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phoen1xr0se · 3 days

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The FINAL chapter of Don't Fall Away From Me is up on AO3!! (M)

Artist Credit: @mistysblueboxstuff

Chapter Summary: It ends, as it started, in a garden.

Author's Note: I have too much to say to leave it here, I am halfway across the country right now, travelling to Skokholm Island to spend almost a whole week with puffins and being totally off-grid and offline, so I will just dial it back to say that I am incredibly grateful for every bit of love, appreciation and every comment that has been given to me, they have pulled me through some incredibly dark times and I am beyond grateful for every single one of you. It has been more painful than I expected to finally let go of this story, of my Crowley and Aziraphale and especially my Muriel, but I hope you enjoy the ending to their story (although an ending for us, perhaps a beginning for them...)

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, for everything. I adore you.

#don't fall away from me #dfafm #phoenixrose #phoenixrose314 #good omens #good omens fanfiction #go fanfic #go fanfiction #good omens fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #azicrow fic #aziracrow fic #ineffable husbands #good omens fandom #muriel #demon muriel #dont fall away from me #ao3 good omens

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 3 months

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hey uh good omens fandom with all due respect WHAT THE RUTTING HELL DID YOU DO TO ME

GOOD OMENS MASCOT HERE, I DON'T KNOW WHY I KEEP DECLARING MYSELF A LOT OF YOU KNOW ME BY NAME NOW. I SUPPOSE I AM SIMPLY REMINDING YOU OF WHAT YOU DID TO THIS NOW-WRECKED SOUL.

I'VE JUST SPENT THE PAST... FOUR HOURS? FIVE? HELL WHAT IS THE TIME? PAST WHATEVER READING SEVERAL PIECES OF GOOD OMENS FANFICTION AND ALTERNATIVELY GIGGLING AND FOR THE LAST 45 MINUTES SOBBING OVER THIS HAPPY ENDING DEMON CROWLEY AND HUMAN PRIEST AZIRAPHALE AU WHY AM I CRYING OVER THIS. NONE OF THESE EVEN INVOLVE SEASON 2. I'M JUST HERE SOBBING.

FANDOM COME ANSWER FOR YOUR CRIMES WHAT THE DEUCE IS THIS.

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rocksaltandroll · 6 months

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Teaser Thursday!

A snippet from Wilde Flowers - A GO Human AU

“Mr Fell gave you a book?” Maggie asked sharply enough to divert Crowley’s attention from the flowers.

“Uh…yeah,” he replied, haltingly. “I mean, I think it’s technically a loan because he said when I;m finished with it I can swap it for something else. Why? Is that not a normal thing?”

“Absolutely not,” said Maggie, “I mean, Mr Fell is an absolute love but he’s very protective about his books. He hates selling them – I don’t even know how he keeps in business!”

Crowley turned this information over in his mind as he plucked a few sprigs of eucalyptus and brought the small bouquet to the counter in the corner of the room, Maggie trailing him. He had thought it a big risk to loan a century old signed first edition to a complete stranger, but then he’d also passed it off as maybe one of Aziraphale’s eccentricities.

“So, if he’s not in the habit of letting go of his books why did he give one to me?”

Maggie chewed on her lower lip as she pondered her response, eventually leaning on the counter with both elbows as she watched him measure a length of silver ribbon.

“I think,” she began carefully, “that Mr Fell has been alone for a really long time. As lovely as he is, he doesn’t really have…people. I don’t think he even realised that he was lonely until he hired Muriel and since then I think he’s slowly trying to reach out. Maybe he’s reaching out to you?”

Crowley wrapped the flowers artfully in violet paper, tucking the edges expertly before coiling the length of ribbon around the stems.

“He’s a bit of an odd bloke, isn’t he?”

Maggie immediately stood up straight, her face flustered.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make him sound like a complete loser,” she said, sounding distressed.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t,” he replied, “I just said he was a bit odd, that’s all. Nothing wrong with being odd -I’m odd, I like odd. Odd is interesting.”

#Wilde Flowers #go fanfic #go fanfiction

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hopelesslysleepy · 2 months

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Me reading GO fics: No, no don't you DARE. Nooo, step AWAY from the bandstand. Nuuuh- damn it.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable fanfiction #go fanfiction #go fanfic

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di-42 · 3 months

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The third chapter of my short fiction, Second Chances And Second Choices is on Ao3.

I'm having fun writing it and I hope it doesn't feel like I've completely lost the plot!

It's set on a post season 2, post second coming background but our heroes' troubles are not over yet. Rated T.

Here's an extract:

You were never going not to be OK, he had told Aziraphale.

But I was. We've always known that, between the two of us, I was the one who was going not to be OK. Not without you. Not when nothing lasts forever.

The scale of what he had done suddenly dawned on him and he felt dizzy and… frail. Frightened. Broken.

You were never going not to be OK. But I was.

Tagging the lovely people who have commented before but no pressure and no expectations 😊

@simonezitrone79 @schattenhonig @gallup24 @wibbly-wobbly-blog @smua70

Any sort of feedback is very welcome and any suggestion from more experienced writers received gratefully!

Reblogs appreciated.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #go fanfiction #fanfiction #azicrow #ao3 #ao3 fanfic

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captainblou · 6 months

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Am I starting a Human AU and is this how they meet? Hell yes babies!

“That one went down like a lead balloon” said a chuckling voice at his side. He turned his head to look at the man who was standing next to him. It was a middle aged man, barely older than him by the look of him, with curly white hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a blue shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, back wet with sweat, and was carrying a beige coat on his forearm. He was looking at Crowley with a smile.

“What was that?”

“I said: that one went down like a lead balloon” he said again, pointing his chin to the man who was barely recovering from his fall. Crowley laughed, shaking his head. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He pulled a few drags before offering it to the man, who looked at him with a delighted surprise.

“Oh, thank you dear boy,” he said, taking the cigarette.

Crowley almost choked on the smoke he was holding in his throat. He coughed a few times before repeating “Dear boy?”

“Well, I don’t know your name, do I?” The man elegantly dragged on the cigarette and handed it back.

“It’s Anthony,” Crowley responded before he could think about it. “Although, only my dad calls me that… You can call me Crowley”

The man smiled. “Thank you, Crowley”

He had a beautiful high pitched voice that dragged the shadow of the smoke in its course. Crowley licked his lips, a bit nervous, glancing at the strong forearms and hands. He noticed a golden ring on his little finger. “I’ve never seen you here, have I?” he asked, making the man chuckle again.

“Hardly my scene, I’m afraid. It’s been years since I last came to one of these bars. Tonight I don’t know… I guess I just fancied it.”

A taxi pulled over in front of them and lowered its window. “Ezra Fell?” the driver asked.

“That’d be me,” the man said.

“Ezra Fell?” Crowley echoed, raising his eyebrows.

The man stopped, his hand almost on the door handle. “What about it?”

“Sounds like an angel name…”

This earned him a loud laugh, and a wide smile. “You know what? I think it’s exactly what was intended to be. See you around, dear boy”

“See you around, Angel”

#good omens #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #fanfiction #Human AU #good omens AU #GO fanfiction

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theknightswhosay · 6 months

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Crowley, Imprisoned

@mulasawala and I have co-created a piece of art & writing for the @do-it-with-style-events 2023 Good Omens Reverse Bang !!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51645259

The gummy bears are bleeding human blood. A waste.

Crowley had enjoyed the only one he was allowed to try. Held in his mouth for a long time to draw out the experience, tongue tracing the smooth little curves, slowly sucking out the sweetness, a hint of peppermint, a tang of acid. Only when he risked its complete decomposition had he chewed it with unpractised jaws. Like jelly, only tougher, putting up more resistance.

His teeth had felt unfamiliar, tongue rougher than it used to be. Not enough saliva. He is rarely given anything to eat.

A handful of eight gummy bears lie scattered carelessly a few metres outside of his circle. Once, it would have been a trifle to wave a finger, apply some willpower, and have them in his hand.

Gum-my-be-ars. He holds the words in his silent mouth. Such strange new creations the humans of the World far away have concocted. New candies have appeared more frequently as his captor’s twisted parties became regular occurrences. Somewhere, the Great War is probably over. It makes no difference.

The blood does not dissuade him. It might add a sharp piquancy. The little candy creatures ooze the dark liquid, swimming in a pool rapidly bronzing into a sticky stain. He runs his tongue along the sharp metal bar of his cage to distract from the saliva forming around his teeth.

A thin scrap of dainty fabric dips a corner into the dark stain. The soft silk stocking was once a pure cream colour. Now, it has a long rip along its length where it was torn, catching on the protruding, hard buckle of a stout leather belt. It might still have the thick, oily scent of deerskin, of the harsh bronze that tore it.

Flung across the room lies the garter that had once held up the stocking. In a matching cream, it is like the last tooth left in a gaping, bloodied mouth. He remembers a young woman’s yelp as the fabric tore and the resounding slap of leather on flesh that followed.

As he stares at the white elastic across the room, he loses himself in an ambitious fantasy – he lets himself dream that he might not be bound to the circle, that he might instead be bound to the entire basement. What an absurd luxury it would be to have four whole walls, complete with corners.

What might that be like?

Imagine having walls instead of bars – his domain would be twenty times bigger than the circle. It would include the claw-footed brass chair, its rough surface promising a cornucopia of aromas. All the ways he might perch on it, the days of entertainment contemplating its many curves up close! How many more dents and imperfections might he be able to observe along its surface, if it were not on the other side of this room?

All the new and interesting configurations he could languish in.

His latest favourite languishing position is on his back, hips twisted so that one leg is hitched up against the floor, the other lying straight, his arms stretched up, up, up, pulling his shoulder blades back, pressing against his ears. If he squeezes all his limbs just so, he can cause his vision to black out. Pinpricks of light appear in the gaping darkness where his field of view should be.

For a moment, he can remember what the stars look like.

Stars. He is swimming in them. Galaxies swarm into life beneath his hands with kaleidoscopic force; purple hearts pulse in greeting; each tiny explosion the rattling gasp of a newborn’s cry. Because he wills it, because he dreams it, so it is.

He sits up.

Crowley has rules. It is how he has survived. There are things he is not allowed. He re-focuses his mind on the gummy bears.

The telltale creak of boots on the stairs announces the imminent arrival of company. Another of Crowley’s rules: he will not react. And so, he does not move a single hair, does not even cover his hideous nakedness, does not curl up or shy away as familiar dark brogues enter the room in confident strides.

He does not in any way acknowledge this person’s arrival, which never fails to irritate. Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

The claw-footed chair is dragged closer to his cage. Better viewing distance. Crowley can sense a long talk coming. These are usually irritating. He will while away the time it takes by imagining all the ways he would destroy this man, inside out. It would be so easy.

Throw him into a dream where he is the King of all the World; have women and men in power throw themselves at him; have him enthroned in the grandest of coronations. Let them sing his praises from every shit-stained rooftop, every bunged-up armchair, every soot-soaked alleyway.

And then, when he’s at the highest he has ever been: break him.

It wouldn’t be hard. For the man who wants unlimited power, simply strip it back, bit by bit, piece by piece. Do unto him as he has done unto others. Every ounce of pain, every lash of the whip, every woman forced. Let him experience all of it. Take away all his power until he is nothing. Until all he has is metal bars and a binding circle, not even a scrap of cloth to cover him, not even a voice to speak with. Leave him there.

Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

He sits on the chair, stooping over, knees on his thighs, hands supporting his chin. His mood is dark turquoise; heavy but low in energy. Thankfully, Crowley detects no undercurrent of violence.

“I’ll get it right this time,” says Burgess, “I’ll get it right.”

He runs a hand over his face. His head sags, shoulders forming sharp, twin hills. Whether he is talking to his prisoner or himself is unclear and makes no difference.

“It has to work. It must work. This time will be different.”

He pauses.

“You will help me, whatever the fuck you are. You’ll help me succeed where I failed when I captured you. I know what we did wrong that night…we didn’t go all the way. It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice. Well, I’m not taking any half-measures this time. We’ll get it right, and you’re going to make sure of it.”

Crowley finds the use of the imperative so entertaining. Will. Must. What must he do exactly? A being with no powers; no clothing; no dignity; no voice. He is not even capable of an audible gasp of shock. All he has is his refusal and his shredded pride. So, he does not react.

He continues to gaze with limpid eyes at the gummy bears which are still there, unmoved. Burgess has not noticed them.

The man talks some more, mostly repetitive stuff, easily tuned out. The chair gets pulled back over to its customary corner. Some quiet time.

But then people. A small stream of robed figures clunking down the narrow staircase. The first few bring small tables which they place against the far wall. Not there! Crowley would yell if he could, that’s off-centre! But they are unconcerned. They have no interest in interior design.

They bring candles next. Lots of candles.

What is it with these ritual-obsessed types and their candles? A precarious and flammable habit. Too easily knocked over. An easy source of disruption. Inviting pyromania. If only he could just send out a little nudge… He reaches with his will. But of course, nothing happens. Nothing has happened for a long time. It is lost, along with his voice.

As the décor operation continues, Crowley muses that it must be nearing Burgess’ favourite time. Somewhere, it is night-time, out there in a World he is no longer part of, does not dwell on, will not let himself remember. Knowing Burgess, it will be approaching midnight. Superstitious wanker.

Sandalwood incense is lit. The only smell heady enough to mask the scent of blood and much worse bodily fluids that can’t be scrubbed out of the room. The thin thread of smoke is woody, smoky, and pungent but undercut with anxiety because he knows what accompanies it.

It is only when they attempt magic that the sandalwood comes out.

They draw a circle to mirror Crowley’s in bright chalk and runes he might once have recognised. One of the Believers is clutching at a book. He imagines it is probably 120 Days of Sodom. Naturally, all of them are fans.

Burgess’ deep voice is murmuring upstairs, directly above. Footsteps sound – more than one pair. Someone brought into the study that hides the basement.

A short time later, the man re-emerges, but the person who follows him is distinctly lacking Believer’s robes.

The girl glows. She is a bright sprig of garlic flower petals; her creamy sleeping shift dazzling amongst burlap-sack figures, a fragile light against the indigo of gloomy basement. Her skin is rough, freckles and pimples dust her cheekbones, her hair limp and dull, a lacklustre mousy brown. Yet she radiates with the fragile uncertainty of youth and worse, far, far worse, Crowley knows what she is here for.

This, he cannot ignore.

He sits up. He pushes himself as far against the cage bars as he can, clutching them, knuckles going white.

Does she know? His eyes seek her, reaching for her – trying to express, voiceless, his word of warning. Burgess had said, hadn’t he? It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice… They guide her to the new circle they have drawn. She goes willingly, expression unchanging, peaceful.

Get out! He mouths at her, Get out! Over and over, hoping she will glance his way. His fists rattle against the cage.

“Interesting creature, isn’t it?” says Burgess as he runs a hand through the girl’s hair, “all these years and it just sits there, half asleep. But now - now it responds. It has some kind of heart after all.”

He cradles her face and positions her chin so that she must look directly towards the cage. She is limp, obedient to his will. Why isn’t she fleeing? Her wide, brown eyes finally find Crowley’s yellow ones. He is still mouthing at her over and over, but her eyes are glassy, unfocused, distant. Her gaze looks right through him.

She retreats into herself and avoids Crowley’s urgent gaze as the ceremony begins. Through the chanting, the burning of objects, the spilling of blood, and the making of potions, she does not look at him again.

It is only as Burgess withdraws the dagger, his favourite, the one engraved with his initials, then the girl finally jostles herself and raises a hand.

“Wait,” she says, “Can…can we say a prayer together?”

He pauses. Then, “of course, sweet child.”

The dagger is tucked back into its holder. Around the room, every chin is lowered, every head ducked in prayer. Burgess clasps his hands behind his back and closes his eyes.

But the girl, the girl isn’t praying. That’s not what she’s doing. Her eyes are wide open. She looks at Crowley once, gives him the slightest of nods and leaps to her feet, pulling up her skirt to reveal a blade she has strapped to her thigh.

“IT’S HIM!” she yells, in a voice so loud and confident it immediately rips away the docile, innocent demeanour. Before anyone can react to her call, she thrusts the blade into Burgess’ stomach, her expression transformed into one of hatred.

His mouth falls open as he grasps the wound.

“Fuck! You little shit… don’t let her leave! To think, you should have harboured this malintent all this time…” if her expression is one of hatred, his morphs into something monstrously dark and ugly, “you will not get away with this, girl. You will need to be punished before we sacrifice you. Punished well. Don’t think you will be leaving.”

Two robed figures block the exit. A third retreats up the rickety stairs. The last two grab her shoulders, even as she flails and kicks in their grasp. Her blade is still embedded in Burgess’ side. He paces towards her, one hand on his wound, one hand coming to grasp her throat. Tight.

Crowley looks away. When they do not make him watch the things they do in the basement, he will not make himself.

He can still hear and smell. There is no way to turn those senses off (he has tried).

There is a faint crackle reminiscent of lightning accompanied by the rustle of paper and the musty scent of old books. Several, pronounced, bodily thuds - weights hitting the floor. Heaving intakes of breath, rickety and rasping. The dull clatter of a wooden handle on wooden floorboards.

Footsteps approaching the cage. He is still curled up, turned away from it all.

A rough sob of concern, and then a familiar voice. A voice he has tried so hard to forget. A voice that cannot possibly be real.

“Crowley?”

His angel’s voice. An angel belonging to a world long ago, a different life, a different being than him. He knows better than to believe it. He won’t turn towards it. He has spent too long lost in dreams, in fantasies. In exactly these moments of deepest, most despairing violence, his imagination will conjure up that which he misses the most.

“Crowley, it’s me. It’s Aziraphale. I found you…I finally found you. Oh, my dear…I am so, so, sorry it took me so long. You were hidden from me. What have they done to you…”

Another set of footsteps approaches. It can only be the girl, all in white, who had stabbed Burgess. “Mr Fell,” she says, throat creaking, “it’s him then? The one you’ve been searching for all these years?”

“Yes. It’s him,” voice trembling and soft. So soft. “Thank you – I couldn’t have found him without your assistance.”

“Thank me later. Right now, we need to get out of here, fast. There’ll be more of them.”

“Right. Right, yes, of course.”

The click of fingers.

A great constricting pressure vanishes as if he has surfaced after being trapped underwater at a great depth. Something is different. But still, he does not trust it. He keeps his eyes pressed shut and curls tighter in on himself. This is one of the nicer fantasies.

He cannot help wanting the hand on his shoulder to be real. It feels real. The palm warm, the fingers short and thick. Two arms gather him, the swaddling softness of fresh fabric appearing over his naked figure, fibres delicate, soft as clouds. The arms that cradle him are solid and strong. He is enveloped by the smell of chocolate, old curtains, tea with a dash of lemon.

So overpowering are the sensations that tears spring to his eyes. So focused is he on drinking in that old, familiar scent that he does not notice the motions, the sound of stairs creaking, the shock of an air change, the muffled steps on the carpet beneath them, the chiming of a mahogany grandfather clock, the quickly stifled gasp of a servant followed by a thud, heavy front doors opening on their own.

And then: fresh air.

It is enough to shock him awake. His eyes snap open as he drinks in the flavours.

His view is obscured by a beige overcoat and a shock of white hair, but above that – stars. With hungry eyes, he drinks in the deep, velveteen depths of the night sky. How could he ever have forgotten the magic of that ever-shifting tapestry, crested by a silvery moon?

He is bundled into a horseless carriage, but Aziraphale’s arms never leave him. He is cradled, held firm, limbs sprawled over the back seat, head resting on the angel’s thigh. Thrown backwards against the backrest as the vehicle careens away at speed.

Only then does he believe.

His unpractised fingers clutch at the arm cradling him, watery eyes finding the angel’s blue ones. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, and only then does Crowley realise the angel has been repeating this over and over, “I’ve got you. We found you. You’re free, Crowley, you’re free.”

Drops of water hit his nose. Lines streak the angel’s cheeks.

“Angel.” Crowley finally manages. He can speak again. It has been so, so very long.

He is free.

#crowley #good omens #go #do it with style #reverse bang #event #my fics #mygofic #aziraphale #inspired by the sandman #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #good omens fanfic #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #hurt/comfort #hurt crowley #aziraphale to the rescue

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fogsrollingin · 7 months

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See below the most recent fics added to my masterpost of Good Omens fic recs (linked as content source to this post)

✨ Brutal Crowley whump and snuggly Aziraphale comfort here we gooooo ✨

As Beautiful as the Day We Met by Crow__Quill. Teen & up, 7k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Aziraphale finds Crowley after he has been tortured by Hell and tends to his wounds. https://archiveofourown.org/works/49209820 Apologies in advance - I cut out 90% of the author's summary in the details above - it was a long excerpt that proved they could write very well 👌 I've been in a big mood for Crowley whump & comforting Aziraphale and this fic is such a winner. Crowley broken and crying in Aziraphale's arms, I am so here for it!!!

Guardian Angel by dreamsofspike. Rated Mature, 33k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Crowley is summoned. It's not the first time - but it's probably the worst. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307328 Oh my gosh this fic was harrowing - the Crowley whump was A+. Then the rescue was brilliantly paced. Sometimes the order of operations can get out of wack during rescue scenes but I loved every beat of it. The hugs and cuddling at the end was like the best surge of oxytocin ever. This was such a good read!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream by theshoparoundthecorner. Rated General, 18k words, Aziracrow. Summary: When he finally drifted off, he dreamt only of a burning bookshop and the end of the world. Since then, the nightmares came nearly every night. Some nights were easier to forget than others, but it was the nights when he woke up with a scream still caught in his throat or drenched in another cold sweat that left him shaken for the rest of the day. It was far too inconvenient to go about one’s day replaying a terrible dream in one’s head, so after about two weeks, Crowley came up with a solution to his problem. Since sleeping seemed to be the cause of all his troubles at the moment, it was simple: he would just stop. Of course, stopping one’s nearly-six-thousand-year routine was easier said than done. Demons didn’t need to sleep, that much was true, but Crowley had grown rather accustomed to it, and quitting was no easy feat. Nevertheless, he did his best to keep his head held high and his eyes wide open, with one goal in mind – avoid alerting Aziraphale to anything out of the ordinary. This, of course, failed miserably. https://archiveofourown.org/works/33308377 Yay cuddly coziness between Crowley and Aziraphale post season one, with angst and PTSD added for spice. Loved it.

(Don't) Say My Name by CosmicOcelot. Rated Mature, 4k words, Aziracrow. Summary: “Aziraphale,” Crowley clutches tighter at Aziraphale’s jacket, hissing the words between his teeth, and the slightly hysterical edge to his voice makes the angel’s entire body flood with sheer panic. “Someone’s summoning me.” https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409536 Loved the Crowley whump. The evil summoning felt a little bit like the beginning of Sandman which I loved. Aziraphale to the rescue is so delicious.

Five Times Crowley's Serpentine Nature Showed by ebullience24. Rated General, 5k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Five Times Crowley's Serpentine Nature Showed, featuring the whole airforce gang. 1. Eyes. 2. Cold-blooded. 3. Crowley can talk to other snakes. 4. Crowley has chronic pain. 5. Brumating https://archiveofourown.org/works/22318813 Fluffy and sweet, I really love the idea of Crowley as a snake, with various habits and powers and sensitivities that all comes with it. The chronic pain aspect to explain why he moves the way he does has piqued my interest too. Really well done!

Of Dust And Diamonds by entanglednow. Rated Explicit, 14k words, Aziracrow. Summary: After they're both released by Hell for good, Crowley and Aziraphale return to the bookshop. They're both dealing with their own trauma, but they're also determined not to lose what they spent six thousand years building towards. https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288885 The way this author treated the hurt/comfort aftermath of rape in hell in this fic was so nuanced and felt very authentic. The way Aziraphale and Crowley both care so deeply for each other, and cope, and circle around each other for comfort, seeking stability and balance with each other. So so good.

#good omens #good omens fic recs #aziraphale #crowley #some of these stories feature #rape #for your filters #Good Omens fanfiction #Good Omens fanfic #Good Omens ficrecs #my ficrecs #Crowley whump #whump #hurt/comfort #comforting Aziraphale #GO fanfiction

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katheehds · 9 months

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Chapters: 2/5 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Uriel (Good Omens), Michael (Good Omens), Saraqael (Good Omens), Quartermaster Angel (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Spoilers for S2, Aziraphale's new job, No beta we die like Job's goats didn't, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Uriel has BEEF with Michael Summary:

“Those are the appropriate garments for the Archangel Supreme, Aziraphale. You can’t keep wearing mortal clothes–”

“Well, Gabriel did! And I jolly well will too.” He miracled himself a three-piece suit with tartan lining, but frowned at the colour. He tried to turn his new waistcoat into a soft cream hue, but the fabric remained stubbornly white. ~

Aziraphale scores a new position, and a chance at permanently altering the course of the Great Plan. A new job means better benefits, but also new rules: How far will he have to change, to fit in the system so he can change it from the inside? How much of himself has to be stripped away, and will he still be himself after that? OR: Four things Aziraphale gives up for his new job, and one he doesn't.

Now with an Angsty Playlist

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #good omens fic #go fanfic #go fanfiction #aziraphale in heaven #alone

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 4 months

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HI MAGGOTS just letting you know that we love aroace folks here on this blog

Good Omens mascot here! It's so amazing that the Good Omens fandom is so accepting and wonderful, but all the same, I want to remind everyone that people on the aroace spectrum are part of the LGBTQIA+ community, and are queer, because they are on the aroace spectrum. Yes that includes all of them. I'm aspec myself, and I realised it thanks to the amazing people on tumblr, and I'm accepting myself more each day here.

ON THAT NOTE, VERY IMPORTANT VERY WONDERFUL NEWS, the fabulous, amazing, and very supportive maggot @queermarzipan HAS REALISED THEY ARE ASPEC, CAN WE ALL CONGRATULATE HER PLEASE? WELCOME TO THE COMMUNITY WE LOVE YOU.

The fact that she realised it by going through my posts until she hit one where I'd been questioning if I was aspec and people on tumblr helped me out is honestly so wild. Fandom is a crazy wonderful thing and I'm so happy for them, and I'm so glad that we're all guiding each other not just down the pipeline of fandom masochism but also on other random paths of acceptance and positivity.

There's an aspec Crowley fic that @eviebane shared with me, I read a few paragraphs and felt so represented that I had to put it away for later because TOO MANY EMOTIONS. I'm sure there are many more fics with the GO characters as aspec and that's amazing.

WOOHOOO man being ill is NOT doing wonders for my sanity. If it's winter where you live bundle up warm please, this fandom loves handing each other hot cocoa anyway so.

Side note, everyone who has been tagging me on Doctor Who posts, I'm absolutely traumatised and will make a Pt II of Doctor Who. Thanks guys.

Side side note, the friend who kindly informed me that Michael Sheen was in twilight and ruined my life, made this comment: "Yeah Michael Sheen is Aro (the vampire)... and so am I."

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rocksaltandroll · 6 months

Text

Wilde Flowers

Chapter 3

Aziraphale’s eyes gravitated towards Eden.

Every time he walked past his window or sat down at his desk, his gaze automatically found Crowley’s place and that beautiful black Bentley parked outside. He didn’t really understand why either. Yes, Crowley was a handsome devil, but Aziraphale had more sense than that. He knew not to fall for a pretty face – experience had taught him that.