Hey Artists, Come And Have A Fun! 🙏

I did it! I didn’t believe it (and in myself), but I did second DTIYS and I have an odd feeling that Aziraphale looks a little dead, but he is not! He’s just exhausted. Little bit of stardust, old gods and two lovers, because I can’t draw anything else. Big thanks to @ran196242 for an amazing piece. You make astounding job and I absolutely love your artstyle and comics! Hurry up to read them, guys!!

I think my obsession get started...  ...and I don’t know how much time I spend on this drawing, because my watches has stopped at 5pm, but it’s irrelevant information, you know, I always lose track of the time I look into David’s eyes. (little messed up mouth, tomorrow I have to go to work. oh satan give me a strength)

And they aren't talking. Happy Season 3 revelation! Btw, can you imagine Season 3 will be relased in 2 years at Christmas? CAN YOU IMAGINE?

anyway sure sure we laugh but they really did spend six thousand years in love and terrified about it and i think in the post-armageddon world like. the absence of terror is the terrifying thing. having spent so long looking over each shoulder and slipping past each other in the dark, trying to find each other now in the light–how unsettling that must be.

how devastatingly difficult that must be. 

to reach for his hand and have to remind each other that it’s okay. to lead each other through the first stumbling paces of a slow dance and have to take a breather to swallow back the panic. it’s okay, they tell each other, again and again, trembling fingers on pale faces. it’s okay.

but even immortal beings change and grow and learn, and there is hope here, in this repetition, in this reassurance. it’s okay, it’s okay. crowley initiates a hand-hold one late april night, slipping his hand over aziraphale’s on the table, and aziraphale does not take his hand away. it’s okay, it’s okay. aziraphale sits next to crowley on the sofa one mid-june morning, handing him a cup of coffee, and crowley leans in against him. it’s okay, it’s okay. in september they kiss, all gasping breath and brushing lips, but neither of them draws away.

i love you, aziraphale says, in december. he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because crowley needs gentle things still, sometimes. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged optimism, crowley deserves gentle things sometimes.

crowley is quiet for a long time, swirling the wine in his glass. then he sets the glass aside, takes off his sunglasses, and looks at aziraphale with wet eyes. do you ever miss heaven? he asks.

aziraphale shakes his head. no.

do you regret what happened? crowley presses. do you ever think about going back?

no, aziraphale answers.

if i—if i didn’t love you back, he says, choking on the words a little, would you go back to them?

aziraphale sets his glass aside too, and gets to his knees in front of crowley, taking his hands, pressing his lips to the knuckles. no, he says. if you had your choice, heaven or hell, where would you be, crowley?

with you, crowley says instantly.

so why is it so very hard to believe the same of me? that i would choose you? aziraphale cups one hand to crowley’s cheek. i am not giving up anything by loving you, dear boy. i am finding what i have wanted to find for a very long time.

and if they come for us again? he asks. he’s pressing his cheek hard into aziraphale’s hand though, and aziraphale leans in to press their foreheads together.

then we face them side-by-side. i love you. aziraphale is so close now he can feel the shudder in crowley’s breath when he says it. i love you. i am not afraid.

it’s crowley who closes the distance, who presses in, his mouth hot and desperate and seeking. it’s crowley who slides his arms around aziraphale’s neck, pulling him closer. it’s crowley who makes the noise deep in his throat, the noise it makes when something breaks free: longing, maybe, and hope, and something like belief—faith, not in a higher authority or an ineffable plan, but just in this, here, in them, in crowley&aziraphale, aziraphale-and-crowley, in their heartbeats crashing together and their hands pressed palm to palm.

aziraphale holds him, kisses him back and holds him, stroking soothing paths down his ribs and up his spine. it’s okay, he whispers, taking each biting kiss and turning into a tenderness between them. it’s okay, it’s okay.

crowley kisses him one more time, and it’s slow, this time, and soft, as if he’s finally found the calm in the center of him. as if aziraphale has soothed the shaking out of his limbs and steadied the ground inside his mind. he presses his cheek to aziraphale’s cheek and just listens to him for a moment: the rhythm of his breath, the shift of his clothing. the whisper of his eyes opening and closing, lashes against lashes. the drum of his heart.

i love you, crowley says.

he says it quietly, but not because he’s afraid of who might hear. he says it gently, because aziraphale needs gentle things, sometimes, even if he doesn’t say so. after lifetimes and lifetimes of fear and hurt and ragged faith, aziraphale deserves gentle things sometimes.

he says, i love you, and he knows it’s going to be okay.

it’s okay, it’s okay. it’s okay.

i love you. it’s okay.

Oil on Canvas- ‘Good Omens’, the Garden of Eden in the style of Van Gogh

It was my first time using oils rather than acrylics or watercolor, but this was so much fun to make. And it was totally worth all of the oil paint fumes to see the look on my friend’s face when I gave it to him for his birthday. I can’t thank the creators of this wonderful series enough for inspiring me to make all these artworks and projects as well as for being what brought me and my amazing friend together

I just might hate you, too, he thought. I just thought they are in love and had to draw them. Again.

Hello friends Look at this amazing and marvellous Our Side Pride Zine 2021, full of gorgeous art and fics and love! Download or/and donate if you like to help black trans people ♥ There is also my short comic (about crepe cakes yay), a collaboration with wonderful @suvroc​ - thank you again :)

IT’S PRIDE MONTH HERE IN THE UNITED STATES, the yearly celebration of the wider LGBTQIA+ community!

And we’re pleased to announce our DIGITAL ONLY zine “Our Side Pride 2021″.

DOWNLOAD HERE: https://oursidezine.itch.io/pride2021

This DIGITAL ONLY edition features 46 authors, artists, and cosplayers–members of the LGBTQIA+ community AND our allies!

So come enjoy a celebration, Good Omens style!

Be aware there are FOUR versions–all clearly labeled:

– Safe For Work (gen audiences through teen) LOW QUALITY (smaller file)   – Safe For Work (gen audiences through teen) full resolution

And

– NOT Safe For Work (gen audiences, teen, mature, and explicit) LOW QUALITY (smaller file)   – NOT Safe For Work (gen audiences, teen, mature, and explicit)  full resolution *Please do not download NSFW unless you are 18+*

This is a FREE digital zine. We have also provided a way to give back by offering the chance to make an at-will donation at download if you wish. The donation option will be available until June 30, 2021 and all money (after fees) will go towards the Marsha P. Johnson Institute (created to elevate, support, and nourish the voices of BLACK trans people through arts and community organization).

Happy Bunnies to everyone!

Happy Easter from these two lovebuns!

Keep reading

That terrifing moment you see an amazing art/fic, immediately and subconsciously like it, then realize you already liked them so this little heart is breaking apart (and yours too) and you stop breathing, hit the like button again and hope the artist never notice.

It’s a lovestory ♥️

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. Crowley has known that look since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he finds himself a little unmoored, when he finds himself a little directionless. It’s a look he wears when he begins to doubt himself.

He’s wearing it now, sitting across from Crowley, half-drunk on Chateau d’Yquem, paused midway through a ramble on books adapted into films. He blinks at Crowley once, twice; his brow furrows. 

“Angel?” Crowley asks, sitting up. “S’wrong?”

“Do you know,” Aziraphale says, quite wonderingly, “I think I’m an idiot.” 

Crowley can’t help it - he laughs, snorting through his nose. “You’re not,” he says. “You’re the cleverest–the cleverest clever to ever clever.”

“See, that, right there!” Aziraphale says, pointing at Crowley. “That’s it! That’s why I am idiot.”

Crowley laughs harder. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“You!” Aziraphale half-shouts. “You’re in love with me!”

There’s a ringing silence in the bookshop as Crowley’s laugh cuts out. They stare at one another. 

“Fuck’s sake, angel,” Crowley says quietly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sober up.”

There’s a soft shimmer of a miracle being performed, and then they’re still both looking at each other in the silence. Aziraphale’s hands twist and curl together. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers, cringing at himself. “I don’t know–I didn’t know.” 

Crowley heaves himself up off the sofa, gathering up his jacket. “Nothing for you to be sorry for,” he says amicably. “I’ll just, er, see myself out, I think, call it an early night.”

“Wait–” Aziraphale’s hand catches in his elbow, and Crowley can feel him stepping up close behind him, though he doesn’t turn to look. “Wait,” he repeats. His voice is soft, like unbearably tender. Crowley closes his eyes against it. “I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you,” Crowley says, as calmly as he can. He can feel himself shaking under Aziraphale’s hand, just like one of his plants. “It wasn’t supposed to–it’s not a big deal, angel.”

“It is a big deal,” Aziraphale tells him softly. “Look at me.”

I’m sorry, Aziraphale will say. I didn’t know, he’ll say. It’d be better if you didn’t, he’ll say. Couldn’t you just - miracle it away?

Crowley looks, though. Aziraphale asked him to. Of course he looks. 

There’s a way Aziraphale looks sometimes. It’s a look Crowley’s known since the very beginning, since the garden. It’s a look he wears when he offers a wing to shelter under in a storm. It’s a look he wears when he holds out a hand before the end of the world. It’s a look that looks a lot like love. 

“Leave it,” Crowley says. It’s a demand because he can’t bear for it to be plea. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says again. “I didn’t know. I thought it was just–I thought it was just me.” There’s a wobbly sort of grin spreading across his face. “I thought it was just me, reflecting back. I’m such an idiot.” 

Crowley stares at him. Doesn’t flinch away when Aziraphale touches his cheek. “You mean to say, you–?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “How could I not?” 

And it’s true. It’s true because Crowley would feel it, if it were a lie. It’s true because Crowley would see it, if it were a lie. 

It’s true because Aziraphale would never lie to him about love.

“Oh my God,” Crowley says, for the first time in six thousand years. “We’re both bloody idiots.”

It doesn’t matter, not right now. Right now, Aziraphale is kissing him, and Crowley has already spent too much time not kissing him back to worry about it any longer.