#666 omen

[uncivildiscourse]

Backissues of Oligarch Monthly

[indigovigilance]

How Aziraphale Responds to being Pinned to a Wall

Aziraphale trusts Crowley more than God, part 1/?

bonus:

[ineffableducks]

most humans can't get over religious trauma in a lifetime. now imagine trying to undo 6000 years of damage. aziraphale wasn't out of character he's very much in character.

[mirobraz]

The Omen (1976) dir. Richard Donner

[reallivegeekgirl]

If I had a nickel for every time I got my heart broken by a show made with a couple of really good friends who are middle-aged men playing professional acquaintances who fall in love with each other in bizarre and death-defying circumstances, each pretend to be the other at one point, and declare their love for each other with the chance to run away from it all and start a new life together after an admittedly awkward but still beautiful kiss, only for one of them to reject the other at the last minute, leaving both of them heartbroken and me a crying mess, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.

[devilsorceress]

Love 🖤

[horygory]

The First Omen (2024)

[luckkythirt33n]

(bumpin' that)

brat summer was made for Crowley.

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

😈😈😈. WAHOO!

(I recorded the page just for making the screenshot :D❤)

  @goodomenshq, @neil-gaiman, @colleendoran

[isiaiowin]

Good Omens Fanfic

For Gleafer: Claiming Crowley's Bed

Happy birthday u/Gleafer ♥️

Based on one of the EXTRA Saucy Pidgeon art pieces from Gleafer's Patreon, if you want to see which one go support her there! Please give her a follow on Tumblr and Instagram.

666 words of pure Shax/Furfur smut!

Summary:

Furfur does his best to please Shax, not only out of love for her but also to steer clear of the 'Shax special'.

Excerpt:

Shax opened the door of Crowley’s flat, wearing her favourite red bustier and matching thigh high heels. Furfur stood before her, a big smile on his face, in his usual black and green attire.

“Just in time,” she said with a hungry grin and dragged him inside. She closed the door behind them with a small miracle as she led him into the bedroom, wanting to lay claim to the space Crowley had inhabited for so long.

Thank you for being my lovely beta for this @theonewiththeshippinggoogles

@goodomensafterdark

[uncivildiscourse]

Jared Kushner as Damien Thorn.

[erinrichtofen]

"Here is wisdom.

Let him that hath understanding

count the number of the beast:

for it is the number of a man;

and his number is 666."

Book of Revelation Chapter 13 Verse 18

[captainfantasticalright]

One of my favorite bits of having this Ineffable edition, is that I feel like a book smuggler, master spy whenever I open up the secret compartment.

[0possil]

finished episode five, season one of good omens after avoiding it for an hour, am traumatized. here are my thoughts

(pt 1, pt 2, pt 3, pt 4)

[splatteronmywalls]

[minervas-hand]

Tether

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt: "Muted Colours"

Fandom: Good Omens

AO3 link

[Set after the end of Good Omens S2. Companion piece to In The Heart.]

Aziraphale stared into the nothingness of Heaven, trying to discern some faint difference in the unending layers of white. Stare long enough, and phantoms swam into view. Movement that wasn't, colours that weren't there. Anything, to fill the gaps. 

To be sure, the place wasn't actually empty. There were angels tucked into offices all the way down the endless corridor, folded just around a corner of perception. But it was unnerving all the same.

He'd popped up to Heaven plenty of times over the millennia, to give his reports. And there was the unfortunate discorporation incident. But he'd usually been too wound up with anxiety over putting a foot wrong (or worse - being asked direct questions he did not want to give answers to) to notice the scenery.

He hadn't really thought until now about why, where once had been light and colour and a panoply of images and sensations - Heaven was now so faded, at most the barest hints of pale gold, or steely silvers. Muted colours, all. Nothing allowed to shine its fullest. Or reach its fulfillment.

Now, looking down through the Earth oculus was like sticking his finger in a socket. The dizzying riot of colour, noise, of materiality.  After long enough in Heaven, he could start to understand why many angels saw the Earthly plane as tantamount to Hell, and valued it no differently.

He'd almost welcomed the agony of staff meetings. When at least there was the drone of other voices to colour the air, the palest shades on other angels to ease his eyes. However irritating or acidic their jockeying for precedence became. 

But it had been a while since he'd been called to any meetings, and the unrelieved blankness was pressing in on his corporation. He'd almost never slept, in his time on Earth - yet of course the diurnal cycle affected his tasks and pastimes. A ceaseless rhythm of light and dark, completely vanished here in his office of merciless uniformity where the light never changed. 

And the silence. Oh, the punishing silence. Where nothing but the sounds of his own corporation could be heard. Along with - and far worse - the self-recriminations in his head. 

He would stand all of it gladly, though, but for the one intolerable absence.  A demonic aura, always slightly stinging like a good spice,  bringing colour and heat. And in the thread of its sharp wash on the tongue, a welcome craving.

Even when they'd gone decades, centuries without meeting, it had been there - like the faintest scent, the lowest register of a vibration. The one constant note in the music of the spheres. It was as much the feeling of Earth as anything Earthly to him. 

Now he was cut off, by his own hand. Regardless of the soundness of the reasons (regardless of whether those reasons disintegrated, day by day). It remained: he had done it. And that remorseless truth churned clearly in the cold light of Heaven, wrapped round his devastation. 

He was nearly vibrating out of his skin in the yearning to escape that aching emptiness inside, as much as he was the cold stasis outside.

Well, that was an idea, wasn't it. He gently unfolded himself out of his corporation. It was wound less tightly, here, to be sure, but it still felt good to spread his wings and unfold his iterations of his Self on the ethereal plane. Let his golden rings uncoil and spin, impossibly interlacing. His Eyes open. 

And then he saw it. In his core, a shining thread that spun out from the very centre of his Being. That dropped away, out of this plane. He plucked it gently, and it reverberated with a very familiar heat, wound in golden grace. 

Disturbing it was unpleasant. Removing it, impossible. 

A tether, then, binding him. One that surely ended in a serpentine coil. 

He didn't know his ethereal Eyes could weep - but tiny stars fell as he cradled the only link of everything he had left behind.