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theragethatisdesire · 11 months

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pretty girl - jean kirschtein x afab!reader - 18+!!!

there's def more eren coming but while that's in the works please enjoy the result of the jean brainrot i experienced the other day. fair warning- it's going to get pretty rough, but that's what you asked him for ;)

pairing: reader x jean kirschtein

wc: 4.6k

DISCLAIMER: this post contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor, please do not read below the cut.

CWs: smut, consensual hook-up, established relationship (jean's ur gorgeous bf lucky u), unprotected sex, oral sex (male receiving), face fucking, pretty rough sex, vaginal fingering, biting, dirty talk, penetrative vaginal sex, swearing, daddy kink, use of names (pretty girl, crybaby, good girl), very dom jean, multiple orgasm, dacryphilia/crying, creampie

this one was super fun and is very tasty u guys enjoy <3

-> be there in 5 babe :)

You are not looking forward to this, to say the least. You pace madly around your little apartment in a massive t-shirt and sweatpants covering the skimpiest lingerie set you own. It’s got all the bells and whistles: a matching garter belt, lace in all the right places, stockings that come up to where your plush thighs are the fattest. You should be looking forward to this, you tell yourself, candles lit and ambient lighting ready to go. You have a gorgeous boyfriend who’s going to “be here in five”, and you should be brimming with excitement. But…you’re just not.

Jean’s been in your life for a few months now. What had started as a run-in at the coffee shop around the corner had turned into candlelit dinners, movie marathons, and exclusive titles, and you adore him. His sandy brown hair, the tattoo on his strong bicep, pretty hazel eyes– Jean’s sexy, loving, sarcastic, attentive, literally everything you could ask for in a boyfriend. Except when it comes to your sex life, that is.

The sex isn’t bad per se, you just can’t shake the feeling that he’s holding something back from you. He’s almost too perfect; he’s gentle with you, always taking care to ask permission before touching you, chaste kisses as he slides in, hand-holding in missionary. He cums every time, immune to the whiskey-dick you’d expect from his bourbon drinking habit, so you know he’s enjoying himself, but he doesn’t always seem all there. The fire just isn’t in him, and you know he has that side to him. You’ve seen those hazel eyes you love so much blaze, in a heated argument, at the gym. Why it doesn’t happen in your intimate moments is beyond you, it’s like he’s afraid to break you, like he’s not doing everything–

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Shit, knocking on your front door is what he’s doing.

You take one last look in the mirror: hair’s casual, but still sexy, makeup to a minimum, all straps and lace covered up by your inconspicuous pajamas. Time to potentially ruin your relationship.

“Hey beautiful,” Jean greets you with an innocent smile, “you look cozy.”

“Feel cozy,” you accept his kiss, chewing on your lip as he comes in. Your heart’s pounding in your ears; poor thing has no idea what’s to come. Maybe it’ll go well, you think; false hope might be the only thing that gets you to pull through with your plan.

“Have any movie ideas for tonight? I was thinking Hereditary, but only if you’re not too chicken…” Jean raises his eyebrows, a taunting smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Ha! If only he knew all of the things you aren’t “too chicken” for.

You smile weakly, stomach churning. “Maybe. Can we just…can we just talk for a sec?”

Jean’s playful demeanor drops instantly, replaced by a faint frown. “What about?”

You amble over to the couch, playing with the strings of your sweatpants anxiously. How the fuck are you even supposed to bring this up? Your mind’s racing so quickly it draws a blank, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt: “Sex.”

“Sex?” Jean’s cheeks tinge pink. He hasn’t shaved in probably a week, a shadow covering his sharp jawline. God, he’s gorgeous, you can’t mess this up, you really can’t.

“Yeah,” you confirm, “sex. Our sex, to be clear.”

“I figured as much,” Jean’s sat himself beside you now, one eyebrow raised suspiciously. He’s not upset, not yet, but you’ve definitely caught him off guard.

“I– I feel like we’re on different pages,” you stammer– fuck you are so bad at this, “I just feel like sometimes you’re so…gentle, and you don’t necessarily, like, have to be?”

Jean’s frowning full on now, a precious little wrinkle appearing in the center of his forehead. You’ve hurt him, and your heart sinks. Probably should have started with the pros. “Like…what do you mean, by ‘don’t have to be gentle’?”

“Our sex life is great,” you try to smile enthusiastically, as if you don’t actually want to blow your brains out right now, “please don’t think I’m saying you’re bad in bed or anything. I just, like– okay, for example, have you ever tried anything rough?”

His mouth is a flat line. “Like what?”

“Like, handcuffs, or roleplay, any of that stuff.”

“What have you tried?” His voice is even, collected, but there’s something simmering in him that you can’t put your finger on. It’s not anger, but it tastes similar, running in the same vein but not quite there. It’s your turn to feel your face warm.

“I mean, I’ve tried handcuffs before. Some light slapping, spanking.” You’re twiddling your thumbs, confessing into your lap. You can feel his eyes on you.

“That it?”

“I guess.”

“Did you…enjoy that kind of stuff?” He’s taking the bait. You finally meet his gaze and it ignites a little fire in your stomach; he’s never looked at you this intensely, brows pinched together like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. All of these little mannerisms are tells, you’re intuitive enough to know that, but exactly what he’s trying to convey you just can’t figure out.

“Yeah.”

“How rough are we talking, here?” Jean sounds deeper than normal, the slightest bit of strain to his words. That’s definitely new; Jean’s the most unshakeable person you’ve ever met.

“If I’m making you uncomfortable, I–”

“You’re not making me uncomfortable,” an easy chuckle floats out of his mouth, “just trying to feel you out is all.”

Your brows furrow. “Feel me out?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised?” Your nose wrinkles. “Did I ever give off the impression that I was, like, super vanilla or something?”

“No,” he laughs again, a bit of the tension melting from the room, “no, not that. We��re just still pretty new, that’s all. Wasn’t going to whip out everything in my toolbox ‘til I knew you were okay with it.”

That piques your interest; you think you’d very much like to see what’s in this toolbox of his. “So you do like some of this stuff?”

Jean rolls that thought over in his mind for a beat before responding, a suspicious smirk that you can’t read tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I guess you could say I like some of this stuff.”

“We’re back to my original question then: what do you like?”

“I’m more worried about what you like,” Jean says, “especially since you won’t come right out and say it. Gonna make me guess?”

That’s your Jean, blunt as ever. The fire in your stomach sparks and spits at the conversation, teasing and tempting. There’s something playful to his words; you can’t shake this feeling that you’re missing something, that he’s toying with you, but you like it. You let him keep pushing, see where he’s leading you. “Sure, guess.”

“Do you like…” Jean trails off, examining you with his chin nestled between his thumb and index finger, “to be dominant?”

“No.”

“Submissive, then.”

“Yeah.” He likes that, you can tell by the way his eyes glint at you. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“Like to be tied up?”

“Already told you about the handcuffs.”

“I bet you have a praise kink.”

That has you flustered. There’s a sinking sensation in your stomach that you’ve underestimated him, waded out too deep into the water, but fuck it, you’re already here. “How’d you know?”

Jean smiles, pleased. “I just do. Overstimulation?”

“Sure.”

“Orgasm denial? Degradation?”

“If I deserve it.” It’s a bold answer, but it makes Jean suck in a sharp “fuck” between his teeth. Oh yes, you’ve definitely underestimated him.

“You like to be punished, don’t you?” His hand has traveled up to cup your jaw, thumb playing absentmindedly with your bottom lip. There’s an anticipatory warmth gathering between your legs, and the air between you both is practically crackling, charged by the tension thrumming through both of your bodies.

“Yes,” it comes out in a breath, almost pathetic, but you can’t help yourself. He looks so good, always does, and now he’s grazing his eyes over you like he wants to take a bite.

“You know how safewords work?” You nod a bit too eagerly. “Ours is going to be red, okay?”

“Okay,” you’re agreeing, but you aren’t entirely sure what to, caught up in the soft rubbing of his thumb over your mouth.

“If your mouth is,” a deep breath shakes through his frame, “occupied, give me a sharp pinch with your nails.”

“I can do that,” the tension between you is palpable now, the room’s so hot that you’re surprised your wallpaper isn’t peeling off.

“Go to your room,” Jean releases you, eyes dark and hungry, “take your clothes off and wait for me on the bed. I’ll be in soon.”

You follow his instructions without thinking twice, as if a switch has flipped in your brain. Maybe it was his tone, an authoritative way of speaking that threatens consequence, or maybe you’re just so ready to see what this perfect boyfriend of yours has been hiding all this time. As you’re getting undressed, you realize he still doesn't know about your lingerie. You bite back a smile, kneeling on the bed. This is going to be so good.

A minute or so ticks by slowly, and just when your legs are starting to ache, Jean’s entering your room. His face darkens in a way you’ve never seen before when he sees your little get up; lightning shoots through your core.

“Put on a pretty outfit just for me?”

“Mhm,” you hum.

“That’s good,” he says in that slow drawl of his, “good girl.”

He’s only testing the waters, but you can feel your body viscerally react to the little pet name, shifting on your knees to mask your desperate attempt for friction, dampness spreading in your panties. Jean sees right through your act, smirking.

Jean joins you in undressing, slipping his shirt over his head. You take your time admiring his torso; miles of long, lean muscle, little ripples by his ribs trailing into a ridiculous six-pack. Jean’s a confessed gym rat, and it shows in every little line along his body. You have to blink and look away before you start salivating.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jean scolds, tilting your head up towards him, “eyes on me, got it?”

“Got it,” you answer. Jean frowns.

“That’s not very nice,” he says, “try again.”

You go out on a limb. “Yes, sir.”

Jean’s eyes glint again in that mean, pretty way you saw earlier. You did good, you did good for him. “Much better. Get on the floor.”

You slide off of your mattress, practically buzzing with anticipation, settling on your knees in front of him. A low groan rumbles in Jean’s chest.

“Look so good like that, my pretty girl.”

Oh, you really like that, nuzzling against his hand on your head. Jean smiles down at you, inching his pants down until that little thatch of brown hair starts revealing itself. “Open up for me, nice and wide.”

Your jaw’s dropped, mouth open and tongue out, expectant. Jean smiles wider, sharp and dangerous, pulling his cock out for you. He taps the head against your tongue a few times, even slaps you with it, facade faltering for a fraction of a second to gauge your reaction. You’re good for him, sitting still and patient with your mouth still open, a drop of drool starting to slide off the end of your tongue. Jean makes a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a chuckle.

“Oh, you’re an obedient little thing, aren’t you?” Your panties grow impossibly wetter, you wiggle on your thighs under him, earning yourself another slap of his cock on your tongue, heavy and drooling. “Gonna fuck this pretty face, okay?”

You close your mouth around his head, sucking lightly to show your approval. He’s not even touched you, not so much as a kiss, and your brain’s foggy, running like a hamster on a wheel chasing the circular thought of be good, be good, be good. Jean grabs your hair none-too-gently, tugging it at the roots, and starts canting his hips towards your mouth, muttering under his breath about how good you are, how good your mouth feels on him.

You lower your jaw ever so slightly, and before long, Jean’s picking up speed, knocking your gag reflex here and there and making you cough around him. He doesn’t seem overly concerned; in fact, he grins cruelly down at you when he hits an extra-sensitive spot, making you hunch and gag on him.

“Look at my pretty girl, so happy getting her mouth fucked,” he hisses when you moan around him, feeling the vibrations up his cock. He’s moving faster now, rougher than he’s ever been. You’re gagging with some regularity, tears welling up in your eyes and threatening to spill down your cheeks. You expect him to let up, give you some air, but it only spurs him on, and before you know it, there are thick streams of tears running down your face. Your jaw aches, your knees burn, but you stay, letting him use you how he pleases.

“Fucking crying on me,” Jean growls, “my cock too much for you?”

You try to answer with a shake of your head, but he’s relentless, fingers tightening in your hair and cock shoving to the back of your throat, making you retch.

“No, you love it, don’t you? My little crybaby.”

You’re so wet you can feel it gathering on the insides of your thighs, entirely soaked through your panties. You move your hips subtly, this way and that, desperate for friction. Jean notices, pulling out of your mouth but staying connected by a string of your spit.

“You squirming, pretty girl? Need some attention?”

“Yes, sir,” you rasp, nodding eagerly. Jean helps you up onto the bed, lays you back against his chest facing the mirror on top of your wardrobe. It’s a terribly lewd sight; you spread out in front of him, face swollen and teary, the telltale glisten of wetness glittering on your thighs.

Jean slides a hand down your body, rubbing you over your panties and nibbling at your ear. “You’re gonna watch me make you cum, and if I see you look away, I’m fucking you ‘til I cum, and you’re not getting a damn thing. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” your voice wobbles pathetically. Jean seems to like it; his cock twitches in interest against your back. He pushes your panties to the side, flicking his fingers faster over your clit. Embarrassingly enough, you’re already nearing your halfway point from the face-fucking, moaning and grinding up into his palm.

“Need something?”

“Mhm,” you grit out, jaw clenched. Jean slaps your pussy; not too hard, but firm enough to make you jolt, bring you a moment of clarity.

“Manners,” he reminds you sharply.

“I’m sorry, I– can I please have a finger?”

Jean’s placated, slides one finger into you and laughs hot against your neck at the obscene sound that tears from your throat. “What do we say when we get what we ask for?”

“Thank you– fuck, thank you,” your words are coming out in puffs of breathe. Jean has long, skilled fingers, a fact you’re already familiar with, but the position he’s put you in has you dripping onto the sheets: forcing you to watch as he pumps in and out of you, grinding into your clit with the heel of his hand. You’ll be lucky if you last another minute.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? My pretty girl likes being full, right?” Jean murmurs, hot against the shell of your ear. “Tell me.”

“Yes, sir, I– I like it, I need– fuck!”

“What do you need?” Jean coos, entertained, as if he’s not unraveling you with just the one.

“I want one m-more finger, please,” you stutter, relieved you’re able to get the words out at all.

“Learning so fast,” Jean kisses your shoulder, granting your wish. His fingers are thick, the slight stretch making you throw your head back against his shoulder, hips rolling into his hand of their own accord. “Still looking?”

You force your head back to its upright position, mindful of the threat in his tone. His fingers work faster at your obedience, curling insistently against the gummy spot inside your walls that makes you see stars, makes you a little out of your mind with need. It’s that out-of-mind dizziness in your head that causes your little slip-up:

“Fuck, please, more- more, Daddy.”

Jean’s fingers still; it’s not until you’re halfway into a whine of disappointment that you realize what you’ve said. Your face burns; you meet his eyes in the mirror, yours shot wide and embarrassed. You trip over your words, trying to explain yourself. That definitely hadn’t been mentioned in your earlier conversation.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, I just–”

“Just what? Already so fucked out you can’t think straight?” Jean curls his fingers pointedly against your walls, punching a groan from your chest.

“Yeah,” you sigh, head growing cloudy again.

“Say it again.” That definitely isn’t what you expect to hear him mutter against your neck. Jean works a third finger into your cunt with some difficulty, stretching you to your limits. “Fucking say it, or you’re not cumming.”

“Oh my God, D-Daddy,” your cries are pathetic, punctuated by whimpers. The bubble in your stomach is about to pop, the tension growing unbearable. You’re almost there, grinding into his hand pitifully and babbling, when Jean takes one of his hands to grab your throat roughly. He holds you captive, staring at your own stretched cunt on display for you in the mirror.

“Good, good girl,” he says, “now watch Daddy make you cum.”

The band inside you snaps viciously; your back arches away from him, and you squirt, gushing all over your bed sheets, inhuman sounds tearing from your throat where you struggle under his hand. Jean’s working you through the whole thing, still steadily pumping his fingers and whispering dirty little nothings into your ear. It finally begins to quiet, overstimulation washing over you. You push urgently at his wrist, mumbling something or other about “too much, too much”.

Jean mercifully obliges, pulling his hand from you with a shameful sucking sound, giving your pussy another light slap.

“Such a good girl for me, yeah? How you feelin’?”

“Good, so good,” you slur, “I’ve never– never…”

“Never squirted?” Jean’s eyebrows shoot up at your answering nod before a smug expression settles over his face. “Such a fun little toy, aren’t you? Just wait, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing; so he can make you do that? Again? Jean’s slid out from behind you and is repositioning your limp body, dragging you down the bed by your ankles to line you up with his cock. He bends your knees up, pressing them close to your head. Jesus, he’s going to kill you at this rate.

“Want me to fuck you?”

“Please,” you hate the begging lilt to your voice, but you’re beyond fighting it. You gave up the reins a long time ago when you knelt for him, let him call you a good girl, let him fuck your throat.

“I’ve got you, pretty girl, Daddy’s gotcha,” Jean starts bullying his way into your pussy, still tight and pulsing from your orgasm. “Shit, got a tight little cunt, don’t you? Feels so good– fuck.”

You’re simpering under him, barely able to process the stretch of his cock in you. He’s well-endowed and you’re overwhelmed, a dizzying combination for your fucked-out brain to handle. Just when you think he might be in your throat he’s so deep in you, his hips press to the back of your thighs, both of you letting out a long groan at the feeling.

“So pretty,” Jean muses, not moving yet, just placing a thumb on your clit and absentmindedly playing with it, “such a beautiful pussy.”

You whine, frustrated. He glares at you, landing a harsh smack to your inner thigh.

“I’m not going to warn you again.”

“Please fuck me, oh God, please,” you pant, past the point of humility. Jean licks his lips, presses his palms deep into the backs of your knees, practically folding you in half. He gives you what you ask for.

You’re jolted back and forth on the mattress, mouth hung open in a silent scream as he splits you open on him, forces every inch deep into you. His tip’s kissing your cervix, pain blooming in your abdomen, but you don’t even care, so lost in the rhythm of his hips.

“Jean, I– oh my God,” you try to tell him how good he feels, but all you get is a firm hand around your throat.

“Who’s fucking this pretty cunt up, hm? Fucking you good and deep? Who is it?”

“Daddy,” you choke out, breathless, “Daddy’s.”

“There you go,” Jean’s focused on where you’re connected, eyes never leaving the frothy white ring forming around the base of his cock. You’re crying again, vaguely aware of the streams of tears running down your temples, into your hairline, but fuck, he just feels so good your brain can’t even process it. Jean takes notice, wipes one of your tears and licks it off of his thumb. “Cute fucking crybaby, all happy and cockdrunk, aren’t you?”

You whimper some semblance of an agreement, feeling the band of tension in you already getting stretched to a breaking point. He’s at an angle that allows him to hammer into the most delicious spot inside of you, rubbing against it with each thrust.

“Gonna cum soon, I– I’m gonna cum soon,” you manage, locking his gaze.

“Let me feel it, go on, do it for me,” Jean pants, squeezing your neck tighter. The lack of air goes to your head; the room spins until all you can focus on is him pounding into you. You cum violently, throbbing around his cock, thrashing against his strong arms. Jean fucks you through it, never losing his pace. “Good fucking girl, just like that.”

You’re practically wheezing as your senses return to you, clawing at Jean’s arm on your throat. He lets up on your neck, smiling down at you. “Feel good?”

“Mhm,” you hum, blissed out and half-asleep until Jean flips you, forcing you to prop up on your hands and knees. “Wait, Jean–”

“Wait?” Jean scoffs, sliding back into you. You let out a little cry, and he smacks your ass sharply. “This is what you asked for, right? Said I was being too nice to you.”

“I didn’t– oh my god…” your eyes roll back into your head, a well-placed thrust cutting your words off. “It’s so…it’s so much, Jean.”

Jean lands three more sharp slaps to your ass, already thrusting into you at a brutal pace. “What was that?”

“T-too much, Daddy,” you collapse, face shoved into the bed to mask the pitiful cries leaving your mouth. It is too much; if you tuck your chin to your chest, you can see a little bulge in your tummy where he’s fucking into you, another orgasm already building in the pit of your stomach. You feel like you might pass out if he makes you cum again, but he’s ruthless.

“Too much?” Jean coos, fisting your hair to turn your face. He’s glaring down at you. “You were practically begging me for it, and my pretty girl gets what she wants, right? Said you wanted it rough, so you’re going to fucking take it.”

You nod miserably, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Jean hisses when you clamp down around him. “Squeezing me so goddamn tight, this pussy.”

You feel a hand start thrumming insistently against your clit and nearly shriek; your pussy’s so swollen, so sensitive already. You claw at the bedsheets, feeling something warm and wet swelling inside of you.

“Daddy, I– fuck, it’s, it’s–”

“Gonna make you squirt again,” it’s a promise from behind your ear, “you’re gonna squirt on my cock and Daddy’ll cum for you, okay?”

“I can’t, I–” you’re wailing, words cut off by your own moans. Jean loves it, you can feel his thrusts growing more urgent against your hips, so deep in you you could choke.

“You can,” he corrects you, hand moving faster, “want Daddy to cum in you?”

“Yes, please, p-please,” You cry, letting him use you as he wishes.

“I’ll give it to you, gotta cum first, you can do that, can’t you? Taking me so well, pretty girl, just need you to cum one more time for me.”

“Uh-huh,” the edges of your vision are starting to close in. He’s ruthless, hips slamming into yours hard enough to bruise, cock stretching you out so nicely, you can’t hold it, but you know, somewhere deep in this primal part of your brain, you need to be good, need to ask him. “Need to cum, Daddy, please– please let me, I–”

“Go ahead,” Jean shushes you, hips moving impossibly faster, “be a good girl, let me feel it.”

That tips you over the edge and Jean makes good on his promise; your cum is dripping out of you, spraying onto his thighs and ruining your sheets. You’re thrashing your head back and forth and sobbing through your orgasm, pinned and powerless under him. Jean swears at the vice-like grip you have on him; it doesn’t take him long to follow suit, pressing himself as deep as he can go, cumming in you. He bends over you as he does, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to him, kissing you hard in a mess of tongue and teeth. You feel it warming your stomach, moaning appreciatively until you both collapse in a sweaty mess of limbs, gasping for breath and clutching onto one another.

Jean allows himself a few moments to catch his breath, and then he’s pulling out of you, leaving you empty and whimpering. He shushes you, holding you close to his chest and letting you work through the intense session in his arms. You’ve never been so fucked out, nuzzling into his chest and simply letting him hold you, letting the aftershocks wrack through your sore body. After a few minutes you’re coming to; the haze begins to lift, and you peek up at him, unsure of where to start after…that.

“You okay?”

You turn the words over in your mouth before you can get them out, still feeling a bit like you’re floating. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. That was…wow.”

Jean, the man that just held you down and forced what were probably life-threatening orgasms out of you, blushes. “Yeah, it was really something.”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, giggling despite yourself. Your mind is still a little cloudy, a little soft after everything. “But it was good. So good.”

“Yeah?” Jean grins, hoisting you up into his lap so you can both sit up, still cradling you to his chest. “Not too gentle, was I?”

Your face grows hot, you want to hide it behind your hands. “No, not too gentle.”

“You were right earlier,” he admits, “I was definitely holding out on you just because the way I like to…I mean, I don’t think I need to get too into it, you were there. It can be a lot. Didn’t want to push you too far.”

You hum contentedly, playing with the little gold chain he always wears. “I understand that now, but I’m a big girl. I can handle whatever you want to give me, promise.”

“Don’t say that,” Jean groans, “too tired for round two.”

Your hand falls into the mess between your thighs, and you wince. “Maybe after a shower?”

“Greedy,” Jean tuts, scooping you up with him to make the journey over to your bathroom, “my greedy, pretty girl.”

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justhereforthemeta · 9 months

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Romantic expectations and the story we didn't see: A magic trick hiding in plain sight

Here's a hopeful meta for all my fellow celestial brainrot sufferers out there. Cheers! :)

This idea started as a dead end, trying to track the movements of Crowley’s sideburns/tattoo because I thought time travel shenanigans were afoot. I had to abandon that theory when it was pointed out that David was simultaneously filming as the sideburns-having Fourteenth Doctor, and in-universe Crowley can do whatever he wants with his facial hair whenever he feels like it. But hey - null findings are still findings!

On the bright side, pausing the show to make notations in a spreadsheet forced me to slow down and notice other changes I'd overlooked the first time around: acting choices, costuming choices, references to book lore. And possibly a few surreptitious flicks of the wrist, in places where we’re meant to be focused on the magician’s other hand.

@amuseoffyre and @ineffablefood had a great exchange recently about romance and “the significance of misdirection and three-in-one (magic) tricks” throughout the show. I suspect Neil has done something brilliant with the audience’s long-standing expectations (since the 1990s, really) for the love story between Crowley and Aziraphale to develop. And while it is a wonderful story indeed, playing to this expectation lets Neil distract his audience from the blink-and-you'll-miss-them seeds he's planting for the final chapter.

Continued below the cut...

Let’s start at the beginning of Episode 2. First, context: In the previous installment, Crowley stormed out of the bookshop, was whisked away to Hell by Beelzebub where he learns about the Book of Life threat to Aziraphale’s existence, then returned to the bookshop to dance a little apology dance and hide Gabriel with an unintentionally massive joint miracle. In S2E2, we and Shax catch up with Crowley as he's snoozing in the Bentley.

Shax: “You’re in trouble”

A. J. Crowley, cool as a cucumber: “Obviously. Former demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”

Interesting! Sarcastic? Yes, absolutely; but that’s also a good 4500 years and an averted apocalypse away from “I’m a demon. I lie,” wouldn’t you say? Someone is sounding a whole lot less depressed and aimless and navel-gazey (do snakes have navels?), and a whole lot more like he’s got a project to focus on, since his "what's the point?" ruminations on the park bench in E1.

And of course we all noticed the costume change right away. Hello, black turtleneck. Feeling cute today, thought I’d cover up my graceful long neck? That sounds unlikely. Let’s put a pin in this one.

There’s also an interesting acting choice going on here. Crowley speaks to Shax in a funny, drawling, too-cool-for-you voice that we haven’t heard in a while. Specifically, not since 1967. If you go back and give the S1E3 scene in the Dirty Donkey a listen, you’ll hear it (and if you know of another instance of it that I've missed, please let me know!). In S2E2, he keeps up this odd voice (if anybody knows what kind of affect this is supposed to be, please do tell!) throughout this dialogue with Shax, except for the brief moment when she first surprises him about the joint miracle having been detected.

1967 was a fun year. Crowley masterminded a heist! And seemed like he was having a ball doing it, right up until his little caper was called off after Aziraphale brought him the thermos of holy water. Crowley spoke to his co-conspirators in that same funny, very 60’s-caper-film voice. He wore a hip 60’s turtleneck. He bought petrol for the only time ever, so he could get those sweet James Bond bullet hole decals for his car (per the book, seen on the Bentley in the show).

Those James Bond bullet hole decals would of course have been part of a promotion for this 1967 release, which you just know our film-enjoying demon went to see in the theater:

Starring this suave, be-turtlenecked guy:

And now - begging your forgiveness - a brief rant.

There are a number of posts out there that refer to Crowley’s S2E2 turtleneck as a flirtatious sartorial choice - actually, ‘slutty’ seems to be the favored accusation. There are even a few posts floating around commenting on how sweet it is that Crowley swaps out his slutty, kinky, throw-me-over-your-desk-and-take-me turtleneck for a more dressy and appropriate collared shirt specifically to attend Aziraphale’s Jane Austen ball.

Now this is all in good fun, and Crowley does indeed look fantastic here, and I do love a good fangirling sesh as much as the next person. However, fandom’s collective tendency to interpret what we are seeing on the screen through the lens of romantic expectation can, at times, give rise to a kind of blinkered enthusiasm that obscures the original text in a haze that is part Mandela Effect, part unrestrained horniness, and part in-group code talking and identity reinforcement.

Respectfully, Crowley’s black turtleneck does not appear at all in S2E5: The Ball. In fact, it never appears again after the end of S2E2.

For Someone’s sake, let’s collectively pull our heads out of the romantic fog/gutter for a moment and focus on what we are actually seeing in the book and on the screen. For Crowley, this is an uncharacteristic within-period costume change. There is a surreptitious flick of the wrist happening here, out in broad daylight, and we are all missing it.

So here’s a thing. Aziraphale appears to have settled comfortably into life on Earth, his neighborhood, his books, using Crowley as an outlet for sharing his good deeds that he would once have reported to Heaven. Meanwhile, at first glance, Crowley appears stuck in a rut. There he slouches on a park bench with Shax in S2E1: a guy who lives in his car, stagnantly clinging to old familiar habits, mulling over the pointlessness of it all.

Setting aside the bit about living in the Bentley (I’m going to attribute this to well-documented issues between him and Aziraphale, discussed in many other excellent metas, and move on), Crowley has at least two very good, proactive reasons for maintaining his contact with Hell through Shax. First and foremost, it’s a source of information he can use to keep ahead of potential threats to Aziraphale and himself.

But also, I would posit…he kinda likes it.

Recall that book GO was first conceived as a parody, with Aziraphale and Crowley as spy-against-spy (but not really) field operatives in an ages-old cold war between Heaven and Hell. Their entire book dynamic is rooted in the trope of two opposing agents who have been in the field for so long that they now have more in common with each other than with their respective head offices. Their St. James’s Park meetings among other spies and ministers trading secrets are a sendup of what was once a well-known Cold War-era cliché.

Our contemporary Crowley still likes slick outfits and hellaciously expensive watches and high-performing vintage cars and pens that write underwater while looking like they could break the speed limit. He coaches Shax on how to blend in as a demon on Earth, and he helpfully redirects the wayward contact looking for the Azerbaijani sector chief. He loves improvising and getting away with shenanigans under the institutional radar. And boy golly was he impressed with Jane Austen: master spy, brandy smuggler, and mastermind of the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery.

And if you look at it a certain way, for as long as Crowley has considered himself to be on “[his] own side” - going at least as far back as Job - he could almost think of himself as a sort of double agent. It’s actually a very romantic sort of notion, befitting our hopeless romantic of a (professedly former) demon; but it’s romantic in a very different way than we, the audience, have been primed to watch for.

In other words, in a very “on my own side” kind of way, Crowley really gets a kick out of being a spy. Or at least, dressing up and accessorizing as one, and moonlighting as a good-doing double agent when he can get away with it. And also being a plotting criminal mastermind. Two sides of a coin, really. Just look at Jane Austen.

My point is: No, Crowley did not wait around for Shax to come find him in a turtleneck so that he could go flirt with Aziraphale later. He’ll flirt with Aziraphale no matter what. No, this:

is actually this:

Much like the one he wears to the Dirty Donkey in 1967:

whilst holy water heist-plotting. Here's a clearer shot with gratuitous Bentley, because I love them:

…and which he'll wear again, with appropriate camouflage, while infiltrating Heaven in S2E6:

That is the 1967 planning a HEIST turtleneck for committing ESPIONAGE and STEALING THINGS in. Because turtlenecks are what modern human master spies wear to get their hands dirty - after all, he saw it in a movie once.

Crowley dons his tactical turtleneck sometime during the first major break in the action (which doesn't happen until after the joint miracle to hide Gabriel) after he learns about the threat the Book of Life poses to Aziraphale. Loverboy started mentally preparing himself to go after that book immediately upon learning that it was in play as a genuine threat.

Now let’s pick up at the S2E2 Dirty Donkey scene, reading the story from this angle. Of course, Crowley enables Aziraphale’s delusions about Heaven by hiding information from him, and does not disclose the Book of Life threat when they meet again. They go into the pub, Aziraphale shamelessly paws Crowley’s chest like the seductive Bond Girl he is, and Crowley gets to act all smooth and suave and intimidating as he chases off the interloping Mr. Brown (or Mr. Collins for the Pride & Prejudice fans, take your pick).

Ergo, theory: beginning in S2E2, Crowley is already thinking of himself as a Jane Austen/James Bond action hero (“How will our hero cope?”), psyching himself up to rescue Aziraphale by getting his spy game on and stealing the Book of Life.

Now, watch closely...This is where Aziraphale and Crowley brainstorm their plans to solve the problem they both know about: getting Maggie and Nina to fall in love and thereby get Heaven off their backs. Crowley’s vavoom plan is drawn from yet another movie (“Get humans wet and staring into each other’s eyes - vavoom, sorted. I saw it in a Richard Curtis film.”). But Crowley also implicitly shares his solution to the problem he hasn’t told Aziraphale about. And true to form, Crowley’s Jane Austen solution isn’t the same as Aziraphale’s Jane Austen solution.

Two solutions that fail by the end of Season 2, and a secret third one that might still work...and there's our magic trick of three.

‘“I’m lost. Am I doing a rainstorm?” Yes, babe. And a heist, too - just not until season three. Can I get a wahoo!?

I won’t spend time on A Companion to Owls during this meta, except to note that in all three minisodes, we get to watch stories that involve Crowley acting as a double agent on “his/their own side” - successfully making Hell and Heaven think he’s fulfilling their will while saving Job’s goats and children; failing to fool Hell when he does a good deed in Edinburgh; and of course, collaborating with Aziraphale whilst evading detection as an infernal turncoat during the Blitz.

(Because this is getting long, I'll also skip over Crowley's interrogation of Jim in this episode - I'll probably come back to that in another meta. But interrogating is a rather spy-ish thing to do.)

When we catch up with Crowley again later, he’s already slipped out of the bookshop, having left Aziraphale to his biblical reverie about Job. He saunters snakily down Whickber Street as usual, but with a very pointed and swift glance over his shoulder (see pic above). This demon is up to something - possibly something we didn’t get to see, something that may have happened offscreen while he stepped out. In any case, knowing there’ve been unfriendly angels in the neighborhood that morning, he’s rightly concerned about being spied on.

From this point until the beginning of episode six, there isn’t a whole lot of opportunity for Crowley to make any next moves. He babysits the bookshop, during which time he manages to wring some crucial information out of Jim; he follows his Crowley’s Angel around like a puppy, and downs a bottle of red like a good old fashioned lovesick boy once that’s been pointed out to him. If any plotting or scheming is underway, this occult being is keeping stumm for now.

This has been a long one, so I’ll wrap up with Crowley’s infiltration of Heaven with Muriel. The turtleneck disguise works (Archer fans, be vindicated!) long enough to gather some information that will be crucial not just to the denouement of S2, but also to Crowley’s journey in S3 (previous post on Crowley's Fall, Saraqael, and memory wiping). And Aziraphale gets to enjoy that view exactly zero times. The point isn’t oh, a turtleneck! How flirty! So cunty! So cute! Y’all. Everything matters. The costume change was a deliberate choice. In-universe, Crowley’s decision to wear his special spy turtleneck for spying in is a signal that he is out doing spy things, even as we watch.

In sum: Beginning in S2E2 and continuing through the end of the season, Aziraphale and Crowley are actively living out the scripts of two parallel, concurrent, and completely different Jane Austen stories. But you and I, dear fellow audience member, we came here for a comedy with a hefty jigger of romance, and that’s what Neil gave us to focus on. And right up until the Final 15, that was the only story we saw.

Meanwhile, Special Agent A. J. Crowley doesn’t have time to mope around at the end of S2E6. He’s kicked down, but he’s not out. He's got a Book of Life to steal, a very serious bone to pick with a certain memory-wiping angel, and his Angel and the world to save.

“‘Heigh ho,’ said [romantic, optimist, former demon, hero, master spy] Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway.”

#so honestly #I think the biggest mark against this conclusion is that Crowley sees his mirror Maggie taking a nap at the end of S2E6 #there is a strong chance of a depression nap before any further spying gets underway #but I am counting on Muriel to be a dorky ray of sunshine and snap him out of it with Clues #good omens #good omens meta #good omens 2 #crowley in a turtleneck #demon bookseller plantdad spy

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