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dietraumerei · 4 years

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Whumptober 2020 - Day 5, Rescue

I mean, honestly, I’m a little surprised it took me this long to write a f/f meet-cute with hurt/comfort and girls on bikes. I’m shocked at myself.

This is basically my favourite thing I’ve written...certainly for this challenge, probably for a good long while. Fingers crossed we’ll see these lovely girls again! (Also, a bonus little cameo from one of my OC’s!)

Human AU, female Crowley and Aziraphale. CW: broken bones, the word ‘fat’ used as a neutral, then negative descriptor. (Then a positive one. Very veeeery positive!)

Read my other Whumptober 2020 fics on AO3 here.

Aziraphale growled as her bike's front wheel wobbled a little more. She was going to get this! Bloody bike that had spent too long in her shed, bloody roads, bloody everything! The bicycle was big and heavy but also beautiful, and she didn't drive and the bus service in Tadfield was dreadful, and oh yes also her girlfriend had dumped her last night and said horrible things so maybe if she could be a little more active and lose some weight...

Gabrielle still wouldn't want her. But Aziraphale could show her! She'd watched several YouTube videos and changed the inner tubes and inflated them properly and she was going to get her stupid bike and go someplace fun!

She pedaled faster, huffing and puffing and absolutely sure she looked an enormous tit, but there was no one around to see, so did it really matter? It did not. Besides, except for the sweat and the puffing and everything, she looked a bit cute. Smart, certainly, in skirted leggings and a pretty top with a ditsy flower print and her hair braided back under her helmet.

Faster, faster, she was really flying now! Take that Gabrielle!

Crowley slammed on the brakes as she watched the gorgeous woman coming up the road hit a rut and go flying over her handlebars into a ditch. “Jesus Christ!” She just about remembered to put on the hazards and jumped out, running over to peer down. Oh, poor thing; she'd landed in a stream and was covered in green gunk. At least she was conscious, groaning and rolling over.

“You all right?” Crowley called. Maybe she'd had a soft landing?

Oh no. Oh no.

She was pretty. She was so pretty, curvy and chubby and with an angel's face, her little upturned nose, and no matter that she was soaked and covered in gunk.

“Oh bugger everything,” she grumbled, and Crowley's heart fell out of her vagina and a good couple hundred feet through the earth, because here were all of her dreams come true. A grumpy little angel, tossed into a ditch right in front of her.

Right. Now was not the time to fall in love, now was the time to help the poor thing. “Easy,” she called, and scrambled down. “Easy, easy, you really took a spill there.”

The other woman gave her an uneven smile. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Name's Crowley. I was just rounding that curve when I saw you go flying. Poor thing, you ate it. Are you all right? Should I call 999?”

The angel shook her head and sat up, and groaned again, a pained little sound. “Oh, ow. I think...my wrist hurts. It's nothing though, you don't have to...”

“Right, you,” Crowley said. “Into the car, I'm taking you to A&E. That wrist needs x-raying and I want someone to check you for concussion. Helmet or no.”

“You're being ridiculous,” the woman protested, but she groaned again when Crowley helped her up.

“Probably, I usually am. Oi, you know my name, what's yours?”

“Aziraphale,” she said, as Crowley helped her up out of the ditch. “Oh, my bicycle...”

“Is in better shape than you are,” Crowley said after a quick check. “I know bikes, although good grief, this was sold as a velocipede. You know they make 'em out of aluminium now, they don't have to weight four stone?”

“It's vintage,” Aziraphale said. “And would one of your aluminium pretties survive heaving a great fat bird into the air?”

Crowley threw her head back and laughed. “All right, point. I've snapped a frame or two in my time. Right, lass, into the car with you, you poor thing. I'll put this on the rack and then it's A&E for you.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said softly, when Crowley slipped in behind the wheel. “I don't...I'm sorry, I'm a mess.” She sniffled. “My girlfriend broke up with me last night and I'm new to Tadfield and I don't know... I'm sorry.” She rubbed the material of her skirt between her fingers, twisting it. Not unlike how she was twisting Crowley's heart. It was terrible. Crowley just...oh. Oh, she was stimming to comfort herself, this poor gorgeous angel.

Crowley wondered if she liked flowers. Roses? She seemed like a lady who like roses. Great. Grand. Crowley was going to cover her in roses until she smiled and felt safe. Somehow.

“...you can just drop me off at the hospital,” Aziraphale said softly, her fingers manipulating the fabric, the same pattern over and over, the repetition a still point of relief. It would hurt too much to twist her hands, and this calmed something inside her even better, even if was annoying to other people.

“Hey, hey.” Crowley touched her shoulder. “I will not just drop you off. I'm worried about you. And I've not got anything on this afternoon.” She smiled. “I'm new to Tadfield too. Let's get you seen to, all right? And then I'll drive you home, so you don't have to worry about that at least.”

Aziraphale smiled tremulously at her. “You're so very kind. Oh, thank you. You have no idea.”

“Aw, I'm just doing what anyone would do,” Crowley muttered, before putting the car in gear and aiming for the nearest hospital. She was really worried about Aziraphale, and also was not doing a celebratory joyride upon learning that the beauty next to her was both single and dated women.

That would be gauche. And Crowley was never gauche. Well, hardly ever.

They made record time, as Crowley had intended, and she gently herded Aziraphale into the waiting room, grateful it was a warm day so she wasn't too cold from her dunking. She filled out the necessary forms while Aziraphale cradled her arm to her stomach, soft voice telling her everything that needed to be written down, and they settled back to wait.

Not for long, at least. It was off to x-rays, and then someone who gave her a series of tests to check for concussion, and someone else who wanted to x-ray her neck to be sure nothing had been damaged after she admitted she was a little sore and Crowley attempted to not have a screaming breakdown that Aziraphale's neck was hurt and she had not mentioned this.

Good news and bad; a broken wrist, but no surgery needed. A sore neck, but nothing seriously damaged there, and it was off to yet another room to wait, Aziraphale quiet now while her wrist was set and a nurse wrapped it in a heavy bandage and splint, settled her in a sling, and put a soft collar around her neck.

“Come back in three days and if the swelling's down, we'll give you a hard cast for the next few weeks, then you'll be right as rain,” she said cheerfully, and Aziraphale even managed a weak smile.

“I'll give you a ride then, too,” Crowley said softly. “I, um. My schedule's flexible. Just say the word, okay Aziraphale? The bus service out here is awful.” And nonexistent – Aziraphale would have to ride to about a mile away and walk the rest of it which was not something she looked up to.

“I can't ask you...yes, Crowley.” Aziraphale's smile grew stronger. “Thank you. I owe you a cake. Um, once I'm better.”

Crowley winked at her, and decided to shoot her shot. “You can let me take you out to dinner. Don't even have to wait for your wrist to heal for that.”

The nurse coughed loudly. “I'll just, ah, put you down for 2 pm on Tuesday?”

Aziraphale gave Crowley an odd look. “Of course, thank you.”

“Right,” the nurse said, gave Crowley a very meaningful look, and scampered.

Crowley was going to send her whole floor pizza for a week. What a mensch. The NHS was truly the pride of Britain.

“Hey,” Crowley said gently. “You don't have to. That's not a condition for giving you a ride home. Or a ride on Tuesday. I mean that, Aziraphale.”

“No, no. I, um, want to.” Aziraphale blushed, eyes downcast. Stupid neck brace, she couldn't even look down properly, or hide, or...well, it wasn't exactly keeping her from curling up and crying, but still. “I just. Are you sure you want to?”

“Really deeply completely and utterly sure,” Crowley said. “Believe me.”

“But why?” Aziraphale asked. “I'm nothing but trouble. And I'm not...you're beautiful. I'm not.”

“Who the fuck taught you that?” Crowley demanded, and sighed. “I mean, aside from the entire Western beauty industrial complex?”

Aziraphale had to laugh. “Well. That. Crowley, I'm fat and out of shape and autistic and plain. It's okay. I have, um, a good personality?”

“Oh, my angel,” Crowley whispered. “Where do I begin? Yes. Yes you're funny and scathing. You have a wonderful personality. I can't wait to get to know you better. You're fat and beautiful. The one doesn't rule out the other. You're so beautiful like this, I'm going to be useless when you're not covered in ditchwater. Um.” Crowley smiled shyly. “And look, I've never been diagnosed but I'm...probably autistic too? Somewhere on the spectrum? I dunno, it's all confusing to me. But I get it. I saw you stimming. It's okay. I really promise you, it's okay.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale's face lit up. “I – then yes. I would love to have dinner with you.” She laughed, leaning back against the bed with a little groan. “Maybe not tonight, I'm afraid.”

“Maybe not for a few days,” Crowley agreed. “You poor thing, you've been through it. Let's get you sprung, okay? I'll take you home and you can get dry and not ditch-water-y, and take some drugs and feel better.”

Aziraphale smiled at her. “I know I should say something sappy like 'I already do', but frankly my neck hurts and my wrist really hurts and will you stop by the pharmacy on the way?”

Crowley laughed, and promised she would, gently helping Aziraphale out of bed, through being discharged, and got her settled in the Bentley.

She meant to just drop her off, really. It would be silly to linger too long; Aziraphale might get sick of her. But, well. It was so easy to go in and help her clean up a little, and get her settled in her bed once she was changed, and then run out and get fish and chips for both of them. And then run out again to get a little overnight bag for herself, so she could sleep on Aziraphale's sofa, just in case she needed something.

They did, technically spend a night apart after that. Crowley went home at some point to shower and change clothes and have a meltdown because she'd pulled the best girl in the whole wide world out of a ditch. But she was back the next day to drive Aziraphale back to the hospital where she got a bright pink cast and ditched the neck brace. They changed it up a little by celebrating with a curry and spending the night at Crowley's, where no one slept on anyone's sofa.

Aziraphale woke up, disoriented for a moment, then the world fell back into place. She was in Crowley's huge bed. She couldn't move her arm because it was in a cast from fingers to elbow. And she rolled over, and right into her brand-new girlfriend's arms, Crowley sleepy and mumbly and too sweet for words. She wrapped her arms gently around Aziraphale and kissed her before she herself was even properly awake, one hand coming up to cradle her neck protectively, the other so nice and tight, holding her very close.

“Sleep okay?” she asked, when she could open her eyes. They were gorgeous eyes, a brown so light and golden they were almost yellow, and Aziraphale thought they were the prettiest she'd ever seen.

“Perfectly,” she said, and kissed Crowley again, and gave a happy little wiggle, which made Crowley laugh with joy, which made Aziraphale wiggle again, and not stop for a little while. It was okay, though. Crowley just held her and egged her on, and covered her face in kisses, and when she was done there, gently curled her fingers around Aziraphale's and kissed her cast, right over where her wrist was broken. Old, old magic, that – kiss something to heal it. Well, it was working.

One Year Later

“Yeah, I'm here with my girlfriend,” Crowley said, leaning over her handlebars as the riders staged. “Just over there, with the vintage Raleigh.”

“Holy shit, what a gorgeous bike,” the girl said, eyes going wide. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Crowley agreed. “It's a beaut to work on. Zira! Babydoll, come over here, there's someone else that appreciates antiques!”

“Really now,” Aziraphale huffed, but she also rode the few meters over, greeting the girl with a smile. “Hullo. Is this your first time here?”

She nodded, smiling shyly. “Yeah. My name's Asha.”

“Aziraphale. And that's Crowley. You'll love it,” she promised. “Group rides are great anyway, but there's a lot of queer energy here that just makes it,” she said, laughing.

“How, um, fast is it?” Asha asked shyly. “Also, can I look at your gearing?”

“Social pace, and we don't drop anyone, ever,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Crowley and I are riding sweep today. No matter how slow you are, one of us'll always be with you if you need it. And yes, of course!” She hopped off and Crowley held onto Asha's bike so the two women could crouch down, and Aziraphale could show off.

“It's a really sweet old thing,” she said, and looked up, smiling at Crowley like the sun rising. “Funny story, it's actually how we met.”

“Awwww,” Asha said. “Was it at a group ride?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, still with that sunshine smile. “Let me tell you the story, it's quite something...”

#good omens #ineffable wives #whumptober2020 #my fic

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userseokkie · 5 years

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Met Gala, Stony, 2.3k

In honor of the Met Gala tonight, I whipped up this quick fic. It’s so self indulgent but it’s fluffy and short. No smut, but I might be persuaded to do a follow up. Enjoy!

***

The flashes of the cameras were the first thing Tony could notice even before the limo rounded the corner. The paparazzi were swarming the entire entrance and media vans were parked well down fifth.

While Happy was busy cursing every poor reporter that dared get in the way and mumbling god knows what, Tony checked his phone one last time, thumbing a quick email before sliding it back in his pocket. He glanced over at Steve.

“You know, if you’d only let Carla style you-”

“I’m fine, Tony. What? This is just a gala.” Steve peered out the window, his brow pinching slightly the way it always did when he got nervous.

“Jesus, I already told you, this isn’t just another gala, this is the Met Gala and Anna trusts me to carry this event-”

“Just say it. Just admit you’re embarrassed by me and that I’m hideous and not worthy of being your date,” Steve said with that deadpan tone he used, and god his jaw could cut through glass. Tony bit his lip unconsciously, trying to get rid of inappropriate thoughts. This outfit was too tight to be getting hard.

Through the honking, Tony shrugged and smiled despite his efforts. “You know you’re the only one who could be my date, stud.”

Steve’s eyes softened, a glint on his blue eyes as they focused on Tony.

“I mean, Natasha and Clint are going together, Thor is bringing Jane and I’d have more luck convincing Bruce to smoke up with me than bringing him to one of these things. You were the only one left, obviously.”

“Tony.” Steve rolled his eyes. “I just don’t see what the big deal is, we go in, we have dinner, we donate some money to keep the museum funded.”

Tony was about to object to how Steve casually referred to 1.5 million as some money, but their car came to a stop. “We’re here, boss.” Happy announced.

Steve looked at him once more, an expectant look on his face. “Do I really look bad?”

The theme for this year was Manus x Machina: Fashion in an Age of Technology, which, duh. Of course it was important, when Anna had called Tony and asked him to host, it was a no brainer. This was practically made for the Futurist, and the media had gone ballistic when they announced Tony was co-hosting. This entire thing was built on the Mark LVII. Not to toot his own horn, but Tony had really outdone himself with this one.

Dragging his gaze up and down the super soldier in front of him, it was hard to be objective. But Steve certainly didn’t look bad, he just looked... like himself. The Met Gala was meant to go outside your comfort zone and push the envelope on what fashion meant, if Jan had taught Tony anything, it’s that fashion is for the brave and bold. And he was anything if not ballsy. Steve, however, in his all black suit, head to toe Dior, looked like a devil put on Earth to tempt Tony into unspeakable acts. Did it scream fashion and technology, though? No, it didn’t.

“Honey bunch, you look like sin incarnate.” Tony slid across his seat, making to get up. He leaned in, grabbing onto Steve’s bicep for support. “And I’ll make sure to let you know just how crazy you are making me with that outfit right after this thing is over.” His whisper made Steve shiver, and when he looked at his face, Tony could laugh at how big Steve’s pupils had become. He counted it as a win.

He slid his sunglasses on and turned to the door. “But now, it’s showtime.”

***

The steps in the main entrance were covered in a plush red carpet that felt thicker than some floors, and Steve appreciated the decoration lining up each side. People must have worked real hard for this event.

“Tony! Tony, over here!”

“Tony, who’re you wearing?”

The photographers were going nuts over Tony. Steve could swear a woman had fainted in the entrance.

“This is a Stark original, darling,” Tony drawled, and twirled to let them get a good look.

And boy, was it a sight for sore eyes.

The celebrities coming in were starting to gather around, some walking slower to let the photographers get a good shot, some talking with the cameras over on the steps. But not a single person had so many people focused on them as Tony. He had worked with those designers real hard, and what they’d come up with was a piece of pure technological genius that managed to look amazing and unreal at the same time.

Nanotech, Tony had called it. Steve had sit through the entire explanation about the nanotubes and how Tony “would be damned before he let another ant sized fucker get into his suit,” but he’d only use it to design a new Iron Man armor until last year. When he received the news he’d be hosting the Met Gala, Tony had called one of those world famous designers and they’d work on this outfit for seven months. Versace, Steve thinks.

The result was a nanotech armor that felt like fabric and looked like fabric, with the density of a hair and the resistance of a Falcon 9 spaceship. The suit managed to look slick and bulletproof at the same time, and well, the way it hugged Tony’s ass was reason enough to be here.

Steve saw Tony’s arm reaching for him, and he walked up to join him in front of the cameras. “Dazzle them, Steve.” Tony grinned at him, and Steve felt his heart grow a little bit. God, he loved this man so much.

The flashes were getting a bit too overwhelming for Steve, the way they always did, but even he had to admit it felt kinda good to have Tony on his arm and the whole world to see them. He had always admired Tony’s philanthropic nature and his tech genius, and the world needed to admire it too.

“A kiss, give us a kiss!”

The guys with the cameras egged them on, and since Tony liked to put on a show so much he figured he could do this for him. Tony looked at him and shrugged slightly, as if saying “it’s your call, Cap.”

Good thing Steve’s reflects were so fast. He slid his arm behind Tony’s back and with the other one he held his left hand, putting his leg behind Tony’s thighs quickly.

The photographers started dog whistling and cheering when Steve swooped Tony and dipped him into the ground, kissing him softly.

He felt Tony sighing and his lips parting, and it took all of Steve’s will to keep the kiss short and sweet, instead of doing what he really wanted to do. But he couldn’t resist swiping his tongue over Tony’s plush bottom lip once.

He parted the kiss, but remained with Tony dipped like a princess for a second. The chocolate eyes he loved melted and blinked up at him. “Woah, you’re pulling out all the tricks tonight, Captain.” Steve felt inner pride swell at Tony’s slightly dazed expression when he said that.

“Well, I have to make up for my terrible outfit, don’t I?”

After that, they continued their stroll down the entrance, stopping to talk to reporters and saying hi to some of the other guests. Tony stopped to talk with George Clay? George Crowley? Whoever, he was familiar from that movie they went to see last month.

“Hey, Steve,” A voice behind him said. “You look awfully ordinary today.”

Natasha came with Clint in tow, as Tony had said. Her red dress reminded Steve of a knight’s chainmail, but he couldn’t tell if it was made from the same material. “Nat, you look like a fairy tale. Where’s the charming prince?”

“Hey, right here.” Clint piped in. Well, he was wearing a suit just like Steve was. Except he had put on a type of metal prosthesis over his arm. Great.

“No, really, where is he?”

“Very funny, Cap,” Clint punched him with his metal arm. “You might wanna stop the banter and make sure someone doesn’t steal your man.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder.

Steve turned around to see Tony chatting with a different guy from the movie actor. This man was tall and blonde and- well, he looked like a real dickhead if Steve was being honest. But Tony didn’t seem to mind, as he was deeply in conversation telling a very entertaining story, judging by the man’s laugh.

He shrugged. “I might have to take some measures.”

Nat smiled at him, knowing he was joking, and pat him on the shoulder. “I’m sure he can fend by himself any potential suitors.”

“Hey, did you see Thor?” Clint turned his head, cackling. “Holy shit, he’s gonna start summoning thunder soon.”

And Thor was a few meters behind them in the main photo stand with Jane by his side, the media couldn’t get enough of him. He was swinging Mjolnir around, his cape glistening with the camera flashes.

“Hey, that’s cheating.” Steve frowned. “He’s just wearing his regular battle outfit.”

“Well, how much fashionably avant garde can you get when you’re an Asgardian god?” Natasha tilted her head. “I think they look cute.”

“Yeah, just wait til he pours a storm over them. One of the paparazzi almost pushes Jane out in the curb.” Clint said.

Tony appeared right beside Steve, his suit catching the light. “Hey Barton, lost your Robocop helmet back there?”

“For your information, this is Armani. Not all of us can get a custom made armor suit.”

“Miss Romanoff,” Tony kissed Nat’s hand. “You look particularly deadly today.”

“Thank you, Shellhead. I was going for that.”

A reporter asked them to pose for a group photo, and then when Thor joined them they had to go through another eight rounds of posing for every media outlet in existence. Steve was getting a little bit antsy, but luckily the dinner came after this. He could eat.

The darlings of the night were Tony and Nat, obviously. They posed for some duo photos and Steve had to admit, the sight of the two of them together could probably turn any man or woman, no matter the sexuality.

Nat’s firey red hair was styled into a short, disheveled bob with bangs reaching her mid forehead. Her dress, now that Steve had seen it properly, was part dress and part chainmail indeed. She looked stunning.

But Tony, Tony was on a whole new playing field. Right after the announcements and the opening speech, the media asked for some last photographs. Tony humored them and as the crowd rose into applause, he tapped something in the arc reactor (or nano case as he had called it), and the suit transformed right before them.

Steve had seen the way the tubes formed over Tony’s body many times, how it looked almost like a living entity, swallowing Tony, spreading around him to protect him. He must admit, he had been a weak man more than once and dragged Tony right after a debriefing into the nearest closet or conference room and, well. Let’s just say it’s incredibly easy to fuck someone wearing nanotech tubes, as they need to just open up around the right parts.

And now the crowd was going crazy with it. The suit formed arm gauntlets, and then in the back, something that resembled the flight stabilizers that the armor often had came up, forming a circle of long spikes framing Tony’s head, with an almost regal nature. The suit went from a steel gray to the classic red and gold colors, and Tony smiled. Steve was getting as hyped as the crowd with this, honestly.

“He’s born for this, it’s ridiculous,” Steve heard Clint say behind him. He thought of other adjectives rather than ridiculous, but whatever.

***

The dinner was good, but it wasn’t shawarma or some greasy spoon’s cheeseburger. “God, I’m so getting burgers after this,” Tony mumbled, placing the fork and knife over his plate in a cross.

“Tell Thor that, he just asked for doubles and the head chef had to come and tell him they don’t do ‘doubles’,” Steve chuckled next to him.

Things had been surprisingly well. The exhibition was exquisite, as always. Tony had to go find Anna for the final speech, but things were sailing smoothly.

“Hey, how are you holding up?” Tony placed his hand over Steve’s on the table, turning to glance at him. “I’ve been so busy mingling and being the MC, I hadn’t checked up with you.”

Steve smiled at him, nodding. “I get it, don’t worry. You’re the main attraction. I’ve been perfectly alright just sitting back and watching you.”

Tony definitely did not blush at that. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, it’s easy to just stand back and look pretty when you have the experience.”

Steve put his hand on Tony’s thigh under the table, squeezing slightly. “Yes, it is. But I might have to stop sitting down and be right behind you, like a bodyguard. What with all these men coming after my fella.”

Tony snorted. “Like a bodyguard, huh? Like Whitney Houston and Costner?”

“Have we seen that one?”

“No, I don’t think you have,” Tony tried to remember. “Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t end well for them.”

Steve’s hand felt warm and solid even over the nano layer of the suit.

“But yeah, I might have to step up. I’d hate to cause scene at this fancy event, though.” Steve said, looking at Tony sideways. His smile was charming as ever.

“Captain?” Tony arched an eyebrow. “Are you getting jealous over here?”

Steve lowered his head, looking down at his hand on Tony. “I mean, I can’t blame them. You’re a vision in that outfit tonight.”

Tony felt himself getting hot under the collar. Steve praising him always did things to him, weird, mushy things, dammit.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.” Tony peered at Steve through his eyelashes. “Remember what I told you in the car? Cause I’m good on my word, soldier.”

He enjoyed so much getting Steve riled up in public. His lips parted slightly, his eyes always widened and his jaw started clenching when he tried to control it. Steve never looked more attractive.

“Well, you better sweetheart. Because I have some ideas for this suit of yours.” Steve said quietly, his hand moving higher up Tony’s thigh and squeezing right before taking it away and turning his body, acting like nothing had happened.

Tony almost combusted. Right before he could suggest taking things to the restroom, he heard a voice in the speaker call his name. It was Anna.

Dammit, time for the closing ceremony.

Steve chuckled as he made his way up the chair. “You’re so paying for this, Steve,” Tony said, getting up behind him.

“I sincerely hope I do,” Steve replied, biting his lip. He put his hands on Tony’s shoulders and patted him, a big smile on his face. “Now go get them, tiger.”

Tony was adding this to the list of Reasons Why Steve Isn’t America’s Boyscout And He Has Everyone Fooled.

#stevetony #fic rec #tony stark #steve rogers #stony fic #stevetonyedit

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thewhiterabbit42 · 7 years

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On The Edge

Summary: While Sam and Dean try to beat Lucifer to Cas and Kelly, you’re left behind with Crowley who isn’t acting like himself.

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Word count: 6975

Warnings/Tags: smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up folks), foreplay, ummm, filth? (Jesus, how did Crowley come out with tamer tags than Gabe?) a little bit of everything as far as feels go.

Written for my 100/200 follower celebration

Requested by: @devilsnevercry1388 Quote: “This must be what going mad feels like.” Kink: Surprise Sex

Author’s Note: The poetry Crowley uses is from Part II of Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. They are my absolute favorite lines from that entire piece and just jumped into my head as I was writing this.

Special thanks to: To my wonderfully amazing beta @sumara62, aka my Jedi Master wise in ways of the force and the comma. You don’t just catch my mistakes, you help me bring to life what I’m trying to convey and I am grateful you know what my wordy ass is trying to say ;) I also want to thank the lovely @blondecoffeecake for keeping my muse fed and helping me take a direction in this story when I got stuck. Oh, and extra thanks for the future crack fic. Probably coming around Christmas.

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my permission. Giving credit does NOT count.***

The world sits on the edge of a precipice, the Winchesters scrambling to keep it from toppling over. You, on the other hand, sit back at the bunker, arguing with a rather pissed off Crowley who does not like having his hand attached to the furniture. Not that you blame him. You’d be a little miffed if your friends got a little stabby as well.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell Dean not to leave you with the king of Hell. You might as well be telling him that one day Sam will die. It skitters across his radar before he deftly bats it far out into the stratosphere where reminders of his own mortality have taken up residence. For the most part, you’ve been able to avoid any close, direct contact, but everyone’s luck has to run out sometime.

You just hope yours is the only one that does today.

The problem isn’t that you don’t like Crowley or you think he’s a danger. It’s that you don’t know how you feel about him. The last few years have been especially confusing, the boundaries blurring between ally and enemy, and he’s taken to walking that fine line of cooperation until it benefits him to step off again. The uncertainty puts you in dangerous territory, walking something equally as thin and fragile and you don’t know anyone in their right mind who would want to star in a tightrope act without having a safety net in place.

Yet, out the door your friends run, though you can’t be mad at them. Not only are they trying to stop the devil and save the world, but leaving you behind is their way of protecting you. Leaving Crowley, however, is the one thing they are doing to cover their own hides, and you can’t blame them after the secrets the demon has kept.

Though it does leave you with a royal pain in the ass.

“Crowley, we’ve been over this…”

Over. And over. And over… to the point where you’re one nerve away from finding a spell that will seal his mouth, temporarily or otherwise. He cocks a brow as if he’s heard that and you wonder how privy he really is to your thoughts and how much he just plays dumb.

“You’re not their lap dog, you know,” he tells you. You expect for there to be a hint of disdain accompanying the phrase, but there’s nothing, save that familiar rasp and something that pushes just beyond the fringe of neutrality.

“You’re right,” you agree, though what you’re conveying is far different than the portrait of the undervalued sidekick he’s trying to paint. “I’m not.”

“You’re so much more than they give you credit for,” he continues as if you haven’t even spoken. Then again, that’s Crowley. When all the doors he’s tried are locked, he’s persistent enough to circle back around again to see if there’s any he’s missed.

He’s never tried to pit you against the Winchesters before. Then again, you’ve never been in his sights. Just as you’ve always preferred to stay on the periphery during any dealings, he’s always seemed more than content to overlook your presence.

There’s a heady moment as your eyes connect and there’s no doubt about where his attention is focused now.

“Always tucked away in their shadow, kept on the sidelines, and told to stay behind,” that touch of something in his tone grows louder, and you feel your stomach flutter beneath his unwavering stare. “The truth is, they can hide you all they want and you’re still going to steal the show. Every. Single. Time.”

Your heart picks up a few extra beats and it’s a reminder of why you avoid him in the first place. Your stomach also rumbles and the hunter in you reminds you there’s plenty of space between Crowley and the kitchen. The woman, however, is starving in ways that go beyond not having eaten since that morning, and she is what makes you linger longer than you know is wise.

You expect a smug smile. A little mocking amusement to round out the look. Instead, he simply looks tired, worn in a way that’s beyond your understanding. You wonder if it’s connected to the fact that you only have a single lifetime to endure when he’s had so many.

You also wonder at what point timeless beings lose track of what number they’re on.

Whatever the look is, it’s not one he wears well, and he is most certainly wearing on you as he scrapes the bottom of the barrel trying to get beneath your skin.

“Let me up, kitten,” his tone is lined with silk that caresses over you, ensnaring more than just your hearing. The sudden nickname has you so distracted you almost step straight off the safety of that wire. Despite the weariness that clings to his features, there’s an energy simmering beneath the surface. Your instincts flare, warning you that something is off, and it’s enough to keep your feet firmly planted where they belong.

“I can’t let you up,” your voice comes out a little more breathy than you intend, something that does not go unnoticed. His gaze fixes more intently on you, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and you unconsciously shift your weight.

Whatever he’s selling, you don’t want any of it.

You don’t even know how you feel about the fact he lied about Lucifer. Is it betrayal churning in the pit of your stomach when you look at him? Is it resistance to the hope that descends now that your anger has abated, insisting that he must have had his reasons? Or is it possible you’re unnerved at how close you came to never seeing him again?

If you’re being honest with yourself, you know which one it is. Most days, however, you don’t like to be. Today is no exception.

You rise from your seat next to him, intention clear in the way your eyes drift to the door.

“Wait,” he insists, his good hand shooting out to grab you by the wrist. Electricity sparks beneath his touch and you almost gasp at the way it shoots up your arm. It ricochets back down the length of you, sending smaller shockwaves off within your chest and stomach. You’re not the only one that feels it and you watch as the darks of his eyes suddenly swallow the cinnamon flecks sprinkled around the centers. It leaves only uncharted and vast green seas staring back at you.

“I can’t do this, Crowley.”

You’re not sure what this even is, only that you don’t intend to stick around to see what he has to say. Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you. You slip through his grasp with ease, a final jolt sliding through you as his fingers trail lightly over your pulse before dropping away entirely. You can’t even look at him as you leave the room, as you focus on simply getting away.

***

You try to eat something, but find yourself checking your phone more often than bringing food to your mouth, which only results in cold chicken and an even colder appetite. You push your plate away, letting out a long, drawn out breath.

You don’t like that you’re stuck here while your friends are off trying to outsmart the devil. You don’t like how they feel more like family than your actual one does anymore and you’ve let them leave to defuse the most unstable nuke in existence without you. You most certainly do not like the restless energy that thrums until you can’t sit still and your hands itch to do something other than press a button and tap a screen.

Your options, however, remain limited.

You decide clearing the table and doing dishes is as good of one as any. It won’t occupy your mind, but it will help keep your hands busy. You let the water run as hot as it will go, using the scalding temperature to keep you grounded. It’s not enough to drown out the buzzing on the edge of your senses that rises steadily, culminating in an electrifying crescendo.

It’s strange. You can’t remember ever being this keyed up. Not during the apocalypse. Not even when Amara was on the brink of destroying existence. Your friends have come back heroes from worse odds and yet you’re coming apart, stitch by unraveling stitch. It’s more than that, though. You feel as if you’re slowly stepping onto the wrong side of sane until even the simple task of washing silverware requires far more concentration than necessary.

By the time you realize you’re not actually going crazy, it’s too late.

He’s already there by the way the hair on the back of your neck stands on end and his presence crackles on the air. It makes it harder to breathe, or maybe it’s just the sudden realization of how much trouble you’re in depending what side of the line Crowley decides he’s on.

“I’ve tried so hard to stop this from happening,” his smooth voice reaches out from across the room. You have no idea what he’s talking about and with everything that’s happened, you’re not sure if you should be reaching for a weapon, running, or offering him a glass of scotch as a peace offering.

“Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion…” His voice starts as a murmur, words taking on a smooth, seductive cadence that speaks of something long-endured which rises palpably in the air around him.

“As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean…”

You’ve considered the possibility he went insane the moment he decided to alter the plan to put Lucifer back in the cage. The fact that he’s speaking English but still not making a lick of sense is certainly not helping his case. Then again, at least he’s saying something, since the only way you can track him is through his words.

The way he moves, however, has instincts whispering with warning. You recognize the feeling. It echoes of cases that have slipped beyond your control and you immediately still.

“Water, water, everywhere,” he continues, his presence a slow stalk that inches closer and closer. If you had to guess where he was, it would be just passing the kitchen table.

“And all the boards did shrink…” His voice reappears much nearer than that and he’s closing in faster than you anticipate. “Water, water, everywhere…”

The silence that lapses is deafening. You’re on edge, ears straining, but the only sound you can make out is the rapid beating of your heart. There’s a heady rush as the air around you becomes charged, thick, overwhelming to the point it’s almost suffocating.

This time when he speaks, he’s close enough for his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear.

“Nor any drop to drink.”

His hands move to the counter on both sides of you, and you can only hope this is all just some elaborate plan to unnerve you and not actual insanity.

“I have tried so hard to be good,” he murmurs, his nose pressing lightly against the back of your ear just before he inhales. Deeply.

The fact the king of Hell is smelling you right now suggests his eggs are, indeed, a little more scrambled than usual.

Your body is just as confused as your mind, adrenaline rushing out to combat the threat even as your stomach flutters with excitement. Your hand, however, instinctively closes over a steak knife, the action hidden beneath the foamy layer of bubbles that sway across the water’s surface.

You wonder how much of a head start you could get if you catch him someplace good with it.

“Put the knife down.” This is neither a suggestion nor a threat as if he, too, can hear that song of dissonance that often hums when he’s around.

You do as you’re told, the weapon slipping through your grasp before you pull your hands out and place them on the rim of the sink in plain sight. You know you’re caught. The question is, what is he going to do with you?

“Turn around,” he instructs and, as with the knife, you have no choice but to obey. He steps back, allowing you room to move and as soon as you do, you find yourself face to face with something unexpected.

“Crowley?” This isn’t just a question of what he’s doing. You’re also wondering just who it is you’re looking at because the Crowley you know is many things. Calm. Collected. Clever. At least three steps ahead of everyone. The man in front of you? Looks like whatever thread of logic tying his plan together has become significantly frayed.

The only time you’d seen him this out of sorts was when he’d been hit with a spell that melded his mind with his vessel’s until each personality was wrestling for dominance. You can’t help but wonder if Lucifer had done more than just try to put him in the ground.

“So this is what going mad feels like,” he remarks, and it’s the last thing you want to hear. There’s an odd glow in his eyes, one that echoes with the same manic buzzing skittering between the small gap between your bodies. You don’t know what it is, only that it leaves goosebumps racing across your skin in not an entirely unpleasant way.

“I’m worried about you.” You pause, watching as the darks of his eyes swallow more color in response to your words. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Or perhaps I am myself more than I’ve ever been,” he counters, his fingers caressing your cheek. There’s an intimacy beneath his touch that has your eyes going wide, and once again your instincts are telling you to freeze. He pushes your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear before fingertips dip down along the curve of your jaw. That same electricity sparks again, this time jolting straight into your pulse until it’s forking through your system to the point your nerve endings are positively tingling.

You do your best to ignore the rush of blood that accompanies it, though you’re aware most is rising to the the surface in a heated flush that is not just limited to your cheeks.

“What do you want?” How you manage to ask is beyond you. Coherent thought is a concept swiftly abandoning you, as is your ability to take in any air.

He smiles, and you have a feeling whatever he’s about to say is not going to bring you any relief.

“Just a taste,” he insists, and there’s no doubt about what he’s after as his gaze drops to your lips. He doesn’t wait for a response, his hand taking you by the chin to guide you toward him. He does move slowly enough, however, to let you know he is asking.

The question, though, appears time limited.

Your mind is present enough to understand this is a terrible, terrible idea, and it transfers that memo to your hands which fly up to his chest as he starts to lean in. Pushing him away, however, is just as decisive as pulling him to you, and once again you cannot move, too scared to leave the safe confines of that careful line in either direction.

It doesn’t stop his lips from meeting yours. It doesn’t prevent the searing heat that unexpectedly blossoms beneath the contact. It most certainly is not stopping it from unfurling across your cheeks, creeping down the length of you or melding with that previous warmth that still has color singing across skin. Once together, it sinks lower, slipping beneath the surface, and sending tendrils through your system as if in search of something.

You have a feeling whatever it’s looking for is a lot more than just a taste.

You feel your legs grow shaky, his tongue sweeping languidly along your lower lip before he draws it into his mouth. The way he suckles it, though, is what has your balance faltering. You almost lose it completely with the gentle nibble that follows and as before, the only thing keeping you from plummeting over the side is that sustained, cautious, lack of response.

He doesn’t try to push for more, but the pressure of his mouth is increasing, that persistent edge within his gaze beginning to enter his movements. With every subsequent kiss, he seems less satisfied, as if the taste he seeks only parches him instead of bringing relief.

You’re proud of yourself for keeping it together, for not letting your senses become ensnared by the scent of his cologne or the lingering taste of scotch that transfers indirectly to your tongue. You do not succumb to the warmth of his body that hovers so close to yours, and you convince yourself if you can just hold on to something, you can keep keep from getting swept away.

Unfortunately, your fingers decide that something happens to be Crowley.

They slip beneath the lapel of his suit, clutching the smooth fabric. You’re not sure if you’re the one that’s dragging him closer, or if he’s taken it as a sign of encouragement and is now moving toward you. Either way, the small gap between your bodies disappears and the world shifts a little sideways as his hips meet yours. The moment he backs you into the sink, your stomach abandons ship, dropping somewhere beneath the floor, and you’re not certain if the noise that catches in the back of your throat is one of alarm or anticipation.

Whatever it is, it spurs him to action, and the fingers beneath your chin break away to thread through the back of your hair. The way he handles you is tender, bordering on the familiarity of a lover’s touch, and the unexpected gentleness has your heart fluttering in ways of which you don’t approve.

Gently he guides your head back, mouth breaking away from yours, but instead of ending the madness, he takes it one step further. Lips and tongue dance over your jaw before dipping down the side of your neck where teeth take hold of your pulse and tug.

“Crowley,” you gasp, his name just another shade of gray on this spectrum of ambiguity you’re caught in.

Part of you knows you shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon, the king of Hell, and everything about those two things, and the fact you’re practically a Winchester, should have you ending this. Yet, it’s also not that simple.

He has stood with you against greater evils. He has saved your life on more than one occasion. He has even gone out of his way to protect you. You. Someone who really is just a sidekick to the more important characters in this ongoing cluster for which Chuck has set the stage

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” he rasps, soothing over where he’s just nipped. “Tell me to stop and I’ll leave.”

Desire roughens the smooth edges of his words, but as he draws back for a fraction of second, you notice his voice and gaze are at odds with each other. A fleeting glimpse is all you catch, but you almost swear his eyes hold a plea for you to end this. Yet, his lips are descending down the other side of your neck, his tongue teasing its way to your ear where it grazes along the outer edge.

The moment you feel his teeth upon your earlobe, your resolve to remain neutral vanishes.

You grab the sides of his face, fingers splaying over coarse stubble as you pull his head back. His breath grows as still as yours does, or perhaps it’s just the entire world stopping in that brief moment before you give your response. Even you’re not certain what it will be until the words are tumbling from your lips.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you warn, stepping straight off that line into the unknown as your lips rush forward to meet his. Your permission strips away the barriers of his control, his tongue hastily pushing into your mouth, eager to explore.

Your fingers card through his hair, holding his head to yours as if afraid he may pull away at any second. His hands, however, are everywhere, rising up your back, sliding around your side, ghosting over the sides of your breasts before smoothing down the length of you. They land briefly at your waist, fingers taking possession in the form of a light squeeze before slipping down around the back of you. He grabs you right where your thighs meet the curve of your ass, and he takes a moment to appreciate this part of you before deftly hoisting you into the air.

You fold against him, your arms resting on his shoulders and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, trapping his increasingly hardening length between your bodies. You’re vaguely aware he’s taking you somewhere, but that tongue of his is doing things to yours that makes it hard to think of anything else. It’s not until he sets you down on something solid that you realize he’s brought you to the kitchen table.

You take some time to get a taste of him, but it’s clear neither of you are satisfied with just this. You need to feel his hands on your skin, his body pressed to yours, and neither of those is happening with how much clothing you both still have on. Your fingers begin to pluck at the buttons on your shirt when his hands come up and cover yours.

“Allow me,” he offers, and a sudden chill washes over you as your entire top layer disappears in the blink of an eye.

He hardly gives your bare skin a glance, foregoing sight to take in this new aspect of you through touch. His mouth comes down on your shoulder and he places hot, open mouthed kisses along it before making his way lower. Teeth and tongue come out to add taste to his exploration, and they expertly tease along the ridge of your collarbone, drawing from you an appreciative hum.

His hands slide up to the band of your bra, though only one of them takes hold of the fabric before deftly undoing the hooks. A smile tugs at your lips. It’s such a subtle and very Crowley-esque move.

“Show off,” you tease, and for a moment, he looks like himself again, a cocky smirk stretching across his features as his head hovers just over the swell of your breasts.

“If you think that’s impressive, I’m just getting started.”

His gaze never leaves yours as his hands resume their course, moving up behind your shoulders with that same, feather-light touch. He hooks his fingers beneath the straps, drawing them down your arms before he removes the article altogether. The sudden coolness has your nipples hardening, and even as he tosses the garment over his shoulder, his eyes are still on yours and that confident grin remains in place

The promise that gleams within hazel breathes vitality back into his features, and that heat burning its way through your blood pools straight between your legs

The king has returned and the way his stare slides down the length of you, his entire kingdom now sits before him.

His eyes linger, as if committing every curve to memory, before his hands reach up to cup your breasts. You exhale, a soft sigh passing your lips from the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Tension releases though there’s a different one slowly growing in its place as his thumbs tease over hardened nubs. A band of pleasure begins to stretch beneath your stomach, growing tauter as his mouth dips down, tongue teasing languid circles around sensitive peaks.

Your hands splay out along his lower back, and luxury resonates in the smoothness of the garment that whispers through your touch. You grab a fistful of fabric, hastily untucking it from his pants before delving within to grab his ass. It’s firmer than you expect, and your fingers take ownership before pulling him tight against you.

The table begins to sway as you roll your hips against him, a soft creaking underlying your gasps and sighs that punctuate the silence. You feel him twitch against you, a low moan rumbling in the back of his throat.

“Easy, kitten, or I’m liable to just bend you over and take you right here,” he warns. He’s only partially joking. The energy beneath his skin suddenly spills over onto yours, and the frantic cadence to which it beats leaves you wondering just how he hasn’t just taken you already.

“Then why don’t you?” You question, enjoying the way his eyes flutter as you rub yourself against him again.

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined this.” Everything gives a sudden shift, apology lacing his words and vying for a spot within his gaze. As he drinks in the sight of you – your lips swollen from his attention, your skin ablaze with your own heightened desire, the way your sex is so wet the dampness is spreading to his pants – there’s an undeniable thirst that overtakes everything other than the driving need to quench it.

“I’m not complaining,” you breathe, and his stare turns wholly unapologetic as you take hold of him through his trousers, thumb smoothing over the tip straining through the dark material.

“Eager, are we?” He chuckles. “So am I. Though perhaps we should move someplace a little more comfortable?”

You expect him to magic you into your bed. Any bed, really. What you don’t expect is to find yourself in his lap in the middle of the library. There’s just enough room for you both in the giant, antique leather armchair you’ve dubbed the throne by how he never fails to commandeer it when around.

“I may have imagined this however…” You blink and your last remaining article of clothing disappears along with all of his. “On a number of occasions.”

You’ve always wondered what lay beneath that suit of his. It takes you a moment to wrap your head around the fact that for a moment, it’s all yours.

Your hands take in the lean planes of his chest, smoothing over the tops of his shoulders before dipping down along the corded muscle of his biceps. They come to rest at the crook of his elbows, and you look up at him through lashes with a combination of coyness and shyness.

The latter is something you’re not used to feeling, though you suppose you’re also unaccustomed to sitting astride an actual king’s lap.

“Touch yourself, darling. Show me how you like it.”

A thrill sings straight down the center of you, and you’re not sure what turns you on more: the sensual lilt his voice takes on or the wickedness that burns within his stare. You want to obey him, but you are all too familiar with what your touch is like, and you have waited far too long to feel his.

“I have a better idea,” you tell him, lips curling carnally as you raise off the chair. He tilts his head curiously as you turn around before lowering yourself again. You settle your legs on either side of him and his breath hitches as you sit back down, intentionally rubbing yourself against him in the process.

“Well, you certainly have my attention,” he murmurs, his hands gliding along your inner thighs before coming up to rest on your hips. The sensation fuels your excitement, and it’s a concentrated effort to keep your movements slow and steady. Your hand overlays his, index finger lining up tip to tip, before you pluck his grip from your side and place it over your mound.

“You want to know what I like?” You purr, dragging his finger along your folds, wetting it with your slick. “I like the thought of you touching me.”

“As do I,” he drawls, his free hand sliding up over your stomach, brushing along your rib cage before finally closing over your breast. You let out a whimper and guide the finger in your possession to your clit. You start him with slow, sensual circles, teasingly light in pressure. His other hand takes a sensitive bud between fingertips, alternating between rolling and gentle tugs.

The combined sensations has you mewling and the embers of your desire catching fire. You allow him to take the reins, rewarding his efforts by rocking back against him. You relish the way his breathing begins to pick up, matching yours as an increasing tempo of ragged gasps interspersed with moans.

“Is this really the way you like it?” He rasps, his tongue flicking out around the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps skittering across skin. “Or are you someone who likes things a little rougher?”

He pinches your nipple harder, your pleasure soaring as he simultaneously increases the pressure with the finger between your legs.

“I like anything, so long as you’re the one doing it.”

You’re not sure where the confession comes from, only that it’s stumbling past your lips faster than you can catch it. His cock twitches against you and the moment you realize what buttons you’ve pushed, you can’t resist hitting hitting them again

“I’ve always wanted you to touch me,” you continue, “To know what it was like to have your hand down my pants.”

Deep down, you always wanted it to be him fucking you into those cheap motel mattresses, instead of all the random drunks from the bar.

The snarl that rises in the back of his throat suggests he does, indeed, hear far more than he lets on, and his teeth flash out across your neck, his nip wholly ungentle. His finger picks up speed and you let out a whine, your legs beginning to shudder as those flames lick more insistently at your core.

You’re so close, teetering on the brink of release, when you feel his breath fall heavily against your ear.

“I’m going to show you exactly what you’ve been missing,” he promises, and it’s the decadent silk within his tone that ignites your senses, sending those flames into a crescendo of heated bliss that sings across your system.

As your walls shudder around nothing, however, you feel more than a little incomplete.

You barely finish coming when the world shifts around you in a blur. You don’t even have time to blink when you find yourself face to face with him once more. The odd glow remains in his eyes but it’s grown so much brighter, pushing the fringe of feral as he grabs you by the back of head and drags your lips back to his.

His tongue slides over yours and as he’s in the process of reclaiming your mouth his hands shift. The fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips are as demanding as his kiss. His cock is positively throbbing, and you reach between the two of you to give him some relief. There’s a half-growl, half-moan that hums against your lips as you work your hand over the shaft, sliding up around his tip which is dripping with pre-cum.

His grip over you tightens as he jerks you up to your knees. You know what he wants, and the fact he wants it now has your legs trembling with anticipation.

The manic energy buzzing beneath his skin hits a fever pitch as he lines himself up with your entrance. His fingers become possessive, tips pushing to the point it’s almost painful as he pulls you down upon him. The movement is faster than you expect, and he swallows the sharp cry you give with his mouth. You’re so wet, the only resistance he encounters is from the fact it’s been awhile since you’ve slept with anyone.

After a few, short thrusts he’s fully sheathed and there’s a satisfied rumble that spreads through his chest. He holds you there a moment, allowing you to adjust, or perhaps he, like you, is simply taking the time to savor how he feels inside you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this good, your walls stretched to the max, but not uncomfortably so. It brings with it a feeling of completeness you’ve always been missing with other men.

You have a feeling it has nothing to with Crowley’s size, though it certainly is kingly.

His hands slip down the curve of your ass, resuming their insistent grip as he urges you to start. You begin to move slowly, enjoying the feel of him languidly dragging across your walls and the way he perfectly hits that sensitive spot inside from this angle. The moment his grip passes the threshold of pain, however, you decide you’ve both waited long enough.

The next time you raise up, you take a moment to tease his tip along your entrance, in and out, in then out, before abruptly slamming down onto him. You catch him by surprise and are rewarded with a guttural half-grunt, half-groan. You repeat the movement, and this time he moans, deep and loud, and before you can do it again he’s taking control, thrusting up into you with slow but hard strokes.

The sudden roughness awakens something in you, and you realize just how much you need this – him. Your nails rake over his back, leaving raised paths of pink in their wake. Your teeth take hold of his bottom lip and you don’t just tug, you bite. The next breath he takes hisses in through his teeth and for a moment you’re afraid it’s too hard.

“The kitten has claws,” he murmurs in approval, picking up the pace.

The chair begins to rock beneath you, wood groaning in protest, and every now and then there’s a high pitched squeak as the entire seat jerks across the floor. His hand flashes up to the back of your head, pulling your hair and drawing you back, exposing your throat to him. His teeth leave a trail of stings in their wake and the sensations he’s creating has heat lapping at your core once more.

Your eyes slip closed, and you’re amazed at how fast he already has you ascending back up that blissful summit. Everything suddenly stills, from the noises unconsciously slipping through your lips to your very breath as you focus entirely on him. The way he’s pistoning in and out of you. How it feels as he hits that inner wall whenever he gives a particularly deep thrust, burying himself as far as he can go. From how surprisingly warm his body is to the feel of his skin against yours, you have an inexplicable urge to remember every detail you can about this encounter.

“Look at me,” his voice breaks through the riptide of sensation you’re all but lost in, drawing you back.

You do as he asks and something shifts. That driving need he’s been battling slides a little further beneath the surface, his thrusts slowing as his hand comes up and cups your cheek. The thumb that grazes along your lower lip is tender, his penetrating stare speaking with an emotion far less casual than you’d ever expect from him.

He doesn’t just want you, he wants all of you, and that does more for you than seeing him wild with desire ever could.

“You are perfection,” he marvels, and the way he looks at you it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time. In many ways you feel the same, this man before you almost a stranger in comparison to the one you thought you knew. The weariness still clinging to the lining of green has a different word whispering across your mind: human.

You don’t have time to dwell on the revelation. His thumb brushes across your clit, causing you to shudder as sparks shoot from beneath his touch. You clench around him, wanting this to feel as good as he’s making it feel for you, and you realize just how little you’ve given in return.

It’s time to fix that.

“Enjoy the ride, sire,” you tell him, loving the way desire darkens in his gaze at the term. You give a few slow roll of your hips before you begin to raise up off him, bouncing on his cock at a steadily increasing pace.

He allows you to take over, eyes riveted to your features. He’s drinking in every detail, watching every nuance and expression as if enraptured. Perhaps, like you, he feels the need to commit you to memory. Whatever his reason, he pays more attention to you now than he has the entire time he’s known you, and that bundle of nerves is receiving the majority of it, his finger swirling around and around as he continuously adjusts the pressure.

It isn’t long before both your sensitive spots are singing, from one of his tips or from another. The symphony he creates is carnal, filled with decadence and heat, much of which flows from his stare alone. He’s proud of the song he’s creating, the notes striking chords within him as well that have him humming right along side you. He holds back, however, waiting for your blissful tune to finish before he writes the rest of his.

The chorus is rapidly approaching, a crescendo building until you’re standing at that edge once again. You’re so close you can peer right over it, but as your eyes slip shut in preparation for the fall, his voice draws you back.

“Look at me,” he rasps and you realize he wants to watch more than just your features when you tumble over the brink. You open your eyes again and you’re surprised at the depth in which green has become illuminated, a stark contrast to the darkness in his pupils that are so vast and wide. Impulse takes you by the hand, drawing your palm against his cheek. As an unexpected tenderness settles within your chest, you realize just how deep you are in this.

The way the sentiment echoes within his gaze, you also realize you’re not alone. It takes you a few moments to work your way back to that peak. You’re still wrapping your mind around the fact this is, by far, the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with anyone. You manage to maintain the eye contact, daunting as it is, as you line yourself back up with that ledge. The sweet symphony sends its final wave of notes singing through you and you take that final leap, your movements stuttering as you drop straight into the heated verdant waters that continue to stare at you.

This time, when you come you feel so full and whole, it almost aches.

You have yet to hit the ground again when his hands slip down your waist and you can tell he’s grappling to remain in control. His grip is bruising, and suddenly he’s slamming into you at such a breakneck pace you can’t even make a sound. The impassioned gleam within his gaze carries with it that touch of madness, releasing it in a final, bright burst as soon as his rhythm grows unsteady.

He gives a few final thrusts, his hips rising off the chair as he pushes into you as far as he can go. His cock pulsates before spilling his seed inside of you, something you don’t normally allow anyone else to do.

Perhaps Crowley’s crazy is catching.

Your body melts against him. You know you should move, but you can’t seem to extricate yourself from him, You don’t want to let him go. You don’t want this moment to end. You know beyond a doubt there’s no going back from here, but you’re not sure what going forward means either, and hiding a few more moments while you’re both in limbo seems far less intimidating.

“It’s always been you.” He breathes his ragged confession against your neck and this time the entire universe grinds to a halt. It’s probably as close as he’ll ever be able to come to saying the three words that hold more power to create or destroy than any spell or ritual ever could. For the king of Hell, this is immense, and brings with it a startling burst of clarity, that has all but a few pieces of today’s puzzle sliding into place.

You swallow, head slowly drawing back so you can look him in the eye.

“Crowley…” Your tongue almost fumbles at the rising emotion that threatens to cut off your words. “What’s going on?”

The smile he gives is open, full of adoration and a sadness that squeezes around more than just your throat. It feeds the fear rising in your chest, and you can’t help but feel like something awful is going to happen. It makes your grip over him grow tighter, more possessive, and now you have no intentions of letting him go.

“For once, I’m going to do the right thing,” he says, an unmistakable apology resonating beneath his tone. A heavy sense of foreboding washes over you. Logic becomes bypassed and you no longer care what it is he’s talking about. All you can think about is the sudden, visceral need to tell him no one else has ever meant anything to you, either. It’s always been him.

A sudden weight dampens his features, one that has weariness returning ten fold while something suspiciously looking like guilt and regret mutes his stare. You have a feeling you don’t need to say a word to him, but it doesn’t stop you from trying. The moment you open your mouth, however, he vanishes, leaving you with nothing but the fading warmth of his heat on leather and the chilly bunker air.

All the Tags: @girl-next-door-writes @wayward-mirage @fand0maniac @feelmyroarrrr @omgreganlove @jannalionheart @baritonechick, @deaths-maiden @lucifer-in-leather @stone-met @the-moose-of-baskerville @summer-binging-spn @raspberrypuddle @ourloveisforthelovely

#Crowley/reader #devilsnevercry1388 #smut #spn fanfic #reader insert #rabbit celebrates 100/200 #rabbit writes

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cupidsbower · 7 years

Text

in re

Supernatural 12x11, “Regarding Dean.”

Most of the good things about this episode are thanks to the actors, especially Jensen Ackles and Ruth Connell, who were both delightful. The writing was competent but not meaty, like last week’s episode. I came away from “Regarding Dean” not really feeling I knew all that much more about Dean than I had before, which was a shame given the premise. But perhaps the point was actually to shine more light on Sam and Rowena, who both reacted to Dean in interesting ways.

Let’s start with the title, which is a reference to a Harrison Ford movie, Regarding Henry, written by J. J. Abrams.

Here’s the trailer:

youtube

It’s about an ethically-dubious but successful lawyer, played by Ford, who is shot in the head by a robber, and loses his memory. As a result, he turns over a new leaf, becoming more innocent and idealistic, and forges closer relationships with his quasi-estranged wife and daughter. Ironically, it is a film that is mostly appealing due to the actors, as the plot is rather by-the-numbers. If there’s any lesson to be learned here, it’s that pre-shooting-Henry is unlikable, both to himself and others, and hates his job but loves his family, who he had been neglecting.

In contrast, post-amnesia-Dean discovers that he likes himself and his life, but quite possibly both Sam and Rowena are unhappy with their lives and their current relationships -- more on that below.

While I don’t think Abram’s script for Regarding Henry is very nuanced, I find the reference to the film interesting for another reason than the obvious similarities of plot between it and “Regarding Dean”. I have always assumed that Regarding Henry was itself a reference to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Follow that rabbit all the way down its hole, and you end up at the Daedalus myth, which is the story of a man making himself wings in order to escape imprisonment, and whose son who escapes with him, Icarus, falling to his death as a result of flying too close to the sun.

Why do I draw a connection between Regarding Henry and Portrait? It’s about that use of words with multiple meanings in the titles, and specifically about how we interpret and understand people and the ways we represent them.

Regarding:

in respect of, on the subject of

looking at

admiring

Portrait:

a visual likeness (something people look at)

a description of a person’s character (a story)

As I said above, while Ackles is very good in this episode, what we see just confirms what we already know (and/or admire) about Dean -- he has a childish delight in things that he often masks as self-defence, his responsibilities and perceived failures weigh heavy on him, he genuinely loves hunting things and saving people, he loves the people in his life and does the emotional labour of keeping them in his life.

The freshest aspect of the episode is not actually the portrait of Dean, but the reactions of Sam and Rowena to Dean, and in reaction to his memory loss -- how they regard him, in other words.

Sam is devastated by the loss of Dean, in a way that tells us a lot about what he’s living for. This love for Dean is not a happy thing, though, as it highlights Sam’s social isolation and depression. He comes across as ambivalent about the hunting lifestyle, and with the people currently in his life. With the “I’ll text everyone” scene, we yet again have the implication that Sam relies on Dean to keep in touch with people, unless there’s some particular need. I think that’s about the third time this season.

In fact, we’ve had subtext for many seasons now that Sam would leave hunting for the “apple-pie life” if only he could find a way to do so, but that he feels tied (chained?) to Dean, and this episode adds more weight to that reading. Sam is a mirror of Regarding Henry in a different way than Dean is. Where Henry is given a chance at a new and more satisfying life because of his memory loss, and Dean is confirmed as already loving his life via the memory loss, Sam, it is strongly implied, would love to ditch his current life -- he wants to be the lawyer, with the wife and kid, and to forget hunting, but doesn’t know how to achieve that, and instead is trapped and unhappy.

Ouch.

I mean, this is great for the deconstruction of the co-dependency, if only Sam can actually get to the point of honestly articulating that, and Dean can hear it without feeling rejected. But still, ouch.

Then there’s Rowena.

I really like that Rowena and Crowley are being shown to have character traits in common. In particular, it took a while, but Rowena has now figured out that the Winchesters are an unstoppable force, just like Crowley has, and as so many (now dead) villains never did. She had her own agenda in this episode to do with the other witches, and I love that her plot is getting closer and closer to intersecting as enemies with the Men of Letters -- I have wanted that for a loooong time. But in addition to that, now that she recognises the Winchesters either deadly or a form of supernatural social capital, I have some hopes she will live a good long while. *fingers crossed*

The other interesting Rowena thing picks up on a thread from last season, when Rowena told Crowley she had to hate him or else she’d love him. In this episode, we find out that Rowena is a lot like Dean. She projects a hard-as-nails outside to protect her squishy insides from the many people who have hurt her. And she yearns for connection, as demonstrated by her falling for Dean’s (at this point quite possibly supernatural ability to) charm, responding to his defenselessness with a lowering of her own guard instead of cruelty.

Well, except for this, which isn’t directed at Dean.

(I don’t have a source for this image.)

That voodoo doll and its multiple pins in the heart. It’s played for humour, but actually, it calls back to a visual motif we’ve been getting throughout the season:

The Immaculate Heart of Mary (x), representing Mary’s grief at the death of her son.

Interesting, yes? I mean, also kind of horrifying given the foreshadowing. Apart from the subtextual implication that Dean is Jesus Christ, stabbing his mother in the heart with his death(s), it does make me wonder about the nephilim. Are we going to get actual Jesus reborn in the superntural ‘verse? As the child of Lucifer? Because the symbolism certainly seems to be going there!

Hi, Satan, who is an angel and therefore not gendered as humans are. Ready to have your heart broke yet?

Anyway, for an episode that in itself was competent but not great, it adds some interesting elements to this season’s myth arc.

Final things:

I think it’s pretty strongly implied at the end of the episode that Dean does remember some of what happened, but isn’t admitting to it. I wonder how that will play out in terms of his relationship with Rowena.

I really appreciated that the waitress apologised once she believed Dean had been roofied while they were flirting. Good.

Tree magic. Hmmm. Angel grace can live in trees, and now this. I am intrigued, and not just because I wrote fic that used a premise jumping off from this. I kinda hope we get more on tree magic.

Previously:

The Ministry of Information vs Wayward Sons Carrying On (12x01)

My, my, how can I resist you? (12x02) and follow-up about Bohemian Raphsody

So what am I so afraid of? (I think I love you) (12x03)

I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy Down in my heart (Where?) (12x04) and a follow-up about the codependency and about Dean’s self-flagellation and issues with space

There can be only one! (12x05), and a follow-up conversation with elizabethrobertajones on Freud vs Schwartz.

They shall fall by the sword: they shall be a portion for foxes (12x06)

Presenting the Immaculate Heart Reunion Tour (12x07)

I’m still living the life where you get home and open the fridge and there’s half a pot of yogurt and a half a can of flat Coca-Cola. ~Alan Rickman (12x08, 12x09)

When the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men (12x10)

#supernatural #season 12 #spoilers #meta #spn meta #dean winchester #rowena #sam winchester #themes #lucifer #mary

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