#Crowley is for sure second I just put him on the right for aesthetic reasons | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

trashboatprince · 4 years

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I’m working on a main story for my Reverse Omens au, but for right now, I really wanted to do something with Aziraphale the Demon opening up his shop.

So, here’s a little something while I work on the main story for Sour Blessings. I had to do a bit of research for this, so you’re welcome.

Summery: The opening for A.Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More is on Friday, however, the demon Aziraphale may have to put that opening on hold, indefinitely, due to an unexpected promotion.

Not if the angel Crowley has anything to say about it!

Warning: Reverse Omens, the other demons and angels are not swapped, these two fools are in love but they won’t admit it so it’s getting the ship tag.

Aziraphale (formally Azrafel) is a half-deaf, white cat demon, Crowley (formally Samael) is a rainbow boa angel and the one who tempted Eve (There is a reason for this!).

Rewrite of the infamous Bookshop deleted scene.

On with the fic!

Can’t Have That Now, Can We?

Aziraphale, formally known as the demon Azrafel until he stole back his original name, was more excited than he had been in years.

Finally, after so many hiccups, missions, and simply being absentminded about his goal, he was opening up his shop! Well, not officially, he planned on being open to the public on Friday, but he was allowing for guests today!

So far, the only person invited is his dear angel, Crowley, who he knows will be here promptly at a quarter past eleven, the redhead was also so good with time.

Proudly, Aziraphale looked up at the sign that had just been installed this morning. A. Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More, it read with a shine of silver paint on a dark blue background. It was beautifully fitting for the man-shaped being, fitting his color aesthetics. He practically purred in delight as he stepped through the doors, happily hearing a jingle of a bell above his head.

The demon hummed to himself a song from an opera he had attended a few days ago, carefully lining up some of his collection he had noticed he bumped out of place. His shop was going to house his massive collection of antiques, a term he had adored using for the collection since it was first coined during the 1400’s in references to ancient artifacts.

He finally had a place for all his stuff, things he had hidden all over the world, bought, traded, stolen, made himself, gifts from his favorite snake, all in one place now! Sure, it took him centuries to finally settle down, but 1831 was a good enough time, right?

Well, there had been an attempt a few centuries ago, back in the 1500’s, but it had been a bookshop next to a printing shop that had printed a book he really had wanted, but a mission to China had prevented that. And had also resulted in him not paying rent on the shop and having gotten in trouble with Hell for something stupid, he couldn’t pay the rent and lost the first shop.

Anyway, he happily likes to forget that happened and has instead tried again! Same location too, second time’s the charm!

Aziraphale wasn’t finished setting up though, he still had more stuff in storage that he needed to bring in, but his angel had said he’d help up with bringing that in. He wouldn’t help with the organizing though; Crowley knew from experience that Aziraphale had a way of organizing his clutter in a way that worked for the cat. Especially when it came to certain collections, like his massive library and his collection of rare snuff boxes.

As he carefully aligned a bronze statue of a rather specifically detailed and accurate horse he got as a joke gift from Crowley, he heard the jingle of the bell above his front door. He cupped his hand over his left ear, trying to hear who it was, couldn’t be Crowley, it was too early still.

Then he smelled the scent of festering mold and swamp scum, along with other unpleasant things, and he felt his skin prickle.

With a held back sigh, Aziraphale put a fake smile on his face, turning to face his fellow demons, hoping his beard hid the fact that his mouth twitched. “Hastur, Ligur, to what do I owe the pleasure of two Dukes of Hell in my shop?”

The two demons stood by the open doors, dressed in rather shoddy clothing, meant more for the lower class than the higher, as Aziraphale himself was dressed to blend in with. However, it was good to note that this time they actually wore clothing that would help them blend in, rather than how they dressed the last time they ‘visited’ Aziraphale. He would never forget those sins against nature.

Neither of them smiled, they just stared, before Hastur stepped forward. “We’ve orders from Below for you.” He ground out, making Aziraphale raise an eyebrow.

“Orders? Strange, normally Hell just burns a message in one of my books or screams at me from an envelope nowadays, don’t usually send messengers to tell me what my next job is.

“It’s not really… orders.” Ligur spoke up, waving a hand, completely bored of this already. “’s more like you’re getting somethin’.”

Aziraphale blinked, cupping a hand over his ear again. “Come again?”

Hastur made a face. “Think of it as… bad news, but not really bad news, more like good news, but we can’t say that shit, so it’s bad news, but not that bad-”

“I… I got it.” The cat sighed, holding up a hand. “Is it about the second revolution in France?” He had sent in a wordy letter to Hell about how he had helped kickstarted that event, even though he hadn’t actually done so. He and Crowley had taken a trip to the south of France and got dreadfully wasted and somehow ended up on the Isle of Capri.

“More like a bunch of things you’ve done, Azrafel.” The chameleon demon spoke and ignored the face Aziraphale pulled, hearing his old name. It has been centuries, and no one cared that he stole back his angel name, they just ignored him, thinking he was edgy or something. “Apparently, you’ve done your job to such extremes that Hell is oddly impressed.”

This can’t be good.

“And because of this, you’re going down to Hell, promotin’ you back to Downstairs. Heard you might get a cushy job runnin’ the torture department, lucky bastard.”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to register what this meant. “But… I’m opening this antique shop on Friday. If Master Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”

“Hm,” Hastur pondered for a moment, “actually, I think that’s an idea, whoever replaces you up here can use this place as a base of operations.”

This got a look of disgust from the cat demon. “Use my shop?” The nerve! No one was allowed to use his shop; this was for him! And maybe Crowley, because he knows that wily angel will also laze about wherever Aziraphale is staying.

Neither demon seemed to give two shits about what Aziraphale thought of this. “You’re bein’ promoted,” the frog demon shrugged, “you get to go back home.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone who wanna spend more than five minutes on this waste of space.” Ligur commented, look at a bell jar on a shelf, containing a taxidermized scene of insects dancing at a ball. The chameleon on his head licked its lips.

“Azrafel’s been on this shithole for almost six thousand years,” his companion replied, “that’s some impressive patience, I can’t stand doin’ tasks up here that take longer than a day. Just plant bad ideas in a human’s head and let ‘em do all the work. Still, gotta give kudos where kudos is due…”

He dug into the pocket of his grubby coat, pulling out a box, covered in stains that Aziraphale really didn’t want to know the origins of. “Apparently, this is for all your bad work.” He said in a tone that clearly didn’t hide his jealousy and bitterness.

Hastur opened the box and Aziraphale stared at a rather lovely, shiny medal. He had seen this kind before, proudly worn by members of the Dark Council.

When they said he was being promoted… oh, oh bugger, this was a Promotion.

“I don’t want it.” Aziraphale spoke without much thought. He glanced up and nearly screamed, because right behind Hastur and Ligur, was a redheaded angel, giving a cheery wave.

The grandfather clock off to the left happily showed that it was exactly a quarter past eleven in the morning. It was the worst possible time for Crowley to show up.

With a skip in his snake-skinned step, Crowley turned a corner down a street in Soho, a box of the finest chocolates under his arm. He had dolled himself up for today, putting on his finest dark gray suit, his pink shirt clear and ironed, and a new hat sat happily on his head, decorated with a gold-plated apple blossom.

It was over-the-top, but the snake-eyed angel was known for being flashy and showboat-y with his appearance.

He spotted the shop at the corner and picked up the pace, mentally counting down the seconds. He loved being exactly on time, but he also loved putting Aziraphale on edge when he was a few minutes late.

Crowley got right up the steps at exactly 11:15, noticing that not only were the doors opened, but two figures were standing in the doorway, with Aziraphale stared past them. And right at Crowley, with a look the screamed ‘oh bugger’.

The demon licked his lips, stammering as he tried to speak to the two strangers, who Crowley hadn’t quite realized were demons. “B-But only I can properly thwart the good deeds of the angel Cr-Samael!”

Crowley stopped smiling, tilting his head, eyebrow raising over his dark shades. He held up the package, smiling, and mouthed ‘chocolates’ at his best friend.

“I don’t doubt that,” the blond-haired demon spoke, “whoever replaces you will be as bad an enemy to Samael as you are. Baphomet, maybe.”

The angel looked horrified and disgusted. He looked towards Aziraphale and mouthed ‘Baphomet?! Baphomet’s a wanker!’ The gray-haired demon shifted on his feet, trying to ignore Crowley to not draw attention to him.

“Samael’s been here just as long as I have, and he’s wily! And cunning, and brilliant, and oh…” Aziraphale was a bit flushed in the face and Crowley perked up, smiling brightly.

“It almost sounds like you like him.” Hastur spoke in a tone that was clearly not pleased with this.

“I loathe him!” Aziraphale shouted, though his face still burned red. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent! Which he isn’t because he’s an angel, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one!” He tacked on quickly.

Hastur actually smirked, crossing his arms. “That’s the attitude that Hell likes to hear. I can see why they’re bringin’ you back.” He stepped forward, pinning the medal to Aziraphale’s dress jacket, the shorter man holding his breath at the bad smell coming off of Hastur. A quick glance over the other’s shoulder let Aziraphale know that Crowley was out of sight, hopefully he knew to stay away until these two were gone.

“So…” Aziraphale started, “we’re going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?”

“Ehh… soon.” Hastur waved a hand. “Got a job to do, then we’ll be back for you.”

The job was a simple corruption on, convince a human in charge of a respectable pub to take in bribes, sell illegal content under the counter, and convert his pub into a drug den in later years, that should do the trick.

And to help with that, they decide to plant things in the backroom of the pub for the owner to find, miracled with a temptation to put the pieces together. Ligur stood outside the backroom’s door while Hastur moved to remove the contents of his pockets in the room.

He pauses, however, hearing voices outside of an open window.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved,” it was the voice of the angel Samael, “of glorious being of God’s divine will?”

There was a strange, echoing voice that followed right after, layered as if multiple voices spoke at once. “No one is listening, oh angel Samael, the Lefthand of God.”

Blinking, Hastur steps onto a crate under the window and, using his true eyes, peeks out the window, only the top of the head of his frog looking into the alley behind the pub. He could see Crowley, standing before a cloaked figure in white, the latter having their back turned to the window. He slipped down a bit to not be seen, but still remained close to hear.

“Curses.” The angel hissed. “If only I could understand why my blessed plans are always so brilliantly thwarted! It’s as if the forces of Hell have a champion here on Earth who contaminates my blessings! Who overlaps their own dark influences on my own good ones! Who thwarts me… thwartingly…”

Unbeknownst to the demon on the other side of the wall, the cloaked figure that Crowley was speaking to was actually just a tailor’s dummy from the tailor shop just next door. Crowley was practically tickle-me-pink with delight of how much fun it was doing this. He absolutely loved when he got to flex his acting skills.

He continued the act, putting on the heavenly voice once more. “Why, Mister Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Heaven! They do say as how the demon Azrafel, your nemesis, is being sent back to Hell!”

Crowley knew he was acting slightly to broadly, but it was the style of the time, so it was necessary.

“Can this be true?” He continued in his normal voice. “I was going to throw myself into a pit of Hell Fire in my despair at once more being beaten by the demon Azrafel! But such excellent news! Only Azrafel knows my ways well enough to…”

“Thwart them?”

“Exactly. Now, let us retire to church, and pray to the success of good on this Earth, thanks to Hell’s foolishness!”

Hastur heard the other walking off before he moved out of the room, well, he might have to have a conversation with Aziraphale it seems.

“So, I’m… not going anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, mismatched eyes staring at the two other demons, the pupils growing with possible hope.

“Change of plans.” Hastur grumbled. “We need you here, in this shop, battling good.”

Ligur slapped the Aziraphale on the back a few times, nearly knocking him over. “Carry on battlin’ that pain in the ass angel. I’m sure Hell’ll understand that you’re needed here more than down there.”

“Keep the metal.” Hastur poked at it against Aziraphale’s chest, making him wince at the pressure of the jab.

“But I don’t understand…” The cat demon blinked, suddenly realizing he was all alone in the shop now, the scent of sulfur starting to mellow out. With a snap of his fingers, the shop suddenly smelled of flowers, thanks to the lovely potted plant that just showed up next to him.

With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, moving around a shelf to try and return to his previous task of worryingly set up his collection.

“Well, that was fun.”

Aziraphale yelped, jumping a foot in the air as his hair and beard puffed up from the shock. He turned, finding a certain angel, basking happily in a chair that had been swiped from the King of Spain in the late 1300’s. “Crowley… w-what are you doing here?” He asked, approaching the redhead, who just smiled, holding up the box of chocolates from behind.

Aziraphale chirped in joy, taking the box. “Oh, yes, thank you, darling!”

“’s nothin’, kitty cat. I think you deserve them now than you did before those two idiots showed up.”

“How… much of that did you see?”

Crowley shrugged before getting out of the chair, stretching. “Well, I arrived to see that you were stuck dealin’ with two idiots, and that you needed help. So, I may or may not have helped you out of a bit of trouble, again. Nice medal, the Dark Council kind? Wow, that’s a hell of a promotion, kitty cat.”

Aziraphale frowned and removed the metal from his jacket, tossing it towards Crowley, who caught it with ease. “I’ve done so well at my job that I was promoted to join them! I mean, it’s not the worst promotion I could get, in fact, any demon would give up their whole… well… everything to be part of that group! But I must admit, it would be too much, I’d be allowed to do whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to work and stay on Earth.”

“Sounds like a shit job to take, Aziraphale.” Crowley commented, looking over the metal before dropping it into a clay pot. “But hey, you get to stay here!”

“For some reason…” Cat eyes turned, staring directly at snake ones, hidden behind dark lenses. “What did you do?”

Crowley grinned brightly. “Oh, just pulled off some theatrics.” He wiggled his fingers and Aziraphale groaned. “I told you I was good at this! I should join a theater, get my name out there! I’ll even do those boring, sad Shakespearean plays you like so much!”

“Uhg.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes before looking at Crowley, smiling. “Still, thank you for helping me today, darling. Now, how about the two of us enjoy this delectable box of goodies you got me, I have a lovely red that we can drink alongside them in the back, found it while bringing things in the other day.”

“Sounds delightful, kitty cat.”

END

Well, this was a lot of fun to write!

In case you wanna know what they look like, Aziraphale looks like Martin from Prodigal Son (except well dressed in a light gray and dark blue Regency outfit), and Crowley looks like David’s portrayal of Richard II (in a dark gray and pink Regency outfit).

Hastur and Ligur look like characters from Oliver Twist haha.

In case anyone was wondering why Aziraphale owns an antique shop, it was because as much as I love the bookshop still being part of a Reverse Omens au, I also really loved the idea of going off the little fact that book Aziraphale also collects old snuff boxes and it went from there that he just collects all sorts of things.

Oh, and Hastur left Aziraphale on Earth cause if he's really the only one who can 'stop' the Heavenly might of Samael, the angel with the title of Destroyer, well... yeah, might as well leave him to deal with that mess.

Thanks for reading! As always, drabbles are open!

#good omens #reverse omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #hastur #ligur #john's drabbles

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anotherwellkeptsecret · 5 years

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Unfinished Business

(An unfinished ficlet about 6,000 year old idiots learning how to kiss.)

Crowley drained his glass. “Have you?” he asked, punctuating his query with a blithe, “Ever?”

“Ever what?”

Aziraphale knew exactly what. And Crowley knew he knew exactly what, going by the way his eyebrows were slowly inching up his forehead like twin, fuzzy caterpillars whose souls had shuffled off this mortal coil and were beginning their ascent into the afterlife.

Aziraphale snapped his book shut as fussily as possible, which was pretty damn fussy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You do,” Crowley rebutted.

Shit.

Aziraphale spun on his heel. He busied himself with tucking Moby Dick back where it belonged on his desk with the other Melvilles. He could feel Crowley’s gaze bore into his thoracic vertebrae while he stalled, trying and failing to soothe the heart pounding in his chest for no good reason. He flattened his palms against his lapel; a little pat-pat to make sure they were lying neatly.

“No,” Aziraphale finally admitted. Followed by a defensive, “Have you?”

“Nope.”

Oh.

Well, that was a surprise.

Azirapahle glanced at Crowley over his shoulder, assessing. Both of Crowley’s arms were akimbo on the back of the sofa, legs sprawled artfully and--dare Aziraphale think it--invitingly. His ankles crossed and the gleam of his snakeskin boots lambent in the dim light of Azirapahle’s shop.

“I thought that sort of thing was…” Aziraphale twiddled his fingers in an approximation of something or nothing at all. “...a part of your lot’s milieu.”

“I don’t have a lot. Neither do you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley smirked. “I rather thought kissssing was more of a heavenly affair.” He tilted his head to one side. “Love...” he drawled with a curl of his lip, like the very word was in itself divine, and perhaps it was. “...’n all.”

“Ah.” He had a point. But...

“You don’t have to kiss someone to have sex with them, angel.”

Aziraphale could feel himself turning red. The avatar of his body was betraying him altogether. “I-I know that!” (He hadn’t.) “Sex isn’t always governed by lust, you know.”

“Mmm, was never really my thing.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“Lust,” Crowley specified.

Aziraphale blinked again.

“Icky.” Crowley smacked his lips, frowning. “Humans. They leave gobs of themselves everywhere. All those fluids and hair and skin!”

“You’re a snake,” Aziraphale reminded him, exasperated.

“Well, yeah. But that’s…” Crowley shrugged. “...snakey, innit?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

Crowley sprang to his feet. He jabbed a finger at Aziraphale, a devilish lilt to his voice when he crooned, “You’re curious.”

“I am not!” Aziraphale lied. Badly. He scampered away, collecting a stack of books from one organized mess and sorted them into another organized mess on the other side of the room.

Crowley trailed along behind him with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Or as stuffed as they could be in his tight, leather trousers. He followed Aziraphale from one shelf to the next, twisting and turning around a pillar here, a marble bust there, more and more amused by Aziraphale’s bluster and fluster. “You are!” he sing-songed. “I saw you making goo-goo eyes at the lovebirds in the park.”

Aziraphale blanched. He tripped over a step ladder he never really used anyway. Stupid. Why did he even own such a thing? It wasn’t like he needed it. “I was making eyes, as you so eloquently put it, at the love they were emanating, not--” He tripped again. This time into an entire bookcase, which was something he needed. So focused was he on preventing the impending avalanche, Crowley effectively trapped him against the shelves by the cunning use of what Aziraphale knew to be called leaning.

“Oh, dear,” he murmured.

Crowley watched him avert his eyes to the ceiling, the floor, and back again. He waited until Aziraphale deigned to look at him. Approximately one minute and ten seconds, which wasn’t that long in the great scheme of things, but a rather ridiculous amount of time not to look at the person standing in front of you. “Do you trust me?” Crowley asked when their eyes finally met.

Aziraphale was offended. Did he trust Crowley? Of course he trusted him! A thousand times--six thousand times--yes! Aziraphale meant to say as much, but ended up squawking instead. And that was rather embarrassing. So he nodded. But he wasn’t happy about it.

“Say it.” A flash of teeth. Equal parts commanding and pleading, which must have inadvertently spirited all the oxygen out of the room because it was suddenly difficult to breathe. And necessary, besides.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

Crowley edged closer. Invading his personal space. Not that he’d never done that before. Personal space was all very relative to beings who can will themselves as small as a microbe at any given moment. But still. Right then and there, the air between them hot and humid, it was quite invasive.

One beat.

Two.

Neither of them moved.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asked, tentative.

“Yeah--no--” Crowley stammered. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Fine. Are you…um...?”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Yes.”

This was absurd.

“You started it,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“I--no--nyrk--look! You wanna do this or not?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose. If it’s you.”

“Right. Okay, then.” Crowley bullied himself flush against Aziraphale’s chest.

They were nose to nose. Still familiar territory. They regarded each other, a little cross-eyed, and Crowley pivoted ever so slightly to his left so their noses not only touched at their tips, but slotted side by side. Which was very much new. And nice. Soft and warm and they could feel each other’s pulses hammering away uselessly, but somehow unavoidably.

Aziraphale shut his eyes. He wanted to see, but Crowley’s features had gone all blurry. He wasn’t sure he could will his vision to adjust because are those Crowley’s hands on his waist? He licked his lips, nervous, and made the most outrageous yelp when the tip of his tongue met flesh and sweet Jesus and his barefoot apostles.

Aziraphale had sampled the most exorbitant wine, the most delectable foods the Earth has to offer. No fruit, fermented or otherwise, compared to the brief taste of Crowley’s lip. Whichever one it had been. Sweet and firm and delicious.

“Sorry,” Azirapahle gasped. It had been an accident even though he liked it.

“No, it’s…” Crowley’s hands kneaded fretfully against his waistcoat. “...do it again.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale stuck out his tongue. A bit shy. A bit overwhelmed. A bit what-the-Hell. And so he probed, just there, and licked with unrestrained indulgence.

Crowley’s spine went ramrod straight. “Aziraphale,” he spoke the angel’s name like a benediction. And then, “Aziraphale!” Scandalized. Delighted.

Aziraphale squinted open one of his eyes. Then the other. “Did I do it right?”

Crowley had the most annoying and sinfully crooked smile on his face. “You made an Effort!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed irritably. “I had to!”

Crowley was looking at him the exact same way he did when Aziraphale told him he’d given his flaming sword away six thousand years ago.

“The fit of my trousers just wouldn’t do without the Effort, dear.”

Crowley blatantly stared at Aziraphale’s crotch. “Is it functional?”

“Not sure, really.”

Crowley gawked at him.

“It’s simply for aesthetics, mind you. Would you rather I didn’t…?”

“What? I--no--of course! It’s--it’s fine, yes.”

“Do you have…?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is yours functional?”

“Sometimes.”

Aziraphale was pretty sure he was Falling because his veins felt like they were on fire.

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“It’s fine.”

“Good. Shall we?” Crowley swooped in close without waiting for a response. Their noses knocked and their mouths pressed firmly together over their teeth, but Aziraphale’s tongue was back where it belonged and Crowley positively melted into the sensation. Sighing, sinking firmly into the spit-plush of Aziraphale’s mouth (before remembering himself), and standing back up to his full height. And, oh. That was rather delicious, that friction, their clothes rucking up and up and yes. Crowley managed to restrain himself, allowing space between their lips once again, and he reveled in the sensation of Aziraphale tonguing right where he used to have a soul patch in the 1590s. Nothing until this moment had made him want to revisit that particular facial hair trend.

“Hath ith?” Azirapahle asked.

“What?”

Regrettably, Aziraphale’s tongue retreated back into his mouth. “How’s this?”

“Great,” Crowley all but sobbed. “Keep going.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to be told twice. Not when it mattered. And his natural curiosity got the better of him. After probing the same spot with his tongue five or six or twenty times (He lost count.), he pursed his lips for just a little sip. He privately thought that Crowley never truly learned how to use his human legs, his hips the fulcrum of his languid and snaking gait. But, standing? Crowley had that down to a science. Contrapposto, mostly, a holdover from the Renaissance, his body striking an S-curve that would put The David to shame. It was an art form, really, so it came as a shock when Crowley’s knees betrayed him altogether.

Aziraphale caught him around the middle. “Are you alright?”

The question was barely posed before Crowley regained his footing and pinned him up against the bookcase hard enough to send a few volumes toppling to the floor, saved in the nick of time by a quick snap of Crowley’s fingers.

“Do that again,” he demanded, almost frantic.

If Azirapahle thought there had been no space between them before, he was sadly mistaken. Crowley nuzzled their mouths together, curtailing a desperate whine with an explosive sigh the moment Aziraphale sandwiched Crowley’s philtrum between his lips and suckled just so.

“Oooh.” Crowley almost sounded in pain. “Fuck me.”

Aziraphale pulled off Crowley’s lip with a wet pop that seriously did things to Crowley in places he didn’t even know he had. “W--really?”

“No! I mean, yes! But no. Later. Kissing now.” Crowley bit down on Aziraphale’s bottom lip and tugged. Not quite sipping, but just as good. If not better. And there was Crowley’s forked tongue drawing him in and further in. His teeth sharp in the best possible way, followed by a massive slurp that had Aziraphale’s eyes rolling back in his head before Crowley released him.

Aziraphale boggled, wide-eyed and panting. He was surely going to discorporate. “Oh, my God!”

“Don’t bring Her into this.”

Both of them glanced overhead.

No, best not to call upon the Almighty in flagrante.

“So that’s what all the fuss is about.”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

Aziraphale was on him in a flash, drinking greedily at his lips, one after the other, and Crowley absolutely refused to wait his turn nicely. Because he wasn’t. Nice, that is. Not even a little bit. That was the good thing about being a snake, he thought, unhinging his jaw just enough to devour Azirapahle’s mouth and they both moaned in unison at the feel of hot, wet heat and breath and slick and fuckfuckfuck!

A sudden gust of wind, a loud FWHUMP. The sound of a lamp smashing to the floor, maybe.

Crowley’s wings were fanned out behind him. He was gasping for breath like it was something he needed to live, fingers wound tight in Aziraphale’s coat. “Fuck,” he said.

“We need to slow down.”

Crowley snarled, “Any slower and I swear I’m going to literally explode.”

#ficlet #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #i wrote this a while ago #i probably won't finish it #but anyone's allowed to complete it #go for it!#my writing

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confused-bi-queer · 3 years

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My journey, I was never straight, just in love with a guy

I feel safe, so I will write this, just because. Nobody is gonna read this anyway

I’m angry because it took me 18 years to freaking know that I’m not straight and there were several things that were obvious and I wish I would’ve notice them. So, here I go. I’m a her at this moment, keep that in mind.

When I was like 6 or so, I pretended to be a boy, for myself. It always made me curious.

When I was like 8 or 9 I never had a problem in dancing with another girl, I was always one of the tall ones and sometimes boys weren’t enough, so they put me with a girl friend and I liked to pretend I was a boy.

When I was like 10, I realized that my height never bothered me, just the fact that I was a tall girl and boys at that age were really really short.

When I was 11, or 12, I went to a catholic school dressed as a man. This was funny and cool. They told us to go in a costume and I went with a suit and a tie, and the director gave me a bad look, but I FELT SAFE. I liked my “costume”.

At that age, I wore a boxer for the first time and enjoyed the fact that I had men’s clothes, I hate them tho, they are uncomfortable.

When I was like 13, I almost kissed my girl best friend, by accident, and I didn’t care, but the fact that there were like 4 other people watching us, made me nervous.

When I was 14, I joked a lot about kissing a friend and spent over a WEEK figuring out which girl had the most desirable lips and who I would kiss if I could, the funny thing is that I had a boyfriend.

At that same time, I had a best friend, another girl, and we always joked about being girlfriends and we always planned, as a joke, to break up with our boyfriends and be together. I broke up with him like 4 months later, but for other reasons.

In those moments I noticed that it wouldn’t bother me if I ever had a girlfriend, to experiment right? (Crowley, the lies I told myself)

When I was 16, one morning I woke up and chose not to give a fuck and dressed up like the boys at my school: with long shorts, a hoddie, my socks high and like that and I felt nice, but my sibling was like “you’re gonna go like that” and changed.

By the end of 2019, my family knew that I liked dressing like a guy sometimes and my mom told me in public, “Why don’t you come like a man, you know, with your tie and suit?” and I loved the idea, but the people around us laughed and I just told her I’ll pass.

I went shopping with my family, to buy clothes, and I was feeling shy because I wanted to buy boy shirts, but I didn’t want anyone to look at me. I told my dad this, and he said it was fine and bought me 3 shirts, I felt soooo good, because I sometimes feel safer in those clothes.

NOW, from here was the real mess, when I noticed that this was not someone straight would do. In the middle of 2020, I was playing a game, A GAME, this episode thingy and chose a girl, because what the hell, I thought it would be fun and it was, and I’m in the middle of a dance class and said out loud for me: “well, this is way more exciting that with a dude” and everything just screwed up from here. Because when I heard myself I was like, what did I just say, and I spent the rest of the class thinking about that.

When the class finished, I thought more and realized that I might not be that straight after all. I questioned if I ever liked men or just my ex, because I’ve been in love with that guy sfor years, I don’t anymore, but I was into him from 5 years until I was 16 years, and that’s why I never knew anything about myself. After that, I made counts and I do like men, but girls too????? And FUCKING GOOGLED IT. Because I labelled myself immediately as a bi girl. And one test was like: “Well, if you’re here asking if you are straight, you’re not” and that sticked with me.

After that, I did some research and went back in my life and labelled myself again. Here’s the thing, I don’t like thinking about sex with men, I haven’t, and that thought made me anxious and disgusted, no offense men, and considered being an ace bisexual, like being attracted to both genders, but no sex. Buuuut, I found out about this term “demisexual” and fits me. But the problem was now the girls and it’s taking me some time to still discover at what point I’m attracted to them, but I am. At this moment I’m definitely bi, demisexual for the boys and confused with girls.

I have came out to three people, and whoever sees this, but doesn’t know who I am. The first person was a friend of mine, bisexual, and she was hella excited for me, so I feel safe with her. The second one was my sister, I tried, and boy did I regret it; she spent over half hour saying that I was confused and that only because a boy broke my heart I couldn’t hate men and that how would I ever be sure (because I didn’t tell her I was sure) and sometimes I say that a girl is pretty or things like that, but never to make her remember I came out. The last one is my best friend, we were on zoom and I sent her a text, didn’t talk about that, but sometimes I feel connected to her.

I cut my hair to my chin. And that felt NICE, I love my short hair, but I couldn’t cut it shorter, like a guy, because I dance and I need at least some hair to make a pony tail, at least. But once I’m out, I will cut it.

Once I was sure of me being bi and solved this thing that didn’t take me that long, just like 6 months, and I was finally happy and proud and I knew myself more, like I found myself, at the end of 2020 I started hating my clothes and my long hair. Because my hair is growing up so fucking fast.

On december 2020, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, I sometimes am, and decided that when 2021 ends, I’ll know if I felt like that because I want to change the aesthetic of my clothes. I thought it was just that, I think it still is.

At the end of February and beginning of March of this year, I read Carry on and Wayward son, by Rainbow Rowell, and loved them, although I’m broken and not mentally stable anymore, but I loved them, I found my comfortable characters, Snowbaz, and I feel connected to them, because they have been an inspiration for a novel I’m writing, they have change me, and they are kinda ruining me, because I thought I wanted to become a director, but turns out I want to go to UK and study fucking literature (a plan I thought didn’t exist anymore, it does, AGAIN). Well, thanks to Baz in WS, I found my aesthetic: flower shirts. And actually flowers have always been my thing, but not once I have wore them because my mom always said they were too much. That’s why I don’t know if my gender identity is crap, because I never had a place to dress like I wanted: using men’s clothes.

Thanks to Baz and his amazing shirts, one day, like last week, I dressed as himself, with the things I had, and I could because I had the clothes, but too girly. After that, it came to me a question, that it’s been messing with me. “Do I want to look like Baz, or do I want to be Baz?” And that’s why I’m having a problem with my pronouns, mind, identity, fucking clothes and everything. A fictional character just messed with me!

I saw this person in tiktok that was gender fluid and I kinda identified with them, because some times I feel masc and sometimes girly and some times I want to cry because no one in my family understand this and I’m the closeted gender confused sibling, child, cousin. So, I think that maybe I am gender fluid or just mentally ill. Crowley,I need to go to therapy.

So, I have stated that I want floral shirts, no matter what, I do, I am a floral person, but people just don’t want other people to be be themselves with their clothes. Yesterday, I went for an ice cream with my sister and told her this, that I wanted and AM a floral person and pointed at her floral shirts and blew my mind, I WANTED THEM and she responded with a “those are boys clothes”, and I told her “so? what about that?” and changed the topic.

Basically, my problems are around the way I dress, the pandemic that has taken a complete year of my life and I want to fucking live, and the fact that I want to go to another country to study a career I discarded because I had a class like that in high school and broke me, and it is not cheap, I’m not good at it and my parents didn’t even like the idea of me living in another state my own country aaand it is too late for me to send an application for next semester.

Back to my original point, I never ever questioned anything of myself and my behaviours because I was in love with the same guy all my life and dated him for a long shit of time, so I thought because I liked him, I was a girl loving a guy, but after several years of having broken up with him, I am a someone bi, because I don’t know. I don’t, but spoiler alert... I am not straight, at all.

#bi #confused #confusedqueer #queer #gender #what is going on #baz #rainbow rowell ruined me #i dont understand #gay #bigirl #biboy #they #help me i'm gay #journey

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thechekhov · 5 years

Text

WIP wednesday? I suppose.

(From that one fic I’m writing completely out of order, in disconnected snippets.)

Look, I know, I know, I know - it’s been done. It’s been done a thousand times - I don’t care. I’m doing it again.

Soho, 1941

Aziraphale’s head is on his shoulder. They’re dancing - if you could call it dancing. Nothing resembling it, really, except in intent. They’re swaying, barely, arms clasped around each other in the gentle way vines curl around bricks - gentle, looping things that are clinging harder than you would ever give them credit for.

Aziraphale’s head is on his shoulder. He’s breathing quietly into Crowley’s neck. His hair is glowing - for fuck’s sake, there’s not enough light in the room to reflect against those ridiculously white curls and yet somehow it’s as if every single photon has zeroed in on his blessed head and is bouncing off of it in reflective patterns of stained glass like he’s a goddamned disco ball.

Aziraphale’s head is on his shoulder. It’s not any closer than it has been in the past. There have been other times, sure. Once, when they were standing watching a play, that same head pressed up against his shoulder when the angel was craning to look at something between the two people in front of them. His head has rolled into his shoulder as he nearly lapsed into a rare instance of sleep once or twice. Aziraphale’s head has touched his shoulder multiple times, in fact, and it should be nothing significant except... except Aziraphale has put it there. Not on accident. Of his own accord. Pressed his cheek into Crowley’s suit collar. Like it belongs there.

Aziraphale’s head is on his shoulder and--despite how much it feels right, how full his chest suddenly is, the pressure is too much. He knows it won’t last. He knows the passing of time - he has felt the strings of it, pulled taut around space, edged and shaped by gravity wells, worn thin in wormholes.

He knows things end. And this - this is something that will end very soon.

And he doesn’t want it to.

His heart, a forgotten, fragile relic of some sort of human aesthetic he’d decided to indulge in during the days of reading the Body Assembly Manual, can’t take the heat and breaks. It shatters, falls to the floor in pieces and Crowley, pivoting just a bit at the music, steps on the remains. Steps, stubbornly, again, and listens to glass crunching under his heel, a sound only he can hear.

They say you break glass for luck. It signifies something final, a destruction of the temple, it signifies-- forever. And never again. And yes, until the end of time, yes.

But they can’t have that. They can’t have forever, they can’t even have tonight - not really. And he knows it, and Aziraphale knows it, and they both know that this little point in time is a paradox, an impossibility they’re allowing themselves to entertain only for a brief momentary lapse into the unthinkable. A Schrodinger’s dance. Something that exists now - but doesn’t. Something that is only a theory, explained when gazing at an unopened box with a cat in it which is making suspiciously little noise to possibly still be alive. But. Well. One must always entertain a possibility.

So Crowley steps on his broken glass heart on the floor again and again and again and grinds his foot down into it as often as he can as they sway, slowly, carefully, around the same spot in the room, slightly off beat as the track winds its last notes.

Aziraphale lifts his head from his shoulder and Crowley

Crowley is

Crowley is not ready.

His throat jumps in a silent plea - don’t go, not yet, please, just a little longer - that he won’t allow to escape the prison of his mouth. He presses his teeth together and steels himself and finally dares to look down - and finds himself staring at the tip of the angel’s nose. It’s close - much closer than he thought it would be. Aziraphale has pulled his head up - and keeps looking up. The light catches his curls and glints off of his eyes, a beautiful blue, exactly the color the sky outside hasn’t been in months.

“I really appreciate the--” Aziraphale’s words catch. The soft touch of his breath warms Crowley’s own lips, and the demon doesn’t dare reciprocate with any amount of respiratory action lest he lose control of all other functions as well. “The... books. I can’t tell you how much you mean--I-I mean... How much it means to--”

“Nng,” says Crowley without opening his mouth.

Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s so brief it’s almost as if it doesn’t happen at all, but Crowley’s blessed brain has committed every detail to memory. The soft push of Aziraphale’s lips against his own, the warmth of their chests, flush together, the way Aziraphale’s nails press into his hair just a bit, the fetal stage of the grab he wants it to be. The nervous shiver they share in near perfect unison. It’s braille - a wordless apology. This isn’t enough, it says. I know it’s not enough. I’m sorry.

Crowley replies - tightens his grip on the angel’s waist, unstraps the chains holding him down, allows himself a momentary loss of control.

It’s enough, his teeth sing, parting against the other’s pliant mouth. It’s enough, his fingers whisper, brushing just barely against the edge of the waistcoat he wants to rip clean off. It’s enough.

But it isn’t though, it isn’t.

And for a moment, he feels Aziraphale answer with a push of his own. For a moment he can tell the angel is about to lose it and pull them closer - too close - and then--

The song ends.

The moment is over, and Crowley’s heart is somewhere between the floorboards now, and Great Satan, it is beating louder than it ever has when it was still lodged in his chest. He wonders how Aziraphale can’t hear it - that incriminating, deadly thing beneath the floorboards singing for its release. The rug is practically vibrating. Or perhaps that’s him, shivering. He wants to dig it out again, but knows he’ll cut himself on the shards, so he just stays still.

They pause a second longer than necessary in a crackling, tense silence, and then pull away simultaneously.

It’s like peeling off a sticker. Crowley feels parts of himself tearing, clinging stubbornly to the surface of Aziraphale’s vest, his shirt, his bowtie. His lips. Oh Satan, his lips.

They’re red - in fact, his whole face is flushed. How long has it been? It couldn’t have lasted any longer than a couple of seconds. Crowley is sure of it - or is he? Did he stop time? How long had they remained like that, wrapped around each other?

Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. Aziraphale is staring at the table, measured and steady, as he always is. If there’s a slight tremor to him, a paleness to his skin, the strain in his blue eyes that betrays how he’s just barely holding himself together - Crowley will pretend not to notice.

One of them has to be okay. One of them has to be reasonable about this.

The clock on the wall ticks. Aziraphale pivots away, breaks the tension. The glasses are refilled with more wine. They sit back down and pretend they are not dusting themselves for fingerprints. Pretend they don’t remember the last ten minutes. Pretend they are fine. The conversation changes smoothly.

The box is never opened. The Schrodinger’s dance exists - in theory.

They don’t talk about it.

---

(this is a part of a larger blurb-fic that can be read in no particular order)

#chekhov writes #good omens #good omens fic #fanfic #fanfiction

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i-was-bored-so-this-happened · 4 years

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Alright, some choices for you to make :D Matt or Emily? 11th Doctor or 12th Doctor? Matt/Emily or Jess/Emily? the current Master or Missy? Primeval or Doctor Who? David Tennant or Christopher Eccleston? Nine/Rose or Ten/Rose? Abby or Connor? Connor or Becker? Stephen or Nick? Nick or Danny?

Make Me Choose

Matt or Emily?Yes, I’m gay for Emily, how did you know?Emily. She’s clever and she’s sure of herself. She was treated like crap and she is still kind, and she still knows that she is the shit. Emily will put her foot down and say, “No. You move.” She’s also beautiful and I love her hair so much

Eleven or Twelve?I love Eleven. I do. I love the hyper child-like Eleven and suddenly-dark Eleven. But Twelve. There’s just something about Twelve. It might be that he’s Scottish. It might be that he plays guitar. It might be that his speeches actually get through to me. It might be Clara’s Diner. I don’t know exactly what it is. But Twelve.

Memily or Jemily?There’s something about Jemily, a woman nearly two hundred years old and the most futuristic girl in the ARC, that just...I love it. I like Memily too, again the dynamic of one from the past and one from the future, but for some reason there’s something about Jemily that I just...loveBringing back an old edit for this

Dhawan!Master or Missy?Missy is great. Her aesthetic, her voice, her arc. But...…..uh, yeah, Sacha Dhawan has won in my mind. The detail and the acting and the look and the whole thing with O and how dramatic he is and just....yeah. A big reason I was really into Season Twelve. Dhawan!Master

Primeval or Doctor Who?Ooft. That’s hard. They’re both shows I grew up with, shows that were on at pretty much the same time. I’m more into Doctor Who now than I was then, mostly because I’m old enough to follow the stories and understand everything now, whereas Primeval I was just ooh, dinosaurs. I feel like, especially since I started watching Doctor Who properly, the two shows are pretty much equal now. I think I might just put gifs for both in here

David Tennant or Christopher Eccleston?I have grown up with David Tennant’s voice all around me. In Doctor Who episodes I can’t remember, in movies where either he or Billy Connolly were always the Scottish characters, in the documentaries my brother still watches. So, generally, David TennantAlso, Crowley

Nine/Rose or Ten/Rose?I....was really, really small when Nine and Ten where around. I remember like, twenty seconds of all of David Tennant’s run, and none of Christopher Eccleston’s. I have seen about three episodes of the Ninth Doctor and I love him already. Watching the Ninth and Tenth Doctors is on my Lockdown-To-Do-ListI’m going to put a gif of Nine because there’s already a gif of David Tennant

Abby or Connor?This is also a hard decision....uhm. Right now my heart is saying Abby. Some combination of her love for animals and trying to protect people and creatures (and she’s so freaking pretty) is putting Abby first

Connor or Becker?Becker. I don’t care what he says, he’s a soft bean who needs a hug and I love him. I don’t know why I’m picking so many people over Connor today, but I’m just going with my first thoughts, and my first thoughts are this gif

Stephen or Nick?Stephen. Stephen was my favourite when I was wee and didn’t understand what he’d done with Helen. Yes, I still love him, even though he made shit decisions, Stephen, whyyyy

Nick or Danny?Uhhh, Danny? Maybe? Yeah. Unsure why. I’m just going with what first pops into my head. I’m choosing Danny. Unsure if it’s because of Danny and Jenny’s relationship, or if it’s because of how he cares for Sarah, or how he’s meant to be a police officer but he breaks so many laws, or if it’s this goddamn smile

#estelanel #good ask friend!#primeval #emily merchant #matt anderson #twelfth doctor #jemily #dhawan!master #david tennant #doctor who #ninth doctor #tenth doctor #abby maitland #captain becker #sorry connor #stephen hart #danny quinn #sorry nick #ask me stuff

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philosopherking1887 · 5 years

Text

Kol Nidrei (a Good Omens fic)

I’m back on my bullshit. @iscariotsss knows what I mean.

Word count: 2130 (including “footnotes”)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aziraphale liked going to houses of worship because it made him feel closer to God. He realized that this must seem foolish or paradoxical: he was, after all, a being suffused with God’s love and grace; and if he went through the right procedures, he could even (in theory) make direct contact with the Almighty. But calls to the Court of God’s Power through such channels—it had recently been made brutally, devastatingly clear to him—in fact went through a spokes-angel (no, not the wheeled kind), a mere mouthpiece who claimed to listen and speak on behalf of God. Speaking to God as an angel, using the capabilities and privileges his angelic nature afforded him, he had only ever reached a Glorified secretary.

Humans, though, when they prayed—it was possible that God truly listened. Angels listened, too, and sometimes took it upon themselves to answer; God was not in principle opposed to delegating, and angels were permitted a certain amount of latitude in how they executed the Divine Will, broadly understood. But sometimes miracles occurred, or moments of mystical inspiration, or improbable causal nudges, that could not be accounted for, even with all the Heavenly Bureaucracy’s scrupulous record-keeping. Then the angels had to wonder whether God Herself had heard and answered a prayer that Her agents had passed over. One of the Archangels would make a note by the observation of the anomalous event: “Divine intervention?” Always with a question mark, for God’s ways were known to none but God.

Aziraphale felt closer to God among humans praying than in the blessed Light of Heaven, or in his own grace-filled solitude, because he knew that their voices actually had a chance of being heard. Especially when they prayed in community, because although God did sometimes attend to solitary prayers (which might pierce through the noise because of the devoutness or holiness or strong personality of the pray-er), a group of people all speaking or meditating on the same message reinforce each other in a way that is not simply a matter of additive volume, but of resonance.

Because Aziraphale was at heart (and in body) an aesthete, he preferred places and modes of worship with a certain amount of pomp and ceremony. He could not abide the slick commercial atmosphere of ‘evangelical’ megachurches or the adaptation of modern popular musical styles to the purpose of worship; the mere presence of a guitar would send him out the door as quickly as consecrated ground did most demons. Nor was he much attracted to the simplest of gatherings, the mostly silent Quaker Circles, the unadorned meeting-houses that remained true to the Calvinist tradition (and, arguably, the original tradition of Christ and the first Apostles). No, he preferred the lushness of Catholic and Orthodox churches, their sparkling mosaics and glowing stained-glass masterpieces, the Masses and Liturgies composed by Europe’s greatest creative geniuses for sumptuous choirs and virtuosos playing thundering organs (Aziraphale found that of all artists, he had an especial rapport with organists). And if sometimes such fare was too rich even for him, he felt comfortably at home in the stolid, dignified (or as Crowley would say, stuffy and pompous) tradition of the Church of England. The Elgar and Britten anthems were not quite your Bach Mass or Verdi Requiem; but not even Aziraphale could eat lobster and venison every day.

So when the Jewish High Holidays came round and one felt compelled to put in an appearance (‘one’ referring not only to Heaven’s representatives on Earth, but to the Jewish worshipers as well), Aziraphale tended toward a certain style of Reform-to-Conservative congregation that favoured tastefully ornate architecture and a choir, accompanied by a piano or (in rare cases) an organ, singing nineteenth-century settings of the prayers and psalms much in the style of Mendelssohn,* or perhaps mid-twentieth-century arrangements taking inspiration from some combination of Rachmaninoff, Vaughan Williams, and dramatic film scores. Aziraphale was especially attached to the melancholy cello solo playing Bruch’s setting of the Kol Nidrei melody with which such congregations habitually began the Yom Kippur evening service.

On a mild, damp early autumn evening forty days after the world failed to end, Aziraphale went alone to the synagogue whose Kol Nidrei services he had been attending for the past twenty years or so (he was a creature of habit as much as, if not more than, a creature of love). He closed his eyes and let the cello’s plaintive voice set his chest to sweetly aching and was desperately grateful that he still had this—this salmon and crème fraîche omelette instead of the ‘eggs without salt’ of eternal celestial harmonies (stop thinking in food metaphors on a fast day!, he scolded himself, hurriedly directing his thoughts away from his stomach).

The cello’s final tremulous notes faded away and the cantor (who had classical operatic training; there was a reason Aziraphale preferred the services here) began singing the words of the Kol Nidrei. Aziraphale’s French or his Tibetan might sometimes grow rusty, but Hebrew and Aramaic always came back to him like riding a velocipede (or so they said; not that he would know).

“All vows,” the cantor sang (joined at musically appropriate points by the choir), “self-prohibitions, consecrations, bonds, promises, obligations, and oaths that we have vowed, sworn, consecrated, and taken as prohibitions upon ourselves from this Yom Kippur until the next—may it come to us for good—we regret and renounce them all; may they all be absolved, forgiven, cancelled, and rendered null and void; they shall have no force, and shall not endure. Let our vows not be vows, our prohibitions not be prohibitions, our oaths not be oaths.”

There was a widespread belief that the custom of making this declaration originated among the Iberian Jews who were forced to publicly convert to Christianity but who continued to practice their Judaism in secret—who insincerely forswore their faith in the sight of God and men, but wished to retract these false oaths in God’s sight alone. Among those who knew the text was older, the story was that it came out of an earlier time of persecution and conversions on pain of death. Aziraphale (who had witnessed the whole painful, arduous, improbable history of this people) knew that it came out of nothing of the sort: it was just that the Jews had an unfortunate habit, which caused their priests and rabbis no end of intestinal distress, of making solemn vows at the drop of a hat. There was even a significant commandment not to make vain oaths in the name of the Lord, but the habit persisted. So a formal ritual of renunciation was introduced in the hope that God could be persuaded not to take such utterances so terribly seriously. But it took on a darker, weightier significance in the face of the forced conversions that became a recurring theme in the history of the Jews. God’s Providence works in unexpected ways: a tradition that arose for one purpose might later prove even more essential for another.

When Aziraphale recited the formula with this congregation, it was always for the original reason for which it had been instituted. He, like the early Hebrews, had a shameful habit of making promises to God that he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep. He promised he wouldn’t use frivolous miracles; he promised he wouldn’t eat and drink so lavishly; he promised he would be paying more attention next time, so that maybe he could stop or at least mitigate the next horror that the humans visited upon themselves—unless, of course, Michael or Gabriel told him it was part of the Divine Plan, in which case he would smile uncomfortably and wonder whether he should be praying that they were right or that they were wrong.

Above all, he promised to set aside his feelings for Crowley. He didn’t promise not to see him anymore—he had to keep an eye on Hell’s agent in his sector of the Earth, didn’t he?—but after every time they met, when he departed with a hollowness in his stomach that could not be filled by any amount of oysters or brioche, he promised that he would give no thought to the demon except in regard to thwarting him. He promised he would tell Crowley the Arrangement was over (of course, he never did… not until the second-to-last day of the world, when Crowley threatened to make him face up to what Heaven really was, and what they really were). He promised he would stay away, except to watch his counterpart’s movements, and perhaps to confront him directly if there was no other way of stopping his machinations. And he kept that promise for a whole century between 1862 and 1967—their encounter in 1941 had been entirely on Crowley’s initiative!—but during that century of separation, and especially after its unplanned interruption, he had been even more abysmal at keeping his promise not to think of Crowley in anything but his professional capacity.

Now Aziraphale was facing the first full year since the world had not been made anew, but somehow his world had; and he realized that he no longer needed to ask preemptive absolution for his usual vain promises to God. No one would be keeping track of Aziraphale’s “frivolous miracles,” much less sending him nasty letters about them. And though Aziraphale himself would never say it, he quite agreed with Crowley that Gabriel could shove his self-righteous comments about Aziraphale’s “gut” right up his tightly-clenched arse, along with that appalling tracksuit (he wasn’t entirely sure what Crowley had meant by calling him “basic,” but he gathered that it wasn’t good). Crowley liked him soft (he made a very good body-pillow, he was told), so Aziraphale liked himself that way, too.

As to preventing the horrors of human history… he wasn’t sure that he had any right to interfere, except by showing and encouraging kindness, where he could. As a Heavenly agent on Earth, he was retired, but he would remain a being of love until… well, until Heaven succeeded in destroying him, or God decided he deserved to Fall. But even then, he wasn’t sure: Crowley had Fallen (or “sauntered vaguely downwards,” as he liked to insist), but Aziraphale suspected that he was still a being of love, in spite of everything.

Most importantly, the primary impetus for Aziraphale’s empty vows, self-prohibitions, promises, and oaths no longer obtained. From this year on, there would be no vows not to think of Crowley, work with him, seek out his company. “For centuries I regretted and renounced those vows because I feared I couldn’t keep them,” Aziraphale said silently to God; he wasn’t sure whether or not he hoped She was actually listening. “Now I regret and renounce them because I should never have made them in the first place. I should never have wanted to be able to keep them.”

“Let our oaths not be oaths,” the choir was singing as the elaborate Romantic-style arrangement drew toward its dramatic close, the cantor’s voice rising in an impressive final cadenza. “Let our oaths not be oaths.”

“Ush’vuatana la sh’vuot,” Aziraphale whispered in time with the singers. All his foolish oaths had already been annulled,** most of them before he even made them; he could not now go back and retract them for the right reason. Well, he would probably come up with some new vain oaths, maybe about being less of a bastard to unwitting would-be customers in his bookshop.

There were some other vows he had it in mind to make where Crowley was concerned, but those would not be made only to God, and he had every intention of keeping them.

* “It sounds like bloody Gilbert and Sullivan,” Crowley had muttered to Aziraphale once when he had been invited to accompany him for a lark (the ground of synagogues did not burn his feet), and Aziraphale had had to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain his disapproving expression and stifle a laugh. “Listen, it’s the chorus of sisters, cousins, and aunts.”

** With the exception of those made during a year late in the eleventh century just before the change of tense instituted by Rabbi Meïr ben Shmuel, applying the renunciation to the year ahead rather than the year just past, had reached the synagogue in Paris where Aziraphale had been spending the Days of Awe for several years. Aziraphale panicked about it for a good six months, and indeed whenever he thought about it (with diminishing frequency) thereafter, not least because he and Crowley had first embarked on the Arrangement earlier that century and Aziraphale had spent decades regularly resolving to back out and never following through.

#i know yom kippur was 2 weeks ago #i've had stuff going on #it took me a while to finish this #my fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands fanfiction #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands fic #aziraphale pov #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale x crowley

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starsailorstories · 5 years

Text

fatalcookies

replied to your

post

Does anyone actually wanna know about the...

Uuuuh please

*deep breath*

*steeples fingers*

@fatalcookies

ok so LIKE

In a deviation from canon, Shade’s only on earth because armageddon is coming someday, and she’s the Almighty’s most trusted strategist. I know this is also veering way off all conventional understanding of the hierarchy of angels, but I think our girl’s a seraph. I mean come on--little miss “think nothing but devotion”? The character who was so over the top in her praise of her boss that a complete third party called the relationship “an altar” to be “sacrificed on”? Seraphim is translated as “the burning ones” and Shade is burning inside and out in any version of her you want to construct. She’s way beyond goodness, she’s about PURITY. She is a slave to the theoretical ultimate perfection of the divine plan. Holy holy holy, bitch!

But...she has a secret.

It’s the same secret she has in canon.

She loves life.

She doesn’t know why and it kind of scares her. She has eternal bliss at her fingertips if she just keeps following all the rules, and she’s great at following all the rules. But at the same time, perfection is simultaneously incredibly hectic and kind of boring. After an eternity of serving at the height of passion, unchanging, unerring, a body gets a bit worn out, and starts to think it might be nice to just, curl up with some brief ephemeral story. Something a bit less than perfect, a bit less than eternal--just to see what it was like. And fortunately the divine, in her unerring wisdom, was just on time to tell one, which started, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.”

And so she goes to earth, and she’s just barely constrained in a quite handsome--entirely bespoke!--human body, whose eyes she only occasionally lights up with white flame, and promptly occupies herself with performing understated miracles of toy repair for random children, dressing like the pits of fashion, sipping espresso in cafes, skulking around the edges of literary society Orlando-style but in a theoretically specifically benevolent fashion, and justifying everything to herself one way or another.

And yes like...Shade is pretty sensible, she’s not going to get into the exact same nonsense on earth that Aziraphale did, but if you really think she’s not going to get into any nonsense at all then I feel really bad for you because clearly you’ve never met...wlw in general

She’s kind--never indulgent, but kind--and polite, and nobody really minds her above or below, because she’s very careful to maintain her Purity by never questioning anything or really putting anything in place besides that which she’s been told to. One of her main justifications for everything she’s been getting up to is to assume that if the Almighty didn’t want her to do it, she wouldn’t be able to, because she certainly doesn’t have free will...does she?

Shade is a pseudonym she took on to represent the humility of her human side, by the way, signifying its total inferiority to the radiance of God. I don’t know what God calls her when she’s a blinding, burning figure at the side of the great throne. Perhaps it’s Lux.

Now. Bolt. You may have been asking yourself, “How are you gonna cast the sweet, soft, motherly team healer as the demon in this? Even Crowley has it in him to be a bit of a curmudgeon sometimes and Bolt just doesn’t” and that is true.

But I have this to say:

Hell hath no fury like a tenderhearted gay disaster scorned.

Okay, it’s not all, like, completely personal. The majority of the soul reaping that Bolt accomplishes doesn’t require her to do anything besides exist. Because she’s a sweet, pretty, competent woman who listens, and she’s also the biggest lesbian in the world, and her numbers look fine back at home office because men are just like that. She doesn’t have to tempt anybody she’s literally just There

But sometimes, with the ladies, it’s more, and sometimes she is there for an extended period, and sometimes she feels something beyond pragmatic compassion and that something quickly turns to heartbreak. Because she will never not be a demon, and humans will never lack the ability to redeem themselves. With them she’s never more than a temptation, a distraction, a stumble on the straight and narrow--never chased, never cherished, never allowed to grow old beside. They abandon her, they hurt her, just like God did, and they never regret it, because it was the right thing to do. So, you know, every once in a while, when it’s really too much to take, when she really has to do something for once, to hell with them.

The thing is that in vol. 1 Bolt certainly feels enormous degrees of love, but she doesn’t really have a moral code beyond “make the people around me happy so that they’ll like me and pay attention to me.” If she felt underappreciated in heaven, would she run to Lucifer’s side knowing she would be praised and made to feel special there? Abso-HECKING-lutely.

Of course, it takes more than just her feelings to make her fall. As with canon Bolt, she falls FOR someone.

Who does she fall for, in this universe?

Ready for this?

Eve.

Oh, it wasn’t entirely selfish. She certainly THOUGHT about the unfairness, the way God set them up for the Fall. And yes hell sent her to make it happen, so she can certainly claim to have just been doing her job. BUT…

She honestly might not have done it the way she did it, if she hadn’t thought, just a tiny bit, just way down deep where she could almost ignore it, “Maybe, if they could choose, one of them might choose me.”

Down the road, one of her few real resume builders downstairs is inventing the spinal block epidural--which REDUCES human suffering, but how are they scoring this thing anyhow?--as a middle finger to heaven and an apology to her first crush

+Bolt grumbling+ “‘In pain you will bring forth children’ ASSHOLE it wasn’t her fault!”

Also putting her in the actual plot rather than just the universe of Good Omens simplifies things nicely, the nuns aren’t needed anymore at all. Boltie will be the first to tell you that without her Systems and her assistants, she’s perfectly capable of misplacing a baby on her own.

I just want to mention here that she dresses like the exact midpoint between Jackie O and Marilyn Monroe with a slightly more infernal color scheme and her sunglasses are those red plastic heart kind

Also, because I do the same shit in every AU, she has the exact relationship Crowley has with Queen with, GUESS!!, Dolly Parton

I definitely think one of the most interesting things about this (it’s one of the things I think is most interesting about canon Good Omens too although they never go a l l the way down this road) is that Shade quietly suspects that Bolt is better at being Good than her. Oh sure she loves all God’s creatures but Boltie can get them to love her back. It seems that, unless someone has hurt her personally, one of her main motivations for pushing back against heaven IS compassion

Bolt for her part feels immense guilt about the fact that the only reason she EVEN lets this crap happen anymore is out of bitterness. She hears heaven offers humans unconditional love, even now that they have free will. Where was that deal when she wanted free will, huh?

From that setup on out, you don’t REALLY have to change anything--about EITHER source text! But it’s kind of fun to customize certain stuff for them

I feel like in that scene where they’re drinking in the bookshop they’d get into an exchange that’s like

Bolt, sitting with her legs slung over the arm of a chair, her pantyhose all bunched around her ankles, her high heels in one hand and a glass of red in the other: And that’s the other thing, if we go back they’re not gonna let us be cute anymore

Shade, sitting at her desk with her tie loose and her collar open beside a half-empty bottle of very nice whiskey (I told you the aesthetics were reversed): My goodness Boltie that’s really what you’re on about at a time like this

Bolt: Well take a second to appreciate what you’ve got down here angel, we look fine as all get out! If they send us back I’m gonna probably be back to bein’ a snake for all eternity and you’re gonna have to be a, a flaming wheel or some shit. You know you’re not gonna be able to get made-to-measure for THAT

Shade: …Damn, you’re right

Is this a good time to mention that in my head, Shade sounds decidedly English and Bolt sounds like she’s from Cleveland

Except also I really want Shade to carry Boltie across consecrated ground like in that one post

#fatalcookies #silly GOOD OMENS AU STUFF

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winecatsandpizza · 5 years

Text

We Three Queens

Title: We Three Queens

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Cas x Reader x Dean, Crowley x Reader

Other Characters: Sam, Jack, Balthazar (mentioned)

Square Filled: Exhibitionism for spnkinkbingo and Stripper AU for fluff bingo

Tags: Drag Queen AU, Stripping, mutual masturbation, exhibitionism, m/m, mfm, oral (male and female receiving), m/m anal, dirty talk, language, student/teacher role play, anal

Word Count: 3,988

Betas: @67-chevy-baby, @impalasutra , @risingphoenix761

Written for: @spnkinkbingo & @spnfluffbingo

A/N: This story includes mentions and descriptions of what I think the gang would look like and behave if they were drag queens. I love going to and watching drag shows both on TV and in person. I am also a member of the LGBTQA+ community myself and I mean zero hate or disrespect with writing this fic. I have the utmost respect for the performers and their craft. The names that I have chosen for the performers are based off their character in Supernatural. If these are the names of real drag queens, this is purely coincidence.

You knew tonight was going to be busy, but you were not prepared for the mass of customers waiting outside the club. It was the first Saturday of the month and that meant that it was drag night at The Bunker. The Bunker was a little bit of everything: a strip club, a bar, and for one Saturday a month a drag show. The club was a safe haven for the local LGBTQA+ community in Kansas as well as everyone else that walked through the door.

The drag show started at 10:30 and the clock in the dressing room read only 8:45. You had another dance to do in five minutes, so you touched up your makeup and made sure your outfit was in place.

You made your way onto the stage as the first few beats of your song pumped through the speakers. You began your sensual movements around the pole as you took in the customers around you. There were lots of new faces among some of your regular patrons. You smiled at Gordon as he made his way to the front row of the stage and placed his money down. You took off your crop top to reveal your bikini top that covered just enough to keep the people interested.

“Good evening, Mr. Walker,” you purred as you got down on your knees in front of him on the stage and guided your hands across your chest. You smirked at the growl that rumbled from his chest over the music. You learned long ago what he liked and you were more than willing to use that information to help pad your bank account.

You turned around and put your elbows down and began to shake your ass to the beat as you felt the familiar sensation of money being tucked into your bikini bottoms. You flipped your hair as you glanced over your shoulder at the older man with lust in his eyes. You thanked him as he stood up and walked back to his table. You giggled to yourself as you eyed the bulge in his jeans.

“You’re looking extra beautiful tonight,” a familiar voice drawled from the other side of the stage.

You crawled over to the familiar mullet-clad man as you positioned your tits close to him. Ash added to the cash in your bottoms and you took off your top as a thank you. He loved your tits and you squeezed them together in appreciation. He stayed for the remainder of your song and you left the stage with your discarded clothing and went back to the dressing room.

As you entered the three main performers were already busy doing their makeup, but welcomed you as you entered.

“Girls, the party can begin because Y/N has arrived,” Sam announced as he stood up to give you a hug.

“Please, everyone here knows that y'all are the reason this place is packed tonight and every first Saturday. The Bunker belongs to you,” you quipped as you began to change your outfit.

“I'm so sorry I'm late. Traffic was insane and they almost didn't let me in!” A new face complained as he made his way in.

“Be grateful you have a baby face, hunny. It has to be better than asked if you are an AARP member everywhere you go,” Dean retorted. “Jack, darling, this is Y/N, she-”

“Oh my god, you look amazing. Did you get your tits and ass done? They look so real!” he exclaimed as he saw you changing. You blushed and were cut off by Castiel before you could even respond yourself.

“Okay, number one: you never, ever ask someone that to their face, especially when you first meet them; number two, Y/N is 100% woman. She works here. She’s cool, but you need to play nice, hunny,” he warned.

“It’s okay. It’s not every day that I get compliments on my tits and ass from a guy that doesn’t want to fuck me,” you giggled as you held out your hand to Jack. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“It’s so nice to meet you, too,” he gushed, “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied as you waved him off and finished getting ready.

It was unlikely that you would have to dance for the rest of the night, but you ensured that you were ready in case someone asked for a private dance. The chances of that were slim with the show that would be going on, but the staff wanted everyone ready just in case. When you were finished, you sat down and watched them get ready and enjoyed listening to their chatter.

Sam, Dean, and Castiel were hot as fuck out of drag and even hotter in it. Castiel was an old-school queen. He always looked beautiful in the elaborate gowns that were encrusted with jewels that he made himself. His makeup was always perfect and flawless. His aesthetic usually favored blues and silvers. When Castiel turned into his stage persona, Alotta Grace, you couldn’t help but believe that the name chose him. Dean’s persona, Cherry Galore, was a campy queen with exaggerated features and always quick with an insult and a come back that made the audience erupt with laughter. Sam made a drag style all his own. His persona, Ann T. Christ, was bubbly, sweet, and just a little sassy. Jack’s style for his persona, Cinnamon Rollz, was what he described as Vivian Ward from Pretty Woman meets Goodwill. What that was supposed to mean, you would have to wait for his finished look to see.

“Is Balthie going to be here tonight?” you asked after a lull in the conversation.

Dean rolled his eyes, “No, sweetie. He’s currently,” he looked at his wrist for emphasis,” either fucking the new guy he is with this week or sleeping because they’re done already.”

“You’re such a shady bitch,” Cas griped as he slapped Dean’s arm playfully. Dean just rolled his eyes as the group finished getting ready. You were about to follow them out and wait in the audience to watch their performance when Ellen, the house mom, stopped you.

“Hey Y/N, you have a private dance waiting for you in room 2,” she informed you as she gave you a once over, “and if I were you, I’d put on your slutty schoolgirl outfit.” You rolled your eyes as you headed back into the room to change, knowing exactly who asked for you.

“There’s my sexy little kitten,” Crowley groaned as you entered the private room. Crowley was nice when he got what he wanted, but he wanted what you would never give him. He always tipped extremely well when you played that part that he was after. You had turned down his offer to be his sugar baby more than once. He was handsome and older with an accent that always made you a little weak in the knees, but you couldn’t imagine living your life at the hands of another person.

“Good evening, Professor Crowley,” you purred as you moved to stand in front of him. You played your part as a shy and coy girl as you twisted one of your pigtails around your finger and stared at the ground.

“Are you behaving yourself tonight?”

You looked up slowly and bit your lip before answering and moving slowly towards him. “I’m always a good girl when you’re around, Professor.”

“Show me how good you can be, kitten,” he begged. You obliged as you straddled his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. You smirked as you felt his hardness through his pants and your covered core as you began to grind yourself to the music. Tonight had been a slow night, even with two of your regulars tipping you as they usually did, so you started to push all the right buttons to get what you could from the man you were dancing for.

“Professor,” you started as you placed your hands on his chest, “I was wanting to be a little bad and wondered if you’d help me out.”

“What did you have in mind, kitten?” he moaned.

You silently grabbed his hands and moved them to onto your ass. His eyes went wide at your actions. “Oh, you are a naughty girl tonight. I thought we weren’t allowed to touch?” he tsked.

You leaned in and whispered, “Just consider this me trying to get extra,” you ground yourself down hard on his cock at the word, “credit. I might need to get a spanking, too, Professor.”

“Oh, is that so?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow. You winked as you maneuvered yourself across his lap and wiggled your ass.

You could sense his hesitation as he slowly slid his hand over your ass, so you encouraged him, “Please punish me, Professor Crowley. Please, I need you to spank me.”

The first impact of his hand on your ass made you jump as you moaned in pleasure. The second and third made the wetness in your panties grow as you let your wanton whimpers flow freely.

“Such a dirty girl you are,” Crowley praised. He slowly snaked his fingers into your hair as he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “I bet I know what else you like. May I?” he asked as his grip tightened slightly. He took your needy whimper as a yes and yanked you back by your hair as he smacked your ass a little harder. You wiggled your cunt against him trying to gain some friction. A brief thought that this might go too far was pushed out of the way as sat you up facing away from him. Your ass was still on his hard cock, his hand still gripping your hair as he moved his other hand to your white button up top, tied in a knot.

“I think we should remove this, don’t you?” he asked and you could only nod in response. His expert fingers quickly undid the knot and exposed your tits to him.

“Oh you naughty, naughty kitten. You didn’t wear a bra?” he questioned.

“They told me you asked for me and I wanted to be extra good for you, Professor,” you managed to reply.

He placed his hand on your thigh as he asked, “How good do you want to be for me kitten?” You knew what he was asking. You were needy and high on his touch. You considered his proposition before coming up with your own.

“As much as I’d love to feel your thick cock deep inside my tight little pussy, Professor, you know we can’t do that. You’re my favorite and you’re the only one that I’ve ever let touch me.” He pulled his hand away slowly, defeated. You grabbed it as you turned as much as you could with his hand in your hair to look at him, “But I think I have an idea that you might like.”

“I’m listening.”

You tapped his arms and he let go of you. You got down on your knees in front of him and began to undo his belt. His eyebrow shot up again, but you giggled as you explained, “I can’t touch you and you can’t touch me, but we could touch ourselves.” His belt was undone and you slowly unzipped his zipper. You stood up and fully removed your top and bent over at the waist as you took off your plaid skirt. You turned around to find himself palming himself through his underwear at the sight of you. A neon pink pair of lace panties, white stocking, and heels were all the adorned your body.

You sat down on the other end of the couch and spread your legs. He moaned even though he couldn’t see anything. He had wanted this, or as close to what you were giving him, since the moment he saw you dancing months ago. You smiled as you squeezed your tits together and moved on to roll your hardening nipples between your thumb and index finger. You moaned at the sensation. You looked up to see Crowley’s lust blown eyes focus on you.

“May I please see your cock, Professor?” you asked as you trailed one hand down to your covered core.

“I thought you’d never ask, kitten,” he smirked as he freed himself from the confines of his underwear.

Your own eyes went wide and you gasped at the sight of him. You could feel that he was well endowed when you sat on his lap, but you never would have guessed that he was this huge. He was long and thick and you wanted to take on the challenge that his package would entail.

You began to rub your clit through your panties at the sight before you as he began to pleasure himself. You were enthralled watching him work his length in one hand and cradling his balls in the other. You slid your hand inside your panties as your excitement grew. Your back arched as you felt your orgasm near.

“That's it, kitten. I want to see your face as you cum for me,” he growled as he stroked himself faster.

Your body tensed as you circled your clit faster and squeezed your nipple harder. Crowley's moans quickened as he watched you edge closer to your release. When you finally came undone, you had to bite your lip to stifle the scream that tried to tear through you.

As you came down from your high, you could tell Crowley was doing everything he could to hold back. You dipped two fingers into your soaked hole to coat them in your juice and leaned over to him.

“Would you like to taste how sweet I am, Professor?”

His groan was your answer as you slipped your fingers into his open mouth. He moaned around your fingers and it sent a shock to your core. He pulled back and asked you to go on your knees.

You pushed your tits together as he stood up, towering above you. “Are you going to cover my tits with your cum, Professor Crowley? Hm? I want to see you cum for me, please?” You begged as you stared up at him.

“Bloody hell. Fuck kitten, fuck,” he growled as he began to spurt hot, white ropes onto your chest. You moaned at the sensation of his cum cascading onto your skin. Once he was finished, he fell back onto the couch with a huff.

“Bloody hell, kitten. You're going to kill me or make my sell my soul to keep you around,” he chuckled as he grabbed a towel to clean himself up before handing it to you.

You cleaned up and got dressed. Thoughts of shame, regret, and embarrassment began to seep into as you stood in front of Crowley.

“I should apologize for-” you began as Crowley cut you off.

“Darling, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. I understand if this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I will accept it and cherish the memory of this until I die,” he chuckled. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a plain, white envelope. “I hope this will suffice, love. Thank you again.” He handed you the envelope as he left the room.

You quickly opened the envelope and saw enough money to cover your rent for the next few months and then some. You’d count it later, but now you wanted to see how the drag show was going on. As you made your way to the dressing room to put your money away, you saw Cinnamon Rollz performing to Joan Jett’s Do You Wanna Touch Me. She was killing it a leather bodysuit and studded bra. You smiled watching her enthralled in her performance. Once you were in the dressing room, you put away your money from your dance.

“Looks like someone was a busy bee,” Ann called from the other side of the room. Your cheeks warmed at the realization of what she saw.

“He has a thing for the whole school girl look,” you chuckled as you began to change. “Have you already performed tonight?”

She nodded as she sat down. “You were in there for a while. All tea, no shade. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to pay the bills. You do you, honey. Lord knows I’ve been to hell and back for a Benjamin,” she chuckled.

Once you were changed, you gave Ann a kiss and walked back as Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like A Woman started to blast through the speakers. Cherry Galore appeared on stage and your eyes were glued to her the entire time. You chuckled out loud each time she said: “Man, I feel like a woman” in her regular, deep manly voice. She was working the crowd and making lots of well-deserved tips. You joined in and cheered her on.

Alotta Grace was up next and she didn’t disappoint. Then again, she never did. In her usual style, she performed to a classic song Fever by Peggy Lee. Her gown was as elegant as ever, adorned in silvers and blues, She met your gaze in the crowd and gave you a knowing wink.

By the time the show was over, the club was working on shutting down and calling last call. You were in the dressing room changing into normal street clothes with the other performers.

“Ya know, we do have an amateur night and we are inclusive. You are hot as women, and dare I say even hotter men,” you winked.

Sam and Jack just dismissed you, but Dean and Castiel were listening. “You two have killer bodies, amazing smiles, and obviously have the moves. Hell, I’m sure you could put me to shame.

“Well, a little birdy told us that you could buy us a boat, so I don’t think that’s true,” Cas whispered. You instantly shot Sam a death glare, knowing he was the only one that saw.

“I earned that money and none of my morals were corrupted, thank you,” you hissed.

“We aren’t judging you, Y/N. Do you want to come over to our place and hang out?” Dean asked.

“And you are under no obligation to wear that school girl costume,” Castiel added.

“I mean, unless you want to,” Dean added, which promptly caused Castiel to slap dean in the shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, but took them up on their offer.

***

Beer was flowing freely between the three of you and talks of everything from sex to politics had been discussed. You stood up to grab all of you another round when the alcohol really hit you.

“Fuck, I’m going to have to stop if I’m going to get home,” you complained. You nearly missed the look that Dean gave Cas as you made your way into the kitchen

“Or, you could spend the night here,” Cas offered.

You snorted. “Yeah, sure. I’m sure you’d love that. What, are we going to tell ghost stories and braid each other’s hair?”

“We could do that. Or, we could think of something more...exciting,” Dean offered.

When you made your way back to the living room, the confused expression on your face said more than you could eloquently communicate.

“We’re dating, but we are also bisexual. Both Dean and I find you extremely beautiful and we’ve actually talked about this before.”

“Wait, you guys talk about me?”

Dean held up a hand, “Only good stuff, though.”

You shrugged, “I’ll do it under one condition.”

“Name it,” they answered in unison.

“I want to watch you two together.”

***

Cas was laying on his back on the bed with Dean in between his legs sucking his thick cock while you were at the head of the bed rubbing your clit. You never expected to see this, but you were sure as hell glad you were.

Castiel’s moans sent jolts of excitement to your core every time Dean coaxed them from him. He caught your gaze. “Do you like watching Dean suck my cock?” he moaned. You could only nod in response. He chuckled, a slight darkness behind it.

“She likes watching your pretty lips wrapped around my fat cock, Dean.” Dean moaned around his thickness.

“Come here,” Cas moaned out. You complied and Cas positioned you over his face, facing Dean. Cas’ mouth was on your wet cunt in a second. The wave of pleasure his mouth brought you would have sent you falling forward if his arms weren’t wrapped around your hips holding you in place.

Cas’ lips vibrated around your clit as he moaned as Dean continued to work his cock in his mouth. You looked up to see Dean’s emerald eyes trained on you. He was stroking his own cock as he watched his boyfriend pleasure you with expert tongue. When two of Castiel ’s fingers plunged into your hole, you came undone. Waves of pleasure ran throughout your body and your moans of ecstasy filled the room. Your eyes were locked onto Dean as you came down from your high, but you still needed more.

“Please. Please, someone, fuck me,” you begged. Dean stopped sucking Cas’ cock with a pop as he released it from his mouth as he flipped you onto your back. He grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer and quickly placed it onto his hardened cock. He slid into your tight pussy with one push. He filled you completely and you enjoyed the stretch. Your whimper of desperation sunk in and Dean slowly pulled out and slammed back into you.

You wrapped your legs around Dean and placed your ankles on his ass to pull him closer. Your moans filled the air as you felt another orgasm building inside you.

“Dean, stop,” Cas commanded. You whined when Dean obeyed and stopped moving. You hear the click of a bottle opening and knew Cas was lubing up his cock and Dean’s hole. You mewled when Dean jerked inside you at the cold liquid applied to his hole.

You were able to look over Dean’s shoulder to see Cas lubing up his cock. You bit your lip as he lined himself up with Dean’s waiting hole. Cerulean eyes found yours and Cas smirked as you watched him slowly sink his thick cock into his boyfriend’s tight ass. Dean was cursing in your ear as he let himself become re-accustomed to Cas’ thickness.

Once Dean was ready, Cas began to thrust into him letting him feel the full length of himself before slamming back in. Dean’s face contorted into pleasure and you squeezed yourself around him.

“As hot as this is to watch, do you think you could-” you began to ask Dean.

“Of course, darlin’,” he drawled as he began to move. Dean and Cas worked in perfect unison. You continued to squeeze your cunt around Dean as another orgasm began to build inside you.

“Not gonna last long if you keep that up,” Dean moaned at the sensation.

“Me either,” Cas added.

“Then cum for me,” you begged the couple. Their pace quickened and faltered as the orgasms of the three of you came closer. You were the first one to let go, your cunt spasming around Dean. Your orgasm spurred on Dean’s as he filled the condom with his hot cum. Cas followed quickly behind his boyfriend as he filled his hot ass. The two men fell onto the bed on either side of you. You let them snuggle into you as your breathing returned to normal.

“That was hot as fuck,” you finally managed.

“If you think that’s hot, just wait until you see Dean make us breakfast in the morning,” Cas teased as he placed a kiss to your cheek.