I love how after Crowley makes it to Tadfield airbase in the flaming Bentley, he gets out and says "you won't get that kind of a performance from a MODERN car!"

As if any car performs at all when it's on fire.

HE'S the reason it performed the way it did; it didn't have to do with the car. It had to do with HIS LOVE for the car.

I just love that he cares about the car so much that instead of priding himself on a job well-done, he gives ALL OF THE CREDIT to the Bentley.

8 hours ago

It’s been almost six months and nearly every day I still think about that angel and demon being ridiculously in love.

14 hours ago

Crowley: hey what’s up just checking if you’re still alive

Eve, holding her months old baby: no thanks to you. tea?

Crowley: i’m good. what’s that

Eve: a child

Crowley: ?

Eve: apprently we’re designed to give birth in pain, and our kin will have to be raised from a grub instead of springing into existence fully formed and conscious

Crowley: haha that’s wild

Eve: ikr can you imagine. here hold them

Crowley, voice cracking: sure

Eve: they haven’t even developed object permanence yet

Crowley, choked up: that’s pathetic

21 hours ago

Crowley: What's the first thing you notice when someone approaches you?

Aziraphale: The audacity.

2 days ago

Got inspired by an interview... What dorks

2 days ago

XD 😈😇🐍

2 days ago

Leonardo

Tiziano

Pozzoserrato

Beato Angelico

And my personal favorites:

Savinio

and Tissot

“Ecce ancilla Domini, I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel.”

I’m begging you to do the Rossetti

i was about to say “leave henry ossawa turner alone” but then i remembered you can’t even see gabriel’s face, so now i’m intensely curious for OP’s interpretation.

I’ll be honest, that was hard. So have 2 versions: 

He lurks 

And he thanks for his pornography

2 days ago

TARTAN IS STYLISH!!!!!!!

2 days ago

Sometimes Aziraphale feels old. Or, he feels weary and achy and tired. He is old, that’s for certain, but angels don’t really get old. He’d been wearing this face since the dawn of time, and sometimes his cheeks were plumper or thinner, and sometimes there were bags under his eyes, but it hadn’t aged a day. Sometimes he remembers the inquisitions, the revolutions, the crusades, the war and the horror of it all, and he laments how much his years have let him see. 

And then Crowley will do something like start humming. He’s wandering around the bookshop, idly rearranging things. Aziraphale doesn’t have his books arranged by the alphabet or Dewey Decimal–no silly human classification. He’s not an animal, he has a system, it’s just that only he knows what it is. And Crowley, maybe. He seems to have figured it out, or otherwise is using his demonic instincts, because he’s putting the books he plucks from the shelves in exactly the worst place he could put them. Aziraphale would be mad, but it gives him something to look busy doing when customers come in asking questions. 

He can’t place the tune. It’s familiar, so familiar, but he can’t place it. He doesn’t realize at first that he’s been following Crowley around the shop, brows furrowed, following the sound like a bee tracking pollen. 

Crowley finally notices him, but doesn’t stop, making contact through his glasses as he reshelves a book. The humming gets a little louder, a little more pointed and teasing. 

“What is that tune?” Aziraphale finally asks. “It’s driving me mad.” 

Crowley quirks a grin, taking a moment before he stops to respond. “Willard Bourke. Pianist. We saw him play in the 70s, in that little tavern, you remember. You thought he was handsome.” 

Aziraphale blushes, but, yes, he does remember now. They’d been there for a drink, and Aziraphale had been mesmerized by the man’s deft fingers. “Ah.” Aziraphale clears his throat. Crowley says the 70s, like there’d been only one of them, but it had in fact been the 1770s when they’d heard him play. “I do remember, yes. I thought he’d be famous. Pity no one remembers.” 

“We do,” Crowley says, and goes back to humming. 

Or that time he stops by Crowley’s flat, just for some tea, just for a chat. He finds Crowley in the middle of cooking, cursing quietly to himself. The demon looks frustrated. He’s positively glowering when Aziraphale enters. 

Aziraphale surveys his ingredients, face screwing in confusion. “Whatever are you cooking?” 

“Stew,” Crowley responds glumly. “Or, at least, I’m trying to. I can’t get it right.” 

“Part of the joy of stew is that you don’t have to get it right.” He waves his hands. “The pot does most of the work.” 

Crowley hisses, raising his fingers to rub against his eyes. “No, it’s … It’s a specific stew. I’ve been craving it for ages, but no one makes it anymore. It came with these little roasted dill seed bread balls and …” He cuts himself off. 

“Crowley–” Aziraphale squints suspiciously. “How old is this recipe, exactly?” 

Crowley sighs, already defeated. “Mesopotamia?” he ekes out, abashed. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, good! It’ll be a challenge, then.” He pulls the spoon from Crowley’s hand, taking a sip. “Juniper berries,” he decides. “You need juniper berries.” 

Or when Warlock is young, maybe 6, not more than 7, though Aziraphale finds it so hard to keep track. He and Nanny Ashtoreth are sitting in the garden, drawing. It’s one of the rare moments when they’re both calm, worn out from a long day of chasing and yelling and plotting. 

Aziraphale pretends to mind his rosebushes, but he’s been watching them for some time. Finally, he breaks and walks over. 

“Ah, young master Warlock,” he says, peering over their shoulders. “What a wonderful drawing you’ve done. You like dinosaurs, hmm?” 

Warlock looks up, colored pencil held tight in his fist. “Nanny is teaching me about extinct animals. Like dinosaurs and thylacines and unicorns.” 

Aziraphale shoots Nanny Ashtoreth a look. She doesn’t look back. 

Warlock pipes up again. “Nanny invented dinosaurs, did you know?” 

“Did she now?” Aziraphale asks. It’s hard to keep his voice straight, because he knows this to be a fact. Crowley had been quite drunk at the time, but he thought it would be hilarious. “Big ‘ol lizards,” he’d said, “just huge, you know. Like a dragon, but they’ll think they’re real, see. Biggest things ever. ‘ould barely fit in the garden, them. Big buggers.” 

Warlock nods. “My favorite is the T-Rex. Nanny says it would eat you in one bite.” 

Aziraphale hums, discontented, as Nanny Ashtoreth quirks a grin. He spares a glance at what she’s drawing, and stops. It’s the most beautiful drawing of a passenger pigeon he’s ever seen. The reds and blues of it, every detail in its feathers. They’d seen them together, before, before they’d all gotten hunted out. 

“It’s a lovely drawing, Nanny,” he says, voice a little more earnest than he means it to be. 

The pencil stops, then keeps going. 

Warlock looks up at him again. “Nanny says she ate the last one.” 

“I did,” Nanny Ashtoreth responds. “And don’t you forget it.” 

It’s the little things, the things that, by himself, Aziraphale might not remember. It’s the feel of the earliest silk, the thrill of his first moving picture, the clamor of a Roman marketplace on a hot day. Aziraphale is good at the experiencing, but Crowley has always been one for the remembering. Things stick with him. Things that, otherwise, would have been lost to time. 

They’re curled up in bed, two commas together, and it’s been one of those days. Every shine is the glint of a sword, every wayward noise a battle cry, and Aziraphale can’t seem to stop remembering. He remembers the mess and the horror of it, he remembers the loss. All six-thousand years of loss. 

Aziraphale swallows, and he hates how thick his throat feels. “Tell me good things,” he asks, meek, tired, and Crowley hums and presses a kiss into his shoulder. 

Do you remember? Crowley asks, and keeps going. Do you remember, do you remember?

Yes, Aziraphale responds. Yes, yes, I do now. 

They lay there, and remember together, six-thousand years of good and light, and fun and joy, and it’s easier. It doesn’t take away all the bad that he’s seen, but it’s easier. He remembers the food and the smells and the heavy cotton, and the music and the laughter and his first taste of wine. The bad isn’t gone, but there’s good, too, pushing it’s way in to make room. 

Do you remember when we met? Crowley whispers, their hands linking. 

Aziraphale pulls them up to place a kiss against his knuckles. It was so long ago, a lifetime, but yes, he does. 

I remember, he says. 

2 days ago

Concept art: “OK here’s the bookshop”

“Nice. Needs more books though”

“OK”

Concept art: “Bookshop, interior (detail)”

“Yeah, needs more books”

“OK”

“No, we said”

“OK”

2 days ago

The concept of aziraphale finally getting into ebooks but doing it horribly wrong is killing me...Crowley sees a small shelf of e-readers shelved like normal books. Each 64gb kindle has one edition of one online exclusive piece of literature on it

To everyone who has mentioned that aziraphale has done this on purpose; you’re absolutely right and this is the best interpretation of his face every time crowley gets in a tizzy about it

3 days ago

beeb

3 days ago

Crowley, drunk: I don't trust ducks. Fucking hollow bones. Suspicious. What are you hiding in there?

Aziraphale, also drunk: Love.

Crowley: Fuck. Shit. You're right. Fuck.

3 days ago

You know how Good Omens is the show that keeps on giving? Well, I - a hungry, hungry detail and research fiend - ended up down a rabbit hole in the details of Aziraphale’s bookshop from the bookshop tour.

Took me a bit of digging but this is the full-size copy of the Durer woodcut. It’s one of a collection he did focused on the Apocalypse, titled The Relevations of St. John. Yup. St. John of Patmos.

Specifically, this one pertains to the opening of the fifth and sixth seals in Revelations 6, verses 9-17.

Interesting that of all the illustrations they chose to have lying around on his desk, it’s the one that comes after the horsemen have been summoned, which is both the previous illustration and the previous verses of Revelations.

At this point, Aziraphale knows the horsemen have been summoned. Gabriel and Sandalphon told him, so he isn’t wasting time with that - he’s working out what is coming next. (And for all that Crowley insists he doesn’t read, look at that - stars falling down and sky going red, just like the book says…)

Bless the set-dressers on this show. They didn’t miss a trick even for stuff we never got to see for more than a blink and miss moment.

3 days ago

Wensleydale: Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.

Pepper: fight Everyone you meet.

Always.

Brian: y eet.

Always.

3 days ago

为good omens fanbook《勾股定理》画的插图，现在解禁了∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

4 days ago

Today’s #ineffableholidays prompt was ice skating. So here is Crowley, causing some trouble at Rockefeller, before heading over to see a friend in Brooklyn.

My rule for these if I do them at all is that they can only take 30-40 minutes because I’m too busy, so they’ll be rough. Hope you enjoy anyway!

4 days ago

Hastur: *pushing a door that says 'pull'*

Crowley, filming him: Just push harder.

4 days ago

beelzebub, disguised as a waiter: hello welcome to applebees, would you like the apples or the bees?

gabriel: the bees??????

beelzebub: HE ASKED FOR THE BEES!!!!!!

(an entire swarm of bees rises out of the kitchen)

4 days ago

Ineffable quick pen sketch ⚡️🖊

4 days ago