Here, we curate a collection of the most delightful Good Omens fanfiction from a wide range of excellent authors, tropes, and premises. We call our rather large library of remarkable recommendations the Ineffable Classics. These works have distinguished themselves to the proprietors of the library by their excellence, boldness, and ability to pluck at our heartstrings even after the unfortunate canonical events of the final 15.
These works all excel and are prime examples of great fanwork, thus their inclusion in our collection. However, we would like to inform readers of the library that the Curator and the team is biased in their own tastes and acknowledges so. They warmly welcome suggestions from attendees, or to hear your thoughts and opinions on the items in the collection.
The works will all be tagged by rating, with the more explicit works under the tag #adult omens, borrowed from one of our great inspirations, @aziraphales-library . We hope this will make browsing most efficient.
We would also like to add that the system we have implemented does not reflect the subjective quality of any work, and is purely based on the personal experience of the team. What they may enjoy may not be your cup of tea, and that is perfectly good.
With all this said, dear readers, welcome to our library🪶📚
- The Curator and Co
Current Tags
Please mind that this is a work in progress and that not every fic is currently fully tagged using this system
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London is suffering through a heatwave, and Crowley hasn’t heard from Aziraphale in days. He knows the angel copes badly with the heat, despite the fact that he could easily miracle himself colder … So he goes to the bookshop. It’s closed, the blinds are drawn, and the door is locked. But he goes in anyway, quite certain he may be the only thing between Aziraphale and certain death by heatstroke.
Or: A heatwave makes Crowley's and Aziraphale's relationship progress, but they both need to work on their communication skills (of which they have none), if they want that progress to become something else.
Crowley breaks out in a wobbly smile, one more valiant tear making a break for it down his cheek. Voice cracking, Crowley says, “Home office might not like it, if they find out.”
“Home office could fill a book with reasons they don’t like us, and that’s just with the last twenty-four hours,” Aziraphale points out. “I’m sure… fraternizing—”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days—”
“You, hush. I’m sure this—” He gestures to their naked, entwined bodies— “won’t even make the top ten.”
Words: 6,226
Status: Complete
Rating: Explicit
@stonefruitz
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Being an angel who doesn't always agree with Heaven is a recipe for anxiety, particularly when Heaven is busy flooding the world, demanding Abraham sacrifice his son or celebrating martyrdoms. Unfortunately, anxiety makes Aziraphale ill, something he tries to hide from the other angels. Crowley picks up on this pretty early on (he's observant, right?) but getting Aziraphale to trust him enough to let him try to help takes time. A lot of time, centuries in fact.
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TL;DR: Thank you, tumblr and AO3 people for keeping the charm and fun of Good Omens alive despite... ~waves hands about~ everything.
It's been two months since Good Omens "season" 3 aired and I still feel sick to my stomach when I think about it.
My first experience was reading the book in the very late 90s. I thought it a charming story, but the only thing that really stuck with me over the years was the gag about all cassettes left in one's car turn into the "Best of Queen".
Twenty years later, I saw an advertisement for a television adaptation staring David Tennant (*heart eyes*) and Michael Sheen ("ooh. he's great"). I watched the first episode, got distracted by a shiny object, and forgot to go back. Season two dropped. I realized I hadn't watched all of season 1, got distracted by another shiny object, and forgot to go back.
The teaser for season three appeared in my YouTube suggestions page in early May and it captured my attention. I decided to give the show another shot because third time's the charm, right? I burned through season 1 and cheerfully started up season 2. S2 felt... weird. I couldn't quite put my finger on it until about midway through when I realized that it was, at its heart, fan-fiction. Sheen and Tennant were still acting their faces off, but I simply didn't care about the modern-day plot. The flashbacks, though, made the series worthwhile.
And then I got to the Final 15. Crowley's anguished groan after "And I would like to spend..." broke the handle on my waterworks and I was a snotty, teary mess who cried so hard I gave myself a headache. That was May 10.
Honest to goodness, I don't know how the fandom made it through the break. Y'all had three years to stew. I had only three days. Oof. As broken-hearted as I was, I didn't know if I could handle the 90 minute finale, BUT the trailer looked like a fun romp and I dove straight in.
It was not a fun romp. The waterworks started in the garden and didn't let up. I didn't sleep that night. I discussed it with a Brit friend who tried cheering me up with "but they had dinner together!" It still didn't sit right. I spent the next week and a half in a daze, trying to figure out why I couldn't let go of the terrible, awful, soul-crushing feeling.
Exactly two weeks after the finale, my husband and I were in London and one of my must-see spots was AziraCrow's bench in St. James's Park (it wasn't a must-see but when we passed the stairs and terrace where Crowley still owes Aziraphale lunch, I got giggly). Seeing and sitting upon the bench made me so happy because it was a S1 location. Deep down, though, was a puddle of sadness that I still couldn't name.
I floundered a bit longer and then I remembered one of the main homes of fandom: tumblr. I dusted off my old account and looked up everything with a Good Omens tag. There it was! A shared dissatisfaction. And grief. I finally had a name for that gnawing pain. And pointers to fix-it fics! It was time to dust off my AO3 account and dive into *good* fanfiction which made silk purses out of the canonical turd.
It's two months since GO3 aired and the pain is lessening every day. The 14th century is in the rearview and I have you marvelous bloggers and writers and artists and fanvid-producers and creatives of all kinds to thank for healing my heart. Thank you.
There was a thump at the door, rather than a civilized knock. Not at all the sort of clever rap Aziraphale had imagined Crawley would do, but who was he to really know for sure? But then, immediately after, was a hissing gasp and a peculiar flare from the sense of Crawley that made the stomach of Aziraphale’s corporation flip.
"We were preparing the dead, and, see! It is a miracle that she lives! Please, please help.”
Yes, thought Aziraphale, it was a miracle. Just not the kind they thought it was. He needed to get Crawley cleaned up and put back together as much as he could safely, using human methods so as not to draw any attention.
Or: Crawley is stoned for being a demon. Aziraphale does his best to help her recover.
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“Do you remember that one night we went to The Ritz? It wasn’t too long ago now,” Aziraphale brings up all of a sudden. Crowley gives him a puzzled look.
“Yes, I think I do remember,” Crowley looks past him and swirls his wine around. “Which was it, the dozenth time or the second dozenth time I took you to The Ritz this last year?” he asks rhetorically, ever the epitome of sass.
“Well, it’s about what happened…after.” Aziraphale fidgets in his seat.
“What, the bill?” It almost looks like Crowley’s face is trying to contort into one giant question mark.
“No, no. After we got back. The, um…” Aziraphale makes a bobbling gesture with his head as though trying to shake the words out. “That,” he finishes.
Crowley stares mouth agape as he thinks about this, his eyebrows colliding so viciously, one might think they were fighting to switch places.
After a good few seconds of facial contortion, Crowley shifts with realization.
“Oh,” he puts simply. “Yes, that.” Crowley sits up a little straighter.
OR - Crowley and Aziraphale have been in a relationship for a small while and Aziraphale doesn't know how to ask to have sex
Words: 7,609
Status: Complete
Rating: Explicit
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Aziraphale has not been enjoying the Fall of Constantinople, to put it mildly. Fortunately a particular demon shows up to distract him, with a little help from the Hagia Sophia.
“Like you a lot,” Crowley emphasized, in case Aziraphale didn’t understand the sheer scale of it. “It’s almost annoying how much I like you. Not used to it, ever, and it keeps getting bigger.”
“What gets bigger?” Aziraphale hiccuped once, but kept looking at him, entranced. Crowley snickered by reflex. “That too.”
Post-flood, pre-Job meeting of Crawley and Aziraphale. The angel, traumatized by the events of the Flood, endeavors to sow peace among the people, and Crawley agrees to help, with a demonic twist. When Aziraphale witnesses Crowley's methods for bringing together differing factions of humans, he wants to see if it will work for ethereal beings as well.
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“In Heaven,” Aziraphale said, as quickly as possible. “That’s not how forced molts work. Anyway! I was very busy, didn’t have time, it didn’t seem like a problem.”
“What do you mean,” Crowley said slowly, clearly not letting this go. (He was a demon, he didn’t let anything go.) “That’s not how forced molts work in Heaven. How else do forced molts work?”
Aziraphale took a long sip of champagne. It did not help his suddenly dry mouth. Crowley was still staring at him. He sighed and sat up a little straighter.
“They don’t waste miracles on molts,” he said, like he was reciting something Gabriel had said. (He was.) “If you need help with a molt, they do it the old fashioned way.”
