Janellasaurus rex (nellasaur) wrote,
Janellasaurus rex

  • Mood:
  • Music:

Glamour: A 'Good Omens' Fanfic

Ta-da! *Flourishes* Fanfic! And Good Omens fanfic, at that!

Title: Glamour
Fandom: Good Omens
Rating: Mature! R! For adult audiences only!
Summary: Crowley is attracted to a musician at a nightclub, but neither is what the other expected.
Notes: Crowley and Aziraphale from Good Omens belong to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and are not mine. However, most everyone else in here is. A crossover with a fic-verse of my own. Crowley and OC-centric!
General Wanrings: Sex. Language. Full warnings, including possible spoilers, below.

glamour: A magic spell; enchantment, esp. one disguising the true appearance of something; an illusion.

The bassist had a good head on her shoulders when it came to people. She could tell about them, tell how they would react to her. It was a trait she exploited ruthlessly, on her eternal quest to achieve her very specific goals.

She’d toned down her normal appearance for her gig tonight, abandoning most of her more unusual metal and leather trappings. This was a nicer place than she usually played, a larger club that boasted a respectable (and, very occasionally, prestigious) clientele, and they’d accepted her performance tonight mostly through the sheer force of her charisma. Lurking in the wings behind the small stage, the bassist made some final adjustments to her appearance. She smoothed away the tattoo on her cheek, settled her black slacks, and glanced at her herself in a somewhat reflective metal panel set in the wall. Acceptable, if only marginally so.

Strains of music from the performer currently taking the stage drifted behind the curtain, and she listened to it critically even as her fingers twitched at her gloves. The violinist’s composition was pretty enough, she decided, but nothing particularly memorable. It was funny, in a cosmic sort of way, that she was being preceded by something so mellow. It sounded like something her twin sister would play.

Polite, halfhearted applause followed the violinist back behind the stage, and she smiled winningly at him as she got to her feet, slinging her bass over her shoulder. He glanced up at her, shuddered, and hurried away, and her smile transformed into a fierce grin. She knew her sister would have liked him, and she took a petty thrill in startling a theoretical friend of her absent twin.

She stepped out on stage and altered her expression once again, modulating it into a soft, welcoming smile. There was a microphone standing dead center stage, under a floodlight, but she ignored it in favor of hooking her bass up to the provided amplifier and switching the whole setup on.

Her opening chords thrummed out into the crowd with no introduction, no preamble, and no warning. It obviously caught the establishment by surprise; a number of heads jerked up at the tables nearest the stage, faces flashing towards her and away again quickly. She could feel the ripple of unease caused by her abrupt change in the tone of the evening’s entertainment, radiating away to the back of the room.

She extemporized her first piece, playing a deep, ominous song, building the rhythmic tempo in a slow, suspenseful way. She worked it skillfully, playing the reactions of the crowd as surely as the bass itself, and when the song finally built into a manic crescendo, she could tell the whole room felt it.

Immediately she dropped into a more familiar (and less original) tune, an adaptation of “Under Pressure”, reworked to sound good on a single instrument without abandoning the unmistakable bassline. She stepped up to the mike now, hesitating just slightly to come into the light but suppressing it for the sake of the act. (She always worried that bright light would dissipate her guise and reveal her to all eyes, and it was ever a worry in vain. She always held up, even under the closest scrutiny.)

The crowd relaxed with a surge of thanks under the familiarity of Queen and David Bowie, and the bassist was able to allow her mind to range to greater tasks while her hands and lips kept at the mundane ones. Her eyes roamed the crowd, flicking imperceptibly from person to person, searching for something only she knew how to search for (well, she and her sister, but now wasn’t really the time to be dwelling on that.) She probably should have stuck to her usual, lower class of pub, like she’d originally planned. There were few people her responding to her call.

Very few, but not none.

Like a predator, her attention snapped from wide-range to single focus and all her mind was suddenly invested in one single man, a thin bloke in black sitting with a bottle of wine and a single companion at a table in the far corner.


The demon Anthony J. Crowley and the angel Aziraphale sat together at a secluded table, a rather fine bottle of wine on the table between them. They’d made serious inroads on it since their arrival at the club two hours ago, but it hadn’t had to be replaced yet. They didn’t want to be disturbed, and so the bottle never seemed to empty, allowing them peace.

Angel and demon alike were pleasantly buzzed, and conversation had shifted from serious, metaphysical topics to more mundane ones, like new brands of candy bar and the state of Crowley’s houseplants.

“I’m telling you, Crowley,” Aziraphale was saying, “simply one of those gorgeous ferns of yours and you could be on…on magazines, or some such. Famous, you see.” He nodded once, sharply, very pleased with the idea*. His shaky argument fell on inattentive ears; Crowley was ignoring him. This wasn’t because he was averse to the idea (he was, but it wasn’t the reason); it was because he’d suddenly become very interested in the stage.

“Crowley? What’s gotten into you, Crowley?” The angel turned, followed his associate’s line of sight, and grimaced. A pale-haired, black clothed girl with not nearly enough flesh on her bones had replaced the violinist. “Oh, who is that degenerate creature?”

The first notes of her song rang out of the amps and into the crowd, sending a chill up both their backs. Aziraphale shivered; Crowley grinned. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I think I like her.” He turned in his chair, draping one arm over its back and focusing on the stage. The violinist who’d been there a moment ago had been background noise; this was rather more of a show, and an interesting one at that.

As humans went, this one wasn’t particularly attractive. She was too androgynous to be alluringly female, with a long body and narrow, boyish hips. She was also pale, pale enough to recommend her to those disaffected humans who clung to the ‘Goth’ identifier, but few else. Still, there was something powerfully appealing about her, something appealing enough to make Crowley shush Aziraphale irritably so he could listen.

She didn’t play long, but the effects lasted. The wave of disquiet was clear to Crowley, and he had to admire the low-grade atmosphere of paranoia, anger, and jealousy stirred up among the bar’s other occupants. Even though he’d had no hand in it, there was a touch of satisfaction there. You had to admire fine craftsmanship.

He raised his hand and caught the attention of a waitress, waving her over peremptorily. She listened to his request, smiled a smug little acknowledgement, and bustled off. When the bassist emerged a few minutes later and made her way to the bar, she was met with a drink and a nod in the direction of their little table.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale demanded, following the demon’s gaze and furrowing his brow at the sight of the bassist staring bemusedly at the wineglass.

“Indulging myself,” Crowley smirked. “I’ve had a long day wiling.”

“And I’ve had a long day thwarting,” Aziraphale objected, “but you don’t see me…propositioning musicians with glasses of wine!”

“Well, you are sexless,” Crowley pointed out blandly.

“Dear boy, so are you,” Aziraphale said stiffly.

“Ah, but I don’t find the effort too hard to make,” he countered. He didn’t add that it had been a long time since he felt particularly driven to bother; while he had enjoyed this particular carnal pleasure of Earth on numerous occasions, many of them had had to do with work—seducing virgins, and all that. But with morality and sexuality in the states they were these days**, there weren’t too many virgins it was worth his time to induce to sin, and…well, a guy could get used to sex. It was one of the finer pleasures of Earth.

Aziraphale frowned, and crossed his arms with a huff. He turned to look once more. “Oh, now look what you’ve done!” he said. “She’s coming over here!”

“That was the aim, angel,” Crowley purred, putting on his cockiest smile for their incipient guest.

Now that there wasn’t the glare of floodlights and bobbing sea of heads intervening, Crowley got a chance to get a good, long look at her. She was thin, and tall, though far more the former than the latter. Her hair was a shade of blonde that rarely occurred outside of a bottle***, and swept up in an unnaturally erect style. The eyes widely set in her pert, round face were mismatched—one a pale blue and the other dark brown. She carried her instrument with her, inverted against her back and held by a strap.

She grinned widely, including both Crowley and Aziraphale in the expansive expression. “Evening, good sirs,” she said with a mocking formality, sweeping the hand bearing the wineglass across her chest and bowing over it. “I’m led to believe you’re the ones so generous with this fine vintage?”

“Not me,” Aziraphale avowed quickly, scowling still. “Him.” He pointed one elegant finger at Crowley. The demon dipped his head and pushed a chair out with his foot. She took the tacit invitation and set the glass down so she could swing the strap holding her bass over her shoulder and sit.

“Well then, thank y’ kindly,” she said to him, drawing her bass possessively, and awkwardly, across her lap. “I take it you liked my playing, then? You’d be one of the few who cared strongly one way or the other.”

“Well, I’ve always been a connoisseur of the arts,” Crowley said smoothly, ignoring the angel’s derisive snort. “Support the starving artist, and all that.”

“Hey, I’m all for alcohol as a means of sustenance,” she said with a bark of laughter, raising the wineglass. There was a solid iron manacle latched around her wrist, over the fingerless glove, and the last link of a short chain attached to it clinked against the glass. “I know I’d live on it if I could get away with it.”

“Here’s to that!” Crowley agreed affably, lifting his glass as well. Aziraphale stolidly refused to follow suit.

“So the management didn’t bother to introduce you,” Crowley said invitingly, leaning forward and resting one arm on the table. The bassist imitated him, curling her fingers around the stem of the glass and bracing her elbow against the table’s edge.

“You can call me…Annie,” she said.

“Well, Annie, would you particularly mind,” he continued, leaning even closer, “if I called you,” and he put his lips to her ear and whispered something, “…instead?”

She sat back abruptly, jerking her shoulders back and lifting her head haughtily. A wicked grip curved her lips. “Dear sir, I would be delighted.”

*Aziraphale had no clue how it was that Crowley managed to, ah, encourage his plants to such luxury. Rest assured, if he had, their conversation at this point would have been far less pleasant, and involved no mention of magazines of any sort.
**Very lax and very relaxed, respectively.
***One of Crowley’s subtler inventions, and something he felt Hell didn’t give him nearly enough credit for.


Aziraphale watched Crowley quit the club, arm draped causally around that horrid little trollop’s waist. He crossed his arms and positively pouted, extremely put out to have been abandoned by the demon, and guilty to be feeling it.

What did he care that the demon preferred the company of a woman to him? Crowley was a demon—he couldn’t be expected to do the polite, civil thing.

But Crowley was also his friend, and friends weren’t supposed to do that.

Aziraphale didn’t linger long at the table after Crowley and the musician left. He tucked enough money to pay for their wine, and then some, under the edge of the centerpiece, and left the club, out of sorts and ashamed to be so.


Tonight was working well to the bassist’s advantage, but she was still worried. Something was off, something about the lithe, dark man currently taking her home*. She’d been convinced he was one of hers, beyond a doubt, while she was on the stage, but now…she wasn’t so sure.

He wasn’t responding as fervently or quickly as she was used to, and it had her on edge. She was second-guessing herself, and she wasn’t used to that. She glanced at her companion; he’d insisted on driving, and she hadn’t put up a fight because she hadn’t a car. Despite the late hour, he had sunglasses on; he’d been wearing them in the restaurant too. Strangely enough, the observation cheered her. Her people were not normal people, and a little eccentricity like that could very well be the only outward manifestation of the turbulent, erratic, intelligent personas she looked for in her partners.

He caught her looking and grinned. He was incredibly handsome, and she felt herself responding involuntarily. This, too, was worrisome. She was usually able to keep her head when she was doing business, but tonight she found herself sliding across the leather seat of the incredibly vintage car he drove to press herself against his side.

“We’re almost there,” she whispered, pitching her voice low and husky.

“I can’t wait.”

And neither could she, for reasons that had, at the moment, very little to do with business.

*Home for her, currently, was an expansive hotel room just posh enough to be nice, without being too much so to arouse undue suspicion.


It was a nice enough hotel (though not as ostentatious as Crowley would have chosen), amply and elegantly furnished, and everything clean. The room looked unlived in; there wasn’t a piece of luggage in sight, nothing that wasn’t standard hotel room issue.

“Make yourself at home,” Annie invited, letting them in. Reverently, she set her bass down on the top of the dresser. “I’ve got to…freshen up. It’ll be a few minutes.”

“I don’t intend to run off, don’t worry,” Crowley assured her, folding himself into an armchair. She disappeared into the bathroom with one last flirtatious glance over her shoulder.

He got to his feet and crossed the room to the dresser, running his fingers along the glossy surface of her instrument speculatively. (The shower started up with a hollow, hissing roar.) There was something odd about the instrument, a kind of tickle that made him wonder about it. It had appeared solid black from a distance, but there were the tiniest edges under his fingers, indications of some raised design etched into the paint. An ethereal glow of orange-red dogged his fingertips, and he lifted them in alarm.

There was no indication of anything out of the ordinary.

Crowley didn’t press the issue. He backed away and let himself collapse on the bed, grinning delightedly at its yield. It was beautifully bouncy. He slipped off his shoes and his jacket, setting both out of the way. It wouldn’t be difficult to replace them should anything untoward happen, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do it.

She began to sing, throatily, a song he wasn’t familiar with. The lyrics made even him blush, and he had to wonder where someone learned songs like that. One thing was for sure—he wasn’t regretting his decision, despite the pangs he’d had between the club and the hotel about abandoning Aziraphale so abruptly.

He loosened his tie. Her serenade trailed off, resumed to a new melody. He didn’t know this one either, and—

I’ll be da goldeneye,” warbled her voice, strangely accented and distorted by the layers of plastic and plaster between them, “you’ll watch me burn ‘n we’re burning, oh deep inside of you. I’ll be da goldeneye, ‘n I rock—

Crowley blanched. What was that about? He shook his head, and slipped his sunglasses off to rub at his temples. “No cracking up now, Crowley,” he cautioned himself. “You’ve been on this Go—Chr—Elvis*-forsaken planet for millennia, and managed to hold it together so far.” But there was no use kidding himself. He was a demon, and as such, intimately acquainted with the ineffable plan. He slid his sunglasses back on and sat up alertly. If some power greater than him was trying to get a message across, he’d listen.

There were no further hints of the ineffable kind, though. A few minutes later, the shower stopped. A few minutes after that, the door opened, emitting a cloud of steam and a bass player wrapped in a towel.

If anything, her hair seemed to have gotten blonder, and somehow, it was still standing up. Intricate, swirling tattoos had appeared, on her face and shoulders, circular and interwoven designs in blue and black. There was one on her cheek under her right eye, and he wondered, vaguely, how she’d managed to cover it up so effectively at the club.

There was only a vague wonder, though, because then she dropped the towel, and he had much more pleasant things to wonder about.

“I seem to be at a disadvantage,” she said silkily, trailing the towel like a train from her hips as she crossed the floor towards the bed.


“Well, yes. See, you’ve got a name to call me by, and you’ve still got your clothes on.” (This last was said with a hint of admonishment, as if she’d expected different of him.) “I’ve neither, and it’s not very fair. Now…” She was standing right at his knee, and let go of the towel to drape her arms casually around his shoulders. Those peculiar tattoos weren’t limited only to her upper half. “Which of these disadvantages shall we be eliminating first?”

Crowley leaned back a little, not because he was disturbed by her proximity, but because he’d had a rather lot of wine at the club and was having trouble focusing from so close up. “’M Crowley,” he informed the space between her (disappointingly) small breasts.

She sat down on his lap, and the way she wrapped her long, hard legs around his waist made it clear she’d had practice at this. “Right then. Nice t’ meet you, Crowley.” He had too, of course, and didn’t want her to think otherwise.

They kissed, coming together mutually, and sometime between their lips meeting and parting once more, she got his tie off and had nearly dispensed with his shirt. He assisted her willingly enough, and they tumbled together to the bed. She was long and hard against him; all muscle and sinew, she felt. He was long and hard in his own turn, though in a much more local way then she, as she was quick to find out.

Her hands, callused at the fingertips and palms, pressed his shoulders into the pillows, and she straddled him, the expression on her face fierce and wild. One hand trailed across his shoulder and up the column of his throat.

“We don’t need these, do we?” she asked thickly, and he almost didn’t realize she meant his sunglasses in time. He seized her wrist and forced her hand away.

“Actually, we do,” he said, pulling her down and distracting her with another hungry kiss. To her credit, she didn’t raise the issue again.

*Elvis was another of those phenomena that both Heaven and Hell would have liked credit for, but neither had any real claim on.


Whatever other doubts she was entertaining as to this Crowley’s capacity, he was stunning in bed, and she was surprised and not entirely unpleased to find that he could make her mind wander from business for minutes at a time. She hadn’t had this much fun down here in ages.

It was almost enough to make her dismiss her concerns on the purposeful side of things. Almost.

She stretched her will as they shagged, prodding at his mind, doing her damndest to prime him for the final step. It was hard—she was having trouble focusing on him. Normally, human minds were as open to her as books, clear and concise against the buzzing background of psychic white noise. She’d never really run up against anything like this. He was…slippery, hard to get a hold of. There was a vagueness about him, like a stereo mistuned—something that was unclear, off.

But she was very confident in her abilities, confident enough not to press it unnecessarily, confident enough to enjoy the wild ride without dwelling too much on her inability to get a firm fix on him, mentally. There would be time enough for that later, and now…well, even the hardest working girl deserved the occasional vacation, and she’d been working hard for a very long time.

So it was satisfaction and a pure, unbridled joy in the experience that had her digging her nails into the skin of his back, bending down to kiss him ravenously even as she resonated with a primal rhythm mimicking that she’d first strummed out tonight. It was satisfaction that had her arching up and back as the climax of the fun came, catching them both together in a rare synchronism. It was satisfaction that let even a part of her mind stray away from the true task at hand, to enjoy the wave of pleasure akin to that she crested at the completion of a complex job well done.

The rest of her mind did what it always did at this point in an evening, and drove down on his, perfectly ready to exploit the vulnerability of orgasm and plant her wishes, her desires, and her creations into the mind of the host below her.

And it was that significant part of her mind that was ruthlessly slammed aside, unable to get even the tiniest toehold in the impenetrable wall she found.

Dazed by the vehement rejection, she barely even comprehended that she’d lost control of the situation until Crowley rolled her over, pinning her under his body in a way that had none of the erotic sensation that similar play had moments ago.

She shook her head and tried to clear her vision. “What the hell are you?!” she demanded.

“An apt quesstion,” he hissed. “I could assk you the ssame.” His sunglasses dislodged, sliding to the end of his nose. She stared straight into his eyes for the first time all night—and they were the eyes of a snake.

“Oh bloody fucking hell,” she cursed.

“You don’t know the half of it.”


He should have heeded his instincts. He should have realized something was awry. Honestly, how could he have missed it? Was he so blessed thick?

She lay underneath him, her body tense and eyes narrowed with anger. She looked undeniably different now; there was something finer and more refined about her features, and her eyes, nearly white and nearly black now, sparked and snapped. Frustration was writ large across her face.

“Let me up, demon,” she demanded, in a tight, controlled voice. “I am so far behind schedule now, it isn’t even funny.”

“To you, perhapss. I’m finding this whole thing rather humorouss,” he drawled, tightening his grip and pressing her more firmly into the bed. “Care to exssplain what it wass, exactly, that you jusst tried to do?”

She arched one eyebrow, the one with the glimmering ring poked through it. “Let me up and maybe I will,” she said. “Horizontal is not a particularly good position for me to be in.” She squirmed, wiggling her hips in a way that made it very clear why it wasn’t a good position. Crowley rolled off her quickly, but didn’t relinquish his tight hold on her wrists.

She sat up, shaking her head and setting her upright fan of white hair to swaying. Her strange eyes seemed to bore into him. “I had such big plans for you, too,” she muttered under her breath.


“I needed a…er, someone to orchestrate a particular bit of political intrigue for me,” she said in a low, fast voice, dropping her gaze to her knees. She glanced up again, and a sly look crossed her face. “Actually…”


“Oh, come on!” she protested. “It’s a little job, but it’s tough, and I need a certain kind of man to pull it off for me, and—”

“In casse it wassn’t clear, I’m not a man,” Crowley said seriously.

“No, it was clear,” she grumbled, trying ineffectually to pull her arms free. He refused to let go. “Christ. I need a drink.”

“I could use one too,” Crowley muttered. Obediently, the phone flipped itself off the receiver and the button for speakerphone depressed itself. There was a dial tone, and then an unnaturally cheery voice issued from the speaker.

“Room service, how can I help you?”

“676 needs a bottle—” She kicked him in the knee, “er, two bottles of scotch, the best you’ve got. Now.”

“Right away, sir.” Rapid clicking sounded faintly through the phone. “Anything else?”


“Chocolate cake!”

“Chocolate cake, miss?”

“Yeah, two or three slices.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes,” Crowley said firmly, glaring at her. The phone hung itself up. “Chocolate cake?”

“It’s my money, and I’ll order what I damn well want to,” she snapped haughtily. “Now are you going to let me go, or shall we be receiving our room service in the nude?”

“Appealing as that thought might be…” She kicked him again, rather harder this time than the first. Against his better judgment, he released her. She sprung up off the bed and stormed silently into the bathroom, her cute little bum swaying back and forth.

That was not a thought he should be entertaining at the moment. Crowley slipped to his feet and reached for his briefs*. What the Dev—Hel—fuck had he been thinking? He was up for a good fling as much as anyone else (except possibly Aziraphale), but he’d felt oddly about this one all night. Should have listened to his instincts. What would Downstairs think if they heard about this little oversight on his part?

The little oversight sauntered back out of the bathroom with preternatural speed, clad in a rather lot of leather and metal. He watched her sauntered to her bass, picking it up and caressing it possessively. Strange sigils in red bloomed under her fingers and radiated all across it.

She radiated as well, her whole body outlined by a very faint, dark nimbus. Her tattoos glowed, and seemed, very subtly, to be rearranging themselves, swirling and curling like languid, slow-motion octopi. Standing there, holding the instrument, there was no mistaking the aura of inhumanity. It was…Crowley shook his head. It was so unusual on this planet that it was appealing.

They were silent until a discreet knocking came from the door. She jumped, and looked up, passing one hand quickly across her face and down her body. Her features shifted and rearranged themselves, dampening the strangeness badly. Crowley pushed his shades back up his nose, and since she wasn’t, went to open the door. A sleepy-looking lad in a crisp coat entered, pushing a cart with their request arranged artfully on a tray. Crowley relieved him of it before he got too far into the room, and she paid him and shooed him out.

Crowley uncapped one of the bottles of scotch and splashed a measure into one of the glasses, knocking it back. She snatched the bottle from his hand and took a pull directly from the mouth.

“Uninhibited, are we?” he asked.

She smirked. “You would know, wouldn’t you?” she asked with a sharp, brittle laugh.

“It would appear that I’m at the disadvantage now,” he said, changing the subject (and repossessing the bottle of alcohol at the same time). “You know what I am, but I don’t know what you are.”

His voice hitched the tiniest bit at the last of that—if she was from Down Below, he really was going to be in trouble. It wasn’t like he was familiar with all the personnel in Hell; he only went Down if he couldn’t avoid it. This bird could easily be an employee he’d never met before, and his mind had been busy for some time, trying to think up contingency plans.

I am an anthropomorphic representation of the forces of insanity,” she said primly, crossing her legs and sitting up straight in her chair. “Of course, that’s bloody annoying to say over and over again, so just Insanity is fine.”

“Insanity?” The name was unfamiliar; did they have any agents by the name of Insanity? “Do you make a habit of seducing men in bars?”

“Oh no,” she said airily. “I seduce women, too, and I’ll do it anywhere I feel a receptive mind. All my work ain’t gonna get done by itself.”

Crowley took another contemplative drink of the scotch. “Work?”

“Oh, you know—random acts of terrorism, stirrings of sociopolitical revolution, dark and disturbing artistic experiments…fanbrats…crap like that.” She drew her legs up into the chair and reached for the bottle once more. Crowley poured her a drink and handed her that instead. She frowned, but knocked it back anyway.

Crowley groaned. “You’re not from…Down There, are you?” he asked with the resignation of someone who knew that answer wasn’t going to be in his favor and was rapidly planning ways to cover his tracks.

“Down there? What? You mean, like, Antarctica?”

So maybe he didn’t need to worry quite so much.

“Man, do I feel like a moron,” she mused after a moment. “A demon. Damn, I should have known.” She threw her head back and sighed dramatically. He caught her eye, and suddenly, she grinned. “It was really good sex, though.”

“Just ‘good’?”

“Fine. Fucking great sex.”

“Just ‘fucking great’?”

“What, can you do better that that?” she asked, challenge clear in her posture and the wicked sparkle in her eye. Crowley returned her grin with one of his own, and recapped the Scotch with a definitive twist.

When the sun rose three hours later, the cake was still untouched and both the bottles were warming gradually, abandoned, on the table.

*Sleek black and made of silk, for the edification of anyone interested.


There was something shady about the two people breakfasting together at the small table in the center of the hotel dining room. Both were dressed all in black, for one thing. The young man of the pair was wearing sunglasses despite the weak, oblique light of the early morning. The young lady had an instrument, sleek and (not unsurprisingly) black, leaning half-under the table, against her leg. They were both bright and awake, and though they sat in silence, it was a pleasant, comfortable silence, the silence of people who didn’t feel compelled to chatter simply to keep break the quiet.

The dining room of the full-service hotel restaurant was sparsely populated by the other early risers, most of them businessmen hunched dourly over newspapers and whichever caffeinated morning drinks they preferred. Most of the businessmen had bitter looks for the lovers, who dared to be so pleasantly natured on this hideous and unnecessary morning, but the waitstaff were pleasant and accommodating.

Eating was one of those Earthly pleasures Crowley had grown so fond of—well, not eating so much as the food itself. You could get food in Hell, sure, but it certainly wasn’t very good food, and was bland and unimaginative when it wasn’t downright disgusting. Judging from the enthusiasm with which Insanity tucked into her meal, he wasn’t the only one to enjoy it.

“So you’re immortal?” he asked her, trying to sound nonchalant and casual and setting his fork aside.

She shrugged, reached for a glass of water, swallowed. “I suppose I am, yeah,” she said slowly. “I haven’t died yet, at least, and I’ve been around for ages and ages. And no—I don’t play for one side of the other. Not consciously.” She frowned and picked at the intricate scrollwork on the handle of her spoon. “Hell,” she said musingly, “I don’t even know how we fit in with all that…divine, infernal stuff.”


“My sister and I,” she explained, and her face clouded. “Self-satisfied, goody-two-shoes little…” She trailed off, and when Crowley looked up, he saw that she was staring over his shoulder, a rather horrified expression on her round face. “Oh, pin me to a wall and fuck me cross-eyed,” she swore under her breath.

“Didn’t we do that at one point?”

Not the time, Crowley,” she hissed, ducking her head and slumping down low in her seat. He turned, and it was clear what had freaked Insanity out. There was a girl coming through the lobby, a tall, thin girl with washed out blonde hair and mismatched eyes. She had a round, pleasant face, clean and clear, and was followed by a very familiar man-shaped being.

“Oh, I don’t believe this,” Insanity was babbling, her head cradled in her hands. “I don’t believe it! How the Hell did she find me? How—”

“Not Hell,” Crowley interrupted in a blank voice. “Heaven.”

“Insanity!” The sister stormed up to the table, ignoring Crowley as totally as if he wasn’t there. “Sister, stand up and account for yourself!” She had a cultured, if somewhat high-pitched, voice, but one that was pregnant with force at the moment. Insanity lifted her head and straightened slowly.

“Account for what, Inspiration?” she demanded. “I was only doing what I’ve always been doing.”

“As I am well aware,” Inspiration snarled. “And as you should be aware, you cannot do it unsupervisedd! What were you thinking, manifesting corporeally without telling me?!”

“I was thinking to have some fun,” Insanity retorted, getting to her feet. “Something you are incapable of doing!” One hand clasped around the neck of her bass, and a ripple of red pulsed along the all-but-invisible sigils. Inspiration’s hand dropped to a silver tube at her waist, a flute, and for a moment, intricate fretwork along its surface glowed gold.

Their eyes met, and Crowley noticed that, when face-to-face, dark eye met dark and light met light.

Something tense and violent vibrated between them for nearly a minute. Both Crowley and Aziraphale watched, uncomfortably aware that something that should have been within their ken—yet wasn’t*—was passing between the two.

Inspiration reached out and slapped Insanity full across the face. The tension broke with a suddenness that was nearly a palpable force. “We’re going home,” she said implacably. “Now.”

Insanity grinned wildly, and the quality she was named for came through clearly. “Gotcha, sis,” she said in a fluting, fluctuating voice. “I’ll be good, I swear it.” She slung her bass over her shoulder and turned it, so that it hung behind her stiffly. She turned to Crowley and winked. “I’ll see about lookin’ you up again next time I’m down here,” she said. It was either a promise or a threat.

And then they were gone, sweeping across the dining room and into a crowd of guests that seemed to coalesce about them. When it cleared, they had disappeared—literally.

Aziraphale sat very gingerly down in Insanity’s chair. He had an incredibly smug expression on his face. Crowley crossed his arms and leaned back, gazing idly through the lobby.

“Suppose you had something to do with that, angel,” he said carefully.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said unhelpfully. “That lovely young lady went to all the trouble of seeking me out, you see, so who was I to refuse her the assistance she requested?”

“She sought you out?”

“Oh yes.”

“All of an instinct, I suppose?”

“I suppose.”

Crowley nodded, smiled, and didn’t believe a word of it. He pushed the chair out and stood. “You right jealous bastard,” he laughed, and left Aziraphale there alone.

*That something had very little to do with their supernaturality, which both angel and demon shared, and more to do with the fact that they were both girls, and related, neither of which was a quality they could lay claim to.


Warnings: This fic contains adult content, i.e., graphic heterosexual sex. While the mechanics of it are not explicitly described, it is, undeniably sex, and it is an important part of the story. Please do not read if this disturbs you. Also, the fic contains to original female characters, Insanity and Inspiration, who are crossed-over from original fiction of my own. There are relations between Crowley and one of the OFCs.

So. My first smutfic ever. I feel like I've hit Interwebz puberty or soemthing...

ETA: Sequel!
Tags: fanfic
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic
    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.