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When Alberto had approached her to do more modeling, this time for a magazine, Aziraphale hesitated. She’d only done it in the first place because she had wanted to feel useful during the war—this would’ve just been for personal gain.
But then he grabbed her hand and pouted.
“Por favor, querida. I’d rather it be you than one of Hefner’s vapid girls.”
She agreed. Maybe she could use this opportunity to get Hefner himself to switch sides—or, more doable, the young ladies he preyed on.
So she prettied herself, packed a bag, and prepared a letter to let Crowley know not to worry.
***
In the cool darkness of his office, Crowley looked over the missive from Hell as the wax-sealed letter landed on his desk with a flutter.
He took a sharp breath and the familiar scent confirmed his suspicion. The crisp white stationary was from Aziraphale and, as he read it, a small smile twitched his lips.
“Well, angel, seems like we’re going to be seeing each other in the colonies after all.”
His orders had been vague and specific all at once: ‘ Create moral discord. Start with the artist Gil Elvgren.’ And Crowley, familiar with the work of the calendar artist, knew what needed to be done. With a snap, his debonair look of the 40s melted into soft curves and a cloud fluff of hair.
She looked in the mirror and smirked.
***
The studio had been tastefully prepared and closed off to anyone other than Alberto and the models. Aziraphale recognized a few of them from previous events and some of them from the magazine covers sold at the discreet store down the street from the bookshop.
But all of them, scantily clad or fully bare under the borrowed robes, were kind and smiled as they complimented Aziraphale on her previous works.
“I know a few men who held your collection in their foxholes; some still squirrel them away in albums they hide from their wives,” one of the dark haired models said with a wink.
Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, I’m flattered. I was just doing what I could to keep spirits up.”
Another model, tall and thin with soft red-blonde hair, laughed, “Something was up alright.”
Alberto walked in as they were all laughing. “What are you nenas up to now? Don’t be scaring my Azi away with your naughtiness.”
“Oh, Beto, we’re just lavishing her with praise,” a smallish model said with a pout. “She’s done this already. How much naughtier can we be? At least Hugh hasn’t met her yet.”
“If he met her, she’d go off running to work with Elvgren and I’ll lose one of my senior models,” said Alberto. “Now come on. Let's take the pictures and get you dressed before el jefe shows up to do some ogling.”
The girls all headed towards their respective backgrounds while Alberto approached Aziraphale.“Are you sure you’re well? They didn’t scare you off, right?”
Aziraphale smiled. “Not at all, dear.”
He studied her face for a second. “And you’re sure you still want to do this? These are more risque than what we were up to before. Playboy magazine really isn’t looking for angels… they want vixens.”
“My dear, if anything, I want to do it more. Show the world that you can turn any silly model into a smouldering sex symbol,” she said, reaching over to squeeze Alberto’s hand. “Who is this Elvgren you mentioned?”
Alberto devolved into a spiel about the national treasure who was Gil Elvgren and his calendar art, about how they’d been pitted against one another in the market until Hefner had snatched him up with steady work.
“And is he? A competitor?” asked Aziraphale.
Alberto laughed, “No, mi vida. We might make similar art, but our audiences are very different. Gil makes his art more publicly acceptable, less revealing. Are you sure that you are comfortable being so… exposed?”
“There’s no one I trust more than you with this. What’s your vision this time, Alberto?”
***
Gil Elvrgren smiled as his newest model—a glamorous and well-versed bombshell—held the cheeky pose he’d placed her in.
“Ms. Crowley, I’m so happy that Bee sent you my way,” he said. “I’d heard your name being mentioned in the collectors’ world, but getting to work with you is… amazing .”
Crowley smiled, a sharp fang peeking out. “It’s an honor to be included in your calendars… as long as I get a few prints to send to my personal admirers.”
Elvgren threw his head back and let out a laugh that shook his entire body. “My lovely lady, you can have as many prints as you’d like, but only after the calendar gets printed. Can’t have you promising anyone an early glimpse.”
She gave a chuckle of her own as he continued the wide strokes of his starting sketch. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes as he focused on the work.
“Now that I think about it. It is interesting that you were sent to me. A lot of managers are sending their best models—that is, their most seductive ones—to Vargas since he’s in charge of Playboy . And, my dear, that would definitely fit you .”
Crowley gave a little hum, hair flouncing as she tossed her hair back into place, “I was offered to head over to Mr. Vargas’ studio. I preferred a further reach. I’m sure you understand, right?”
While Vargas was still producing hit after hit, there were only so many people who even bought the naughty publications his art was nestled in now. But everyone needed a calendar, and if they chose them with a flash of legs or tits, who was he to judge?
“You should still go and model for Vargas, too,” Elvgren continued. “I think he’d probably find a good place for you on a centerfold.”
Crowley shrugged. “Right now, I’m enjoying the calendar making world.”
Elvgren’s smile grew before he ducked his head and focused on mixing colors, and Crowley’s own face split into a smile. She was called the original tempter for a reason. And the colonies were needing a little bit of cheeky naughtiness.
Who was she to deny them that?
***
The models at Elvgren’s studio were all swarmed on one of the chaise longues, heads together like a mass of soft-haired hydras when Crowley entered for her session.
“What’s all this then? Which celebrity has you all a-twitter today?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice.
One by one the group of models looked up and smiled at Crowley, who they all had attached to as ducklings to their mother. The one in the middle revealed their treasure.
“The newest Playboy is out. We always get it to see which one of our friends is being featured.”
Another one nodded, her beach-wave hair bouncing. “But Vargas got one of his favorites to model for him again. One of the wartime gals.”
“She’s just so pretty.”
“Like an angel.”
Crowley froze, the robe she’d grabbed slipped from her fingers as she turned towards the crowd. “An… angel?”
The first girl waved her over. “Come here. Look. Oh, I wish Gil would call her for a session. I want to see if her hair is just as soft as it looks.”
“Or if it’s natural.”
“Let me see,” said Crowley, a step short of lunging towards the young woman to snatch the magazine from outstretched hands.
If her knees wobbled a little when she took a look at the art, it was just for her to know and no one to notice. Nor was it any of their business how dry her throat got when she recognized the model.
It was the nose. That little upturn at the tip always indicated her angel, but Crowley’s cloaked eyes were too busy taking in every inch of newly exposed skin: gentle sloping arms, the implication of her stomach’s curve, the head tilted back and the finger she was biting like it was that damned and blessed apple .
In a coy attempt to maintain her modesty, Vargas had positioned a flower to cover a bare breast, but a perky nipple still peeked out.
It was gorgeous artwork. She was ravishing .
“Toni,” the youngest of the models said as she approached with her discarded robe, “you alright?”
Crowley answered in a series of affirming noises and took the offered article of clothing, “Where’s Gil?”
“Getting supplies. I’m sure he won’t mind if you go peek your head in.”
She muttered her gratitude and took off as quick as she could on still-wobbly knees. She couldn’t let Aziraphale out perform her.
When the girls went looking for the magazine to continue their perusal, no one could find it in the studio. And that was no one’s business but Crowley’s.
***
Aziraphale was confused when Alberto asked if she’d go to Elvgren’s studio for a session.
“He saw that latest spread and asked if he could borrow you for a specific image he had in mind. He also sent a sneak peak at some of the other artwork that’ll be in this year’s edition.”
Curiosity piqued, Aziraphale took the offered images and nearly swallowed her tongue. She definitely knew this model, but never in the colors they wore there.
The bright red hair drew the eye first, but it was the creamy, see-through nightie slipping off freckled shoulders and the light-blue frills at the end (with matching heels) that Aziraphale stared at longer.
Those were her creams and blues. And now Crowley was wearing them.
Aziraphale kept scanning over the image, savoring every curve and cheeky peek of skin and the smile of a demon who knew exactly what she was doing.
She agreed to work with Elvgren. Alberto got the bombshell in return.
Gil dressed Aziraphale in black lace, requested by the model herself, and he gushed over getting to work with Vargas’ angel.
“I’d heard such amazing things about you,” he said, positioning Aziraphale on the bed.
“From Alberto?”
Gil laughed, “No, from Toni. She was the reason I thought about reaching out to Alberto in the first place. If I had known you were friends, I would’ve called for you sooner.”
Across the country, Crowley was winning Vargas over and modeling a saucy little number that would look great in the next edition. Unlike Aziraphale, she was unlucky enough to catch Hefner’s eye.
“I’m sorry about him, Antonia,” Alberto said. “I didn’t think he’d be around today.”
Crowley gave an unladylike snort. “I’ve dealt with worse. Now let’s continue… I’m sure that you want your angel back.”
A back-and-forth began after that. Crowley would swing by Alberto’s studios and drown in the sticky sludge of Hefner’s lust while Aziraphale would bless Gil’s girls with good fortune and health. They’d leave behind a slew of paintings that were meant for the other as the men of America believed it was just for them.
When the craze of pin-up art died, both returned to cancelling each other out around the British Isles and the conversation of their convoluted game was drowned in an offering of Holy Water and then a foiled apocalypse.
It was years later, in their South Downs home where each would pull out a scrapbook filled with complementary artwork they’d kept hidden away that the two would laugh, tuck into each other’s sides, and flip through the mutual temptation meant for their beloved.
“Never pegged you for a Bunny, angel,” Crowley said, looking at his favourite of Vargas’ work, finger tracing the painting’s leg.
“No, I suppose not. But I believe we were both vixens over bunnies,” said Aziraphale, mirroring the caress over the very physical curve of Crowley’s side. “And, over that, I prefer you being your beautiful self, my tempting snake.”
Crowley leaned over to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s mouth, soft and languid. “Sweet bunny.”
“Foxy fiend.”
The book was miracled back onto its shelf as Crowley climbed into Aziraphale’s lap, and all thoughts of scantily clad pictures were forwent for the real thing.