#he is a hopeless puddle of emotions around someone he likes so that's what i'm going for here

[wishfullyeternal]

Aziraphale x Crowley- A Hopeless Encounter

A/N- I am well aware that I never post on here anymore, however, this piece would not leave my head and I had to make a story out of it. I'm trying to improve my craft on this one, so plot and emotions were not my first thought when writing this piece. I plan to continue it, but who knows. I'm much busier than I was when I was fifteen, now working two jobs and going to college full time, but I try and find time to write. I digress, most of you don't care. Anyways, enjoy the story! Requests are open, but again, I don't post on here very much, so unless it's something I really want to write, I probably will not get to it.

Words- 1,734

Warnings- General Violence

"Sit. Down!" The demon ordered, staring at the pair. Aziraphale obeyed quickly, leaning himself against the dark dank walls of hell, smiling nervously towards Crowley. The back of his shirt had become stained with thousand-year-old dirt and grime, but he didn't care. The coat (which had stayed stain-free for over one hundred years) was the last thing on Aziraphale’s mind.

If you would have told the pair what was just about to happen to them, they would have laughed straight in your face. Much like the way a classmate would when proving they were right about a preposterous rumor.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a split second, wishing he was back at his bookstore. There was a stale mildew scent in the air that made his nose turn up. He hoped Crowley had some type of plan to get them out of here, but with one look at the Demon, he realized Crowley was as useless as he was.

“Don’tcha think Hell has better things to worry about than little ol’ me?” Crowley spoke, feigning innocence, with large black sunglasses shading his eyes. He didn’t need them down here, but they were a type of comfort to him, knowing the Demon couldn’t see the serpent that lay beneath.

Aziraphale had learned over the thousands of years to read Crowley quite well underneath his “cool” shades. (Aziraphale thought they were quite tacky, but didn’t let him know, of course) Right now, both Aziraphale and Crowley had no idea why they were dragged into the pits of hell, on a Wednesday morning, during their time at St.James’ Park. It was a shame really, Aziraphale had really looked forward to seeing Crowley. They had both been quite busy with saving the world and all that, so it was nice to meet each other just to talk.

“Sit down Crowley,” Beelzebub said, appearing through the iron wrought door that held them. Cobblestone walls surrounded them, and a slight drip could be heard from the right wall, where a puddle of mystery liquid lay. Aziraphale didn’t dare go near it, and Crowley was too busy snarking back at Beelzebub to even notice.

“I really don’t understand it, if you would please explain o’ holy one, I would- for once- be greatly appreciative…” Crowley trailed off, still standing. Although Crowley was a bit taller than Beelzebub, the Prince of Hell was–well, the Prince of Hell. Definitely not someone Crowley wanted to be around, definitely not while in this situation. The other demon who had led them in had already left, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had noticed. Aziraphale had his eyes fixed on Crowley, and Crowley had his eyes fixed on Beelzebub.

“Your Angel,” Beelzebub started. Crowley couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that they had called Aziraphale his Angel. The two words floated around his head. Crowley had been pining for that Angel since the first time they met in Eden. The way the blond’s wings wafted over his head, protecting him from the first rain. The way he smiled when he was nervous. So afraid of doing the wrong thing. Crowley didn’t dream, but if he did, he was absolutely certain that they would all revolve around his Angel. Perhaps his Bentley as well… But he would never admit such a fact. Admitting he was attached to the Angel was admitting he was weak. He was not weak. Crowley was far from it. Crowley had bound up those feelings so far into his (lack of) soul, that it barely bothered him. (Of course, it bothered him more than anything in the entire world, even the end of it, but even Crowley couldn’t swallow that truth.)

“He’s got something we want…” Beelzebub continued, sneering at Crowley, seemingly disgusted by his very existence. The flies that swarmed around their head seemed to hasten, syncing with their emotions.

“I promise-” Crowley pouts, pointing at the Angel who had sat down on the floor, in the most proper way he could.

“He couldn't even hurt a fly! He has nothing you want,” Crowley knew Beelzebub wouldn’t believe him, they had no reason to. As far as Beezlebub was concerned, Crowley should have been dead over five thousand years ago, and they both were eerily aware of that fact. Crowley also knew that Aziraphale was strong, much stronger than Hell assumed. Aziraphale, if he wanted to, could be as much an angel as Sandalphon, Michael, or even Gabriel. (In a violent way, of course, he was always a perfect angel to Crowley) But Crowley didn’t want Hell to know this fact, it would be just another dart for Hell to throw at them.

“Sit down Crowley. I have nothing to say to you.” Beezelbub said yet again, forcing the Demon to sit on the ground, and began to stalk over to the Angel. Crowley knew this room had demonic sigils, preventing the prisoners from using magic to escape, but perhaps they hadn’t messed with Aziraphale’s powers. He hoped. As soon as the thought ran through Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale began to yelp in pain, and a searing sigil burned into the top of his hand, in mostly the same Enochian language that Crowley assumed was on the other side of the door. Crowley was rusty on the language- but assumed it was binding Aziraphale’s powers as well. As the burning orange flesh melted into black characters, Crowley cringed.

“Don’t you touch him!” Crowley started, forcing himself up from the ground, and starting towards the injured blond. Aziraphale looked towards Beezelbub, trying his best not to seem alarmed, or scared at the fact that he was indeed helpless. They both were.

“Crowley!” Beelzebub yelled again, pushing their palm out and magically binding Crowley’s hands and feet together. Letting him trip over himself and fall face-first onto the concrete floor. There was a large scrape left on his right temple, and blood was slowly dripping out of his nose. He brought his tied hands to his head, rubbing the scrape to try and soothe it. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, yet said nothing. He had nothing to say.

Beelzebub snapped and Crowley’s mouth was gone, filled with skin. Aziraphale furrowed his brows, trying his best to get up and make his way toward the ginger, but Beelzebub blocked the way, their stature standing tall over Aziraphale.

“You aren’t going anywhere, you pathetic excuse for an Angel. Or rather, a principality.”

Aziraphale’s face was contorted in a sort of rage only found in the nicest of angels. One where you could barely sense it was there. Aziraphale never showed his anger on his face, but it was blatantly obvious that Beelzebub’s use of rank had deeply offended him.

“What could you possibly want from me? I’m a principality after all. I just follow orders.” While both Beezlebub and Crowley knew that was a lie, Beelzebub seemed to ignore it, resting their fingers in the shaggy curls of the Angel, pulling the blond hair taut.

“You don’t understand how much power I have over you right now. Not even your little Demon could help you now. I could kill you…” Beelzebub trailed off, looking around the room, staring upwards at a flickering incandescent light, emitting a slightly annoying buzzing sound that barely went above the sound of flies buzzing around the Prince’s head. Aziraphale begged Beelzebub, unaware of what they wanted.

“I don’t know anything,” Aziraphale said, and Beelzebub tightened their grip around the tufts of hair, pulling his head uncomfortably up, exposing his throat. His Adam’s apple was bobbing uncomfortably, and Beelzebub’s free hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head to look straight at them. Both Aziraphale and Crowley were dancing on the edge of a knife, waltzing towards a terrible fate.

Instead of explaining to them what Beelzebub wanted from Aziraphale, they simply kicked the poor angel straight into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. (Aziraphale technically didn’t need to breathe, but it was a human formality he had grown used to.) Aziraphale grunted, the pain flourishing around his belly and through his body. Beelzebub roughly let go of the Angel. Aziraphale grimaced and held the spot where Beezlebub had kicked, shaking his head softly, trying to rid himself of the pain. Crowley tried his best to scream profanities- but was silenced by the lack of a mouth. Instead, he decided on trying his best to drag himself towards the Angel, who was still holding his stomach.

“I’ll be back, behave yourselves.” Beezlebub laughed at their own attempt at a joke and walked out the door, flies following obediently. Crowley’s mouth reappeared as they left, and he gasped at the new feeling of air filling it. At the same time, the binds had left his arms and legs, and he rubbed the places where they had been, before wiping his nose of the semi-coagulated ichor.

“Oh, Angel c’mere…” He motioned for the Angel to lean himself against him. Before he did, Aziraphale gently rubbed the dried ichor from the scrape on his temple. Aziraphale leaned his head into the crook where Crowley’s neck met his shoulders. The warmth there was enough to soothe the pain that radiated from Beelzebub's kick. Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale and gently ran his fingers through the Angel’s thick curls.

“It’s okay, it’ll be alright…” Crowley said. His words didn’t match his feelings, Crowley had no idea what Beelzebub wanted, nor how he was going to get the both of them out of there. The room felt like it was shrinking, and suddenly the puddle that was once fifteen feet away, felt like it was two feet away. Everything was seeping in on them, and neither the Demon nor the Angel had a way out. It was hopeless. Crowley continued to slowly brush the Angel’s hair, using his other hand to trace the sigil on the top of his palm. It burned the tips of Crowley’s fingers, but he didn’t care.

“I’m so sorry Crowley, I really do apologize-” Crowley put a hand up to silence Aziraphale.

“You know I would go to heaven and hell for you Angel…” Crowley quieted himself at the end and didn’t even realize what he was truly saying.

Aziraphale just nuzzled his head further into Crowley’s neck, letting the feeling of his friend envelope him in a soft glow. It was hopeless, but at least they had each other.

[sweetdreamhellofanight]

Flirting

Marcel Barthel x Reader Warnings: None Word Count: 1,177 Summary: Marcel is too pretty to know how to flirt, go easy on him (requested)

It wasn’t unusual for him to hang around backstage, watching the other matches after his own. Often offering a polite nod or a ‘good job’ after one of yours, but that was just Marcel. 

But in recent weeks he had been offering more than that. It started with a smile. 

A high five after a victory. 

A fist bump after a loss. 

A few words of encouragement, a piece of advice, or just something nice. 

As weeks went by, Marcel began talking more, finding you after shows or workouts just to say a few words. 

“I think he’s flirting,” Indi said, one afternoon after Marcel had complimented you on the drills you had been running. 

You’d smiled, 

“I guess when you look like that you’re not used to doing all the talking, huh?” you’d replied. 

But you’d still looked back, watching as Fabian made fun of him, the way Marcel’s face scrunched into embarrassment, and the way he looked back at you only to turn away quickly when your eyes met. 

You smiled all the way back to your car. 

Marcel Barthel was flirting with you and was, it turned out, very bad at it. 

***

It continued for another week, only now he had taken to walking up to you instead of “coincidentally” running into you. 

“Good job out there,” he said, not meeting your eyes. 

“You too,” you said. 

He smiled wide but looked away, again, 

“You’re...very good out there.” 

You said nothing, waiting to see what he would do next. 

“And, I, uh,” he continued, “I think you looked good.” 

You arched an eyebrow, watching as he realized what he’d just said.

“In the ring!” he said, quickly, “You looked good in the ring! Very fast...very strong...just...good. Very good.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You’d always thought he was cute, you just never knew how awkward he was around other people. And somehow, it was the most endearing quality about him. 

So you let him flounder, slightly, making eye contact with Fabian walking towards you two, 

“You look good, too,” you said just as Fabian came up beside him. “In the ring, I mean,” you added as you walked away, winking at him just before you left. 

***

And on a Tuesday evening, after a show, it finally happened. 

After weeks of awkward compliments and greetings, Marcel caught up to you just as you were leaving the building, bags in hand, searching for your keys, stopping as he called out for you. 

“Are you leaving?” he asked, standing in front of you, his bag slung over his shoulder. 

You  nodded, 

“Well, the show’s over so I thought I’d go home,” you said with a smile. 

He laughed nervously, nodding at you, 

“Of course,” he said. 

You waited for him to say something else, watching as he tapped his foot nervously on the pavement. 

“So no match tonight?” you asked him, trying to fill the silence. 

He shook his head, 

“No, but next week!” he said, excitedly. You nodded, 

“I can’t wait to watch,” you replied. 

It was quiet again, but you could tell by the way he kept opening his mouth to speak that it was only a matter of time, 

“Would, uh,” he started, clearing his throat making you perk up, “would you like to go out? With me? On a date?” 

His voice was soft, hesitant, and it was only after he finished speaking that he looked up at you. 

“I would love that,” you said. “I’m busy tomorrow but what about Thursday?” you offered. 

He nodded eagerly, smiling wide at you, 

“Perfect, yes, Thursday it is,” he said, quickly. 

“I’ll see you then.” 

***

He fidgeted with his hands, a habit you’d never seen from him before. His eyes averted, hands shaking as they rested on his lap, looking at anything but you. 

The waitress set your mugs down, nodding before she left, a quiet thank you from him before he turned back to you. 

You waited. 

You wanted to see what he would do, first. 

“You look very nice,” he finally said, looking at you. 

You smiled, 

“So do you,” you replied, watching as his cheeks turned bright red. He looked down again. “I really like this place,” you added, hoping to fill the silence. 

“Yeah,” he said, quickly, “I know. I-I heard you liked it.” 

“How’d you know?” 

He smiled, shyly, 

“I asked Indi,” he said. “She told me you came here a lot and I thought it would be...good?” He said the last part as if waiting for your validation. 

You nodded, bringing the oversized mug to your lips, smiling into the steam from your coffee, 

“It’s perfect,” you said, softly. 

You could see him relax in front of you, his shoulders dropping as he picked up his own mug, but still you felt something different around him. 

Still, you noticed how he kept looking down at his lap, brows furrowed in thought, before looking back up at you and talking, 

“So,” he started, clearing his throat, “you have a title match next week?” he asked. 

You shrugged, setting your mug down, 

“Yeah but I don’t really wanna talk about work, if you don’t mind?” 

He nodded, 

“Of course! Right, no work talk, that’s fine!” 

He looked down again, and this time you noticed the two people sitting at the table a few feet away, huddled together looking over at your table. 

They noticed you and turned away quickly, but they weren’t quick enough. 

At a table far away from yours, dressed in clothes that they clearly thought would hide them from view, hoodies and hats, looking as nondescript as possible, Fabian and Indi sat together, watching you and Marcel on your date, a phone between them, taking turns typing something out. 

Just as Marcel conveniently looked down at his lap before looking at you with a new conversation topic, 

“So you like hiking?” he asked.

You leaned in close and Marcel followed suit, 

“Did Indi text you that?” you asked, softly. 

His cheeks went bright red as he tried to respond, but you shook your head, 

“They’re sitting behind us? Giving you tips on what to say?” you asked. 

He sighed, and nodded, 

“I was nervous and they offered to help but I promise I didn’t know they were going to be here!” he defended. 

You laughed, 

“I’m not upset, I think it’s very sweet of them, actually,” you said. 

He smiled, relaxing slightly, 

“Wanna have a little fun with them?” you asked. 

He smiled, 

“Always,” he replied, without hesitating. 

“There’s an ice cream shop a few doors down, wanna go there instead?” you asked. 

“Let’s go,” he said, without waiting, standing up and taking you by the hand, both of you nearly running out of the shop. 

You snuck one last look behind you, watching as Indi and Fabian scrambled to gather their own stuff and follow you two. 

“We’ll go around, make sure we lose them,” Marcel said, looking back at you. 

“Perfect,” you replied, running beside him, laughing the whole way out.