just found fanfic written on clay tablets in cuneiform and then the pictures were uploaded to ao3 the good omens fandom is insane

this is the fic if you were wondering

THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY. DEDICATION TO THE BIT

AJ Crowley and Harry Potter bump into each other in public:

Harry Potter: Oops, sorry about that.

Crowley: No, it was my fault, don’t worry about it.

Public: *stares at the two men making strange hissing noises at each other*

Both: Wait…

I need this fic immediately

Someone passing, whose business this whole affair was not, said “Speak English, this is England for fuck’s sake!” 

The young man and Crowley turned as one and hissed at the person, who suddenly remembered an urgent and important errand elsewhere and ran off to sort it.

Then they turned back towards each other. The young man scratched the back of his head. “Um, this is awkward,” he said, in English, “I don’t run into this often. On the street. Or… Ever. Actually.” He had casually laid a hand on his hip, and Crowley was suddenly sure that there was a wand concealed in that pocket. 

Crowley remembered that it was very common in England for serpent speech to be considered a trait of evil. Which, well… anyway. “It’s not common,” Crowley allowed. “Special circumstances all around, I’m sure.” He tried to think of a good way to defuse the situation. “Fancy a pint?”

The young man looked relieved. “Yeah.”

“Crowley,” he said, offering a hand.

“Harry.”

“C’mon, I know a pub nearby. First round’s on me.” 

If Harry was surprised by being led to the Cauldron Bottom, he didn’t show it. It was one of the few wizard pubs not attached to Diagon Alley in London- they were a growing population, but still unusual. It was middle of the afternoon and there were a few regulars at the bar, but it was otherwise quiet. 

Crowley nodded to the one-eyed barkeep, who nodded back, and then gave a friendlier wave to Harry. “Evenin’, Mr. Crowley, Mr. Potter,” she said. 

“Room in the back open, Jane?” Harry asked. “We’ve got some business to discuss.” 

Jane nodded. “Usuals for ya both?”

They nodded.

“Go on back, I’ll be right there.” 

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“What do you mean you don’t keep any molts?” Crowley exclaimed, too loudly for the cramped space of his apartment. “Not one? Not even your leads?”

Aziraphale gave him a look caught somewhere between indignant and embarrassed, and Crowley opened his door a little wider to let him into the apartment. “It’s not exactly like we’ve had a lot of big battles lately,” Aziraphale tells him as he slips past him. “I haven’t broken a feather in… well, in ages!”

Crowley scowled at the suggestion that this was a valid excuse, and followed him to where there was room to stand apart. “There are plenty of other ways to break a feather. Let me see it.”

“I live and work in a bookshop, Crowley, it’s not exactly a daredevil lifestyle,” Aziraphale informed him primly, but his wing sagged open and then spread, stretching so Crowley could see the jagged feather shaft that was all that was left of his largest primary.

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Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

The thing is, he should’ve expected it. Aziraphale’s not actually stupid, even if his magic tricks are. He can read Crowley as easily as any one of his books; he can see Crowley where he hides behind his sunglasses. 

And Aziraphale doesn’t love by halves. 

There is a blanket on the sofa in the back room and a potted fern by the register out front. There is a rather particular blend of earl grey in the cupboards and a coffee cup with a devil’s tail handle on the rack by the sink. The daily crossword is on the table, left out for Crowley to find, and although Crowley knows Aziraphale will have already done it once this morning, he’s miracled the answers away and instead written into the boxes: GOOD MORNING.

Crowley is sure there would be a little heart drawn in next to it if Aziraphale thought Crowley wouldn’t find it incredibly twee. Crowley picks up a pen–not a pencil–and fills the heart in himself. I love you, he thinks, shading it in, permanently. 

If he ever finds a note without a heart on it again, he’ll be surprised. But he’ll never quite be used to it. 

He fell in love with Aziraphale’s heart, with Aziraphale’s courage, with Aziraphale’s kindness. He fell in love with the way Aziraphale acted on impulse, the way he embraced recklessness and pretended like he didn’t. He fell in love with the elegantly manicured hands and the outdated jacket and even the stupid magic tricks, but Crowley never dared to think that Aziraphale would direct all that affection and all that joy and all that love onto him.

Maybe he wouldn’t have, in another universe. In this one, though, Aziraphale is free, and he loves like it. 

Crowley should’ve expected that Aziraphale would love him in exactly the way that he loves Aziraphale. 

A throat clears behind Crowley; he turns to see Aziraphale standing in the door, worn waistcoat, familiar smile. “Morning,” Aziraphale says. “Sleep good?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, mouth dry. 

“Good,” Aziraphale says, his smile widening, and then he’s off like a shot, making tea, telling Crowley about a book dealer he’s meeting later to see about a supposed Shakespearean folio, about a customer who’d come in looking for the shop next door again and wasn’t it a bit obvious that this wasn’t that sort of shop, about how he had a craving for gnocchi and if Crowley wouldn’t mind perhaps they could go out later and scrub up something, maybe that little place over on Marylebone Road that had the gorgonzola chicken Crowley liked so much that one time, and Crowley soaks it all in, soaks Aziraphale all in, all the curiosities and the interests, all the ways Aziraphale says we and us, all the ways it’s so easy for Aziraphale to wrap himself around Crowley, to give of himself to Crowley, to let Crowley in, to make space for him.  

Aziraphale hands Crowley’s mug to him and kisses the corner of his mouth. “You all right?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, coming back to himself a little. He leans over and kisses Aziraphale properly, slow and careful; Aziraphale tastes like tea and sugar. “Yeah, I’m all right. Perfect, even. Brilliant.”

Aziraphale grins. “We’ve got to leave by ten if we want to meet this book dealer on time. Don’t take too long getting ready.” And then he kisses Crowley one last time and goes back down to the shop. 

Crowley constantly feels like he’s falling in love all over again; he constantly feels like Aziraphale is falling in love with him all over again. It feels like delicate spring shoots and brilliant pink and gold sunrises and warm cups of tea, like being taken care of and being wanted and being held close in the depths of the night. 

It feels like reaching out for six thousand years, and finally finding the hand in the dark. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

He doesn’t think he wants to. 

Sometimes I just sit and think about how Aziraphale and Crowley spent several years giving some ordinary human kid THE weirdest possible upbringing of all time.

uhhhhhhh fic of Warlock as an adult where he mentions things offhandedly in therapy sometimes and his therapist is EXTREMELYY???????? CONFUSED????????????

“My parents couldn’t always make the time for me. Well, Mum couldn’t, for a lot of reasons. Dad… didn’t. It was hard to tell the difference from that age, and she made excuses for him, but I understand it now that I’m older.”

The therapist nodded. She wasn’t taking notes, simply leaning back in the comfortable chair across from him, and she was always doing something with her hands. It’s crocheting today, she says she’s making a baby blanket for a friend. Sometimes it was origami, or knitting, sometimes she’d be sewing, and once she was doing some kind of leather work. Braiding something for some reason. 

He’d sat on about every chair and couch in the room before settling on the overstuffed couch. He could sit sideways and not look at her react, or sit up, or whatever. Sometimes he didn’t want to see her face when he said something, and sometimes he had to. 

“Was there anybody who did?” she asked. Her voice was smooth and soothing. She was paying attention to her work, but also paying attention to him. She said that if she’s writing it makes some people nervous, but if she’s doing something else then the conversation feels more casual, even if it’s not.

Every once in a while, she got this look on her face that he suspected means he said something extremely interesting (or upsetting, or whatever) and was trying not to show it, but it never showed in her voice. He liked that about her. 

He nodded. “When I was younger, we had this nanny. I used to just call her Nanny, I don’t remember if I ever knew her name. She was Scottish. She was real weird, but she’d spend as much time with me as I liked. She was always there, if the gardener wasn’t.”

“A gardener as well?” 

He nodded. “He always had time for me. No matter what. He’d drop whatever he was doing to talk to me. He was from… I don’t remember. Very rural, this fellow.” He thought about it. “I don’t know what happened to them. I think they left to do other things, not too long before my eleventh birthday. I never saw them again. He was kind of boring, sometimes, but he always talked to me like I was the most important person he ever saw.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Nanny would too, actually. I sometimes think that they’re why I’m, you know, not as fucked up as I could be. That just knowing I could go find the gardener and he’d tell me what the rabbits were doing today, whatever he was doing, that I could tell him about… whatever. Or Nanny. She used to tell me to smite my enemies, I was never sure how to take it.” 

It was just a moment and gone, a single expression of sheer bafflement, which made Warlock laugh a little.

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Characters: Reader (Gender Neutral), Aziraphale, Crowley

Point of View: First Person Reader POV

Warnings: None? Other than I did minimal editing. I tried to make this gender neutral, but if there are any gendered terms please let me know!

Words:  1504

A/N: I had this dream the night I began watching Good Omens, and this is a story based off of that dream.

THERE ARE NO SHOW SPOILERS IN HERE

—

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“I mean,” Gabriel said, gesturing at Crowley, “Look at the way he’s standing. And the way he’s sucking on that ice lolly. Doesn’t it make you think… things?”

Aziraphale looked over and gave Crowley an appreciative once-over. He had one hip cocked to the side while he fought to lick away at the drips of his ice lolly before it melted over his hands, and he really made a beautiful sight like this, all candid and happy and clearly enjoying his contest with the dessert. It made Aziraphale’s heart soften; he liked seeing Crowley enjoying himself.

What it didn’t do was inspire lascivious thoughts in him. He wasn’t sure why it should.

“I assure you, Gabriel, whatever Crowley may be attempting to tempt me into by… standing there eating an ice lolly… it’s not working even a bit. You don’t have to worry about my virtue, even where Crowley is involved.”

“Are you sure? Because the way he’s stuffed into those jeans of his, it can’t be anything but a temptation. Doesn’t he make you wonder what’s, you know, stuffed in there?”

Aziraphale didn’t have to wonder, actually, because he already knew: Crowley tended to make just enough of an effort to have something to shape his jeans around, but the actual contents were as like the real thing would be as their corporations were like their truest forms- essentially, just a lump of vaguely shaped flesh for his inseam to hug.

And even if that weren’t the case, Aziraphale wasn’t sure how knowing Crowley had genitals was supposed to make him wonder about the details of said genitals.

“Not even a little bit,” he said. “You really don’t have to caution me on the matter.”

“And the way he walks,” Gabriel said, ignoring him. “You can’t tell me you don’t look at the way his hips move and then not think about his hips moving in other situations.”

Crowley had won the battle with his ice lolly; he was now sashaying over to the waterfront to throw the stick at the nearest swan, hips swinging with each movement. Aziraphale was familiar with Crowley’s walk: he walked like his thighs had just had a particularly messy divorce or, more accurately, like a being with no physical attributes stuffed into a body with no legs shape-shifted into a body with two and he was still trying to work out how to actually use them.

Aziraphale turned his attention to Gabriel, taking in the way his gaze lingered on Crowley’s hips, and pursed his lips.

“Gabriel, I don’t think I’m the one in danger of being tempted to Lust here.”

“You think he’s trying to tempt someone else?”

“I don’t think he’s trying to tempt anyone. But I think you might be tempted all the same.”

“What? Me? I’m the Archangel Gabriel, Aziraphale, I don’t get tempted.”

“Everyone has the capacity for temptation, even Archangels. Isn’t that why you all keep each other so much in check?”

“Well- I mean- that is-”

“I should think it might be best to remove yourself from the temptation entirely, lest it overcome you.”

Gabriel’s eyes tracked back over to Crowley, who had flung himself onto a bench to wait, arms sprawled out over the back of the bench and thighs so far apart they were occupying different time zones. He made a soft, slightly strangled noise in the back of his throat and nodded.

“You’re right, Aziraphale. I should just keep my distance.”

And then he was gone.

-/-

Five minutes later, Aziraphale took a seat beside Crowley, who shifted enough to oblige him, but not so much that his knee wasn’t brushing against Aziraphale’s, or his hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder on the back of the bench.

“He’s gone, then?”

“Yes. I don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon, either.”

I don’t think we’re giving Harriet Dowling enough credit….like she is so fucking PETTY that when her husband didn’t show up while she was in labour, she literally names their kid WARLOCK.

It’s pretty evident that the name Thaddeus had already been agreed upon, but boy oh boy, you don’t want to let Harriet make decisions while she’s angry

Bold of you to assume I can’t get angsty with this

YEAH WOULD BE TERRIBLE IF I WERE SAD AGAIN

*smirks and cracks knuckles* well now, with an invitation like that…

Missus Harriet Dowling remembers that night well. Thaddeus had flown out the night before, just a bit before midnight, the first chartered flight he could get back stateside, mumbling about the President and his responsibilities and it would only be for a bit, darling, he’d be back in time for the birth, you’ll see…

Except he hadn’t been. Thaddeus hadn’t been back in time and John and Scott had been there but she didn’t want them, she wanted Thaddeus and her Mama had told her about the miracle of childbirth, how safe and easy it was these days but there was a burning deep in the cradle of her hips, a seizing that came from muscles contracting rhythmically and she knows this feeling well, gets it monthly, but not like this, it’s never been like this. This seems heavier somehow, darker, more richer in a way that she can’t place her fingers on.

Wave after wave of pain and cramping overtook her body until Harriet swore that this body was no longer hers, it felt unnatural and heavy, her body round and bloated and she swore, she swore when she wasn’t eyes clenched shut, screaming from the pain of it all, that her belly rippled beneath her shirt, her chest heaved and she gripped Scott’s hand tight, able to feel the way his bones ground together beneath his skin. Visceral the pain grew and grew until…

“Harriet, sweetie, Harriet,” Thaddeus’ voice broke through, a grounding call through the miasmic haze of pain, and she can’t help but yowl his name when he hangs up on her again, the fucking President demanding his attention again like some kind of national disaster being more important than this moment right here, right now; they were having a child, goddamnit, 

“THADDEUS!”

The actual birth, once she’d been deliciously numbed from the waist down by the Nun’s drugs, took very little time at all. In the end, her son was handed to her, slimy and gross and purple with blonde hair smeared across his head, and Harriet is all too glad to hand him back to the Nuns to get cleaned up. When he returns, Thaddeus is no longer on the phone, Scott and John are sharing sips of bourbon in the corner and the Head Nun (or whatever he title is) is standing at her side, her bouncy baby boy in her arms. He feels lighter this time around, but Harriet doesn’t let it bother her. 

The name, when they get to it, was always meant to be Thaddeus, but well, after twenty excruciating hours of labour, Harriet never wants to say her husbands name ever again and well, even if Warlock is an absolutely ridiculous name, in part because its British and she hates this godforsaken country, nothing would make Thaddeus more furious than to have the long Thaddeus Dowling ling broken. Her son deserved to be better than a fourth; Warlock Dowling the first, a proper name for her baby boy.

It takes several years but Harriet, who pours her whole life and self into her son when she’s not busy with other things, realises that she’s… not number one on his list anymore. The Nanny Thaddeus had hired, a strange British woman who looked nothing like Mary Poppins and who wore sunglasses all hours and long dark dresses and spoke with a crisp accent with just a hint of a burr, as though the woman had taught herself to speak correctly despite having lower class roots, had taken Harriets place. Then there was that Gardener, Brother something-or-other, with his ridiculous teeth and wild white hair and the kindest blue eyes, Warlock loved him too; nattered on and on about brother slug and sister snail and love for all creatures great and small, and Harriet often needed a stiff drink at the end of the day to handle it all.

Warlock grew, as all children do, rather akin to a weed. One moment he was teething and learning how to walk, holding Mommy’s hand, the next he was screaming for Nanny when he’d skinned his knee sliding down the bannisters and fallen onto the hardwood polished floors; and he’d been quick to learn that while Mommy loved him lots and lots, she was far far too busy to spend time with him. Luckily, Warlock has Nanny and Brother Francis, who help him with his lessons that he doesn’t understand and John and Scott, who are easily swayed into playing games of football with him (American football, not British football, Mommy doesn’t apree-shee-eight soccer). 

Warlock spends his childhood running around the grounds of his huge manor house and shirking all chores he’s handed by his mother and giving them to the staff. Despite this, and the many playdates that are arranged for him once he starts school, Warlock finds himself at loose ends more often than not. It’s a lonely existence, being an only child. Privileged, certainly, he will realise when he’s older, but lonely all the same. Apart from Nanny and Brother Frances, very few people have time for Warlock before he’s eleven. 

Nanny is his favourite, though it’d break Brother Frances’ heart to hear it he knows so he never says anything, but Nanny with her soft hands and dark glasses not only lets Warlock get away with everything a little boy dreams of and enforces rules very rarely, but also knows when he needs her. Nanny who smells a little bit like an open fire place, with her velvet gowns that are both soft and rough to the touch, Nanny with arms that wrap him in tight hugs when he feels like all the world is breaking around him because even little boys need moments to fall apart in loss of all the things they never had. It is those moments that stop Nanny from truly corrupting him, because kindness and compassion are never evil, and Warlock always preferred mischief to harm like Nanny - and in that, he knows Brother Frances would be very proud.

Years later, Warlock would name his first born son Frances, after the gentle gardner who taught him to love each and every creature great and small, (although his daughter, Antonia, would always hold the softest place in his heart). Brother Frances of the wild white hair and large front teeth, always, always smelt of old books, ink, and wool, though for the life of him, Warlock could not remember any time when he’d seen the ageing gardener with anything but a rake in his hand. Brother Frances had more often than not taken young Warlock by the hand and guided him from plant to plant, teaching him their names and what they liked best; sometimes, Nanny would follow behind, umbrella overhead and a faint, patient smile on her face. 

Warlock remembers those parts of his childhood with fondness, whispering those stories into the hair of his children heads. Stories that his mother, Harriet would listen to when she sat in the rocking chair, a confused frown on her brow because none of Warlock’s memories seemed to match up with her own and his father was as absent then as he still was to that day. Warlock’s not even sure that his father had met him personally until he was four.

That was the biggest, gaping abyss that Scott and John would step into, trying to fill it up to the seams: the absence of his father. 

Thaddeus G. Dowling was a hard man, disciplined but joyous. Warlock remembers his hands most of all, broad and strong and capable of tossing him into the air with ease; not that he was tossed around much at all. Thaddeus, despite his profuse assurances that he’d be there for Warlock as he grew up, missed more than his fair share of the childs life. 

At first, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Who needs to see their childs first steps when you see them chase a ball across the field and score the first goal of the game? Who needs to see their child teeth and speak, when you’re there to catch them win the debating championship in middle school? Who needs to know what their child gets up to as a boy, when you’re there to catch their antics as an eighteen year old and drinking for the first time? 

Thaddeus went from staring at a new born face on an iPad screen to staring into the foreign gaze of a young adult man, serious and steady, telling him that he was going into Environmental Law, as though all Dowling men hadn’t been Republicans and senior advisors to the President before him. Thaddeus did not know his son, not really and wasn’t sure how to bridge the gap that seemed to span between them, an indefinable chasm wrought by years and absence, with other men filling the space where he left.

Harriet has screamed for his presence from day one; but Thaddeus has never answered, too busy for such things, until now, and as he son walked out of the delivery room, daughter in his arms, Thaddeus wonders if this was the moment he’d missed? If this, his son and his wife, heads bent of the small red face of a newborn child, was everything Thaddeus should have been there for…

Had any of the Dowling clan looked up, they might have seen two figures, one with white wings and the other with black, both smiling softly in remembrance as Antonia Johanna Dowling was introduced the to world; and some three years later, they were there again, still smiling brightly, as Francis Scott Dowling was introduced by his older sister, and just before the two Beings left

Warlock Dowling raised his head, met their eyes, and smiled as bright as the sun rise. The years had been kind to them, if not to him, but Warlock had been a child and he’d believed in some miraculous things in his time, and even he knew that Nanny Crowley and Brother Frances had been more than they had seemed.

We don’t have enough warlock and Dowling fanfiction out there and honestly, this is a gift to everyone… freaking fabulous