#go-events

Snektember 3rd: ducks

This will be a much more free-form event, the GO+Queen Creator's Fest. 

Once you've signed up, you can post GO-related works inspired by any Queen song which was NOT featured in the GO teleseries (list available here) at any time during the fest. 

You can post one work or several, written works, art works, or any other type of work, as long as it relates to Good Omens and one of the eligible Queen songs. Works will be included in an AO3 collection and a tumblr masterpost which be made at the end of the fest. 

In order to be included in the collection and on the masterpost, all you have to do is sign up, and then submit an entry for each work you create on the work posting announcement form for the fest. (You will receive that link in an email after your sign-up is processed.) 

Open sign-ups will close on April 15 (you can be added after that date by sending an ask to the go-events tumblr or messaging the mods on our discord.) The posting period will run from April 15, 2021 through July 1, 2021, and again, you can post at any time during that posting period, and as many or as few works as you’d like. 

One final note: There will be no amnesty period for this event, as the posting is much more informal here than usual.

Written for - Good Omens + Queen Fest

Rate: G

Summary:  Crowley was drowning his sorrow after he saw the bookshop on fire and Aziraphale, his Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, and he was worried.

The late afternoon sun bathed the Tadfield village green in the gentle warmth of British summer. It had also been steadily baking the back of Crowley's head for the last 45 minutes. He adjusted the collar on his polo shirt, trying in vain to find some cover for his prickling skin, but it was already too late. A few years (and the rest) had passed since he'd last played cricket, but remembering the sun cream was up there on the list of basic tasks any adult should've had a handle on by now, right alongside "tie your shoes" and "make sure you've put trousers on". With a frustrated huff, he tightened his grip around the cricket ball in his hand, trying very hard not to think about how it was now the same colour as his neck.

If anyone had asked Crowley where he saw himself by the time he got to his mid-forties, his answer would not have involved standing on the rec in the middle of some piddling Oxfordshire village. After years of living in the heart of London, it was at least an interesting change of pace. Tadfield was one of those biscuit-tin, postcard-perfect, six-time winner of Britain in Bloom type of villages. Its streets were lined with crooked old buildings; a little stone church that Crowley avoided at all costs, and two restaurants that were only ever open for three hours on a Tuesday afternoon.

And, of course, there was the Sunday cricket league.

Joining in hadn't been his idea. It felt a little tacky, if he was honest - former professional cricketer gatecrashing the local league to recapture some former glory was more than a little pathetic. That had all been Anathema's doing. His favourite niece (his only niece) had moved out to the countryside years ago, and finally twisted Crowley's arm into getting away from his old demons and starting somewhere new. It was her bright idea that he should try the Sunday league, "to make some friends". Knowing that he would never hear the end of it, Crowley relented and signed up - though "league" seemed a rather generous name for what was effectively two teams that played each other every Sunday for five months of the year.

Regardless, Crowley now found himself under a cloudless sky bowling his first match for Lower Tadfield, while a handful of people watched from the benches dotted around the perimeter of the village green. He rubbed at his sore neck while he waited for the next person to come to bat. Predictably, he'd made fairly short work of the Upper Tadfield line up. Not that he was bragging or anything, but it might have been a new low if he’d managed to fuck up Sunday league cricket.

The next Upper Tadfield batsman stepped up to the wicket and waved a quick hello to the umpire. Crowley smirked a little. Oh, he looked soft. Very soft, in fact. Also quite blonde. And his round cheeks were doing something uncomfortable to Crowley's insides. As the batsman took up his position, the rolled up sleeves of his cricket whites showed off surprisingly toned forearms. He adjusted his grip on the bat, and there was a brief hint of thick cords of muscle moving under pale skin. Crowley clenched his jaw and threatened his brain with an afternoon of talking to Anathema about crystals if it didn’t stop bloody eyeing up Mr Soft.

Pushing all that nonsense to one side, Crowley rolled his shoulders and took a running start before lobbing the ball across the crease. He readied himself for the satisfying sound of the ball crashing into the wicket, and perhaps taking a little bit of guilty pleasure in watching Mr Soft's smile fall.

Instead there was a resounding crack as the ball connected with the bat, and Crowley watched dumbfounded as it sailed overhead to land cleanly outside the boundary of the field, while his teammate Ligur trudged after it sullenly.

“That’s six for Fell!” the umpire shouted.

Crowley turned around to take another look at the batsman. He was looking out over the field with the satisfied smile of someone who’d just successfully straightened a slightly crooked painting in their downstairs landing. Then he took out an actual handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was absolutely ridiculous and Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.

Well, this might be a problem.

***

Knocked For Six is the story of Anthony J Crowley, a former professional cricket player who fell from grace after a match fixing scandal, as he settles into his new life in the countryside. He finds himself drawn to Aziraphale Fell, the eccentrically old-fashioned owner of the village bookshop, and the two quickly become friends. As affections grow and arrangements are made, Crowley tries to navigate his feelings for Aziraphale while still dealing with a few of his old demons. And I guess there's a bit of cricket every so often.

“How did you get in here, you little Warlock…?”

The first part of a (human) Animal Rescue AU for the Good AUmens event! Bookshop owner Aziraphale finds a tiny black kitten causing mischief in his shop…

by The_Ineffable_Zephyr (tickety-boo-af here on Tumblr) and The_Bentley.

Covid-19 has become a pandemic, The Them have disappeared and someone has summoned Crowley and Aziraphale to figure it all out even though nothing is adding up. Seemingly separate events might all be more interconnected than the two realize . . . The cardboard shipping box contained a lacquered wooden box that struck fear in Crowley’s heart as he pulled it out. Wasn’t this the box that contained Famine’s scales? He stopped breathing as he opened the box to view them lying inside on a cushion of red velvet. Slamming it shut, he put the box back on the passenger seat and sped home.

“Aziraphale!” he called as he entered the kitchen, carrying both packages and the grocery bag. He had only remembered to breathe again when he needed to use his voice.

Shoving the groceries, bag and all, in the fridge, he searched the cottage for Aziraphale, finding him in the living room standing over the couch and the long cardboard box sitting on it. On top of the box lay Aziraphale’s old sword in its sheath.

Crowley stopped short as his partner looked up at him, the expression on Aziraphale’s face was one of panic. His blue eyes flicked to the wooden box Crowley carried. Tossing the package containing their custom masks on the nearby chair, Crowley opened it with shaking hands to show him the scales.

“Nowhere to put the cuffs, you see,” he adds, gesturing altogether unnecessarily at his lack of pockets, or belt loops, or any such holding device - and Crowley whimpers.

It’s a quiet noise, half-choked and entirely involuntary, and it gives Aziraphale that last bit of courage he’s been needing. He steps close, closer, close enough to lift Crowley’s chin with one hand - he can feel the demon swallow reflexively by the brush of his Adam’s apple against the backs of his fingers - and lowers his voice so only the two of them can hear.

“Now behave yourself,” he murmurs, and it takes all his self-control to keep his voice steady. “Or I really will have to arrest you.”