#good omens horror

[may--hawk]

ain't no cure for love - chapter 3

Or, the haunted bookshop story:

Everything’s gone to shit. Aziraphale’s fucked off back to Heaven, and Crowley’s stuck down on Earth with a new angel who asks the most annoying questions, like they’re some kind of divine punishment. Then there’s all the weird dream he’s been having, the same one, over and over. Oh, yeah, and the bookshop’s haunted.

Crowley reads Aziraphale and Memory, because he’s a nosy little git, and besides, he’s trying to help Aziraphale, isn’t he? There’s so much in there that Aziraphale’s forgotten; there’s the Garden, sunny and warm up on the wall, and Crowley, who’d spent all his time skulking in the deep shade to avoid getting stepped on by Adam, revels in it, closing his eyes a minute as he holds the book in front of him, feels the sun on his face, smells the Garden, sweet and green and alive. They’re not all like that, though: when he turns to Uz, he is struck suddenly with a hunger so strong he feels faint, a hunger he’s never, ever felt before, something sick and raw in the pit of his stomach, a great, sucking emptiness, and Satan, no wonder Aziraphale eats like he does, if that’s how he feels. If that’s what Crowley’s awakened in him. Crowley swallows. He lingers on Greece again, and Egypt, those long lazy years spent in the Nile, and, oh, bless it, here’s Babylon, and he’s, he’s seeing from Aziraphale’s perspective, sees the courtyard of the palace below him, smells the bathwater, fragrant sandalwood, the water warm, the air almost cool in the moonlight on his wet skin, and something catches his eye, looking down, he sees something slinking, farther into the shadows; he squints. A glint of torchlight on a pair of dark glasses gives it away. Crowley, even as Aziraphale-in-memory, flushes, because bless it, he thought he’d been subtle, slinking, a creature of the night, how many times had Aziraphale seen him there, watching Aziraphale bathe, and oh, Christ, from up here, Aziraphale could clearly see the look on Crowley’s face, as he stood there, looking up, dog-like, sick, devoted. Crowley throws the book down and storms off.

He comes back a few hours later, because he can’t stop, can’t not keep going. 125 There are more. Almost every memory has Crowley in it: there’s one where he’s kneeling in front of some river, somewhere - he can’t tell - the sight of his back, his hair, long, spilling down into the water as he washes something. There’s that castle in Wales and that ball in Moscow and every miserable little watering hole between here and Persia. It’s all there, not their entire history, but a lot of it, and Crowley can’t help but wonder why these memories, why here, why him.

The next time Aziraphale comes down from Heaven, Crowley’s in the shop, listening to Shostakovich’s Rumours. He tosses Aziraphale the book; Aziraphale drops it, then bends over to pick it up, giving Crowley a reproachful look. He startles at the cover, then opens it up. “Crowley, where did you get this?” he says.

“L-space,” Crowley says. “Night that - thing was here.”

“That - Crowley, what thing?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley frowns. “I told you,” he says. “Someone was in L-space.” Aziraphale’s shaking his head. “Why are you shaking your head?”

“Crowley, I haven’t spoken to you in three weeks,” he says, slowly. This is it. Crowley’s going mad. He’s gone mad. They always said demons who played with time went mad, and now here he is. Mad.

“You were here last week. The night someone was in L-space.” Crowley springs up, stalks closer. “They’re taking your memories again. Aziraphale, listen to me, you can’t go back to Heaven.”

“No, they’re not. They’re not taking my memories, Crowley. You’re - imagining things.” They stare at each other. Aziraphale’s chest is heaving. He’s clutching the book.

“Muriel!” Crowley yells, without turning around. There’s a pause, then the clatter of Muriel’s footsteps. “Yes - oh! Archangel - I mean, Aziraphale!”

“Muriel,” says Aziraphale, stiffly.

“Tell him,” Crowley says, pointing wildly. “Tell him he was here that night there was something in L-space!”

“Well,” says Muriel, slowly, and Crowley’s heart sinks in his chest. “I heard you talking to someone, Mr. Crowley, and it sounded like Aziraphale? But I didn’t see him.”

Read the final chapter on AO3.

@goodomensafterdark

[dorywhynot]

"No Angel of Temperance" watercolor, 2024.

Private commission for @lickthecowhappy inspired by their poem of the same name

Prints!

[parlapina]

I love middle age gays

[celine-song]

The First Omen (2024) dir. Arkasha Stevenson

[emotinalsupportturtle]

neil gaiman and RTD are absolute legends for being the showrunners of 2 mainstream shows funded by large production companies in the year 2023, and proceeding to make the most queer positive episodes ever seen by man

meanwhile david tennant is just vibrating with joy because he gets more opportunities to wear his one-thousand-and-twenty-four pride pins

[gleafer]

UHOH! It’s spooky season and who doesn’t love a nice ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW crossover??

Because I have Good Omens brain rot, I present you with this lovely abomination.

Enjoy!

(I really like how Hastur turned out!)

[loud-trash-arcade]

I’m stuck in a loop of David tennant, horror movies, and metal bands

[dragonmouth]

I watched Little Shop of Horrors yesterday and instantly thought of Crowley finding Audrey II.

Azi tried to feed it homemade cake but it refused and Crowley got mad

[catwouthats]

I can’t wait to meet other queer Neil Gaiman fans so we can make a group chat called “Gaimen”

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was chasing Crowley through the TARDIS and we kept running into human Daleks that said “just deduce it” whenever I asked why they were human.

Eventually, Aziraphale rescued Crowley and the human Daleks ate me.

[may--hawk]

ain't no cure for love - chapter 1

It's spooky season, y'all!

Or, the haunted bookshop story:

Everything’s gone to shit. Aziraphale’s fucked off back to Heaven, and Crowley’s stuck down on Earth with a new angel who asks the most annoying questions, like they’re some kind of divine punishment. Then there’s all the weird dream he’s been having, the same one, over and over. Oh, yeah, and the bookshop’s haunted. Or, The shop’s always been able to do what it wants, within reason. There’d been that time in 1973 when it had manifested an extra room to hold Aziraphale’s unexpected stock of National Geographic magazines. Or the time Aziraphale brought in a new copy of Alice in Wonderland and they’d each had to answer a riddle to go down into the wine cellar. But Crowley’s never come across a single locked door in this bookshop in two hundred twenty-four years. It’s just - it’s not done. Something’s up with the shop. There’d been the thing with the jazz music from Crowley’s dream. Crowley’d figured it was just another one of the bookshop’s quirks, although the bookshop’s musical taste tends largely towards classical, naturally enough, with, of course, the exception that any Shostakovich left in the shop too long turns into a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours.

Crowley goes back to the bookshop. There’s nowhere else to go. Not really. The bookshop is it for them, it’s everything and everywhere, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. It’s the one place they’ve ever really felt free, the one place they’d been able to be - them. It was what he meant when he’d told Aziraphale he couldn’t leave the bookshop. He’d known it ever since the first day, opening day, when he’d come in with his flowers and his chocolates and Aziraphale had made an elaborate show of inviting him in. Crowley’d only realized what the whole pantomime was for when he’d stepped across the threshold and felt the wards shiver across his skin and through it, sinking through his scales to the bone, all the way down to the other plane, where he felt it sinking into his very atoms, and disseminating, becoming a part of him, forever, or, at least, until Aziraphale took it back.

Crowley imagines that’s what humans mean when they call something home.

He expects to be turned away at the door when he goes back three weeks after Aziraphale’s gone back to Heaven. New management, and all. And, sure, he can probably trick the Inspector Constable into letting him in, but - why bother. It doesn’t seem sporting. Maybe, if he’s honest, he half-hopes the bookshop won’t let him in. Then he can say that’s that and fuck off to, say, the Marquesas Islands or something. Nice. California. Siberia. It would be a clean break. But. No such luck.

He steps up on the stoop and puts his hand out, about to touch the door in the same spot he’s touched it for centuries, where his hand would have worn the paint, if Aziraphale had let it, and the door swings open before he’s even touched it. He swears the lamps brighten, just a little, as if inviting him in. He turns around to look back at the Bentley, but it’s already sidling around the corner to its usual spot.

Well. Nothing for it, then. He goes in. There’s a nice bottle of Talisker waiting on the coffee table for him, right in his usual spot. His favorite. A welcome home of sorts, he guesses, from the bookshop itself. It was - it was nice, okay, if demons did nice. It was like an old friend, one that had been around for a long time.1 The bookshop was like the Bentley; after spending enough time around ethereal - er - occult beings, it had developed a personality, of sorts. Like the way it’d trip you up at the step out the door if you’d upset Aziraphale.2 Or the time he’d rearranged the books to spell something crude, and then he and Aziraphale had gone out for dinner, and when they’d come back, the books had spelled up yours, Crowley instead. Crowley had accused Aziraphale of doing it. Aziraphale had denied it, of course, the little bastard, all disapproving eyebrows and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Must be the shop,” he’d said, and patted the wainscoting when he thought Crowley wasn’t looking.

Or the way the shop always seemed to make sure it was the right temperature for Crowley. Or the way the blinds always seemed to be perfectly adjusted so they covered the sun - which, during the hours of three and four in the summer, and one and two in the winter, was always right in his eyes, if he napped in his preferred position on the sofa.3 Or the way the latest Fleming novel would always be in whatever bookshelf he was facing, even if the section was something completely unsuitable, like, say, French Cookery, or Experimental Oceanography.

So. Crowley stays. It makes him feel a little less lonely. The bookshop doesn’t seem to mind. Neither does Muriel. Besides, he wants to see the look on Aziraphale’s face when he comes crawling back - and he will, nothing lasts forever Crowley’s snakey arse - and sees that Crowley took such good care of the bookshop. That Crowley could take care of something, given the chance. Just look at his plants. They’re great, thriving specimens. The most beautiful, lushest plants in all of London.4

There’s room for the two of them, him and Muriel, because the bookshop always has been big enough for two, and they stay out of each other’s way, mostly. Muriel’s taken over Jim’s old room, got it piled up with rocks, and books pilfered from downstairs, and an incredible assortment of stationery and office supplies. Also, embroidered vests. They’ve discovered thrift shops.5 It’s like him and Aziraphale, discovering Earth all over again, except with a great deal less guilt and hand-wringing and a great deal less consumption, too.

Crowley tells himself it’s fine.

Crowley haunts the downstairs like a ghost....

Continue reading on AO3.

@goodomensafterdark

[nar0art]

I put them in the Rocky Horror Picture Show fits 👀

[wr0wn]

I can't stop drawing them hugging. Even if it's sad art, it heals my heart.

[nipuni]

HEHHEHE!! caught it

[crowleysgirl56]

Ok, hear me out. Rocky Horror Picture Show stage revival. David Tennant as Frankenfurter.

David! *grab David by lapels and forces him to stare into my eyes* David look at me, LOOK AT ME! You have one chance, ONE CHANCE, to literally kill every single person in this fandom. Don’t waste it!

*hears Michael Sheen slipping in Rocky costume*

ALSO! Where is the Good Omens Rocky Horror crossover fanart?! If it exists, point me in that direction. Please and thank you! (God damn I wish I could draw!)

[blairamok]

he’s smitten, i believe…

commission for @sightkeeper of the lads from their comic Chosen Faces which you can read here 👀