Dorian Gray/Good Omens-"Good Riddance"
Today, it's birthday!fic for jiasachan, who requested a Picture of Dorian Gray/Good Omens crack crossover, because apparently I'm getting a reputation for being good at wildly implausible crack crossovers.
Also, dear, you get what is quite possibly the Utter Worst Bad Pun Name for an Apocolyptic Personification Ever. You'll know which one it is.
Good Riddance
“My word.”
“Hm?” Dorian turned his languid gaze in the direction Lord Henry now looked, toward the three men who had just entered. “My word indeed,” he said, the slightest twinge of jealousy slipping into his voice. Lord Henry glanced at his young companion. “Which one are you looking at, eh?”
The slender first man was wearing a finely tailored black suit. His beard was trimmed to a neat, almost devilish, point, and his spectacles were perched gently on his nose. The next fellow was also nicely dressed in a light suit, but had such a pallor to his complexion it made one wonder that he didn’t collapse right there. He was being assisted by a young fellow whose remarkably white hair was pulled back into a queue. His suit was probably white, but had an unfortunately dingy cast to it.*
Dorian gave a hurt look to Lord Henry. “I wasn’t looking at any of them, Harry.”
Lord Henry pursed his lips and smiled in a smirking sort of way. “Well, my dear Mr. Gray, you are quite missing out on a delightful sight.”
The youngest man tugged on the sleeve of the black suited one. “Those fellows are looking at us.”
“Well, we ought to introduce ourselves then.”
The three eased their way to where their admirers stood. The dark one extended his hand. “Good evening, sirs. I am Mr. Black, this is my colleague, Sir Phyllis, and his apprentice, Robert White.** It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Lord Henry shook his hand in a vague sort of way. “Likewise. I am Lord Henry Wotton, and this is my dear friend, Mr. Dorian Gray. Colleague, you say? Businessmen, are you, or scientists perhaps?”
“Sir Phyllis and I have deep interests in conditions of food production, and since Mr. White has a fascination with the industrialization that’s been going on in this country, he seemed to be the perfect apprentice for us to take on.”
“Ah. Pity, really, I was rather hoping you were artists. I am rather fond of artists,” said Lord Henry, ignoring the sharp look Dorian gave him. Dorian couldn’t manage more than the look though: his stomach was aching suddenly, and he felt rather ill.
In the corner of the room sat two women. The light-haired one in violet and lace sighed and stared dolefully at the cluster of men; the redhead in scarlet and black taffeta snorted. “Your husband always that charming, Vickie?” she asked.
“Only to the attractive ones, Madam Leguerre,” said Victoria. “Unfortunately, in these circles, there are a good many attractive ones.”
“Them? Attractive? I didn’t realize your husband was wasteful hypochondriatic compulsive dieter.”
Victoria gave a bitter laugh. “And I upgraded to a paranoid drug-addicted psychoanalyst.”
ACTUALLY, HE’S NOT SO BAD, said a voice from the black robe behind them. I ALWAYS HAVE A GOOD TIME WHEN HE’S AROUND.
The redhead nudged Victoria’s arm. “Let’s go get a drink. The boys will keep each other amused, I’m sure.”
They heard a collective gasp just as they walked out of the house. A young man who had been arguing with his friend had suddenly punched him in the jaw.***
* Which could have been remedied with bleach, a terrible pollutant, but it hadn’t been invented yet, and no one but God will dare to mess with lye. Nasty stuff, that.
** Actually, it had been “Sir Phyllis” who had made the “Bob White” joke earlier that day. “Mr. Black” had threatened then to leave soap under his pillow, but by then the damage had been done and the name was stuck.
*** The black-robed man seemed very interested for a while, but when several other men stepped in and broke up the fight, he left and headed to the local Pie Shoppe. Everyone said they were the Best Pies in London, even if the lady who owned the place and her barber tenant were off their rockers. He figured it would be right up his alley.
Also, dear, you get what is quite possibly the Utter Worst Bad Pun Name for an Apocolyptic Personification Ever. You'll know which one it is.
Good Riddance
“My word.”
“Hm?” Dorian turned his languid gaze in the direction Lord Henry now looked, toward the three men who had just entered. “My word indeed,” he said, the slightest twinge of jealousy slipping into his voice. Lord Henry glanced at his young companion. “Which one are you looking at, eh?”
The slender first man was wearing a finely tailored black suit. His beard was trimmed to a neat, almost devilish, point, and his spectacles were perched gently on his nose. The next fellow was also nicely dressed in a light suit, but had such a pallor to his complexion it made one wonder that he didn’t collapse right there. He was being assisted by a young fellow whose remarkably white hair was pulled back into a queue. His suit was probably white, but had an unfortunately dingy cast to it.*
Dorian gave a hurt look to Lord Henry. “I wasn’t looking at any of them, Harry.”
Lord Henry pursed his lips and smiled in a smirking sort of way. “Well, my dear Mr. Gray, you are quite missing out on a delightful sight.”
The youngest man tugged on the sleeve of the black suited one. “Those fellows are looking at us.”
“Well, we ought to introduce ourselves then.”
The three eased their way to where their admirers stood. The dark one extended his hand. “Good evening, sirs. I am Mr. Black, this is my colleague, Sir Phyllis, and his apprentice, Robert White.** It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Lord Henry shook his hand in a vague sort of way. “Likewise. I am Lord Henry Wotton, and this is my dear friend, Mr. Dorian Gray. Colleague, you say? Businessmen, are you, or scientists perhaps?”
“Sir Phyllis and I have deep interests in conditions of food production, and since Mr. White has a fascination with the industrialization that’s been going on in this country, he seemed to be the perfect apprentice for us to take on.”
“Ah. Pity, really, I was rather hoping you were artists. I am rather fond of artists,” said Lord Henry, ignoring the sharp look Dorian gave him. Dorian couldn’t manage more than the look though: his stomach was aching suddenly, and he felt rather ill.
In the corner of the room sat two women. The light-haired one in violet and lace sighed and stared dolefully at the cluster of men; the redhead in scarlet and black taffeta snorted. “Your husband always that charming, Vickie?” she asked.
“Only to the attractive ones, Madam Leguerre,” said Victoria. “Unfortunately, in these circles, there are a good many attractive ones.”
“Them? Attractive? I didn’t realize your husband was wasteful hypochondriatic compulsive dieter.”
Victoria gave a bitter laugh. “And I upgraded to a paranoid drug-addicted psychoanalyst.”
ACTUALLY, HE’S NOT SO BAD, said a voice from the black robe behind them. I ALWAYS HAVE A GOOD TIME WHEN HE’S AROUND.
The redhead nudged Victoria’s arm. “Let’s go get a drink. The boys will keep each other amused, I’m sure.”
They heard a collective gasp just as they walked out of the house. A young man who had been arguing with his friend had suddenly punched him in the jaw.***
* Which could have been remedied with bleach, a terrible pollutant, but it hadn’t been invented yet, and no one but God will dare to mess with lye. Nasty stuff, that.
** Actually, it had been “Sir Phyllis” who had made the “Bob White” joke earlier that day. “Mr. Black” had threatened then to leave soap under his pillow, but by then the damage had been done and the name was stuck.
*** The black-robed man seemed very interested for a while, but when several other men stepped in and broke up the fight, he left and headed to the local Pie Shoppe. Everyone said they were the Best Pies in London, even if the lady who owned the place and her barber tenant were off their rockers. He figured it would be right up his alley.