#aziraphale x crowley through the ages

[rcreveal]

(I just can't wait for) Season 3 Good Omens

I can't wait for Season 3 of Good Omens! After Season 2, I really needed to find out how Aziraphale and Crowley might survive the Second Coming, the world could be saved, and they could, eventually, get their reunion.

So, I borrowed the characters, and the world, and added some more characters to ask the first characters some pointed questions, to find out. This story is at about the same level of cursing, violence (well, maybe a little more Gaiman-esque), humor (definitely much more Terry Pratchett-esque) and romance as that of the second season.

So, if you need something to tide you over until Season 3 comes out (please Amazon!)...

Words had been said.

Offers made and rejected.

Inseparable friends, had separated.

And Heaven was under new leadership so the End of the World was on again…

Chapter 1: In which Crowley is on a bender.

Chapter Text

Crowley, traitor to Heaven and Hell, former serpent of the Garden of Eden, was drunk.

Not entertainingly, funnily drunk. Nor maudlin, crying drunk.  Not even loudly, angrily drunk, having already done all of those this evening.

No, he was diligently working towards under-the-table drunk, but, unfortunately, hadn't yet found a limit to the amount of alcohol he could drink and stay conscious.  It was an embuggerance, that.

After a long evening, that began after a protracted afternoon, following an extensive morning of continuous drinking, Crowley sat in a bar with a barkeep who found himself open after all the other bars had closed.  Crowley was his only patron. 

The place was dark and plain with the minimum of decoration.  This wasn’t a bar with karaoke, or songs of any kind.  There weren’t even any dart boards up.  There were no light fruity wines or interesting craft brews, nor colorfully named cocktails.  The patrons of this bar had one goal in mind and wanted to get to it as quickly as possible.

“Mor’ ov tha sa',” Crowley sat, face and shoulders bowed, holding his empty glass up loosely to the barkeep then setting it carefully on the bar.

“There ain’t no more,” replied the barkeep, whisking away the empty glass.

Raising a face expressing confused disbelief, the demon asks, “No whisk, whiskey?”

“No, you drank it all,” the barkeep said, tucking the glass under the counter.

“Scotch?” Crowley suggested.

“You drank that, too.” The barkeep moved to wipe down the bar.

Peering owlishly over the bar at row upon row of empty bottles lined up around the recycle bin, Crowley asks, “Wha’ ‘bout vodka?”

“And that,” the barkeep raised his eyebrows on glancing at the pile of bottles.

Plumbing the horror of it, Crowley asked, “Sherry?”

“Even that,” though he usually didn't carry the stuff.  There'd been a dusty old bottle that materialized under his hand in the back of a cabinet when the man had asked for it earlier.

“No alcohol?” Crowley stared at the man uncomprehendingly.

“Some bugger even nicked the hand sanitizer out the loo.  But you’d be blind if you’d drunk that.”  Though, frankly, the barkeep didn’t know how the man could still be breathing, much less talking.  He’d never seen anyone drink like that.  Wait.  Why had he kept the bar open after closing, and why did he keep serving this man?

“There’s nothin’ left.  You’ll have to go home, mate.  I’ll call you a car,” and he wiped his hands on a clean cloth and walked around the bar to help Crowley out.

“Don’ needa car .  Gotta car .” Crowley staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the door.  The barkeep started to protest, going so far as to put a restraining hand on the demon’s shoulder then miraculously forgot that he didn’t let drunk patrons drive anywhere.  As Crowley made his unsteady way to the Bentley, the barkeep locked the door and turned off the lights while shaking his head.  No one was going to believe why he would be closed tomorrow.

The Bentley’s door opened at Crowley’s touch and he collapsed into the driver’s seat.  Taking a pull of the last of the hand sanitizer, he mumbled, “Wanna go home,” and, finally, passed out.

Which put the Bentley in something of an existential bind.

The Bentley had, for years, been the best maintained car ever made, because that’s what Crowley expected.  But, it had slowly come to anticipate and respond to its owner’s wants, as well.  Living in it for the past several years had nearly completed the car’s new found sentience. So, when Aziraphale found the car producing travel sweets, he wasn’t surprised, because he thought that’s how any respectable car behaved with a new guest.   Aziraphale had inadvertently moved matters along even further by telling the car to park itself, on those occasions when his own parallel parking skills were too rusty.

In short, the Bentley was now alive.  And fiercely protective of and loyal to its owner.  

Who had just given it a direct command, but hadn’t put his hands and feet on the controls to start directing the car.  The Bentley started up, buckled Crowley in (even though Bentleys of it’s era were never manufactured with seat belts), and proceeded to try and drive home.  Wherever that was.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Oh, Aziraphale. I understand now. I'm in love.

[brainwormcity]

I've seen people remark on how awkward the 1967 scene is and that is so frustrating because, for me, it is one of the most emotionally resonant flashbacks in the entire series. It is so multifaceted and ripe with implication and that assertion is baffling. As though just because this conversation appears to be hard for them, it must mean that there has to be some sense of weirdness or awkwardness between them?

This scene feeds heavily into my theory that 1941 ended in some sort of aborted romantic moment between the two, most likely initiated by Crowley. Aziraphale can barely stand to look at Crowley because the very first moment he looks him in the face, he can't stop himself from giving him this hooded eyes, barely contained look of longing.

The next thing we see is Aziraphale immediately launching into a statement about his fear for Crowley's existence that is as brutally sincere as it is heartrending. His eyes are wide, his voice is heavy with emotion, and it's clear that he is terrified beyond belief to lose Crowley. Even as he acquiesces and gives him the holy water, you can see that he wants to take it back and deny him it all over again.

Then, of course, Crowley asks if he can give him a lift, which is definitely something that they both know is a totally different question than what lies on the surface, given that they're mere feet from the bookshop and at first Crowley frowns so deeply that it's almost cartoonish but a moment after Aziraphale turns him down you get this glimpse of very real sadness:

Aziraphale sees it for what it is and in an attempt to comfort him, without being able to do what currently seems impossible to him, shares a fanciful but resigned fantasy about spending time together unbothered and unrestrained, all to the tune of these tight little, loving smiles:

When he asks again, you can just see Crowley's desperation for Aziraphale not to go. It's hard to say how long they'd been apart, but it's safe to say that for them, that previous interaction likely is very fresh in their minds.

Aziraphale has always been more fearful than Crowley when it comes to their feelings for each other. You could even potentially look at the holy water as a metaphor for their relationship. In his expressions of concern about The Arrangement, Aziraphale has always been remarking on how Crowley could be destroyed, similarly to his words here. So when he's telling him, "You go too fast for me, Crowley," what he's really saying is, "I'm terribly afraid and I'm not ready to take that step if it means that I could lose you." And it's plain to see by the wistful look on his face that it pains him greatly to say it:

The scene so quickly cuts to Crowley looking intensely at the holy water after Aziraphale has left the car (as if trying to convince you that that was the real point of the scene) that it's easy to miss this devastated expression on Crowley's face:

There's no look of perceived rejection on his face. Just a somber look of resignation. There are so many barriers in front of them, and I think that Crowley was willing to risk it but understood that Aziraphale wasn't ready to.

This is the most honest and laid bare we ever see these two be when it comes to their emotions. There's so much being said without being said and even their actual words (i.e. Crowley remembering exactly the amount of time when the 'fraternizing' conversation happened) are so full of emotion that it might even be a bit hard for some people to watch.

It's not awkward. It's just that the scene is just so incredibly earnest and heavy with coded language that it's easy to be swept up by the fact that the two aren't engaged in their typical banter and bickering. What we truly have here is an incredibly difficult and loving conversation between two people who are stuck in a seemingly impossible situation.

[ineffableclassics]

"You'll never guess what people have been saying about oysters..." Aziraphale's speech was muffled as his mouth was full.

Crowley cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. He suspected that he knew where this was going, but he wanted to play it off as if he didn't for as long as inhumanly possible. He waved his hand in a gesture of encouragement. "Go on."

"You see, they say that oysters are..." The angel lowered his voice and inhaled. "... an aphrodisiac."

Rome, 41AD: Aziraphale successfully "tempts" Crowley to go for dinner and try oysters with him. Crowley confesses during dinner that he's never hooked up with anyone before, and Aziraphale sets about putting this to rights immediately.

Words: 6,514

Status: Complete

Rating: Explicit

@ineffabildaddy

Art Credit: Ménage À Trois by Auseklis Ozols, 2019

[feralbutfluffy]

Give a Man a Mask

The man who caught Aziraphale’s eye was lounging rather indecorously on one of the many benches lining the walls of the ballroom. He (because despite every inch of them being covered, Aziraphale was sure it was a he) wore a well-tailored black velvet suit jacket that fit snuggly over a black waistcoat intricately embroidered with gunmetal filigree. Underneath the waistcoat, Aziraphale could just make out a black shirt and a flash of burgundy lace at the man’s throat. Black leather gloves laced up around his wrists, and matching knee-high boots fit snuggly over the man's fitted black trousers.

Aziraphale sighed with envy. He could never pull off something like that.

Of course - he told himself - it wasn’t the man necessarily that had caught his eye. It was the clothing; he had always noticed and admired fine clothing, and his outfit really was exquisitely made.

Besides, it was hard not to notice someone who had dressed in such stark contrast to the rest of the guests. It seemed everyone else was dressed to excess, resplendent in feathers and lace, gemstones and pearls. This man’s costume, by contrast, was downright modern; minimal but striking, yet still in keeping with Carnivale. The handstitched leather Plague Doctor mask beneath a black tricorn hat completed the look. It should have looked offputting, really...

It did not.

The man looked less like a man, Aziraphale thought, and more like a long black shadow curving against the wall. Aziraphale popped a fritelle into his mouth and chewed it slowly before swallowing. 

If he was honest with himself (which he would prefer not to be, all things considered) he knew what had really attracted his attention; there was something about him - the lazy confidence evident in the way he was sitting, or the dark clothing perhaps - that made him think of Crowley. He hadn’t seen the demon in a few years, and although he was absolutely loathe to admit it even within the privacy of his own mind, he did rather miss him.

Well. He missed him and worried about him in equal parts. Handing over the thermos of Holy Water a few years before had certainly ramped up his anxiety.

He was extremely glad of his full-face volto mask as he watched the figure out of the corner of his eye. He popped another fritelle into his mouth under the mask, chewed, and swallowed with a little groan of pleasure. They really were delicious.

The Plague Doctor swiveled to face him as if he had heard him, and although there was no possible way the stranger could have heard anything of the sort from across the crowded ballroom, Aziraphale blushed ferociously. The heat of it was almost unbearable behind his full-face mask.

He turned his body away from the man, staring down at the sweet delights laid out on the banquet table, and tried very hard to ignore what felt like a heated stare. He gazed down at the galani, his mouth suddenly dry.

Although he was almost expecting it, the dark presence at his elbow a moment later made him start.

“Buonasera, come sta?” said the Plague Doctor in perfect Italian, tipping his hat in a quick formal bow.

Aziraphale had been right about it being a man.

He jerked back at the greeting, startled by the man’s sudden proximity, and scrambled for a reply. 

“Oh! Buonasera!” Aziraphale could think of nothing else to say. He cringed behind his mask and wondered if he could miracle his way out of a conversation that was embarrassing before it had even begun.

The Plague Doctor was wearing a zendale beneath his tricorn, and the silk hood concealed every part of his head not covered by mask or hat. He tilted his head, looking like a curious raven, and rested both his gloved hands on top of a cane Aziraphale hadn’t noticed before. His tight grip - Aziraphale could see his knuckles straining against the leather of his gloves - obscured most of what looked like a beautifully carved gunmetal handle.

He looked up. The large eyesockets of the mask were filled with dark glass lenses, revealing absolutely nothing. Aziraphale smoothed down his more traditional costume. The cream and white concoction with gold embroidery and an abundance of lace ruffles had rather delighted him when he’d stepped out this morning, but it felt quite indulgent next to this austere creature.

“I trust you are enjoying yourself?” said the Plague Doctor in an extremely thick Italian accent, leaning forward on his cane so that the beak of his mask almost punctured his bubble of personal space.

“Oh yes, very much so!” Aziraphale nodded, wondering what had drawn this man to his side and how he could possibly reverse it. For all that he had been intrigued before, he hadn’t intended to actually engage the stranger in conversation. There was something extremely unsettling about him up close. Perhaps it was the costume, or the way he was standing; it was patient, watchful, almost… predatory.

Aziraphale shuddered, and the Plague Doctor’s head tilted the other way, making it clear he had noticed. 

“Va bene, Signore?” Are you well?

Aziraphale nodded quickly. “Oh yes… Sto bene!” I am well. There was a brief pause while he summoned up formal Italian and hurriedly added a thank you. “La ringrazio!”

The Plague Doctor nodded. “How did you come to be here?” The words came low and slow, and Aziraphale felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his skin prickling with awareness.

He had always had a bit of a weakness for the Italian accent. 

“It was suggested to me by the concierge at my hotel,” he smiled, even though the man couldn’t see it. “He thought I might enjoy it, and he was right! I am enjoying it tremendously! The food alone...!" He made an appreciative noise. "How did you…? Are you local to the area?”

A slight tilt of the head as if the Plague Doctor were considering his question. It was surprising how demonstrative he was able to be without a single facial expression.

“Not exactly,” he said, and Aziraphale thought he could hear a smile in his voice, “Although for tonight... Certo. If you like.” 

The man swept into a much deeper, more theatrical bow than before. The black feather in his hat almost grazed Aziraphale’s chest. “This is my palazzo - my festa - and I am your host for the evening. You are…” he said, and straightened, holding out his hand. When Aziraphale hesitated, the man crooked his fingers impatiently and for some reason Aziraphale obeyed, quickly placing his white silk-gloved hand in the man’s leather-clad grip. 

“... You are extremely welcome here,” the man finished, bringing Aziraphale's knuckles to his mask.

It didn’t seem to matter that there were no lips there to brush against his hand; Aziraphale felt it as if the man had kissed his knuckles open-mouthed. A dart of something hot and unutterable shot through him, flared up and burnt out, thankfully vanishing before Aziraphale had time to recognise it and panic.

“Yes. Well. Thank you. La ringrazio,” he said, feeling flustered.

“No need for such formality, Signore,” the Plague Doctor said warmly, tugging his hand without warning to bring them shoulder to shoulder. He tucked Aziraphale’s arm into the crook of his elbow and patted his hand as if to reassure him that it was alright.

Aziraphale thought that it was probably not alright.

Surely it was not alright to walk arm in arm with a total stranger? Surely there was something morally grey about taking a turn with a mortal Italian dandy who apparently owned a palazzo and, by extension, the many sweet treats Aziraphale had been helping himself to throughout the evening?

If nothing else, surely he should feel some guilt or shame about enjoying the closeness of a stranger who reminded him so much of Crowley?

Continue reading...

[bluberryfields]

Crowley and Aziraphale outfits that I wish got more screen time (in no particular order)

1967

I adore Crowley's velvet and sharp lines, but I'm so intrigued by Aziraphale's cravat and styled hair. Aziraphale is not a creature of change, so did he dress up for this big moment? I need a full body shot, pleaseandthankyou

41 A.D.

I will never stop wanting more time with the Ineffable Romans. Aziraphale looks like the marble sculpture he was born to be. Also, I understand that Crowley's daring look is pretty anachronistic, but that just makes me want to see more of it!

1793

I mean, come on, they are two very different types of snack here and I need more of both. Aziraphale is a sumptuous petit four, while Crowley is a sleek slice of dark chocolate.

1601

Are you kidding me with them in those heels? Aziraphale in all that embroidery? Crowley in what I can only describe as the sluttiest doublet? I need a whole minisode of their Shakespearean adventures.

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Exalt

“Ooh, aren’t you brilliant,” that voice rumbles with the tonality of jest and slitted eyes that gleam gold. Gentleness and shelter trying to disguise themselves as fire and brimstone. “Actually, I–I think getting us all in the cellar was very clever,” is what he says. Do you really think so? is what he doesn’t.

Length: 2,343 Words

AO3 Rating: Explicit/ Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥

Best for: At Home, Romance, South Downs

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by hakunahistata

*Minor Spoilers* Screaming, crying, throwing up, the works. You know that feeling when you read a line in a fanfic that just makes you feral and you have to stop and reread it over and over to get the full effect? This fic is FULL of those moments! This is so insanely well written and decadent. I loved this fic.

This a really poetic and prose heavy work so I definitely recommend this for a time where you can fully focus on it. It's incredibly rich and atmospheric. I can feel the salty storm outside, and smell the soil of Crowley's garden. It's also incredibly clever and insightful. It has a lot of really interesting things to say about their characters. I could copy at least 10 lines of this story in here that brought me to my knees, but I’ll let you discover them for yourself. I cant get over how beautiful this was. The ending line is still repeating over and over in my head. It's simple, but gets me right to my core. Just truly an excellent story.

Read it here, fic by hakunahistata

[saryasy]

oh, this house of glass was never made to last

[humoringholly]

This breathtaking image was created by Minibagelqueen for my FTH fic that was gifted to Heretic1103 who gave me the amazing prompt. I am blown away, and am so honored to have the incredible opportunity to know and work with the Ineffable talent in the Good Omens Fandom!

Check out the fic here:

Check out the talented Heretic1103's work here:

Check out Minibagelqueen's work here:

[jesmalestiel]

Shakespeare's Sonnets are SO aziracrow coded istg

Okay so last night I was doing a bit of bedtime reading and I picked up my book of Shakespeare sonnets because they are comfy and familiar and omg some of them are so aziracrow coded???

I posted about it on Reddit and @kotias pointed out that almost all of the sonnets are aziracrow coded and she head canons that Shakespeare fell in love with the two of them and his sonnets are about the two of them. And she is so right??? Like the idea of Aziraphale as the fair youth and Crowley as the Dark Lady just fits???

But also I love the idea of the sonnets being things that Aziraphale or Crowley might have written to each other.

The two that really stuck out to me as I was reading are sonnet 36 and sonnet 142. Sonnet 36 is all about how the two lovers need to break up because being together will cause public shame and it is forbidden for them to openly be together. So I really picture that as being something Crowley has written in order that Aziraphale would not be exposed as loving a demon and forced out of Heaven into hell. By the time we get to the modern day Crowley is much more of the mind that they should just run off together, but I think it definitely took her a long time to get to that point and in an earlier era she would have just wanted Aziraphale protected.

Let me confess that we two must be twain Although our undivided loves are one; So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love’s sole effect, Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee, Lest my bewailèd guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public kindness honor me Unless thou take that honor from thy name. But do not so. I love thee in such sort   As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

And then sonnet 142 I just picture it as Aziraphale being like “loving you is a sin and I hate myself for it but I can’t stop” like.... it's giving “you’re unworthy of my love and I don’t care for the company you keep but I love you anyway and your sins make me love you more" and I just ahhhh. It just fits *so well* in my brain.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving. O, but with mine compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not reproving; Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their scarlet ornaments And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov’st those Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee: Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.     If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,     By self-example mayst thou be denied.

[foolishlovers]

hi <3 soooo I was wondering if you have fic recs with historical setting? Like in canon through the ages or human historical fics?

yes of course 💜 here are some i enjoyed:

A half-penny will do by penny_archer (G, 2k) It’s Christmas in Victorian England and Crowley is trying not-very-hard to hide the fact that he’s been giving pickpocketing lessons to the disenfranchised youth of London. Oh, and he has a cute gift for Aziraphale that’s totally not a big deal.

Fighting Dirty by curtaincall (M, 9k) Aziraphale knows exactly what’s happening: Hell has sent up a devilishly attractive demon to tempt him into sinning against God. So he’ll act like he’s falling for it, pretend he doesn’t know just what Crowley’s doing. And he certainly won’t give in. Crowley knows exactly what’s happening: Heaven has sent down a divinely beautiful angel to dazzle him into revealing Hell’s plans. So he’ll act like he’s falling for it, pretend he doesn’t know just what Aziraphale’s doing. And he certainly won’t give in. (Or: an angel and a demon spend 6000 years each convinced the other one is a honey trap)

from autumn blooms spring summer fruit by blackeyedblonde (E, 9k) In the potter’s shed, Crowley picked up a trowel and threatened a yearling lemon tree still residing within its earthenware pot before he would allow himself to sit at the gardening table and pull the folded newspaper Aziraphale had given him from his smock. Enclosed on the inside were two gifts. One was the small velvet pouch that contained a pair of golden earrings strung with twin baroque pearls that did not squeak when he curiously rubbed one against his canine tooth. The other was the familiar sight of neat copperplate writing at the bottom of page seven of the paper, done in lead pencil so the words could be more easily smudged out with a bit of rubber. A gift, Lord Fell had written. I will come find you an hour after the molting brown bird has gone to bed.

An Arrangement of Convenience by Blue_Sparkle (E, 13k) Aziraphale works to purchase a bookshop space, but currently being a woman-shaped creature has its drawbacks when faced with rude property owners. The most obvious solution is to get Crowley to act as his husband and deal with all that nonsense, of course.

The road to rapture has a lot of pit stops by emmagrant01 (E, 17k) Five times they kissed over four thousand years, and one time they actually meant it.

Time Flies (When You're Having Fun) by Mussimm (E, 23k) Versailles, 1769 - Aziraphale has a blessing to perform at a masquerade ball and it's important that he gets this one right. So important, in fact, that he can't seem to leave until he does. But with a fancy dress, an attentive demon and an endless supply of champagne, it's a little challenging to stay on mission.

An Ineffable Midsummer Night's Dream by Sabotaged_Words (T, 25k) London, 1605. Aziraphale urgently needs Crowley's help. The premiere of William Shakespeare's latest work is in danger! The only way to save the play is for Crowley to take on the role of Puck - and that will take a lot of convincing. Come explore some more of Azriaphale's and Crowley's life in the Elisabethean era, where the ineffable idiots are little theatre nerds, have to deal with unwanted advances, and suddenly face the question if they, in fact, could be even friends?

Flowers From The Grave Of Our Friendship by WaitingToBeBroken (E, 50k) Crowley is very good at temptation, not so good with what comes afterwards. Aziraphale knows demons don't love so he is happy to take anything Crowley would give him. Both of them are too blind to realize the thing they want is right in front of them.

More Than by NaroMoreau (E, 55k) Crowley would like to spend another year without marrying, especially when thrust-forced to pick a husband. She refuses to cave in on a matter of principles. She refuses to cave in specifically on a matter of not wanting to be married to Lucien Morningstar. But she might need a hand to break free from such a burden. And who knows? She might even find something else along the way.

Against Expectations by Blue_Sparkle, summerofspock (E, 69k) After being pressured by their families into a marriage neither of them want, Aziraphale and Crowley resign themselves to an unfulfilling life together. For Aziraphale that means trying to be the dutiful wife she was always taught to be and for Crowley it means hiding an important part of who he is.

On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller) by RockSaltAndRoll (E, 133k) 1941 is the London Blitz and the year that MI5 really comes into its own with the now infamous ‘double cross’ system. The service keep tabs on suspects, root out enemy agents and try to turn them into doubles. Anthony J Crowley is fucking great at this job. He can be sneaky, underhanded and damn ruthless but also charming and kind. It’s what makes him good at turning. Aziraphale is just a regular Soho bookseller who loves his shop and books and good food and wine when he’s approached by a woman claiming to be MI5, wanting to recruit him for espionage. The poor man is too trusting and gets the shock of his life when he’s approached by a charming but dangerous-looking man also claiming to be MI5. Crowley recruits Aziraphale to double cross a double crosser and Aziraphale takes to espionage like a duck to water. Danger, hijinks, and sex ensue.

[rcreveal]

Come at once [stop] I found it [stop] inspired by IngweBlu

Summary:

NanoMutt prompt a day challenge Day 11: How you said I love you, with a shuddering gasp. Aziraphale looks for a very special gift for Crowley to replace a cherished lost possession. Mildly suggestive.

Notes:

Inspired by Da Vinci’s Demon(?) -Fan Art and fic prompt by IngweBlu

https://www.tumblr.com/ingweblu/732739835910111232/a-few-revisions-on-the-first-nose-hand-with?source=share

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

NanoMutt Prompt a Day Challenge: Day 11 How you say I love you-with a shuddering gasp

Inspired by Ingweblu’s amazing fanart.

Aziraphale looked up from his desk as the shop door bell jingled, an international courier was just entering.

“Mr. A. Z. Fell?” asked the courier getting a slim envelope from her bag and an electronic tablet out for the signature.

“Yes?” replied Aziraphale, pleasant but not yet engaged.  The angel got up from his desk reaching for the electric pen to sign for the letter.

Unusually, the courier waited for a signature authentication to run, before handing over the letter.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says to the courier, interest piqued, before turning his attention to the letter.  He pulls the long tab on the cardboard envelope and pulls out an urgent telegram.  Eyebrows raised towards his hairline, he lets out a little gasp as he reads:

COME AT ONCE STOP I FOUND IT STOP

A handwritten address card is also included.

Trembling slightly, still studying the address, his hand finds the catches for the secret compartment in his desk.  A section of the desk opens with a soft click and he removes a sheaf of official looking documents, slipping them into a locking valaise.  From behind the desk he pulls a large leather art portfolio.  

Visibly pulling himself together and trying to still his trembling excitement, Aziraphale flexes his neck and settles his shoulders before picking up the headset and dialing a most familiar number.

In a calm voice not betraying his excitement, Aziraphale says, “Hello, Crowley.  I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be out of town the next couple of days and I didn’t want you to feel like you need to check in on me.”  He listens attentively, “Oh, very dull.  I’m going to Berlin.”  He holds the phone away from his ear a bit due to the volume of Crowley’s reply.  “Yes, I know you don’t like Berlin, that’s why I wanted to assure you that you don’t have to come over,”  he nods again, and looks at his watch.  “Yes, dear boy, I really must dash.  I’ll call you when I come back.”  He gently puts down the handset and smiles.

“Muriel?” calls Aziraphale.

The junior scrivenor pops around the corner of a bookshelf.

“Yes, boss!?” they reply.

Aziraphale grimaced very slightly and said kindly, “Muriel, you know I don't care for it when you call me ‘boss’.”

Forehead wrinkling with concern at offending Aziraphale, Muriel bobs a partial curtsey.  “Um, yes, Supreme Archangel?”

That makes Aziraphale close his eyes while his face falls. “Oh.  I see.  You are seeking an honorific to denote that I am your senior in rank or more knowledgeable?”

Muriel nodded earnestly, their face radiating relief that he understood. “How about you just call me Mr Fell.  ‘Mr’ is a term of deference to which I am accustomed,” suggested Aziraphale.

“Now Muriel, I’m just going to pop over to Germany for a special piece.  I’d like you watch the shop while I’m gone and…”

“Don’t sell any of the rare books, but I can sell the popular books from my sections, ‘Mr’ Fell!” burbles Muriel.

“Exactly!” encourages Aziraphale.

“But are you getting a quarto?  Only, that’s a rather large case to carry a book in,”  says Muriel curiously.  

“I’m afraid I’ll have to be mysterious and only say, ‘Wait and see,’” smiles Aziraphale.  “Now I really must go. I’ll be back in a day or two.”

For this, Aziraphale would move with celestial speed to Germany.  He would take no chances about human transportation snarl ups.  As he walked the streets of Berlin, making for the art dealer’s offices, he considered the reason for his search.

Crowley had always been hard to give gifts to.  His peripatetic lifestyle had made him much less attached to things…with a few notable exceptions.  But, lately, he was on an even more austere minimalist streak.  Aziraphale had only recently learned that Crowley had been essentially homeless and living out of the Bentley for the last several years.  Immediately, he’d invited Crowley to live with him and bring over his beautiful Da Vinci study of the Mona Lisa.  Crowley had finally admitted that Hell had confiscated all his possessions from the flat.  The houseplants survived because he’d rescued them from the dumpster.  For a collector like Aziraphale, it was a little challenging to be with a lover who constantly talked about detachment from material things.  For heaven’s sake, they’d both nearly just died protecting material things!  Aziraphale suspected that Crowley was still hurt about the loss of his few cherished possessions from his flat.  

So Aziraphale had been on a special search for Da Vinci studies.  He knew that Crowley had befriended the genius.  Through the years, the demon would let slip interesting bits of information about the amazing gentleman.  Sometimes they were of the types of trivialities that good friends would share, like how DaVinci might delight in a local pastry.  Aziraphale had wondered if the amiable artist had ever tempted Crowley to sit for him.  

It turned out that being a purveyor of and searcher for rare books gave Aziraphale a pretty good start for the more cut-throat and dramatic world of rare art.  

And sure enough, his inquiries started to bear fruit.

This was the most exciting lead yet!  Two pieces, possibly of the same young man.  Well, if they were real DaVinci’s and of good quality, Aziraphale might get them anyway, but if they were what he hoped… 

An extremely discrete sign on the building at the address he’d received with the confidential telegram led him through a more thorough security search than he’d experienced on their recent little airplane trip.  Finally, he was in the sanctum sanctorum with the art dealer.

“Herr Fell, danke for coming on such short notice, but I think these pieces are exactly what you have been searching for!  Already, myself and several other experts have examined them and we do believe that they are indeed authentic Da Vinci and not incredibly well crafted pieces in his style.  Please. Come.  Let me show you.”

Together they stepped from the office space to a room with careful humidity controls.  The art dealer brought out white cotton gloves for them both.

“The first piece is very much like DaVinci’s studies for rich paying customers, very nice, he captures a mercurial spirit in his subject,” and the art dealer uncovers the first piece.  A drawing of a forceful man, looking directly out of the piece while cutting an apple with his dagger.  Aziraphale was still, the likeness was magnificent.

“I see that you respect this piece, but it is the second study that we think the superior.  It seems that Da Vinci was able to capture the same subject in repose,” and uncovers the second piece with something of a flourish.

An involuntary gasp escapes Aziraphale.  His stomach tightens and his mouth goes dry as he stares at the second drawing of the same subject.  

“It is an arresting work, is it not?  I have been able to secure first refusal for you, but already, the word is out and I can only give you this interview today to make your choice before I open the bidding,” and Aziraphale, the part of his brain that can still ponder such things, thinks that art dealers and demons know a lot about temptation.

“That won’t be necessary, I’m perfectly prepared to take them both home today,” Aziraphale pulls out the sheaf of documents and rare works that were the reason for the art dealer’s willingness to give the unknown collector first refusal.  Aziraphale has no doubt that the art dealer believes the works to be authentic with all the care and double checking that his prestige and standing in the field command and that he’s entirely truthful when he says that there are many patrons that would happily pay much more for such works.

“Ah, excellent, I’ll get these pieces ready for transport,” and the man deftly packaged the precious pieces while Aziraphale hungrily observed.  He wouldn’t feel comfortable until he got them home.

____________________________________________________________________________

“I don’t know why you insisted on all this mystery tonight, Angel,” Crowley is reluctantly being dragged into the book shop by his angel.  “The gleam in your eye is about as bad as that ball business.  What are you scheming at.”

Aziraphale positions Crowley in the atrium, “Stay right there.” Crowley tips his head to the side and raises his eyebrow.

Aziraphale steps away and miracles the blinds down and dims the light to a perfect archival setting on the two covered easels.

“Did you take up landscape painting and want my opinion or something?”  Crowley asks suspiciously.

“Not quite,” the angel can’t contain his excitement, “I got you a gift, well us a gift for our first home that we make together.  And don’t say anything about austerity and detachment and the benefits thereof until you see them!” Aziraphale shakes a finger at Crowley, who is taken aback.  The angel has never looked like he might smite him for bad behavior before.

Holding his hands up in a placating gesture, Crowley capitulates, “Alright, alright!  Let me get in the proper important-gift-receiving mode.  You know I’m very bad at this, right?”  Crowley is getting unnerved, this is getting into deep relationship waters hitherto unfloundered in.  Aziraphale, looking properly mollified by this acknowledgement, reverts back to his equally unnerving giddiness.

“Thank you for taking this with the seriousness it deserves,” accedes Aziraphale, “Now if you don’t look at them soon, I am going to pop!” and making sure that Crowley’s attention is on the easels, he lifts the coverings simultaneously.

Crowley’s gasp shudders into the room and he looks boneless for a moment, then he steps forward to the studies, both of the same subject, both of him .  The first a piece of excellently crafted workmanship that captured the mischief and powerful personality of the demon, but the second… 

“They were stolen in Paris, years and years ago!  How the heaven did you find them!”  he looks truly touched for a moment, then a hunted look of panic starts to cloud his happiness.

“Ah. Um, you’re not jealous, angel?  You believe me? That I never loved anyone before you?”

“Of course I believe you! Especially when we were recently nearly terminally incompetent at expressing our love.  Gracious, no, I’m not jealous!  Not when he’s captured you so beautifully!” the angel comes over and shoulder bumps Crowley, before putting an arm around his waist while they both gaze at the pieces.

It’s magnificent.  The second piece captures Crowley in the unguarded abandon of sleep, nude to the waist with an arm thrown over his head, as ringlets of long hair spread across his pillow.  Somehow conveying both powerful innocence and sensuality.

“How can I thank you? It means so much…” Crowley chokes up, and Aziraphale takes this as a thank you for the gift, for honoring an important friendship, for not being jealous, and for returning a precious material thing that he’d thought was lost.

“Well,” and the angel reaches up and runs his fingers through Crowley’s hair, tumbling deep red curls over Crowley’s shoulders, “How about we recreate it…after I get you properly tired out.”

Crowley smiles and replies huskily, “Oh, I can definitely agree to that.”

Please visit the inspiration for this piece- Ingweblu’s art, studies of Crowley in the style of Leonardo Da Vinci https://archiveofourown.org/works/30983144

And this delightfully different take on the same prompt “DaVinci’s Demon (after Ingweblu) by Big_Edies_Sun_Hat from the same art prompt https://archiveofourown.org/works/31484021  

Works inspired by this one:

The Last Time by theriverspath

[modistress]

Combining ineffable husbands and my favourite historical period… AUGUSTAN AGE!

(They may or may not have accidentally started the first dictatorship)

[brainwormcity]

The Ineffable Eras Project!

I have been working on this for weeks and weeks. I drew them one by one in chronological order... I'm really scared that people won't like it or worse they won't acknowledge it. I know my Azi's aren't one to one and my art style is a bit cartoony and inconsistent but next to The Departure, this is the biggest creative undertaking I've ever done. So, uh, yeah. I hope you like it.

[ineffableclassics]

After Crowley drinks the laudanum, he gets pulled down to Hell for punishment. But what if a certain Angel still had a tight hold of his waist when it happened?

In the depths of darkness, they face torturous beasts, HellFire, personal demons and a Lord of Hell in their bid to escape.

Featuring a long-suffering Lord of the Flies, wall-pinning and (consenting) undressing (not sexual... okay, it's a bit sexual).

Words: 15,065

Status: Complete

Rating: Mature

@somewhere-in-wales

Art Credit: The Resurrection by Gustave Doré

[supergeek21]

Happy Earth’s Birthday Good Omen’s Fans! 🌎

Absolutely loved getting to share Ineffable Con with you all today so I decided to also share this. This is my first @fandomtrumpshate fic for the year for Kingstokken and also my first long piece being shared since season 2 dropped.

This was a specific request from Kingstoken for their generous donation including hurt snakelike Crowley being aided by Aziraphale through the ages. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you like it too.