#good omens 1920s

[may--hawk]

killer queen (ineffable remix)

caviar and cigarettes / well-versed in etiquette

Crowley next sees Aziraphale in a seedy speakeasy across the Atlantic, a place positively dripping with sin and low light, the stink of gin rolling up the stairwell and out the door. When he steps inside the haze of perfume and alcohol and sweat and cigarette smoke fill the air, the room dimly lit and full of couples and would-be couples, a great heady miasma of lust. There’s a soft slow low jazz song playing on the piano and a few couples are dancing, or really just holding each other close, barely moving. He’s in America for a few temptations and yes, alright, to take his mind off the fight with the angel some sixty years before. Yes, he’s still bitter. You spend all this time, literal millennia, doing what it is the angel wants, whenever he bats those wide gray eyes, asking for nothing in return, not even recognition, and then when you ask for one thing, for one measly little thing, he throws it all in your face. So yeah, Crowley’s a little bitter. He’ll get over it in a century or so. He usually does. He starts his sidle up to the bar to get a glass of gin, just gin, nothing else, nothing else needed except the taste of juniper in his mouth until he can’t remember his own name, when he sees the angel.

The angel is wearing - well, the angel’s wearing a set of tits, is what she’s wearing, and a tiny little cream-colored beaded dress, very tight, very low in the front, with some fringe covering her knees - oh, like that’s doing any good - and these dainty little heels, and her white hair tucked up, and she looks like, Satan, she looks like a vision of an angel, is what she looks like, she’s fucking jawdropping, and Crowley feels a sudden surge of hurt, no, anger,1 that the angel would go to a place like this without him, on her own volition, even, dressed like that - ? What is she playing at?

And then he sees exactly what she’s playing at, sees a man light her cigarette as she leans closer than she’d ever been to Crowley2 and she leans back and smiles. Crowley stalks over, pulling his hand up from the ground, giving the man somewhere very pressing to be right that exact second, and as Aziraphale turns, frowning, Satan, she’s wearing fucking pearls, of course she’s wearing pearls, Crowley circles behind her, plucks the cigarette from her hand - “Shouldn’t smoke, angel, s’bad for you” - puts it in his own mouth, and inhales deeply. He can feel the dampness of Aziraphale’s mouth, can taste her lipstick. She raises her eyebrows, entirely unimpressed. Very slowly, not taking her eyes off Crowley, she opens her clutch,3 pulls another cigarette out, puts it between her lips. And waits.

Crowley could do it so many ways. He could flick his lighter, could use a match, could light a spark on his finger, could hold her wrist steady as he lit her cigarette for her. Instead, he leans forward, very close, into her orbit, her perfume a heady cloud making him a little faint,4 and Aziraphale leans in too, almost swaying, her eyes half-lidded with too much gin and kohl, and Crowley touches the tips of their cigarettes together, and they both breathe in at the same time, a half-surprised little inhale, breathing each other’s breath. A twisted kiss. Cigarette lit, Aziraphale settles back, breathing deeply, her chest expanding, beads glittering in the dim light like stars, her eyes raking down Crowley’s body in a way that makes him flush.5 “Thank you, Crowley,” she says, low and husky, and then she turns and walks away, and it’s the second time she’s done it in sixty years, except this time she’s much slower about it, and this time her derriere is much more tightly encased, and this time Crowley’s got to go lock himself in the bathroom6 before he can belly up to the bar and drink them all out of gin, which he does. Twice.

1. No, it was hurt. back

2. Except Edinburgh don’t think about Edinburgh - back

3. Christ her fucking hands he’d nearly forgotten Aziraphale’s hands - back

4. Or maybe it’s her décolletage. back

5. Some fifty years later Aziraphale would remark haphazardly that gin always made him decidedly randy, and Crowley would very nearly rupture the space-time continuum to get back to that particular bar on that particular night. back

6. Embarrassingly enough, he’s not even in there for very long, so the human men waiting in line have no reason to complain. back

Read the rest of the mixtape on AO3.

[vavoom-sorted-art]

puttin' on the ritz III

The third installment of J.C. Leyendecker inspired art for @moonyinpisces' amazing 1920's fic puttin' on the ritz.

I hope you guys enjoyed my delve into the Roarin' 20's as much as I did!

Here's links to the other two:

Outfit Designs | Opulent Pillar

[pinkravat-art]

ok so i was saving 1920s gomens for a comic in mind but i have so much schoolwork rn that i'm not sure when/if i'll get that done SO. HERE SHE IS.

BURLESQUE DANCER CROWLEY.

she's taken permanent residence in all of my sketchbooks, this isn't even half of the drawings i have of her I LOVE HER SM

[marika-misc]

Ref

The bath scene from season 1 but make it HER.

Me : *absolutely unable to draw women without some thick in their legs*

Also me : Yes, but listen. This is Aziraphale cosplaying as Crowley. So. Of course some things are gonna bleed through you know.

[aziraphales-library]

do you have any fic recs for aziracrow in the 1920s/30s? I watched Bright Young Things recently and now all I need in life is Aziraphale attending Gatsby-esque parties or anything similar along those lines. I love your blog btw! Very helpful <3

We have a #1920s tag, so check that out. Here are some 1930s/Gatsby/Bright Young Things fics...

wanna witness your eyes looking by izzyhandsgf (E)

"How could someone so unbearably holy commit such sins in the most beautiful way?" ----------------------------- Or, Aziraphale and Crowley meet in the 1930s, fem-presenting, and both are slightly overcome by their feelings for one another...

I’ll be Seeing You by gothwillgraham (G)

In the early 1930s, both Crowley and Aziraphale are active in London’s high society, without the other realizing it. When their respective orders cause them to cross paths for the first time since 1867, dealing with the tasks at hand is one thing. But dealing with the emotions built up in the last 70 years is quite another.

Lavender Coffin by The_Infamous_Jack (T)

“If Aziraphale had been in any way inclined, he would have been worried about the damnation of his soul if Heaven ever saw what he was up to. He never worried, though, because they couldn't see a damn thing. Aziraphale was not doing anything that involved Heaven at the moment, he was simply spending time with the humans, and as result, his lifestyle was completely invisible to them. They never bothered him, and he was free to act as sordid as the rest of the era if he so chose to.” ~~~ Aziraphale loves the 1920s, and he only wishes that he could share it with Crowley. Unfortunately, the more time that Aziraphale spends with the humans, and the more drunken letters he writes to his absent “husband”, the more he discovers the darker undertones to the era he thought he fitted right into. Eventually, he begins to spiral into questioning his own loyalties, and he desperately needs somebody to save him. It’s rather ironic that the only person who can is a demon, and one which Aziraphale hasn’t seen for over 70 years. Alternatively, the author watched Michael Sheen in Bright Young Things and you know what that means… (Aziraphale in makeup? Yes please).

Maybe This Time by orphan_account (T)

There was a cabaret in a city called Berlin, in a country called Germany, in a Europe that just narrowly escaped the end of the world and was rapidly heading towards another attempt. And in that cabaret, an Angel and a Demon were dancing together. The trumpets signaling end times could have been playing, and they wouldn’t have even heard it over the music.

Such Sweet Sorrow by Eldyra (M)

This work is loosely inspired by the wonderful comic "Jazz Baby" by WhiteleyFoster and "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Crowley and Aziraphale meet in 1923 at a party, which they both attend due to an assignment from their respective head offices. Crowley is having a bad night, Aziraphale still feels bad about the Holy Water argument, neither is in a party mood. So they take off together to make a memory that will remain precious to them both for the rest of their lives.

Celestial Bodies by Justkeeptrekkin (M)

The year is 1923. Aziraphale's friends at the gentlemen's club invite him for a weekend away in Devon. He asks Crowley to join. It gets very silly and very messy very quickly. That's just how things were in the roaring twenties.

- Mod D

[idliketobeatree]

for someone with a fashion sense variating between "i have to be the most peculiar and strange creature in the grocery store" to "anything more than a cotton shirt and pants today will make me crumble" i have to say. aziraphale looking like a crisp, bunched up laundry that you got out of the washer a moment ago, pulling a literal valentino model, makes me feel like there's hope in the world

[mischivarien]

I fell in love with the fire long ago ❤️

[foresttoffee]

I needed Crowley in a flapper dress. Now I feel like I need to do the whole outfit…

A continuation of the ineffable wives through the centuries shoes editions. This time, the 1920s! I feel like Crowley would be able to convince Aziraphale to dance. 💃

[cineresis]

Angels in America

It's amazing how fast an evening at your favorite club can be ruined by someone keeling over and frothing at the mouth. The band never quite gets back into the swing of things afterwards.

"Angel," sighed one of the men, or nearest approximants, at the table next to mine, "why is it that I can never go anywhere with you without stumbling across a body?"

"Oh, come now," said his partner, a soft, fluffy confection in caramel and cream, rising hastily to make his way toward the source of the commotion. The first gentleman, dark, lanky, and excruciatingly chic, got up to follow him. "It's hardly every time."

I stayed where I was for now, casting my gaze around the room as I went over my memory of the past twenty or thirty minutes. Too many people passing close enough to slip something into the victim's drink, too many others to watch at the same time, too many more opportunities to poison him outside my field of view. I was a detective, not God.

"Stumbling upon, once. Literally. Do you know what it's like to have to clean up after that sort of thing? It takes a personal toll."

"Hush, Crowley," chided "Angel". "People can hear you, and you know how queer they get about these things. Ooh, yes, that's strychnine, all right," he added cheerfully, pulling a small vial from his vest pocket and tipping it into his handkerchief. "Nasty stuff."

I got up. As I approached, I caught the faint, unmistakable chemical sweetness of ether fumes and gave them a wide berth, choosing instead to inspect the victim's plate and glass before turning to scan the room from this perspective.

"Now, just what might you be doing?" drawled Crowley.

I looked him over, too, while I was at it. In Crowley's case, this involved a lot of looking and not much over; he was easily more than six feet tall, even while slouching rakishly. The snake tattoo on his right temple suggested certain things about him. The dark glasses that he hadn't removed since he'd entered just suggested questions, since I highly doubted he was blind. "I'm a detective," I said, leaving the obviously at the end of that sentence to implication. "What are you doing?"

This response seemed to delight him. "So are we," Crowley answered, and grinned. "But if you want to get specific about it, I'm keeping you distracted while my friend saves this man's life. Let's see your license, then."

As I took it out, keeping at least one eye on him and his partner, Angel called out to the rubbernecking crowd around us, "I need someone here to run and call the nearest hospital, and a couple of strong men to help get this poor fellow someplace dark and quiet to rest. Best use one of the tablecloths for a stretcher," he added to the first volunteer who stepped forward.

Crowley leaned in closer to study my license. "Drake Silas Donovan," he read off. "'Silas', really?"

"What about it?"

"I've just always wondered what kind of parent would name their kid Silas."

"The kind who had a grandfather named Silas," I replied coolly, snagging my license back. "Your turn."

He obliged. Anthony J. Crowley, it read, licensed in London since 1905, the year before mine. I wondered how long he'd been at this; he looked too young for his apparent age, but then I looked too old for mine. "A. J. Crowley," I read his signature aloud. "Get asked if you're any relation every time, or just most?"

There's a certain motion a person's head makes when they roll their eyes. Crowley's was making it. "The man's an embarrassment to the side," he griped. "I made my name legitimately."

"And your friend?" It wasn't as if I couldn't put two and two together. There's a certain type of person who's got both a nose for trouble and the brains to prepare for it; if it walks, talks, and thinks like a dick, it probably is one. It was just that I wasn't in the habit of trusting people, and I'd be a real schmuck to neglect basic due diligence on the guy purportedly surrounded by bodies. 

Detectives are no better or worse than any other person. They just think it's usually more interesting to solve crimes than commit them.

"Oh, he's as legitimate as it gets." Crowley turned to his companion, who was getting to his feet, brushing his clothes off fussily. Beside him, the two volunteers hoisted the unconscious victim onto a tablecloth spread across the floor, momentarily dislodging the ether-soaked cloth before Angel caught it and laid it carefully back in place over the victim's nose and mouth. "Aren't you, Aziraphale?"

Angel — "Aziraphale"? — looked up, startled. "Pardon?"

"Mr. Donovan here wants to see your detective's license," Crowley explained, enunciating his words with malice aforethought.

"Oh! Yes. Of course I always have that with me. Now just where did I..." He started patting down his pockets, stopped suddenly, and took a lovely calfskin card holder out of his coat. "Ah. Here it is."

Beaming, he passed it to Crowley, who passed it to me with the comment, "You'll find everything in order, I'm sure."

I glanced down at the card, then back up at Angel. "Am I supposed to call you A. Z. Fell or Aziraphale?" I asked, pronouncing the Z correctly as zed.

"A. Z. Fell is how 'Aziraphale' is pronounced in the King's English," said Crowley blandly, affecting a cut-glass Oxford accent on the last phrase. His partner seemed pleased by this comment, rather than annoyed.

"I'm afraid my progenitor bestowed me with a rather unwieldy given name," Fell admitted, raising fascinating questions about just how many syllables the British peerage could fit on a birth certificate when they really tried. "Aziraphale just sounds so much more euphonious, don't you think?" Crowley was right; I couldn't tell whether Fell had meant to say A. Z. Fell or the de-accented gloss. He'd lengthened the half-syllable between zed and Fell to a full vowel, but some people said zetta.

"I wouldn't know," I replied, handing the license back to Crowley, who was nearest. When Fell didn't take my bait, I added, "Lucky that you happened to have ether handy. I wouldn't like to imagine what might've happened if you'd decided to stay in tonight." I also lied when I said sorry, and when I swore to tell the whole truth and nothing but. Little white lies are the oil in the gears of civilization.

"Oh, I always carry that, too," Fell explained earnestly. "One gets into the habit after one's first run-in with strychnine, and of course ether has so many useful applica—"

"I wouldn't, angel," Crowley interrupted, sounding very amused. "Mr. Donovan thinks you're the one behind this."

"Oh," said Fell, nonplussed. "Gosh. Well, I — I suppose I can't blame him. He doesn't know me from Adam, after all, and has no reason to trust me — I did warn you about giving people funny ideas, Crowley, honestly. Of course," Fell turned to me, laying an elegant hand across his chest, "if you were to search me, you would find only a small collection of antidotes — oh, but a habitual poisoner would probably carry those, too, especially if he were the sort of voyeur with a penchant for playing the hero. I certainly wouldn't be convinced of my innocence. Yes, I can certainly understand whatever suspicion you might feel towards me, however misplaced it may be."

Crowley watched this thought process with an expression somewhere between fascination and agony. "Well, at least now he probably thinks that if you'd done it, you'd have been caught by now," he remarked, presumably because he was thinking the same thing. "You'll have to excuse my friend," Crowley added to me. "He still believes that the innocent have nothing to fear. Somehow."

"First time visiting?" I guessed.

Fell's bemusement answered my question before he did. "Pardon?"

"Never mind."

[vavoom-sorted-art]

J.C. Leyendecker study as a test for a bigger art piece i made

Edit: Guys. GUYS. here is the other one stop liking this one it's just a sketch

[painterofstars]

trick-or-treating in south downs

[quona]

Work in progress

Fem Aziraphale with 🌟actual line art🌟

[beeh0rnz]

Ineffable queens doing ineffable queen shit <3

Little doodle versions

[aziraphaledrawings]

new here n saw your art req post,

perhaps some 1920s ineffable wives? (if you havent already)

[ineffableclassics]

Crowley and Aziraphale meet in 1923 at a party, which they both attend due to an assignment from their respective head offices. Crowley is having a bad night, Aziraphale still feels bad about the Holy Water argument, neither is in a party mood. So they take off together to make a memory that will remain precious to them both for the rest of their lives.

Words: 14,318

Status: Complete

Rating: Mature

By @eldyra

[createserenity]

The Painted Veil

13/14 chapters posted.

Rating: E CW: Vomiting, mentions of illness, brief adultery, lots of angst but also fluff.

Written for the Silver Screen Bang, this is a fic about two people and the journeys they undertake to find themselves and each other.

(I know it's an obscure film so don't worry, you don't need to have watched The Painted Veil in order to understand or enjoy this story.)

Summary:

Crowley lives a life of leisure in 1920s London and when they meet at a party, Aziraphale is instantly smitten with him, whilst Crowley thinks Aziraphale is kind, but dull. When circumstances force them into an ill-advised marriage Crowley finds himself undertaking the journey of a lifetime, first to Shanghai and then beyond into the heart of China, where he faces challenges he never expected and is forced to confront not only outside dangers, but also his beliefs about himself, Aziraphale and what their marriage could be.

Extract:

“Are the curls natural?” Crowley blinked. Well, that was… somewhat forward. “Oh dear, my apologies. That was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I am not very good at this sort of thing.” Without really meaning to, Crowley laughed. Not cruelly, which he felt might have been a justified response to such nonsense, but with absolute delight, because it occurred to him that this socially awkward and boring man had no idea what he was doing and yet was trying to flirt. It was rather endearing. He looked pleased by the laugh as well, his smile lighting up his face in a way that was unfairly handsome for such a boring man. Maybe he wasn’t worth dancing with, but that smile was certainly worth basking in a little longer, and Crowley could certainly flirt his way to another one. He pulled on a ringlet and leant in a little closer. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, in a mock whisper, as Dr Fell leant in automatically, close enough that Crowley could smell his cologne. “No natural curl has ever looked like this. Not even Mary Pickford’s.” “Are the curls natural?” Crowley blinked. Well, that was… somewhat forward. “Oh dear, my apologies. That was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m afraid I am not very good at this sort of thing.” Without really meaning to, Crowley laughed. Not mockingly, which he felt might have been a justified response to such nonsense, but with absolute delight, because it occurred to him that this socially awkward and boring man had no idea what he was doing and yet was trying to flirt. It was rather endearing. He looked pleased by the laugh as well, his smile lighting up his face in a way that was unfairly handsome for such a boring man. Maybe he wasn’t worth dancing with, but that smile was certainly worth basking in a little longer, and Crowley could certainly flirt his way to another one. He pulled on a ringlet and leant in a little closer. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, in a mock whisper, as Dr Fell leant in automatically, close enough that Crowley could smell his cologne. “No natural curl has ever looked like this. Not even Mary Pickford’s.”

@goodomensafterdark