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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my wonderful gf @zombie-snape​ had this piece commissioned for my birthday from the ludicrously talented @sadfishkid​! it’s based on a scene from our Good Omens fic Won’t You be My Neighbor? that we completed last September (we are Spiro and ProblematicPitch on AO3).

It’s exactly like I imagined and I’m in love 😍

“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. 

“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.”