Sunday Afternoon Plans, At The Usual Spot

I’m going to be very feral, very very very feral.

Here you go. The Good Omens S2 Episode 1 title sequence, by Peter Anderson Studios, music by David Arnold. We warned you it was madder than the S1 titles, and it is. I think it's really good.

I don't see any single difference. Still a bit of bastard and nice person.

Seen around these Reverse Crowley and Aziraphale arts and wanted to do my own take on it ✨ So here they are - Demon Aamon and Angel Rafael 🖤

You can find these as full size printable images or get them as prints, but Tumblr currently hates me so the link is in Instagram bio 👌

Heyyy, here is new picture of two morons, for new chapter of It never hurts to keep looking for sunshine and I dare to quote my dear friend and author of this fic @elfontheshelves: Aziraphale must be completely blind cause that is the look of a completely smitten man. Yes, it is. He is fucked. Welcome to cool mornings, warm hands and scarfs, and unexpected but endearing meetings. Lot of fluff and fun, I promise, I melted at the spot. 

Hello! Not the promised angst, but I needed to cheer myself up today, so here’s some cuteness, a touch of emotional hurt, and a soft ending.

(CW for discussion of drunken shenanigans, after the fact, extremely mild.)

–

The moment Crowley woke up, he knew something was wrong.

Even with his eyes closed – the room smelled too dusty, the air too dry. The pillows were too soft, the sheets nowhere near Egyptian cotton, and he was burrowed under a blanket that was thicker and heavier than anything he owned. It was comfortable, but it was wrong.

There was also someone moving nearby, footsteps treading softly near the bed.

Old instincts activated, bringing him from drowsy to alert in less than a second, without changing his posture in any way. Let the intruder think he still slept. He pictured the layout of his room, the distance to the door, the exact spot of the fancy lamp on his bedside table. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it should buy time. He’d need to roll over, it was behind him, and from the sound of it the intruder was…inside…the wall?

Pressing his face into the pillow, Crowley slowly cracked open one eye.

The wall was much farther away than he remembered, and the room much brighter, and filled with bookshelves, and…

“For Ssssssomeone’s sake, Angel,” he groaned, sitting up. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Aziraphale turned from where he was sliding books onto a shelf, blinking innocently. “I’m terribly sorry, did I wake you?”

Weiterlesen

I accept no criticism

Hello everyone!

First, I would like to thank all people, who liked my shitty paintings - I really appreciate it and you make me happy ♥️

Anyway, I picked up this package today and you can guess what is it. New inspiration arrived and I am prepare to read whole night, yaaay!

And one last think, GO is not going to die. Nope, never, 's not happening.

A Good Day

by Kait Rokowski

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries, took the bus home, carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment and cooked myself dinner. You and I may have different definitions of a good day. This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill, worked 60 hours between my two jobs, only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks and slept like a rock. Flossed in the morning, locked my door, and remembered to buy eggs. My mother is proud of me. It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course. She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale” with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs” But she is proud. See, she remembers what came before this. The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles, how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks. She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide. These were the bad days. My life was a gift that I wanted to return. My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs. Depression, is a good lover. So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you. And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world, That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting. It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created. Today, I slept in until 10, cleaned every dish I own, fought with the bank, took care of paperwork. You and I might have different definitions of adulthood. I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college, but I don’t speak for others anymore, and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for. And my mother is proud of me. I burned down a house of depression, I painted over murals of greyscale, and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live But today, I want to live. I didn’t salivate over sharp knives, or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge. I just cleaned my bathroom, did the laundry, called my brother. Told him, “it was a good day.”

They said a bottle of wine a day is not bad, so I bought a very fancy bottle today (by accident, wrong price tag, wrong bottle) and opened for celebrating and it was so gooood! Happy Azirafeast!

(just a messy sketch today)

Just borrowed ipad, working on a new thing and waiting for a new episode.

I miss drawing. Hopefully I’m back.

Draw me like one of your ineffable husbands.

Regency Aziraphale and Crowley in the style of Ingres’s portrait drawings.

I remember copying Ingres at school was gruelling but equally rewarding. It usually involved hours at the Met drawing room with a magnifier. Each one of his lines is expressive, and every edge is finely controlled. An Ingres copy wouldn’t have the feel of the original at all if it’s not done this carefully with a SHAAARP pencil on very smooth paper. (Ironically, not Ingres paper...)

I took out the same magnifier and all the Ingres catalogues I could find at my place for this drawing too... The struggle is real (?)