#gahellhimself-blog

[kai-ni]

THEY'RE HEREEE thank you so much @gahellhimself-blog ! Beautiful work, I'm so honored to have these unique pieces ❤️ and the sketch of Crowley is so beautiful as well 😭

[ihasafandom]

;-;

I finally finised!!!!

I let u enjoy it and hope u like it.

Not a ring..

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Okay so

we're having an angst war over on @goodomensafterdark and @gleafer, @gahellhimself-blog and I are having a competition who can spread the most pain and suffering. Here's my contribution. Enjoy

don't worry, this isn't the end yet: here's part two. | Part 3

[on1occasionfork]

To Have and To Hold

A poetry-art collab with amazing artist @gahellhimself-blog for the GOetry Pillow Fight with the prompt "Cuddles" in which Aziraphale muses about his love while wrapped up at the bookshop.

Wrapped up and bound, I have found that The sound you make When you’re waking Will break my plans to do anything. 

Instead I sit,  Read a bit with Lamp lit and hand Stroking, spanned ‘cross The band of you, all sleek shine and gloss

My scaly dear Coiling here, with No fear of hurt. You are worth care, Deserve to be guarded, gift most rare. 

So take your rest.  Dream your best, love. This breast won’t yield; My flesh shields thine— I’d wield my sword to protect what’s mine.

Bound up and trapped, Fully wrapped up, Held captive by you— But we two are A group, and I’m happy here, my heart.

Thanks to @the-ineffable-dance for the poetry beta! And huge kudos to @isiaiowin for organizing the GOetry portion of the Pillow Fight over at @goodomensafterdark.

This is a riff on ya-du — a Burmese poetic form with a climbing rhyme scheme — chosen specifically because it made me think of Burmese pythons. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[emihotaru]

A little tribute of @gahellhimself-blog GO punkCrowley/professorFell AU! I love his comic, and I wanted to draw a tender moment between the two of them^^ I tried to stay a little rought with this one, since I can't do to watery watercolor on this paper, and I think this sketchbook will be quite entirely in this style^^

[angie-words]

Like many of you, I'm still processing the news about Season 3, but focusing on the positives:

- Gaiman is gone

- you can tell a lot of story in 90 minutes

- we're going to see Michael "acting choices" Sheen and David "delighted golden retriever energy" Tennant being Aziraphale & Crowley one more time

- we're getting an ending (and hopefully the cottage)

Yesterday's news was tempered slightly for me as I was able to take part in @gahellhimself-blog's art treasure hunt again and found the most stunning necklace and a Crowley sketch by him in St James's Park. I was also lucky enough to have a quick chat with Gahell by The Bench - he's delightful and very kind. It certainly helped me feel a lot better after the GO news that day 💜

Wishing you all out there in the fandom lots of virtual hugs. And remember: even if it's not the ending we wanted, we can create it ourselves in the beautiful fic and art and other fanworks this community is capable of 💜

last meme dump next meme dump

[daneecastle]

Angst War Page 8 and 9

@goodomensafterdark @vavoom-sorted-art @gahellhimself-blog @gleafer @kotias @lauramoon1987

A little fluff with the angst I did and plan on doing. I’m not done yet! There is more to come. Next week will be three pages. Good luuuuuck!

[llflorence]

Can I convince you to fall for me?

Sequel to Did you just -- kiss me? (Human AU, RatedE)

Inspired by this art by @gahellhimself-blog

“Oh, pshh!” Maggie says as she begins her second mimosa. The fine lines around her mouth have cracked as the face mask dries. “He’s not going to judge your sexual prowess on a little chipped tooth.”

Aziraphale glances around at the stylists. They’re all watching where he and Maggie sit, side by side in the massage chairs with their feet in roiling tubs of hot, soapy water. He just knows he’s being judged.

“It’s not so little anymore,” he complains, quiet enough so only they two can hear. “If you hadn’t talked me into eating that toffee —“

Maggie’s natural falsetto voice gets even higher as she lifts the bottom of Aziraphale’s flute toward his face. “Puh-lease. It’s hardly noticeable. It’s like the dimples on your ass, or the ski-jump nose.”

Aziraphale pushes her hand away and immediately takes offense. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

She laughs. The ladies in the chairs to their right look disapprovingly down long noses. “I only meant that it’s cute!”

Before Aziraphale can protest, Maggie downs the rest of her drink. She leans over, conspiratorially like. “It’s not like he’s going to know you can’t afford the dentist because you have no insurance and can barely make rent without help from your mother. Unless, of course, you tell him.”

Maggie is the nicest, kindest, most generous person Aziraphale knows, which is why she’s his best friend. Still, alcohol does tend to make her brutally honest.

She pats his hand and lifts the glass back to his mouth. If this wasn’t their annual pampering girls' day, he’d have refused. As it is, it’s New Year's Eve morning, and he’s way out of sorts. Maybe she has the right idea.

He finishes the mimosa in two gulps and forces himself to withstand the bittersweet fizzing in his nose and on his tongue. If he’d listened to Muriel and postponed this date until after the holidays, he wouldn’t be so miserable.

Well. He’d be less miserable.

Aziraphale lets Maggie pour him another glass from the chilled carafe in the cooler by her side. By the way things are going, he’s going to need it to make it through her advice for this evening.

“Now. You’ve already hired the Uber, right?” Her pretty, plump cheeks are quite pink.

“Yes,” he sighs. “But I can’t even pay for this spa treatment. I don’t know how I’m going to pay down the credit cards —“

“Think of it this way,” she interrupts, swirling her glass and staring off into the distance. The windows are dripping with condensation, obscuring the view of the street. “If you drive Ruby, you’ll be obligated to go take her home, won’t you? This way your handsome devil will have to drive you to his place.”

Aziraphale hasn’t told her about the text messages. He’s certain that Anthony has it in the stars to bring Aziraphale home. The man just doesn’t know what to expect.

(He thinks of Ruby where she’s parked on the street outside his apartment. Two-hundred-and-forty-thousand miles and the Subaru hasn’t failed him yet.)

“Yeah,” he grumps. “And when we get there and I drop my trousers, and all I have to offer is soft-serve ice cream —“

Maggie laughs again. A good-sized splash of orange juice and champagne spills on her sweater. “At our age, that’s the least of our worries!”

Aziraphale is pretty sure she’s never had to deal with a limp dick her entire life.

“This coming from a fifty-one-year-old lesbian whose pleasure button is on the outside .”

This time, the whole row of massage chair inhabitants turns to look at them, from both sides. Aziraphale quickly hides his face in his drink.

Maggie, however, doesn’t get the hint. Her volume is way past annoying, heading for indecent. “Maybe you fifty-one-and-a-half-year-old gays should try using your fingers. Or, better yet, your mouth .”

Mimosa sprays all over Aziraphale’s lap, soiling his clean pants and dribbling down his chin. At least he hasn’t choked this time.

Felicia, his stylist, brings him a towel. There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. “About ten minutes left on the timer. You two need anything?”

Maggie needs nothing, of course. “But Aziraphale is going to need his chest waxed. I’m paying.”

“Aziraphale most certainly does not need his chest waxed!” he says, horrified. Felicia shares a wink with Maggie, and he groans at their sudden partnership.

“Come on!” Maggie pleads. She swishes her feet in the bath and bats her long eyelashes. “Don’t you think you shouldn’t leave anything to chance? Second time around and all?”

His stylist’s eyebrows rise as she lifts and checks under his mud mask. “Got a date, have we?”

Aziraphale closes his eyes and wishes he were anywhere else.

“It’s so romantic,” Maggie coos, and he knows she’s about to tell the whole tale. He inhales deeply and beats her to it.

“A friend of mine and I reconnected after fifteen years. I’m attending as his guest at a New Year’s Eve party tonight.”

Felicia knows Aziraphale almost as well as Maggie, seeing as he subscribes to therapy via hair and skin care. She eyes him head to foot and runs her tongue along the inside of her mouth. “Keep the hairy chest,” she nods. “Run some of that conditioner I gave you last time through it. You’ll thank me. So will he.”

Aziraphale takes her advice as he stands in the shower under what can only be called a ‘stream.’ It’s more like a slow drizzle; he’s called the landlord three times about the clogged shower head. And the busted lightbulb inside the fridge. And the window that’s stuck open in the kitchen. It’s getting to the point where he’s just going to fix things himself. That is, if he knew how.

He waits as long as he can, until goosebumps form on his arms and he’s procrastinated enough. He’s about as clean as he can be, and he’s done everything possible to make himself presentable. Nothing he can do about the tooth, of course.

Aziraphale shaves and dresses and paces in the kitchen as he waits for his ride. The new cufflinks from Muriel look out of place with his not-so-new shirt and suit coat. But at least he’s not wearing something rented; he could never live with himself if he did that.

He smooths out his tie and glances at the phone lying on the kitchen counter. There have been no text messages all day from him. Aziraphale knows it’s because he’s busy. Today was the day Anthony was scheduled to finish up on that very personal business he mentioned last week. And that was none of Aziraphale’s business.

The phone lights up, vibrating as a call comes through. It’s Muriel, and he considers not answering it. They’re probably ringing with more advice. As if he’s not already horribly embarrassed about the whole thing.

“Hey, Dad,” they say, bright and cheery as usual. “Just calling to wish you good luck.”

Aziraphale tries to smile so that it will show up in his voice. “Thanks, Dear. It’s really going to be f –”

“If it’s like, really bad, remember you can call me and I’ll pick you up. Just like you always offered for me.”

It’s going to be a long, long night, he thinks.

The Uber driver sends him a text from the street, and Aziraphale says goodbye to his offspring. He collects his long wool coat, hat, and mittens, and almost forgets the scarf as he pulls the door shut. It gets stuck in the door as he climbs inside, but Aziraphale doesn’t realize it. He’s too busy trying to make his hands stop shaking long enough to send a text.

To Anthony J. Crowley.

On my way! 

It’s a short drive through the busy part of downtown. Traffic is horrendous, and Aziraphale watches the time as his ride is forced to slow down to allow revelers to cross the streets. At this rate, he’ll be fifteen to twenty minutes late. Not the first impression he wishes to make, especially if Anthony relates punctuality to sex.

Sex is all Aziraphale can think about. In a matter of days, he’s become obsessed. He worries about how he smells, how he’ll taste, whether he should eat or be eaten. It ramps him up so high that he can’t focus on everyday things, like remembering to turn the dryer on after throwing wet clothes in. Or bringing the garbage and the recycling out to the cans.

So when the car pulls up to a swanky hotel, all lit up like a Christmas tree, he’s adjusting his dick inside the new underwear he bought himself as a gift. He makes the mistake of feeling the tip for wetness, which, of course, is right there. And, god, he hopes it isn’t leaking through to make a dark spot on the front of his trousers.

He pays and thanks the driver, opening the door to find the end of his scarf coated with brown, sandy slush. It’s dripping like mad as he lifts it off the ground, as he tries to close the car door and not step in the salty, puddled mess next to the curb.

The night has already begun with a failure, as he slips on the sidewalk and loses his balance. He closes his eyes as he sees very clearly what is about to happen. He’s going to land on his ass and ruin his night.

But the fall doesn’t happen. Instead, he is rescued. He is rescued by a tall, dark, devastatingly handsome man dressed in a familiar Santa cap. Gold-brown eyes twinkle down at him, and Aziraphale feels his breath catch in his throat. 

“Oh!” he manages, shocked and thrilled and a hundred other emotions all at once. Anthony has both hands firmly under Aziraphale’s elbows. And he’s smiling.

He’s smiling.

“See,” he begins, voice six shades of seductive as he steadies Aziraphale on his feet. “I thought maybe I could eventually convince you to fall for me, but this is ridiculous.”

Read on AO3

[bea-n-art]

Prof Fell in the morning!

What a wonderful colab with my dear friend @gahellhimself-blog who asked me if I wanted to colour his AU Prof Fell from the comic "Teach me" a story that I absolutely love.

Gael is one of my favourite artists and being asked to work with him was such a priveledge and pleasure!

❤️ 💙 💜 💖 💗 💘

Gael instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gaelhimself

My coffee tip jar: https://ko-fi.com/beanart

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/beatenossart/

Print shop: https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/beanart/

[kaeraesketches]

✨ Proof that these dingalings will do/say pretty much anything for each other 😆.

.

✨ Welp…here’s my first-ever attempt at an *actual* comic page! IG crops the sh*t out of it, but thankfully it seems to do okay over here 😆. Inspired heavily by the GO shenanigans of @gleafer @gahellhimself-blog and @daneecastle . Figured I’d try my hand at it, hope y’all don’t mind! 😅

[lauramoon1987]

ANGST WAR PG 2 /PG3

Aziraphale in Da House

And eyes...a few eyes...😬

@vavoom-sorted-art @gleafer @gahellhimself-blog @goodomensafterdark @daneecastle

[goodomensafterdark]

so to recap on the r/GoodOmensAfterDark Angst War, we have

Crowley following Azi into hell and using occult holograms of his ass to lure away a hellhound

Crowley straight up getting stabbed

Crowley pulling out his feathers and preparing to save Azi

Inappropriately hot, chained-up Crowley who may or may not be hallucinating the cruelest Azi ever

You’re killing us, @gleafer, @gahellhimself-blog, @daneecastle, @vavoom-sorted-art

[nosferatini]

[🎙️Podfic] Geminids - A “Teach Me” Side Story

By @nosferatini

The lovely NooRose93 and incredibly talented @gahellhimself-blog allowed me to make a podfic of this beautiful story of brotherly love!

Listen to the Geminids Podfic! 🎧

Featuring little Nosling as the voice of baby Crowley 👶🏻

(Note: No babies went underfed or uncuddleld in the making of this podfic!)

Geminids is a side story for GaHell's wonderful "Teach Me" comic, written by NooRose93. Read Geminids - A Teach Me side story on AO3!

Please support GaHell on his Patreon and Instagram!

**Summary:**

Loki and Crowley are there for each other through thick and thin. This is a story of how they met and became brothers.

Special thanks to my beta listeners @kunigun and @outrageousring5655 ♥️ as well as the @goodomensafterdark and @whickberstreetwriters communities for all the love and support in making this podfic.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

The third installment of the angst war I‘m fighting over on @goodomensafterdark against @gleafer, @daneecastle and @gahellhimself-blog! I‘m running of ammo…

Part 1 | Part 2 | Next

[gleafer]

Helu!

Can I ask your Crowley from the Teach Me AU how he keeps his mohawk stiff and buoyant while using a helmet??

- A punk who bikes everyday and miss his mohawk 😔

Hello! That’s not mine, that’s @gahellhimself-blog Mohawk Crowley! Mine doesn’t know how to ride a motorcycle and would probably not wear a helmet if he did, much to Aziraphale’s chagrin.

Aziraphale hands Crowley a yellow helmet with daisies painted on it: “I simply must insist!…or no nookie.”

Crowley IMMEDIATELY puts helmet on.

[actual-changeling]

Uh. Hi! I'm Alex and I love writing pain.

I've seen the angst war going on and I am incredibly tempted to contribute; I'm not quite sure of the rules (if there are any) so feel free to bring me up to speed. Updates will be at whatever pace is fun/doable for me, interactions, asks etc. always very much appreciated 💚

@goodomensafterdark @daneecastle @gleafer @gahellhimself-blog @vavoom-sorted-art @kotias

I will put appropriate content tags on every chapter and make a masterpost once I have a handful of posts. Please keep in mind that this series is going to deal with a heavy dose of unreality, self-injurious behaviour, substance abuse, erratic behaviour/mood swings, and more. There will be a happy ending.

Now, without further ado, the first instalment of what is going to be us following Crowley down the path of (hopefully temporary) insanity.

rest your head \\ chapter 1

(~800 w, no additional warnings)

Sleep deprivation, while usually not fatal, is not the least bit pleasant. Human brains require sleep to function—and not just their minds, either. The entire body breaks down oh so slowly as every system designed to keep it alive deteriorates without the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

However, the actual cause of death is yet to be identified, and luckily Crowley's corporation functions on the principle of 'what it doesn't know won't kill it'.

Over the centuries, earthly indulgences have become more and more common, pleasures easily sought and found no matter where he went, although nothing ever beat a good night's (or decade's) rest. Sleep calms his mind and allows him to drift through time without a care, surrounded by ever-shifting dream clouds and the occasional vivid interference. In short, it takes away the pain, and Someone knows there is a lot to carry when he returns home for the first time in four years.

No dust had dared to settle on the furniture, and the familiar smell of damp earth welcomes him. Locking the door behind him, Crowley blindly finds his way through the corridors, kicking off his shoes as he goes and throwing his glasses onto the nearest surface. When he pushes into his bedroom, which is just as pristine as he had left it, the anger churning in his gut cools.

Home. Has he ever had a home? Once upon a time, maybe, before time had been born, surrounded by breathing nebulae and void, and then—

Eden. Him. Right, that's done.

A snap of his fingers and his clothes change into a set of silk pyjamas, the fabric brushing over his skin like liquid silver, and the black-out curtains snap shut. Darkvision is one of the advantages of being a demon, but he finds the dark has nothing to offer him today, so he closes his eyes and pulls back the sheets to curl around a pillow.

Images flicker in the pulsating emptiness left behind, piercing blue eyes and fluttering hands, a press of lips against his, words digging into his skull like tadpoles making a home within his brain matter. Electricity crawls over his slowly numbing body, urging him to disappear, to sink into nothingness and waste away until he is a dried stain on the mattress. 

No one will come looking for him, after all.

Maybe the world will be brighter once he wakes, the pain duller, the loneliness less aching and all-consuming. Within his chest bleeds a hollow, jagged wound, dripping black blood and drowning the radiant remnants of Aziraphale's presence; his essence is familiar, it's- home. 

Crowley does not need to sleep, yet somewhere between Rome and the present, he had forgotten about it, his corporation shifting and changing, craving rest and punishing him for its absence. It will not kill him, it does not even occur to him that it might, but there are countless fates worth than death and he is already living one of them. What's another added to the mess his life has become?

His nails dig into the pillow case, his consciousness choking on the scorched battlefield of the day, but no matter how hard he tries, how desperately he commands his body to bend to his wills, sleep refuses to come. A new, different kind of pain rises, worse than fatigue and infinitely more addictive. Its sting is battery acid on his tongue, infusing him with a restlessness that is scratching on his bones, and when blue irises keep mocking him behind closed lids, he forces his eyes open, turns onto his back, and stares at the ceiling, waiting.

Light wanders and shifts, barely visible through the heavy fabric adorning his windows, and it dips behind the horizon before reappearing on the other side. Crowley stares at white paint and counts the moving dots gradually clouding his vision, absently pressing his knuckles against his sternum over and over—whether to calm himself or to chase away mental pain with physical is beyond his awareness. 

Both, neither, maybe. 

His too-human body protests and whines, and once he begins to see blue shadows in his periphery, Crowley bites his tongue and gets up. Coffee will help, then a hot shower, and yelling his plants back into order is going to occupy most of his afternoon anyway, so what's a night without sleep?

The next one will bring him the rest he needs, and Aziraphale's eyes will stop striking him down whenever he blinks. He is alone now (alone in London, alone on earth, his chest constricts and twists at the thought, stealing his breath) and he will have to get used to it; it'll be fine eventually, right?

—

Three days later Crowley is staring at his bedroom ceiling, impatient, restless, exhausted, and attempting to chase away the bone-white teeth hovering underneath lightning-blue eyes.

"Fine, have it your way," he snaps eventually, his voice too loud in an empty room, and feels the smile breathing down his neck all the way to the kitchen.