I'm FeralTuxedo on Ao3 and I write Good Omens fanfiction, Human AU in particular. You can find my work here
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FeralTuxedo's Good Omens AU Recs for recommendations and reviews of my favourite Good Omens human AU fanfiction.
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Overthinking fanfiction for the hell of it for my musings and analysis of fanfiction conventions, tropes, etc.
Good Omens Fic Recs for general fic recs, including non-AU specific roundups
I'm in the throes of a serious bout of writer's block at the moment, but very slowly a new fic is emerging. I'm only getting a few sentences written each day, but it's better than nothing, right?
With this one, I'm sticking very firmly to my comfort zone.
Since there's been so much love for Intermezzo in the past few weeks (thank you to all of you who have read and enjoyed it), and this new fic is very much Intermezzo 2.0 in terms of tropes, vibes.... everything really... what better time to share a bit of it?
Anyway, here's a snippet of said WIP. Ex rockstar Crowley meets classical musician Aziraphale. Rock music and bickerflirting aplenty:
Aziraphale was still digging through the mess of cables on the search for one that didn’t look like it might electrocute his bass guitar, when the door opened again.
This time it really was Anthony Crowley who strode through it. In the flesh. God, he was striking. Taller than Aziraphale had imagined, and skinnier. In his Hellspawn days, he’d been dressed in heavy leather jackets and those impossibly tight jeans everyone insisted on wearing a decade ago. His hair had trailed behind him like a cloud made of pure fire when he’d strutted across the stage in snake-skin boots. Statuesque, drawn in sharp lines like a Picasso masterpiece come to life.
Present-day Crowley looked a lot more casual in a black hoodie, short hair, and, surprisingly, no sunglasses. A guitar case was slung over one shoulder, a messenger bag across the other. Like any other mortal walking the streets of London. Still outrageously good-looking, mind, middle age be damned. Aziraphale barely had time to notice the deep brown colour of his eyes, before they glared right at him.
‘Can’t get an espresso anywhere in this place. Oi Blondie, be an angel and go fetch one, would you? Double shot, no sugar.’
Aziraphale jumped to his feet. He’d never before felt quite so threatened by the words be an angel. The pathetic part of his brain that was still stuck in 2015 didn’t fail to point out that Anthony Crowley snapping at him to get coffee was the hottest thing that had happened to him all year.
Anathema stopped him with an outstretched arm before he reached the door, eyebrow raised in disapproval.
‘Don’t you fucking dare.’
He flinched at the fire in her voice before he realised it was aimed squarely at Anthony Crowley.
‘You don’t have the name, money, or credibility to boss people around these days, so shut up, sit down, and listen.’
Crowley waved his arms about to demonstrate the rehearsal room's utter lack of seating options. Even the drum stool was cluttered with assorted cardboard boxes. Anathema ignored him.
‘Aziraphale isn’t your personal coffee boy. He’s in the band, so you better treat him right or you’ll be playing without a bass, which is literally impossible.’
Crowley crossed his arms.
‘Jim Morrison managed.’
‘You’re not Jim Morrison.’
‘And the White Str—’
Anathema cut him off with a sound that could only be described as a hiss.
Anthony Crowley turned to face him again, and god-in-heaven, Aziraphale was not prepared for the effect of the man he’d spent many a lonely night fantasising about actually acknowledging his existence.
Admittedly, he didn’t look all that pleased about it.
‘So you’re actually a bass player? Like a proper one?’
Alright, that wasn’t the tone he’d hoped to hear out of Anthony Crowley’s mouth. Aziraphale picked up his bass guitar and clutched it tight, with the sinking feeling that perhaps there was truth to that saying about never meeting one’s heroes.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You look like you’ve just passed your grade four exam, paid for by mummy.’
‘Actually, I have an MMus in Performance.’
‘A what?’
‘A Master’s degree.’
Which is more than Anthony Crowley had managed. 3 GCSEs, and none of them in music, if Wikipedia was to be believed. Aziraphale held onto just enough tact not to point that out. He raised his chin a fraction and noticed a shift in Anthony Crowley’s gaze, perhaps a smidgen of respect creeping into those deep brown eyes.
‘You can get a degree in bass guitar?’
‘You can, though mine’s in cello.’
Crowley’s eyes narrowed and the trace of respect vanished, as if he had a personal vendetta against the cello. That certainly didn’t bode well for Aziraphale’s prospects in his band.
‘Yeah, well, I don’t think faffing about with an overpriced bit of wood between your legs qualifies you to play in my band. Not that I wouldn’t pay good money to see that, mind…’
The mix of embarrassment, indignation, and the hot flush of feeling star struck did strange things to Aziraphale. It made him drop his bass, which landed on his foot. This was great news for the bass, since Aziraphale’s foot was a good deal softer than the thin carpet.
Not such great news, however, for his toes.
‘Botheration,’ he yelped, grabbing the bass to lean it against one of the many amps that surrounded him.
‘Botheration?’ Crowley repeated. ‘Fucking hell, Anathema, where d’you find these people?’
Anathema’s disapproving eyebrow rose a little higher.
‘I found him at a strip club, actually.’
‘I was playing the cello!’ Aziraphale corrected hastily, as he wiggled his toes, just to make sure they were all still attached.
The G String was London’s only classical-music themed strip club. Or at least that was what the manager claimed, and Aziraphale had never bothered googling the matter. The music was easy, the audience distracted enough not to notice when he hadn’t practiced that week.
Crowley’s gaze shot back to Aziraphale, raking over him from head to throbbing toe and back. The irritation from just a moment ago made way to… admiration? Sweet Jesus, he was looking at him, and he clearly liked what he saw, judging by the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
‘With your clothes on?’
‘Of course with my clothes on,’ Aziraphale huffed, trying his hardest not to look too pleased with the once-over he was receiving.
Lovely Marnie asked me to draw this and gift it to @feraltuxedo for their fanfic Intermezzo. I don't really do commissions but I HAD to do this, because Intermezzo is fantastic. If you haven't read it yet, bookmark it:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
This is absolutely AMAZING, thank you so much! What a gorgeous piece, I love the detail on the guitar and Crowley's whole smug/sexy expression, presumably looking straight at Aziraphale. Absolutely blown away by this piece of art ❤️
My 1930's kidnapping AU is now complete! You can expect much silliness, some smut, and a hint of mystery.
Criminal Pursuits by FeralTuxedo
E, 19219 words.
Summary:
1931. When professional scoundrel Crowley is tasked with the kidnapping of author and rich kid Aziraphale Fell, it appears to be a job like any other. His victim's enthusiasm to be kidnapped comes as a bit of a surprise.
Nearly exactly a year after finishing this, I've now started posting the sequel. The first chapter out of four is out now, in which we catch up with professional scoundrel Crowley and former kidnap victim Aziraphale:
The Art of Subterfuge by FeralTuxedo
Rating: E
Summary:
1931. Erstwhile kidnapper Crowley and bohemian novelist Aziraphale arrive at Jasmine Cottage for a night of drink and debauchery. But there’s more to be dealt with than posh talk and weird cocktails, and Crowley finds that, once again, his particular skills as a professional scoundrel are required.
Since his wife divorced him, A.J. Crowley makes good money writing romance novels. Having his characters fall in love is far less risk than doing it himself, especially while he takes the time to explore exactly who he is and what he likes in the bedroom.
Sexual psychology student and cam worker Aziraphale enjoys understanding pleasure. But only from a safe distance. He's too busy working on his PhD to fall in love. The idea of making himself so vulnerable to rejection again is, quite frankly, terrifying.
It seems a simple enough arrangement to help each other out, and lend a hand when needed. They are such big fans of each others' *work*, after all.
Length: 44,049 words
AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Best for: At Home, After Dark, Human AU, Comedy
Triggers: None
Read it here, fic by TawnyOwl95
*Minor Spoilers* How the hell do you guys keep coming up with the most devilishly good stories?? Here we have Crowley as a romance writer, who is just coming to terms with his queerness and lack of sex life. Aziraphale is a sex researcher who struggles with relationships and lets out steam by performing on cam. This premise really intrigued me because you’d expect the roles to be reversed. Usually Crowley is depicted as the sexual one, and Aziraphale the bookish professor. This story said nah flip the script. This was absolutely delightful. The chemistry was off the charts. They can’t handle 5 minutes in each other’s presence without wanting to devour each other. They are exactly what each other needs and wants sexually, but they'll come to find out it's more than just that. They compliment each other so perfectly intellectually and that's what I love in every iteration! How they can volley ideas back and forth and keep up with each other's wit. Their relationship has great ups and downs, and I was engaged the entire time. The only thing that took me getting used to was Aziraphale as a youngish student. It's in character definitely, but he's not tickety-boo grandpa here and at first it felt strange. The author has a handle on it though, and I bought into this younger Aziraphale fairly quick.
That’s not all there is to this story though. We have excellent side characters with Gabriel, Nina, Maggie, and Warlock all used to wonderful effect. I particularly loved Gabriel, who was so funny in every scene leaning into his Jimbriel side. Warlocks addition proved to be a great plot line too. I was a little worried about that side at first but ended up really happy for his inclusion.
The other amazing thing about this story is that it works as a meta commentary on smut that felt like a mini therapy session for the reader. A big part of Aziraphale’s work, and their discussions, revolve around why people read smut. How it soothes anxiety by redirecting negative thoughts into pleasurable ones. The safety and comfort that smut brings due to the lack of visuals and real world hang-ups. The way it’s cathartic for both writer and reader. It sees us and says, we both know why we’re here let’s make the most of it shall we? Not only was it fun to read in that meta way, it was a genuinely insightful conversation.
Some more word salad to describe this one: bold, mature, thoughtful, hot as fuck, funny, engaging, and did I mention hot as fuck? At home after dark read. I binged this one, you’re going to get sucked into this plot so I’d carve out some time for a single sitting.
I remember now why I asked you for this specifically: I read a fanfic recently where the Aziraphale bought an all white tuxedo and I was reminded of this outfit in series 1. Here it is, I can highly recommend, it’s a human AU set in a very musical world that I enjoyed very much:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
by the talented and most appropriately named @feraltuxedo (shout out!!!)
Connoisseur of Good Omens Human AU
this one is for you! I hope it’s close to what you had in mind when you wrote that? Of course in yours there are also coattails. Maybe you can link here from the fic to illustrate how darling he looks in this outfit, in case anyone forgot
I will forever be annoyed that I didn't go through the trouble of looking at the heaven outfit while I wrote that scene - because yes, the scene in which Aziraphale finds the white suit was supposed to be exactly that suit, but due to my own bad memory and laziness, I ended up accidentally describing it as stark white instead of cream 😭
The Runaway by FeralTuxedo
Rated E
Summary:
DI Aziraphale Fell is tasked with investigating the death of a young sex worker. With the help of witness Anthony Crowley, he sets off on a mission to uncover dark secrets while keeping his own. If anyone finds out that the victim spent the last night of his life with him, everything could be over.
A gritty cop drama AU.
Started posting my new AU! I know, now is a weird time to do that, but I've been sitting on this one for a while and I'm quite excited about it. It's a shamelessly trope-y gritty crime thriller/drama. Detective Aziraphale and sex worker Crowley solve a murder mystery together. Complications and smut ensue.
Excerpt from chapter 1 under the cut.
They entered yet another identical room. A small bed in a small space with a small window looking out onto the enormous car park. The witness lay back on the bed, his all black clothes and fiery red hair stark against the white sheets. He had his forearms crossed behind his head, which he lifted in irritation as if he’d just been interrupted from his nap.
He made no effort to move or to sit up, and so Aziraphale squeezed himself onto the thin sliver of bed free between his long legs and the edge of the mattress. Like a hospital visitor at a sick bed.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Aziraphale Fell,’ he began, ‘and over there is my colleague Detective Constable Anathema Device. You’ve met her already.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’
The man winked at Device, but she was much too cool-headed to react to it.
‘So.’ The word was long and flat in his accent. ‘Is this where you ask me all the same questions she did earlier so you can see if I’m lying?’
‘Yes,’ Aziraphale said simply.
Behind him, Device shifted uncomfortably. But Aziraphale knew this type of witness, too. The type that didn’t need kindly reassurances as much as straightforward honesty. The type that hid their trauma behind a facade of cool detachment.
Anthony Crowley would be just like that. Inappropriate jokes and laddish posturing, anything to distract from the horrible sight Aziraphale knew he would not forget anytime soon. From the grief that was, at this very moment, building and gaining momentum at the pit of his stomach, ready to rise up and consume him.
‘If you could just repeat your name, age, and address. And perhaps this would be easier if you were to sit up.’
Anthony Crowley grinned and wiggled on the mattress.
‘Yeah I bet it would be easier. But I’m really comfortable like this, so you’ll just have to deal with it.’
Device actually huffed. Unprofessional perhaps, but then she had been subjected to this man’s maddening attempts at provocation much longer than Aziraphale had. He crossed his arms and waited. The man relented.
‘Anthony James Crowley. I live at 666 Eden Close in Kilburn, and I’m twenty-three.’
Twenty-three. Barely older than Ryan Jones the receptionist, and yet Crowley appeared so much more cynical than his years. He didn’t look old, by any means. No sign of the crow’s feet that had been permanent features on Aziraphale’s face since some time around his thirty-sixth birthday. No, Crowley’s face was chiseled, his body taut even laid out on a bed like that, like a cobra ready to strike at any moment.
He reminded Aziraphale an awful lot of Eric.
‘Can you tell me what happened last night and this morning?’ he asked, before the thought had a chance to take hold and derail him.
‘Sure. I got some missed calls from Eric during the night, but I didn’t see them until the morning. Tried to call him back but he didn’t answer, so I called the hotel instead.’
‘Wait a moment.’
He’d let Ryan Jones talk, but with someone like Anthony Crowley, Aziraphale knew it was best not to give them any opportunity to gloss over details.
‘How did you know he was here? Where were you at the time?’
‘We’ve got location sharing on between our phones. And I was at an AirBnB in Camden.’
Good Lord, this was like pulling teeth. Crowley was not going to volunteer any information. No wonder Device had been so exasperated.
‘Why were you at an AirBnB in Camden if you live in Kilburn?’
‘Just fancied a mini-break, that’s all.’
‘Mr Crowley—’
‘Mr Policeman—’
‘That’s DI Fell to you.’
Crowley grinned, as if he’d won an argument.
‘Fine. I was in Camden because that’s where I was getting fucked up the arse by an American tourist who just so happened to be staying at an AirBnB there.’
He studied Aziraphale for a reaction of shock or outrage. Well, he would not give him the satisfaction.
‘We’ll need the exact address and, if you can provide it, the name of your American… friend.’
‘To confirm the alibi, right?’
This time, Aziraphale did not assent.
‘How do you know Mr Blaine?’
‘We’re mates.’
‘Did you know where he was last night?’
Aziraphale felt his heart race as soon as he asked the question. Tried his best not to let it show. As it happened, he was rather good at repressing his inner thoughts.
‘Yeah,’ Crowley said, and Aziraphale’s hand tightened on the duvet cover. ‘We were on the pull together, in Soho. He got lucky first. Went off with some guy.’
Soho. Aziraphale had just left his favourite sushi place, where he’d been by himself as always. Eric had stumbled into his path, asking for a light. The way he’d looked at him, sweat-soaked from dancing, with the cocky air of a beautiful man who knew he was beautiful.
Any moment now, Aziraphale would stop breathing and the game would be up.
Chapter 7 is live now! It's getting messier, sexier, and more mysterious as our detectives try to keep their hands off each other for long enough to solve a murder.
2095. Britain is a post-apocalyptic wasteland ravaged by droughts, the collapse of civilisation, and hordes of the undead. Despite that, Aziraphale’s life is actually pretty good. He has his caravan, his books, and his work, offering his services to the men who stop by Tadfield on their arduous journey north.
One day, a mysterious stranger knocks on his door. Crowley is charming and handsome and he appears to know his way around a vegetable garden. He comes with the tempting offer of a mutually beneficial arrangement. But it’s in Aziraphale’s best interest not to get too attached.
A dystopian cottagecore sex worker AU.
Here's Chapter 1: The heat of spring
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Aaaah it me! If you're into cosy sex worker fics set in a post-apocalyptic zombie-infested future (what do you mean, a bit niche?), you'll like this. Literarion's narration is, as always, excellent.
There are several WIPs I'm working on at the moment, but the one that's been demanding all my attention is something I never thought I'd write: a sequel for my very first fic Never Have I Ever (Been Myself).
Like I'm sure many fic writers' first work, this story has a special place in my heart. It's the thing that motivated me to write, and the story that probably spent the longest time in my head before I actually made the effort to put it into words.
But it's also so clearly a first story. The pacing is clumsy, the plotting very simple, and the prose... actually, I quite like the prose. But were I to write the same fic today, it would likely read very differently.
Never Have I Ever features many of the themes and tropes I return to over and over again in later fics: it's a human rock musician/actor AU playing with age gap and wealth gap dynamics. It's deeply mired in British culture and British pop culture. It's a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, and a guaranteed happy ending.
And, weirdly, I wanted to return to it. So what I've been working on is a long-ish one shot that has BAFTA-winning actor Aziraphale Fell attend his very first rock music festival in order to surprise guitarist Crowley.
Anyway, here's a snippet of pure fluff:
‘Can’t believe you’re actually sleeping in a tent,’ Crowley said, as he lowered himself onto the fleece blanket he’d spread out to cover the crinkly polyester lining.
‘I’ve been reliably informed that’s the thing to do at events such as this.’
Crowley threw his head back in laughter and lifted himself up on his elbows, stretched out like a mermaid on a rock.
‘Have you ever been to a festival before?’
‘Of course I have!’
‘Glyndebourne doesn’t count. Nor do the Proms.’
‘Ah. No, in that case.’
‘Couldn’t you have booked a hotel room in Shrewsbury or something?’
‘I could have.’
Crowley didn’t ask why he hadn’t. Ever since they’d met, Aziraphale had been desperate for new experiences. And oh, how he’d indulged him, with an enthusiasm and passion Aziraphale had never possessed, not even when he’d been in his thirties himself.
He slipped his wellies off his feet and crouched down next to Crowley. The ground was hard underneath his knees and elbows, despite the fleece blanket, and he let himself be wrapped up in the pointy angles of Crowley’s body instead, which, paradoxically were all the more soothing.
‘You were marvellous on stage, you know that?’
‘You’ve mentioned it a few times, but it never hurts to hear again.’
‘You were. Even the people who had no idea who you were were singing along by the end.’
‘And you?’
‘I always sing along, you know that.’
‘Wish I’d seen you.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. I meant to surprise you, and I managed, despite the best efforts of your villainous security person.’
‘Torben’s awesome. D’you know he can open a beer bottle with his eye socket?’
‘I’m not at all surprised to hear that.’
‘This is by far the biggest festival we’ve played, like, ever. The last one had us sleeping in tents.’
‘You’re not sleeping in tents here?’
‘Oh no, we’re staying in this caravan thing, which is pretty nice. Comfortable. Got to share a bed with Ana but that’s fine. They call it a trailer, though.’
Aziraphale laughed softly into the scintillating warmth of Crowley’s neckline.
‘I’m aware of trailers, my dear. Quite familiar with them, in fact.’
‘Alright, Mr Hollywood Big Name Film Star.’
Aziraphale sighed and snuggled deeper into Crowley’s arms. He smelled lovely, like herbal shampoo and the cigarette he’d surreptitiously smoked on the walk to the tent. The chatter of people outside merged with the deep rumble of Crowley’s breathing, and the quiet beating of his heart against his chest. And as if this symphony of comfort couldn’t get more perfect, it began to rain. Gentle drops, irregular and insistent, drumming down on the tent above. It was frightfully romantic.
Currently posting my new AU On The Side, a somewhat angsty friends-to-lovers fic with S2 vibes and a guaranteed happy ending:
Rated E, Summary:
Aziraphale is far too pure of heart to be anybody’s bit on the side. Or so Crowley thinks. But when his friend starts seeing walking red flag Jim, with his dodgy smiles and mysterious past, Crowley does everything he can to protect Aziraphale from disaster. His own heart might just end up being collateral damage.
Excerpt from the first chapter under the cut.
Aziraphale was as dumb as he was beautiful. No. Crowley scolded himself as soon as the thought had taken shape in his mind. That wasn’t entirely fair. Aziraphale was smart. Very smart. Bright enough to have made it most of the way through his forties with the sort of life other people, Crowley not excepted, envied him.
He ran a thriving business, had a social life filled with book clubs and wine nights, and a two-up two-down in Clapham with the mortgage nearly paid off.
But just at this moment, when they were sitting together in the narrow garden of said house on a mild summer night, Crowley couldn’t think of anything but how extraordinarily stupid his friend was.
‘His name is Jim,’ Aziraphale was saying, twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. ‘He’s quirky. Does this thing where he sorts his books by first line alphabetically instead of author surname.’
Then he fucking giggled, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to club Jim to death with a copy of the heaviest book in Aziraphale’s shop. The Count of Monte Cristo, maybe. Or Moby-Dick. Call me Ishmael. But he had enough self-control to resort to cynicism instead of violence, and so he only sneered and drained his own glass, which earned him a disapproving huff from Aziraphale.
‘He said he sorts his books by first line and you still fucked him?’
Aziraphale let out another huff at Crowley’s bluntness.
‘You would have, too, if you’d seen him.’
Crowley said nothing. They were verging much too close to personal territory, and personal territory was where he would have to pour out his heart right here on the patio and hope Aziraphale had something to mop it up with.
‘S’it serious, then? With this Jim?’
He hoped he didn’t sound too desperate. But if he did, Aziraphale was too full of butterflies to notice.
‘I don’t know,’ he said coyly. ‘Maybe. It’s early days. I’ll see him again on Thursday for book club.’
Crowley cursed himself for never going to Aziraphale’s book club, no matter how many times he’d been invited. But then, who was he kidding? It wasn’t as if, had he gone along to last week’s discussion of Lady Windermere’s Fan, Aziraphale would be fucking him now instead of Jim.
Oh, no. Aziraphale would never giggle when talking about Crowley. And as much as that hurt, it was probably for the best. There had been many Jims in his life. In Crowley’s, too, actually. They came and went, leaving behind heartbreak or indifference or anger. Mostly indifference, in Crowley’s case.
The problem with Aziraphale was that his Jims always left him entirely shattered. When he fell for someone, he fell hard. It was painful to watch from the sidelines. But Crowley had long since accepted that there wasn’t much he could do about it. Just had to wait for Aziraphale to go through it over and over again, and be there for him to pick up the pieces.
It's finished! Seven chapters of angst, pining, and a whole lot of jealousy. I really enjoyed writing something a bit darker than usual... what can I say, S2 has been inspiring in that regard.
