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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
crackyfanfic kittyknowsthings
copperbadge

“Why, Sam has never gone back to a fandom he stopped writing for. It would take a miracle to-“

FFFUUUUUUUUUU

(It’ll be a while before the full thing is posted but I’m so delighted with this little bit I had to share it.)

“Delightful,” Aziraphale breathed, in the same tone of voice he might use to describe a good meal. He reached for Crowley’s belt buckle and Crowley had to immediately put a hand on his to stop him, wincing.

“Those don’t come off,” he said. 

Aziraphale blinked at him. “I beg your pardon.”

“Well, I mean. Obviously the trousers come off, they will, but you can’t take them off.” Crowley sighed. “They’re too tight. You’ve got to…”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, looking appalled. “Do you magic your trousers on in the morning?”

“Isn’t it nice after six thousand years we’re still learning new things about each other?” Crowley asked with a grin.

thebibliosphere

Sam, I’m absolutely dying. I cannot wait!

ariaste

*GRABBY HANDS*

strangelyineffable simply-brightly-zee
aziraphvle

Imagine after the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. Maybe it’s that evening, after they get dinner at the Ritz. Maybe it’s a couple weeks later, when the dust has settled and Aziraphale and Crowley have found a new normal – one which is surprisingly similar to their old normal. 

They’re in the bookshop, halfway through a bottle of expensive wine that neither Crowley nor Aziraphale is exactly certain how they had acquired. Crowley is restless as ever, wandering back and forth in the small back room of of the bookshop. They’ve found a comfortable lull in the conversation, and Crowley is occasionally pulling books from the shelves, skimming a page or two before shaking his head and shoving them back (not uncaringly) onto the shelves. One hand is occupied with a glass of red wine. 

Out of nowhere, Aziraphale asks, voice quiet so as not to disturb the atmosphere, “What was he like?”

“Marlowe?” Crowley doesn’t bother to look up from the book in his hand, a tiny script with pages so thin it would give Aziraphale an aneurysm if any human were to lay hands on it. Even Crowley is on thin ice. “Bit of a tosser, really, but weren’t they all? Better than the Goethe, though, if you ask –”

“Not Christopher Marlowe,” says Aziraphale, bypassing an opportunity to discuss literature with Crowley that’s been waiting – possibly centuries for, who can keep track of time. “Your – friend.” 

That gets Crowley’s attention. He looks up, snapping the book closed with one hand (Aziraphale bodily flinches at that), eyebrows raising over the dark void of his glasses. “Come again?”

“Your old friend,” Aziraphale repeats. His eyes flick to the glass of wine in his hand, his distorted reflection staring back up at him. “The one you lost the other day.” 

Crowley stares. At least, Aziraphale assumes he does, behind the glasses. It’s not like Crowley blinks much, so technically he’s always staring. 

“Will you tell me about him? Er – them?”

Crowley puts the book down on the shelf. Doesn’t bother to put it neatly back in its place. Normally, Aziraphale would admonish him for it, but the atmosphere is – not right. He certainly isn’t going to start a row with Crowley after bringing up his dead friend. 

He watches as Crowley rounds back to the little sitting area, back to the couch. Crowley places the glass of wine on the table with a table, the click of glass against wood echoing through the bookshop, and then sinks down onto the couch. Sitting directly across from Aziraphale, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. With one thin hand, he pulls the glasses from his face, folding them up and slipping them to the side the way he only does at his drunkest. His most open. 

“Angel,” he says, in the same soft tone that he had used on that park bench, when he had reminded Aziraphale about the bookshop. “Angel, I was talking about you.”

give me all the fic where they talk about this good omens ineffable husbands aziraphale/crowley tumblr ficlets
alexandersiddiggifs alexandersiddiggifs
gotham-daily

Then allow me to tell you what will happen if you don’t kill me. I will disappear, and let you live your life. You will follow the path of light, grow into a fine man. Become a husband. A father. There may be a day where you forget I ever existed. But then I will return, and I will kill everyone you love. Just as you watched your parents die, just as you watched me slice your friend’s throat, I will slaughter your wife and children before your very eyes, and there will be nothing you can do about it!

Alexander Sidding as Ra’s Al Ghul in Gotham

ao3feed-goodomens

Demon-Cum-Snake

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2xlz30Y

by

Some snakes, upon copulating, leave in the female a mating plug, in order to prevent other males from trying to penetrate her, and in order to keep sperm in place.

Crowley really didn’t mean to.

Words: 1621, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English



read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2xlz30Y
ao3feed fanfic Good Omens
roachleakage adelaiderowan
raininginadelaide

Title: My Cup Runneth Over

Rating: T

Summary:  Crowley becomes a barista for nefarious purposes. Aziraphale becomes a regular.

Read on AO3

===

Being discorporated is definitely not Crowley’s favourite thing.

First of all there’s the actual process - which, ouch - and then there’s the paperwork.

Above and Below, the paperwork! Repeated questions, questionable questions, questions about questions twenty pages ago that didn’t make sense in the first place, and in the end it doesn’t matter because you still have to sign the bloody thing if you want a new body. And then, once you’ve spent literal weeks filling everything in, the contracts department takes months to process it, because of course everything in Hell has to be hellish, it’s right there in the name.

Crowley spends most of those months in his snake form, hiding behind cupboards and under desks and generally doing his best to ensure that no-one can find him to ask awkward questions about how, exactly, he started World War Two.

Also, sleeping.

It’s four months after being discorporated, almost to the day, when a demon with a lot of eyeliner and really impressive eyelashes wakes him by poking him with a pen.

“Oi,” says the demon. “Your new body’s ready. Back to work.”

Crowley groans, because it’s expected of him, but he cannot wait to get back up to Earth.

He signs for the body without paying too much attention, and rushes to gets topside before anyone of importance notices him, so it’s only when he gets back to his flat that he notices anything amiss.

As he steps through the front door and tries to relax, he notices that the new body doesn’t fit quite right. It’s like a too-tight shoe. He stretches and bends, trying to work out the kinks, and heads to his bedroom with its full length mirror to see what’s wrong.

His steps slow as he walks through the plant room. Despite more than four months away, the plants are somehow as lush and verdant as ever, perhaps even more so. He narrows his eyes at them, then notices a new plant mister tucked between a couple of monsteras.

It has a cheap-looking tartan pattern printed onto the plastic.

Crowley’s lips twitch.

He continues onto the bedroom, and when he looks in the mirror he sees a stranger.

Damn it.

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