#folio with his good boy smile and just wants his heart completed

[hedonists]

I’m so sorry Folio, I promise if that was me I’d finish your heart

[dollslayer]

Artistic Intention

Artist!Steve x Reader

Summary: Steve's doing well in his life drawing class, but a new muse throws him for a loop in the back supply room.

W/C: 2,374

Warnings: NO MINORS, p in v smut, unprotected sex, public sex, breeding kink if you squint, swearing

A/N: Hey! I wrote this for @buckyownsmylife 1st anniversary challenge! I love me a good AU so I chose Artist AU+ exhibitionism. Happy tumblr-versary! I made Steve a shy boi in this lol. If you liked this fic pls reblog/comment!! Check out my other fics too! Cheers!

Main Masterlist

It’s 1:45pm and Steve is desperately trying to weave his way through the crowd of people before him. His art folio hits everyone and thing as he makes feeble attempts to apologize to everyone for the bulkiness of the case. He can’t be too apologetic though, he’s running late for his 2pm life drawing class and if he doesn’t make it the professor will close the door in his face.

This is the longest 15 minutes in Steve’s life, he figures. He finally makes it up the steps and jogs up the stairs. His folio hits his leg, he winces but doesn’t stop, he’s only got a few minutes to make it up to the second floor and get himself situated behind an easel. He’s nearly out of breath when he makes it to the second floor and he’s trying to check his watch while running for the door. Two minutes.

Steve bursts through the doors and exhales loudly, he’s not sure he’s ever felt so relieved. His feeling of relief is short lived and quickly replaced with embarrassment as he realizes every pair of eyes in the room is on him. Every pair except for one. The new model for class this week, you slowly turn your head to reveal sharp eyes and a coy smile. He feels himself blush under your gaze and mutters an apology before getting settled in an easel directly in front of you.

He tries his best to focus on getting his paper and charcoals set out in an effort to shrug off the mixture of humiliation and lingering anxiety he had about being late. He feels his heartbeat begin to steady and he lets himself relax a little bit.

“Good afternoon, everyone. We have a new model in class this week, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. She’ll be keeping her current pose for one hour and repositioning for the second half of class. Mr. Rogers, since you had no problem running late I assume you’ll have no problem staying late as well. You’ll clean up after class.” The professor concludes with a short nod.

Steve sighs but nods his head in acknowledgement. He catches you smirking in amusement again at him and he can’t help but to blush all over again. He feels just like he did in high school, embarrassing himself in front of pretty girls. He sighs and picks up a piece of charcoal.

Steve decides to get a proper look at you and almost regrets it when he chokes on his own breath. You’re gorgeous, you’re coy and charming, you’re a muse. He’s still blushing because you’re naked, and beautiful and the feeling of humiliation hits him even more. He’s been in this class before, he knows the models will be naked but none of them had ever caught his attention as more than a subject, none of them were you.

He takes his time admiring your natural curves and appreciates your figure. You are so full of natural beauty, your bare face is perfectly flawed and the sun shining through the window highlights your skin tone. He can see why you were chosen to model for class, you’re perfect. He has to discreetly adjust himself and shuffles his jacket into his lap as he feels his pants tighten. He’s flustered all over again and realizes everyone else is already ahead of him. He puts charcoal to paper and gets to work.

____

As class goes on Steve’s sketch is coming along nicely. He can’t bring himself to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time for fear of getting hard again. When he sends furtive glances your way he catches you looking back at him with that smile of yours. He swears at one point you raise an eyebrow at him like you’re amused by him. He brushes it off and keeps drawing.

Class comes and goes much faster than he anticipated. He wants to pack up and get out as quickly as he can when he remembers that he has to clean up the room. He lets out a groan and waits for everyone else to leave. Now it’s only you, him, and the professor who are left in the room.

“Mr. Rogers I’ve got to get out of here, I trust you can put easels away without incident?” The professor asks. Steve nods and the professor turns to you. “Thank you for your work today, you can collect your pay from the front office. I look forward to having you as a model for this class.”

You smile and nod, waving goodbye to him. By now you’ve slipped on a robe and are reaching for your bag but it feels like you’re lingering. It’s just now that Steve realizes the two of you are alone. He swallows thickly, trying not to pay attention to you out of the corner of his eye. He begins to pack away his own drawing but not before giving it one final assessment. He can’t help himself from his own critical eye, analyzing mistakes and appreciating triumphs.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Steve jumps in surprise, you’re peering right over his shoulder. He’s caught off guard by your presence and also by your voice, do you always sound this sultry?

He swallows and nods before taking a deep breath. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans he turns to face you.

“Uh, yeah. Yes it is. I don’t think it’s very good but I’m trying” He anxiously starts making excuses, assuming you hate it.

But you don’t. You just smile thoughtfully at him and nod.

“It’s good. At least, I think it is.”

“Th-thanks, thank you.”

“Do you always cut it that close or were you just hoping to stay late with me?”

Steve sputters at your boldness. He has to remind himself that he’s not that scrawny, measly kid he used to be. But he can’t help but feel like he is with his sweaty palms and short breaths.

“I, I um, I didn’t realize there’d be a new model. Was kind of expecting the old one. Not- not that there’s anything wrong with you, of course! I, sorry I didn’t mean to imply that, you’re- you’re beautiful too, you’re perfect really, I just. Oh jesus.” He spews the words out faster than his brain can keep up and he’s making a complete fool of himself.

He can’t bear to look at you, so he starts closing up easels and stacking stools. He doesn’t notice you ogling his muscles through his tight t-shirt.

“You think I’m beautiful?” You ask innocently.

“I-, um, yes. I think you’re very beautiful, if you don’t mind me saying so.” Steve answers honestly.

He moves some stools to the large supply room in the back of the classroom and you follow him.

“I think you’re beautiful too. And cute. You’re practically falling all over yourself, it’s sweet”

Are you talking to him? He still sees himself as he was back then, having a hard time thinking that anyone would look at him and find him attractive. It’s why he’s so beside himself now. You’re so completely beautiful and self-assured, there’s no way you’re talking to him. He sets down the stack he’s carrying and realizes you’re much closer than he thought. You’re inches away.

“What do you like the most about me? Is it my body? Don’t think I didn’t notice you readjusting your pants at the beginning of class.” You move even closer and Steve thinks you must be able to hear his heart beat because it’s about to come right out of his chest.

Your hands are on his chest and you have to lean up on your tip-toes for your lips to meet his ear.

“What do you say? You and me in this supply room? There’s hardly anyone here. Come on”

Steve feels like he’s dreaming, he has to check if he is. But then your hand reaches for his dick through his pants and he nearly doubles over from the sensation. He’s never been with anyone so brash and confident, your touch leaves a burning trail on his body.

“But- but what if someone comes in and sees?” He says, using every last bit of coherent reasoning he has.

“Isn’t that what makes it so fun?”

Oh, God. You. You. Smiling that devilish smile at him. He was weak in the knees and you took the opportunity to push him backwards onto a spare desk. You pulled him by the shirt collar to meet your lips and he let out a noise of surprise. Steve pushes his tongue into your mouth and lets out an obscene moan. You feel so good. He knew you’d feel good but not this good.

Steve’s large hands come to your waist and venture lower until he has a handful of your ass and grabs. You let out a little moan and nudge your knee between his legs and he grinds against it. You pull back to catch your breath when your hands go to the ties of your robes.

“We’re a little overdressed, don’t you think?”

Steve doesn’t need to be asked twice as he pulls his shirt over his head. Jeans have never felt so uncomfortable and he’s frantically trying to get himself down to his boxers. He swears he goes slack jawed when he looks back up at you. He’s already seen you naked, he just stared at you naked for hours, but you’re just as gorgeous as before but it’s the way you’re looking at him. Like he’s desirable, almost like he’s a piece of meat. It makes him feel wanted and reassured and he feels himself grow harder.

Your hands slip beneath the elastic of his boxers and slowly slide them down his legs. He can’t help but flush when you let out a small gasp at the size of him. He doesn’t want to get too big of an ego with it but he’s always known he was… gifted.

Before he can let anything go to his head he lets out his own soft gasp as you stroke him languidly. He can’t control his hips as they cant up into your hand. You grab his hand and quickly lead his fingers to your dripping pussy. Steve nearly melts when he feels how wet you are and slides two fingers in easily. He’s pumping them in and out and you let out tiny mewls as you kiss his neck.

There’s no more time for preamble though, you two need to be quick if you don’t want to be caught by some unfortunate custodian. You remove your hand from his cock and he takes his fingers out of your pussy and swears you whine a little. Feeling brazen himself, he makes direct eye contact with you and sucks his fingers clean. You bite your lip and squirm while he revels in the taste.

Reluctantly he takes his fingers out of his mouth and gets up to situate you so you’re sitting on the desk. You spread your legs wide for him and he takes in the sight, committing to memory. Maybe he can draw you like this some time. For now he takes a step closer but falters, remembering one fatal flaw in this whole plan.

“I… don’t have a condom”

You don’t look let down at all, you look excited in fact. Shaking your head, you explain to him.

“Doesn’t matter, ‘m on the pill. I wanna feel you cum inside me”

Steve might pass out before he gets the chance, the way you keep talking with that mouth of yours. He wastes no more time and positions himself at your entrance. He has one hand on his dick and the other on the back of your neck when he looks you deep in the eye and impales you fully in one go.

The moan you let out is pornographic and Steve uses his newly freed hand to cover your mouth.

“We have to stay quiet. Can you do that?”

You nod silently and he removes his hand, opting to grab your hip instead.

He pulls back and begins to start pumping into you. He’s steady at first, trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly. Slowly he starts increasing his speed and the force that he uses is causing the legs of the old desk to scrape against the floor.

Your hand reaches and grabs his ass, pushing him deeper into your pussy. You feel so tight wrapped around him with no barrier and he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out. You’re trying to keep your moans quiet when he kisses you to silence them all together. He’s trying with all his might not to cum before you do.

His fingers find your clit and he starts rubbing it in tight circles. You have a harder time keeping quiet and you’re squeezing him like a vice. The friction on your clit and his dick hitting your G-spot perfectly is causing your eyes to roll in the back of your head.

“‘M gonna cum, please. Please don’t stop” You beg. Steve feels a wave of power surge over him now that you’re the needy one.

“Go on then, I’m not far behind ya. Wanna feel your pussy cum on my cock.”

With a few moments more he has you seeing stars and you claw at his back and pull him close to you. He continues on in his movements and starts pounding into you in earnest chasing his own release. All you can do is hold on for dear life.

Steve makes one final thrust before he’s cumming deep inside you. The rush of warmth is welcome to you and you kiss his jaw as he tries to catch his breath. The only sound being both of your heavy breathing. Hopefully no one heard you.

Steve can’t believe what just happened. He met a gorgeous girl and she propositioned him in a public place all in the span of two hours. He realizes just how far he’s come from who he used to be. He looks down at you, your noses touching.

“So, what’s your name?”

[bringthekaos]

Voice of an Angel

Aziraphale had never given much credence to the phrase ‘voice of an angel.’ He had a voice, yes, and technically it was an angel’s voice, but he didn’t like the implication that because it belonged to an angel, that it was intrinsically good—better than others. It was simply a voice, no better or worse than anyone else’s.

He supposed he liked the sentiment behind it, though—a compliment meant to describe something so beautiful it was otherworldly. But certainly there were better euphemisms than ‘voice of an angel.’ Some angels had voices that were positively grating.

He couldn’t recall what had put him on this train of thought, as he perused aisle after aisle in his SoHo bookshop, shelving newly acquired first and second editions. Perhaps it was the new (well, new to Aziraphale) copy of Paradiso he was lovingly sliding onto the shelf to the right of Inferno and Purgatorio. He already had several copies of Paradiso, not to mention several folios of the full Commedia, but up until this point, he’d only had stand-alone copies of the first two cantica printed in dual French-Italian books, limited of course, because the French Revolution had broken out and disrupted printing. He’d had to attend an obnoxiously bourgeois antiquities auction in Cambridge (that had got his heart all aflutter) just to acquire the thing, and even more distressing had had to part with a little over 2000 pounds. He’d fretted at the time over all of the sales he would need to make in order to offset the large purchase, but seeing as the book was in fairly decent shape, he’d simply begun listing off the ones he was willing to part with in his head; which ones were sufficient enough collateral to warrant it.

But the purchase was worth it in the end, he thought, as the overwhelming satisfaction of sliding the book onto the shelf next to its siblings, their matching red and gold bindings lining up like so many ripples, hit him like a punch to the gut.

Or perhaps it was the way this satisfaction had manifested in a light humming of Ave Maria that Aziraphale was powerless to stop. There was just something about finishing a lacking collection that made him glow with joy. It was one of the few pleasures he allowed himself (he could practically hear the derisive snort from Crowley. “Few?!”).

He would concede, he did indulge in the odd cream cake, the odd bottle or three. But nothing quite made him beam like a collection of books that had been long separated, joined at last under his loving hand. It felt paternal, in a way... perhaps more so than he ever had or ever would feel. And he could be allowed that, surely?

He semicircled around the end of an aisle, peeking to where Crowley was sat at the high table nestled into the bay window. He was casually leaning in his chair, his sport coat removed and hanging over the back of the high chair, and his dress shirt sleeves unbuttoned and rolled to the elbow. It wasn’t often Crowley allowed himself to relax, especially while sober, but the old serpent couldn’t pass up the opportunity to bask in the rare warmth of a sunny London day that permeated the bay window. Aziraphale had found that that particular window became a bit too warm on hot summer days, but... not to Crowley.

“How’s the tea, my dear?” Aziraphale asked offhandedly, interrupting his own humming for the query and seeing that the demon’s long, slender fingers were hooked through the handle of his cup but didn’t appear to have lifted it once. In fact, they were quite slack, as if he’d forgotten he’d rested them there.

Crowley didn’t answer with words; instead grunting a contented little “hmm” that may not have even been voluntary. Aziraphale’s heart stirred again with contentment at the rather perfect circumstance he’d found himself in, quite by accident: a beautiful, warm day out that warranted opening the windows in the back, a completed collection of Dante’s Commedia that he’d been tracking down for years, and his close friend, so comfortable at the front of the angel’s shop that he appeared to be dozing like a brumating snake in the sunlight. Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing.

He resumed his humming happily as he wandered to and from the back room, bringing handfuls upon handfuls and shelving them neatly and carefully. Occasionally, when the mood struck him, actual words would come out, but it would meander back to humming as his mind was intermittently preoccupied with other tasks—Dewey, dusting, or just remembering where he put something down.

This went on for several minutes, until Aziraphale found himself arrived at the climax of the song, and couldn’t resist a perfectly (if he did say so himself) toned rendition, be it a bit breathy and muted.

“Nunc et in hora mortis In hora mortis, mortis nostrae In hora mortis nostrae...”

It was no Pavarotti or Bocelli, but he was rather proud of the notes. He smiled, letting the second to last line taper off as he wandered back to the front of the shop, patting at his pockets for his glasses.

“My dear, I seem to have mispla—“

He stopped abruptly, both speaking and walking, as he found Crowley in a delicate state.

He was momentarily suspended in that precarious location between sleep and awake; one where he was blissfully absent from the world, but yet had the presence of mind to continue holding his head upright (if a bit bowed). His hands, which rested so peacefully upon the table, twitched occasionally—his fingers curling slowly like the involuntary swishing of a cat’s tail.

Aziraphale chanced the last few steps to the table, watching the demon with hapless fascination; he’d never understood Crowley’s taste for sleeping. It seemed a great waste of time. But as he watched, finding a little lip twitch here, and fluttering eyelids there... he appreciated it. It filled him with wonder... an almost desperate curiosity as to what a demon could so peacefully be dreaming about. To some degree, it was an indulgence that Crowley never allowed himself when awake; vulnerability.

Aziraphale lithely (as much as a moderately hefty man-shaped being of the angelic variety can be said to be lithe) crawled into the opposing chair and let the faintest of a hum form in his throat, finishing out the final, long, melodic notes of Ave Maria.

He smiled, his eyes wandering down and finding goose flesh covering Crowley’s forearms where they lay exposed on the table, the tiny little hairs raised as if he’d had a fright. With a sudden and somewhat protective (where did that come from?) dither, he realized Crowley must have been cold. He wasn’t sure how, it was roughly 500° in the window, but leave it to the serpent.

He spoke gently to wake the demon slowly, reaching down to rest a hand on his forearm in the hopes of warming him.

“Are you cold?” he asked, but bit his tongue when Crowley jolted awake, yanking both hands back and, as Aziraphale realized with a degree of pity, clutching them defensively against his chest. His eyes had snapped open, and for the briefest of moments, Aziraphale saw such extreme dilation that they appeared wholly black. They leapt to attention within a heartbeat, however, their long slits focusing hard on the angel.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. You just... you looked cold,” he said, pointing to Crowley’s arms.

“How could I be cold, s’bloody hot up here,” drawled Crowley as he let his arms fall away from his chest somewhat bashfully.

Aziraphale frowned. “Well... you, er... you had—“ he pointed once more, this time reaching over nearly half the table to make it more obvious.

Crowley held out his arms to analyze them, his glasses shifting in his hair and threatening to fall onto his face. He puzzled at the receding goosebumps, leaning in to look at them closer.

“Oh, I... I s’pose I do. Look at that. Wonder what could have—“ he paused with the gusto of a coon hound who has spotted his prey, his features looking positively stricken.

“Dear boy, what ever is the matter?” Aziraphale tutted, slightly peeved that Crowley had come to some realization that he himself hadn’t yet.

Crowley straightened in his chair, reaching up and tipping his glasses back onto his eyes. Oh, how Aziraphale hated when he did that mid conversation; it was clearly a diversion tactic to avoid his expression being read, but to what end would always remain unclear because he’d covered his ruddy eyes.

“Ssss’nothin, angel. Don’t worry yourself,” Crowley mumbled. Hissing. Another clue.

“I will, thank you, as you appear to have reached some sort of conclusion and left me at the starting line,” Aziraphale replied, watching with piqued interest as Crowley hugged himself in his arms, a bit more blatantly defensive now, his long fingers wrapped tightly around each elbow. He peered out the bay window, watching passers by with inflated interest.

“Well?” prodded Aziraphale, trying not to be amused but failing. What could possibly put Crowley into a fuss like this?

Crowley sighed, rolling his head back with just a dash of drama to look at Aziraphale.

“It’s... I... well, you were,” he paused, removing a hand to wave vaguely at all of Aziraphale. I what? the angel felt like demanding. I existed?

Crowley tried again, slapping his hand down a bit dejectedly on the table and making his tea set jump. “I could... I think I could... was...”

He gave up, letting out the frustrated, crescendoing sigh of a man who has spent far too long fumbling for a wet bar of soap and has decided to let it hit the floor.

He clearly averted his gaze into the wood grain of the table, setting his jaw and grinding his teeth.

“You were singing, angel,” he grumbled in the tone of a child who has been told to apologize but really doesn’t want to.

Aziraphale felt himself warm, most of it localized to his cheeks.

“Oh. Oh. I... hadn’t... realized.” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to look bashfully away, but found that he was simply watching Crowley’s short fingernails as they frantically picked at every little defect in the wooden tabletop. A sudden realization hit the angel then, and he looked up to Crowley in horror.

“It didn’t... hurt you?! Did it?”

Holy words could hurt demons, it was why they were so central to exorcisms.

“No! N—no,” Crowley said, first a bit too boisterously, then corrected to a suitably detached tone, complete with lopsided shrug. “No, er... it was actually... really... quite... er...”

Aziraphale smiled, wondering if it would physically pain Crowley to finish that sentence. Nice? Beautiful? What was the word he was prancing around so fancifully?

Aziraphale settled with a grin, letting his own hand fall atop Crowley’s, first startling him, then stilling him.

“Shall I continue, then?” he asked, jerking his head toward the shop.

Crowley stared at him, and Aziraphale could feel the intensity through the sunglasses. He would feel it if he were standing on the other side of a reinforced steel wall.

“Er... yeah. Yeah, you could. If you like,” Crowley said, adding the last bit in an attempt to come off blasé. It failed.

If you like, Aziraphale thought triumphantly, patting Crowley’s hand once in understanding before pushing to his feet.

He returned and went about his task, flitting from room to room, aisle to aisle, shelving books and starting up his humming again, this time a song of a slightly more modern variety.

He might have let a few words slip out.

“So don't stop me now, don't stop me

'Cause I'm having a good time, having a good time.”

[ineffably-good]

Have a Little Faith In Me (3/3)

Summary: In which Crowley finally puts a ring on it and is rewarded with... a magic trick?

Chapter 2 is here

For all his teasing about competing, Aziraphale knew that Crowley wanted to be the one to make the declaration and proposal, and that was fine with him. Crowley had waited for him all these years, he thought; the least he could do was wait back while Crowley figured out what to do and how to do it, to usher them into the next stage in their relationship.

That didn’t stop him, however, from making life as pleasant as possible for the demon. Over the next few weeks, he took care to spoil Crowley a little. Some actions were tiny, such as using a small miracle to leave his pajamas warmed up for him next to the bed in the mornings, or having his coffee perfectly prepared and steaming hot the moment he came down the stairs. Some were larger, like treating him to a variety of surprise trips out into the countryside and getting him fitted for a new suit to wear to Anathema and Newt’s wedding, which was coming up in a few weeks. All in all, he did his best to make the demon feel loved and appreciated as much as he was able – and when one was an angel, turning one’s full angelic power to such a mission carried quite a wallop.

Crowley, for his part, showed no outward signs of his plans, but inside his thoughts were racing. He ran through and eliminated a variety of ways of proposing as too predictable, too boring, too ordinary. He briefly considered the Ritz and popping the ring into a dessert – but honestly, it had been done a hundred thousand times, and with his luck Aziraphale would just swallow it, and the Heimlich would certainly cut into the romance. He considered a hot air balloon, writing it in the sky from an airplane, and shouting it from the top of a mountain. None of these felt quite correct. He needed something that was completely unique to his angel, the one being in all the universe that he could ever have fallen for, and who had somehow miraculously fallen for him too.

It wasn’t until one day when he was restlessly looking through some of his old boxes he’d never fully unpacked, that he remembered something he’d forgotten for several centuries.

And with that, a plan appeared. Now he just needed the right moment.

Read the rest on Ao3 or click below to keep reading!

++

It was on the drive back, late at night, from Anathema and Newt’s small, lovely, handfasting ceremony that the moment began to feel right. Crowley, resplendent in his new, slim cut, charcoal gray suit took a peek over at the angel beside him, who was looking ridiculously happy and content and just the slightest bit tipsy on leftover champagne, and began to think seriously about just asking him now.

Aziraphale, sensing his regard, smiled at him and reached over to lay a hand on his thigh.

“My dear, you looked absolutely gorgeous tonight,” the angel said. “You should wear that suit more often.”

Crowley smiled. “I could do that,” he said, “for you.”

No, Crowley thought, abandoning the plan to just pull over and spill the words out – please marry me -- and, with them, his heart, all over the front seat of the car. Back home first. Keep to the plan. He suddenly felt intensely nervous in a way he hadn’t expected, and he sucked in a breath more harshly and audibly than he’d intended.

Aziraphale glanced over at him in concern. “Are you feeling well? You look a little drawn around the edges.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “M’fine!” he mumbled. “Just concentrating. Dark out here.”

“It’s always dark at night,” Aziraphale said reasonably. “Your eyes are made for darkness.”

Crowley shrugged and leaned forward to stab on the radio, hoping for something to cover the sudden awkwardness. Luckily, they landed on some rather good music, and Aziraphale rolled down his window to enjoy the night air, and he never once mentioned the truly record-breaking level of speed they achieved on the way back to London.

 ++

“You sober?” Crowley asked as they made their way into the bookstore.

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I think so,” he said, doubtful. “Or nearly so. Should we fix that with more alcohol?”

Crowley grinned. “We will,” he said. “In the meantime, just sit down on the couch and relax. I’m going to grab a bottle I’ve been saving.”

He heard the angel puttering around at the desk for a minute, and then he settled on the couch in happy anticipation. Crowley went to the kitchen and made just enough fumbling-around-in-cupboards noises to buy a few minutes of time to compose himself. Were his hands shaking? Demon hands weren’t supposed to shake.

Pull it together, he told himself. This is important. Do not fuck this up.

He took several deep breaths, despite having no true need for them, and set about gathering the things he required.

“Ah there you are!” Aziraphale said when he finally emerged, bearing a bottle and two of their nicer glasses. “I thought perhaps you’d gotten lost somewhere!”

Crowley set the bottle down on the table, the crystal goblets beside it, and gave Aziraphale a quelling look. “Sit tight. Need a couple more things.”

Aziraphale looked mystified, but he complied.

Crowley went into the back room and came back with a large paper envelope, which he put on the floor as he sat down close to the angel. Then, he looked around frowning, to see if the ambiance was right.

The ambiance, he thought, was not at all special enough. He snapped his fingers, putting soft music on the gramophone. He took one last look around and thought something was still missing. It came to him in a flash.

“This,” he said to the angel in a no-nonsense-will-be-brooked tone, “is absolutely a one-time-only event; don’t get any ideas.”

And with that he snapped and willed a handful of candles into existence around the shop, all lit. The shop lights dimmed a bit to allow the candlelight to be better appreciated.

Aziraphale gasped. “Candles? Oh, how lovely!” He peered more closely at Crowley. “Are you sure you’re all right? You made it quite clear I was never to light a candle in this shop again.”

Crowley ignored him and poured them each a nice glass of wine. “I’m fine,” he said firmly, “and they’re just for tonight.”

“Are we celebrating something?” the angel asked, rather shyly. He took a sip and murmured appreciatively at the fantastic Bordeaux the demon had produced.  

“Perhaps,” Crowley said, leaving his own wine untouched. He could barely remember how to breathe at the moment, not to mention drink something. “Have a present for you, anyway.”

He opened the envelope at his feet and passed a battered-looking leather folio across the couch to Aziraphale.

Crowley had made a habit, over the centuries, of presenting Aziraphale on occasion with the crème de la crème of the rare book world – obscure scrolls, editions of old plays, original manuscripts, author’s  notebooks. He had used them to wile his angel, delight him when he’s been sad, and, on at least one occasion, to offer an intense and heart-felt apology for a wrong he’d committed.

It had been, by his count, something like eighty years since the last time he did so. Long enough that it took Aziraphale a moment to process what he was seeing, before a look of delight broke out across his face. The angel knew from centuries of experience that whatever was in there would be thoughtful and intriguing. He ran a finger over the front edge of the cover.

“For me?” he asked, lashes fluttering. “Oh, you darling boy, what have you found for me this time?”

Crowley motioned that he should go ahead, and then lounged back on his end of the couch and waited with his hands in his suit pockets.

Aziraphale opened it carefully and found a single sheet of parchment inside, inscribed with looping handwriting in faded iron gall ink. He fidgeted around to hold it a little closer to the light, read the first line or two, and then looked up in utter shock.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly. “What is this? I know this handwriting. This is – why, it can’t possibly be – is it – “

Crowley smiled at him like the cat who ate the canary. “Yes, it is.”

“This is Will’s handwriting!” Aziraphale breathed. “William Shakespeare! What on earth! Where did you get this?”

“Well, I got it from the man himself,” Crowley said, grinning. “Commissioned it, even. Long time ago. 1605, to be exact.”

Aziraphale stopped reading and pushed his glasses up to his forehead. He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if his brain might explode. He honestly didn’t know whether to be amazed or affronted on behalf of the literary community as a whole. “You – you’ve – you have had an unpublished, and if I’m not mistaken, completely unknown Shakespearean sonnet in your possession for four centuries? No one in the whole world knows of its existence?”

“Just you and me,” Crowley said happily, enjoying the sight of the angel’s complicated reaction: shock, happiness, outrage, joy, befuddlement, and intense, intense possessiveness of that little piece of paper. The angel was cradling it like a newborn babe, like it was the most precious piece of paper in the whole world.

At the moment, it just might be.

“But why?” Aziraphale said breathlessly. “Why would you keep something like this from the world? It’s a priceless literary treasure!”

“Because,” the demon said simply, “it was for you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, struggling to understand. Then he blinked some more. His hand, holding the parchment, was shaking slightly.

“And you’ve had it all this time? Just, what, sitting in a drawer?”

“I didn’t need it until now,” Crowley said, gently. “Please, just stop with the interrogation and read it.”

Aziraphale took a deep and shaky breath and shifted his focus to the parchment in front of him. It took him a few tries to still his hands enough to be able to make out the words. When he finally succeeded, he read the first few lines aloud in a tremulous voice.

Since looking upon thee in the garden day Upon thy side against myself I’ll fight For life no longer than thy love will stay To steal sweet hours from thy love’s delight…

Aziraphale looked up, eyes full of tears, and his voice was hushed. “You commissioned a love sonnet for me, four hundred and fifteen years ago?”

Crowley tried to swallow the suddenly huge lump in his throat. “I did.”

Aziraphale, voice simply not working anymore, stared at him for a long moment, and then leaned down to read the rest quietly. He sat in stunned silence after, lost to everything around him, and then he read it again. And again a final time.

“It’s – it’s –” he faltered, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and drowning out all sound around him. For once, the angel was unable to find a single word.

When he looked up, dazed, Crowley had moved from his spot beside him, and was now kneeling on the floor in front of him, his golden eyes impossibly warm.  

“Angel,” Crowley said, “I knew four hundred and fifteen years ago that I loved you. I knew six thousand years ago, to be honest. It’s the one thing I’ve known from the start. Took me a while to accept it, took you a while too, but here we are, together finally, on no one’s side but our own.”

Aziraphale watched, spellbound, as the demon reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny and small.

“Would you please do me the immense honor,” Crowley said, looking suddenly very pale, “of marrying me and making me the happiest demon alive? Or possibly the only happy demon?”

In his hand was a small gold ring, with a smoky, ancient diamond in the center, cut in ways they didn’t cut them anymore, and with the faintest etching of a snake chased around the edges of the stone. It was old and simple and perfectly, utterly the best thing the angel had ever seen.

Aziraphale, unable to even speak, nodded helplessly, and Crowley slipped the ring onto his finger, where it fit perfectly because it knew better than to not do so. Aziraphale admired it for a moment, then leaned in to run a hand down Crowley’s face.

“I love you,” he whispered, and then pressed a kiss to his forehead, his temple, and finally his mouth.

Several minutes later, when they broke for a breath they didn’t need, Aziraphale took a moment to examine the ring more closely.

“Like it?” Crowley asked.

“I adore it,” Aziraphale said, still a little stunned. “It’s just… I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, please just tell me it doesn’t actually light up, does it?”

Crowley laughed. “No, angel,” he said. “It doesn’t. You’ll just have to wave it around obnoxiously whenever you have an admirer.”

“I can do that,” Aziraphale said. He rather relished the idea, actually.

Crowley got up from his perch on the floor and sat next to him on the couch, as close as it was possible to be to his angel. Aziraphale sighed happily and leaned into his side.

“My dear,” he said, “that was lovely and perfect! But one thing is missing, I think.”

Crowley frowned. What had he missed? He had the music, the candles, the big and utterly unique romantic gesture, the candles, the ring, the bloody candles…

Aziraphale tutted a little at the demon’s obvious discomfort and turned  to face Crowley a little more fully, tucking one knee under himself. He placed a hand on either side of Crowley’s face and pulled him in for a gentle kiss between the brows, then leaned back and snapped his fingers beside one of Crowley’s temples.

“What’s this?” he said theatrically, a soft but still mischievous smile on his lips. “Why, what do we have here?” He made a little flourish with his hands and pulled them back from Crowley’s head bearing something the demon couldn’t make out. “I do believe I found something in your ear, my dear.”

Crowley groaned. “I can’t believe you’re doing magic tricks during my proposal. If that’s a coin, I’m taking the ring back.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Our proposal,” he said, smiling his most radiant smile. “And anyways, you’re missing the point.”

The angel picked up one of Crowley’s hands and opened it carefully, laying something inside it and wrapping the demon’s fingers carefully around it.

“I picked this up for you,” the angel said, “because I want the world to know that you’re engaged to me, too. Would you please wear this for me, my love? I mean, if you like it…”

Crowley opened his hand carefully and looked down. It was a ring, cool and platinum, wider than Aziraphale’s, with black diamonds spaced around it at even intervals and light brushstrokes that looked a little like feathers between them. It was simple and modern and utterly the demon’s style.

“Ngk—” the demon said, then closed his mouth and tried again. “You… you got me a ring, too?”

“Yes of course I did,” Aziraphale said fondly. “Been carrying it with me for months, just in case. Didn’t want to not have it on hand when you finally asked me.”

The angel plucked it out of Crowley’s hand and slipped it on his ring finger. Crowley tried to admire it but he suddenly found he couldn’t see at all because of the immense amount of wetness in his eyes.

Abandoning all pretense of cool, he leaned into Aziraphale and wrapped his arms around his neck.

“There, there,” the angel said, petting his hair and shoulders. “I’ve got you, Crowley. I love you. I have you.” He hugged the demon tightly and thought about all of the straightforward routes and winding paths and wrong turns and backpedals and absolute roadblocks and immense leaps forward that had brought them here over six millennia’s time, about the love and the friendship and the shared experience and the slow march of time that had brought them closer and closer.

“I’ve always got you,” he repeated softly to the demon who even now could hardly accept being loved so deeply. “Always.” . . THE END

Read the whole story on Ao3

[webcricket]

Catch a Falling Star

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester, and special guest, Crowley

Word Count: 2101 (Part 5)

A/N: Part 5 of a Soulmate AU mini-series.

Summary: What if angels didn’t end up just anywhere when they are banished by sigils…what if sometimes they end up exactly where they need to be? Turns out you are Castiel’s grounding stone, and it’s more complicated than either of you realizes. Crowley magnanimously tips the Winchesters off to a brooding danger regarding their feathered cohort. Cas gets a taste of the ordinary life.

Completed series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/165166387163/catch-a-falling-star-masterlist

“I’m telling you. Stone cold, it was weird,” Dean alleged, six-pack of ice cold lagers clinking as he set them on the library table. Condensation oozed out onto the polished mahogany surface of the wood from the mushy edges of cardboard. “I mean, we both know I’m hilarious and I didn’t get so much as a single giggle out of her.”

“Yeah,” Sam snorted mockingly, “weird.” Dean garnered minimal sympathy from his brother on account of Sam’s long-suffering endurance of Dean’s habitually incessant jocularity as a method to diffuse stress between hunts. The hilarity, with repeated exposure, had devolved into background noise – something akin to the monotonous humming tread of the Impala’s tires on asphalt rather than humor. Sam thought from Dean’s account of his conversation with you that you sounded like a perfectly reasonable and discerning individual and someone whose personality matched well to the angel’s decidedly temperate wit.

Dean snapped the metal cap off one of the bottles, the sharp wet hiss of pressurization bubbling in the air. He continued speculating, “I’d bet you anything…”

The younger Winchester noticed the dapperly dressed figure idling in the alcove of bookshelves first.

“…she’s…,” Dean trailed off, spying his brother’s annoyed glower.

Crowley made no overt attempt to conceal his presence, taking full advantage of Dean’s self-indulgent deliberation to surprise the brothers. Rule one of ruling: You don’t become King of Hell without taking advantage of every opportunity, however quaint, to vaingloriously make an unannounced entrance.

Sam’s scowl deepened into the line of his brow, his eyes trained cagily on the shamelessly shrugging demon.

Dean followed his brother’s irked gaze and proceeded to choke on his beer, sputtering, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Hello boys,” Crowley crooned, a conciliatory smile toying upon his lips. He held up a half-empty carafe of whisky to his nose, disapproval glinting in his piercingly cool mien as he swished the amber liquid around and inhaled. “By the way, where do you keep the good stuff?”

“We don’t,” Dean groused, losing the will to drink his beer.

“Hmm,” Crowley frowned critically, “then how do you expect to entertain your esteemed guests while they wait?”

“We’re not here to provide you with entertainment,” Sam retorted through a clenched jaw, his frustration over their repeatedly failing errand to locate a mysterious all-important treasure chest and deliver it over to the demon boiling his blood.

“I beg to differ, on the whole I find you boys moderately more entertaining than a box of rocks,” Crowley observed smugly, revolving to set the carafe on a side table. “Marginally less intelligent, but you can’t win them all, can you?”

“You leave the door unlocked again?” Dean accused his brother without looking at him.

“No,” Sam’s voice wavered, not actually one-hundred percent certain of his answer, realizing he might have forgotten to lock it after his morning run. They’d exited later from the garage egress so it would have been overlooked. “Maybe?”

“Sammy, how many times do I have to…”

“Kids!” Crowley interrupted. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He sauntered into the golden glow of lamplight, burying his hands in his pockets, the glossy sheen of his coat fabric attesting to a keenly refined taste for extravagance. “Speaking of which, I thought you boys could use a cheerful pick-me-up in the form of, well, me. You know, to liven up the empty nest and all.” He flashed an affable grin at the brothers to no avail.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snarled, shooting a chagrinned here-we-go-again glance in Sam’s direction.

Crowley stepped nearer the table, feigning interest in an open book placed thereupon. Leisurely extricating a hand from the deep recess of his overcoat pocket, stretching out the torture of the brothers’ aggravated anticipation of his reply, his tongue grazed the tip of a pointed finger in preparation to leaf through the brittle yellow folio. “Rumor has it your beloved homing pigeon has flown the coop. Got his feathers all ruffled over some pretty dove in New York,” Crowley elucidated casually, persevering in the pretense of studying the text before him while gauging the brothers’ response to this sensational suggestion regarding their stowaway seraph in his peripheral vision.

“And?” Dean rolled his vibrant green eyes, allowing the tenseness seizing his shoulders to relax.

Sam, too, appeared more at ease – alert scowl dissolving into a passive glare.

Crowley cursed internally, not permitting his chagrin at not being the one to deliver the lurid news to the brothers to shroud his debonair disinterested demeanor. “And, if you’ve any hope of retrieving my box and holding up your end of our mutually beneficial little arrangement, you’re going to need your goose and his golden halo to fall back in line.”

“We’ll find your stupid box,” Dean grumbled. “And enough with the bird metaphors already, Hitchcock.”

Crowley sneered impudently at Dean.

“How did you hear about Cas anyway?” Sam quizzically arched an eyebrow.

“A sparrow chirped in my ear just before I broke his neck,” Crowley stated ominously. “Between you and me, I’m afraid I’m not the only one who heard him sing this particular song.”

“Who else– son of a!” Dean swore at the currently empty space previously occupied by the now cheekily decamped demon.

Second rule of ruling: Startling arrivals must be punctuated by inconveniently timed exits. In other words, always leave your audience wanting more.

“Castiel?”

The convalescent angel felt the light tickle of your fingertips trace beneath the tufts of dark waves ringing his forehead, perceiving your whispered prayer as a resonant echo in the stillness of his mind. Hours ago, the consciousness of his vessel had succumbed to the warmth of the dappled late afternoon sun streaming through the treetops, the rhythmic splashing lap of water on the graveled lake shore, the joyful harmony of bird and insect venerating the glorious day, the comfort of the oversized generously stuffed lounge chair, and most of all to the waking dream of you tending to a shaded patch of the garden tucked below the porch railing. Before his marveling eyes, your nurturing hands patiently teased life itself from the barren soil.

“Are you awake?”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. Despite the finally stymied hemorrhage of grace from his shoulder wound and his rapidly recharging vigor, he could not deny an intense fondness for your continued yet wholly unnecessary doting care.

“You’re doing that eyes-closed super-relaxed thing you insist isn’t sleep again,” you noted with a grin, taming the mop of his unruly hair with your fingers, prompting him to open his eyes.

He grasped your dirt-smudged hand, guiding it to his lips to pepper your knuckles with feather-light kisses, appreciating the fact these very same hands that worked tiny miracles in the earth had also sparked something vital in his own heart that bloomed under your tender affection. “Disengaging awareness from my surroundings is the most efficient method by which to expedite my recovery.”

“Uh huh,” you chewed your lower lip skeptically, “it’s uncanny how much that description sounds exactly like sleep.”

Cas’ smile widened, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes, wavering when he spotted his cell phone clutched in your palm.

“It’s Dean,” you offered him the phone, adding, “I don’t think he likes me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” the angel accepted the cell, focus following your retreat back into the yard amidst the rainbow of flourishing flowers. He held the phone up to his ear, an indignant gleam in his expression, “Why don’t you like Y/N?”

“Geez, hello to you too, Cas,” Dean grumbled.

“She thinks you don’t like her,” Cas reiterated, “why?”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t like me.”

“How could she not like you when she doesn’t know you?”

“She doesn’t laugh at my jokes.”

“I don’t laugh at your jokes,” Cas stated matter-of-factly.

After a lapse of silence which prompted the angel to check the screen to ascertain if the call had been dropped, Dean again spoke, “I, uh, yeah, I guess you have a point. And for the record, I never said I didn’t like her. She sounds great Cas, really. Sam and I, we’re both happy for you. I’m glad you took my advice to heart and gave her a chance.”

For friendship’s sake, Cas permitted Dean to believe his drunken anecdote had a smidgeon of influence where it had not, responding, “Me too.” In reality, the angel never had any choice. The stubbornness and insubordination in affront to universal will to delay the inevitable? Certainly. But choice? Never – you were always something that was going to happen to him and he to you.

“So, you, uh, you keeping busy out there?”

“This morning we went to a farmer’s market to purchase seasonal produce. Are you aware there is more than one variety of sweet corn grown for human consumption? There’s silver queen, with pearlescent kernels that are so tender it doesn’t require cooking to render it edible. In the butter and sugar hybrid, the kernels are a mix of white and yellow…”

“Sounds exciting,” Dean’s tone indicated he thought Cas’ bucolic foray sounded like it was the exact opposite of exciting.

“Tonight, Y/N is going to teach me how to make something called some mores.”

“You mean, s’mores?”

“That’s what I said, some mores.”

“No Cas, it’s called a s’more, not some more.” The fleshy smack of a palm striking a forehead sounded in the speaker. Sam could be heard heartily chuckling in the background.

“You’re not making any sense, Dean.” Cas could hear Dean’s eyes sardonically rolling around in their sockets. The disconcerting noise only added to the angel’s bewilderment.

“S. Apostrophe. More,” Sam spelled it out, having seized control of the conversation from his flabbergasted brother.

“Oh,” Cas nodded, “thank you for the clarification, Sam. That explains my inability to find any information regarding them on Google.”

“Anytime, Cas. Have fu…” Sam’s words faded as Dean grabbed the phone again.

“Look, not to rain on the co-ed scout camp jamboree thing you’ve obviously got going on out there, but we thought you should know according to Crowley, who dropped by for a pleasant chat about his stupid freaking box, we’re not the only ones who know about you and Y/N.”

Dean’s warning devastated Cas’ reigning sense of calm, reminding him about the dangerous world lurking beyond your enchanting lakeside realm. Bolting to his feet, he anxiously scanned the garden. Finding you safe and sound stringing a vine up a trellis, he breathed a relieved sigh as he sat on the top stair to better keep a watchful eye on you.

Dean continued, “We got a salt and burn a few states over, then we’re heading your way. So just watch your back until we get there, okay?”

“You don’t have to do that, Dean. You should continue trying to locate Crowley’s box. If he wants it that badly, we can’t let him get ahold of it until we know what it contains.”

“Right,” Dean agreed, “which is why we need your help finding it.”

Cas understood. He understood the Winchesters, his brothers in arms, were coming to take him away from you and that he would go forth willingly by their side as he’d always done. He understood he could stay to defend you within the boundaries of your home, or he could soldier away to better shield your exposure to the gruesome minutiae of the never-ending battle of good versus evil within which he was forever firmly entrenched. “How long until you get here?” he asked Dean, observing your figure meandering up the cobblestone walkway toward him.

“Three days, maybe less if this ghost cooperates,” Dean answered. “You know what, just call it three days. We’ll snag a motel in town if we get there early to stay out of your hair. Enjoy the s’mores.” The call ended.

“Are we expecting visitors?” you bounded up the stairs and settled beside the angel, head dropping to rest on his mended shoulder.

“Sam and Dean will be here in a few days.”

“That’s great!” you beamed, “I can’t wait to meet them. I know how important they are to you.”

Cas wound an arm around your waist, pulling you nearer and planting a kiss on the crown of your head. He inhaled the scent of your hair, honey and lavender riven with the rich loam of the earth and sunshine. For an angel, three days seemed only a slightly longer timeframe than the fleeting span of milliseconds marking the blink of an eye. It’s worth every minute, Dean’s sentiment echoed in his mind.

Part 6:

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