolutely, unequivocally no, you’re not getting a Bentley. Of all the vintage cars in the world, did you have to break into that one?” “At least ask him where he got it,” says Bond, cajoling. “He made a pact with the devil,” says Q. “Which you cannot do, as I believe you are already spoken for.”

In which Wensleydale and Pepper grow up and join MI6 so they can continue saving the world. One becomes the youngest Quartermaster in history. The other shoots James Bond.

[headcanonthings]

Warlock: My boyfriend is an angel and makes me want to be a better person.

Adam: My boyfriend is crazy as fuck and is probably taking me to hell with him but it's alright because I'm already going to hell.

[jessikast]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Warlock Dowling/Adam Young Characters: Warlock Dowling, Adam Young (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pepper (Good Omens), Harriet Dowling, Dog (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Antichrist Boyfriends, One Night Stands, Misunderstandings, Lovers To Enemies, (Well not ENEMIES but SOMEONE owes someone else an apology), Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Communication, One night stand failed successfully, Background Aziraphale/Crowley, Antichrist reveal, Antichrist Adam Young (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Domestic, Lovers to adversaries to friends to lovers, Apologies Summary:

Warlock is feeling pretty good about his one-night-stand at a friend's wedding, until he wakes up to find himself being managed out of Adam's bed by an antichrist who's too used to his hookups being hopelessly enthralled with him.

Weirdly, Warlock's immune to that antichrist charm - and Adam's strangely happy to be called an asshole with a superiority complex. Lovers to pissed-off-acquaintances to lovers and revelations of an antichrist nature ensue.

[melonsharks]

i went. insane. LOOK. i know a lot of people realllyyyy wanted crowley to be the wedding dress designer LOOK I KNOW AND ITS OK u can make ur own au i promise but in MY WORLD. you need to understand me.

crowley owning a vineyard is personal to me. he is THE snake in the garden of eden, tempting is his JOB ok. he makes wines aziraphale indulges in, aziraphale designs dresses with crowley in mind. do you hear me. are you listening to me. i have everything from the second they meet mapped out OK i know what im talking about. listen to my delusions, boy.

[maarigolds]

This has got to be one of my favorite shots of the whole movie. Because I mean, look at him. Look at this little dummy, this actual baby, witnessing happiness and family for the first time in his life. All he wanted was to belong, and now he does.

[inklore]

just a taste

premise: meeting luca after work doesn't usually end up with the two of you in an intense lip lock, both of you knowing once you start it's hard to stop. but that's what offices are for, right?

pairing: luca x (f)reader

word count: 3.1k

contents: literally barely any plot here, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v, coming inside, established relationship, doing it at the workplace, teasing, dirty talk, pet names.

note: i know the bare minimum about this man because i’ve never seen the bear but those tattoos, the accent, the hair?? fill me like an eclair is all i have to say ok!

The cool breeze of the night air almost makes you regret not just heading straight home and slipping under the steam of a nice long shower and grabbing the first blanket you see on the sofa and planting yourself there for the rest of the night. Await your boyfriend's arrival under the comfort of cotton and cushion that he’ll surely plop down next to you on after he’s kicked off his shoes. His cold fingers finding you under the blanket to pull you close to his side, a string of kisses pressed along the side of your neck before finding your lips. The smell of yeast and sugar—embedded in his skin at this point—making you bury your nose into his collarbone. 

But this was a ritual for the both of you. 

You finishing your studies and then meeting him after work. 

The two of you walking home together, barely making it through the threshold of your place before lips and clothes were being pressed together and thrown to the floor. Luca’s soft laugh at needing to shower. Thus always leading to your face pressed into the wall of the shower and Luca’s fingers digging into your hips as he thrust inside of you. 

So that nibble of regret doesn’t last long when you come to a stop in front of his work. The makings of anticipation pull at the corner of your mouth as you grab your phone from your bag and start to text him to let him know you’re out front. 

A text that’s barely on the last word when the breeze of the door is hitting you and making you look up, “you can go in. He's in the back.” a co-worker you’ve met a dozen times, but his name slips your mind as you give him an appreciative smile and thank him as you slip through the doors as he walks out. 

You could enter the kitchen a dozen times—a million, a billion—your nose filling with that sweet aroma, Luca bent over a table, a dish, fingers deep in a ball of dough, the monochromatic uniform making his tattoos stand out on his skin like the most beautiful canvas, and you’d never get over the view. 

Over how your insides react when you see him in his element.

See him doing what he loves. 

It’s like the first time every time. 

Just like the first time he dragged you into the kitchen after your tenth date. Showing you his own version of paradise. His love. His joy. The way his face lit up when your eyes brightened when you bit into the scone he had made—saved—for you. The euphoric sweetness a good dessert can do to one's brainstem is still a scientific mystery to you, but you’d gladly leave the research to the experts if you could experience it forever. 

Taste Luca’s creations forever. 

That memory seems like ages ago. Now well into two years of your relationship. 

Nothing seems to fade with Luca. 

Your first times feeling just as tortuous to your fluttering insides as the tenth or twentieth time around. 

It knocks you off kilter in the best way. 

And when you look over at Luca after dropping off your bag and sweater in an open chair, you can not help but laugh when he finally looks up from cleaning off the surfaces of the metal tables and that stone look of him being in chef mode falls from the creases of his face and his features melt into something soft. 

He doesn’t say anything until his arm is around your midsection, drawing you in. “Hi, beautiful.” He smiles as your lips meet in a long kiss. Kissing you as if he hasn’t seen you in days, as if he has spent the entire day waiting for this moment and this moment alone. “How was your day?” 

“Not as good as it is now,” you tease. Hand in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. 

The hum that makes your lips buzz and that lands on your tongue as he backs you up so your back is pressed into the doorframe makes anything you could tell him about what happened in your day lackluster. Incomparable. How could you possibly think of anything worthwhile—how could anything be as worthwhile—as his tongue moving along your bottom lip, his hand at the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing a small circle into your skin? 

It couldn’t.

"Let me finish cleaning up," he smirks. Thumb and pointer reaching for your chin, squeezing it, luring you in for one last kiss before returning to cleaning and leaving you dazed in the doorway.  

And if you didn’t know how seriously Luca takes this, from the ritual of making pastries to maintaining a stern, clean kitchen, you would tell him to hurry. Complaining that it is not fair for him to kiss you like that and then make you wait for him to finish, but the payoff was always worth the wait. And you love Luca’s love for his craft. Love him in this element—watching him and seeing him go into that little part of his brain that makes him go into boss mode. 

The stern gentleness of it all. 

It’s breathtaking to watch.

It’s art.

He’s art. 

So that’s what you do. 

You push off the doorframe and enter further into the kitchen just to watch him. 

“How was your day?” You ask while watching him write on the white board in the corner. 

“Good. We got a new guy who came in.” 

“Is he any good?” 

“Better than he thinks he is.” 

“I bet you brought out his best. You always do.” You smile at him when you watch him shrug off the compliment, not missing the twitch of the corner of his mouth. Ever so modest. 

Wordlessly, he puts the cap back on the marker and sets it against the metal of the board, walking over to one of the refrigerators and pulling out a small bowl of something green and white. 

Something that looks too beautifully crafted to eat, let alone eaten by someone who might not fully understand what went into making something so decadent—something that looks like it would be served to someone with a gold card, not someone who eats boxed mac and cheese for dinner twice a week (which Luca always tries to make fancier than Kraft ever could). 

Luca hands you a spoon, “told him the only critic that mattered was sharing a bed with me.” You make a face, the both of you knowing how outlandish that sounds when the food genius himself is standing in front of you. The critic who mattered to a lot of people more than the girl who was sharing his bed. 

But it still brings a smile to your face. 

“Did he think you were utterly insane for such a statement? I think eating greasy takeout two nights in a row is five star dining.”

He chuckles, “you’re the only critic that matters to me.” His palms come down on the edge of the metal table between you as he leans against it. “The only important one at least. Try it.”

The swoop that runs through you from his words, from his eagerness to hear your thoughts on a dessert you do not even know the name of, but know you will appreciate more than anyone else because it came from someone he admires, makes your cheeks heat up. 

And when it touches your tongue, when that euphoric sweetness overcomes your tastebuds, you don’t think the English dictionary could come in handy with describing the taste. The goodness of it. Compliments, which you know Luca and his fellow chefs have heard many times before and then some. But still bring that artist's joy to their chests when your eyes widen and you look at them in something akin to shock. 

The moan you let out makes him grin.

“Good?”

“Is he single?” 

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” His arms cross over his chest, a playful brow raised.

You take another bite of the dessert, “I think you might want to start looking for another job.”

“And a girlfriend?”

You nod, “with something that tastes this good, I would give him my social security number easily. Oh my god.” You dramatically moan around the spoon, the action doing little to hide the simpering look on your face.

“Here I thought I was the only one who could make you spill such confidential secrets.” Luca strides across the table, coming to stand at your back. His lips pressing against the back of your neck and the top of your shoulder. 

Finding its home where your collarbone meets the junction of your throat, where he lets his warm breath blow against the known sensitivity there, then presses his lips to it. Making your back push into his front, your body melting against him. 

A soft noise lays dormant at the tail end  of your throat, making a ghost of a smirk etch against your skin from his mouth as he murmurs, “and the only one who can make those noises come out of you.”

Your voice is breathy when you say, “so much for being humble.”

"When it’s the truth, I do not need to be humble." His lips trailing to your ear, fingers running up the back of your exposed thighs, pulling up your skirt until they are at the apex of your hip, skating forward and close to your clothed mound. “Am I wrong? Should we see?” 

The spoon in your hand lucky you don’t have superhuman strength because it would be crushed in your grip right now. 

Luca’s fingers splay themselves across your pelvis, toying with the top of your underwear. “Hmm, awfully quiet now. Where’d my mouthy girl go?” An airy chuckle tickles your ear as he lets it out, “humbled are you?” 

There’s a teasing sneer forming on your mouth before it does a 180 and morphs into an ‘o’ as Luca’s fingers push into your underwear, the pad running through the clear as day arousal that’s been making your thighs clench uncomfortably since your kiss in the doorway. 

When the finger moves against your clit there's no covering up the gasps that fall from your lips. Or the way your ass grinds against the erection that’s pressing up against it. 

“Who’s humble now?” He teases. A cheeky grin on his face when he pulls his hand out from your underwear, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking it into his mouth. Making your cheeks heat even more when you turn to look at him. Your teasing turns needy as you give him that look, the one that always makes him drop whatever he is doing and have his body on yours within seconds. 

You both know that making it home now will feel ten times longer. Ten times more agonizing in the cool air with your warming bodies.

With you soaking your underwear and him hard against his zipper. 

So when he says “office”, all you can do is chew on your bottom lip in eagerness as you make a beeline towards it. Luca closer behind you than you expect when you hear the door shut seconds after you’ve entered and his mouth immediately on yours, your ass hoisted onto the nearest surface. 

Luca’s fingers making quick work to pull down your underwear, your skirt bunched at your hips. You fully expect him to pull himself up from his knees after slipping the lace from your ankle and tossing it to the floor. You expect him to come back up and slide inside of you quick and easy, but instead he’s trailing kisses and bites into your thighs. 

Blue eyes look up into yours, and he must see the need in them—that glint that tells him all you want is for him to be inside of you right now. The heady woes of foreplay just torture at this point. 

His teeth sink harder into your flesh, making you gasp. “I’ve worked hard all day; don’t I deserve a treat? A taste of the best dessert out there.” 

And how could you argue with that?

You can’t.

Not when his tongue runs from the bite mark in your skin to your wetness. Spreading you around him as he licks a stripe up your pussy. Your grip on the metal your ass is under hard and tight enough to leave marks against your palm. 

And as crude as it makes you sound, as obscene and cocky as it comes off your lips, you will never hold back from telling Luca that his talent as a chef will never outweigh how good he is with his mouth and cock. 

He’s multi-talented and it’s a blessing and a curse to your insides. 

“Oh, fuck. Luca,” your head hangs between your shoulders. Your fingers in his hair, the heel of your shoe pressed against his back—his apron long gone, leaving him in that navy blue—his fingers digging into the side of your thighs as he keeps you against his mouth. 

The mouth that’s switching between sucking your clit between his lips and rolling his tongue against it. Eating you like you’re the best dessert his tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting. 

It never takes him long to get you there. To make your chest heave and your nerve endings light up, as if they are about to make you panic from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure that is completely taking over your body. 

His fingers have created beautiful, mouth watering food, just as they’ve made you completely lose your mind. Your legs shaking around his head. Your back involuntarily bows until it hits the metal surface of the desk you’re perched on. 

It’s when he slips two fingers inside of you that you completely lose it. The sob that pulls itself from your lungs feels red-hot in your throat as your fingers grip the strands of his blonde hair as you come against his mouth. Your hips riding out your high. Rolling against his tongue in a languid way, drawing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

Your body still reeling and alight with that desire-train that still has it wanting more. That heavy ache between your legs that wants to be filled. To be fucked by something bigger and thicker than a finger.

Your mouth comes down on the tabasco tattoo below Luca’s wrist in a gentle kiss, one of your favorites of his, when his hand comes to cup the back of your head to pull you up to him. 

His thumb runs from your cheek to your chin, where he pushes it up, so you’re looking up at him and he’s looking down at you as he stands between your legs. Your nails run along the tattoos along his arms, up his bicep, and to the nape of his neck. A fire burning in his eyes when your fingers run between the strands back there. 

“Tell me,” he says close to your lips. He’s checking in. Seeing if you’re too spent for his cock, seeing if there's more you want. If you want to wait until you get home. If you’re ready for him now. 

“It’d be cruel to not fuck me now.” You say it in a half-tease-half-serious tone. 

“Ooh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “I don’t want to be cruel.” You can feel his other hand move between the two of you, undoing the button of his pants and messing with the zipper until he’s pulling himself out of them, hard and leaking. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t give my girl what she so desperately needs?” 

Luca smirks when you laugh into his mouth, “the worst kind.”

With one last kiss, lick, and nip at your lower lip, he’s rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, making your thighs shake. Nails dig into his skull as he soaks up your oversensitivity to coat himself before going lower and slipping inside of you in one slow, fluid motion. 

Your mouth hung open at the stretch, and your breath caught in your lungs. Your foreheads resting against each other as you let your walls accommodate his girth, both of your breaths heavy. The pounding you can feel between your legs—that you’re not sure is coming from him or you or something more poetic and overwhelming like your conjoined bodies aching as one, like a heartbeat aches for a chest cavity when it’s torn from a body. 

The two of you need this. 

Need each other. 

When Luca starts moving, you know the two of you are both completely fucked. Spent and so full of desire that you know your time in this office is just the start of a long night of tangled limbs and wet mouths. 

The sounds you are making against each other's mouth are breathy and intoxicating. His tongue in your mouth swallows every mewl and moan he coaxes from your body with each stroke of his cock. 

His fingers find the back of your head again, not allowing you to even think about leaving his mouth. 

You think you see stars when his palm finds the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher on his hips. Think you could let this man completely consume you, and you’d still never be satisfied. Never get over how good it feels to feel his hips drive deeper into you, to feel the head of his cock hit that spot inside of you that makes his name roll off your tongue like a prayer. 

“Who’s pussy is it, baby?” 

"Mm'fuck," you are not sure if he is still playing the game of you leaving him for the new chef or if his filthy mouth is attempting to completely destroy you—which is nothing new when he has you coating and tightening around his cock like this. 

When you say his name, when you whine it into his mouth like a pathetic desperation, the erotic noise that it’s met with makes you cling to him tighter. Makes you press yourself closer to him. The movement makes the outside of his pants grind against your clit. 

“So beautiful,” Luca murmurs. The octave of his voice grows lower and choppy with heavy breaths the closer he gets. Neither of you lasts much longer when his pace picks up. The grip the two of you have on each other is hard and rough, enough to tear and leave marks that you’ll later kiss with gentle lips, unlike the passion that’s coming through with the hard kisses your mouths are giving as you both come. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” He breathes into your mouth, twisting your insides even more. 

[heartman]

@ the people complaining about Adam Warlock in GOTG 3

[leggy-fish]

adam warlock crashing into things instead of entering places through doors deserves to be a running gag

[tamtamho]

I've said it before and I'll say it again: GOTG have the smoothest, most planned, movie series with a satisfying ending.

[SPOILERS]

It shows that:

- the main male lead and female lead doesn't have to end up together

- endings doesn't have to be tragic or sad to be remarkable

- heroes deserve to be saved too

- people change, and that's okay

- keep the character arc constant throughout different movies

- give villain's minions some character and thoughts. When High Revolutionary's subordinate went against him? And that Ura girl? Amazing.

- some villains can have no sob backstory and justification of what they done and still be a good villain (story-wise), and audience don't need to empathize. It's ok if they just want to cheer heroes as they kick the villain's ass

- You can make good jokes WITHOUT undermining the emotional aspect. Go ahead, joke, but know where to stop. I feel that's what new MCU movies lacked lately.

[itsjuliak5]

“The sky is beautiful and I’m flying with my friends.”

“I love you guys,” *Dog Days Are Over by Florence and the Machine starts playing*

[laiqualaurelote]

Warlock and Adam (or Warlock/Adam) - Hallmark holiday movie AU

First of all bear in mind that I have never seen a Hallmark holiday movie so my grasp of this concept is at best theoretical. Warlock, grown-up and in some kind of City of London soul-sucking corporate job, hates Christmas. He hates the overwhelming commercialisation of the season, the anxiety-inducing tradition of gift-giving, the fact that everything in London shuts down and you can't get a meal anywhere except in Chinatown for obscene rip-off prices. He's become such a Grinch about it that his girlfriend (let's call her Charlie) breaks up with him right before Christmas, which means he'll have to attend his parents’ terrible Christmas lunch single. Due to coincidence (or angelic intervention) he meets, in a Soho bookstore, Adam, who hates Christmas because he's literally the Antichrist. Adam agrees to pretend to be Charlie at Warlock’s parents' lunch ("did I say Charlie was a woman, dad? or did you just assume") if Warlock will be his fake date at the Young family dinner in Lower Tadfield. ("Okay, but how are we going to get to Lower Tadfield before dinner if none of the trains are running?" Adam just shrugs.) All hell proceeds to break loose. (Maybe even literally). Also the whole time it's snowing perfectly wherever Adam is, while in the rest of the UK it’s just pelting rain, super dreich, the absolute worst. Bonus subplot in which Aziraphale has a starring role in the Christmas panto and Crowley is thus forced to be in attendance (it's abysmal. The stage catches fire. Crowley swears it wasn't him. The Bentley plays 'Thank God It's Christmas' all the way back to theirs and Crowley accuses it of siding with the angel.) I do not think anyone should ever let me write a holiday movie.

Leave an AU and a pairing in my ask and I’ll give you the plot of the fic I won’t write for it.

[headcanonthings]

Pepper: Do me a favor. Be sweet to Adam, he kinda has a crush on you. Warlock: Really? I had no idea. Pepper: Of course you didn't, boys never do. *leaves the room* Warlock: *starts laughing* Adam, crawling out from under the bed: Shut up!

[velvet4510]

I love Adam Warlock’s character arc. He was born prematurely for the sole purpose of killing. He doesn’t know any better. His mother says “kill the Guardians,” so he will kill the Guardians. But then when he hurts people he says “I don’t like how this makes me feel.” He discovers his own nature. He doesn’t LIKE killing. He evolves beyond his creator’s expectations, not unlike Rocket. When he finds out the lives of his mother and people are on the line, THAT spurs him to keep fighting. To save them. Then he fails. Everything he had to live for is gone. Then the people he was targeting save him. They give him a second chance. And he decides to save one of them in return. He finds himself. He’s not a killer. He’s a savior. He’s a Guardian of the Galaxy at heart.

And to think he doesn’t get so much as a thank you for saving Peter. Give this guy some respect. Even a silent head nod exchange of “thanks” and “you’re welcome” between him and any of the Guardians during the group hug scene would’ve sufficed.

He didn’t have to save Peter. But he did.

[melonsharks]

hi please dont take this seriously this is extremely self indulgent. i feel insane right now, but. 1998 parent trap au LMFAOOOOOO.

you watch a movie you haven’t seen in years, realize one character owns a vineyard, the other is a wedding dress designer, that they got divorced but are still deeply in love with each other and u know what? you just go with it. u gotta draw whats in ur heart.

bonus:

[ungoliantschilde]

some more Arthur Adams

[aydracz]

Crowley's mail for The Ineffable Con

Here's a detail of Crowley's mail that Shax was handing out to The Ineffable Con participants as a gift.

Making these brought me immense joy because it felt like giving back to the fandom, which is full of amazing people whose creations I enjoy every day. So these are for all of you, my dears!

And there was a little surprise in each of them

Some of the letters are still up for grabs at the Bandstand in Battersea Park in London together with some amazing art by @drimmsydra and @fuzzywhispersbear! (See details in the previous post.)

Aubrey Thyme's sign was created by @onlylurkingreadingstuff and used with their permission.