#I’ll probably be drawing Crowley the most but that is to be expected of me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

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Visibility (Good Omens Fic)

Written for Lesbian Visibility Day, 2021

(26 April, 1972)

“What did you szzay?”

Beelzebub glared at the empty space before zir throne, listening to a pair of feet shuffle awkwardly.

“I just…woke up like this,” Crowley explained, in what was probably supposed to be a casual voice. “At first, I thought I was coming down with something. Flu. Hangover. Allergies. All very contagious this time of year. Really, if you haven’t been to Earth before, April is – just wait at least another month. But then I realized, s’not going away, and I thought: curse. Definitely a curse. Probably one of those angels, thwarting and all, you know how they are.”

“An angel.” The Prince of Hell tapped one finger on the arm of the throne, swarm of flies flitting around, trying to make sense of what zir own eyes weren’t telling zir. “Iszzn’t that hideouszz pieczze of real esztate you live in warded?”

“Probably. You know how it is. Get home late, really tired, swear you locked the door, but…” The footsteps – echoing as those ridiculous heeled boots struck the ground – began to circle the room. Beelzebub didn’t keep many possessions – at least, not the material sort – but Crowley seemed determined to touch them all. “Anyway, you know angels. Clever bastards.” An ornate dagger on the far table began to spin. “Or witches. Not quite as bastardly, but they cause trouble. Oh, or a cursed artifact.” Papers began rearranging themselves. “I just…I haven’t been thrift shopping in years, you know, not really my scene, not anyone’s scene anymore, but I saw this really spectacular jacket, I thought, what the Heaven? Might have some age-old horrific curse, or bedbugs, but it’s going to look stunning on the dance floor.”

Pinching zir nose, Beelzebub tried not to imagine the foolish way she was probably grinning. “And by complete coinczzidenzze,this angel, witch or…garment, juszzt happened to make you completely inviszzible on the day of your department budget review?”

“Yup.” A selection of goblets toppled to the floor with a clatter, bouncing and spinning across the floor. One rolled as if kicked, but not even Beelzebub’s cleverest flies could locate the blasted demon who had caused the mess. “I mean, not just a coincidence. Plenty of reasons. Er. The angel. Just last week, that – uh, that Aziraphale, I foiled one of her plans. Thoroughly. Foiled like…like leftover chicken. So. This could be revenge. Very unfortunately timed, but you know.”

“Indeed.” Beelzebub rose, stalking from zir throne across the floor to the spot that most strongly radiated incompetence. “And the curszze breakerszz haven’t been able to turn you back?”

“I mean, they tried.” More footsteps, hastier now, so that the echoes made them harder to track. “Course they tried. But,” she clicked her tongue, “couldn’t do it. Said they’d never seen anything like it before.” Ze would have to speak with them. No, too much trouble. Beelzebub would send the Hellhounds to take care of those idiots. “But, they did say it should wear off in…twenty-four to forty-eight hours. You know. With bed rest. Pity about the budgetary review.”

“How szzo?” Ze asked, lip curling. Every twenty-five years, like clockwork, like the courses of the blessed stars, the day of Crowley’s review, something – something highly improbably – tried to disrupt things.

“Well. I mean. Bed rest. Suggested by your curse breakers. And anyway. Can’t go like this, can I?” One of the goblets floated up from the floor, spinning in an unseen hand. “Might be disruptive.Wouldn’t want to draw attention away from Dagon – I heard, she has some fantastic charts this year. Pie graphs. One of those ones with the dots and the lines. Look at this!” From behind Beelzebub’s throne floated a ceramic pot filled with tall green plants, three dozen flies happily flitting around the attractively scented leaves. “Is this dill? Excellent choice. I’ve been doing some gardening lately, too, and let me tell you—”

“I cannot imagine anything” Beelzebub snapped, snatching the plant out of her invisible hands, “that could make you more diszzzruptive than you already are. But it appearszz you can szztill szzee, hear, and – unfortunately – szzpeak.”

“Just lucky I guess.” More pacing.

“Szzo. Dagon will be exzzpecting you in…four and a half minuteszz. I’m czzertain everyone iszz eagerly awaiting your planszz for the coming quarter-czzentury. Dagon, at leaszzt, could probably uszze the…amuszzement.”

“Course. Right. Perfect.” The footsteps began to lead towards the door. “I’ll just—”

“Szztop.” Beelzebub’s hand flew out, snapping tight around the demon’s wrist exactly as she walked past. “The otherszz will need to szzee where you are.”

“I could whistle,” she volunteered, launching into something that sounded like a tortured bird.

The Prince considered ripping her arm off and stuffing it down her throat, but the last time ze did that, the satisfaction hadn’t been worth the days of cleanup.

“Juszzt put on a hat or szzomething.”

A snap of fingers, and a band of glittering silver cloth appeared around where her waist should be. “Better? Can I go now? I’m…extremely eager to start my presentation. Ngk. Everyone is going to be impressed. This – this decade is going to put me on the map.”

“Go.”

The silver band of cloth sauntered out of the room, echoing the moronic way the demon walked. Checking the dill plant for damage, Beelzebub lowered zirself back onto the throne.

Which had, inexplicably, moved several inches back, causing zir to fall onto the floor, the potted plant shattering. “Crowley!”

“Brilliant, just brilliant,” Crowley muttered, stalking down the hall towards the meeting room. She’d spent a week putting this curse together, combining ones from six of Aziraphale’s most obscure grimoires, and yet she still had to make her bloody presentation. “Next time, I’ll just give myself the plague.” That had almost worked in the fourteenth century. Just needed a more impressive plague.

Ahead on the right, a door with a piece of paper taped on it reading Temptation Department Budget Group Lambda. She hesitated, fingers hovering just short of pushing it the rest of the way open. Had Beelzebub warned everyone she was invisible? More often, ze expected demons to take care of such things themselves, on pain of pain. Two minutes to spare; might as well try.

Crowley dropped the silver belt on the floor outside and slipped through the partially-open door, transforming her extremely cool boots into a pair of quieter slippers. That, at least, she could do without being sensed; shifting the shape of her feet didn’t alert the other demons the way a real miracle would.

A dozen of them sat in chairs around the conference table, grumbling about their project proposals, miracle allotments, and soul quotas. An overhead projector sat at the front of the room. It was the one with the cracked glass, projecting a broken circle of light onto a white wall. Dagon stood beside it, shuffling papers.

Crowley could try writing dirty words on a couple of the pre-made transparencies, but that didn’t seem properly demonic. Scanning the room, she spotted the wheeled coffee cart tucked in the corner, laden with a coffee pot, Styrofoam cups, plate of pastries and various flavorings. Horrid stuff. All demons were required to drink three cups of it per meeting, and to eat one of the scones, which this time appeared to be…pickled herring flavored? With orange marmalade?

There wasn’t much she could do to make that worse. She grabbed a few anyway, tucking them down the front of her shirt, and dumped the marmalade into the molten coffee, turning the temperature up as high as it would go. She’d managed to grab a fistful of wet soil and some dill from Beelzebub’s plant. Most of that went into the coffee pot, a little into the sour creamer, and the rest into the alleged sugar – probably an artificial sweetener, those were all the rage lately.

What else? She stole all the spoons, then pulled off an earring and started poking holes in the bottom of the cups with it.

With the perfect sense of timing honed from millennia of avoiding one more second in the company of her coworkers than necessary, Crowley managed to slip out the door, put on the belt, and waltz back in exactly as Dagon demanded, “Where is the demon Crowley?”

“Sorry, sorry. Feeling a bit under the weather today.” Only about three demons glanced her way with some level of surprise; the rest just got up and headed over to get their first requisite cup of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. And the traffic! The roads just get worse every year. Anyway, here now. Ready and eager. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She snagged an empty seat and dropped into it, crossing her boots on the table with a heavy thud.

Dagon sighed. “Do I even want to know what happened this time?”

“Pissed off an angel. Utterly ruined her plans. Cursed me out in the most unbelievable language, and then, well, you see. Or don’t see.”

It was certainly true enough. Aziraphale had been very upset when the “fine dining establishment” Crowley had selected for their meet-up turned out to be the hottest disco in the city. And the way she managed to express her disappointment while technically not swearing certainly strained credulity.

“Did you kill her?” Ligur asked. So unimaginative.

“No, I did something much worse.” She’d dragged Aziraphale onto the dance floor and managed almost twenty-three seconds of enthusiastic disco next to her before the angel – now bright red and flustered – had stormed out entirely. “But, we’re not here to talk about me. Let’s have it. Numbers. Spreadsheets. I heard a rumor we might see that climate change graph.”

A general groan ran around the table.

“Shut up,” Dagon snapped. “Listen up, you lot – all you idiots, and Crowley in particular. Every one of you worthless wastes of matter needs to explain what you’re going to do in the next quarter-century, how that’s going to secure souls for our Master, and why we should waste any number of miracles on your pathetic hides. Until then—”

With an icy shiver, Crowley felt her miracles vanish.

“Now. Let’s start on the success rate of last quarter-century, and if I hear one word of complaint, you can scream it from the bottom of a sulfur pool. And don’t forget your blessed coffee.”

As Dagon started her presentation, Crowley watched the coffee cart. Someone had helpfully wheeled it next to the conference table, so the demons could more easily torture themselves. Seven managed to soak their shirts and trousers from leaking cups before the marmalade clogged the pot entirely. That, however, would never be enough to cancel the meeting. Heaven, a few of them even said it tasted better than usual. Should have seen that coming.

Still. It was a start.

Crowley played with her earring, then grinned, thinking of a possibility.

“Ow!” she shouted dramatically. “Something bit me!”

“Wasn’t me,” Hastur said sullenly.

“W—no, I mean. Some kind of insect.”

“Don’t see one,” grunted another demon called Krang, sitting right beside Crowley.

“It’s right there!” Silence. Oh, right, no one could see her pointing. “There! On the coffee pot!”

Eyes narrowing, Krang leaned forward, glaring across the table at the pot, which was rattling slightly. Crowley jabbed them in the back of the neck with her earring.

“Arg! It got me!” Krang slapped at the spot, leaping out of their chair. “Did you see where it went?”

“There! On Hastur’s head!”

“Where—?” Hastur managed before Ligur swatted him so hard he fell out of his chair.

“Ah, shit!” Crowley shouted. “It got me again! No, wait, I think it’s a different one.” The demons anxiously glanced at each other, but no one else stood up. Not enough. “Oh, no! My…my hand!” Crowley tried to think of something suitable “It’s burning! Like Holy Water!” She jabbed the earring into the arm of the demon on her other side.

“Bloody—It got me too!” He was on his feet in an instant. “I can feel it burning already!”

“And me!” That demon wasn’t even near Crowley. She grinned. It was working.

“What are these things?”

“I can feel it crawling on my leg.”

“My neck is swelling up!”

“Sit down!” Dagon snapped, baring her teeth. “I don’t want to hear another word about bloody insects. You’re demons. Act like it! Or I’ll make it four cups.”

The room froze – silent, apart from the now-continuous rattle of the coffee pot – as a dozen demons weighed the fear of some sort of terrifying unseen holy insect versus drinking more of the vile brew.

So Crowley ripped a handful of scone out of her top and crumbled it. “What – my hair!” She tossed the crumbs across the table. “Are – are those larvae?”

Everyone shuffled back a few steps.

“I don’t think you heard me—” Dagon started, in a tone that suggested Crowley was about to lose the room. So she went all in.

“Oh, Satan!” She shouted, falling dramatically from her chair. “They’re – they’re crawling into my ears!” That earned a few nervous glances, so she took a deep breath and gave her best horror-movie scream. “That angel! She did something to me!”

“Crowley!” Dagon shouted. “Stop acting out right now,or I swear to Satan, I’ll—”

She never found out what Dagon wanted to do to her, though, because at that moment the coffee pot exploded, lid flying off, scalding brown liquid splashing in every direction, along with blobs of now-runny marmalade.

Never one to let an opportunity go by, no matter how unexpected, Crowley cried, “Eggs! They’re nesting in the coffee! Who drank that?”

A perfect panic set in, and there was nothing Dagon could do to stop all the demons – including Crowley – from evacuating the room.

In the confusion that followed, everyone lost track of a certain invisible demon. How sad. And totally unexpected, Crowley thought, climbing into the Bentley. Too bad I kept the radio off and didn’t go to the cinema. Otherwise, they could summon me back. If she were careful, she could have days to finish coming up with her proposal.

But first, a little fun. Grinning, she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, wondering what kind of trouble she could get into next.

Well. One way to find out.

The London police were extremely disappointing that morning. It took nearly eight minutes of driving around at top speed, running red lights, and blaring her horn outside rich-looking homes before one finally started chasing her.

Slamming into top gear, she raced down the busiest streets, whipping around corners, weaving through traffic, making sure not to get too far ahead. The second patrol car joined in somewhere near Oxford Street, the third during a quick jaunt up towards Regent’s Park. When she’d collected four, sirens blaring as they struggled to keep up with her flawless driving, she spotted a side street and lurched into it with a complicated 270-degree-spin finished with the nose of the Bentley facing the approaching cars.

Then she settled back in her seat and waited.

The black monstrosity finally slid to a stop. Officer Mills kept her eyes on it while her partner slowed their own car to a stop.

“We sure he’s not just going to run?” She asked, trying to spot the driver. The glare off the windshield must be playing tricks on her eyes; she couldn’t see a thing.

“We surround it,” Harmon said. “Got to be enough of us, even if they try to make trouble.”

Six officers eased out of their cars, silently trying to decide who should approach the window. Mills won – or lost – and took the lead, Harmon close behind her. He was the only one armed; she felt a little better for that, in case the driver turned out to be dangerous, though most likely she figured he would try to plow through the police cars to get away. They couldn’t do much in that case apart from try to kick the tires in passing.

“Think it’s stolen?” Harmon asked as a few others moved to try and block the street beyond the idling nightmare. “Teenagers messing around?”

“Could be,” Mills said doubtfully. “It’s vintage, though. Really old. And whoever was driving knows what they’re doing.”

Anderson waved from the far side of the vehicle. Everyone was in position. Mills nodded and walked up to the window, prepared for a lunatic – or a drunk – or someone on an awful lot of drugs.

Instead, it was completely empty.

“What…” She glanced back at Harmon. “No one. Did he bail out?”

“We’d have seen. Check the back seat.”

“Nothing. Wait. There’s…a tin of biscuits. That’s all.”

Down the street, Anderson crouched, checking underneath. Nothing there, apparently. Slowly, the police approached, one by one relaxing as they confirmed that yes – the car was empty.

The driver side window was open. Mills stuck her head in, glancing up and down. Nothing. No sign of what had happened to the driver. The engine still gently rumbled, and the door was locked. She definitely would have noticed if someone had stayed there long enough to lock it through the window.

“I’ll call to have it towed,” Harmon said, stepping back. She could hear the confused frown in his voice. “Maybe we’ll find…something…when we search it.”

By this point, even the officers who had waited in the patrol cars had joined them, crowded along the sides of the black vintage monster, testing doors and peering through windows. Mills leaned in to unlock the driver side door. “But where could he have gone?”

“She,” a soft voice said near Mills’s ear, and something tapped against her nose. “And I haven’t gone anywhere.”

Mills stumbled back as the radio burst to life.

You know the day destroys the night Night divides the day…

Everyone spun in place, looking for the source of the music from a nearby window or door, shouting at shadows, so only Mills was watching as the pedals and gear stick moved themselves.

Tried to run Tried to hide Break on through to the other side Break on through to the other side…

The ghost car – what else could she be? – shot backwards up the street, faster than should have been possible, spun a full 360-degree turn, then straightened up and drove away, blending into traffic with a cheerful toot of the horn.

Mills finally blinked.

“Harmon?” She called. “You do the paperwork on this one. I need a drink.”

Crowley danced in her seat far more than she usually would, but for once no one could see her.

Made the scene Week to week Day to day Hour to – Crowley!

She nearly slammed on the brakes as Jim Morrison began to sound an awful lot like Dagon. Shit. Forgot about that.

“Ahhhh…speaking?”

“Who, exactly, gave you permission to leave?”

“Oh. Ahhh.” She glanced out the window at a row of businesses and pulled over in front of some kind of barber shop. “I thought, what with all the insects—”

“There were no insects!”

“There weren’t?” Crowley really needed to work on her innocent voice. “I must be hallucinating. Better go home and lie down until it passes.”

“Crowley. Your budget proposal is due by the end of the day. Do you want to be stranded up there without miracles? Do you know what we do to demons who fail to meet their quotas?”

She knew that. She’d been told, several times, exactly what to expect. “Nnnnnh…I’ve got – it’s going to be a big project. Very big. More souls than…than wasps have larvae. Just need to work on my proposal in a secure, bug-free location.”

“Crowley! Do you think for one second—”

“Ah! They’re coming out of the radio!” Crowley cut the sound.

She sat in the Bentley, tapping her fingers on the wheel.

I just hung up on Dagon. They’re going to kill me. Worse, they’re going to send me down to file in the archives for a thousand years.

Then again, they’d have to find her first.

And, she was finding, her current state presented the kind of temptations even a demon couldn’t ignore…

Graham Palmer had been trying to get into the barber shop for twenty minutes.

The door was stuck fast. No matter how he rattled and pulled, it wouldn’t budge, as if something enormous had pinned it shut. And yet, every time he stepped back to let other patrons try, the door opened easily, but slammed as if pulled shut whenever he approached. He even tried slipping through behind another customer, but then it stayed shut until Graham stepped back. There was just no way in.

Now he hammered on the window, trying to get his barber’s attention. “Stuart! Stuart! What the hell are you trying to pull?”

The barber looked up from his current customer, blinking in confusion, and jerked his head towards the door.

“I tried that, it doesn’t bloody work!” A young man half his age walked past, giving Graham a funny look, and pulled open the shop door. Graham dove to follow him, but again it snapped shut, almost catching his nose. He pounded the door with his fist, glaring at the customers inside. “I’m going to be late!”

Across the shop, Stuart put down his scissors and shouted something. All Graham caught was “…break my glass…”

There was an idea.

He crossed the pavement to where an ancient black car was parked, removing his jacket. Wrapping it around his arm for protection, he charged forward, bracing himself for impact.

The door swung open in front of him and before he could stop himself, Graham tripped over – something – there didn’t appear to be anything – and sprawled on his face, sliding across the linoleum floor.

“Watch yourself, dearie,” a cheerful woman’s voice said, but when he looked up, no one was there.

Crowley strolled around the park, her new domain, another time.

Over there, at the edge of the path, was the Strange Chill area. Anyone who paused there, perhaps studying the slightly askew sign that seemed to indicate the exit was in the fountain, would feel a touch on their shoulder, a tickle on the back of their neck, or hear heavy breathing with no source.

Over here, near the ice cream cart, was the Creepy Bush. Originally just generic ghost noises, Crowley eventually discovered what really freaked humans out was a disembodied voice whispering their name, or something they’d said in private a few minutes before. She followed strolling couples around, listening in on anything good, and when one stopped to by the other ice cream, just really let loose on the one standing by the bushes. They usually started clinging much more closely to their partner after that, so really, Crowley was doing them a favor. Instant relationship counseling.

Across from the fountain sat the Haunted Bench. Crowley really went wild with that one. Children’s songs in a creepy voice. Branches shaking with no wind. Possessions floating away from wherever they’d been set down. Really, anything was allowed.

The narrow path leading through the tulips was the Asshole Road. Anyone Crowley caught being an asshole in her park was subtly sent that direction, pickpocketed, and then beset by bees, or at least a very convincing humming and a few pricks from an invisible earring.

The fountain itself was Rare Coins and Lost Items. Her third pickpocket victim had been carrying a tube of very powerful epoxy, and it turns out the coin-stuck-to-the-sidewalk trick was even better when you glued it underwater. A few pieces of jewelry at the bottom were also glued in place, but most of the valuables were simply tossed in or – if they weren’t waterproof – hung from the sculpture of frolicking animals in an amusing way. Crowley mostly just kept the cash, and even then only if the Assholes had been particularly cruel. So far, she’d accumulated almost five hundred pounds.

It was either the best park in London, or the worst.

She leaned against the clock – now set forty-eight and a half minutes slow – and surveyed the chaos. Two teenagers were frantically trying to get something out of the fountain, while the Asshole who’d sworn at that lovely gay couple was now soaked through, desperately trying to get his watch back from the ear of a sculpted rabbit seven feet high. That had been hard to get into place, but certainly worth it. The couple, meanwhile, were hand-in-hand, clutching ice creams and hurrying away from what had been for them the Creepy but Oddly Affirming Bush. The lady with the dog that had made a mess by the roses was trying to report the Haunted Bench to a cop, who tiredly insisted it was her lunch break and that the lady would not believe the morning she’d had.

Crowley grinned up at the sky. This – this was what it was all about. Forget budget meetings and presentations. Who did that make miserable, apart from the demons themselves? This park had everything: temptation, fear, frustration, justice, ice cream, and perfect weather.

“Hey. Hey you feathered wankers,” someone shouted, followed by the sound of rattling pebbles and angry quacking.

Tipping down her invisible shades, Crowley spotted some young idiot chucking handfuls of rocks at the ducks. Most were fleeing, but one flapped her wings, panicked and possessive, over a nest. One of the eggs had already been broken.

Looks like another volunteer for Asshole Road. Crowley was already eying their watch.

Every bakery has that one customer. Probably every place that sold food.

The one that demands impossible standards, not because of any particular love of fine cuisine, but just because they can.

The one that counts the blueberries in their muffin and lets you know if there aren’t enough.

The one who spends five minutes shouting, “No, not that one, that one,” while providing no other information, until their server had touched everything in the display case.

The one who complains that their brownie is too chocolatey.

The customer who somehow gets away with murder on account of being someone’s spouse, or sibling, or old school friend.

Victoria Lockwood was that customer, and as Riley watched her approach, they held their breath in trepidation.

“This scone,” she snapped, dropping her plate onto the counter, “is not right.” Then she glared at Bailey, waiting for a response.

“Is it…” Bailey’s mind raced, trying to work out what might be wrong. “The wrong flavor?” Victoria’s face only darkened. “Um. Is – is it dry?” But most of that batch had sold without a single complaint. “Did you want…more lemon curd? Or—”

“It is not hot enough.”

“Ah.” Of course. They’d taken that batch out nearly an hour ago; the next was ready to go in. “If you’re willing to wait, um…twenty minutes? I can give you the first—”

“Twenty minutes? What kind of service is that? I want my scone now.” She glanced at the tray coming out of the oven. “Why are you making me wait? What are those?”

Bailey glanced back and relaxed for a moment. “Oh – yes, I can get you one right now. They’re Raspberry Almond Butterm—”

“Disgusting!” Victoria rapped her hand against the counter. “That is not what I ordered! I demand you warm this one up, immediately.”

“I…” Bailey glanced at their coworkers, but everyone was avoiding eye contact. “That’s…I can put it back in the oven but that would probably dry—”

“Fine.” She shoved the plate towards them. “Be quick about it, young lady, I don’t like to wait.” She clearly noticed the way Bailey flinched. “If you don’t want to be mistaken for a girl, I suggest you get a proper haircut. And not that hideous shade of pink.”

“Y’s ma’am,” Bailey muttered, because some arguments would never be worth it. They took back the scone and put it on a baking tray. Maybe if it was only in the oven for a minute or two—

“Victoria Lockwood!” Bailey spun around, searching for who had called out. Not anyone else behind the counter, they all had their heads ducked, concentrating on some other tasks. But there – on the counter – a scone sat on Victoria’s plate.

She looked up from her makeup compact, smiled triumphantly, and took a bite out of it.

Her face immediately went green, and she dropped plate and pastry, running out of the bakery faster than Bailey had ever seen anyone move. They rushed forward, ready to call after her, but very much not wanting to, and picked up the discarded scone – it smelled awful, like vinegar and fish.

There was also an enormous wad of banknotes on the counter, wrapped up in a scrap of paper with a note: Kid – Don’t take that shit from anyone. Flip off your boss when you quit. <3 C

The bakery door opened and shut on its own.

Well, there was an entire day’s pickpocketing gone in a moment, but it wasn’t like Crowley had a better use for it. She still had a few rare coins, but after the fountain, sticking them to the ground seemed an anticlimax. She’d had some fun modifying the haunting routine for the bus or Underground, but both would be filled with commuters now a ghost that swears when you elbow her in the ribs on a crowded train is…not as impressive.

Still. Not a bad day overall. The most expensive foods in the corner marked had all been re-priced, several examples of hostile architecture had been mysteriously destroyed, enough people would be sharing stories of “hauntings” that the whole city would need to be exorcised, and – just for the Heaven of it – she’d followed a particularly annoying human for almost an hour, up and down the streets, buzzing in his ear.

Really, it was the simple pleasures that made the world so enjoyable.

And speaking of simple pleasures, Crowley had left one particular part of the city for last.

Strolling down the streets of Soho, which was just waking up while more respectable – but far less fun – parts of the city were winding down, she kept her eyes open for anyone who might make a good target. A few possibilities presented themselves, but in the end her destination proved the stronger draw.

A. Z. Fell’s Bookshop.

It was just the right time of day, when the customers would still be bothering Aziraphale, and she would be running short of patient ways to refuse them and start turning to biting sarcasm and, on occasion, outright threats. She’d probably appreciate a little haunting to help chase them off, once Crowley had finished stealing her cocoa, moving her bookmarks, and changing the record in the gramophone.

But, glancing in the window, Crowley saw something that poured cold water all over her brilliant day.

Gabriel.

Michael and Uriel, too. Probably Sandalphon lurking around.

Aziraphale stood before her bosses, hands clutched anxiously, that eager, ready-to-please face that made Crowley’s chest ache. Some, when faced with the beings who had hurt them so many times, became afraid, or angry, or distressed. But Aziraphale…just wanted approval. A kind word.

Crowley glared at Gabriel. The Heaven are you up to this time?

For once, she would be able to find out.

“And, I really think,” Aziraphale said, hands twisting like captured rodents as she rambled, “that this past decade in particular,I’ve – I’ve accomplished many things. Um. I – I prepared a list…somewhere…” her eyes darted to the disaster she called a desk, and she started shifting material objects around, smiling nervously. Guiltily.

“Is this going to take long?” Gabriel asked with a pointed sigh.

“No! I just…one moment…”

“We’re already running late,” Uriel commented. “We’d expected you to be better prepared.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale snatched up a book and began flipping through it frantically, as if it might contain the answers she needed. “Only, ah, you didn’t actually say when you would be coming…”

“We did say between the 3rd of January and 28th of October,” Michael pointed out reasonably.

“Oh. Um. I…”

“Something doesn’t seem…right,” Sandalphon said, stepping close to Aziraphale, putting a hand on her shoulder. The book she held tumbled from her fingers. “This whole place has a…smell about it.”

The door slammed behind them. Gabriel glanced back, but couldn’t see it from where he stood. Sandalphon gave Aziraphale’s shoulder another squeeze, then headed over to check on it.

“I thought,” Gabriel said slowly, making sure the slow-witted Principality heard every word, “I told you to lock the door.”

“It was.” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “I – I mean I did.”

Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. This had been a particularly disappointing review. Disappointing in the sense that their agent had once again conclusively failed to present evidence of meaningful victories towards Heaven’s cause. Less disappointing in that, whether she knew it or not, Aziraphale had already given him what he needed to take the arrogant fool down a few pegs.

In six thousand years, she’d barely managed to do a single thing right, yet somehow always came to him simpering and smiling like she deserved all the accolades of Heaven. Well, he’d been patient, as suited an Archangel, as patient as he could. But once per century, he had the opportunity to make his opinion perfectly clear.

Take away her miracles for a start, he thought. Though that didn’t seem to work nearly as well as it had a few centuries ago. Maybe recall her to Heaven for a year or two, re-educate her on the basics of her duty. There might be enough for a period of isolation. With restraints. They’d done that once, about three thousand years before, after a particularly poor review. Seven years chained up in an empty corner of Heaven, and Aziraphale had been wonderfully pliable for centuries after. Perhaps it was time to revisit.

“Look – look here, I have a list of…oh.” Aziraphale held out her book again, which seemed to be filled with irregular scrawl instead of the usual neatly printed words. “I started a list of accomplishments, but ah…I became busy the last few years. Um. Quite a lot has happened since…”

Uriel took the book and studied it, face impressively calm. “Interesting,” they said, not giving anything away as they turned the pages over. Gabriel trusted them to spot anything useful.

As the Archangels waited in pointed silence, Michael walked her fingers across a table. She pressed a thumb against a book, sliding it to the edge. Aziraphale stared as it teetered, then found its balance again. Michael watched it, disinterested, then moved on to another book, sliding that forward as well.

Sandalphon stepped back beside Gabriel, shrugging his shoulders. No sign of anything. Well. More questions for later.

Uriel reached the final page.

“What happened in 1967?”

“Nothing!” At the panic in Aziraphale’s tone, all four Archangels raised their eyebrows. “I – I – I mean, yes, lots, many – many—” One of the books beside Michael fell to the floor with a slap. The Principality winced. “I – I’m terribly sorry, could you be more specific?”

“Your final entry,” Uriel held the book out to Aziraphale, “says 1967 – Prevented… Prevented what?”

“Ahhhhhh.” Aziraphale squirmed. “Well, I…I…there was…ummm…”

“As I recall,” Michael said slowly, “you briefly visited Heaven that year, but didn’t officially report to any of us. And then didn’t return for at least…six months? Very unusual.”

“You haven’t been hiding something, have you?” Gabriel smiled, his heart rising. More than isolation. He could probably take away this shop, for a start, give it to a more trustworthy angel.

“Nnnnno.” Aziraphale gave that particular smile, the one that meant she thought she was about to get away with something. The one she thought Gabriel didn’t know about. “But, ahhh, if you could, um, quite a lot happened in the world in the…the last ten years or so.”

Something crashed on the other side of the building. No, he’d have the place demolished. It was falling apart already. Aziraphale could watch. Maybe he could order her to help. An eminently suitable punishment for wasting his time. “As I understand it,” he said, taking a step forward, “the last decade saw…war, riots, assassinations…”

“Well, well, yes, I…but, if you look at progress with, um, civil rights, ahh…anticolonialism…”

More made-up human terms. Gabriel and Michael shared a pained glance. “Look. Aziraphale.” Gabriel pressed his hands together. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate you taking the initiative, but…what does any of this have to do with your orders?”

“Or, for that matter, with your visit to Heaven?” Michael moved her fingers across the table again, coming to rest on one of those stupid little figurines Aziraphale had accumulated. Like a packrat. A human depiction of an angel, as some kind of soft, happy baby with wings. Not a warrior at all. Michael’s finger tapped against it. “What were you trying to prevent?”

“Did it have something to do with…Holy Water?” Sandalphon suddenly asked.

“That’s right,” Gabriel said. Something clicking in his mind. “There was that storage jar that went missing.” Did Aziraphale look more guilty than usual? “What year was that?”

“1967,” Uriel said.

He couldn’t hold back the smile. If he could prove Aziraphale had taken Holy Water for some sort of personal use, well.

He’d pretty much be justified whatever he decided to do.

“I – I – I can explain.” The Principality tried to back away, but was stopped by her own desk. “There – there was this demon, an – an especially, ah, wily, cunning, um, crafty demon—”

“Was there?” Michael’s finger twitched, sending the false angel off the table. It fell—

Then hovered, halfway to the floor.

Slowly, it lifted, rightening itself in the air before them. There was no trace of a miracle, no power of any kind. It simply…floated. Drifting through the air to land on the desk beside Aziraphale.

“Clever,” said Gabriel, watching the Principality’s face for any sign of deception. “How did you do that?”

“I…”

The pages of a book, laid out on the stand behind her, began to turn, flipping faster and faster, slamming shut.

“This…isn’t me.” Aziraphale said.

Behind her, books began to float off their shelves. One rocketed across the room towards Gabriel. He dodged it easily, but it was followed by another, and another. The lights flickered overhead.

“If it isn’t you,” Gabriel began, but a small table by the door to the next room began to rattle. Atop it lay a black-and-white board covered with formless carvings, which lifted into the air, then exploded, pieces flying at the Archangels. Gabriel easily batted them aside, but now one of the armchairs began to shift.

Without a word, the four prepared for battle, Gabriel stepping back, Michael and Sandalphon moving to the front. At least, that was the plan – the moment he tried to move, Gabriel fell, his feet somehow tightly bound together. The same happened to Sandalphon and Uriel, and even Michael stumbled, knocking over a table in her haste to stay upright.

Glass rattled in the back of the shop.

“It’s…” Aziraphale cleared her throat. “It’s that same demon again! I thought I’d banished her!”

“What?” Banishing wasn’t exactly something angels did.

“The – the Holy Water!” A bottle of something hovered out from the back room, moving slowly but threateningly. “Did you bring any? It’s the only thing that can stop her.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s sword manifested in her hand. “What demon?”

“Crowley! She – she seems to have grown even more powerful!”

“Crowley?” Not that worthless snake again. How many times had he been assured – through Michael’s secret back-channel sources – that Crowley was the most useless, incompetent, lazy demon in Hell? And yet somehow, not a single angel had ever successfully dealt with her – except Aziraphale.

“I thought I smelled a demon,” Sandalphon said, pulling his shoes off and tossing them aside. “But I can’t sense demonic power.”

“Obviously not!” Aziraphale’s wings burst from her back, and she held out a hand towards the hovering bottle. It slowly lowered itself to the ground. “Why do you think she’s so difficult to defeat? The power she uses – it’s not of Heaven or Hell! I – I can barely counter it!”

“Let me, then,” Michael said, predatory gleam in her eyes. Like Sandalphon, she’d removed her shoes; Gabriel was working on his own, but somehow the laces had become wound together like snakes, something sticky sealing the knot shut.

Sandalphon and Michael stepped forward, swords at the ready. “No!” Aziraphale turned to block them, and immediately the rattling started up again – this time from the metal stairs to the upper floor. “You – you don’t understand! Wh – when she gets like this – the fires would only make her stronger.”

Something – horrible, screeching noises – began emanating from the back room, like some animal being torn apart.

“That’s – that’s why I need the Holy Water! In the proper ritual, it – it – it’s too complicated to explain!”

A cupboard burst open, revealing a display of holy items – consecrated Bibles, holy symbols, sticks of incense and jars of oil. “No!” Aziraphale shouted, genuine panic in her voice.

The largest, heaviest of the Bibles lifted and shot across the room. It didn’t reach the Archangels, but Gabriel could see smoke rising from its cover.

Next came a crucifix, spinning end over end, which Michael caught out of the air. The wood was burned all along one side.

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale said, eyes round. “Nothing I have in there can stop her! What could a flaming sword even do? I need more Holy Water.” A jar of oil fell to the ground and immediately began to boil, bubbling and steaming. “I’ll try to hold her back as long as I can.” Aziraphale’s face furrowed in concentration as she walked across the shop. “Please, it – it’s far too dangerous for you here…”

“Right.” Gabriel glanced at the other Archangels. Something wasn’t right. But they couldn’t risk themselves against an unknown force. “We’ll…we’ll get some Holy Water. You do what you can.”

With a thought, the ascended to Heaven.

Gabriel quickly stood up, brushing down his clothing and trying to school his expression. “Well. I think the best course of action is to wait a day or two, then go see what the damage is.”

“And Aziraphale’s review?” Uriel asked, face somehow still calm, despite everything that had happened.

“I just hope we don’t have to give her a damn commendation again.”

The Arch-Wankers vanished in a shimmer of blue light.

“Ow, ow, fuck that hurts!” Crowley gasped, stumbling away from the spilled oil and shaking her hands. “What kind of stuff do you keep in there?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale started to rush forward, then froze. “Where are you? Can’t you – reveal yourself, or whatever?”

“Nnnnnnnnope. Rrrrrgh, how does this hurt more than walking in a church?”

“I…I’m sorry, my dear girl,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve been worried lately that if – if your side realized what was happening…I thought it best to have a little insurance of my own.”

“Well it works.” Crowley managed to reach one of the shop chairs and sank into it. “Over here…no, here! Where’s…” She nudged the rug with her least-burnt toe, folding a bit of it up. Aziraphale immediately ran over.

“That was – well, that was clever, Crowley, but highly unnecessary. I – I was only having my performance review. I thought I was doing quite well.” Her soft hands found one of Crowley’s and picked it up, fingers tracing across the palm.

“I…” Crowley had seen the way Gabriel’s eyes lit up at the mention of Holy Water, while she was on the ground gluing his shoelaces together, and she counted it among the most terrifying things she’d ever seen. “I’m sure you were, but vanquishing some super-powerful demon? Saving the Archangels? Well, that’s only going to help, right?”

“Hmmm.” Another brush of her fingers, and the sting started to go out of Crowley’s palms. “And, I’m sure, spark a few rumors that might help you?”

“Oh.” Crowley grimaced, looking out the windows. “Unless those rumors spread really fast, I doubt I’m going to get much benefit.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale sank to the ground, patting around until she found one of Crowley’s feet. She gently lifted it, stroking from ankle to toe and giving it the same healing treatment. “And why are you like this?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“Crowley.”

“Right. Um. I…may have…borrowed a few of your books and…designed a curse to get out of my quarter-century budget review. But in my defense – it’s so boring.”

Aziraphale sighed – or possibly blew a healing breath across Crowley’s feet. No, probably the sigh, but at least they felt a bit better. “My dear, it’s only a meeting. There’s no need for these – these histrionics.”

“Histri—Angel, that is – I am not – can you grab a dictionary? I need to know how upset I should be.”

“Extremely.”

“Right. I am. And…I thought it would only last a few hours. Have a bit of fun. But…I need my miracles for, you know, ambient healing, and…look, they cut off our miracles during the review, and only give them back once you’ve wowed them with your project idea.”

“And you don’t have one, do you?”

“Not…as such.” Crowley hung her head. “I…I thought I could get an extension. Just long enough to think of something.”

“So you cursed yourself.” That pained look, the I-hate-to-tell-you-how-much-you-failed-but-also-I-love-it look. Only slightly ruined by the fact that it was aimed somewhere over the demon’s left shoulder. “Crowley, did it never occur to you that in the time it took you create such a thing, you could just as easily have come up with a project?”

“Nh.”

“And did you come up with your brilliant idea during your delay?”

“Nnnh.”

“Well. At least you’re sorry now, I assume?”

“Nope.” If she hadn’t skipped out, Crowley wouldn’t have been here to help Aziraphale. She’d saved her friend countless times over six thousand years, but sometimes…she was quite happy the angel didn’t notice. “No, demons don’t get sorry. We get…” she grunted. “We get annoyed at ourselves for…ngk…for hanginupndagonnpissinheroff.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“For hanging up on Dagon and pissing her off.” Crowley rubbed her face. “Unless I can think of the greatest project any demon ever came up with…” Her stomach dropped as the reality of it hit. A thousand years in filing meant a thousand years without Aziraphale’s bastard looks and gentle touches. “I’m…probably going to be gone for a while.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale stroked her fingers across Crowley’s foot one more time. “No, that won’t do at all.” She looked up with that icy, determined look. The let-me-speak-to-your-manager expression that made Crowley go completely light-headed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about all this.”

“Like what?”

“How are your feet?”

“F—hmm? Oh, fine.” They were – Aziraphale seemed to have removed all the pain. Or at least, she’d removed some of the pain, and the fluttery feeling in Crowley’s chest allowed her to ignore the rest. “So. Um. What did you have in mind? Oh!” A grin stretched across her face. “Dagon and Beelzebub already think you cursed me. Maybe we can stage a second fight where they see it. I’ll definitely get an extension that way.”

“Or.” Aziraphale found Crowley’s hands again and laced their fingers together, pulling her to her feet. “We can go for a drive in that beastly car of yours and actually come up with a proper idea. Something convoluted, demonic, and with that…Crowley style.”

“I have a style now?”

“Hmmm. Yes. Not as refined as mine, but I think we can make it work.” Her right hand squeezed Crowley’s, and her left slid up the demon’s arm to her shoulder. “You know, I had a little over a century apart from you. And I have absolutely no desire to repeat that. In fact I…I rather think I prefer your company to, well. Anyone’s.”

“Nnnnh.” Crowley shuffled her feet and clutched Aziraphale’s hand back, guiding the angel to stand just a little closer. Needing to say something. Afraid to say too much. “Ssssss. Mmmm. Yeah. I, uh. I like it better up here, too. Y’know. Where you are.”

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale’s left hand slid further up, coming to rest on the back of her neck. “I can see right through you. My dear Crowley.” With the lightest pressure, she tipped the demon’s head down.

And kissed her, soft lips covering Crowley’s shocked mouth.

“Oh…” Aziraphale gasped, pulling back slightly, hardly at all. “I, ah…I meant to…” Her breath still tickled Crowley’s lips. “I…forehead…”

“Nrrh.” Crowley’s free hand drifted forward, finding Aziraphale’s hip, resting on it, barely a touch. It was all she dared. “Ah…?”

Neither of them moved. Or both did. Or they stood still and the world around them shifted. Whichever way it was, their lips touched again, and held this time. Slowly, they drifted closer, caught in each other’s gravity, a decaying orbit. Crowley would surely burn up on approach, but it was worth every moment.

Eventually they parted, once more just enough to breathe, to speak, to remember that they were two beings and not a single, burning soul.

“Not…” Crowley swallowed. “Not too fast?”

“I…” Aziraphale bit her lip. “I don’t know. But…Crowley…I know…where I want to go. Eventually.”

Their foreheads pressed together. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aziraphale nodded, dropping left hand falling away, right thumb rubbing the back of Crowley’s hand. Her eyes fluttered open and she gasped. “Oh, my word!”

“What?” Crowley glanced at herself, black cloth trousers flared wide at the legs, tight red sleeveless shirt cut scandalously low in the front and back, boots with heels that made her even taller than usual—

She was visible again.

“I…I suppose I was still healing you when we…oh…oh, Crowley…what are you wearing?”

“Angel, it’s – I look fashionable, you look – have you changed anything in the last century?”

“I…a few things! Were you honestly planning to give a presentation like that?”

“I was going to be invisible, yeah!”

“You…are…” Aziraphale pressed her eyes shut. “I am going to get my jacket. And then I’m going to get you a jacket, because it’s cold at night, and you are cold-blooded.”

“M’not,” Crowley muttered.

“And then we will go for our ride and determine what evil, dastardly plan I will spend the next twenty-five years thwarting. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” After a moment, Crowley said, “Ah, Aziraphale?”

“What is it now?”

“At some point, are you going to let go of my hand?”

Aziraphale glanced down. “Oh. Hmm. I suppose we’ll find out.”

(Fifty Years Later)

Crowley sat beneath the apple tree, her hand clutched tightly in Aziraphale’s, leaning back against her angel’s chest. “And that,” she concluded, “is why we call the 26th of April Lesbian Visibility Day.”

The Them stared at the two supernatural beings, mouths slightly open.

“You…” Pepper started, “are full of so much shit.”

“Oi!”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “that’s…one of the worst stories I’ve ever heard. How are you supposed to budget miracles?”

“If they could cut you off that easy,” Brian jumped in, “why didn’t they do it when you left Hell?”

“Oh, ummm,” she glanced up at Aziraphale.

“Tactics,” the angel said enigmatically.

Pepper didn’t even seem to be listening. “How did you know what all those people were thinking?”

“That’s right,” Wensley nodded. “Particularly Gabriel.”

“He…he has a very expressive face,” Crowley argued.

“How’d you actually move around like that, without anyone hearing you? The whole day?”

“Shouldn’t you’ve been, you know, way more worried about getting killed?”

“At least one of those bookshop attacks wasn’t even possible, unless you were in two places at once.”

“And how d’you accidentally leave your healing on?”

“How could you possibly mistake her lips for her forehead?”

“This was rubbish.”

“What do you think, Adam?”

The former Antichrist looked up from where he was playing with Dog. “I think…” He gave the angel and demon a penetrating look, then shook his head, smiling as if he’d just seen the joke at the center of the universe, and it had turned out to be a truly terrible pun. “I think you should just tell us the next story.”

“Which one’s that?” Crowley asked, settling back into the curve of her angel’s arm, fingers still twined together.

“The one with the greatest project any demon ever came up with.”

“Oh.” Grinning, Crowley tipped her head to meet Aziraphale’s shining eyes. “Wahoo.”

The song is "Break on Through (To the Other Side)" by the Doors, because Queen had not yet put out their first album, though there was a lot of pressure in the Discord to have Crowley dancing to Abba instead.

Final scene set next year because we'll all be sitting together under apple trees with our loved ones and telling BS stories to kids before we know it.

For everyone who contributed non-anonymous suggestions:

@amidst-innumerable-stars @tangle5ancer @fenrislorsrai @feuerkindjana @bowser14456 @taksez @yeahhiyellow @infinitevariety @gargelyfloof118 @lourek @soft-forest-rain @undertaker991 @jules-al-c @lov-lyness2 @thisleadstohollyhocks @marianrios33 @aux-barricades @lostmemimi @joybones @derederest @myusernameispie @mothmans-favorite-lamp and @n0nb1narydemon (yes I did find a way to level up the coin gluing!) and of course @5ftjewishcactus who encouraged me when you really shouldn't. Sorry I couldn't fit in everyone's suggestions!

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britishassistant · 3 years

Text

@emyluwinter submitted: Hi!!With you again a freelance newspaperman who writes about the reporter Yuu and the Prefect!! I am very glad that you liked my little stories so much that I wrote earlier!!! It's very encouraging that my work is appreciated.

So today will be a small addition to the latest events related to the villainy of Crowley in the form of the kidnapping of Yuu's "family" and friends,and after the final" conversation " of the Prefect with Crowley.

Because of the noise and shouting, opening the room with a spare key, several henchmen cautiously look inside. Yuu had already changed back into civilian clothes and put on extra gloves to hide the knuckles on his hands that had been cut from the blows. - Um....chief, how are you? Yuu takes a deep breath. - Your boss should call a doctor. - So we were talking about you, micro-chief, - one of the minions adds, almost in a whisper. - Huh?Why am I a micro-chef? - Yuu looked at them in confusion. - Well...it's like you've just "talked" to the leader of one of the most powerful villains in the League of Villains.. - Plus your uncle, Mr. Cruel. - Your' family ' and friends are all right. We're not crazy enough to hurt them. - I don't really want to have a walrus's heel sewn on my forehead, - one of the henchmen added ruefully. Yuu couldn't believe it. - Are they really all right? - That's right, micro-chief! But please leave before Mr. Cruel breaks us down into test tubes. We want to live. - And I have a cat at home, how can I be without it. So we'll show you to the exit. Yuu chuckles uncomfortably.It was the first time he had felt so strange. Perhaps it was a mixture of shock, fear, and despair, laced with anger and rage. But for a second, he felt all the power that Crowley held in his hands. But now all this was not necessary, only his loved ones were important.

- Thank you..no, really, I'm grateful that they're safe and sound. - Yuu felt that all these minions were no different from civilians, and they just worked wherever they wanted. And now they are worried about the fact that their superiors have made a lot of mistakes. - Your cameraman friend is a great word player! - I lost three rounds in a row to him. Minions distract Yuu with simple and cute conversations. Some of them showed their pets. Yuu was even asked to sign an autograph as their favorite reporter. They were very moved by their understanding. Although for the most part, they behaved so as not to run into even more trouble. ***

TWST Anita hugged her baby tightly. - Oh Yuu, I was worried if you were okay. - Sorry, Mom - Yuu could barely hold on, they were terribly tired for this day and the last thing they wanted to do was go back to the kidnappings and villainies. TWST Roger patted their hair affectionately. - We were tied up just for show. The rest of the time off-camera, we sat on their couch. - He won four games of cards with the guards,- Anita added, chuckling softly. - Well, they're not stupid enough to harm us.- Roger chuckled. Yuu was just glad that they were all right. Yuuken held Grimm in his arms while standing next to them. - You held out well. - I should have burned all his feathers! - Grimm snorted. - And you cheated, Yuuken! You've made up more than half the words! - No, I didn't cheat, the guards told you the words. Yuu took a deep breath, the growing panic attack quickly passed in his parents ' arms and listening to Yuuken and Grimm. Uncle Divus arrived just a few minutes before the lair to make sure they were all right. None of the minions or minions were even willing to leave shadows in his path. "I sincerely apologize, Anita, that that idiot with the feathers would do something like that. Divus said guiltily, looking at his sister. - Don't take Divvy personally, I know that neither you nor Yuu will let us offend anyone. Everything ended well. - Anita said gently. Cruel relaxed a little at the realization that there was nothing wrong with the people close to him. Looking at the tired Yuu,Kruel just silently hugged him and hugged him very tightly. - You did very well, Yuu. I'm proud of you. - Thank you, Uncle Divvy...I think this time it's over once and for all. -I heard from the guards that Prefect beat him to the intensive care unit, but I don't know how he managed to get in. Yuu chuckled mirthlessly - yes, Prefect helped me out when it was most needed. Ah...I saw him get through the vent or something. Roger swore softly. - Damn it, I wanted to get his autograph! - Roger!Why do you need an autograph? - Little kitty King even has one, I also want an autograph!

Grimm uneasily climbs onto Yuu's shoulders and rubs his head against Yuu's cheek. He watched Yuu more closely than anyone else and saw the state they were in. - Hey .. Yuu. - Yes, Grimm? - Let you take a vacation, your hands are shaking like you're not letting go of a jackhammer. - Grimm glared at Yuu. - I absolutely agree with him, Yuu. Honey, you need a break, you have black eyes and you've lost weight since the last time we met. Being under constant stress is detrimental to your health. - Div, what about that country house you were talking about the other day? - Roger immediately joined in, taking up the idea. - I'm driving, so we can all go together. - Yuuken, you'll go too, no objection,- Anita smiled softly. - Yes, ma'am. I'll just talk to my superiors about letting us go for a couple of days. - Weeks at least,- Сruel added. *** Sitting surrounded by at least 15 pups, Yuu felt like he was falling asleep, they were really too tired for everything that had happened. The quiet snuffling of the pups around him brought him back nostalgically to the time when Yuu was just learning to play the piano with his father and, due to his age and height, couldn't reach the pedals below. How he and Uncle Divus would look at all sorts of fashion magazines, and Yuu would try to draw this or that dress or suit with crayons under his uncle's guidance. Even now, he could hear his mother and father discussing something with Uncle Divvy over a bottle of wine and quiet laughter. Grimm and Juuken fell asleep in a couple of minutes lying on the couch. Grimm climbed onto Yuuken's stomach and used it as a pillow.

Only in the evening, waking up from the doorbell, Yuu sleepily opened his eyes, they slept so soundly and well that they did not even notice how one of the particularly daring and playful puppies tried to gnaw his sleeve. - Who's, Uncle Divvy? - Yuu rubbed his eyes and yawned contentedly. Cruel carried several boxes into the room. - Courier with delivery, although it is strange that no one expected a special package. - What's is Divvy? - It came in the name of Yuu. - Me? - After getting out of the trap of the puppies, Yuu looked at the boxes with a puzzled expression. They were all in his name. And then Yuu noticed several small cards attached to the boxes. In the first box were expensive bagels with filling and frosting. It was a gift from Tsunotaro with an apology that they had to go through all this and Crowley had caused them so much inconvenience.

In the boxes from Tsunotaro there was also a basket of wild roses with a very pleasant and subtle aroma. Several varieties of very delicious tea and a letter was enclosed in an envelope. - "The items are very expensive and refined. Who is this secret fan, sweety? - Anita smiled softly. - From a friend, Mom...a very kind and good friend. - Yuu pulled out the letter and sat down on a chair and began to run his eyes over the beautiful written lines. Malleus certainly tried to put all his feelings and sincere empathy into the lines. The letter was very touching and full of grace, but the one phrase that caught Yuu's attention most was the one from the villain. "If you or your loved ones need help, please contact me first. It doesn't matter what the circumstances are, it doesn't matter who I have to stand up against, whether it's villainous or even heroic, I will always help you no matter what happens, my dear and sweet reporter. Your loyal friend and " pink ink was added "and the most important terrible villain" - this must have been Vanruge. ... your loyal friend and loyal fan. Enjoy your vacation, we'll probably take a break for a while, too. " At the bottom was another postscript in pink ink : "One of the minions had the temerity to fall asleep in a den with the windows open. And now in our shelter a flock of birds, rabbits, squirrels and other small creatures that need to be attached" Yuu choked on a laugh as he imagined the mighty Tsunotaro surrounded by all these cute little animals. Finally, this long day gave Yuu something good, at least they will spend a few days with their family and close friends. Finally, the long-awaited rest and a short vacation came. By the way, the bagels with stuffing that were sent were damn delicious. - To bribe me on an empty stomach, up villainy is not otherwise-Yuu grinned, finishing another bagel. Thank you for your attention!

AAAAAAAH, I LOVE THIS!!

The perfect little ending to ease the sad of the last submission!! Yuu getting away with beating up Crowley! Crowley’s henchpeople treating Yuu with more respect and kindness than birb dad does!! Yuu’s dad wanting the Prefect’s autograph!! Forcing Yuu onto a vacation because their family loves them and wants them to feel safe and happy!! Yuuken and Grim going home with them and falling asleep in the puppy pile together!! Malleus’ care package and Lilia’s additions to his note!! I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!!

Thank you so much for sending this in!!

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twistedintern · 3 years

Note

Hello! Right off the bat, I must say u are an underrated queen among the content providers for this fandom. I love your brief character analysis on Mozus Trein! I am so very eager to know your insights on other characters as well. I was wondering if u could maybe do something similar for any one of the NRC staff? U favor them most if I'm not mistaken, and I'm equally fond of them as well, so do whomever u fancy. All I really want is to read something lovely and in-depth of yours once more^^

O-oh my goodness... thank you so very much! The knowledge that there are those who regard my writing so highly--that you and others should hold my work in such great esteem--is a treasure in itself. I am both humbled and elated beyond adequate description. I shall keep your words near and dear to my heart going forward.

I’m very glad you enjoyed my analysis of Professor Trein! The fact of the matter is, were it not for my friends’ forays into performing analyses of their favorite NRC students, I probably would not have had the mind to do a treatment of Trein’s character to begin with. It seemed like something fun, and I wanted to share with the fandom the ways in which Trein was a personality in his own right. I wrote it during the Scary Monsters event--which, if you recall, provided us with a fair deal more staff content than was previously afforded to us.

That being said, at this point in time I cannot bring myself to write similar analyses for other NRC staff members (no matter how much I adore them!). I’ve certainly considered it, but ultimately my reasons against doing so are as follows:

- Regardless of how much has featured Dire Crowley, the man has such tremendous importance to the main story that any analysis would be inadequate and preempted--a shot in the dark at best. There’s still too much we don’t know about him and his motives. - Though we have been supplied with lore for Divus Crewel via the second NRC Unified Exams voice lines, I don’t feel the same urgency to speak on his character that I did his colleague. He has been given more screen time, leading to a general consensus on his character by the fandom than seems more or less faithful to canon. In his case, I would prefer to wait until the game provides us with details that challenge what we as fans have come to accept about him. - If I had to choose one staff member to analyze next, it would be Ashton Vargas. He suffers from this gross oversimplification of his character that bothers me to no end. He’s overlooked--an embarrassment who’s worth his weight in gag fodder--because he’s often regarded in a two-dimensional manner... which is, in this case, the fault not of the community, but of the game. While a number of interesting implications have surfaced over the past few months which I could easily incorporate into an analysis, I currently do not believe there exists enough evidence for me to reflect upon his character the same way I did Trein. Unless something major happens in the immediate future, I intend to write up an analysis only once his voice lines drop, which I expect to occur during the fourth NRC Unified Exams. - Sam‘s is an unusual case. He’s an extraneous, non-academic entity whose interactions with others seem to be restricted to business. Furthermore, whenever I think on his person, I find myself drawing the same conclusion of his serving a necessary purpose: that his presence is a more a convenient device on behalf of world-building than anything. This may however stem from my lack of familiarity with the source work (I never saw The Princess and the Frog). I hope he receives the same attention and treatment the instructors have been getting so that I can truly consider him a candidate for analysis.

(Incidentally, as I fully expect Trein’s voice lines to be made available during the next round of NRC Unified Exams, there’s a very strong possibility that I’ll feel compelled to revisit his analysis as soon as I give those sound bytes a listen.)

#twisted wonderland #twisted-wonderland #twst analysis #kyuu chats #night raven college staff #dire crowley #divus crewel #mozus trein #ashton vargas #sam twisted wonderland

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Text

Discredit Pt. 2: More Recommended Reviews For A.Z. Fell’s

Alright, folks. Some notes first:

1. You all rock. I’m sending out 20k+ virtual hugs for all the notes I NEVER expected to get on this nonsense.

2. This is probably the final section, just because I’m not sure I can adequately follow up part one and it might be foolish to attempt it here. Let alone twice. But for now, here we go.

3. Kudos to the anon who reminded me of Aziraphale’s cash-only policy <3

4. Nicole Y’s review is based off an actual comment I read years ago, but heaven only knows where online it was. I’ve got the memory of a goldfish.

5. Trigger warning for the use of a queer slur in this. It’s the same review as above, number 5 if you want to avoid it.

6. There’s a text-only version of just the reviews at the end, after all the images. I’ll upload that to my Sparse Clutter collection on AO3 in a bit.

Bonus 7. People thinking this is a real shop deserve all the good things in this world.

That’s all I’ve got. Hope you enjoy! 👍

****************************************************************************

I’m a simple guy who likes simple jokes. If there’s a whoopee cushion I plant it. I will call you up to ask if your refrigerator is running and then tell you to go catch it. (Actually that one died out so thoroughly it’s actually capable of a comeback now!). Yes, I’m a dad and yes, I have a t-shirt that says Dad Jokes? I Think You Mean Rad Jokes! which I wear un-ironically every Saturday. All of which is just to say that my wife was well prepared for my stupidity when I walked into Fell’s.

I? I was not.

You see the bibles when you walk in? The ones to the left? Let them be. Don’t even look at them. Definitely don’t pick out the fanciest one you can find and absolutely don’t walk up to the owner with it held in your pudgy little fingers, grinning like a loon, cheerfully asking whether this should be in the fiction section. Just don’t. Mark my words you’ll regret it. Though your wife won’t. She’ll get a great old laugh out of it all.

In conclusion: it’s quite possible that mama did raise a fool and he just got his ass verbally whooped by a guy in a bowtie.

***

Shout-out to Mr. Fell for being the only decent bloke in this city. I’ve popped in and out of his store for years—including before I started transitioning. So he knew my dead name, dead look, whole shebang and I was definitely nervous to play the ‘You know me, but this is what’s changed and are you gonna throw a fit about it?’ game.

You know what he said? “Oh, Rose! What a lovely choice. Crowley dear, why aren’t you growing any roses? Some white ones would look splendid next to my Henredon chair.”

That’s it. He just went straight into dragging his partner for not giving him roses. So hey, Mom? Next time you’re snooping through my social media why don’t you explain to all these nice people why the 50+yo book seller accepts me in ways you won’t. Don’t go telling me age is an excuse or that you’re ‘Stuck in your ways.’ I’ve watched Fell dress in the same damn clothes since I was ten!!

Yeah. Sorry. Rant over. Fell’s a gem. That’s my take. Rose out.

***

Anyone else in the shop when that guy started yelling about buying pornography? And then got escorted into the back room for some ‘private conversation’? Well done, Mr. Fell! Didn’t know you had it in you.

***

Alright alright alright alright I am TOTALLY calm about this.

Went into A.Z. Fell’s last Thursday. Not because I knew anything about the place. Just because I’ve been hitting up every bookshop within a twenty-mile radius, asking if they’re hosting any book signings. Long story short I self-published my novel Blight last month—which you can get for a mere £5 here but I swear this isn’t a promotional thing I’m just BROKE—and have been looking for networking opportunities, tips, stuff like that. So the owner listened politely as I explained all this. Then said he didn’t do anything of that sort, which didn’t surprise me given the shop’s vibe.

But then? Then??? He offered to let me do a signing there??????

As said. Totally calm about this. This man either plans to kidnap me or is actually giving me my first shot at an audience outside my blog. AKA totally worth the risk.

Tuesday the 9th. 7:00pm. Just in case anyone’s interested ;)

***

holy sweet baby jesus i was tripping balls last week you tryin’ to tell me that kING KONG SIZED FANGED FUCK SNAKE IS REAL

***

Witnessed the most perfect exchange the other day:

Grumpy Dude With No Manners: “You. Boy. Where’s the man I spoke with over the phone?”

Mr. Fell’s Partner Who Knows Damn Well Only Two of Them Work There But Clearly Doesn’t Like This Guy’s Tone: “Did this man give you his name?”

Grumpy Dude: “Might have. Don’t remember. Sounded like a fairy though.”

Me: “....”

My girlfriend: “....”

This Poor Sweet Startled Kid On Our Left: “?!?!?!?”

Fell’s Partner In The Drollest Voice I’ve Ever Heard: “None of us have wings. Out!”

***

This shop gets full stars simply because every time I walk in they’re playing Queen.

I mean, I’ve walked in once, but once is enough when you’ve got Crazy Little Thing Called Love blasting full volume.

***

Okay, I’m still kind of shaken up but I needed to write this out somewhere and this seemed as good a place as any.

I spilled my latte on a book. Just tripped on thin air, popped the lid, and chucked a venti’s worth of coffee all over a very expensive looking text. I didn’t mean to, obviously, but it happened and I just started bawling on the spot. Full on sobs because this semester has been absolute hell, I ruined this guy’s antique, there’s no way I can pay for it, I can’t even sneak away because I’m drawing the whole store’s attention...just all the things all at once. I really was straight up panicking and was seconds away from pulling out my inhaler. I couldn’t breathe.

And then Mr. Fell showed up.

Jesus it’s embarrassing to admit but I think I hit him once or twice. On the arms I mean, because he was trying to touch me and I figured, I don’t know, it was a restraint or something. He was going to call the police and hold me until they got there. But then he managed to start rubbing my back and I lost it like I hadn’t already been bawling my eyes out in this shop. Ever cry into a perfect stranger’s chest? I have! But if Mr. Fell seemed to mind he definitely didn’t show it. Just kept holding me while I probably ruined his shirt and then took me into the back and made me a new coffee in this cute little angel mug. He let me stay there while I called my sister and waited for her to arrive.

She’s a good twenty minutes outside of Soho, so we talked for a while. It’s not like Mr. Fell could fix my shit roommate or bio classes, but I guess just talking about it all really helped. I was a lot calmer by the time my sis arrived and Mr. Fell insisted I come back any time I wanted—for browsing or more coffee.

Of course, sis offered to pay for the book herself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so surprised in my life. “Certainly not!” he said. “Contrary to popular belief, no one should pay for their mistakes. It’s what makes you all so wonderfully human.”

So yeah. Thanks, Mr. Fell.

***

This little shop must have started a book club for kids! Lately I’ve seen the same group of children hanging out at Fell’s. Three boys and a girl. They’re a bit rambunctious at times, but who isn’t at that age? So wonderful seeing literature passed down to the next generation. Even if some of it is rather questionable looking...

***

It’s an honest crime that more of you aren’t talking about what a wonderful bookstore this is.

I’m a book lover at heart and Fell’s always makes me feel like I’m coming home. I just arrived somewhere safe and familiar after a particularly harrowing day. I’ve slipped under the covers of my bed after dinner and a bubble bath. It’s something like that, but with an element of surprise too. One of the reasons why I adore private and used shops over chain stores is that little touch of chaos. You walk in and sure, there are general sections to browse, but everything is just a little bit disorganized from people leafing through books and then putting them back somewhere else. There’s no real record keeping, you’ve just gotta head to one particular corner and hope for the best. It’s not the sort of place you go to if you want something specific because the chances of them having it are slim—that’s just how the universe works—and even if they did no employee knows where it is anymore.

But if you wander the shelves for a while, crouch down low to get a look at everything on the bottom shelf, pay attention to the books that don’t have easy to read titles or any summaries to speak of... you just might find something you didn’t know you were looking for. That’s Fell’s: the comfort of the familiar and the excitement of the unknown.

*** A lot of people might assume that these stories are embellished or outright made up, but as a bookseller myself going on twenty years I believe every single one of them.

That being said, I accidentally moved a rug and found chalk sigils that look like they belong in a cult. Make of that what you will.

***

There’s a special place in hell for 21st century shop owners that only take cash. Who carries cash anymore? Not me! I haven’t bothered with that nonsense in years! You can get a card reader for 15 pounds on Amazon. Or you know what? Be stingy and pay 7 for the little attachment on your phone. This place is nuts if it thinks it’s going to survive much longer on a cash-only policy, especially with some books that look like they’re worth hundreds or thousands of pounds! Yeah, yeah, just let me pull out this giant wad of bills for you. I’ll carry them around a crime-laden city because there’s no ATM near you either.

I mean jesus, you’d think this guy didn’t want to sell anything.

***

I walked in. There was a man screaming at a fern while another threatened him with an umbrella. I walked out.

5 stars do recommend.

***

I once walked in on the same (?) guy yelling at a book for daring to fall on the owner’s head. I think that’s just a Thing over there.

***

Like a lot of people here I didn’t actually go to Fell’s for any books (flat tire, Angel Recovery taking forever) and ended up staying three hours (not because of Angel). No, I wandered towards the back and found this ancient CRT set propped on a table of books, the kind that my Dad used to watch Twilight Zone on. This lanky guy had a marathon of Gilmore Girls going... though how he was managing that with a broken antenna and no DVR, I really don’t know. But yeah. He told me to pull up a chair and I did. Guy gave me popcorn.

I wish I’d paid a little more attention to his name. Charlie? Curley? I really can’t remember, but thanks for the enjoyable afternoon, man.

***

I BOUGHT A BOOK HERE

Not sure how though. Just kinda happened. First edition of Just William. Frankly I didn’t even want the thing, but the owner basically shoved me out the door with it when I took two seconds to look at the spine. Odd that he was so willing to part with this one.

Update: ... hold up. I didn’t buy a book because I never actually paid the guy. ‘Basically shoved me out the door’ was literal. Do I go back??

***

This page has really gone feral the last couple of months so I’m just gonna bite the bullet and say it:

Anyone notice that Fell’s snake and Fell’s partner are never in the same room together?

***

I really don’t like the implications of this…

***

This is precisely why the Internet has turned into a cesspool. You all should be ashamed of some of the stuff you’re writing here. Can’t two men just be friends anymore? Two real life men? These guys aren’t some characters for you to ‘ship’ or whatever. Quit making outrageous assumptions about their sexualities and use this website for what it’s actually for: reviewing the bookshop. Honestly I’m so sick of this sort of this shit.

***

Dude. They run a queer-focused shop together with a flat on the second floor. Fell calls the guy ‘Dear’ and he’s always calling him ‘Angel.’ People have literally seen them kissing. If you want I can give you the number of my physician. He might be able to help you pull your head out of your ass.

***

What the hell is your problem? I’m literally just reminding people to stop making assumptions. It’s gross and insulting. These guys check their Yelp page. You really think they’re gonna be okay with this stuff?

Also: I’m not the five-year-old relying on insults, so.

***

Making an account purely to set the record straight: I’m the hot twink in question and I married that angel. Peace

#good omens #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #good omens fic #guess who spent 48 hours doing nothing but writing and formatting #can I get a wahoo

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exasperatedcrowleystan · 3 years

Text

The mistletoe conspiracy

Pairing: Crowely x reader, Dean x Castiel

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo

Warnings: none, but there a couple of curse words.

Summary: you and Sam have placed a bet on Dean and Castiel, and set the limits for it. You can't push them, but the mistletoe tradition gives you an opening. When Crowley decides to help, for the sake of creating mayhem, the rules are bent.

A/N: you can find this fic on AO3, here. The whole series can be found here. It’s a series, so you can read each one individually, but they are written to work better together!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Sam are discussing in one of the library nooks, keeping your voices low to avoid unwanted attention. When you realize that, subconsciously, Sam is signing the words, you tease him a bit, smiling.

“You picked up new habits, uh?”

He looks confused for a moment, then he realizes that his hands are still signing something. He grins, definitely at ease. “Yeah... good ones, from time to time.”

“Yeah... anyway, creating the right circumstances cannot be seen as disqualifying.”

“You can't shove them together and tell me that it's not a manipulation!”

“You don't think you can conspire without your favourite demon, right?” Crowley's voice behind you makes you both spring and turn to him. “Guess I should have made myself heard.”

“Yeah, you should have” Sam deadpans, making Crowley grin.

“What were you discussing with such secrecy, then? I thought that with the new world order you finally realized the benefits of telling things. Are you feeling nostalgic already?”

Before Sam snaps, you explain to Crowley what's going on. If you didn't, he'd just keep tormenting you until he gets an answer, spoiling the whole thing.

“We have a few bets going on in the bunker, about Cas and Dean. Sam insists that if I should weaponize the mistletoe to encourage them, it would be unacceptable. Clearly, he's just scared to lose fifty bucks.”

Crowley thinks about it for a moment. “I want in.”

“It's not a pool, Crowley. And I wouldn't take money from you in any case.” Sam spits out, a sour look on his face.

“Come on Sam... what's the harm in letting him in?”

“Why is he still here again?” Sam asks you, definitely annoyed.

“Because I asked him.”

A moment of silence and bedazzlement falls on the three of you. Since you arrived, Crowley just stayed around you, coming and going, but mostly sticking by your side. The most you did was not protesting about this. Admitting you actually want him there... that's not something Sam or Crowley were prepared to hear. Surely you were not prepared to say it.

Sam manages to untie his tongue first, and gives you a knowing look. “Of course you did. Fine... mistletoe allowed, then, but no pushing, ok?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“Eileen and I are going out for a milk run and then dinner. We're picking up the last things for Christmas dinner and a few more bottles. We'll be back later tonight. If you think of anything while we're gone, just send me a text, ok?”

You nod and try to focus and understand Sam's words, but the feeling of Crowley's stare on you is hard to ignore. When Sam leaves you two alone, you finally look at Crowley. He's studying you, apparently.

“What?” you snap, unable to stand the tension or his silence. He knows how to make you uncomfortable, and he enjoys it immensely, or so you think. The truth is a bit more shaded than that.

“Nothing. I just don't recall you asking me to stay.”

“Well... I called you, didn't I?”

“Yes, but...”

“And I asked you to... come pick up chestnuts with us, and you helped with the decorations, right?”

“Correct.”

“So... that settles it, I guess.”

He nods, biting lightly the inside of his cheek. You noticed he does that when he's thinking about something, and you'd die to know what's now going on in his mind. Instead, you look at the high ceiling of the bunker. You're going to use the doors for your plan, that's for sure.

While you walk away, Crowley follows you, once again, without even having to ask for it. He still looks like he's plotting something, and your curiosity can only be kept at bay for so long.

“What are you planning?”

“You know... there might be an easier way to convince Dean and Castiel to act on their ridiculous mutual pining and free us all from this tired show.”

“Of course you just happen to have a plan lying around.”

“You know me. Now... do you want to hear it, or the less you know about it the better?”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“Can we consider this your Christmas present?”

“Hell, no!” you laugh it off. You surely are not expecting the former king of Hell to give you anything, and in any case you wouldn't waste your present on something that's just a matter of time before it happens.

“... half of the revenue of your bet, then?”

“Half of my... what do you plan to do with twenty-five dollars?”

Crowley surprises you brushing the tip of his fingers on your cheek, closing in on you. “Do we have a deal?”

Without even talking, you nod at him. He leans closer to you, his grin impossible to ignore. You instinctively move closer to him, inhaling his scent and trying not to gulp, but he draws back.

“Good. I'll see you later, love.”

“What? I thought you'd help me!”

“I will, I keep my word. Do your thing, I'll do mine. Oh, and... tell the kid. I'm sure he'd like to be involved.”

You don't even have time to protest that Crowley is gone, leaving you alone. You take a deep breath, trying not to overheat and be irritated. You just openly told half of the Winchester family that you are the reason why their once nemesis is casually spending the holidays with you, and said nemesis just decided to bail. “Fucking typical.” Is all you mutter through you teeth before heading to Jack's room.

About two hours later, you and Jack are done. You skipped dinner, but during the holidays it's not really possible to stop eating, so neither of you is hungry. Jack has been touching the mistletoe and working a bit of his mojo on the twigs to keep them fresh. He then hanged them around with his powers, following your precise instructions.

Dean has kept to the Dean cave for the whole time, while Castiel is in the library, reading and just showing up from time to time to cast a curious glance or an amused smile at Jack, who seems absolutely ecstatic about this new discovery.

What you don't realize, is that Jack is indeed a kid, but he's also much more acquainted with feelings than what you think. He's not part of any of the bets placed in the bunker, which might as well find a new life as a gambling den, but he's been looking closely at all of you. And he brought Crowley back for a very specific reason.

“So... do you think it's going to work?”

You wink at him, confident. “Sure. We basically plastered the doors with mistletoe. They are bound to find themselves under these together, especially if you think about Cas' idea of personal space.”

“Oh. So... what shall we do now? Just... sit here and wait?”

“Well... Crowley has a plan for this, too. I think it's fair to assume that tonight we're going...”

“SON OF A BITCH!” Dean's voice echoes through the bunker, interrupting you. By now you've learned to read the interjection like any other of his phrases, and he doesn't sound on high alert, just very exasperated. Jack looks at you, quickly catching on.

“Crowley's plan?”

“You heard how pissed he is? Of course it's Crowley.”

Not even thirty seconds later, Crowley stumbles in the war room from the corridor, walking backwards to not turn his back to a furious Dean. The same Dean who has what looks like a halo of mistletoe floating about a foot above his head.

“Crowley, if you don't take this thing off I'm ganking you, I swear to God.”

“God is dead, Squirrel, and your ex girlfriend is hands off, remember?”

Dean lunges at Crowley, who simply moves aside, avoiding the assault. “You know, it really goes well with your eyes.”

“Alright, listen here you son of a bitch. Now you're gonna take this off, or I'm ripping your head off.”

“Now, Squirrel. That's not really in holly jolly spirit, is it?”

Despite your best attempts, both you and Jack cannot stifle a laughter. The look of Dean, going around with a gracious little mistletoe crown gracefully hovering above his head while he tries to catch Crowley is simply too amusing to stay serious. Unfortunately, judging by Dean's stare, he's not enjoying the whole situation as much as you do.

“Y/N, this is entirely your fault for bringing him here.”

You openly laugh at him. “I don't know, Dean. I think it gives you the right touch of holiday spirit.”

“Take this thing off or so help me!”

When Castiel joins you in the war room, he tilts his head on a side for a moment, looking at the scene in front of him. Crowley is now standing next to you and Jack, while Dean is glaring murderously at you all.

“What's going on?”

“That damn bastard stuck this stupid thing on my head and it won't come off!”

“I see. How?” Castiel asks Crowley, who just smirks.

“It does come off, actually. You just need to respect tradition. It's magic, so I wouldn't waste grace on it.”

“What?” Dean seems shocked at the idea, and looks at you, awkward and angry. “Well, after all you brought him here...”

“I wouldn't do that, Squirrel.” Crowley's tone is controlled, but extremely threatening. You shoot him a questioning glance, but he keeps staring at Dean, who grabs the twigs and tries to pull them away again, with no success.

“Crowley, I swear.”

Castiel sighs and looks at Dean. A surreal silence falls on all of you, while you all try to anticipate what's going to happen and simultaneously look away. Well, except Crowley, of course.

“Come on, Feathers. Your protégée is under the spell of an evil demon. Your action is needed.”

If looks could kill, Crowley would probably be reduced to a smoking pile of ash on the floor by Castiel and Dean. With a sigh, Castiel moves closer to Dean and puts his hand on the unwanted ornament over his head.

“He's right. This is magic.”

“Yeah, Cas, we established that already.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“Well...” Dean hesitates. He'd rather die than do this in front of Crowley, but all in all... it's not going to be that big of a deal. And if things go as he plans for them to go, it won't be the only time he's going to have to. Not judging by how close to you he's standing now, at least.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas asks, and Dean is left speechless once again. Finally, the urge of not wasting another chance outweighs everything else: the expectations, the fears, the doubts and the shadows creeping in the darkest corners of his brain. The only thing that matters now is that Cas is there for him, once again, and he is not going to waste another chance like he did with all the other.

He leans in, moving closer to Cas, who just stays still, the faintest hint of an understanding smile pursing his lips.

Their first kiss is barely a kiss, the lightest brushing of lips against lips, eyes fluttering close for a moment, and then a quick, awkward drawback. Dean is so up in his thoughts that he jumps when he feels something falling on top of his head. Smiling, Castiel takes the twigs in his hand and walks to Crowley.

“Next time you want to practice magic, I suggest you involve a willing participant.”

“That didn't go too bad, didn't it?” he remarks with a very satisfied grin on his lips.

Knowing that Dean won't stay quiet and awkward for much longer, you wisely opt for getting away from there. You also know, by Castiel's look, that they could use some privacy. You nudge Crowley and Jack and hint at the end of the library with your head. You quickly walk away and give the two the space they need.

Once Jack happily sinks in an armchair, you head for one of the cabinets and fish one of the good bottles and two glasses, offering one to Crowley. He steps close to you, and carefully takes in the sight of you. He looks at your hands holding the glasses, moving them on the small space, the focused stare on the neck of the bottle when you try not to spill even the little drop that sticks to the glass. He loves the care that you put in every small gesture, and when you offer him his glass his fingers graze yours lightly while he takes it.

“Thanks, kitten. To what shall we toast?”

“To another one of your brilliant plans, I'd say.”

“And to you winning a bet.”

You smile and click your glass against his one. “Cheers to that!”

You smile, happy to see Dean and Castiel finally acting on their feelings. It was long due, and the idea of Crowley, despite being really simple, was exactly what was needed.

You are so focused on finishing your scotch that you don't notice Jack walking away, leaving you two alone.

Meanwhile, Crowley is staring at you, completely absorbed in his thoughts. He could spend hours studying the way your eyes twinkle reflecting the lights of the hall. He could write pages filled with love and lust about the way your lips curl in a barely-there smile. He'd pass his time grazing your neck with the tip of his fingers, just to kiss the goosebumps away from your body.

You feel the weight of his stare on you, and turn to look at him with a curiosity so innocent that he can't hold back a smile.

“What is it, Crowley?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were... looking at me. I thought you wanted to tell me something.”

He shrugs, taking your empty glass from your hands and setting it down next to his one. “I appreciate beauty. Is it so strange?”

“And you look at me?”

His smile doesn't dim while he answers you. “Where else?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me?”

You laugh, awkward. He always finds a way to keep you on your toes, and he surely has no will to be subtle about it... but that's him. That's the demon you grew to care for, definitely too much.

You missed him more than you'd ever thought possible to miss anyone when he was gone, and when he was brought back... you were happy. So happy that you didn't care about Dean or Sam staring at you, and just went to hug him. If they noticed how emotional you were, they were graceful enough not to mention it. You almost lost it when Crowley hugged you back.

Just when you are finally about to take a step back, something brushes the top of your head. You curiously look up, just to see a small branch of mistletoe floating midair.

“Crowley?”

“Not my doing, kitten. Maybe someone is expecting you... us to follow tradition.”

“I...”

Your stare falls on Crowley's lips, only to find them curved in the softest smile he's ever given you. You nod, not trusting your voice enough to speak. He places a hand on your cheek, brushing your cheekbone with his thumb. You study his dark green eyes, taking in the imperceptible streaks of blue almost hidden in the dim lights.

He moves as close as possible to you, stopping just a second before touching your lips. “God, you're beautiful.”

You close the distance between you and smile against his lips. You smile for everything: his words, his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his soft lips.

He kisses you gently, without hesitation or rush, savoring the moment and your taste on him.

His hand rests on your skin, while you open your mouth and deepen the kiss. His tongue touching yours sends a pleasant shiver down your spine and you inhale sharply. You can feel his signature smirk making an appearance while his hand slides on the nape of your neck and buries through tour hair, pulling you as close as possible.

When you finally break the kiss, you rest your forehead against his one, grinning. “How's that for tradition?”

“I'm sure we can do better than that.”

“You know... I've heard the naughty list is incredibly funnier than the nice one.”

“I'd be a lousy demon if I couldn't move you there.”

You giggle and peck his lips, taking his hand and heading to your room.

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Thank you for reading my work! If you enjoy it, I hope you’ll leave a like, a comment, or reblog it (I really need reblogs with the problems I’m having with the site).

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#spn #spnchristmasbingo #Christmas fluff #dean x castiel #crowley x reader #crowley x fem reader #jack is a ray of sunshine #canon divergence #fanfic #fanfiction #writers on tumblr

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smol-and-grumpy · 4 years

Text

Something Just Like This - CH22

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean Winchester, mobster boss. He’s a little cocky, a lot ruthless and more often than not, short tempered. But he’s also, Dean Winchester, a war veteran and hero who suffers under a shit ton of PTS. He met her in a bar and thinks it’s fate that brought her to him. Little does he know why she’s really here.

Warnings: NSFW

WC: 5110

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dean drops her off at his apartment, carries all her bags up with her and helps her by cleaning out half of his closet space so she can put her things in there.

It baffles her that he’s willing to do it all so easily, as if there’s really nothing else he’d rather do. He unselfishly bends and twists his life around to be able to fit her into it.

She does not deserve this.

“I’ll meet with the others to talk about what happened. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah.” She says because she will.

“Take your time. I’ll be back before you know it.” He says, and steals a kiss before he leaves. A kiss that lingers a fraction too long but at the same time not long enough.

It didn’t take her long to stow away her belongings. All the contents in her safe stayed at her apartment. She’ll tell Linda to send someone to pick it up once things are settled. It’s not like she needs it anyway, haven’t even looked at the files for days. She didn’t need to, because she got to know more of Dean than all the files packed with his information can ever reveal about him.

Oh god, she’s got to tell Linda what happened. Got to tell her the truth with Dean and she’s scared of that, if she’s honest.

She showered and is in bed when Dean’s back. He undresses and picks out a fresh pair of underwear from his closet, slips into the shower wordlessly. And she’s thankful for that, thankful that he knows when to talk and when not to.

He comes out with his hair and body still damp, smells of fresh mint and body wash. Picks her up and pulls her into him. She lays her head on his chest, drapes an arm over his body, hooks her leg over his thigh.

“How are you feeling?” He whispers and she can hear the rumble in his chest, next to his heartbeat.

“Tired,” She says, and it’s true. Exhausted even.

“I’ll talk to Ellen tomorrow.” He whispers, as if he’s reading her mind again.

Because she thinks that she’s out of job which maybe might mean that Linda will order her to go back to where she was before. Make her abort the whole operation, since it might be enough to have Meg still working at Crowley’s club. “Do you want me to come with you?”

He breathes out, “No, I’ll probably won’t even tell her the truth. Don’t want you there when I’m lying.”

“You wanna lie about the death of her daughter?”

He kisses her forehead, lets his lips linger there. “Sometimes, it’s better to not tell people the truth because it’ll hurt them far too much. I know it’s selfish and another level of cowardice but I’m protecting myself and most of all, I’m protecting you.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. Feels her own guilt choking her, it’s gets harder to breathe.

“Can I ask you something?” She says instead.

“Anything.”

“Don’t be mad at Gabriel, please.” She starts and Dean’s already letting out a groan.

“What did he tell you?”

“Well,” she paints figure eights on his chest with her finger. “He said that you’re looking for a way to get out of this life, is it true?”

“No,” He says, and adds, “I’m not looking for a way. I have found a way, it just needs to go as planned so I can set everyone up with enough money to last because if I’m out, I want all of my people to get out too. What we’re doing? That’s no way to live.”

“Set everyone up with money?”

“Yeah, enough for them to last a lifetime and longer probably.”

“And you? What about you?” She tilts her head to look up at him.

“I still have my properties,” He shrugs, “Looking to get something smaller anyway, something simpler, somewhere remote.”

“Dean Winchester wants a simple quiet life?”

He chuckles at that, “Yeah, it’s more my thing.” Then he adds, “And you? What do you want?”

“I haven’t thought about it yet.” She says, feels that weird thing in her throat that makes it harder for her to breathe. Guilt — it must be guilt.

“Can you imagine a simple, quiet life? Alone somewhere, no neighbors to bother you? Walk around the house naked all the time? Get up when you want, eat when you want… Just do things because you want to and not because someone expects it of you?”

“That’s a great life.” She wholeheartedly agrees.

“Would you think I’m a creep when I say that when I picture that life, that you’re in it?”

She can feel his heart beating faster after he asks the question.

“Would you really want me in it?”

He chuckles, kisses the top of her head. “Baby, you’re the reason I even dare to think about a life like that. The reason why I’m doing what I’m doing and making extra sure that everything will work out.”

***

“Did someone follow you?” Linda asks as she sits down on the bench in the dog park.

“Not that I know of,”

“Why the emergency meeting? Couldn’t you have used your phone?”

She sighs and fidgets with her fingers while she looks down. “You remember the snitch I told you about? The double agent?”

“Yeah?”

“It was Jo. Well, and another guy named Adam but yeah, they’re both dead now.” She starts and Linda listens.

Y/N begins to tell Linda about her and Dean, leaves out some details of course because Linda doesn’t need to know every little thing but the big picture, that one she tells Linda.

“You know that you have to come back.” Linda says, her voice stern.

“What if I don’t want to?”

“It’s either our side or his, Y/N, there’s no in between. Make a wise choice, Y/N. Don’t you think you owe us and your father that much?”

“You can’t possibly use my father against me, Linda!” Y/N hisses but she also knows that Linda’s right.

Linda breathes in and exhales audibly. “Okay, listen, I love you like a daughter, and you know that. You were always the daughter I never could have and your happiness is important to me. It pains me to see that you’re not happy so the only thing I can give you is this…”

Y/N goes home with the deal. It’s something she can accept, and it kind of lifts the cloud that was hanging over her heart. At least she’s still got to have it until then. Got to have time with Dean, and she’s going to make the best of it.

She’s drawing a portrait on the sofa when Dean comes back.

“Honey, I’m home.” He calls out as soon as he steps in, probably means it as a joke. It does sound quite good in her ear, though.

He braces his elbow on the sofa and leans over the edge, kisses her temple and looks at her drawing. “Is that me?”

Her cheeks are warm all of a sudden, kind of afraid of what he thinks of it. Wondering if he thinks she’s creepy by drawing him.

“Uh-huh,”

Dean tilts his head, looks at her and with the light, his freckles are visible. She loves them. His eyes too, they are so green. And then he smiles, creases deepening around his eyes. “You’re drawing me?”

“I also draw Cuddles, you’re nothing special, calm down.” She says, a playful tone in her voice.

“No,” He looks at the portrait again. “I love it.”

Dean walks around the sofa, comes to sit down next to her. He plays with the hem of her shirt while he watches her draw.

After a while, she has to giggle. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the plan.” He smirks, and as soon as she drops the pencil, he pulls her towards him by her shirt, there’s a sound of fabric ripping.

“Dean!”

“I'll buy you a new shirt.” He just says it like it’s no big deal and manhandles her onto his lap.

It’s like the first time she was here, the time when he got her off by letting her grind on him. She thinks back to the times they’ve been intimate, thinks that it has always been about her. It was never about him. And somehow, she wants to be able to satisfy him too.

She cups his face between her palms, their noses touch, his scruff scratching away underneath the palms of her hands. “Hi,”

“Hi,” He whispers back, and cranes his neck, sucks in her bottom lip before he lets go, only to dive in again.

His hands are firm on her ass, guiding her movement as their kisses grow heavier and hungrier.

Y/N breaks the kiss, leans back a little to see him better. She lets her thumbs trail along his face, his eyebrow, touches the creases around his eyes. “How did it go with Ellen?”

He sighs, and closes his eyes for a brief moment before he looks at her again, his hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, this finger traces along her neck, over her shoulder. “I’ll tell you later. I don’t wanna talk about it now. The important thing is that you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“I am.” She says, smiling a little to reassure him and he smiles back, pulls her into him by the nape of her neck, kisses her sweet, soft and deep.

She can’t help but grind into him, rolls her hips and searches for that friction and she’s shamelessly wet.

“Christ,” Dean breathes out, “You turn me on so much, you know that, right?” He pulls her in, kisses her throat, licks a line up to the shell of her ear.

There’s a smile on her face, it’s cocky and she leans in, kisses his throat, her hands sneaking into his suit jacket, pulls them off and he sits up a little, helping her to get it off.

She slowly unbuttons his shirt, one by one, and kisses the skin he reveals with each button that is missing.

Y/N kisses his scars, his freckles. Her tongue toys with his nipple to which Dean groans out. She smiles, sucks it in some more and he almost has to pull her away because he’s too sensitive, his fingers already tugging at her hair.

Climbing down his body, she kisses a trail, likes the crease his stomach makes when he’s sitting. Loves the trail of hair past his navel. Dean spreads his legs wider, so she can kneel on the floor in between. She looks up at him, her hands working on his belt buckle.

Dean has his lip between his teeth one of his hands on hers to stop her, “Baby, you don’t have to.” He says, his voice soft and low.

She looks at him, a smile tugging away at her lips. “I know that I don’t have to, I want to.”

He breathes out, maybe to calm himself down but he lets his hands fall down to his sides. His gaze still lingers on her.

Y/N’s hands are a little shaky as she loses his belt, needs more than four tries to open up the button and the hook on his dress pants before she can bring down his zipper.

His hands stroke the side of her face while she works on it, his patience obviously knows no bounds while she almost dies of anticipation.

Finally, she hooks her hands in his underwear, brings it down together with his pants and Dean helps her, lifts his ass a little so she can pull it down. She pulls at them, takes them off his legs one by one before she throws it behind her. She takes off his socks next and stands up, taking off her own socks, her jeans and top, but leaves her bra and panties on before sitting back down.

She swallows hard and Dean’s doing the same. Her hands are resting on his knees and she strokes his thighs. Her eyes are fixed on his at first but then she let it travel down his body, until they’re set on his cock.

Taking her hand, she places it on his shaft, tugs his cock lightly towards her. It feels warm, is hard and heavy in her grip, and Dean bites down on his lips so hard she thinks he might draw blood if she doesn’t stop soon.

Y/N cups his balls with one hand, let them roll around in her palm while she places a kiss on the tip of his dick, chaste, soft.

“Baby,” Dean’s voice sounds broken. She doesn’t know if that’s a warning.

She smiles, sticks her tongue out and lets it circle around the head that is leaking by now. She holds his shaft firm in her hand and smacks the head of it against her awaiting tongue a couple of times, making him close his eyes and groan. She doesn’t know if it’s a frustrating groan but his face makes her chuckle.

“You’re killing me,” He drawls, his voice is dark, deep.

Accumulating enough spit in her mouth, she lets her saliva drip onto the slit at the tip and proceeds to massage the slick down onto his shaft. She’s smiling when he moans, and then she opens her mouth to suck it in, taking him in further with every movement of her head.

“Jesus,” He bites his lips harder, his hand brushing at the hair that falls around her face.

She goes as far as she can — which is not really far since she hasn’t done this a lot and her gag reflex is very much existent — and strokes the part of him that she can’t fit into her mouth.

When she pops his dick out of her mouth to take a breath, she says, “Tell me how you like it.”

He rolls his eyes and his hand balls to fist next to his thighs. “Fucking Christ, sweetheart, any way you want it is fine for me. I’m already having a hard time trying not to lose myself at the moment. I like it very much the way it is.”

“Am I doing good?” She asks, and it might be a weird question but it’s just… she doesn’t know if it’s good? She sucked dick before, yes but also it wasn’t that many times and she never enjoyed it like he enjoys it now — enjoys him.

“You’re perfect.” He says, stroking her cheeks with one hand.

She smiles at that, takes him into her mouth again, sucks him deep and wet, makes it extra slick because she once read in a magazine that guys like that.

“Look at me,” He chokes out, brushing at her hair, holds it back behind her head with both of his hands, watching her, and she does, her eyes looking straight at him as best as she can.

“That’s it. Just like that.” Dean whispers, and she can’t lie that it turns her on when he talks like that. She never knew that she had a praise kink but apparently, she does. Loves it so much that she’s soaking wet just by hearing him say things like that.

“You’re looking so good with my cock in your mouth, baby.” He’s breathing hard by now, and then he adds, “Would you think it'd be creepy if I took a picture?”

She pulls his dick out of her mouth with a lewd pop, almost chokes because she has to laugh at his words. “I swear I’m never gonna talk to you again if you do.”

“Yeah, I don’t want th—” He couldn’t finish his sentence because she sucks and swallows him down. “Fucking Chri—” He exhales and inhales, wheezing a little. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”

Y/N pops his cock out, starts to stroke him, twists her wet hand around the head of his dick. She looks at him, a playful smile on her face. “I want you to come in my mouth.” Not waiting for a reaction, she takes him in her mouth again, bobbing her head and watches him lose himself.

“Jesus Christ Y/N!” Dean groans, his hips twitches as her mouth fills with his warm cum.

Before he even collects himself, he grips at her arms with both his hands, pulls her up and manhandles her into his lap, kissing her roughly, not even caring that her mouth tastes like himself.

He parts then, his chest heaving. “God dammit, you can’t say shit like that and expect me to still be able to have control over myself.” He growls, pecks her nose and her cheeks. “You alright? How are you feeling?”

“Good,” She says and then again with a smile, “Great.”

Dean grins at that. “Good, I have an idea.”

He pushes her off his lap, makes her yelp up and fall down onto the sofa with a laugh. He’s halfway over to his bedroom when he turns around, soft dick hanging between his legs and she doesn’t know why but she thinks he looks funny, next to still looking ridiculously good and that is indeed not fucking fair. “Get rid of your bra and panties. I’ll be back.”

She raises an eyebrow at that, but proceeds to take them off, bunches them up and throws them onto the pile of clothes already lying on the floor.

He comes back only a minute later, with two towels in hand and a smile so bright she could confuse him with the Joker.

“Dean, no!” She has a strong feeling she knows what he’s about to do.

He chuckles, as he comes to the couch, “Dean, yes! Now get your super cute ass off the couch so I can spread the towels on it.”

She rolls her eyes but stands up because if she won’t, he’ll make her, she knows that.

“Hop back on.” He says when he’s finished.

And she looks at him. “How do you want me?”

“God dammit, baby, don’t say things like that, it triggers all the right buttons.” He spanks her ass, pushes her onto the sofa. “Lie down, on your back.”

“Like this?” Her head is short below the armrest of the sofa.

Dean climbs over her, bends down to kiss her, “Just like that,” His one hand rubs at her clit, “Jesus, you’re soaked.”

He works his way down her throat, sucks and nibbles along her skin until he reaches her nipple. He teeths at them, making her arch her back.

His fingers are teasing around the rim of her hole. “What do you want?” He says, tickles her nipple with the tip of his tongue. “Tell me,”

“Your fingers,” She’s clearly out of breath, chest moving up and down, heart racing so fucking fast.

Dean sits up on his heels, his fingers painting along her lips and spreading them, “You’ll get them. But I need to do this first.” He doesn’t wait for her to ask what he’s talking about, instead he’s lying down on his stomach, his shoulders wedged between her thighs, and lick and sucks at her, hums with pleasure like she’s the best fucking thing he’s ever eaten.

His hands strokes up her body while he’s nibbling at her clit, fingers twisting her nipples and kneading her tits. She’s almost ashamed that she’s close already, he barely touched her but she’s falling apart. She comes hard, her legs pushing together, trapping his head between her thighs, making him tap his hands at her bottom to release him.

“Sorry,” She says, her cheeks red. “It just happened.”

“Thought I’d die down there for a minute,” He looks up, one hand stroking her thighs up and down before he rubs at her clit, slapping lightly down on it, making her yelp up but it’s more pleasure than pain. “Would have been a great death, though.”

He climbs up her body, places little kisses on her stomach, up to her chin, seals his lips around hers, pushes his tongue into her mouth. She tastes herself on him.

Dean breaks the kiss, whispers to her while he looks her in the eye, “Tell me again what you want,”

She can feel his dick on her thighs, it’s hard again. From just eating her out! It fills her chest with some kind of weird pride. She kisses him as one of his hand wedges between them, the pad of his fingers toying at the rim of her cunt. She whispers, his bottom lip between her teeth, “I want your fi—” He pushes into her in that moment, making her choke on her own words. “F—”

He chuckles against her lips and sits back up, works his fingers in and out of her and presses the heel of his hands against her clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet, can you hear that?” He curves his fingers, places the hand that’s not in her onto her stomach, right above where his fingers dig into her wall from the inside.

It makes a sloshing sound down there and she’s embarrassed at how wet she can get.

“Can I go harder?” He asks and waits for her reply.

“Uh-huh,”

She can’t push out a coherent word if she tries.

He goes in harder, breathing heavily while he does it. She can see his biceps flexing, veins standing out.

“Oh my god,” She breathes out and clasps a hand over her mouth.

Dean’s quick to take the hand and pushes it out of her face. “Don’t even think about covering your mouth again, we’re alone, you can be as loud as you want. I want you to, okay?”

Y/N nods.

The pressure builds and builds and she’s a blink away from coming. Dean’s free hand roams her body, kneading her flesh. They go up past her chest, until he holds her down by her throat. “You ever been choked, baby?”

“Nu-huh,”

“Nu-huh? Can I try? A little? I think you’ll like it.”

“Uh-huh,” Honestly, it’s embarrassing that she can’t even form real words. But also he could ask anything right about now and the answer would be yes.

“God, so perfect,” He says while he claws a hand around her throat, pressing on it lightly. The pressure grows harder the harder he fucks her with his fingers. “Tap out if you want me to stop, alright?”

She nods, and grabs at the wrist of the hand that’s around her throat. Her whole body jerks and shakes and there’s the feeling that she has to pee again. “Fffffff!”

There it was, the feeling of taking a free fall, she’s gone, sees white and her body goes limp. The pressure on her throat’s gone and Dean nuzzles his nose against her cheek, “You’re fucking amazing,” He whispers, kissing her while he still rubs her lazily down there.

“Oh my god, I think I passed out.” She says when she’s back to her senses.

The towel below her ass is drenched in her wetness.

Dean pushes in three of his fingers, making her yelp up. They go in easily, she’s plenty wet down there. He chuckles a little, kisses her before he whispers, “Come on, another one, baby, can you do that?”

He starts to move his fingers and she can’t even say no because the sensation picks up right where she left off. It’s like she’s close on that top of the mountain again, by him just pushing his fingers into her. This is not fair at all. Not fair, that he can make her come so many times when she can only make him come once. But she can’t dwell on it because she’s so fucking close.

“Choke me,” She whispers, her mouth has run dry, the voice came out a little scratchy.

“What was that?” Dean asks, didn’t hear it because of the splashy sound that her pussy makes with his fingers inside.

“Choke me again.”

Dean grins at that, works his hands up her body, slaps onto her nipples in passing, making her arch her back and push her pussy against his fingers. He claws at her throat, presses down just enough to make her lose her mind. “My god, look at you,” His own voice is deep and soft.

He works his hand harder, scratching at that button on the inside, rubbing against the wall and she’s gone. Her legs cramp up, she’s literally shaking as she comes again.

But as soon as she comes down and Dean has pulled his fingers out of her, there’s the empty feeling again.

“Dean,” She says breathlessly.

“What is it?” He asks, kisses her sloppily and deep.

“I need,” The words come choking out of her in a sob. “I want,”

“Tell me, baby,”

She cradles his face, feels the pricking of his scruff against the palm of her hand, “I want you to fuck me,”

He lets out a huff of hot air, breathes in and kisses her while exhaling. “How do you want me,”

“Wanna ride you,” She says, and Dean complies, sits down and pulls her with him, making her straddle his lap.

Y/N lines his cock at her entrance, sits down a little more.

His hands are on her waist, helping her to sit down on his cock. “Breath, baby, don’t forget to breathe,” He says when he sees that she’s been tense.

She nods at him, and together they work him in, inch by glorious inch, until she’s able to take all of him.

Dean’s breathing hard, inhales and exhales loudly.

“You okay?” She asks, as she sits there motionless.

He breathes out again before he speaks, “Yeah. You just feel so fucking good.”

She smiles at that, “Do you want me to wait or—”

“—Christ’s sake, fucking move, baby, I’m dying here!”

Y/N giggles at that and starts to bounce on his cock.

Dean’s hands are on her ass, spanking and kneading at them. It kind of urges her to go a little faster. At one point, he throws his head back and squints his eyes close.

“What is it?” She’s almost out of breath.

“You feel so good, I’m already close.” He mumbles, picks his head up from the sofa and looks up at her. “Do you have another one in you? Can you come with me?”

“I don’t know,” She shakes her head, fact is, she doesn’t think that she can come a fourth time.

“Let’s try it,” He says and fucking winks. He clearly sees it as a challenge.

Both of his hands go around her throat, his hips fucking up to meet her mid motion. His hands aren’t pressing as hard as before but she still feels like the air doesn’t reach her lungs and before long, she feels a tingling sensation on the base of her spine as her toes start to curl.

“Dean, I—”

“I got you, baby,” He says, “Keep on riding, don’t stop, just don’t stop.”

“Fuuuuuu—,” She’s close to sobbing, she’s gonna come, it almost physically hurts.

“Just like that. You’re doing good, baby, so good. Such a good girl,”

“Ohgodohgodohgod,” She sobs out.

“Don’t stop, keep on going, keep on riding, you can do it, baby.” He encourages her and it works, the praise goes where it’s needed to help push her over the edge.

And then there it is, she’s coming with a throaty moan, her whole body relaxes and goes limp, held together by Dean’s hands around her throat.

“I got you,” He whispers, as he too, comes undone, shoots his load into her while he pulls her close and sinks his teeth into her shoulder.

They stay like that for a while, chest to chest, his arms around her, her hands lazily stroking the base of his neck. Their breathing is hard, their hearts beating fast.

“Wow,” She says and buries her face into the crook of his neck. They’re both sticky and sweaty but she enjoys it. Enjoys the smell of sweat and sex on him. She breathes in a little more.

“You’re wearing me out.” He whispers, making her chuckle lightly upon hearing it.

“How are you feeling? Everything okay?” He asks, his fingers lazily stroking her back, feels every bump of her spine.

“Yeah,” Y/N answers, and then sits up a little. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Making me come four times.”

He laughs at that and pulls her in for a kiss.

“Hold on,” He says and stands up, his hands supporting her around her waist and one hand on her ass.

“Where are we doing?”

“I was thinking about something involving you and me, a bathtub and a back rub.” He’s in the bathroom now, is kind of trying to turn on the faucet with her in his arm, shouts out Yahtzee when he succeeds and she’s laughing the prettiest of laughs he’s ever heard.

She’s sitting on the other end of the tub, holding out her foot and he massages her there, tickling her in between.

“How do you feel about going to a fundraiser?” He asks.

“I feel like I won’t like it.”

“What if I buy you a dress?”

She raises one eyebrow, “Do I have to?”

“Well, they actually know now that I have a girl and I have to bring someone?”

“You could go with someone who looks like me.”

Dean snorts out a laugh before he pulls her towards him, so that she’s sitting between his thighs. He hugs her from behind, drops his head on her shoulder. “Please?”

“Well, if you say please.” She tilts her head, kisses his temple. “When is it?”

“I think about a month's time, Crowley says he’s gonna send an invitation.”

“No, Crowley? Really?”

“Shush, he knows. He says that he thinks you were great with rejecting him.”

“You owe me.”

“Anything you want.”

When the water turns cold she turns around in his grip. “Do you have to be anywhere today?”

“No, I’m all yours.” He answers, and it’s true. He canceled every meeting just to be with her, knowing that she doesn’t have anywhere to go.

“Then, I think I know what we could do,” She’s grinning at him with that cocky smile.

Dean sighs, “Oh god, I hope it doesn’t involve sex. I’m too old and need more recuperation time.”

She laughs and kisses his nose, “Don’t worry old man, I was thinking that we could go eat out at Bobby’s?”

“How did I deserve you again?” He grins, and kisses her.

CH23

#something just like this #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester series #mobster!dean #nathalie writes

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pathetic-has-been-rockstar · 3 years

Text

The mistletoe conspiracy

Pairing: Crowley x reader, Dean x Castiel

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo

Square filled: mistletoe

Warnings: none

Words: 2763

This can be found on AO3, here! If you’re interested in the whole series, you just have to click here!

“You picked up new habits, uh?”

He looks confused for a moment, then he realizes that his hands are still signing something. He grins, definitely at ease. “Yeah... good ones, from time to time.”

“Yeah... anyway, creating the right circumstances cannot be seen as disqualifying.”

“You can't shove them together and tell me that it's not a manipulation!”

“You don't think you can conspire without your favourite demon, right?” Crowley's voice behind you makes you both spring and turn to him. “Guess I should have made myself heard.”

“Yeah, you should have” Sam deadpans, making Crowley grin.

“What were you discussing with such secrecy, then? I thought that with the new world order you finally realized the benefits of telling things. Are you feeling nostalgic already?”

Before Sam snaps, you explain to Crowley what's going on. If you didn't, he'd just keep tormenting you until he gets an answer, spoiling the whole thing.

Crowley thinks about it for a moment. “I want in.”

“It's not a pool, Crowley. And I wouldn't take money from you in any case.” Sam spits out, a sour look on his face.

“Come on Sam... what's the harm in letting him in?”

“Why is he still here again?” Sam asks you, definitely annoyed.

“Because I asked him.”

Sam manages to untie his tongue first, and gives you a knowing look. “Of course you did. Fine... mistletoe allowed, then, but no pushing, ok?”

“Yeah, got it.”

“What?” you snap, unable to stand the tension or his silence. He knows how to make you uncomfortable, and he enjoys it immensely, or so you think. The truth is a bit more shaded than that.

“Nothing. I just don't recall you asking me to stay.”

“Well... I called you, didn't I?”

“Yes, but...”

“And I asked you to... come pick up chestnuts with us, and you helped with the decorations, right?”

“Correct.”

“So... that settles it, I guess.”

While you walk away, Crowley follows you, once again, without even having to ask for it. He still looks like he's plotting something, and your curiosity can only be kept at bay for so long.

“What are you planning?”

“You know... there might be an easier way to convince Dean and Castiel to act on their ridiculous mutual pining and free us all from this tired show.”

“Of course you just happen to have a plan lying around.”

“You know me. Now... do you want to hear it, or the less you know about it the better?”

“What do you want in exchange?”

“Can we consider this your Christmas present?”

“... half of the revenue of your bet, then?”

“Half of my... what do you plan to do with twenty-five dollars?”

Crowley surprises you brushing the tip of his fingers on your cheek, closing in on you. “Do we have a deal?”

Without even talking, you nod at him. He leans closer to you, his grin impossible to ignore. You instinctively move closer to him, inhaling his scent and trying not to gulp, but he draws back.

“Good. I'll see you later, love.”

“What? I thought you'd help me!”

“I will, I keep my word. Do your thing, I'll do mine. Oh, and... tell the kid. I'm sure he'd like to be involved.”

“So... do you think it's going to work?”

“Oh. So... what shall we do now? Just... sit here and wait?”

“Well... Crowley has a plan for this, too. I think it's fair to assume that tonight we're going...”

“Crowley's plan?”

“You heard how pissed he is? Of course it's Crowley.”

“Crowley, if you don't take this thing off I'm ganking you, I swear to God.”

“God is dead, Squirrel, and your ex girlfriend is hands off, remember?”

Dean lunges at Crowley, who simply moves aside, avoiding the assault. “You know, it really goes well with your eyes.”

“Alright, listen here you son of a bitch. Now you're gonna take this off, or I'm ripping your head off.”

“Now, Squirrel. That's not really in holly jolly spirit, is it?”

“Y/N, this is entirely your fault for bringing him here.”

You openly laugh at him. “I don't know, Dean. I think it gives you the right touch of holiday spirit.”

“Take this thing off or so help me!”

“What's going on?”

“That damn bastard stuck this stupid thing on my head and it won't come off!”

“I see. How?” Castiel asks Crowley, who just smirks.

“It does come off, actually. You just need to respect tradition. It's magic, so I wouldn't waste grace on it.”

“What?” Dean seems shocked at the idea, and looks at you, awkward and angry. “Well, after all you brought him here...”

“Crowley, I swear.”

Castiel sighs and looks at Dean. A surreal silence falls on all of you, while you all try to anticipate what's going to happen and simultaneously look away. Well, except Crowley, of course.

“Come on, Feathers. Your protégée is under the spell of an evil demon. Your action is needed.”

“He's right. This is magic.”

“Yeah, Cas, we established that already.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

He leans in, moving closer to Cas, who just stays still, the faintest hint of an understanding smile pursing his lips.

“Next time you want to practice magic, I suggest you involve a willing participant.”

“That didn't go too bad, didn't it?” he remarks with a very satisfied grin on his lips.

“Thanks, kitten. To what shall we toast?”

“To another one of your brilliant plans, I'd say.”

“And to you winning a bet.”

You smile and click your glass against his one. “Cheers to that!”

You smile, happy to see Dean and Castiel finally acting on their feelings. It was long due, and the idea of Crowley, despite being really simple, was exactly what was needed.

You are so focused on finishing your scotch that you don't notice Jack walking away, leaving you two alone.

You feel the weight of his stare on you, and turn to look at him with a curiosity so innocent that he can't hold back a smile.

“What is it, Crowley?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were... looking at me. I thought you wanted to tell me something.”

He shrugs, taking your empty glass from your hands and setting it down next to his one. “I appreciate beauty. Is it so strange?”

“And you look at me?”

His smile doesn't dim while he answers you. “Where else?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Make me?”

You laugh, awkward. He always finds a way to keep you on your toes, and he surely has no will to be subtle about it... but that's him. That's the demon you grew to care for, definitely too much.

Just when you are finally about to take a step back, something brushes the top of your head. You curiously look up, just to see a small branch of mistletoe floating midair.

“Crowley?”

“Not my doing, kitten. Maybe someone is expecting you... us to follow tradition.”

“I...”

He moves as close as possible to you, stopping just a second before touching your lips. “God, you're beautiful.”

You close the distance between you and smile against his lips. You smile for everything: his words, his hand on your cheek, the warmth of his soft lips.

He kisses you gently, without hesitation or rush, savoring the moment and your taste on him.

When you finally break the kiss, you rest your forehead against his one, grinning. “How's that for tradition?”

“I'm sure we can do better than that.”

“You know... I've heard the naughty list is incredibly funnier than the nice one.”

“I'd be a lousy demon if I couldn't move you there.”

You giggle and peck his lips, taking his hand and heading to your room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading!

I truly hope you enjoyed this little story. Every kind of feedback is very much appreciated, just as much as likes and reblogs!

Please, do not repost or copy my works or part/s of it, not even if you give credits.

Forever tagging @raspberrymama <3

#spn #spnchristmasbingo #canon divergent #crowley x reader #crowley x fem reader #dean x castiel #christmas fluff #spnfic #spn fic #writers on tumblr #fanfic #fluff

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zmediaoutlet · 4 years

Text

in support of wildfire relief, @candybarrnerd donated $20 and requested Dean/Crowley. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Crowley comes back to the hotel room early, or early at least for his new companion. When he opens the door it's eleven in the morning and it's dark, inside, the curtains heavy and mostly-drawn, and the reek—

"Good heavens," he says, and there's a masculine groan from the bed. "Could you at least have them washed, first?"

He flicks the switch and the lamp by the television comes on. The television which is—smashed, the First Blade thrown through the screen and sticking absurdly out of the shattered glass. Excellent. In the bed there's a tangle of sheets and bodies, and he comes and stands at the foot with his hands in his suit pockets, mild interest on his face. His new Knight sits up, yawning. "I was sleeping, you know," Deanna says, and Crowley can very much see that.

The boys she's picked up look worn out. One redhead with ridiculous muscles, one tall brunet—oh, that's obvious, dear—both clearly trying to sleep through interruption, like they're hungover and fuck-exhausted. Probably both true. Crowley looks over both of them. Decently attractive, decent cocks, but neither of them quite a match for her. She sinks back onto her elbows, giving Crowley a considering look. "What have you been up to, anyway? You bailed on me at the bar."

Crowley pushes one bare male foot out of the way and sits on the end of the bed. "I do apologize, darling. Hell had some business that needed doing."

Deanna rolls her eyes. "Business," she says, and drops fully back to the pillows, stretching. "Boring. This is why I have to make my own fun."

"So I see," he says, smiling at her, and then he whacks the redhead on the thigh. "Up. You've done your duty. Get out."

Another groan, but they do wake up, and don't seem surprised to see him. They roll painfully to their feet, dredge up jeans and shoes, smile awkwardly but a little fearfully at Deanna before they go. She tucks a hand behind her head, waves at them, and they scuttle out like they're making an escape.

"What do you do to the poor things," Crowley says.

Deanna smiles at him slow, dangerous. "Oh, like you don't know," she says, and Crowley's very old, and very bad, and he's fucked nastier, crueler things than her, and even so that smile makes something warm swirl, in the corroded pits of him.

She's naked and doesn't care, because she doesn't care about much, anymore. It's thrilling, after all those years of her trussed up in that ridiculous flannel, her hair tied practically back in a ponytail or a plait, clunky boots and a bitchy expression. Now—she arches her back, turns onto her side, and it's all that clear golden skin, unmarked by anything but unexpected spatters of freckles, here and there—on the small of her back, where her body arrows down to that perfect fat arse—and, of course, her mark. The thing that makes her dangerous. Crowley smiles to himself, looking her over. Like she wasn't dangerous already.

"You want to take a picture?" Deanna says, propping her head on her hand. As though Crowley hasn't already. "It might last longer."

"Now, darling," he says, and dares to set his hand on the delicate bone of her ankle. "You'll last forever, you know that perfectly well."

She sweeps her eyes down to evaluate his hand, but apparently the flattery was just enough and she smiles, too. "Hm," she says, and sits up, and shakes her hair back over her shoulders. "Well, immortal or not, I want breakfast."

"Anything," Crowley says.

She rolls her eyes. "I know," she says, and pulls her foot out of his reach, but she leans forward, hands planted on the bed so her shoulders curve in, her tits pushed forward, tempting. "Because you're spoiling me, aren't you? Kinda obvious."

He shrugs one shoulder. "So I'm obvious. You're the most precious thing in my kingdom. You get what you want."

Deanna clucks her tongue, eyes going sarcastically wide. "Lucky me," she says, but Crowley's had enough experience with her over the last month to know that she enjoys it, vile hedonist that she is.

She gives him her breakfast order and he calls it down to room service, watching her go over to the window, pull open the curtain to look at the morning. "As quick as though your life depended on it," he says, to the hapless operator, and she smiles over her shoulder at him. In the light she's haloed, delightfully ironic. When he hangs up he says, "What would you like to do today, my dear?" and she says, sweeping the curtains wider, "That's for me to know," and, predictably, "for you to find out."

Not as clever as she thinks she is, but her power's such that it doesn't quite matter. Crowley's stuck here with her until he can work out a way to manipulate her into something more useful. She draws a bath, bubbles and all, and when the room service arrives he carries it in and she eats, rather disgustingly, there in the water—bacon, a burger, chips with enough salt on them that it must sting, but she groans at how good it all tastes, so he supposes it doesn't matter. When she's done with the bath she stands up, dripping everywhere, and puts her hands on her hips, and screws up her mouth. "Wash my hair," she says, thoughtlessly demanding, and Crowley says, "Of course," and strips down, and turns on the shower, and when it's hot enough to blister living skin he holds out his hand and she walks across the tile and steps under the stream, and sighs blissfully as the suds still clinging to her skin wash away, and he stands behind her and goes to work, massaging her scalp, letting the heavy weight of her hair turn to wet silk under his hands, servile as a maid, doing what his Knight desires.

Like this, Deanna's a contradiction. Infuriating, a little stupid, satisfied by dumb physical pleasure. Not, in those ways, so different from her human self. What he hadn't expected was this strange descent into—girlishness. When the soul corroded, what was left tended to be cruelty, inventive meanness, power-hunger, but then that was after a good, long bit of endurance on the rack as the humanity was carved away, slice by slice. Deanna's change was instant. Human one moment, demon the next. What's left is certainly cruel when it suits her, but what intrigues Crowley, what's keeping him indulging her whims beyond his need for her power, is how she has utterly rejected the constraints she put herself under, when she was simply Deanna Winchester, daughter of John, big sister to Sam, hunter who put the fear of god into monsters and demons alike. He'd expected fucking and drugs, random murder and a lack of empathy, and he'd gotten all of those—he hadn't expected her to demand a trip to a fancy salon for a two thousand dollar haircut, or shopping for lingerie that made his unbeating heart throb to see her in it, or wanting to be—pampered. Treated like a precious jewel. Something she couldn't accept, from her brother's hands. Something she hadn't known, before, how to ask for.

He works the conditioner through, carefully. It's the one the terrified stylist had recommended, and so Crowley had bought it for her, of course. "That'll have to sit," he says, and Deanna sighs, arching into him like a pleased cat. He smiles, kisses her wet shoulder. "I suppose I'll entertain you, shall I?"

"I suppose you shall," Deanna says, so he twines her hair up into a sloppy knot at the base of her neck, and turns her around under the water, and she smiles at him indulgently when he goes to his knees on the cold tile. "Mm. I like you from this angle."

He lifts one of her thighs over his shoulder, kisses the soft inside. "I do live to please," he says, and she cups the back of his head, and when he licks into her cunt it's a soft, sweet heaven, just enough salted tang to make his lips burn. She balances easily, her body perfectly under control, and he cups her arse and settles in, licking deep, nosing her clit, spreading her. Slight taste of spunk from the boys who had her during the night and he imagines what it must have been like—her egging them on, vicious and cute by turns. They might've had her mouth, her cunt, her arse—both at once, perhaps, while she gripped their hair and told them that if she didn't come, they'd be sorry. She killed one man for that, early on, and Crowley had ordered the body removed and soothed her pout and said, darling, if you'd like to come, all you need to do is tell me. It was the first time he'd licked into her when there was blood on her hands but not the last, but it felt right, like that. Centering her in the things that mattered: death and pleasure, what her existence would be, free from conscience and second-guessing.

She comes beautifully, pushing into his mouth and pulling at the back of his hair hard enough that it hurts. "Oh, good," she sighs, and he suckles at her clit a little longer, until it must be oversensitive and throbbing, but she just humps against his face and laughs, pleased. "Overachiever."

He tips his head back, smiles up the expanse of her belly. "Always, my dear," he says, and she rolls her eyes and pushes his face away, and so he stands up, uncoils her hair, rinses it to softness under the water. When they're done she yawns, and he says, "Nap?", and she nods and walks naked and wet back to the bed and flops down, luxuriating.

"Get me off again," she says, and so he sits beside her and slots two fingers inside her cunt, and massages her to a second orgasm while she does absolutely nothing to help, and she drifts off with him still inside her, her damp hair a river of golden-brown on the white pillow, her lips softly parted, utter confidence in every line of her.

He rolls his thumb over her swollen clit, idly, just enjoying the slickness on his fingers, the easy response of her body. This girl. It had been a mistake, he'd thought, when he heard that Michael's vessel had been born female. The apocalypse thwarted, all those centuries of careful planning all ruined. Still, Lilith and Azazel did their parts, and when Sam was born it was thought that it would all work out—a victory for Hell, when Lucifer broke free and took what was his. Crowley watched, waiting, working his way up the ranks. When Deanna came to hell Alastair worked her hard, vicious, and Crowley had come and watched, of course—they all had, all of them with rank high enough—and she screamed, and broke, and when she stood under Alastair's proud hands and picked up the razor for the first time, Crowley didn't think he'd ever seen anything so perfect. He'd looked at her eyes, though, rather than what her hands were doing, and he'd seen something—a flicker. A hope. Alastair hadn't paid attention, glorying in his victory, and Lilith was focused on the work of the seals, now that the first had been broken. It was only Crowley, there, looking into Deanna's eyes, who saw what could be.

He makes calls, while she sleeps. His majordomo frets at him, tediously. He arranges for a clue to be dropped, to have some lackeys of Abaddon's find the hotel. She'll kill them, like she's killed all the others, and that'll be one more problem solved—two, in that it'll entertain her. He hadn't expected, when he retook his throne, how much of his time would be spent on entertaining someone who was, technically, his subject.

Deanna wakes up slowly, in the early evening. Crowley's sitting at the side of the bed, waiting for her. "Mm," is the noise she makes, and he raises his eyebrows, indulgent and curious. "We should have fun, tonight."

"What sort of fun?" he says. He slips his hand over her belly, where it's slightly soft. Too many years of burgers.

"I want—" she starts, and hums, thinking. "Music. Beer."

"Done," he says, and she grins at him, and then snakes a dangerously strong hand around his wrist, squeezes. He looks down at that, and back up at her face, and says, dry, "Unless you'd like something else, first."

"Ooh, see, I knew you were smart," she says, and he sighs but shifts around, on the bed, and settles between her open thighs, and she's still soft and a little wet and he pushes his fingers in and applies his tongue to her clit and gets her off twice, that way, insistent and hard. Easy, when one doesn't require breathing.

After the second she's loose, happy. Her thighs sprawl wide, her cunt open and dripping-wet. He drags his fingers down and plays with her asshole, and she allows that, and when he pushes his fingers in past the tightness she arches her hips into it, and so he fingerfucks her idly that way for a while, flicking his tongue against her clit and ignoring her relentless cunt.

"You'd just do anything, wouldn't you?" she says, dreamy. "Always taking care of me, Crowley."

"Of course, darling," he says, lifting his head, and she's looking down at him, from her place in the pillows. She's pinching one nipple, the skin red and hurt-looking; her other hand's tucked behind her head, and it shows off the mark on her arm. His eyes are drawn to it, always.

It's beautiful, on the pale soft skin. Viciously red, as red as her hurt nipple or her used cuntlips, swollen and sore. All the corruption in her stemming from that point. "My eyes are up here," she says, amused, and he looks up to find her smiling oddly soft, her teeth set gently in her lower lip.

He slips his thumb up through her slick to sink into her cunt, squeezing her inner wall between his fingers. She shifts her hips, spreads her thighs a little wider. She says, idly stroking the underside of her tit, "I want your dick," and that's—a rarer pleasure. He hadn't much indulged, before her. She says, "I want you to come in me," and that certainly won't be a problem. She says, "I want it slow," and that's—

He moves up between her legs. She's still sprawled, watching him, eyes a little sleepy. His vessel has a cock big enough to please, he made sure of that when he chose the poor bastard, and he's certainly hard now, after this long of playing with her body. He teases the tip over her clit and watches her eyes flutter, and drags it through her split wet and teases at her entrance, threateningly thick. "Don't fuck around," she says, and he laughs and says, "Sorry, darling," and pushes inside, and she's as deliciously wet and hot as she is on his fingers or tongue, just the right amount of tight, and he gathers her thighs up around his waist and tips her into the angle that'll be best for her, and rogers her slowly, deep, crushing his cock all the way to her cervix and watching her face flinch with it before he pulls back, does it again, and again.

"Good," she sighs, and he dips his head, kisses her collarbone, dips lower and kisses the top of one full sweet breast. She settles her hands on his shoulders, oddly light, and he doesn't change his pace but pushes in harder, and she makes this little gulping sound and so he knows to keep that strength. She's stronger, but he's not weak, and he can please her, tweaking her body to do his bidding at least with this, if with little else.

It's not just her body he knows how to work, though. "Do you want more, darling," he says, softly, and she groans and says, "Fuck, Crowley—god, yeah, yeah—" and he says, dragging his lips up to the tender skin by her ear, "Do you want it to hurt, darling," and she fucks her hips back against him and he goes a little faster, rougher, sawing in, knowing his dick's thick enough that it does hurt, enough for her to feel it the next day, to make her soiled soul reach in and heal it for her, and he slips a hand down between them and rubs her clit, slippery but rough, and her hips buck and she wraps her legs around his back, demanding, and he lifts on one hand enough to see her eyes closed, chasing her pleasure, and he says, looking at that pretty face, "You want me to fuck you like Sammy would, don't you," and she practically growls and says yes, deep in her chest, and he gathers up her hips and nails her hard, and she arches and moans and says like that, like that, which of course he knows because he watched them, together, over and over, Sam's big body braced over hers, their heads close together, their hands twined, their stupid, connected souls trying to get closer, any way they could. He finds her hand, laces their fingers together and pushes them down into the bed, and she starts to come then, her breath quick and high, and he fucks her through it, her body seizing around him, wanting—not him. Wanting something else.

When he comes, as he's been required to do, he pushes it deep inside her. It gushes up, spilling against her womb, filling. He's used to orgasm but still, with her quivering all around him, it feels good—better, almost, than the human blood had—and he groans and holds and then bends his head and applies his mouth to her mark, where her forearm's pinned to the bed—gets the swollen heat of it under his tongue, the skin bitter, there. Bitter.

She breathes under him, allowing it until she doesn't. "Get off," she says, and he lifts his head, licks his lips. Shifts his hips and drags his cock out of her tightness, and sits back on his knees between her legs. She drips, and slides her fingers down to tuck them inside, pushing his semen back inside herself, her eyes distant. This, too. Familiar. When Sam pulled away, that last time, distressed and disgusted and not forgiving her—he went to clean up, and she watched him go and tucked her hand down, like if she kept the warmth inside it was like keeping him, too.

Deanna's eyes refocus, after a moment. "I want steak for dinner," she says.

Crowley laughs, and climbs off the bed. A snap of his fingers and he's clean, and he redresses while Deanna's still holding onto the strange echo of a lived life. He wonders if she even realizes what she's doing. He nods at her, naked on the bed. "I love you exactly as you are, darling, but you might need to put on at least a scrap of fabric so as not to alarm the waitstaff."

"Lame," she says, but rolls up to her feet, and goes to the pile of random clothes she's accumulated from his indulgences. She selects a black bra, and drops a dark blue dress over her head that she snaps her fingers for Crowley to zip for her, and no panties. She will almost certainly fuck the bartender in the bathroom, before the night's over. She tosses her hair back and doesn't bother with makeup, not that she needs it, and rips the First Blade out of the television and tucks it into the thigh sheath she adores. Easy access. "Okay," she says, impatient, like it's wasn't her who wasted half the day with fucking. "Are we going, or what?"

The Impala reeks as much as the room did, but less of spunk and more of cigarettes, spilled beer, grease. He sits in the passenger seat—Sam's seat—and watches her drive. The Rolling Stones, loud, on the tapedeck. She cranks it louder when Paint It Black comes on and grins, and says, "God, this rocks, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," he says, and gets her grin aimed his way, and thinks, there'll be the murders tonight, of Abaddon's boys, and there'll be music, and there'll be steak, and she'll fuck and kill and have fun, and really, the longer they go, the farther from Sam, the more she's his. One day, he thinks. She'll kneel for him. His Knight. For now—he texts a lackey and gets them a table, at the restaurant she's aiming for, and he relaxes back into the filthy vinyl seat, and thinks about diamonds.

#fffr #candybarrnerd #dean/crowley #wincest #genderswap #my writing #always-a-girl-dean #conduit sex #...sorta #either way crowley's catching feeeeels

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lazywitchling · 4 years

Text

Dabbler’s Week - research proposal edition

I say “Research proposal” because this isn’t so much going to be what I’d ACTUALLY use as a guide, it’s just the STRUCTURE I’d use to write the guide, and why I chose what I did. For a little background on what the hell is going on, see @asksecularwitch‘s post here.

Monday - Spellwork

What: A simple candle-and-petition-paper spell. Dabbler chooses what they want, but with the instruction that it is straightforward, specific, and tangible. The Drake-Meme format would be: “I want to increase my wealth” ✋ - “I want ten bucks in the coming week” 👈 The spell is written out exactly as performed, really hand-holdy, Do This, Then This, Next This, Finally This.

Why: Look, if I were brand new and gonna pick a “dabble in witchcraft for a week” thing, I’d want to start out doing some effin’ witchcraft. So we’ll start with casting a spell. It’s written super hand-holdy because at the beginning, you really just want some step-by-step instructions on what to do. Also a week is a good time frame to give a spell, and casting it at the beginning gives it a chance to manifest by the end of the week. And FURTHERMORE, it’s a surprise tool that will help us later...

Tuesday - Cleansing a Space

What: Dabbler picks out a space to cleanse, told that the space they choose will be made into a sacred space tomorrow. They will play music of their choosing (with a few suggestions to get them started, just so nobody’s floundering, aka “relaxing yoga music, or something loud and peppy, your favorite childhood song, a meme song that makes you laugh, etc.”) while they also mundanely clean the space.

Why: Cleansing is one of those Cornerstone Witchy Things that everyone talks about offhandedly, like “cleanse your space after this spell”, and giving the Dabbler a simple way of doing that is a good first tool to have in their bag. Music is freely available, and it’s customizable, and playing music while doing a mundane cleaning associates the Magical Cleaning with the Mundane Cleaning in their mind, so they get a sense of “clean vibes” as related to “clean space”. Sidenote: the space can be a shelf, a box, a corner of the room, whatever. Might have some notes in there about other things they can add to their cleansing, like the usual magical washes or sprays, lighting a candle, or whatever. Nothing too complicated at this point, though, we’re still taking baby steps.

Wednesday - Creating a Sacred Space

What: The Dabbler picks out items they already have on hand to create a sacred space in the area that was cleansed the day before (the shelf, box, corner, whatever). Sacred here meaning “Set apart; special”, not necessarily “holy; religious”. Dabbler is encouraged to decorate and arrange things until they feel it has the proper vibe.

Why: This is to encourage the Dabbler to think about the mundane things around their own home, and how those things can be magical just by Deciding That They Are. The idea is not necessarily to create an Altar, though it can also work as practice for that should the Dabbler later choose to have one. In my own practice, I don’t have a permanent Sacred Space, because it doesn’t really fit what I do or how I live. But I tried making some when I first started, and I think it was an important learning point. Now, when I feel that I DO need a sacred space, I’m able to whip one up with whatever is around, and I think that’s a great skill to have. It’s helpful to know and feel what “Sacred” or “Special” feels like to the individual, what it takes for you to really vibe with a space or setting. My spaces are more about reining in my hyperactive brain and creating a boundary for it to focus on, not about creating a holy circle of ground, but I know what that distinction feels like BECAUSE of the times I dabbled in creating sacred spaces. This is when your brain gets to learn what It’s Witchin’ Time feels like.

Thursday - Herbal Correspondences

What: The Dabbler goes to their own kitchen or garden and picks out three spices, herbs, and/or flowers (that they 100% know what they are). At this point, it isn’t necessary to actually gather them, just to write down what is easily accessible at that moment. They then check out the Wikipedia article on their chosen herbs, and build their own correspondence list from that article.

Why: “Whoa whoa whoa, Jes, why are you suggesting Wikipedia??” Oh easy. Because it’s accessible, it’s free, and it’s not witchy. Wikipedia gets a bad rap as a resource for a variety of reasons, but for what it does, it does well. It’s an encyclopedia, so it is by nature a surfacey resource. That’s okay. That’s all we need right now. Instead of googling magical correspondences of cinnamon and finding 1000+ lists that all copied from a copy of a copy of a copy of Crowley and then not knowing WHY that thing has that correspondence, the Dabbler is going to learn to make their own by starting a (very basic) relationship with that herb. Example: I was trying to research magical correspondences of base oils, but everything I found was one-word answers, most of which was “fertility”. Which was... entirely not helpful. So I set out to make my own. Specific example: I looked into castor oil (according to “magickal” sources, it’s correspondence is simply “protection”), but my mundane research taught me that it’s been used for hydraulic and brake fluids, used in food preservation, sold as a laxative, and historically has been used as torture and humiliation (with the laxative effect, I’m sure you can figure out exactly how). Well NOW we’re getting somewhere, because now I associate it with “getting things moving”, whether in a negative or positive way. Having the Dabbler learn to do mundane research like this helps strengthen their relationship with what they use, teaches them that they can research their own materials without needing another Witch (or an Amazon Lisa) to do it for them, and teaches them that they can use what they have on hand rather than consulting a magical list of things they don’t have and wondering where the hell they’re supposed to buy white willow bark.

Friday - Divination

What: The Dabbler will gather small trinkets that they already have and collect them in a box or bag. They then ask questions (possibly with the aid of a list of suggested questions?) and draw a trinket (or cast a couple, if they’re feeling adventurous!) and interpret.

Why: I love Tarot as much as the next witch, but it’s not always practical for the starting witch. And in my experience, I can be dragged just as hard by my trinkets as I can by my traditional tarot decks. Gathering trinkets is (again, as you’re starting to see a theme, I hope) a way to use what is already on hand. And after the Wikipedia exercise from the previous day, the Dabbler should have a little bit of practice in thinking about associations. The action figure their nephew left at their house can mean “lost” but it can also mean “found”, or it’s Spiderman and means “responsibility” or Wonder Woman means “truth”, etc.

Saturday - Crafting a Charm

What: The Dabbler will create a simple charm (most likely a protective one, but I’m not married to the idea). They’ll use their own skills to hand make something tangible, however simple it may be. Could be crafting a keychain using their beading skills, or embroidering a small design onto their jeans pocket, or as simple as wrapping a colored thread around a ring they wear. Whatever it is, it will be a thing that they make with their hands.

Why: We’re falling away from the railroad guidelines at this point in the week, and encouraging the Dabbler to start thinking on their own about what they can do. There’s still suggestions so they don’t get totally lost, but it’s far less hand-holdy than the first spell of the week. With two whole exercises about thinking through associations of things, hopefully they can start to come to conclusions on their own (”You know, I think I’ll hang a safety pin from the keychain, because that just Feels Right to me” or “This string should be blue, because that’s the color of my protective gloves at work”). And the second purpose of the charm is... it’s a tangible thing. It’s a souvenir. If at the end of the week the Dabbler decides that they had fun but witchcraft isn’t for them, cool. But maybe three years down the line, they find that keychain they made during Witch Camp Week, and they think “Oh hey, I remember doing that...” and perhaps it comes to them at exactly the time they need it and they decide to pick it up again. (Or they find it and go “lol that wasn’t for me” and chuck it in the trash. Failure is always an option!)

Sunday - Spellwork Redux

What: Get in losers, we’re casting the same spell again. Well, not the SAME spell, but the same sort. That candle spell from the beginning of the week? The Dabbler will now repeat it with similar purpose. BUT, this time they are to modify the spell somehow. Even less guidelines here now. Maybe they want to perform the spell in their sacred space. Maybe they want to cleanse before performing it. Maybe they want to sprinkle some herbs on the candle, or steep some herbs in hot water and use a brush to write on the paper. Whatever they do is theirs to decide.

Why: EXPERIMENTATION. Really, how often do any of us see a cool spell and then perform it EXACTLY AS WRITTEN? I don’t know about you, but I always always always have to modify it somehow, whether it’s to fit what I have, fit my paradigm, or just because personalization is important in my craft. Redoing the spell with a little bit of tweaking means the Dabbler gets to close off the week with a little more of that Witches Casting Spells stuff that they probably expected, but with a chance to see how they can change it now, how they can make it more suited to them, or how they think it might work better. Maybe it will work better. Maybe it will be worse. Either way is a result.

Conclusion - or the TL;DR

Guidelines at the beginning of the week, transitioning to more creative freedom by the end of the week. Heavy encouragement of using what’s freely on hand and easily accessible, rather than buying specialty materials that may or may not be helpful or ever used again (not to mention could be hella expensive). Some spells, because let’s be honest, some people just really really want the spellz. And mundane research, because it’s too often neglected even among the veteran witches.

#long post #dabbler's week #asksecularwitch

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ineffably-good · 4 years

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Prompt: Road Trip

Summary: A look at three memorable road trips over the course of an ineffable friendship.

This is part of the Good Omens 30th Celebration Prompts - see all of the ones I’ve completed on AO3.

---

Outside Thebes, 1500 BC

“Imagine running into you here!” a familiar voice said on the docks of the Red Sea port of Elim, in the kingdom of Egypt.

Crawly blinked and turned around, trying hard to not show how much he wanted to kneel down and kiss the ground, now that he was back on dry land. “Angel!” he said. “Did you just arrive as well?”

“I did, yes,” the angel said, peering at him closely. “You look a little green around the gills, Crowley. Are you all right?”

“Oh,” the demon demurred, trying to be cool. “You know. Boats and me. I’m fine!” He waved a hand and swallowed hard, fighting a wave of nausea.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, not fooled in the least. “You’re headed for Thebes, I expect? Come travel with my group, I’ve got a camel just for you.”

“A camel!” Crawly said. “I’d prefer to walk, thank you.”

“You’re not walking from here to Thebes. It’s the desert. You’ll die.”

“Well then I’ll fly!” Crawly said. “I can wait until nightfall.”

Aziraphale made a face filled with compassion underlain by the tiniest bit of mockery. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Crawly!” he purred. “I didn’t realize you were afraid of camels! How foolish of me to offer. They are rather terrifying beasts, I can see how a demon would be put off by one. I’ll just see if I can arrange for you to be taken over on an ass, would that be better?”

Crawly rolled his eyes, his bluff having been successfully called. Now that the angel was calling him a coward, there was no way he was going to do anything other than ride a freaking camel from here to Thebes. How wonderful, to have a reputation to uphold.

This led directly to Crawly finding himself bumping and rolling along in a group of about twenty on the world’s surliest camel, several hours later, holding desperately to the saddle horn in front of him and trying to find a rhythm which did not exist in the animal’s god-forsaken gait. The camel was draped in blankets and tassels and other accessories which served to make it look cute and harmless, but its appearance didn’t match its demeanor. Every chance it got, it turned around and bared its teeth at Crawly.

Aziraphale pulled up next to him for long stretches of the journey, offering him encouragement and advice. “Try scratching behind her ears!” he shouted helpfully. “Isn’t the scenery gorgeous?”

Gorgeous, the demon thought sulkily. He tried Aziraphale’s suggestion and the camel turned around and tried to bite him, causing him to wobble and almost lose his seat.

The camel (whose name was Sheba, of all things) came to a dead stop and looked him straight in the eye, assessing something. Crawly frowned and concentrated, pulling up every ounce of demonic threat he possessed and allowing his eyes to darken to a gleaming red for a moment, trying to convey the sense of immediate damnation if the bloody ungulate didn’t pull itself into line and immediately. The tar pits of hell were perfectly sized to fit a few dozen camels, after all.

The camel was completely unimpressed. Hell didn’t frighten Family Camilidae – they had met demons before, and there wasn’t a demon among the bunch who didn’t find camels to be meaner, trickier, and less trustworthy than their fellow inhabitants of the lower circles. Most demons would rather be roasted on a spit than end up in a one on one fight with a dromedary, no matter what they were armed with.

Crawly kept up the glower and bravado for as long as he could, and was somewhat relieved when the camel broke the stare-off first. Had he won? He sat up straighter in his seat, pleased with his courage – he had won! He was fairly sure he had won.

The camel had other ideas, breaking free of the path and heading directly for the cliffside overlooking the Red Sea.

“’ziraphale!” Crawly shouted, losing all pretense of being in control of this situation as he held on for dear life. “She’s trying to murder me!”

The camel lopped along at a surprising rate of speed until he got directly to the edge, then skidded to a halt, performing a complicated bucking maneuver that sent Crawly flying over her neck and down over the edge of the ravine.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmured, calling the caravan to a stop. “Stupid Sheba! This can’t be good!”

He dismounted and ran to the edge, to look for his friend.

Crawly was alive, about 20 feet down on a small rocky ledge that had broken his long fall to the river. He waved a hand weakly at Aziraphale but seemed unable to get up from where he was lying, a cloud of dust around him obscuring the extent of his injuries.

Somehow his words drifted up to reach the angel’s ears.

“Bloody…. Camels…” he moaned. “Can’t anyone invent something better than this?”

Aziraphale put a slight miracle on the entire party, distracting them from what he was doing as he flew down to rescue his companion and “help” him back up to the party. Time to put Crawly safely on a litter and with a substantial pain block for the rest of the journey. Once they reached Thebes, he would nurse the demon back to health.

Scotland, 1730

Usually, Crowley and Aziraphale traded duties whenever they could when their assignments involved long stretches of travel, but sometimes they had no choice but to carry out their duties themselves, even if they were headed to the same area. And so they found themselves both called to Scotland, on their way to Edinburgh to attempt to influence a series of rich nobles to their own aims.

Nothing said they couldn’t travel together, though. They took a rough carriage as far as Northumberland, then were handed a set of fine horses by one of George II’s lords to take them the rest of the way.

“Can’t we just – you know, snap our fingers and show up in a nice, cozy inn in Edinburgh?” Crowley groused.

Aziraphale looked somewhat sympathetic. He wasn’t a huge fan of horses either, although he had to admit that having some extra padding in his hips and thighs probably made the ride a lot more comfortable for him that it was for a bony specimen like Crowley. And he did enjoy the fresh air and the scenery.

“I don’t think we should,” he said. “It would definitely draw the attention of Above if I miracled myself directly to the castle three days early. And then they might notice that I had a demon with me for the whole trip, which could lead to questions, and that could be –”

“Oh, all right, all right,” Crowley snapped, knowing he was right. He did, though, magic himself up a little extra blanket on top of the saddle of the large thoroughbred he was riding. She was a mare, high spirited and a lovely dark brown. Although better than a camel, she obviously objected to having a snake demon on her back, which she showed by rolling her eyes and wickering madly whenever he came to mount her, and then either plodding along at a maddeningly slow speed or racing at breakneck pace ahead. She outright refused to do anything Crowley asked, but would, infuriatingly, obey like a sweet little lamb whenever Aziraphale intervened.

The angel’s horse, a large chestnut stallion in fine form and fettle, gave him no trouble whatsoever. And don’t think that Crowley didn’t notice how smug Aziraphale appeared about this sometimes. He did. He filed each and every instance of smug away in his mental files, to be revenged upon later.

After the horse threw Crowley for the third time in three days, Aziraphale had to admit defeat. They were simply going to have to find another form of transportation before Crowley ended up discorporated on the side of the road.

“Shaddup, angel,” the demon said irritably as he picked himself up out of the ditch and brushed off a combination of sodden vegetation and rot. “It’s not my fault, she just hates me.”

The gorgeous mare stomped her front hooves and made a noise of agreement. She did hate him. She really did.

“I can see that,” Aziraphale said. “Shame, really, you and horses. They’re such a convenient way to get around.”

“For you, maybe.”

The angel moved to take the reins of both horses and began leading them down the road. “Can you walk, my dear?” he asked.

Crowley grunted his assent and began limping down the road, putting Aziraphale’s broad form between him and the animals. If he was lucky, they could make it to the next town without one of the horses kicking him in the head.

“Great,” he sighed. “Walking. Even slower and more tortuous.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said pleasantly. “I rather enjoy walking. And it’s only an hour or two until the next village. Then we will try to get you onto an ox cart or something.”

Crowley was not to be mollified. He leaned back and spread his arms. “Could someone please invent something to make these fucking horses obsolete?” he shouted at the sky. “I’d consider it a personal favor!”

London, 2020

Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop and, feeling insouciant, laid on the horn instead of going up to the front door to knock. He hopped out of the car and leaned against the bonnet, grinning broadly as Aziraphale appeared at the front door, frowning and looking affronted.

“Is this what we’ve come to now?” the angel asked acerbically. “The romance is over? No more coming in to greet me, you just blurt the horn until I come outside?”

Crowley grinned and produced a bag of pastries from behind his back.

“Oh, well then,” Aziraphale said with a wriggle. “You’re forgiven!”

“Let’s go for a drive, angel,” the demon said enticingly.

Aziraphale pretended indifference. “I’m not so sure about that, my dear,” he said. “You’re such a frightening driver, after all. Why would I want to do that?”

“There are three excellent reasons for you to go on a drive with me, angel,” Crowley said, his mood too perky for the angel’s game playing to make a dent. “Number one, it’s a beautiful day! Number two, I know an excellent place in the country where we can get crepes, about two hours north of here. Right where that really interesting inn used to be in the 18th century – do you remember? Rosie and Violet and their roadside inn?”

Aziraphale cast back and encountered the memory of good stew, cool ale, and excellent company. “I do!” he said. “That was such a lovely place.”

“Well now there’s a restaurant there, same plot of land. Shame you’ve never been there,” the demon said coyly. “Should really do something about that.”

“And reason three?” the angel said, smiling.

Crowley walked over and swung open the passenger door. “Reason three? It’s a CAR. An automated vehicle with horsepower but no horses!” He gestured at the leather interior. “Sitting comfortably, a tin of biscuits in your lap, while we zoom through the countryside with nothing to bite you or buck you or try to kill you with its bad temper?”

“Crowley, my dear, you know I’ve seen your car approximately a thousand times before,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Shaddup, I’m having a moment here!” Crowley said. “Can’t we just stop and appreciate now and then that we are not on the back of animal when we have to get from point A to point B?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I see you woke up in quite a mood today.”

Crowley grinned at him. “Get in the car, angel. Places to go, people to see.”

Aziraphale stopped feigning resistance and allowed himself to be ushered into the car, his door to be carefully shut behind him, and his seat belt to be adjusted for maximum comfort. The demon was in rare high spirits, and he wasn’t truly going to resist participating in them for anything in the world.

#goc2020 #good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #camels hate crowley #even more than horses do

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focusfixated · 4 years

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fic rec post: bookmarks of 2019

hooo boy i really got through some fandoms this year. from right-on-time fandoms that i got to partake in as they were happening (good omens) to years-too-late fandoms i only just discovered (hannibal), there have been some real outstanding things to read from authors across multiple fandoms and genres.

i’ve put together a list below of some of the fics I bookmarked to my ao3 this year - some were written in 2019, some are older than that, but all of them left their mark on me these past 12 months.

i haven’t listed and reviewed every single story i have bookmarked this year, or else i’d be composing this post for weeks, so i’ve also put quick links at the end to other recs that you can find on my ao3 if you wish to peruse.

here’s the list, arranged by fandom, chronologically in the order i read them:

fandom: dirk gently’s holistic detective agency

interrogation by goingtoalaska – @holistick on tumblr

rating: G

pairing: dirk/todd

summary: Of course Dirk has some extremely important questions that can only be asked in the middle of the goddamn night, obviously.

notes: one of those dialogue-rich, beautifully-crafted, one-shot fics that just perfectly exemplifies the form. i’m always impressed by authors whose strength is in funny, well-written dialogue. it’s really one of the most difficult things to master. this is a well-observed rendering of these characters subtly done through conversation. comical, sweet, quick-witted, lovely.

fandom: hannibal

consenting to dream by emungere – @emungere on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: will/hannibal

summary: a seduction through physical objects. It starts with a scarf loaned to Will on a cold day, but Hannibal, as usual, isn't satisfied with anything small.

notes: a perfectly-crafted slowburn sugar daddy AU structured around gifts and offerings that tangle hannibal and will gradually into an ever darker, more complicated, more intense relationship. this was one of those fandom-transcendent stories that was of such gripping quality, i read the whole story and its sequel without having any knowledge of the source material and went to watch the hannibal TV series entirely off the back of having read the fic.

it's honestly stunning how beautifully this is written. the consistent characterisation, the slow development and revelation of the dynamic between the hannibal and will, and the powerplay between them is so utterly compelling. i'm so fascinated and enthralled by the exploration of power dynamics, the shifting balance between what hannibal wants, and what he wants to give, and how will is both subsumed by his need to please and be cared for, and is at the same time motivated so strongly by the desire to see hannibal out of control.

everything is just so perfectly on a knife's edge at all times, it makes the development of their relationship throughout totally riveting.

the wave at morning by emungere – @emungere on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: will/hannibal

summary: post-fall, Will and Hannibal strike a new balance in their relationship.

notes: i have probably re-read this one more often than anything else this year. more of a collection of scenes that build up the picture of a relationship than a whole story, this nevertheless has such a raw intensity, it’s one of my favourite things i’ve ever read in any fandom. a concisely-observed exploration of a developing dom/sub relationship which is based on both a powerful sexual desire and a compelling, psychological push-and-pull dynamic between the characters.

masterfully-written and searingly hot, it hits emotional notes with such accuracy and economy, leaving all this imaginative breathing room around the scenes which are remarkably stimulating. desire comes off this in waves and is so worth waiting for.

also, read everything by @emungere. a stunningly talented writer.

fandom: legend

you’ll find it funny (when you’re looking back someday) by th_esaurus

rating: E

pairing: ronnie/teddy

summary: It was around this time that Teddy Smith began his nightly habit of leaning on the wall across the road from Esmeralda's Barn with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and the top two buttons of his baby-blue shirt undone. He'd a mole dead centre on his neck and tilted his chin back to show it off, waiting for someone to come by and offer him a match.

notes: after watching the film and being left disappointed that we didn’t get to properly explore any of the fascinating characteristics of ronnie kray, violent gangster and known homosexual, this fic was bang on.

an insight into the dangerous, volatile connection between ronnie kray and mad teddy smith, and a thrilling exploration of desire and power between two unstable men. every detail in this story was so keenly-observed and delicious to read. the writing had a poetic flow to it that i enjoyed immensely, and i read it back to back three times in a row, just trying to absorb everything on offer here.

fandom: rocketman

what if the birds aren’t singing, they’re screaming? by th_esaurus

rating: M

pairing: elton/bernie, elton/john

summary: He is spectacularly good at making music and spectacularly good at making mistakes.

notes: an angsty one, but such a satisfying read. so achingly full of feeling, the whole story simmers like the film's version of elton john does, with a kind of raging disappointment and dissatisfaction. there is such a vivid sense of place here, such beautiful descriptions of scenery, and every snap of elton's temper against the backdrop of these warm landscapes is so keenly felt. incredibly well-observed.

the pace and flow of it, too, the way the dialogue moves, the barbs and quips and the push-and-pull of the dynamic between elton and bernie, makes for such a compelling characterisation. there is a palpable agony in the unrequited love here that anyone would recognise. the whole thing is so well-drawn, so achingly hurtful, and utterly wonderful to read.

also, do yourself a favour and read everything th_esaurus has ever written, because it’s always incredible.

fandom: good omens

ad astra by drawlight - @drawlight on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: Some things can only be said in the dark.

notes: and so we come to the good omens portion of the evening. this has been an astoundingly creative and productive fandom to be a part of, and has been a really fulfilling, satisfying place to put a lot of feelings. there are so many brilliant stories i’ve read since getting into this fandom, it’s hard to pick a few, but i’ll start with this wonderful classic.

an incredibly-drawn portrait of the first tentative moments of something new. so beautifully full to bursting with images and ideas and feelings, so economic and poised in its language, it really sinks into the depth and detail of what makes these characters who they are, what draws them to each other, and it aches in the most heartfelt of ways.

the lightness of you by rend_herring

rating: E

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: God should not have built them with such discrepancy, made them need for love, and long for wholeness, then left them to their own devices.

notes: this is so wonderful. the tone, the pace, the way it moves so trippingly and joyfully from thing to thing, crowley's continual internal monologue which is absolutely charming and very endearing, the lightness of the humour and at the same time the depth and breadth of feeling in this, the very concept of love and what it means to have god's love, and the love of another to fill the void. this made me have such Feelings about crowley.

also likens an orgasm to the cosmic altering of the very universe and managed to make it feel both evocative and true.

bent to the very earth by ark – @et-in-arkadia on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: Use me, please, Crowley had said, so Aziraphale takes him at his word.

notes: a fantastic read. i am so absolutely here for the constant shifting dynamics between these two, the things you'd expect from angels and demons, and the circumventing of those expectations in aziraphale and crowley. all of it is absolutely delicious, so well-observed and beautifully-crafted.

written with all the humour and tenderness that makes them such enjoyable characters to read. also this is probably the key story that made me a fan of service top antony j. crowley now and forever.

lead me to the banquet hall by obstinatrix & wishwellingtons – @placetnemagistra and @scurator on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: Crowley loves taking Aziraphale out to eat almost as much as Aziraphale loves eating, but it's always a bit of a one-sided affair. Aziraphale has never understood why.

notes: this story destroyed every single one of my corporeal cells and projected my soul directly into the ether. incredible writing. it gives me such visceral delight to read a story that puts so much effort into its reference points - all these joyful, ornamental little sprigs of detail throughout that make this universe thoroughly lived-in and a delight to experience.

the way this story deals with food - it's exceptionally, viscerally erotic, but it symbolises so many things too; love, indulgence, pleasure, deprivation, guilt. all the things that food does represent, in our daily lives. but it's somehow heightened here, used as a turning point, a metaphor, a symbol. truly one of the best things i’ve ever read.

a bookshop is not a business by anactoriatalksback - @itsevidentvery on tumblr

rating: G

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: In which Aziraphale has no intention of selling books to anyone at all, let alone this infuriatingly persistent customer. No matter how nice his cheekbones are.

notes: absolutely delightful reading from start to finish. such a brilliantly witty tone, very pythonesque and also in keeping with the humour from the book, but also gives us all the added layers of gay disaster crowley and aziraphale from the tv series. i love every little detail in this, everything is just so well-crafted and funny, it’s really writing of the highest calibre. the back and forth of the dialogue between aziraphale and crowley is so enjoyable to read, with its quick, snappy, sparkling pace. wonderfully fluffy entertainment.

classics appreciation with a.j. crowley by yolkinthejump - @yolkinthejump on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: Aziraphale lays a temptation for Crowley. Literally: lays himself down and waits and asks for something without actually asking, as is his way. Crowley, as is his way, is happy to oblige.

notes: thorough filth of the purest kind. this is intensely gorgeous. the glorious mess of it, the physical love and joy and the depth of their need for each other just sings off the page. an ode to form, to the body, this leans into touch and physicality in such a powerful way, but maintains a poetry and lyricism which is lovely to read. aziraphale, in all his lazy luxury, and crowley, scattered and overcome – both of these characterisations were so on point. This is such a stand-out thing, decadent and intimate and so wonderfully-written.

the curious attractiveness of others by giddygeek - @giddygeek on tumblr

rating: T

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: “I’m rough,” Crowley argued. “A rough beast, and all that. Well,” he corrected himself, “an agent of the rough beast. Well, an associate. It’s all very complicated, as you bloody well know."

notes: a truly stunning piece of work that revolves around touch and the complicated sublimation of feelings that can’t be expressed. there is such a strong sense of character here, aziraphale's infinite softness in the face of crowley's wild, windmilling panic, and there’s a lushly detailed narrative full of little moments of humour that are a joy to read.

it’s a simple and beautiful expression of their relationship taking place inside a magical, miraculous world made up of mundane, ordinary things that are elevated by the author’s gorgeous narrative. there are so many stand-out moments in this; brilliant, sharp lines, beautifully executed, establishing both world-building and character-stuff in one, fluid motion. this is choirs-of-angels levels of wonderful.

it’s the beginning of a new age by fluorescentgrey - @yeats-infection on tumblr

rating: T

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: In August 1970, Aziraphale and Crowley attend one of the Velvet Underground's final shows at Max's Kansas City.

notes: reading this fic was like listening to a really beautiful song. the entire thing is just suffused with meaning and emotion, and there’s such a powerful evocation throughout of the feeling behind art and music and connection. It gave me shivers. there’s a weighty, beautiful power behind the words here, chosen so carefully to their greatest effect.

this fandom has some incredible, creative ways of evoking symbolism or finding parallels between religion or holiness or ecstasy of a sort with other earthly feelings (sex, desire, servitude, love) but since reading this i've not yet found such a stunning evocation of this feeling of connectedness drawn through music anywhere else. this is beyond a beautiful good omens story. this has made me project directly into emotional existentialism. also i fucking love the velvet underground.

gorgeous details, perfect turns of phrase that are so precise and ringing with humour. heavy with longing and nostalgia, a sense of time lost, change, uncertainty. this story is a goddamn piece of art.

de bono coniguali by ineptshieldmaid - @ineptshieldmaid on tumblr

rating: M

pairing: aziraphale/crowley

summary: ‘Nonsense,’ Aziraphale says, briskly, ‘Monogamy has nothing to do with it. We committed sodomy twice last Sunday.’ Crowley goes to speak, but Aziraphale is nothing if not skilled in rhetoric, and he holds up a hand, ‘which, of course, does not invalidate the sacrament; it’s rather like baptism, it can’t be reversed, but it can be defiled, and I think all authorities would agree that vigorous sodomy on Sundays defiles the sacrament of marriage.’

notes: there is a fascinating concept being explored, here, in the interpretation of religious doctrine, and about how to exist as a queer person while also being a member of a faith community. it digs into ideas of sanctity and absolution beyond the usual handwavey explanations of “goodness” and looks more deeply at what religion means, culturally, for the people who might have difficulty reconciling these different aspects of their identity.

it’s a really brilliantly-written thing. there is such an enjoyable precision to the ideas being shared through aziraphale and crowley’s conversation about religious doctrine and its application. there’s so much rich historical detail here, a neat, precise pacing of dialogue, and is full of smart, witty and interesting asides. this is a story in which the two have a very clear dynamic as established partners and lovers – their conversational back-and-forth is easy at times, and at others has to be carefully extricated, but always in a way that you can feel the years of connection there.

fandom: the goldfinch

A Grand Inquisition: Being an Investigation and Evaluation of Certain Things Done and Undone, Said and Unsaid, Over the Course of Many Years (or Perhaps Merely in Dreams) by m_leigh - @morgan-leigh on tumblr

rating: T

pairing: boris/theo

summary: what r u doing for Christmas this yr? Come hang with me again I have nothing going on but big as fuck bottle of vodka with as you people are saying, your name on it.

notes: this is how we wish the book had ended. reading this just absolutely floored me. the complexity of sentiments in this, the span of time and the emotions caught in it, the poetry! the boris-voice is spot on – dark, messy and crooked, while also having this kind of gamely, optimistic attitude, never lingering too long on what can’t be changed. fantastic characterisation.

the details in the landscape and scenery around within this story were also stunning - all these different places, antwerp, amsterdam, berlin, vegas. just absolutely wonderful. economic and evocative all at once. read it and then read it again.

the ledge by fluorescentgrey – @yeats-infection on tumblr

rating: M

pairing: boris/theo

summary: In the hotel elevator, he stared at himself in the endless mirror. Thin man (Bob Dylan chords) in black coat, with little white dog. His nose was red from coke. Eyes red from maybe something else.

notes: is it weird to cry because you love someone’s words so much? this story is like a peeling-off of layers of skin to get at all the grimy, glistening rawness of feeling underneath. reading this kind of hurts, because it focuses in on this relentless, wild careen into self-destruction, but it's more than just the subject matter that had me repeatedly covering my face and muttering ohmygod. it's the shape of this whole story, the form of it brought together exquisite writing which is unconscionably good.

every sentence flows into the next one with such precision and depth of meaning, making each next thing more compelling and subtly significant because of what came before. it's impossible to pick anything out, it feels like pulling a thread and the whole thing unravels, because everything is so closely-connected, so elaborately woven. there is an effortlessness to the detail in this, in the way we dip and weave through these seething, living landscapes, elevated by observations full of poetry and feeling.

this goes without saying probably, but please read everything fluorescentgrey writes.

fandom: inception

pants on fire by helenish

rating: E

pairing: arthur/eames

summary: "Ah," Yusuf says, lifting a reproving hand, "are we calling less than 24 hours of memory loss amnesia now?"

notes: finding new stories to read in throwback fandoms is such a joy. this one is absolutely outstanding. arthur and eames both find themselves experiencing bouts of amnesia, and the concept is used as a tool to explore how their relationship appears to each other without baggage or bias in such a brilliantly-executed way.

the character exploration here is incredible, breaking open the layers of complexity of arthur and eames’ feelings and desires with such deftness. the dialogue is also marvellous, so engaging, witty and heartbreaking in turn. just an incredibly-executed, extremely compelling story.

breaking and entering by resonant

rating: E

pairing: arthur/eames

summary: Eames is very good at pretending.

notes: if you’re going to rewatch the film, do yourself a favour and read this afterwards. there is such fantastic detail here, and such a strength of character development, the pacing feels wonderfully measured, the story so full of life.

this is the kind of story where the author has such an enviable talent for richly-detailed, well-researched background information. the jobs they’re running, the locations they end up in, and the smaller details too – the items in a room, the clothes they wear. the world that’s built around them is tangible, and the emotion it’s infused with is too.

part of this focuses on the idea that eames being the forger/pretender archetype means he has this kind of detached observation of the disparate elements of what he’s feeling, his default mode always set to pretending and going through the motions of something without understanding the truth of it, and although it was perfectly in-character for him, it also felt like an extremely universal and human way of fumbling into relationships, which made it very moving, and a wonderful thing to read.

fandom: harry potter

grounds for divorce by tepre – @tepre on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: harry/draco

summary: Malfoy finds a coin. Harry finds a letter. A story about histories, a story about families. A story about a lemon tree somewhere in Upper Egypt.

notes: jesus christ this story. the detail and care with which the world is coloured-in here is just incredible. the added lore, the historical detail, the characterisation of people in the background, the thought behind the practical aspects of things like the curses and spells, the modes of travel, the administrative set-up of ministry departments, the daily grind of work, the science of potion-making, everything is so thought-through, whether it's a deeply important and relevant part to the story, or a passing detail in the background it all serves to make this thing such a rich, unique, fully lived-in world that expands out to the edges and even further, like there's even more beyond just the bounds of what this story shows us.

this story takes us on a journey. i forget how good a good bit of angst can be, but this story reminds me of how enjoyable it can be to give yourself up to an author's hands, and let them take you somewhere dark and painful, let them unpick the misery, the hurt, the fear, the trauma, and lead you out into the light, into healing and resolution.

this story felt so starkly real, a deeper and more honest look at harry and the life he’s experienced than any bullshit nineteen years later epilogue ever did.

the weather inside by earlybloomingparentheses - @ebp-brain on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: remus/sirius

summary: Sirius rides a flying motorbike, and snogs strangers in pubs, and strikes moody poses Remus finds irritatingly attractive. But for Remus, who drinks milky tea and wears flannel pyjamas, there's a chasm cracked right down the fault line between wanting and doing. How he wants, though. How he wants.

notes: a vividly intelligent, compelling looks at remus' desires and fantasies, at the way he navigates his own understanding of what being a werewolf means, and how it shapes him. the queer themes here are starkly present, the weight and baggage of desire, the complexity of sexuality.

sharply melancholic at times, this is also a really lovely, deeply emotional look at the stumbling, difficult way remus and sirius eventually find a path to each other. it’s ultimately optimistic in its portrayal of love and desire, and the feeling that you can be understood, can be known, can be found. just beautiful, a real hard-hitter.

fandom: IT

how much more than enough for both of us by pineapplecrushface - @pineapplecrushface on tumblr

rating: E

pairing: richie/eddie

summary: Richie has tried very, very hard to get laid over the last twenty years, but something has always gotten in the way.

notes: your guess is honestly as good as mine as to how i ended up in this fandom, but here we are, and there are some truly wonderful stories to enjoy. this one is beautifully-written – the longing, the aching, the sadness, i could feel it in my bones. deals with the concept of forgetting, and supernatural horror aside, there's something really simple and human about this mortifying ordeal of going for person after person and fucking it up each time and sabotaging yourself in the search for love. well-written, lovely, simple, tender.

also you should really read everything by @pineapplecrushface - both their work in IT fandom and good omens is stunning.

things that happen after eddie lives by ifithollers

rating: E

pairing: richie/eddie

summary: in a world where Richie manages to save Eddie from It after the deadlights, they still have problems on their to-do list. Featuring everything from Derry to Los Angeles—Richie Tozier's murder trial, Eddie Kaspbrak's divorce proceedings, bedsharing of the platonic and non-platonic varieties, an investigation of magic, a truly disgusting séance, the quintessential morosexual road trip, and OH MY GOD THEY WERE ROOMMATES.

notes: this is top-tier, next-level, Good Shit. a real satisfying slow burn full of incredible, nuanced character stuff, high-stakes drama, trial & error, with a real, tangible move towards understanding, and maybe healing. plotty, narratively compelling, manages to balance real-world, atmospherically humdrum details with some viscerally brilliant and strange supernatural elements.

also a masterclass in exploring self-loathing, trauma, and sexuality in a way that is necessarily uncomfortable, and fascinating and cathartic. the razor-fine line of being paralysed into inaction by wrecking-ball levels of want was powerfully compelling to read both as a look at a particular kind of queer-baggaged desire, and also as an exploration of who these characters are.

full of smart, brilliant banter and dialogue, i am always overwhelmingly grateful to authors who have the talent and fortitude to tackle a novel of a fic, to give us this much wonderful, quality entertainment absolutely for free. what a gift.

the kids table by stitchy – @stitchyarts on tumblr

rating: T

pairing: richie/eddie

summary: For the most part Richie and his sister have a doctrine of mutually assured destruction. They could obliterate each other with their parents given the slightest provocation. To keep things at an even keel, they steer clear of each other as much as possible every other day of the year, but on Thanksgiving? Kids Table is like their NATO.

notes: an observation of how things change within families as time goes on - people die, people get married, people get divorced, the family dynamic changes, and there's always a really painful process of trying not to get left behind, trying to change with it, but also trying to hold on.

i’m recommending this one, but honestly, do yourselves a favour and read everything stitchy has written for this fandom. this one particularly stood out to me because i’m an absolute sucker for sibling fic, especially when it’s written like this; emotional, witty, astutely-observed, resonant.

the core of the sibling relationship between richie and his sister here is a joy to read. this is a lovely, humorous and emotional story told in a series of thanksgivings, filled with keenly-observed, vivid, details, and written in a really sharp, concise style that cuts clearly to the truth of a feeling. absolutely wonderful.

---

okay! that took forever. i hope someone finds something in there to enjoy they maybe haven’t read yet. and if you’ve got your own fic rec posts, please link me!

quick links to more recs:

good omens

harry potter

the goldfinch

hannibal

all other fandoms

#good omens fic recs #it fic recs #hannibal fic recs #the goldfinch fic recs #harry potter fic recs #roundup post #fic rec post #jesus christ this took me a long time to put together

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spooky-raccoon · 4 years

Text

Road Trip (Finale-Part 14)

The finale! Part 14 of Road Trip!

Rufo x Female Reader

Bold is Rufo’s Perspective

Non-bold is Reader Perspective

Tag List: @the-clown-crypt @chii2blog @booklover2929

I heard Albert walking around in the early hours of the morning and I figured I’d give him a little bit more time. He could be a bit of a sourpuss in the morning depending on the day. I was already wired from my now empty thermos of coffee and knew he would need his few cups too to get started. (Y/N) seemed to be doing alright from what I could tell so I slipped out to take a bathroom break and see if he needed help with anything. He had me help with breakfast. Both of us were quiet as we cooked away. The stress of the day was already so thick in the air that I could cut with the butter knife I was using on some toast.

Albert finally spoke though. “After we all eat, I’ll start getting the living room ready. You and her freshen up. And Cecil.”

“Yeah Albert.” I looked over to him from my simple task.

“I’ll need some of your blood for some of the symbols I put on her. You and her have a strong connection so it’ll help keep her anchored.”

“Whatever you need Albert.” I perhaps sounded more groggy and the yawn I let out didn’t help.

“You didn’t sleep a wink did you?” Albert said without missing a beat as he started to slice oranges for orange juice. The man knew me well. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I went to flipping the eggs.

“No. Not a single wink. Been too wired after yesterday and what almost happened.”

“Can’t say I blame you Cecil. I’ve seen what this sort of thing does to someone. It’s not pretty. Not even your hands would have stopped what would happen if you were alone or still at that hospital. Angry spirits get what they want after all and they don’t care how. You know that very well.” There was a hint of a smile on his face that I caught out of the corner of my eye.

“I had a little bit of help. Even the greatest escape artists has a great assistant behind the scenes.”

“And it’s been one of the best investments I’ve ever made, Cecil. I consider you a friend besides just someone who works for me. You know very few have that title.”

“Albert, I think you need more coffee.” I cracked a smile, a genuine one since a few days ago. “Either you’re still tired or you’re getting just a bit mushy in your old age.”

“If that was the case I would be goo a long, long time ago.” Albert let out a chuckle while we wrapped up breakfast. “Now, go make sure she eats and then we’ll get started.”

I grabbed the plates he offered to me along with another cup of coffee for myself. I probably didn’t need it after the thermos, but I have a hard time saying no to a good cup of coffee. I didn’t really touch my food. Instead I made sure she ate, and she seemed fine as she took each bite. Almost like the other day didn’t happen and she didn’t almost spew some too powerful spirit energy from her mouth. She was still like a limp doll but that would change soon. Soon she’d be back to normal and she would smile with that sparkle in her eyes. She would hug me tight and I’d hear her voice again. We could take silly pictures again on her phone and I can take her to diners when I go to bring her home. I cupped her cheek and gave her a feather like kiss on her lips then looked into her eyes. I hope she could see right back into mine.

“We’re gonna get you right as rain (Y/N). It’ll be alright soon.” I knew she couldn’t answer me back, but I just wish she could say something.

With a heavy sigh I scooped her up into my arms, bridal style, and made my way with her to the living room. The furniture had already been pushed to the sides and Albert was busy drawing a variety of symbols on the floor in chalk. For now he had me set her down on the couch.

“Your hand Cecil my boy.” He held out his hand and I offered mine to him. “This will hurt just for a brief moment.”

“Don’t worry about me Albert. Not the first time I’ve been cut up.”

Albert chuckled before grabbing one of his knives he had at the ready and gripped my wrist. He made a few quick cuts and the blood that came from them he gathered in a small bowl. I had already healed as he knelt down by (Y/N) and collected some of hers. Did it irk me a little as I watched the knife cut her next? Maybe but I had to remember it would help. I watched as he mixed the two together and pour in a mix of various concoctions. I didn’t understand what he was doing but I didn’t need to. As long as it got her back.

“Lay her in the middle Cecil.” He gestured and I did as instructed.

He got beside her once more and with a small paint brush he started to paint symbols on her visible skin. I was almost mesmerized as he made sure he got each one right. I could barely hear him start to mumble under his breath, but he was saying some sort of chant.

When he covered most of her chest that's when the screaming started. It wasn’t like the ones I heard in that run-down cabin that were hers. No. These were like a beast got its leg stuck in a trap and was being stabbed by hunters. She started to thrash, and Albert barked at me to get her pinned down. I could barely hear him over the howling, but I moved. I had her arms pinned down and he positioned himself to sit on her legs though she still managed to rock us both around. That’s when I saw a light come from her mouth.

“Albert! Hurry up!” I moved quickly so my knees were keeping her arms down so my hands were now free to clamp her mouth shut.

“Haven’t had anything so feisty in a while.” I could hear Albert mutter as he dropped the brush and opted for a knife instead. “She won’t like this but right now I don’t think she gives a damn.” With her shirt hoisted up he started to cut into the flesh of her stomach more symbols and he spoke more words in forgotten languages. As he chanted he yanked my hands away just in time for her mouth to open and a series of orbs came from her mouth that flew around the room and fizzled away.

The strange growls that were coming from her suddenly died down and I watched as her eyes came back into focus on the world around her. I moved off her arms and stayed to her side, my hands going to cup her cheeks. Her skin felt so hot and after the strange clamminess it had felt not an hour ago I was relieved. She looked so exhausted and like she was about to pass out. Though I couldn’t blame her if she did right there.

“Doll? Talk to me (Y/N). Let me know it’s you and not some rube in there.” I didn’t mean to sound hopeless or to beg but after everything I just wanted to see her back to normal.

“Rufo?” My throat felt sore, almost like I had been on roller coaster all day and screaming the whole ride. “Where.. where am I?” I tried to sit up, but my body felt stiff and weak. Rufo moved to help me up and I saw a man standing in front of me. Looking around I could see a bowl of a red liquid and then there was a pain in my stomach. When I looked down I saw weird symbols etched into my skin. “What the fuck happened to me?”

“You, my dear, got caught in something nasty when you played hero for our dear Cecil.” The man went to gather the items that were around. With the things put away he offered me a hand for a handshake which I took. He had a firm grip though I expected as much from a man who was built like a middle-aged truck driver. His eyes seemed friendly, but something was off in them. “Albert Miles. You can call me a longtime friend of Cecil’s.” His hand let go of mine and he helped Rufo get me up onto my feet then sitting down on the couch when we realized my legs weren’t ready just quite yet. “He brought you too me after the little incident with Crowley in the cabin. It’s a good thing he did, or you certainly would have been lost.”

“I don’t know how to thank you but, well, thank you.” Rufo put a blanket around my shoulders which I held tighter onto me before grabbing something to clean my cut into stomach.

“No need for thank you’s (Y/N). It’s not often Cecil brings a friend over so I’m happy to help.” There was that smile again that almost sent chills down my spine, but I smiled back at him. His eyes went to Rufo who now slipped an arm around me. “You two clean up then get some rest for a few days before heading back. And take your time to bring her home. We don’t need anything to be rushed.” With that Albert turned on his heel and walked toward what I saw was most likely the kitchen. “I’ll make us a lunch. Exorcism’s always leave me hungry.”

Lunch passed with a blur and the rest of the day followed suite. Seeing the smile on Rufo’s face was the main thing that was consistent though. Even as he helped me shower or get into bed there was always a smile on his face. Albert had been a kind host and I found myself thanking him maybe a little too much as he and Rufo were getting the car ready for the drive.

“Now, now (Y/N), I’m happy to help. Besides, Cecil and I have an agreement so I’m always pleased when we can both benefit from it.” Albert handed me a small leather satchel. I could hear the clanking of vials inside as I took it. “There’s some medicine in here in case you start to feel a little off. There may be some aftereffects but keep up with it and you’ll be just fine. Only a few sips each time mind you.”

“Thank you, Albert. For everything.” I managed one final thank you before Rufo ushering me to the car. We both gave Albert a wave goodbye and we were off.

The drive was mostly quiet but the occasional song singing and light chit chat. It was almost like nothing happened, but I knew Rufo was keeping an eye on me. I could see from the corner of his eye how often it would flick over to me. He even reminded me a few times to take the medicine before I realized I needed it. It was good to be back again though I had questions.

“What happened after I hit you out of the light? I only remember pain and then not being here.” We were sat in a diner, far from others though it wasn’t exactly busy. Rufo raised a brow while he was taking a mindful chew from his burger.

“Crowley and I immediately took you to a hospital. I was too angry to go inside so he took you in. We realized this was something regular treatment wouldn’t fix so he had me take you to Albert.” He leaned back in his seat as he spoke, and he fiddled with his glass in his free hand. “I honestly expected him to try to fight me while he had the chance but seems you said the magic word that turns that little switch in him when you just lost consciousness of yourself.” He could see my confusion clear on my face and there was a small smile on the corner of his lip. “You said one little word. Please.”

I sat there for the rest of meal, both a little confused and thankful. To be fair, a lot of this strange world I was exposed to left me very confused ever since Rufo revealed his clown face to me. Even when Crowley first sat down across from me at that small diner and warned me about Rufo. Maybe one day I’d get the answers about some things but for now I was ready to wrap up this vacation and get back home.

It was almost nice to get back into my town and then to see my small home on the block coming into view. Rufo pulled into the driveway and despite me saying I could get it, we spent a few minutes getting my things either in the house or in the garage where I could take care of it later. The whole time though there was an odd look on his face. He looked almost lost and perplexed. When the last of it was put away we found ourselves standing in my driveway.

“(Y/N) promise you’ll take care while I’m gone.” His hands rested heavy on my shoulder and my gaze went up to his face. He was already looking down at me.

“I promise, Rufo. Don’t worry too much about me. Promise me that you’ll take care as well.” That made him crack a bit of a smile.

“Oh, don’t worry about me doll. I’m hard to get rid of.” His brows raised, eyes widening a bit like he remembered something, and he quickly reached for something in his pocket. “I, well, I got this for you for when you woke up, but it slipped my mind to give it to you then. I wanted you to recover and rest first.” He slipped out a small box and he handed it over to me.

“Rufo, you didn’t need to get me anything.” He slipped it into my hand, a move insisting I take it regardless my protests. With everything that’s happened and how he’d been, I couldn’t really say no. I opened it and revealed inside the lovely locket inside. “Rufo, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” I went to flip it open to make sure the hinge worked properly, and I saw a picture of the two of us inside. The selfie from the cliff.

“Albert must have put that in.” Rufo chuckled and I could see him shaking his head. “He’s always been a sly man.”

“I’ll have to thank him again another time.” Rufo slipped the necklace from my hand and helped me put it on.

“I need to get going. I promise to come back.” Rufo’s eyes roamed over my face like he was trying to make sure he remembered every little feature. “And when I do, I’ll take you on another trip and I’ll show you all the best sites out there. Coney Island, every fun little museum and we’ll do anything else you want.”

“I’d like that a lot, Rufo.” My hands went to hold the back of his neck and we shared one last kiss. It was deep and I felt my heart skip wildly in my chest. Everything in me didn’t want to let him go but I knew he couldn’t stay.

I felt my heart sink as he gave me one last smile before turning and walking down the street. I watched him until he was a speck on the horizon.

A FEW WEEKS LATER

Rufo had been gone for a little over a month now and he kept in contact when he could. Usually always by a different phone number but it was always nice to know he was both doing well and to just hear from him. He always said he’d be back soon though it felt like it would take longer and longer. Either way, I’d be patiently waiting. Our last conversation he was nearly all the way across the states but the good news he was almost done with his job. Almost.

The next morning I found myself sitting at the dining table with breakfast fresh on the table. And then a knock on the door. Usually the newspaper delivery boy just hit the door but perhaps he was trying a different approach. I got up, still in my pajamas and somewhat messy hair, and answered the door.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes doll.” Rufo in his human look was there and he had a duffel bag in hand. “Miss me?”

“Rufo!” The duffel bag fell to the ground as I nearly tackled the man to the ground, and he had to quickly grab me. “You’re here!”

“I had to lead you on a little bit. I needed to make sure you were surprised when I came back. I think it worked pretty well, don’t you think?” He let out a laugh and he smiled down at me. “Finish what you were doing and get ready to go.”

“Where are we going?” A look of confusion replaced my excitement but that only made him smile even wider.

“Just on a little road trip. I got it all planned out and set up for us. It’ll be a blast (Y/N).” He grinned before planting a gentle kiss on my smiling lips.

I used to ask myself if I would have agreed all that time ago if I would still let the man at the gas station into my car when he asked for a ride. As we drove down some random highway in the back way of somewhere that question popped into my head once more. The answer has always been yes.

#rufo the clown #rufo #more love for rufo #rufo the clown fanfic #rufo the clown fanfiction #rufo fanfic #rufo fanfiction #james a moore #smile no more #one bad week #killer clown #slasher clown #and das a wrap for road trip #time to think of the next long ass story #rip me

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readingwritingcrying · 5 years

Note

Hi, are you still taking prompts? If you are, maybe something like Heaven taking Crowley in order to hurt Aziraphale? Just some great whump 🙃🙃 love your writing

I might have gotten carried away with this oopsie,,, Here’s part one of this story! Thank you so much for sending in this prompt!!

Honestly, Crowley should have seen it coming.

He should have guessed, should have realized that they couldn’t possibly be let off the hook so easily. That they could just fool the rest of the powerful occult and ethereal beings in the universe by a simple swap and be done with it forever and ever.

Crowley should have sensed the strange angelic presence in Aziraphale’s bookshop when he was lounging peacefully on the couch.

He didn’t.

Crowley usually didn’t pay too much attention to presences. He couldn’t sense nice emotions like Aziraphale, so the whole thing just didn’t have much appeal to put any effort into, except if he was trying to locate his angel.

This is why he was completely unprepared when the bookshop door opened, the bell ringing to announce an intruder. Crowley glanced up, and he was honestly expecting some poor human customer he would frighten away with a flash of a much eviler face than the one he usually wore. (Aziraphale usually didn’t let him do this, but Aziraphale wasn’t there at the moment, and it was the human’s damn fault for ignoring the ‘closed’ sign).

However, Crowley was not expecting to see the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, a satisfied grin on his oh-so-punchable face.

“Crowley! Just the demon I was hoping to run into!” Gabriel said, his falsely-pleasant voice causing fear to ooze its way through Crowley. He sat up, every muscle tensed and ready to either run or if he had to, fight. His pose on the couch was still deceivingly sprawled and twisted, it might even pass as relaxed to the untrained or simply uncaring eyes.

“Not sure I could say you’re the angel I wanted to see,” Crowley gathered himself enough to sneer at Gabriel. To his credit, he only sighed, looking vaguely annoyed and bored.

Once, very long ago, Gabriel would have cared, Crowley thought. Before even the Beginning, and at least before Lucifer Fell. That Gabriel, however, was not something he would see any time soon, if at all.

It was too late when Crowley noticed the way Gabriel’s eyes flicked above his head, instead of looking down on him as if he were a stain in a crisp white shirt that just wouldn’t come out.

He looked up, only to see the blur of movement as Sandalphon brought down the blunt edge of a sword on Crowley’s head. Hard. He didn’t even have time to shout before consciousness failed him, and the bookshop turned to black.

…

When Crowley woke, he was in about the last place he would have ever thought he’d be. Heaven.

Of course, he didn’t feel very heavenly. Demonic nature aside, his head hurt like… like…

His head really hurt. Throbbing in a way that made his thoughts disjointed, which really wasn’t fair because he wasn’t even corporeal. Shouldn’t have to hurt so blessed much.

He was in what was most assuredly a cell, although it had the appearance of a boring plain white room. It was awarded heavily, Crowley found, as he tried to test the door. Against demons and angels alike, and went even so far as to have dissuasions for human souls as well.

Heaven, at the least, was still worried by the stunt him and Aziraphale had pulled after the apocawasn’t.

‘So they don’t believe they can kill me,’ He thinks. And it was a relief because at least he wouldn’t be leaving Aziraphale forever. And if they wanted him dead through means of holy water or sword, he would have been gone by now.

Crowley didn’t recognize where in heaven he was, although he suspected by his last visit he might not recognize much if any of it. It was too different from what he once must have known. That certainly put a damper on any escape plans, even if he did manage to squirm his way around the wards.

At the very least Aziraphale must know something had happened to him, or he would soon. Crowley could feel it in the very way his being ached that his physical body had been left at the bookshop; him instead being harshly ripped away from it by the Archangels.

Which, now that Crowley thought about it, was odd. Surely if they were getting rid of him, they would want to make it as clean as possible, not risk Aziraphale discovering it was heaven who had him?

Unless… that was exactly what they wanted, Crowley realized in muted terror. For his angel to try and rescue him.

He was bait.

If heaven couldn’t rid Aziraphale with hellfire, they must have wanted to find another way, since God didn’t seem to care enough to make him Fall, a fact Crowley might have admitted to thanking Her for if he was drunk enough.

He didn’t know if it was to punish his angel or control him or what, but it was the only option that fit all the pieces together.

He wasn’t sure how long he stewed on that realization alone in the blank room. It was impossible to get a real sense of time, but it felt like much too long. At the very least, Heaven didn’t burn him, not like consecrated ground or other holy things. It just filled him with fear of what might happen to him and Aziraphale, and gave him a dull sense of longing he refused to admit to even to himself, and probably wouldn’t even with all the alcohol in the world.

Just when he thought he might actually loose it from the pure nothingness, a door that had not been their before opened.

“Now Crowley, I’ve had to hear thousands of years about how wily you are, so you must have some idea why you’re here?” Asked Gabriel, voice patronizing. Crowley hissed, and the Archangel shook his head. “Really, there’s no use for that. It’s not like it’s personal – but if Aziraphale insists on remaining an Angel, we have to hold him in line somehow. Michael thought of it actually, a great idea. If his priorities lay with you and not heaven, why not make them match up? He does what’s needed of him, and you won’t get hurt,” he smiles proudly.

Of course, it was Michael, Crowley thinks. Gabriel wouldn’t have been so creative. “It won’t work,” he spits, “I’ve been through hell there isss nothing you can do that’ss worsssse.” He wouldn’t show any hurt for Aziraphale, wouldn’t give them the show they wanted.

But Gabriel just nods with disinterest. “But we can do better,” he points out. And Crowley doesn’t understand until Gabriel’s hand is on his shoulder, holding tightly so that he can’t pull away.

He lets out something in between a gasp and a sob because suddenly he was being filled with Grace and Love and it was too fucking much. Grace was something foreign to him now, and it burned through the very core of him. Love was less so, but the love he was feeling right now wasn’t the love he had for Aziraphale, or even the more casual feeling for his Bentley or music, it was Love with a capital “L”, something godly and angelic that he couldn’t possibly know being outside of the Host.

For all it burned through him, he grasped at it, craving it. He never meant to fall, to lose this along with a name he could no longer say. He needed it, even if it felt like it was tearing his very essence apart.

With a shock it was gone, Gabriel’s projection roughly pulled away from him with his hand and Crowley collapsed. Tears streamed down his face, and he looked up to Gabriel with all the weakness and desperation as he looked to the heavens when he first Fell.

There was only a slight flicker of emotion in Gabriel’s eyes before he blinked it away and left.

Crowley was alone. He felt so empty, so cold. He was a miserable sight, shaking and pathetic in a way Hell could not possibly draw out of him. He couldn’t even speak. Even if he could, what could he possibly say?

Scream, turning his pain into rage? Call for Aziraphale to get him out of here? Beg for Gabriel to come back, to let him feel Light like that until it destroyed him?

He couldn’t do any of that so he just pressed himself against a wall, pushing his hands into his chest in a vain attempt to fill the empty feeling he was left with.

When Gabriel returned, Crowley had not moved. He had tried to sleep, but when exhaustion (the mental kind, at least) tried to overtake him he was flooded with a mixture of dreams and memories of his Fall.

Silent, Crowley watched as Gabriel approached with cold determination. Crowley did not flinch away from his touch, did not want to give the Archangel that kind of satisfaction. He just braced himself for what he knew was coming.

Somehow knowing was so much worse.

“Bring him in.” he heard distantly over his own choked sobs. He was raw, cold, empty, weak.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale. His voice broke, murmured sympathy and guilt and Crowley knew that the Archangel’s plan was just this, but he couldn’t stop the desperate gasps coming from him as he reeled in shock from the loss of grace for the third time in his life.

As much as Crowley wanted to, he couldn’t look at Aziraphale. Not like this, not now. “What have you done to him, Gabriel?” Aziraphale’s voice was accusing, angry in a way that Crowley was not used to hearing. Focusing on his voice and his presence, he tried to calm himself at least enough to open his eyes without starting to beg.

“Only what was necessary, Aziraphale,” Gabriel stated without sympathy. “Since the world is still, well, here – thanks for that one by the way – you’re still going to be required to work for heaven. Little to no chance of promotion, I’m afraid.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm. Aziraphale looked like he was about to snap, ready to lunge at Gabriel.

Crowley sent a pleading look to him, begging the angel not to get himself into any more trouble. Aziraphale took a sharp breath. “And if I don’t agree?” He dared question.

“Well, you see,” Gabriel waved his hand, gesturing towards Crowley. “Unless you’d like to have a demonstration sooner than later, then I’ll let you watch as he is punished for your mistakes.”

Aziraphale looked from Gabriel to Crowley crumpled on the floor eyes wide.

“Zira. S’ fine, I’m-“ He can’t say he’s okay. He can’t even lie about it. Gabriel spun towards him, eyes cold. He was pissed. Crowley wasn’t supposed to be in any state to try and comfort the disobedient angel in Gabriel’s eyes, he guessed.

Gabriel took a step toward him, and Crowley let out a low whine.

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. “Whatever assignments you want me doing, I’ll do it, Gabriel.” The Archangel paused and sighed in almost disappointment before nodding.

“Great! Glad to have you back,” said Gabriel, and Crowley never realized how easy an angel could lie.

After Aziraphale agreed, Crowley was left alone again. He felt hopeless, even if there was a way to get out of the blessed room, he didn’t have the effort to look for it anymore. Occasionally, he could sense his Angel visiting heaven, sometimes nearer to him than others, but he never saw Aziraphale.

At least when he had to experience his fall, he landed in Hell. There, demons easily took out their pain and anger on each other. Not exactly a healthy coping mechanism, but there was nothing for him here, and he was only stuck with his feelings festering. What he wouldn’t give for some plants to terrorize.

As time went on, he was at least allowed to get himself put back together. He was no longer a shivering mess on the floor, he was more of a somewhat mobile and very bored mess who only shivered a little when he felt a flash of Gabriel’s power. Which still wasn’t great, but he’d take it.

It was a long time before anyone decided to check on him. Long enough, at least, that if he were human he might be having some serious problems. Crowley, luckily, being a demon, could just sleep for a few days when the silence of his cell became overwhelming. He was starting to understand why his angel kept things so cluttered.

But still, being in heaven, with its holiness and light and love, twisted as it may have become, bad as the situation may be, made some part of him wish to stay. To belong, again. Which was confusing, because even if Crowley was offered a place again by God herself, he probably wouldn’t want it.

It was that conflicting nature he had been thinking about, pacing around his cell when a door opened, and in walked Aziraphale. Crowley turned, eyes brightening. “Aziraphale!”

The angel did not meet his eyes.

Gabriel entered after him.

Oh.

“Well, go on, explain why we’re here today,” Gabriel prompted. Aziraphale’s lip trembled.

“Crowley, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, I just,” Aziraphale hiccupped, “I just messed up using a miracle, oh, please Gabriel. Let me fix this some other way,” he begged.

Gabriel tutted. “If there were any other way.” Gabriel approached Crowley, who bristled in defense. He was going to do this? Now, in front of Aziraphale?

He could feel himself start to panic, but tried to push it down. He would have to keep it together for Aziraphale. He’d like to have no reaction at all, not even a little bit of distress and encourage the angel to do things his way.

Heaven was a bag of dicks, and if anyone was Good it was Aziraphale.

But he wasn’t naïve enough to actually believe things would go so well.

Gabriel grasped his arm, and Crowley thought he might scream. Gabriel’s grace was projected through him, burning as it went. He clenched his jaw so hard that if he were a truly physical being it would have surely broken.

He didn’t scream.

His breathing was rapid, coming in pants and gasps, completely unsteady. He wouldn’t be standing if it weren’t for Gabriel’s tight grip holding him up. He felt like he would dissolve into ashes any moment. But he didn’t scream.

He refused to. Not in front of Aziraphale.

Not when somehow, Crowley must deserve this.

Gabriel must have grown frustrated because all of a sudden, Crowley’s head split open with a cacophony of voices. Prayers, angel communications, everything the Archangel could muster projected onto him.

“Please, please, please, stop, no, please,” he heard along with it. Vaguely, he knew it was himself. He still did not scream, but he was a mess of incoherent babbling and low whines as he begged for the quiet he had hated previously to return.

“Gabriel, Gabriel you’ll kill him!” Aziraphale’s panicked voice rang. The Archangel didn’t let up, and suddenly, Aziraphale’s voice powerful in an almost deadly, threatening way. “Gabriel, if he’s gone, I have no reason to be loyal to heaven again.” His voice had never contained so much Wrath.

Gabriel may not have been against a war with hell, but another war with angles was something he’d do anything to prevent.

The noise stopped. Gabriel’s grace, the Love, the Light was being pulled away so quickly that Crowley was sure some of himself must have been coming with it.

No, no not again, don’t leave me like this again. He tried to cling to it, the completeness that it offered, fighting it just as hard as when God had stripped it from him when he Fell. But it was a losing battle; this grace had never been his. He had just been allowed to feel it.

When it was gone, he screamed.

It was a tortured sound, not fitting of almost any creature, much less something close to human. Gabriel took a step back from him, shaken by the ordeal even as Crowley blindly grasped the air in front of him.

The painful sensation of his knees hitting the ground was the only indication he had collapsed, and he wrung his hands through his hair, pulling, trying to ground himself, his eyes tightly shut. He sobbed and keened and gasped and begged, although no words were close to comprehensible. Somewhere distant, his angel was crying for him.

The sound of the door opening again was the only thing that managed to break through to him; the sound of another angel whose Presence was overwhelming entering.

Crowley shoved himself backward, scrambling to press into the corner of the room away from the angels. His vision was blurry with tears, but the new face he saw was not familiar.

Waves of terror and panic crashed over Crowley. His eyes were blown yellow, his chest throbbing with stabbing pain, something like a hiss escaping him as a warning to the approaching Angel.

The Angel stopped, hardly looking at him. He was saying something to the other angels. Crowley’s mind couldn’t keep up with the words.

Pain, longing, terror threatened to overtake him. He found he couldn’t fight it.

The world went black.

part two HERE

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfiction #good omens whump #whump #Ineffable Husbands #otp: ineffable #crowley #Crowley whump #Aziraphale #gabriel #fanfiction

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new-endings · 4 years

Text

The Nice and Accurate Guide to Courting

Summary: As Hell’s bastard prince, Crowley is expected to wed an Archangel of Heaven’s kingdom to bring peace between the two warring nations.

It really is too bad he only has eyes for his sweet, bastard of a Guide, the Principality Aziraphale, who is dead-set on making sure the engagement happens.

Chapter 3:

Interlude: A Guide’s Folly and Frustrations

ch1, ch2, ao3

Chapter Summary: In which Aziraphale struggles to find the meaning behind Crowley's exceedingly odd behaviors.

Special thanks to @top-crowley-central, @sadwendigo, @imjustadrummer and of course, @hope-for-snow (dw bby I’ll give you yours next time) for helping me come up with these little courting intricacies!

Aziraphale fought the urge to pace back and forth.

He’s late. Again…

Aziraphale could understand being nervous; he himself was the last person to fault another for such feelings. It was, after all, quite a momentous occasion.

The Angel did his best to set the mood: an abundance of miracled flora sprawling vibrantly over the white walls, the clearance of both his and Crowley’s schedules, and all on a lovely sunset—clouds painted with lovely pinks and blues as the warm, orange twilight bathed the castle in its romantic glow.

Aziraphale ducked his head out from the balcony and his heart caught in his throat—

Ah. Finally.

The prince had arrived.

Aziraphale sighed a breath of relief and smiled to himself as he let his eyes trail over him. Well, doesn’t he look fetching?

Crowley tended to wear darker garb, as was customary for many people in Hell, and while he hadn’t altered that aspect of his wardrobe, he did heed Aziraphale’s light suggestion in wearing something a little more form-fitting… something that accentuated Crowley’s height, his lean body, and elegant lines. And the results were nothing less than spectacular.

Crowley, unfortunately, was making a face far less pleasant to look at.

Or rather he did until he met eyes with Aziraphale; a bright smile graced his lips and Aziraphale gave a little wave back.

Good, Aziraphale thought. What was probably pre-date jitters seemed to melt right off. Aziraphale gave an encouraging grin in return and made a gesture for the prince to get on with it.

Archangel Uriel wasn’t going to stand around at the keep forever.

The prince made a show of rolling his eyes before sauntering towards the awaiting Archangel, her shoulders visibly stiffening at the sign of the prince’s approach.

Holding a breath and uttering a short prayer, Aziraphale forced himself to watch on with apprehensive hope. It was quite difficult to get a hold of any of the Archangels, but with the deleterious prospect of war hanging over their heads, the Archangels were less inclined to deny a Prince of Hell private audience.

Then, it was simply a matter of choosing one that best suited Crowley’s fancy.

Archangel Michael was the most revered of the Archangels: her fortitude in the battlefield earned her place as the Queen’s Right Hand—

—but that being said, she was also terrifying, slain innumerous members of Hells’ army, and in Crowley’s words “a wanker.”

Though Aziraphale sputtered at the last bit, Aziraphale supposed he should count their lucky stars that there were other choices to speak of; Michael, for now, was safely off the table.

Then there’s Archangel Gabriel—

—to which Crowley vetoed outright. “Angel, does it look like I fancy the prospect of going for an early morning jog every damned day for the rest of my life?” And, well…

Aziraphale could hardly fault him for that, now could he?

That left Archangel Uriel.

Calm and steadfast in her mannerisms, Aziraphale felt that out of all the Archangels, Uriel would probably be their best bet in going forward with their Queen’s plan. Sure, she seemed a bit cold. Standoffish, really, and a tad intimidating—but she was also a refined lover of the arts. Something that Crowley (and himself) could greatly appreciate.

There, Aziraphale thought triumphantly. An Archangel who isn’t interested in liquid protein concoctions and an Archangel who you can bring home to without constant threats of assassination for vengeance. Crowley, begrudgingly half-heartedly, agreed.

Oh! They’re conversing! The Angel fought back a delighted sound. He really, really hoped this would go well. He prayed that they’d at least get along. Aziraphale wasn’t naïve—he knew how much of a sacrifice this was for Crowley—for anyone, really. To tie one’s life to another for an end for a conflict, rather than for the simple joy and a promise to live a life together. It was…suboptimal, to say the least. But it must be done and all Aziraphale could do now was hope that Crowley could find both; that this would all work out in the end and that the prince would find himself with a happy marriage and live in an era of peace.

A happily-ever-after.

Aziraphale, with his love of romances and tales, was a Principality to his core. Despite their roles during the wars, Principalities were ultimately made to love.

And oh, how Aziraphale loved love.

Hope bloomed in his chest as the minutes ticked by. It seemed to be going well enough.

Well enough being the key phrasing here. Neither of them made the efforts to step closer, keeping a sizeable distance as they conversed. It was always difficult to read Archangel Uriel, but with their backs turned, perched on the keep, and Aziraphale only able to observe from a tower balcony, it was impossible to tell the reality of things.

But at least the prince wasn’t flung off across the battlements, so Aziraphale would take that as a small victory. A positive sign.

Or it was, up until Crowley likely made a bad joke, judging from his shaking shoulders and the way the Archangel slowly turned beside him. Aziraphale’s high hopes took a sharp nosedive to the pits of his stomach, a feeling of dread creeping up to within him.

Oh no.

The pair seemed to exchange a few words before the Archangel Uriel turned and walked off, a noticeable haste in her stride, leaving Crowley making a hapless shrug at her exit.

Aziraphale blew out a blustery sigh, mourning the failed attempt. Back to the drawing board. He rushed out of the room, out of the spires, and towards the gardens at their designated meeting place.

And in his rush, he completely overlooked the triumphant grin on Crowley’s face and the pleasant tune he whistled out as he walked off.

“That went terribly.”

Aziraphale would have felt much more sympathy had the other even bothered to sound afflicted. “Prince Crowley—”

Slumped down on the stone bench next to him, Crowley rolled his eyes. “Just Crowley, Angel.”

“Your Highness,” Aziraphale continued irately. “What in Hell did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” Crowley replied but Aziraphale could see he was biting back a smile. “I was an utmost gentleman, I assure you.” He gave that same damned smarmy grin again. “Would I lie to you, Angel?”

The very one that made the Angel’s blood boil. “Recent history has proven that, yes, yes you can,” he sniffed. “Quite gleefully, might I add.”

Crowley made a show of pouting, but Aziraphale was not swayed. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

The Angel sent him a flat look. “Not on your life.” No siree. Not after that first humiliating encounter at the hands of Crowley’s deception.

The prince seemed to ruminate this for a while before sighing. “I’m sorry.” Huh. Aziraphale could almost believe that tone. “Honestly, I am. For how it made you feel.” Hesitantly, Aziraphale turned and was met with amber, pleading eyes.

Good grief. Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, it’s not my feelings you should be worried about!” He pinched his brows. “If Uriel makes a poor impression out of you, it may prove even more difficult to court—”

“Not exactly what I was apologizing for but,” Crowley paused at the sight of the unimpressed look Aziraphale shot back at him. “Yeah. Sorry about that too, I guess. What can I say? Birds don’t exactly have the best sense of humor.” He smiled to himself, obnoxiously smug. “As recent history has proven.”

Aziraphale let out a gasp. “Crowley!” Gracious, it was like he wanted things to go amuck! “You honestly shouldn’t sound so, so—”

Crowley gave a tilt of his head. “Dinner?” At the mere mention of it, Aziraphale cursed himself for his mood mellowing almost immediately. “To get your mind off it,” the prince continued. He eyed the Angel thoughtfully and Aziraphale fought the urge to squirm under his golden gaze. “There’ll be other opportunities, Angel. For now, let’s just enjoy the night.”

He already stood while Aziraphale uselessly floundered with his options; on the one hand, it would be best to regroup and discuss the meeting with Uriel thoroughly. That first impression seemed to have gone… less-than-ideal, but it was better to learn from the experience and make good use of it. On the other hand, it would be nice to get their minds off this first little misstep. And what better time to regroup than after filling their bellies to further fuel their conversation and ideas?

Crowley looked expectantly at him, hand outstretched to pull the Angel off his seat.

I talked myself into this, didn’t I? “Oh, very well,” he sighed, allowing himself to be whisked away for the night, much to his chagrin and much to Crowley’s glee.

Just like every other night, it would seem.

At least Crowley looked to be in high spirits. “Excellent! Say, how about we try that place with the thin pancakes that you like so much?”

“For the last time, Crowley, they’re crêpes—"

If the past few weeks taught Aziraphale one thing, it was that Demons were an astonishingly generous bunch.

Of course, he’s only had a sample size of one thus far, but Aziraphale feels that he’s got the basics down at least.

Crowley had a flair for opulence. Of course, this wasn’t unusual. He’s a prince—but Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling a slight shift as of late. Of course, Aziraphale still wanted to treat the prince as a guest of his kingdom; this often entailed Aziraphale scheduling meetings at lovely sights and monuments around the capital, the fine eateries and haunts Aziraphale frequented and could therefore vouch for in quality, and yes sometimes it would be on Crowley’s coin—

(All right, discounting their first meeting with the oysters, it was always on Crowley’s coin.)

— it seemed as though the prince’s natural desire for luxury eventually won out. Tender, juicy meats cooked to pinked perfection, fresh, flaky fish fillets lusciously seasoned, beds of vibrant and verdant vegetables, and ripe, refreshing fruits, assorted together in the varying styles of each of the four corners of the kingdom, far beyond a standard Principality’s paygrade to dine upon on a regular basis. But it was ever his fortune that as lavish the lifestyle of a prince must live (bordering on extravagance, really), Crowley was always more than willing to indulge Aziraphale’s tastes. He was delightfully thorough and thoughtful to his preferences, indeed.

Having been trained and stationed at the Eastern Gate for so long, Aziraphale’s mouth watered at the flavorings and spices of the North, the fine fragrance of the South’s wines, the luxury and decadence of the West’s desserts. He was quite eager to share them and their rich history, and Crowley…

Well he seemed to be content just to sit there and converse, letting the topic drift anywhere from the best plays that were in the theater to the rambunctious fun Crowley got into as a boy.

And to drink, of course.

Oh… Aziraphale sighed, breathing in the delicious aromas marrying together from the plate before him. The Archangel of his choosing will be surely a lucky one!

Aziraphale valiantly ignored the strange taste in his mouth at the thought. He succeeded with the aid of the lavish meal he dug into. The sea bass was cooked to perfection and paired nicely with the lemon jus and Aziraphale savored each lovely bite. Ah. Bliss.

Unfortunately, it appeared that Crowley didn’t quite agree. He had barely touched his meal and instead laid his elbow on the table ( Poor etiquette, Aziraphale thought; he ought to remind him not to do such a thing in front of an Archangel) with the palms of his hand resting his chin and staring…rather intently at Aziraphale.

The Angel blinked. “Is the food not to your liking, Crowley?”

That seemed to startle him out of whatever reverie he was under. “Hm? Oh, no—no, I mean it’s good. Just…”

“Not hungry?” the Angel offered.

Aziraphale was certain that although the poor dear gave a brisk nod, he was indeed lying. He looked positively starving! Perhaps he just wasn’t one for fish?

“Well that was scrumptious,” Aziraphale sighed, already feeling the day’s stresses dissipate. Still, the matter of the next attempts of wooing should be discussed and Crowley was looking quite famished. Perhaps they could opt for another night in at his quarters. “What are you in the mood for?”

Something flashed in those golden eyes but Aziraphale couldn’t quite put a name on it. “Alcohol. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.”

The second thing that the past few weeks taught Aziraphale was that Demons were an incredibly forgetful bunch.

Aziraphale eyed the state of his quarters: various articles of dark clothing strewn about, sashes, scarves, coats, all matters of jewelry, even a bloody diadem just hanging on the post of his bed at one point—

Crowley really ought to take better care of his things. But, Aziraphale learned from the last venture when he had dutifully gathered up the rich cloths and glittering treasures and brought them back—

Only to be met with an…uncomfortable look from the prince and some rubbish about him Having another just like it somewhere in his wardrobe and Save it, would you? For safe keeping.

Whatever that meant.

“Oh! Before my mind slips from me,” Aziraphale said, compliant as ever in reminding Crowley about what else he decided to stow away in the Angel’s quarters. “You forgot your—”

The prince waved off the comment before resuming his regular position on the Angel’s new sofa. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

“Crowley,” the Angel chided. “Your ring? The one bearing your family crest?”

Amber eyes briefly flickered to the item in Aziraphale’s hand, blinking before giving a careless laugh. “Keep it; I’ve got plenty more at home.”

This little— “Oh you…” At the other’s playful grin, he had half a mind to throw it at his companion’s head, if not for sheer propriety holding him by the scruff of his neck. Crowley was a guest after all. “Fine, I shall place it here for safekeeping,” he announced, heading straight to the corner of his room that slowly turning into a prince’s lost-and-found, brimming with the other items Crowley has left and/or given him over the course of a few weeks. Books filled most of the shelves, a feather here, a vase of Imperial Snowdrops there, a constellation of gifts and memorabilia dotting the walls.

“Why not wear it?”

Aziraphale nearly dropped the ring in his hands. Has the alcohol gotten to him already? Aziraphale gave a (breathless) chuckle. “Sorry dear, I don’t think your ring would be a proper fit.” He gave a short demonstration, fitting the band and exhibiting how it stopped at the proximal joint of both his middle and ring finger.

Crowley protested to that immediately. “’course it will.” He gestured for the Angel to come closer and despite the warning signs, Aziraphale sighed and headed over anyways. Taking the Angel’s hand in his own, Crowley gave a bleary-eyed examination before plucking the ring, “Fits right…” and slipping it over Aziraphale’s pinky. “Here!” he deemed with a happy finality.

And it was a perfect fit.

Crowley sat back, looking so pleased with himself that Aziraphale could only answer with a mild, “Oh. I guess it does.” He examined the ring closer under the flickering firelight, fighting the urge to pull away from the warmth of Crowley’s hand still holding his.

It was a pale gold, unlike the dark, muted colors and vibrant reds that accentuated Crowley’s hair and eyes. It glittered, defining the details of a magnificent serpent sinking its fangs to the breast of a ferocious bird of prey. Aziraphale swallowed, suddenly feeling his mouth dry and cheeks flushed.

He looked up to find Crowley staring at him again. He seemed to be doing that quite often as of late.

“Right, then.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of the ring, the crest, and why Crowley wanted it on his finger, but he’ll keep it on to appease Crowley. He finally dropped his hand and Aziraphale scurried back to his desk, a pounding in his chest he could only attribute to the wine not pairing well with the fish he had earlier.

Thankfully, Crowley didn’t comment on the matter any further. Instead, what he did choose to comment on was much worse.

“Of course. I leave my feathers here after relaxing my poor, aching wings, and you use the primaries as—a quill?”

Aziraphale, paused, looking down, He was, indeed, using one of Crowley’s abandoned plumes as a quill. The Angel huffed. “You said to do what I want with them—especially after you begged me not to throw them out.” It wouldn’t do to have loose-lipped maids discovering that the prince was molting from finding the evidence in the trash and he couldn’t very well chuck them in the fireplace.

They were fireproof after all.

Crowley made a face. “I didn’t beg.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to roll his eyes. “Right, dear. And I’m the one molting right now.”

“’m not molting!” he defended (rather poorly, in Aziraphale’s opinion). “’Just. Not acclimated to the weather here. That’s all.” He stretched the magnificent wings out, causing Aziraphale to startle at the large wingspan. “See? Does that look like a mess of molting to you?”

They weren’t. Either that, or Crowley was among the few birds that could molt gracefully without looking like a plucked chicken.

Aziraphale bit back a smile. “No. I suppose not.” By the Queen herself, Crowley’s wings were gorgeous. Blacker than night, not a feather out of place despite how many he seemed to lose whenever he brought them out in Aziraphale’s quarters.

“Hey, Angel?” Aziraphale turned from his chair, glancing over to where Crowley was perched on the sofa. “Let’s see yours.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even aware he was making a face until Crowley pouted.

“C’mon give it a go. I’ve shown you mine already,” Crowley bargained. “It’s only fair.”

This time Aziraphale knew exactly what kind of face he was making. It was one that lead the petulant prince to pout at him.

The third little oddity—err, quirk he had noticed about his sample size of One, was that Demons could be…oddly affectionate.

At least, by Angel standards.

The sharing of feathers, the demand request to see his wings—

All quite…intimate things to do, but nothing out of the ordinary for close friends and families; a gift of feathers from one of a different flock was a declaration of forming new bonds, an act of adopting an outsider or joining as a family.

It made…for a strange warmth at the pit of Aziraphale’s belly and before it even fully registered, a flurry of white enclosed his peripheral vision.

They were smaller than Crowley’s. Not by much, mind you, but longer; he was made for gliding, soaring, rather than the wings of agile flyers like Crowley’s were.

And as such—they were also a terrible pain to preen.

“Don’t you ever take care of them?” Crowley gave a long once-over to each folded wing as he sat up. “Poor things look like they haven’t been groomed in ages.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale started, folding up his wings self-consciously. “I suppose it has been a while,” he murmured, tracing along a primary. Too long, really, since he’d had a partner to preen him. A partner to preen for. He beat back the unpleasant feeling as he cleared his throat. “I’m sure your staff keeps your wings well maintained, but not everyone—”

“They don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Oh, but…” He stumbled. “Your family must—”

At that, Crowley gave a bitter laugh. “Pfft. Nah.” He gave a meaningful look to the Angel and his ruffled wings, and to his own, lovely pair. “I wouldn’t let them touch a feather.”

But whatever meaning it was, Aziraphale couldn’t understand.

..............................

Crowley didn’t know whether to thank his lucky stars or curse them to his kingdom and back for making the Angel so thick.

He’d watch on, unabashedly trailing his gaze from the way that soft, pink mouth opened and closed around every morsel of food, to the way his eyes fluttered shut, from way the Angel gave an enticing little wiggle as he savored each and every bite, to the polite and delicate way he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin.

The prince, with his food long forgotten, found that he’d much rather make a meal out of this delectable Angel instead.

Crowley never thought of himself as a glutton for punishment, but watching Aziraphale indulge and sigh in honeyed bliss gnawed at the chains of his control to not simply take the Angel by the hand and lead him somewhere nice, dark, and far away from prying ears just to hear what else Crowley could do to elicit such wanton sounds from that sweet, sweet mouth.

Crowley shook those thoughts from his head; it wouldn’t do well to be this aroused during one of their meetings. Not with Aziraphale insisting that he wear something a little too tight around the trousers—

—but ah those coy looks trailing over his form from the Angel himself was too difficult to ignore. Perhaps he’ll wear similar garb more often and hopefully speed up this entire ordeal of courting in the process.

And ordeal was putting it lightly.

Angels, from the sounds of it, needed far more reassurance of compatibility before initiating acts of courtship, hence why Aziraphale was there to give some insider-details of the Archangels’ follies and fancies. It absolutely would not do to initiate acts of courting without due introduction and shared interests.

Demons, however, tended to gauge all that through acts of courting.

It’s not uncommon for the two to share meals and outings together, even if it ended with Aziraphale giving him a tour of the kingdom. In the beginning, Crowley preferred those days the most since he gets to see Aziraphale in his most natural element: enjoying himself. But other times, the Guide’s sense of duty breaks through and Aziraphale will begin with such nonsense like “Oh Michael’s swordsmanship is legendary, but she has quite the affinity for spears as of late, so for a courting gift—” and other such useless topics. These were the times that regrettably reminded Crowley that he’s here to wed one of those wankers instead.

So, Crowley often deflected, steered the conversation away from unsavory waters, and navigated them towards more pleasant shores by innocently asking, “Right, good, but do you like the North’s dessert wines or do you prefer the South’s reds?”

Of course, Aziraphale will naturally start another hour or so lecture about why nothing beats the Southern reds.

And some nights, Aziraphale will find a nice bottle of Southern red and Crowley is duly repaid with a sunshine smile and his Angel in a happy mood the next day.

Using that same method, Crowley gathered all sorts of interests from the Principality; from his preferences of bygone authors and poets, to the locations of his favorite bouquets of rare Imperial Snowdrops, to which shops baked the sweetest cakes and other delicacies.

A fine ordeal, courting. But Crowley didn’t mind it.

When it came of official courtships, jewelry was traditional, but outright presenting them to the Angel was tricky; he couldn’t very well offer them as payment for his guidance and company as Aziraphale wasn’t took keen on adorning himself, save for a few choice items. So, Crowley did the next best thing: he took to leaving them in the Angel’s little nest instead. An armband here, a bracelet there, and Crowley chuckled at the memory of the Angel carefully wrapping his own diadem before presenting it back to the prince with a pinched look. My dear, I know you’re a bit scatterbrained, but please don’t leave such treasures in my room where I can be easily accused of stealing.

Let them know they’re gifts, Crowley strongly hinted suggested, but Aziraphale made that familiar downturn of his lips that let Crowley know that his “joke” wasn’t appreciated. He took back the headpiece and a few choice items. Obsidian blacks and bloody rubies were hardly Aziraphale’s style anyways.

Books, as scarce as they were in Hell, were Aziraphale’s favorite weakness. He’d never refuse such a rare gem for his collection, so Crowley had taken to sending requests from couriers with the implication that they were being utilized in the name of courtly love. And that was their designated purpose, but decidedly not in the way that would please the King, the next-in-line, nor the entirety of his own damned kingdom—but sharing that bit of information wasn’t necessary.

Wining and dining were a staple in all cultures across the lands, but it was especially appealing for Demons to seek a mate that could provide for them (and Crowley could, would, and was proving this aspect quite thoroughly) and it was nothing short of instinctively pleasing to know Crowley could nourish and sate his future mate to his heart’s content.

Not only that, but since food and drink were consumables, there’d be little evidence of the existence of said courting to point a finger at. Other Birds wouldn’t bat an eye if a prince went out to dine at expensive restaurants and demanded the finest of wines and liquor—oh, for him and his companion? Well he’s a prince after all, he can’t settle for anything less. It was perfect, really. Crowley’s preferred method of courting for this very reason.

Another bite of his meal and his Angel moaned, face enraptured, absolute ecstasy painting across his features. Crowley carefully adjusted himself in his seat.

Among other reasons.

By Crowley’s standards, his Bird was thoroughly courted—

But for better or worse, Aziraphale hadn’t noticed it at all. It seemed that they were on very separate wavelengths when it came to matters of the heart.

Which was really such a damned shame because Crowley, on the other hand, was growing restless and his senses going wild.

Wild in the sense that if he didn’t see Aziraphale at least once that day, his instincts itched and gnawed at him from the marrow of his bones to ensure Aziraphale’s safety; in the sense that he was becoming in tune with the Angel’s needs—It’s lunch time and he should be peckish by now, He’s brooding, Angels aren’t supposed to brood at least not mine something’s wrong and I need to fix it, He’s hardly sleeping and is probably up all night reading those novellas I sent him last week so maybe we should schedule our meeting later in the morning; in the sense that it drove him absolutely mad that he was not able to scent himself on Aziraphale—because if he can’t claim him, then anyone else could just as easily walk by and snatch his little Bird up—

Wild in that sense.

His thoughts were plagued with it and Crowley grew antsier by the day. There were some things he could intercede on behalf of his own sanity, at least.

Although he couldn’t very well scent Aziraphale’s form, his Bird’s little nest was helping soothe that ache. It was cluttered with shelves and collections upon collections of tomes, tales, diaries, and journals and most importantly— cluttered with things of Crowley.

His coats still hung by the rack, his pendant at the side of Aziraphale’s desk; wraps and cloths were strewn over by a chair, folded neatly on a shelf, inside a drawer that contained a variety of Aziraphale’s own outerwear, soft golds of bangles and rings tucked neatly away in a small chest within the trunk at the foot of Aziraphale’s bed—

Even his feathers.

The first time Crowley had been given entry to Aziraphale’s quarters, he was ever-so-fortunate that Aziraphale had been distracted with hunting down a bottle of fine wine to share when those bloody vestigial appendages popped from his back, leaving several feathers in its wake.

Crowley did the only thing one could do at the time—aside from panic: sprawl himself over the sofa and take a nice, big, stretch.

When Aziraphale returned with a vintage bottle, he gave one raised brow at the Demon. Making yourself comfortable, I see?

Crowley barely tilted his pillowed head from the outdated cushions. I’m trying but, this thing’s so ancient, it might disintegrate if so much as twitch.

(As a small aside, there was no way Hastur and Ligur believed him when he used his own coin to replace the battered old thing with something more opulent—something sturdier. All because the legs collapsed after Crowley gave one, hearty sneeze. They had sneered and mocked, rudely implicating that the causal activity likely had been a bit more rigorous to break the sofa.)

It seemed customary now; every time Crowley so much as set foot in Aziraphale’s nest, the night-black wings would manifest without fail. Crowley didn’t know if this was some sort of deeply rooted predisposition left over from their origins as Angels. He just hoped he wouldn’t find himself doing some idiotic mating dance next that consisted of flapping his useless wings around.

But Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was being a bastard and teased him about his little molting issue.

Which it isn’t!

Crowley, please collect your feathers.

Daft bird. What am I going to do with my own feathers?

Well. what am I supposed to do with them?

Make a cozy pillow or something. Anything’s better than this stiff rock, he had said with a wide gesture to the array of cushions Crowley haphazardly displaced.

He’d meant for that to be a joke, but he quickly warmed to the mental image of Aziraphale curled up to a pillow made of his own down.

The Angel could say what he liked about the issue; so long as he finds use for those feathers. It just seemed. Right, somehow. Even if it was currently being utilized as a writing tool—delicately held in Aziraphale’s plump hands, well-manicured fingers tapping and twirling the plume, the absent-minded brush of the pen against his mouth as he contemplated something— Crowley wouldn’t complain.

In fact, he couldn’t say much of anything as he watched.

Surprisingly, it was Aziraphale that took heed of the last little courting gesture. One that Crowley hadn’t even realized he’d been doing.

Since the little sofa incident, Hastur and Ligur had transitioned from merely ribbing him of the time he spent with Aziraphale to outright stalking them. Every so often, he’d catch a whiff of brimstone and find the pair staring back at him unabashedly. It made Crowley downright uneasy, knowing that they were tracking his movements, their activities.

Who knows what they’d report back to Hell…

Aziraphale was less perturbed by the whole thing. They’re your footmen, Crowley. Shouldn’t you be glad they’re actually doing their jobs for once?

But he relented under Crowley’s insistence that they meet at obscure areas and then head out for the day. Of course he had to deal with the Angel’s insistence that this is ludicrous! but Crowley won him over in the end.

He always does.

Getting Aziraphale to meet him at the designated destinations had been an ordeal of its own, however. It took quite a few trials and errors, but Crowley thought they had a pretty good system down by now. They’d already made four rendezvous points at this time, and it was going swimmingly—

Even if the Angel couldn’t remember between the bandstand (4th rendezvous point) and the national library storeroom (the 2nd).

Hastur and Ligur—as well as any other Demons that came aboard with him, were out of sight for the past week. Still, that did little to ease the anxiety slowly coalescing within him. He’d taken to surveying the area, half an ear attending to whatever his Angel was prattling on about, another honed on dark whispers, covert murmurs, and listening for telltale wheezy little laughs.

He didn’t know if Hastur and Ligur had more contacts, if people started talking and speculating about how much time he spent with this particular Angel. Sure, he can spin the tale justifiably since Aziraphale was ultimately his Guide to the kingdom, but sooner or later, people will be demanding results and progression towards his wooing to an Archangel and by then, Crowley will either need to have won Aziraphale over or—

“Crowley, could you please stop that?”

He startled, turning to the Angel. Aziraphale sighed and tugged him towards a quieter street and away from the throngs of people.

After taking a few lefts and the crowds walking by thinned down, Aziraphale forced the prince to look straight at him. He gave an annoyed huff, but there was no mistaking the worry in those stormy eyes. “You were making me dizzy.”

Crowley blinked. “What?”

There was a stern frown set upon the Angel’s lips now. “Did you even hear a word I was saying?”

A quick scan through rote memory and: “The musical. Yes. The Archangels will be there.” Right. That was why his Angel was wearing new attire: a coat, vest, and trousers of soft creams and off-whites—different from his usual robes. “You were showing me to the theater.”

Aziraphale nodded, suppressing a shudder. “Yes. The…Sound of Music.” He made a face like he had just sampled an under-seasoned cut of steak. “Gabriel’s favorite.”

Crowley grimaced. Ah. That. Archangel…romance-business.

“Yes; honestly not my favorite production but—there you go again!” Aziraphale gestured about him. “Kettling as we speak—”

“Kettling,” Crowley spat, heavily in denial though he halted his movements and…was altogether unsure exactly how he went from being right in front of Aziraphale to standing just by his left. Right. “Ridiculous—”

His Guide shot him an exasperated look. “Circling, then. Stop it, you’re making me feel like—prey.” Aziraphale raised a brow at the convulsion of emotions that just flashed through the prince’s face. “Crowley, is everything all right?”

The prince snorted, none-too-delicately. “Fine. Just…fine.” Prey?

For Go—Sa—for someone’s sake.

He really didn’t get it, did he?

“No, not just, Crowley,” Aziraphale started, patiently. “You’ve been acting all out of sorts for the past few weeks. It’s been worrying me.”

Crowley fought back a wince. “It’s—”

Nothing, really. I’m just upset and bloody hormonal because I can’t scent you, I can’t mark you, I can’t let anyone know you’re mine, and now I’m paranoid that my own men are going to turn against me because I’ve went and decided that I’m simply gone for you.

But obviously, he couldn’t say all that. Not now. Not yet. “The, uh. Situation’s finally gotten to me, is all.” Crowley gave a swallow at the confused look on the Angel’s face. “I’m not used to it. The responsibility. It makes me...anxious,” he ended.

“Oh dear…” Bless—curse this Bird for his cloud-puff soft heart and pleading eyes. “I thought you were adjusting so well.”

“Not your fault, Angel,” Crowley muttered. “New territory, too. Being in Heaven, that is. Can’t help but feel uneasy.”

Tentatively, Aziraphale reached for arm and Crowley wanted to take his hands again, just like that night under the stars weeks ago. Instead, Crowley let it hang limp as the Angel gave a comforting pat.

“My dear, I may not have my sword anymore, but you needn’t worry.” He gave a small, encouraging smile. “I promise to protect you.”

At that tender declaration, Crowley’s brain temporarily short circuited, causing him to trip over his own two feet.

“Crowley!”

That felt like final nail in the coffin: he’s so deep in love to the point it’s physically ruining him and his reputation.

.............................................

Crowley was late. Again.

And when Crowley was late, it never ended very well for Aziraphale and his best-laid plans.

“Well, well.” A Demon stood before him, blocking entrance from the West Wing where Crowley and the rest of his legion resided. Dark hair and complexion with fiery eyes. Ligur.

“If it isn’t the Guide,” another called out from behind the Angel, effectively blocking the exit. An unnatural pallor framing dark, dark eyes; Hastur, then.

Aziraphale had no time for this. He cleared his throat. “Hello, gentlemen. Is Prince Crowley ready?”

He turned to see Ligur shoot a knowing smile to his companion. “Off to another affair?” he asked, ignoring Aziraphale’s question entirely. Okay. Fine.

The Angel decided to play along. “We’re meeting in regards to the progression of—”

“Right, right…” Hastur muttered dismissively. He inched closer to the Angel with a toothy grin. “Say, he is wooing an Archangel, right?”

Aziraphale tried very hard not to give him a look that would have implied insult to his intelligence. “Yes, of course. That’s what I’m here for—”

“Just making certain that things are going according to plan,” Ligur assured with a complacent smile.

Yet something behind that tone made Aziraphale think twice about his intentions. “Yes. No hitches or road bumps,” Hastur added with a smirk at the way the Angel stiffened as he came up behind him.

“No…distractions,” Ligur added with an intimidating step forward.

Oh dear.

No wonder Crowley preferred spending time over at Aziraphale’s quarters if this was what he had to put up with. He nodded primly despite his mounting annoyance. “Quite right, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know that things are progressing as expected, and that the Prince will be meeting with Archangel—”

“Oh good, good.” Ligur gave another shared smile with his Demonic mate. “Delightful to hear.”

“Yes,” Hastur nodded perceptively. “Especially since the prince has been exhibiting, well,” he gave a vague gesture. “You know…”

“Hastur,” his companion admonished with a scheming grin. “Careful, now. We wouldn’t want word to get out.”

That gave Aziraphale pause. “Word?” Was something wrong with Crowley? “Exhibiting what, exactly?”

Hastur gave a mocking gasp. “Oh, you haven’t noticed?”

“The prince has been exhibiting a few…peculiar behaviors of late, hasn’t he?” Ligur prodded.

Before Aziraphale could refute, deny, or even concede, Hastur answered for him. “Indeed, he has. Tell me, Bird,” he said, turning to Aziraphale with a blade-sharp smile. “Do you know how Demons court?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that question; it certainly never crossed his mind that courting differed between their two kingdoms. “I’m sure just the same as anyone else.” After all, love was Her creation. It shouldn’t vary so much…

Right?

Ligur gave a thoughtful hum, kettling—but this time, leaving Aziraphale feeling exactly like prey. “Not exactly. Not how you Birds court.” His eyes flashed with humor. “No preamble, no pussyfooting. Straight to the meat of the matter, as it were.”

“The courting itself is a means of gauging compatibility,” Hastur added, circling clockwise to his partner’s counter. “Gifts, usually food and jewelry.” He gave a pointed look to the ring on Aziraphale’s finger. “And other preferences,” he added with a furtive smirk.

The tartan bowtie Aziraphale had eyed yesterday at a shop and found neatly packaged in the middle of his bed suddenly felt tight around Aziraphale’s throat.

Were they implying—

No. That’s…that can’t be, that’s—

Preposterous.

They must be messing with him. Playing him for a sucker. Ugh. It was no wonder Crowley could barely tolerate their presence. They were proving exceedingly poor company. Still, Aziraphale plastered on a placid smile. “Well! Then it seems our sessions have been fruitful!” His smile widened as the two paused in their movements, a few inches away from a full-on collision. “Crowley is ready to court, it would seem.”

There was a cruel smile etched on Ligur’s face. “Oh, I do believe you’re right, Angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t outwardly flinch. It was the same word Crowley had repeatedly called him; it was what he was, an Angel of the Queen, down to his very core of being. Yet somehow, it sounded so wrong coming from this Demon’s lips.

And he really didn’t want to stay there any longer. “Right. In that case, with the air cleared, please let me through. I do believe we’re running a tad behind schedule now.”

Hastur pulled to the side, the maw of the West Wing entrance left open to him. “By all means, don’t let us keep you.”

Aziraphale gave curt nod of thanks before heading off.

“Yes, and oh,” Ligur called after him. “Send Prince Crawley our best wishes.”

At that, Aziraphale stopped. He swiveled around and marched straight towards the grinning pair. He shook his head. “Goodness, what a noisy lot you are. And to address your prince as such?” He crossed his arms, a bite of authority in his tone. They may be guests but that didn’t mean they had free reign to do as they pleased. “Have you no tact? We’re all working on the same side, here! And your prince is making a noble effort for peace. That ought to deserve some respect from his men.”

At that, the façade cracked, even for just a second. “The same side,” Ligur sneered. “What do you think this is about, hm?” He took a step forward, surprised to find that Aziraphale held little to no fear in his eyes. “Have you no brains, little Bird?” Merely contempt.

“Leave him be,” Hastur admonished. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

The Angel wisely paid little heed to that statement; probably another taunt to rile him up again. “Hmph.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes but turned all the same. “I bid you two gentlemen a good night.”

“Good night, Principality Aziraphale,” Ligur intoned with a mocking, sweeping bow.

The pair watched as the Angel made his way through the halls and to the Prince’s quarters, his footsteps echoing all the while.

Then, somewhere in the distance, an echoed, “Oh. Angel! You’re here already?”

“Yes, we need to be there by dusk, I told you this already!”

“Ah, right, right…”

Hastur gave a raspy chuckle. “Rather feisty, isn’t he?” There was a cruel upturn of his lips. “I can see why Prince Crawley has his eye on him.”

The carriage ride to the theater was a silent one. Mostly because Crowley was sulking at the prospect of spending the next few hours listening to inane singing, earworm-inducing tunes, and approaching yet another Archangel by his own Angel’s design.

For Aziraphale, the ride over was a rather pensive one.

He couldn’t help but replay their words, blood burning beneath his skin at their blatant disrespect and insinuations. But…that disconcerting meeting might have given Aziraphale insight and an answer to all of Crowley’s strange behavior.

But was it true? Was Crowley truly exhibiting courtship behaviors?

Was he ready to take the next step?

He couldn’t tell for sure. After all, Crowley was right in saying that his footmen were a wretched bunch, though they were lenient enough to let him do he pleased so long as he got himself out of trouble. Aziraphale knew that logically, he shouldn’t pay heed to them. Surely, Aziraphale would notice by now if Crowley had been showing signs of interest, signs of love—

He was a Principality, after all.

“Penny for your thoughts, Angel?” Aziraphale turned to see Crowley, once more slumped over in his seat. Goodness, can’t he sit straight for once?

“Careful, dear,” Aziraphale warned with a smile. “In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”

He gave a teasing grin. “Brooding, then?”

“What—no,” Aziraphale assured. “Just. Reflective.”

Crowley nodded. “Ah. So you are brooding.” He gave a chuckle at the derisive snort he received in turn. Golden eyes flickered from the Angel’s face to his vestments. “You’re wearing it, I see.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale straightened the bow with a pleased smile. “Yes, it’s lovely. Thank you.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Think nothing of it. I think I did the tailor a favor, taking that thing off his hands. Really, Angel? Tartan?”

“It’s stylish,” Aziraphale countered. “And I adore it.”

An indulgent smile made its way to Crowley’s lips as he leaned back in his seat, looking quite accomplished with himself.

Aziraphale nearly let out a gasp.

It finally clicked into place. The gifts, the food, the books--! It all made so much sense now. And Aziraphale was frustrated that he couldn’t see it sooner. That he couldn’t help Crowley sooner.

Crowley was obviously exhibiting courtship behaviors to see how Aziraphale would react to it! That way he could gauge how an Angel would respond to the practices before displaying them in front of his intended Archangel!

It was brilliant, really! The marriage of two cultures shouldn’t just be Crowley forced into the traditions of Angels, but a collaboration between two courtship efforts!

It was…decidedly odd. But Crowley was an imaginative and decidedly odd Demon to begin with.

Still… Aziraphale thought. Practice…for courtship?

It was beyond odd—it was mad. But perhaps it’s just imaginative enough to work.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Aziraphale: Pure of heart. Dumb of ass. I’m sorry, Crowley. The light in your sky, the love of your life, is a moron.

Shout out to Binging with Babish’s “Jurassic Park’s Chilean Sea Bass” recipe.

Also vultures, do not in fact, circle their prey.

I am so sorry for this mess lmao

#good omens #ineffable husbands #top crowley #bottom aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale

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