#good omens fluff

[katcsy]

the nightingale is too goddamn loud actually

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Gotta share this sketch request straight away because it turned out so cute

[bea-n-art]

90 miles an hour kiss. Crowley has never been happier.

Available as a print: https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/beanart Join my Coffee community: https://ko-fi.com/beanart

[the-fucking-cannibal]

Love me tender 🩷

[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!

[thethingswedotomorrow]

I love the Good Omens 'Night at Crowley's Flat' trope where after stopping the apocalypse in season 1, they go to Crowley's Flat and talk and kiss and fall in love and have a peaceful night, I do.

BUT

What if the night became 'The Night an Angel and a Demon Get Insanely Drunk and Teach Each Other How to Act'

Because honestly

They go to the flat, and ALL they know is they are going to have to swap themselves if they want to survive and finally be free from Heaven and Hell

But they have absolutely NO clue how to pull it off successfully

Sure, they know each other in and out.

Aziraphale has Crowley's eye color committed to memory (and also to paper, since Aziraphale spent 4-5 years in the late 80s trying to find a craft store in London that could help him do the color justice)

Crowley could find his angel in a crowd of millions (and not even just because only one single person in that crowd would be dressed in that ridiculous shade of tartan)

BUT they know they have to truly get this right, down to the exact detail.

So, naturally, they start by promptly opening the closest bottle of scotch that Crowley had available

Crowley was convinced this would be the easiest thing they've ever done

"Only you, Angel, would find a way to worry yourself to death AFTER stopping an apocalypse"

They begin with the easy part, switching corporations and clothing.

It was easy. Until Aziraphale realized he had to actually physically move in the very, very tight pants Crowley prefers.

The first three times he tries walking, he falls face down. And each time, realizes how it's equally hard to get back up again.

Not to mention that Crowley's corporation had learned that after 6000 years, it didn't really need all those vertebrae and bones since he never used them anyways

So now Aziraphale is just laying on the floor in terribly tight pants, very confused on how Crowley has managed all this time

(Crowley is also on the floor, having dropped there laughing after the 2nd attempt)

After they both get up (one much faster than the other) Crowley tries coaching the angel on how to walk like him

Until Crowley realizes he doesn't actually know how he walks, he just sort of wills himself forward and hopes his limbs keep up with him along the way

Eventually, after enough drinks, they settle on a technique called "Just pretend all your limbs are snakes. And you're a snake. Honestly, just as snake-y as you can manage, Angel."

Aziraphale, as difficult as this was for him, figures out that he may have gotten the easy side of this situation here. Crowley very much disagrees.

"Once an Angel, well, definitely not always an Angel, but close enough right?"

He very quickly realizes he may be wrong when Aziraphale asks Crowley to copy his walk

"Dear Lord Crowley, it cannot be that hard. You simply have to walk in a straight line"

It was indeed that hard.

Crowley has all his vertebrae now, but no knowledge of how they should be used

He tries to hold his hands behind his back and march forward, walking in what he thinks is probably, on some plane of reality, maybe a straight line

He's convinced that he's the perfect image of a stereotypical angel, head held high, an air of 'holier than thou' surrounding him

When Crowley asks Aziraphale, he only says, "Well, I suppose it will have to do for now."

Internally, Aziraphale thinks of the fact that Crowley looked identical to a bumbling penguin walking on ice.

When Crowly sits down, very pleased with himself for an impeccable performance ("As always, Angel. I've still got it." Aziraphale uncaps the vodka and drinks straight from the bottle, just staring into the distance.

He has just realized that their existence hinges on whether Crowley can figure out how to sit on a chair like a proper being with appendages and a spine.

And the odds are not in their favor, if they way the demon is sprawled out on the couch (reminding Aziraphale suddenly of a very well-done noodle, and suddenly he's starting to wonder if humans had the right idea with stress eating) is any indication

Crowley announces that he refuses to utter the words tickety boo, even if faced with destruction

"Honestly I think I'd rather have the holy water at that point" "Crowley." "I swear you just make sounds up sometimes, those aren't even real words"

4 bottles (and a very large order of takeout) later, they've got the act down well enough that it's starting to weird Crowley out

"Angel, seriously, enough with the nose. When have I ever done that with my nose? Exactly zero amount of times. I'm not a rabbit"

2 bottles later and Aziraphale has miracled Harry the Rabbit into the flat for a reason they can't quite remember

But they've got music playing from somewhere in the corner, and plenty of drinks, and the night goes on into the morning, and then they're sobering up and marching out for the most dramatic acting of their lives

And the world hasn't ended yet, so they'll probably be fine. Probably.

[heohl-art]

I literally drew this fanart in three hours listening to one of my fav songs ever: Waiting for a star to fall by Boy Meets Girl ✨😭❤️

• My dear, it's cold outside💕 •

Someone please save me I just can't stop drawing them, and shipping them, and loving them and and-- 😭✨💖

[karyton]

˚♡˚ The colour of love

[bleucalire]

・😚

[uccmd]

THE LIST of domestic things about Crowley and Aziraphale during S2 as my free therapy session:

The apology dance

Crowley knows why exactly Aziraphale might call him (the list consists of only three reasons) and can understand which is relevant at the moment by Azi's voice

Crowley doesn't wear his glasses in the bookshop

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

"Ourselves"

"Do you need a lift somewhere?"

Them discussing their favorite romantic tropes like it've never happened to them

Crowley casually ordering the drink Aziraphale asked for

Crowley being absolutely done with everything but still managing to help Aziraphale every way possible participating in his investigation and making sure they're not killed

"OUR car"

Crowley actually letting Aziraphale to drive the Bentley!!!

They have a room where they discuss their questions and problems (like with the Gabriel's and Muriel's visits)

Crowley sitting on the arm of Aziraphale's armchair

"Good job" "You really think so?"

Aziraphale calling Crowley right away to tell him more about the clue and what he found out (aka searching for his praise)

Crowley supporting Aziraphale while he performs his little handy magic tricks

Aziraphale slowly getting more comfortable with calling Crowley his friend (aka "we go back in a long time" and etc)

"A little us time"

Them casually touching each other

Dancing while talking and talking while dancing

Crowley not letting other people buy or take Aziraphale's books while he is out of bookshop

Crowley trying to communicate with Gabriel after Aziraphale advices him to do so

Crowley cleaning up the bookshop while Aziraphale is on a walk with Metatron (he knows this place so well + «stress-cleaning» @sgam76 )

Aziraphale asking Crowley to be his assistant in the lethal magic trick and letting Crowley point the muzzle of a loaded gun at him when they can't use miracles

Crowley's hands shaking because his first shot ever was about to be made while he was pointing a gun at Aziraphale but when he just got himself together because fuck him if he will ever hurt his angel

Crowley trusting Aziraphale because he asked

Crowley waiting for Aziraphale to change his mind in the end until the very last moment

Aziraphale complimenting Crowley's work during The Begging

Aziraphale's attempt to put his hand on Crowley's shoulder during the kiss because he wanted them to be closer to each other

Aziraphale has a diary with a description of his every meeting with Crowley (as i suppose)

"But you like waiting inside"

How literally every character made a remark about their relationship being a little bit more than just friendship and how they're flustered by those comments

"I am, but rescuing me makes him so happy"

«Crowley going “NGK!” when Azi briefly corners him in the pub with a hand on his chest» @babbeldumpsterfire

"If any harm goes to Aziraphale-"

«“we both get PLENTY of use out of it” regarding the bookshop» @nightgoodomens

[raz-writes-the-thing]

The Way You Look Tonight (Good Omens Drabble)

Crowley x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: You might be sick, but you'll be damned if you don't get this dance.

GOMENS: @coffee-and-red-lipstick @quickslvxrr @clarina04 @motionlessindoubt @stevekempscocktails @go-bonkers-go-foolish @peytonpenguin37 @florduarte @complimentary-breadbasket @thekirbishow @jaziona92 (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You’re just being dramatic,” Crowley grumbles, getting up anyway to do as you’ve requested. You’re sick. Like, really sick. 

Like, if-you’re-not-careful-you-might-drown-in-a-puddle-of-your-own-snot sick. It’s gross, yeah, but if a certain someone hadn’t left the air conditioner on, like, minus eight hundred degrees all night, you’d probably be fine now. Yes, that person was you, but if you couldn’t blame the imaginary criminal who takes on all your heinous crimes for you then what was the point of it all?

“Which one?” Crowley asked, flashing two records at you to choose from. You coughed into your tee and scrutinised the options harshly. 

“Sinatra,” you eventually replied before blowing your nose into a soft aloe tissue. “Please,” you added hastily. 

Crowley just grumbled quietly as he put the record on for you. As soon as the notes started to play through the room, you sighed with relief. It was like a balm on your chest, making you feel better with just a few words and some pretty sounds. 

That wasn’t to say it made you feel physically better, but mentally- the chords and keys and tones had an uplifting effect. As though you might not actually die here on this lounge today. 

“Dunno why you even listen to this,” Crowley said, giving the very old record player the hairy eyeball. You rolled your eyes and stood up. You quickly used the hand sanitiser and gestured for him to meet you in the middle of the room. 

“Dance with me,” you offered in answer. Crowley looked suspicious but took your arm and waist as instructed. You swallowed a sneeze and gave Crowley a very sheepish smile as an apology. Crowley’s hands felt so warm where they touched you, and you found yourself realising just how much you craved his touch and attention. 

The two of you swayed together, listening to Frank as he sang about love and heartbreak and all the things in between. You also realised that at some point, you’d closed your eyes, letting the music surround you. 

When you opened them, Crowley was peering at you in a completely awed expression. One he was clearly trying to hide but doing a terrible job at. 

“What?” You asked, feeling shy all of a sudden. You weren’t so used to being perceived this… obviously. Crowley stumbled over his words for a moment, a litany of strange noises escaping him. 

“No, no,” he deflected. “I just- I get it now, all right? No- don’t get sappy on me,” he scowled. “Stop it or I’ll stop this dance right now.” 

You still couldn’t hide the massive grin on your face even if you tried. 

He didn’t stop dancing with you, though.

[katcsy]

Aziraphale set up a little cozy enclosure for Crowley to hangout in his itty bitty snake form inside the bookstore.

Crowley thought it’s humiliating but also took down the heat lamp and the front glass panel for easier access of Aziraphale’s hands.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

The Book Of Love inspired by the song with the same name.

some fluff, requested by my lovely friend @bea-n-art who drew me a handsome bathhouse scene in return. Consider my debts paid. ^^

[the-fucking-cannibal]

Ohhh, Bildad has a crush alright 😏😚💓

[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.

[thethingswedotomorrow]

Crowley has been with humanity since the beginning. The original serpent of eden, he is the first "monster" in humanity's bedtime stories. He is the figurative and literal demon on human's shoulders, always there to guide them one way or another. He's weaved through history itself, and prides himself on an impeccable track record of demonic activity throughout the last 6000 years.

But, naturally, after 6000 years, Crowley finds that he's spent more time pining after a certain Angel than doing any sort of work. Like, an extreme amount of pining.

And it isn't until after the notpocalypse that Crowley realizes that, entirely accidentally and very embarrassingly, he may have accidentally made his pining very, very public.

One of Crowley's favorite ways to waste a day is to take Aziraphale to different museums around the world and watch as the angel wanders around and points out all of the inaccuracies

"Good Lord Crowley, have you seen this painting? Portraying you as a dragon is a tad dramatic, I think. All we were doing were having a picnic. And I have never had my hair looking like that, thank you."

"I don't know Angel, they've got your wings spot on. Wa-Hang on, have they added horns to my head?"

"Oh, I see, suddenly it's only inaccurate when they've got you wrong."

The museums always seem to be miraculously empty, and whenever Crowley mentions this, Aziraphale suddenly finds a new, very interesting piece of art to admire

Crowley admires the lengths Aziraphale goes to to hide the small miracles he's done for Crowley's sake

As if Crowley wouldn't move literal mountains for the angel

*He did, actually, do that once.

In the 12th century, they were having a lovely evening together with multiple caskets of wine, up until Aziraphale complained about the amount of light in his eyes

"Honestly Crowley, all this sun and no shade, it must truly be awful for the humans around here with no shelter. It's a tad much, even for me."

Crowley, even then, immediately recognized this off-hand comment as an underhanded complaint, and knew that would not stand

When the small earthquake passed, Crowley claimed that the nearby church was on a fault line and he was simply doing his demonic duty by damaging holy goods in the area

If Aziraphale realized that the mountain range in the distance suddenly provided much more sun coverage, he never mentioned it.

Currently, however, Crowley follows Aziraphale around, wandering behind him and never truly looking at the things in the museum

In every single place they've ever gone together, there was only ever one thing that deserved Crowley's attention

And it certainly was not an inaccurate model of a 18th century tea set

But when Aziraphale wanders into a hall titled 'Love of the Past', he starts to panic. Just a very tiny amount, basically none at all. A small enough amount of panic that he could deny it, even to himself.

He thinks about the past, towards the beginning, back when Humanity was still getting it's footing and figuring out how to have governments and societies and (the most important part) figuring out the whole alcohol situation

Throughout the years, especially towards the beginning, Crowley began to resent any time not spent with Aziraphale

Everything seemed small and dull when compared to the way the Angel smiled when he saw new type of human dessert, or the way he laughed when Crowley managed to work out a clever comment

And once Crowley experienced those things, he never wanted anything else

He had seen the poetry the humans had written, how much emotion they could pour into a simple piece of parchment or a clay tablet

He never cared for written word, but he was shocked at just how much feeling the humans could manage to pour into words

So after Aziraphale left Rome (after the oysters and the wine and the smiles, for somebody's sake the smiles), he went due east for a new miracle on another continent

Crowley stayed and got well and truly drunk. As he did best.

He had spent a few weeks around the other drunks around the area, most poverty stricken and saddened with some sort of grief of one type or another

It wasn't until a group of poets wandered into his dark corner of the pub that he started to considered writing

Obviously nothing anyone would ever read, he'd ensure that. Every scroll or parchment that he'd touch with a quill would be burnt with hellfire before it left his sight

But, as many of his worst ideas started, he had nothing better to do and too much time to think

So he wrote. He wrote letters, first addressed to nobody, about random thoughts that would pop into his very intoxicated brain. Whether humans would ever find traces of the unicorns they lost on the ark, whether he would ever find a way to count just how many scales he had, whether he would ever reach a point where he didn't have to cover his eyes every day

Slowly, the letters started becoming addressed to 'A'. Whether he was conscious of this or not, he'd never admit.

But he wrote. He wrote to A about Hell, the jobs they required of him, the things they'd have him do. He wrote of the way humans had beaten him to the punch 90% of the time. How they would do things worse than Satan himself could imagine, and they'd never blink an eye while doing it.

He wrote of the way the sun darkened each day that passed without his Angel, the way his wine never seemed to have enough flavor when he was alone.

He wrote of the ways he imagined he could orchestrate an elaborate reunion, a convoluted mess of too much demonic activity in a small area that just happened to have a wonderful new tea, or so he's heard, and wouldn't it be a shame to leave the town without tempting the angel to try it?

He wrote to A about how he was sure he had no heart, no emotions. He was a Demon, for somebody's sake, he certainly had no need for stupid things like that, and so the ache in his corporation's chest when he sees the Angel had to be some sort of malfunction.

Anatural function, surely, that could be fixed with the right amount of aloofness and strong liquor

He wrote of the way the sun always seemed to hit the Angel's hair just right, and Crowley had no faith, he had no God.

But in those moments, with a halo around the angel and that smile aimed towards him, he might consider praying now to a different source altogether, a closer source. One full of life and light and actual proper goodness, not that fake advertised bullshit they plaster on church walls in pretty paintings and sad songs

Crowley wrote for a long while, and found that the writing helped the pain.

Even if only because it brought on memories of Aziraphale, and that was enough to hold him until they met again. It had to be, he had no choice in the matter.

And he wrote so often throughout the ages, and often while he was drunk. And he was so sure, so positive that he had burned every trace of his heart and emotion out of existence.

He had to be. The danger those words could put Aziraphale in was far too great. He couldn't be bothered to care of the danger to himself, but the fact that the very hint of any emotion could come close to hurting his Angel was enough to ensure that they would never come across another being's eyes.

He destroyed every letter and word that described his desire, his pain, his greed. He ripped the words he created out of reality as easily as he had written them. Every time, he burnt the parchment, and every time, it burnt a part of him with it.

And then the Apocalypse had happened. Or, well, didn't happen, he supposed. Really, he wasn't entirely sure if there was a difference.

Because everything had changed, even if the rest of the world hadn't noticed. And he was suddenly allowed to see Aziraphale with no excuse, no half-hearted reasoning behind it. He was allowed to want, and to crave, and he relished it.

And he was allowed to take the angel to museums to watch him fuss over small mistakes humanity had collected throughout the ages

Until he realized that they had, in fact, also collected HIS mistakes.

In a hall. A whole bloody hall. A hall, dedicated to and full of stupid parchment and sappy letters and wine stains over words written so long ago

And honestly who gave them the right? Leave it to the humans to collect other people's belongings and put it on display as their own

And he knew, from the moment Aziraphale read the first page on display, he just knew. This was it. All of it was ruined.

All because Crowley had gotten so drunk and passed out in his room above the pub, and when they'd thrown him out in a drunken stupor, they'd collected his belongings to sell afterwards. And he'd never even realized, so concerned about the next meeting, the arrangement, concerned about anything and everything except the one thing he forgot about and could end them both.

Any moment now, Aziraphale would look up at him, with disgust and confusion and all those emotions that he'd really rather not see on his face, preferably ever, but especially not towards him.

But Aziraphale never looks up. He reads the first page 5, 6, 7 times, being sure to capture every single word. Every wrinkle in the paper, every crease.

Then he moves to the next, and then the next. He repeats this process. Every page, he scours each and every page. Searching and scanning, analyzing every word.

Crowley is frozen at the entrance of the hall, too terrifed to say a word, but too hopeful to leave. He stands there, suddenly feeling the same feeling in his chest that he felt so many years ago, in the corner of the pub, sitting in the dark, wishing for the light that he knew would never come.

He's so panicked, that he doesn't notice Aziraphale finishing the last page, and wiping the tears from his eyes. He startles when he accidentally meets his eyes, and prepares a number of excuses and deflections, all to preserve this shred of peace and safety they had carved out for themselves.

"Angel, I- you really- ngk- humans are so rid- are you hungry? I could eat, I've heard they've got a killer bar around here, and we cou-I can get us there in 10 minutes, ngk actu- scratch that, we could be there in 5, I bet. Museums aren-angel?"

Crowley finds himself stopping the random stream of words coming out of his mouth, when he notices tears in Aziraphale's eyes

"Angel, I-"

That's all Crowley can get out before Aziraphale is walking towards him with a purpose

And suddenly Aziraphale is very close to him

Very very close

And suddenly Aziraphale's lips are on his, and Aziraphale is holding onto Crowley's jacket, and Crowley's hands are just waving in the air back and forth while he processes the last .5 seconds.

By the time he realizes what is actually happening, Aziraphale pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Crowley's, and laughs.

He laughs. Laughs. Aziraphale is laughing and it's a wonderful, beautiful noise and Crowley doesn't quite understand why, but then he's laughing too and then they are both standing there, arms around each other, laughing and Crowley realizes now that all the words he's written, all the praises he sang of his Aziraphale, the way he wished and prayed for his heart and laugh and love

Not one bit of it is at all comparable to the real thing.