#yes he might know Crowley cares for him but there is some lingering doubt that says what if it was all just because of the arrangement

[hoarder-of-dragons]

No but if, instead of this scene being Azirphale realizing his love for Crowley, it was him realizing Crowley loves him back Aziraphale's seen Crowley swoop in to rescue him tons of times throughout history. And he has known Crowley to "tempt" him several times, just as a pretext to spend time together. But this, saving his books outright with no other ulterior motive other than just to make Aziraphale happy, well obviously he would react like that when he finds out.

[summerofspock]

My patreon alternate POV request for August was an additional chapter of Under Construction from Aziraphale’s POV. I chose to write the night they came back from the beach and found Spider.

After a long day on the road, Aziraphale is looking forward to relaxing by the fire. Maybe having a beer and talking about nothing in particular with Crowley. He finds he likes doing that. Talking to Crowley. He knows how to have a meandering conversation. He knows that Aziraphale doesn't mean anything by his playful teasing, that sometimes it's fun to ask questions without any sort of answer.

Crowley offers to get wood for the fire which is a bit cute really since Aziraphale doubts he could carry more than two logs at a time. But it is the thought that counts.

His nice plans are interrupted when Crowley rockets back into the house stammering about a kitten stuck in the woodpile. It's not the first time Aziraphale has found a stray cat on his property but the woodpile will be a first.

He can hear it crying as soon. as they approach the stack of wood and he does his best not to worry. He can retrieve a kitten. With care, he begins to remove the logs from the stack.

"You poor thing," he says in an effort to calm the crying kitten. It sounds so pathetic.  "You'll be alright."

Crowley vibrates behind him, anxiety practically radiating off of him. He does that often. A stack of batteries has less energy than a Crowley in the throes of anxiety.

Finally, Aziraphale removed the perfect log, revealing the cowering black kitten. It blinks bright yellow eyes up at him as he reaches down carefully, ignoring the scurrying spiders, and lifts it into the cradle of his arms.

"There you go. You're safe now," he says softly. He swipes cobwebs from the kitten’s black fur and feels a surge of gratitude for Crowley for finding the poor dear.

Crowley dips closer, skinny torso weaving around Aziraphale like he was trying to get a better look. "What do we do with him?"

Aziraphale strokes two fingers down the cat's forehead and replies calmly, "I suppose feed him and house him for a night and figure it out tomorrow?"

The cat chirps almost in response. Aziraphale will need to go into town and pick up supplies. Shadwell should have a few things at the general store that will do fine for one night. Aziraphale hands Crowley the cat.

Looking lost, Crowley takes it gingerly. His eyebrows furrow as he pulls the creature close to his chest and tries to pet it, albeit a bit clumsily, shifting it from hand to hand as he tries to adjust. His palms are wide enough that they can fit the kitten almost entirely. It’s strange that Aziraphale notices. He sees the tendons flex in Crowley’s fingers as he cups his hand. Aziraphale’s vision narrows to the contrast of Crowley’s pale skin against the dark fur of the cat. It begins to purr, a low satisfied hum.

Aziraphale tears his eyes from Crowley’s hands—good hands, gorgeous hands—and looks at his face. Crowley is staring at the cat in his arms, mouth slightly ajar. He glances up at Aziraphale and his expression does something amazing. His sharp features transform into a disbelieving joyful grin that reveals that one crooked incisor Aziraphale had noticed early on. Unabashed, unashamed, this smile shouldn't have been any different than sitting under the stars and talking about dolphin conspiracies, falling asleep in the truck bed after a night on the town, but it is. It breaks apart the everpresent harsh lines around Crowley’s mouth. Gone is the frown that chases every laugh. Crowley looks happy. Crowley has dimples.

Aziraphale’s heart dips into his stomach.

"Oh my God, it’s purring,'' Crowley says in disbelief, beautiful heartstopping expression shifting miraculously into something that shatters the delicate shell of Aziraphale’s chest. "Do you hear that?"

Crowley glances at him again and frowns. Aziraphale realizes he is staring with his mouth open and closes it quickly. He is supposed to say something. Crowley had asked a question. What had the question been? Aziraphale needs time to think. His heart is racing and he needs to think.

"Right. Yes. I—I can go to the general store and get litter. I'm sure Shadwell has some. I should just...I'll do that. Right now."

Somehow Aziraphale ends up in his truck, driving down the back roads to Pine Grove, his mind lighting up with every moment he has shared with Crowley over the last 6 weeks. Has he been a fool?

He remembers, with clarity, meeting Crowley that first night. Thinking him flash and a bit rude. Clocking Crowley’s attraction to him on sight and thinking nothing of it. People like Crowley are a dime a dozen. Except they aren't. Crowley is kind under all his bluster. He's funny and good at giving as good as he gets despite his clear anxiety. It’s turned him into a good friend. Someone Aziraphale is glad to know. Someone he thinks he will want to know for a very long time.

And yes, he might have been ignoring some signs of Crowley's feelings otherwise. The way Crowley blushes around him. Or secretly buys him books of poetry and hides them in his bags like Aziraphale won’t notice. And while all signs point towards such an attraction being romantic in nature, Aziraphale doesn’t want to assume. He is no stranger to attraction without romance. In fact, he thinks the last time he had a crush on someone was in uni. He’s dated since then, of course, but it has been years since that specific tug in his stomach. That skip in the beat of his heart.

Not that feeling that had entirely consumed him as he had watched a smile bloom over Crowley's face in front of the woodpile.

Aziraphale pulls into the parking lot in front of Shadwell’s and takes a deep breath. Is he really going to try to figure this out tonight? Should he do anything at all? Any potential relationship between himself and Crowley would be difficult.

But Aziraphale never feels like this. This earth shattering, jarring sensation like everything in his life has rearranged just because Crowley smiled.

The bell above the door tinkles and the smell of sawdust and old building greets Aziraphale like an old friend.

"Bit late for an errand run," Shadwell grunts from the register in his out of place drawl. One of the oddest things about this part of America is the strange subset of mountaineers who speak with a different accent. And own far too many guns.

"Yes," Aziraphale says, still dazed. "We picked up a stray kitten out by the cabin and needed to take care of him for the night."

"Your fancy feller is still staying with you then?" Shadwell asks, and Aziraphale couldn't care less for small talk. It seems Shadwell doesn't either because he takes an Aziraphale tumbled yes and turns back to restore the Marlboros.

Crowley is waiting at home so Aziraphale tries to be quick. Except Crowley is waiting at home and Aziraphale isn't ready to face him. He hasn't made a decision.

He looks at the cans of cat food that look like they've been there for at least a few months and inspects the expiration dates without really seeing them because his vision is still swimming with images of Crowley.

Crowley awkwardly looking away when they sat down for lunch at the riverfront. Crowley's gaze lingering on his chest when he got out of the shower. Crowley's shit eating smile when he finally beat Aziraphale  at pac-man.

Aziraphale clutches at the meow mix in his hand and breathes through the pain in his chest. He can’t just give this up. Relationships fail for all sorts of reasons but it would certainly be doomed if he never even tries.

Aziraphale places several cans of cat food into his basket. Now to figure out how to tell Crowley. Another memory drifts into his mind, scented with salt and seagrass.

If I were interested in you, I wouldn’t use underhanded seduction tactics like forcing you to share a bed with me.

Aziraphale grips the shelf in front of him. "Oh, good lord," he hisses to himself.

Had he really said that?

And then Crowley had turned red and ran off to the bathroom. Well, Aziraphale probably has some apologizing to do. Some ground to make up.

Maybe he will plan something romantic. Crowley hardly seems the type to go in for being wooed. Roses and truffles certainly aren't the way to his heart. But everyone deserves to be wooed sometimes.

Aziraphale pays for his purchases and got back into the truck. His heart hammers for different reasons now. He is going to tell Crowley. Not tonight. But soon. Somewhere romantic. Somewhere that says I have feelings for you and I'm willing to put in the work.

Pulling up the gravel driveway, his stomach jumps in time with the bumps in the road. He certainly found Crowley attractive before. Or at least thought him the sort that people would find attractive. Thin, tall. Defined features. Well-styled, striking red hair. But he hasn't really thought about it. Hasn't really looked.

His hands shake as he turns off the ignition and he tips his head back against the headrest. He is about to walk into his house and Crowley will be inside. He will be in one of his tight black shirts. The sort that dip at his collar bones. He will be barefoot and Aziraphale will be able to see the delicate bones of his ankles, the rigid tendons of his feet.

And Aziraphale will want to kiss him. He knows he will. And it wouldn't be just any kiss. It would be a back you up against the wall and show you exactly how I feel about you kiss. It would be everything.

But it is most certainly too fast.

This is brand new. Aziraphale doesn't want to rush. He will make a plan and he will talk to Crowley, making it clear that their friendship is paramount and that his ability to sleep on Aziraphale’s couch is not predicated on Aziraphale’s feelings and they could...go from there.

Satisfied with his plan, Aziraphale goes inside and every little nice bit of what he told himself went to pot. Crowley is sitting on the floor playing with the little black kitten with a shoelace. Upon Aziraphale’s entrance, Crowley looks up and grins.

Dimples.

Aziraphale tears his gaze away lest he drop the box of litter and tackle Crowley against the floor. He turns away and kicks off his boots with more force than necessary

“Did Shadwell have what you needed?”

Is his voice going to do things to Aziraphale’s insides now too? Goodness, this is about to become unbearable.

“Yes,” Aziraphale manages, glancing over at Crowley to see the kitten climbing up onto his shoulder. The move has tugged down his shirt and revealed the ginger patch of his chest hair which Aziraphale has an insane urge to lick.

"I was thinking about names," Crowley says, crawling up into a standing position, careful not to disturb the kitten by his neck.. His shirt pulls taut over his thin chest with his movement, rising up at his waist and exposing the line of one of his hip bones. Good lord, how had Aziraphale not noticed the man standing right in front of him?

"Spider,'' Crowley says, draping himself over the back of the bar stool. Crowley does that. A lot of draping. Lounging. Dramatic really.

Aziraphale likes him so much.

Crowley must have interpreted the look on his face for one of confusion because he adds, "You know, like you said. There are spiders in the woodpile."

It is a miracle the Aziraphale doesn't kiss him then and there.

[writingfromkitchenator]

The Demon, The Hunter, and The Halfblood

Masterlist

Crowley x Original Female Character

Chapters: One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine

Series Warnings: A/B/O series, some Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alpha x Omega, obligatory smut warning here (as usual, no under 18′s please, specifics will be within chapter warnings as needed), violence, blood, fluff, angst, major character death, possession, swearing

Chapter 10

Words: 2,802

“So this is where they hang out now?”  Madelyn asked as they appeared in the bunker, looking around, her gaze quickly drawn to the stacks of book shelves and weapons.  “They have all this and they still get stuck?”

Crowley chuckled, not missing the look of curiosity in her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to go through some of them love, although, I would recommend not around Casey.”

Madelyn shot him a look before rolling her eyes.  “Come on, let’s get this fixed up so we can make sure she’s safe from everything out there first.”

He smirked after her, watching as she paused before looking back at him.  “Are you just going to stand there and watch me make an idiot out of myself?”

Crowley laughed, going to her and kissing her lightly on the cheek.  “Isn’t that what you normally do?”

“Watch it mister,” Madelyn said, following after him, smiling. “We’re alone here.  I can do to you as I please.”

“That isn’t exactly a warning.”

“Try me, dear, I promise I can still surprise you.”

“I would never doubt otherwise.”

It took a little time but eventually Crowley went looking for Madelyn, done with his wards and couldn’t help but smile when he found her seated, her head in a book, looking like she was taking it far too seriously.  He leaned against the doorway, watching her for a long moment.  He’d never admit it, but it was seeing her in quiet moments like this that he could never get enough of.

Sadly, he knew he couldn’t linger too long, knowing that Casey was at stake.

“Of all the books you’ve accessed to over the last few years,” He said, walking over to her and ignoring her eye roll.  “You choose these ones to sit down and start reading?”

“Well, considering these ones I can actually read,” Madelyn said, turning the page.  “And aren’t in Enochian or whatever other languages your books are in.  Have they really not taken a lot of time to read these?”

Crowley shrugged.  “With the way those two work?  I doubt it.”

Madelyn hummed before thinking for a moment, a slight worry creasing her brow.  “We have to keep Casey away from these.  She’s not ready for anything like this yet.”

“Obviously,” He said, joining her and tugging the book out of her hands.  “Although, I keep telling you, you aren’t going to be able to stop her curiosity forever, especially when she knows what I am, and Castiel.”

She sighed, watching as he put the book down.  “And the demons that got her the other day, and my own set of unique abilities and-” Madelyn rubbed her forehead.  “Too much to think about.”

Crowley held out his hand and Madelyn took it, letting him pull her to feet, quickly pulling her into his arms.  “Stop worrying so much love.”

Madelyn scoffed a little.  “And you aren’t?”

He grinned.  “Not in a way that I’m letting it show.”

She laughed and he kissed her, making her sigh and lean into him.

“Feeling the effects already are we?”  He said against her lips.  “Your brothers are going to love that.”

“Don’t care.”  Madelyn pulled him in for a firmer kiss, and he let her stay for as long as she needed to.

When she did pull away with a slightly frustrated sigh, she shook her head.  “Come on, let’s go get her, we can get Cas to check our warding over.”

“Don’t you trust us?”

“You know I like another set of eyes going over it.”

Casey was more than ready to go when they returned and Crowley quickly took her, disappearing with Castiel, leaving Madelyn with Sam, Dean and Bobby, Dean still not looking overly impressed about the situation but he seemed to know better than to say anything.

Madelyn took a seat.  “So, I know we still have a lot to go over, but are you going to tell me anything about your problem Dean?”

“I don’t have a problem.”  Dean grumbled, avoiding her gaze.

“Right,” Madelyn smiled sympathetically.  “Come on Dean, I know about the mark, I know how you got the bloody thing.  Did I agree with it?  No, but I can see why he did it.  Does it make it right?  No, but he is a demon and I honestly wouldn’t have expected anything less.  Now, you guys are helping us, so it’s only fair that I do the same in return, despite current tensions.  So, what do you know?”

“Not a lot.”  Sam and Bobby said together, even as Dean shot them both a look.

“The original Mark of Cain was incredibly powerful,” Sam said. “I can’t even begin to fathom what sort of magic was used to first create it, and this is much the same of that. It seems to have the capabilities of being passed on, although how we may ever be able to do that-”

“I’ve told you already that no one else is bearing this burden.”  Dean said sharply.  “Even if we did know I wouldn’t agree to it.”

“So you just want to be a Knight of Hell again?”  Sam asked.  “Come on Dean, if we can sort something out-”

“No Sam.”  Dean said, shooting him a look.  “This is my responsibility and I’ll sort it out.  I don’t need any of you getting into trouble for me.”

“You’re a stubborn arse Dean,” Madelyn said with a smile. “In a way, I’m glad nothing’s changed, but in another, I’m very frustrated by it.  We’re helping you whether you like it or not.”

“And I’d much prefer knowing your full story before I decide whether I trust you or not,” Dean growled, holding Madelyn’s amused gaze. “You might admit that he was wrong in doing in, but you still don’t seem overly worried by it.”

Madelyn raised an eyebrow and shrugged.  “What’s done is done, all we can do is try and make the best of it.  I had to take the same attitude with this, otherwise I think I would’ve gone made from overthinking it, among other things.  We’ve had a lot of shit happen to us all over the years Dean, but we’ve always worked better together when it came down to it.”

Dean scoffed.  “That coming from you right now, means jack.”

She pursed her lips, but at that moment, Crowley returned.  “Right.  Shall we all make ourselves comfortable back at the bunker?”

“Sounds good to me.”  Madelyn stands, pulling Crowley’s jacket tighter around her as she stepped next to him. “I’ll see you guys there.”

Crowley takes the hint and before the three of them can say anything, disappears with her again.

When Sam, Dean and Bobby arrived sometime later, it was clear that Dean was in no better a mood, especially when he saw Madelyn simply sitting reading a book, Castiel and Crowley nowhere in sight.

“They’re making a few more changes before you ask,” Madelyn said, not looking up.  “They’ll be back shortly.  Casey is currently down for a nap.”

Dean went to say something but Sam nudged him and shook his head.  They’d already had an argument in the car ride there and Sam had practically demanded that Dean had to hold himself in check until they knew the whole truth.  The more he pushed, the more Madelyn was going to push back, and the less they were going to get.

The two of them disappeared towards the kitchen while Bobby took a seat next to her.  “I know this is probably a shitty thing to ask, given everything, but are you holding up okay?”

Madelyn nodded, still not looking up from the book.  “Of course.  I’ve never been one to just throw in the towel.”

“That’s not what I meant Mads.”  Bobby said gently.  “Despite how you feel now, has he treated you right through all this?”

“Of course.”

“Madelyn…”

She sighed, finally putting the book down and looking at him. “Bobby, I appreciate it, I do, but despite…a few hiccups along the way, yes, he has.  I get where you’re coming from and I don’t blame you for thinking like that, he is a demon after all, but apart from a few hunts he threw me on, and being a general pain in the arse at times, it has actually been okay.”

“I’ll try not to take offense to that love.”  Crowley said, hiding a smile as he and Castiel walked down the stairs.

Madelyn smiled at him, but looked back at Bobby.  “It’s fine Bobby, I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but let it drop as Crowley and Castiel joined them at the table and Sam and Dean returned with beers in hand.

“Let’s get this over with.”  Dean grumbled as he sat heavily in his chair.

Crowley rolled his eyes and looked at Madelyn, who shrugged. “Well, because you asked so nicely.”

“Because it was such a wonderful discussion.”  Madelyn said under her breath, but innocently looked away from Dean’s glare.

Crowley chuckled.  “I would never accuse you of such a thing darling.  You’ve been far too much of pain for me to ever say that.”

Madelyn grumbled something under her breath, which Crowley decided it was best to ignore.

“As for this situation we’ve got ourselves in,” He continued lightly, earning a dark look from her.  “I think the most obvious thing to point out is that we need to keep it a secret.  I don’t think either of us would fair overly well should word get out that this has happened.”

“As much as I hate to say it, we can agree on that.”  She frowned at him.  “I’m surprised that you would want it that way, actually, considering how much it can be used against me.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee.  “What you think can be used against you would be about ten times worse for me, I assure you.  I have far more enemies than any of you seem to believe.  If a demon against me so much as got a whiff of this, then you would be in danger quicker than you can say welcome to hell.”

“And my brothers would be more than likely to try and kill you again,” Madelyn sighed. “Alright, point taken.  So, where do we go from here?”

He shrugged, much to her distaste.  “Continue on as normal until the situation tells us otherwise.”

“Until I get my next heat, you mean?”  She grumbled. “What a swell thing this is going to be?”

“Oh? Do you have another suggestion?”

Madelyn goes to say something before she shakes her head.  “No, no of course not.”

Crowley knew that there was more to it, but for the moment he decided to let it go. “This isn’t ideal for me either, that I promise you, and we’re going to have to be careful so as no one picks up a pattern.  It’s going to…take time to get used to, and frankly, you should just be grateful that demons don’t get ruts.”

She blanched and scowled at him.  “Yes, thank you for that bit of information, it was exactly what I wanted to know.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I could go much more in depth if you wanted.  I’ve been dealing with all these charming natures for a long time now.”

“No thank you.”  Madelyn tightened the scarf around her neck, finishing her coffee.  “I think just leaving it like this for now is perfectly fine.”

“Just fine,” Crowley corrected.  “Because there’s certainly nothing perfect about it.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes.  “Right. Don’t flatter yourself too much Crowley, or I might just throw a well thought out insult your way, and trust me, I have more than a few after all this.”

Crowley smirked, although his eyes had watched every movement she made with the scarf. “Don’t get too comfortable with me now, darling.  People might begin to think that we’re civilized with each other.”

Despite herself, she smiled.  “Civilized Crowley?  I didn’t think you’d have that in you.”

“Seriously?”  Dean growled from across the table.  “You two are disgusting.”

“That’s cute Dean, considering I’ve seen how you interact with the opposite sex.”  Madelyn said, earning a dark look from Dean.  “At the time, I was trying to lighten the situation a little, and given the situation that the two of us were forced into, it seemed appropriate.”

Bobby quickly interrupted Dean’s next comment.  “Okay, so the two of you agreed to keep it a secret, which is fair, especially with what was happening, but are you really telling us that you didn’t meet at all before your next heat?”

Madelyn blanched a little and Crowley sighed, taking over. “Not exactly.  In fact, I made the mistake of contacting her about a particular demon I needed help with.  Madelyn was…less than pleased about.  Felt I was taking advantage of the situation.”

“Which you were.”  Madelyn said, a little irritably.  “It didn’t stop you from trying, multiple times either.”

Crowley shrugged.  “You never said no, and I’ve always been one to use my resources.  At first we had thought that these interactions had then led to the next particular interaction, due to the demon activity I was getting her involved in, and the fact that we were technically seeing each other more than what we had agreed.”

“There was also the fact that I had told you where to go after the last particular one almost got me killed.”  Madelyn said lightly.

“Yes, there’s that too.”  Crowley said.  “But it wasn’t till much later that we properly figured it out, hence our earlier comments about how this could potentially affect all Omega’s with demons.”

“What did it effect?”  Sam asked, frowning at them.

It was Castiel that answered, looking between the two of them. “That was when you went into rut, wasn’t it?”

Crowley nodded slowly as Sam and Dean flinched.  “Yes, which eventually, of course, lead to our dear Casey.”

“But demons can’t-”

“It’s not a matter of can’t,” Crowley cut Dean off.  “In fact, early on, most demons still have to go into whatever they need.  The older we get, the more control we have over it until we don’t feel the effects at all unless we really want to.  In this case, however, it was nowhere in my plan to ever do such a thing, but it seemed, again, that they choice was going to be made for us.”

“It was from the effects of my blood,” Madelyn said quietly, cutting them off before one of them could ask a question.  “Whatever Azazel had done to me, in turn, affected Crowley. It wasn’t an intentional thing on anyone’s behalf, in fact, at the time, I wanted nothing to do with him, but we had to deal with it much like we’d already done.”

“It…wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, for either of us.” Crowley said, frowning slightly.  “It had been a long time since I’d ever gone through such a thing, so I was…a little beyond control, and then there was the fact that Madelyn’s heat was only a week away at the time.  I’m sure you can all imagine that such an event led to it triggering early.”

“Unless you want the gritty details, I suggest you stop asking questions.”  Madelyn said flatly.  “That’s what happened.  That’s all you need to know.”

There was an awkward silence for a long moment, no one overly sure what to say next.

“So…what happened after that?”  Sam asked, clearly his throat when Madelyn seemed to frown.  “We just want to get to the end of the story Maddie, I’m not trying to intrude or-”

Madelyn shook her head though and stood.  “No.  It has to wait for the moment.”

“Oh come on!”  Dean said, straightening out.  “You can’t keep-”

“Now is not the time Dean,” Madelyn said seriously and she looked at Castiel.  “I hate to ask again-”

“She’ll be fine,” Castiel said with a nod, understanding.  “She’s more than safe here.”

Crowley was frowning at Madelyn.  “I know we joked but-”

Madelyn sighed.  “Yeah, I know.”

“Madelyn-”

“Crowley, I need to go.”  She said softly.  “Please.”

“Alright,” He stood and joined her, taking her arm, feeling the tension in her body, looking just a little worried as he looked back at the others. “We know this is rather inconvenient time, trust us, but we’ll be back as soon as Madelyn is able.”

With that, they just disappeared, Sam and Bobby looking at Castiel as Dean slammed his hands down on the table.

Castiel sighed.  “This has been happening more frequently.  We’re still not sure what’s causing it.”

“Probably the damned demon blood.”  Dean growled.

“It’s possible,” Castiel nodded slowly.  “The problem is Dean, if she stops that, she will die.”

[lady-divine-writes]

Bagging a Demon (Rated NC17)

Summary: When Crowley returns to Aziraphale's bookshop after time away frazzled and out of sorts, Aziraphale helps him bury his fears and doubts ... by burying himself. (1178 words)

Notes: This is a sort of re-write of another one-shot from a while back. Warning for consensual burying alive, bondage, suspension, anxiety, and emotional hurt/comfort.

Read on AO3.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

The sound of sand pouring around Crowley’s body is like a long, soothing hush - a finger to his angel’s lips as he tries to quiet the voices in his demon’s brain.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

It fills Crowley’s ears, then his head, and slowly, like a well-worn eraser on a pencil too short to be sharpened any further, eliminates the comments made so many times they’ve left thick, dark lines inside his skull, stains that will never completely be removed - Hell’s snide remarks; a ledger full of jokes made at his expense; vague threats that chase after him, catch up to him no matter how fast he drives; and, most importantly, his own vile thoughts, which he’ll never be free of regardless of how many times Aziraphale whispers sweet words of praise in his ears.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh …

Crowley isn’t exactly sure where Aziraphale gets the sand from. He would assume Aziraphale miracles it in but that would be a difficult thing to explain to the higher ups - not that they have any say in what Aziraphale does with his magic anymore, but they’re always poking their noses in where they don’t belong. Crowley smiles at the conversation that might ensue if Archangels confronted Aziraphale now that the two of them are, for the most part, independent contractors.

“Aziraphale! Why in Heaven’s name did you waste a miracle transporting seventy-five pounds of sand to your demon’s flat?” Gabriel would ask, red-cheeked with anger, his eyes aflame with holy white light.

“Why? Why!?” Aziraphale would reply, squaring his shoulders and tugging down his waistcoat, his eyes not only alight with the same white flame, but consumed by it. “Fuck you, that’s why!”

That’s probably not how it would go down, but it makes Crowley feel a smidge better to imagine it that way.

Crowley suspects it’s beach sand Aziraphale fills his body bag with.

Black volcanic sand.

It smells like all things summer - sunscreen, salt water, barbecue smoke, but also clean, fresh air kissed by sunshine. When he’s in his human-form, Crowley is not too fond of sand. But his serpent side adores it. The sand retains heat, absorbing it, then redirecting it, transforming Crowley from shrunken and shivering in his own tense frame to relaxed.

Downright cozy.

It acts like a weighted blanket, the effect only mildly different. It builds. Instead of having ten, fifteen, twenty-five pounds rest on him all at once, it presses down on him gradually - one shovel full at a time until he’s engulfed in calm. It’s not like having Aziraphale’s weight on top of him, Aziraphale’s warmth surrounding him, his wings wound around him and tightening slowly. But it’s still comforting.

The darkness of the bag he’s curled inside of, the weight of the sand, it doesn’t just bury him. It buries the voices that collect in his head, buzzing like flies drunk on honey. It buries his self-doubt in a place he can project on to so that it doesn’t plant seeds inside him, grow and devour him. His successes and his failures get buried with him inside that bag, too. When he comes out, he’ll get to decide which he wants to take with him and which he wants to leave behind.

With the help of his angel, who is always there to help guide him.

Crowley had been gone for days - off to only God knows where … if She cared to look. Aziraphale never troubles him for an explanation. Yes, they’re married, but that doesn’t mean much has changed.

Crowley’s time is his own. As was Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale read and Crowley … did Crowley things.

When Crowley finally returned, Aziraphale expected a lighthearted and giddy demon to saunter into his bookshop bearing several crates of alcohol and a take away box of crepes, maybe devil’s food cake.

Wine he did have. Crepes, too. But also a back bowed by burdens.

He muttered and paced and grumbled under his breath. He would sit, then immediately get up and walk a lap around Aziraphale’s shop.

Everything was wrong, Aziraphale heard him say.

His flat was wrong.

His car was wrong.

The city was wrong.

His head was on wrong and everything inside him was wrong.

He may have gone down to Hell for a visit or a meeting or a whatever. Lord knows why he returns from time to time, but he does. But now that he’s above ground again, everything is too bright, too loud, too sharp, too open, too much.

And Crowley can’t handle it.

When Aziraphale asked his demon what he thought could help him, Crowley answered, “Soft, dark, quiet … alone.”

It broke Aziraphale’s heart to hear Crowley say he needed to be alone. He’d presumably just returned from time alone and now he wanted more of it. Though Aziraphale understands that time alone away from him and time alone with him in the same room are different concepts.

Still, Aziraphale missed his husband.

But he couldn’t deny him anything.

And Crowley needed a re-set – one he couldn’t find on his knees.

He needed to hide, disappear somewhere where the world couldn’t find him.

This bag isn’t some random item Aziraphale had lingering around his bookshop, a relic from the past that he kept alongside his snuff boxes and Bibles. He’d ordered it special - a tool to help Crowley with his anxiety. When Crowley had his first major attack and spoke about it with Aziraphale, he used words like open and big and lost and flailing to get his point across. Aziraphale concluded that Crowley needed to make his problems smaller than himself, and thus more manageable. He needed to restrict his thinking to the basics – yes and no, light and dark, good and bad, the building blocks that humans learn as children, and move on from there.

So, in essence, this bag is like a womb, a beginning which, as supernatural entities, they’d never been given. Crowley retreats to it when he needs to start over.

Sometimes Aziraphale envies him for it.

Crowley can’t wear much when he’s inside it. Just his underclothes. It forces him into the fetal position, muffles most external sounds. It’s where he comes to terms with himself, reconnects with his thoughts either demonic or celestial, before he joins the world again.

Aziraphale bid his husband good-bye with a kiss before Crowley climbed in and Aziraphale began shoveling, packing Crowley in. When he’s done, he’ll lace the bag up from end to end - no zippers or snaps here. Then he’ll tie the entire bag with hefty rope and suspend it, let its cigar shape hang and sway gently over his head.

Three hours.

Three hours in the bag and the sand in total silence. After three hours, Aziraphale will come get him, dig him out with his own two hands as if discovering his gorgeous husband all over again.

But if Crowley needs him, all he has do is say his name and Aziraphale will be there.

[sweetpea-skarsgard-blog]

I’ll Be Waiting // Ambrose Spellman Imagine *smut*

((so this was hastily written and is probably full of bad grammar and is generally crappy. But as always I hope that it is good enough for someone to enjoy! I just love Ambrose so much <3 )) 

Warnings: smut, sexy, right into it- smut.

Just lying in bed seemed to be one of the males favorite pass times, staring up at his ceiling as he remembered his last tryst with his beautiful lover, Y/N. It had been months since he’d seen the young woman, no doubt traipsing around some foreign country and making the best of her life. But how could the man blame her, when he was the one who might as well have been shackled to this building. All because he dared to defy the Vatican, nearly exposing their kind.

Okay, so maybe the punishment fit the crime, having been spared the death penalty that the witches and Warlocks of the Church of Night loved to just hand out with ease. But he was still going to pout about  it, given the fact that he could never just go and find his lover- or experience the warm spring air of Paris once again. He knew that his torture could all be over if he would just give over the names of his co-conspirators.. But Ambrose Spellman was no snitch. He wasn't about to forsake his fellow witches and warlocks just to have his days in the sun once more. He could manage… even if at the moment all that he had were his thoughts to fully entertainment- that, and the promise that one day you would return to him.

It was a warm summer evening in the Spellman Mortuary, Sabrina having gone off with her mortal friends, Hilda out to the market, and Zelda off in the Church of Night for one of her most devout services. You were just lying beside Ambrose on his bed, tracing your fingers over the skin of his chest as his robe lay open, the man much to lazy to close it. Then again, it wasn't as though he felt the need to. You were the one person that he could feel completely at ease with- and given the fact that this old house lacked air conditioning, the fan of his bedroom was the only thing keeping the two of you from giving into the sweltering heat.

“Ambrose.. You know that I can do a snow spell.. Something to cool down the room a bit.” you muttered, preferring to have it a bit cooler so that it wouldn't seem so uncomfortable to be so close to him. But at your mention of the use of magic, Ambrose simply chuckled. “And then have you complaining about your toes being cold? Dear.. I know that you think it would help- but I doubt that I would appreciate shovelling snow out of my bedroom window when things get out of hand.” he teased, latting his touch linger on the exposed skin of your arm, before moving gently up and down the soft flesh.

You just groaned and then shook your head. “Well you’d best get your shovel then.. Because I plan on doing it.. Besides.. If it gets too cold, then you can just warm me up… I know that you have no problem finding the best ways of doing that.” You teased, sitting up and then straddling his lap. Ambrose got the idea, chuckling and placing his hands on your hips as you looked down at him. Closing your eyes, you slowly moved in his lap, starting your trance as you rolled your head over your shoulders. Swaying slightly, you got into the mood for the spell, chanting softly as he just admired you. “Sie ego nix. Frigora ventos” you chanted, making the warlock look up at your beauty. The way that your hair trailed down your shoulders, power flowing through you.. It made you look so- sexy… “Sie ego nix, Frigora ventos.” Ambrose repeated, rubbing his fingertips against your thighs as he tried to lend you his power.

The room slowly grew colder, finally a few snowflakes landing on the both of your overheated bodies. It was a nice change from the heatwave that Greendale had been experiencing.. Especially knowing that it was only the two of you whom would be experiencing the phenomenon. As you opened your eyes and looked down at him, the male chuckled and shook his head. “Seeing you defy the laws of nature.. Who could look more sexy doing such a thing?” the man flirted, pressing a hand on your lower back, his palm flat against your skin as you leaned down to press your lips against his.

“I happen to think that you look sexier defying the laws of nature.. But despite that, I know that it would start an argument that neither of us are really looking forward to hashing out. Who is sexier.. I happen to think that there are much better ways to settle the score.” The look of mischief in your eye only made a shiver travel up Ambrose’s spine, nipping at your lip for a moment before he flipped yourposition, letting your head fall back against he plush pillows.

“Hmm I think that you’re right about that.. Though the snow  doesn't look to be cooling you down too much… still as hot as ever.” the man mentioned, his fingers brushing underneath your shirt and then swiftly pulling it over your body. Clicking his tongue he just shook his head and looked down at you. “Now it seems that I am just making it worse, aren't I?” he chuckled, rubbing at your now exposed sides, the cool air filling the room starting to make your arousal more apparent as your nipples hardened underneath your bra.

“Ambrose- You’re play a dangerous game.. And I hope you know that I don't take well to being teased.” you warned, moving your hand down his chest and towards the bottom of his navel, just looping your finger into the elastic of his pants. Ambrose grunted as it snapped, relieving the pressure that was building within his boxers before it was quickly fired back upon him. You knew just how to get a rise out of the male, passion filling his gaze as he now held your wrist above your head.

“It’s you who is the dangerous one, Little Willow.” he smirked, using your nickname against you, the very name that made goosebumps travel up and down your frame. Ambrose had such an effect on you.. And while neither of you ahd ever actually uttered a semblance of the word ‘love’ you both knew it to be true in your hearts. Ambrose Spellman was the moon to your night, the stars to your sky.. The blood in your blood ritual- and what have you. He was the very person that you felt you couldn't stand a world without.. And though he had forced you to promise that you’d never allow him to hold you back, you would always come back to him.

But Ambrose didn't give you the time to articulate any of that, moving his lips down to your neck and sucking on that one spot above your collarbone that drove you wild. He knew your body after all of these years, every curve, every line.. The things that you loved and the way he could make you writhe underneath his tender touch. As you arch your back against him, your leg moved between his thighs, brushing your foot against the hardening bulge in his boxer shorts that was becoming more apparent as his kisses continued downward. Stopping his decent for a moment, Ambrose looked up at you with a warning look, clicking his tongue. “Darkheart.. You had better not be trying to get  a rise out of me.. In the- literal sense.” he warned, his tone taking a lower note to it, before he kissed right above your navel.

You on the other hand, only smirked and played coy. “I don't know what you mean.. Besides if that were what I was intending, I would say that you already had a head start.” you mentioned, motioning to the package in his shorts that was growing more aggressive. Ambrose sighed and then tugged your shorts down, not going as easily as he tended to, not taking his time. YOu were trying his patience with your teasing, and he knew that he just needed to get this show on the road- you were leaving for Fance the following night and well.. He needed to give you both something to remember in your time apart. “Yes well, I think that we will both get caught up in time.” he said, looking down at your panties and seeing the wet spot that only his words and tantalizing kisses had created.

Ambrose wasted no time in touching you, moving his fingers over your center through your underwear, brushing up against your clit in a way that made you jump slightly from the sensation. That reaction made him smile, before he moved down, gently mouthing over your core while his other arm kept careful hold of your hips. He didn't need you bucking up too excitedly, not when he was trying to drag this out. That small lining of your underwear separating him from what he truly wanted to taste, was driving him crazy. And so it wasn't long before he cast it off, pulling it down your legs and letting it fall to the other side of the room as he threw the lacy fabric carelessly. It wouldn't be the first time that you had lost your underwear in the confines of his messy room, but it was all worthwhile when his mouth continued its ministrations, nipping and licking at the sensitive bud between your legs. Sometimes you swore that Ambrose was a sex god- that he knew you as well as he knew the back of his hand.. But it seemed that your fun had only begun, as he pulled back, his chin glistening with the juices of your arousal. He had gotten you good and worked up.. But finishing you off then and there was never his intention. No, Ambrose was selfish in that way.. He wanted to feel you.. But not before you had your fun as well.

Ambrose had made no effort in removing his robe- in fact.. You thought it strange, but at times, getting him to remove the sash and have it open was even more erotic than the removal and exposure of his full body to your hungry eyes. He looked like a man who knew what he wanted, and how to get it.. Almost like a bachelor in a sense, one who needn't stoop down to any woman. But as he looked at you, there was a look that you could never get enough of. He looked at you like you were the only woman in the world for him. And that may as well have been the truth. Ambrose had never really had that sort of a connection with anyone else… and somehow he wished that he had met you before he came upon Aleister Crowley.  Maybe you’d be the one to talk him out of his idiotic intentions. Maybe then he’d be able to accompany you on your adventures.

But for now, this was all the adventure you needed, seeing the lust in his eyes as you both gave into your most carnal needs. Sitting up, you crawled to the edge of the bed, hungrily pulling him by the silk of his robe and in for another kiss. He was standing there, just smirking before your lips crashed into his, as if admiring his work. But at your touch, it seemed that all of his hesitation and need to drag things out had subsided. He needed you, and he needed to feel you now. There was no more time for the teasing and foreplay, not with his current thirst for you, spreading your legs and laying you on your back as he freed his member and kicked off his boxers in a haste.

Ambrose had lined himself up at your entrance, his breath hot against your neck as he looked into your eyes. Giving him the nod of approval he so desperately craved, you pressed your lips against his, as he pushed himself in, his hands now gripping at your hips once he was flush within you. Gasping out, you shut your eyes, Ambrose grunting in pleasure as his lips trailed over the skin of your neck. It was a bit rough, and sporadic the way that his hips moved.. But there was a method to his madness, ever push of his hips displaying a passion and feeling for you that only his movements could convey. “Fuck- Y/N. Satan be praised.. I am going to miss you.” Ambrose groaned, pumping his hips against yours in a way that let a sound linger in the room. The snow had begun to fall a bit more forcefully- though not nearly enough to be sticking. Each of his movements having an effect on the two of you in making the magic surrounding you intensify. Who knew that giving into such lustful actions would make things more powerful- if that were a thing, no wonder it was common for witches to have orgies in order to harness their energy for a large spell.

“I’ll come back.. I always come back to you Ambrose… Ah~” you groaned, as ambrose moved his hand to your thigh pulling your leg over his hip so that he could get a better angle. Ambrose felt his heart warm at that thought. Something so strange for a warlock to admit, seeing as they were cursed to love no one but the Dark Lord.. then again with you it seemed like there was a bit of an exception.

Ambrose was close, and you felt yourself nearing your release as well, dragging your nails down his back in a way that drew blood- soon to be soothed by the snow that was falling down. Grunting, he pumped in a few more times, before pulling out and releasing, falling to your side as his chest heaved, the white gently covering the dark silken pillows soothing the marks you;d left. Ambrose looked over at you, rubbing his hand up and down your thigh Ambrose nodded. “I’ll be waiting..” his tone was sincere, before he spoke once again. “To be fair. I have no choice in the matter.”  the warlock teased, a gentle smile on his face no matter how sad the comment.

[aha-my-villainous-thoughts]

Please, keep me. (Good Omens)

Part 4! This whole practice of writing every day is a lot of fun. I hope I feel the same as the month trickles on.

I will do the links for Part 1, 2 and 3 when I’m at my desktop. I still need a title too!! (found one)

Part 4

The incident of seeking out the little angel should have been a one off affair. 

It wasn’t. 

It became a frequent exercise in emotional torture for Crowley. Now, when he lurked upstairs looking for the angel, he would have to gamble on the appearance of the Keeper at all. Sometimes he would come out at the right time, following members of his duty. Sometimes he might only be a few minutes late. Sometimes he didn’t come at all. Crowley would wait and grind his teeth in anxiety hoping to catch sight of him before he was called away to his own work. The worry that he would miss the milk-coloured curls and furtive glances made him feel a kind of weariness that settled deep into his bones and drained all the enjoyment out of his day. When he did see the little angel his entire being seemed lifted up by it. There was a small part of him that knew it was foolish to hang so much longing onto another being like this, especially in this manner, but he was too far gone on the Keeper and his soft little ‘Oh!’ to be able to turn back now. Come what may, everything that was his was inextricably tied to what was the Keeper’s. 

And he didn’t even know his name. 

After several cycles of missing sight of the angel in the refectorary, a resolution slowly started to form in his mind. At first it seemed ridiculous, but over time as the angel’s appearances to the hall became more and more unreliable, the idea became less ridiculous. 

He could do what he had done that day in the library. Go into those winding hallways and watch the angel from afar. More and more days saw the angel linger behind in the library, clearly to indulge in reading every book he was charged to care for, and Crowley saw no alternative than to move his spying spot to among the quiet shelves. 

The trouble was there was really nowhere to hide. The corridors and hallways were filled to every inch with shelves and books, they curved and branched out in every branch. Including all the way up, high enough that Crowley couldn’t quite see the ceiling in the dim suspended lights of the library. Even if there were a space for him to skulk up in the darkness he was keenly aware that that was altogether far too ridiculous an option to consider. 

Ruling out the literal stalking, what if he was spotted? How would he begin to explain it? The little Keeper wasn’t the only angel in the library and if Crowley intended to follow through his mad plan the way he did, he would be risking running into them as well. 

No, an alternative was crucial. 

He was skulking in his usual spot, arms crossed on the ledge and a stormy expression on his face. The Keeper had not appeared for the fourth day in a row and Crowley was getting impatient. He turned away from the hall, silently grumbling at the entire hall of angels below for not being the correct angel. Instead he stared at the mural of animals, letting his eyes shift sightlessly over the complicated interwoven paintings of plants, tree, flowers and creatures. His thoughts ruminated sluggishly, never straying far from the dull ache in his chest. 

To see without being seen. To watch without causing alarm. To exist in the same space and yet be not as he was. 

He flickered his gaze between the array of beasts staring back out at him. Large and small they filled the shape, horns and tails and hooves. His eyes refocused as he settled down near the paws of the large golden beast with the mane, seeing a tiny little animal with cupped front paws, large eyes and a little tail. He strained to read the words etched in gold next to it. 

Mouse. 

An appealing little creation, it looked quick and intelligent. Crowley considered it, eyes narrowing as an idea slowly surfaced. It was possible for angels to manipulate their shape. This vessel wasn’t one made of skin and bone as the animals were. An angel’s true form was already condensed into this form, the wings committed to a different plane to accommodate the requirements of the Paradise She had made for them. Crowley couldn’t remember the last time he had released the boundaries of his current skin to be in his natural form, it was a lot simpler to be in a form that was so tactile and grounded to his environment. In theory he should be able to alter his vessel again, to condense himself down further into a form that could hide in plain sight, sneak through the bookcases and watch his angel without discovery. 

He could become an animal. 

His eyes lingered on the mouse for some time, considering the brown fur, the twitching whiskers. It wasn’t out of the question but something didn’t ring true for him considering the small thing. He stood and began to walk the edges of the upper mezzanine slowly, considering each animal in turn. Some were immediately dismissed - too large or too bulky or unsuited for the narrow spaces. Others were too colourful or had unnecessary additions - what use would a pair of antlers be in a library? 

He considered a creature called a cat for some time. It was agile and slim, with clever eyes and short fur. It would be an excellent form to climb and jump in, its paws perfect for soundless sneaking. Perhaps a touch too big still. 

He eyed a winged animal called a fruitbat for some time before dismissing it. The ability to fly might be novel, but he doubted it would prove that useful when clambering across the tops of books. Plus, this animal seems to spend it’s life upside down and he wished to watch his angel the right way up. 

This pattern repeated for some time before he came to a stop in front of an animal he would not have believed could exist if it weren’t for Her endless imagination. An animal with no legs at all, a long twisting body and tail. Its head was streamlined to join with the body in one fluid shape. It appeared to have an unusual tongue, and eyes that reminded him of the cat from earlier. This animal was an unnecessary colour - a rather bright green, but that seemed to suit its surroundings. He was sure he could change that, maybe go for something that blended with the shadows a bit better. 

Yes, it would do nicely. With some imagination and a little Effort, Crowley would become a snake. 

Resolution is one thing, but action proved to be another. After Crowley had finished with his day of duties he retired to his room immediately. To change his form would mostly take time and concentration, and he knew he couldn’t be disturbed once he started. 

Shedding his robes and loosening his red hair, he sat in the centre of his bed and closed his eyes. He drew his form into his focus, taking time to identify every part of this current form and its placement. He would need to be able to return to it easily, if he was going to be able to switch between them at will. He took care to memorise the ridges and lines that created his face, the line of his jaw and slope of his shoulders. The speckles of paint that had stained his skin over many years against pale skin. The narrow passage of his hips and the calluses on his fingers. Feeling further outside of his skin he was able to feel the joint that held his wings in the incorporeal plane. The knot of bone and cartilage that passed from intangibility into his shoulder blades would be of particular concern when changing, as it was held in the odd position of both existing and not existing at the same time. 

Tracing the shape of what he wished to become into the air in front of him, small fragments of light trailed from his fingertips to sketch out the shape and length of the snake. At first he recreated the one he had seen in the mural, but it became obvious that this snake would be too small for him to condense his essence into without discomfort. He would have to make alterations to the form, whilst still retaining the subtlety of the shape. He still needed to be slim enough to creep. One option was to extend the length of the snake, while thickening the middle to give the body the correct level of strength and muscle required to move himself. 

It occurred to him that there was a lot more engineering to create a physical form than he had initially expected, and that he should be even more in awe of Her divine imagination than he already was. 

It seemed like many hours passed as Crowley twisted and contorted himself, trying to find the correct ratio to pour himself into the framework. 

But finally, somehow, he had done it. He opened his eyes, the golden eyes of a large snake, and began to feel through this new form. Not having arms or legs was certainly an uncomfortable sensation, as he had to lift and move his head with his torso and neck, but his form moved smoothly. He looked at himself, pleased with the recreation of soft glittering scales that moved and writhed as he did. He had thought to adopt the blue of his robes, but instead he had darkened the tone until he had found a pleasing shade of smoky black that would wind into shades seamlessly. Despite himself he had been unable to resist painting the underside of this form with the fiery red of his hair. Maybe it was pride, a form of vanity in something he knew set him apart from his peers. Maybe, should he be discovered, he wanted to worth looking at. 

If he couldn’t be himself, he would be the most beautiful snake. 

Crowley manipulated his muscular body across the room, experimenting with his new form. It was surprisingly pleasurable to slide through the sheets in such a way, surfaces feeling almost luxuriously soft against his scales. He twisted himself up into a coil, resting his head on his tail. He lifted himself up leading with his head, flicking his new forked tongue out in concentration. He found he could extend a very long way just by using the muscles along this body. 

A very clever design. He had picked well. 

He hissed to himself in pleasure. He would be the very best snake. He would creep into the library and he would be able to watch his charge in peace, observing from the shadows and following along sneakily as the Keeper went about his duties. Oh yes, he would be a very good sneak. 

“I am sssnake,” he announced to the room. 

[quicklyshadytriumph]

What We Toast To

A small fanfic about Crowley and Aziraphale dining together at three different points in time

Paris, 1793

The clinking of wine glasses echoed off the wall of the near empty restaurant. They had just toasted to “damn great timing” (in Crowley’s words), however Aziraphale participation had been mostly absent-minded as his attention was already very much fixed on the highly stacked crepes before him. He hadn’t held back when ordering. After all, he had thought, he deserved them after what he had just gone through.

“I just can’t believe these things are worth being discorporated for”, teased the demon sitting next to him, before resuming his drinking. He had always been more invested in alcohol than food. Getting drunk was an efficient way to numb things out, but it also was an appropriate mean of celebration, and Crowley could appreciate versatility.

His mouth full of crepes, and thus unable to utter a word, the angel simply pushed the plate towards Crowley.

“Nah, thanks. I’ll just never know, I guess”, the demon shook his head, going for a more dramatic answer than was necessary.

“Your loss” answered Aziraphale as he swallowed. In his eyes there wasn’t a single trace of disappointment at his companion’s lack of gourmet enthusiasm. Instead, there just was the pure delight that inspired him the crepes. Delightful really was the appropriate word. Wasn’t it delightful to spend the afternoon savouring French cuisine with a … with his… with Crowley? One could have thought that being menaced with decapitation just hours earlier would have made the angel lose his appetite, but if anything the contrast between the sinister prison and the luminous restaurant only made the moment more charming. To be fair, at no point had he feared for himself. He knew there would be someone to save him. There always was. Turns out that “someone” was more often than not the same person.

The crepes were disappearing at an alarming rate. Not many beings had had as much practice at feasting as Aziraphale. In fact, none of them had. Almost six thousand years was hard to beat for humans, and ineffable creatures usually didn’t get involved in earthly stuff. Except for two of them, of course. Sometimes the angel would think about how lucky they were, Crowley and he, to have found each other, the seemingly only two beings in the immensity of Heaven and Hell who didn’t feel disdain for humans. On the contrary, they enjoyed every pleasure the life on Earth had to offer to them. The had made an art of it, the two of them. Together. He really was grateful there was someone else to share his love for humanity.

This is where his reflexions always ended. He never went as far as wondering if they really had experienced everything they could, or if there was still some unexplored enjoyment out there for them, waiting to be discovered. If his life experience had taught him anything, it was that some things were better left unquestioned. Questions came with an inherent risk of not liking the answer. Some things were buried for a reason, right? And if he was mistaken, and there was indeed something worth wondering about, he’d have all the time in the world for that. Right?

Crowley, however, had never been the one for interrupting reflexions halfway through. Always the wonderer, he was. But in this particular instance, he had never even needed to wonder. From the beginning he had known that they were missing something. If they had created an art of appreciation for humanity, they hadn’t mastered it. They weren’t human after all, and he knew that their situation surely would never allow for that ultimate experience they were lacking.  

It was okay though. He had learned to make peace with the absence in his heart. Instead, he basked in the angel’s light whenever he saw the food arriving at their table.  If that’s all he would ever have, then it would do. It was better than nothing. Nonetheless these shared lunches had the treacherous tendency to instil something in Crowley that he certainly didn’t want. Hope. Hope that there was indeed something to wait for. Because with that came the fear that whatever could happen would take too long. It’s not that the demon wasn’t patient, he had proven quite the opposite, but for a while he had felt something brewing and he was getting worried that they might not have all the time of world.

London, 2018

“To the world”, toasted Aziraphale. “To the world”, repeated Crowley.

The dining room of the Ritz was drenched in light. It was a beautiful day, one of the best. Most people couldn’t tell that it was because they had barely avoided the worst one. But even the brightest sun had nothing on the smiling angel unknowingly illuminating the whole restaurant.

“Fancy a dessert, angel?”, asked the demon sitting opposite him, as the answer could be anything other than a resounding yes.

“I was thinking that we might get a dessert for two… It feels like an appropriate occasion, you know. I think.” hesitated Aziraphale.

Crowley lifted an eyebrow above his sunglasses. He didn’t care much to try the pistachio crème brûlée that Aziraphale was pointing at on the menu, but he would pass on the suggestion for nothing in the world. So he nodded. It was the start of something new, he could sense it in the air. A new world, a world whose prize for rebelling against the Great Plan was more time. And a new life, for him and for Aziraphale. It was too soon to tell how Hell and Heaven would retaliate, or if they ever would. Surely they hadn’t given up on their long-awaited War, but it was doubtful that a second try at the Apocalypse was planned in the near future.

In the meantime, Crowley and Aziraphale were free to exist as they wanted. That would probably take some figuring out, as they weren’t initially designed as creatures of self-determination. At least they were together, thought Crowley, and to be honest they had started practising independence quite a while ago. They really had been lucky beyond anything imaginable. The two of them, dining together at the Ritz on the other side of the Apocalypse. “There’s nothing else I could wish for”, Crowley lied to himself as he gazed lovingly at his angel.

Beneath the joy, the relief and the sweet anticipation as the crème brûlée was being laid on the table, Aziraphale could have noticed a lingering anxiety in his stomach, had he cared to pay more attention. Had he noticed it he may have wondered why he was feeling anxious when he had no reason to be. He surely would have reasoned that the distant threat of Heaven and Hell was a good enough explanation to stay alert. Had he come to that conclusion, Aziraphale would have missed the point, as he often did. Being extremely intelligent was no help against denial. He had grown accustomed to that denial over the years. It had been so deep rooted there wasn’t much that could be done against it. But now…

The angel had always felt he knew what he ought to do or not. The rules were clear enough. This didn’t mean that he followed them perfectly, but he was assured that he had the general idea down. And some things were just too far across the line. Aziraphale had never done anything that he felt would for sure banish him from Heaven. Until the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. He hadn’t fallen or anything, but it had somewhat opened the door. Opened the door for doubt, for self-introspection, and for whatever that would lead to in terms of taking liberties. Perhaps he would finally be able to name that deep, muted feeling he had felt all his eternal life, that itch in his soul he always tried so hard not to pay attention to.

Of course, Aziraphale hadn’t come to that realization yet. Force of habit and all. Instead he just handed Crowley a spoonful of dessert. “Try it, my dear. I insist” he said, trying to ignore for the last time that swelling heat in his heart.

South Downs, 2019

“What would you say of a nice glass of champagne, angel?”

“Delightful, my dear. It will go perfectly with the strawberries you picked this morning”.

They set the table by the bay window in the living room. The soft light of a spring afternoon made the sea, barely visible off in the distance, beyond the countryside, glisten beautifully. Aziraphale opened the window and the fresh smell of grass filled up the room. They sat next to each other so that they could both face the view- and so that their knees could touch.

Crowley poured the champagne in the flutes and handed one to the angel beside him.

“To what do we toast today?” he asked.

A moment of silence, for consideration.

“To this”, answered Aziraphale with a smile.

A bird started to sing in the garden. A coincidence or a demon who watched too many romantic movies, impossible to tell.

“Who would have thought that we would end up like this” said Aziraphale with an amused grin, looking into the distance.

“I would have” replied the demon. “In fact, I have, angel. For a while”.

“Yes, yes, dear. I think you’ve made this quite clear already. You’ve been waiting a long time. I understood that the first fifty times, you know.”

Crowley smiled teasingly, his tongue slightly out, and nudged the angel’s thigh with his knee. He almost answered that he had earned the right to mock his companion, but Crowley knew that arguing was unnecessary as Aziraphale wasn’t actually expecting him to stop.

“You know what I mean. Not that we didn’t think of it, of course, but that it… for so long I have wanted this but never, for even a second did I thought they would allow it”.  The use of the pronoun didn’t need clarification.

“I know I know, my love”, Crowley said softly, resting his hand on Aziraphale’s- effectively stopping him from grabbing another strawberry. “But we did make it, didn’t we? And bollocks to them, might I add”.

Aziraphale didn’t bother even raising an eyebrow. Nowadays he usually let Crowley talk as he pleased.

There had been a time for secrecy, for hiding, for the unspoken. In fact, there had been a long time for it. But everything ends, eventually. As the world started anew the age of Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s silent longing had come to a close. Their love was too strong, growing restlessly over the centuries, to be restricted by the vague and distant threat of other angels and demons. Now was the time for honesty, for openly sharing everything they have ever wanted to stay. It was the place, too. What a profoundly human dream it was, to retire to the countryside. It turned out that it was also extremely convenient for ethereal – and occult- beings. It was quiet, enough for sunglasses to be forgotten on the bedside table and, on sunny days like these, for wings to be spread in the garden.

It was not, however, too far from human society. They picked the cottage together and it felt right to stay close to these creatures they had helped launch into the world a lifetime ago and who, they had no shame in admitting it, had taught them so much in return.

Some nights, when the wine was from a particularly good year, the angel and the demon wondered. They wondered how it was possible for them to even tolerate the other, let alone love each other so. Was it part of the Plan, part of Her design? Or had everyone been wrong from the beginning, thinking ineffable beings without free will? Were they really the only angel and demon able to stand the Adversary’s company?

They never reached an answer. Partly because such questions are not made to be answered, but also because they usually ended up kissing on the couch before any breakthrough could be made. They had millennia of catching up to do, and they kissed like it.

Almost all the berries had been eaten. Decent amounts of champagne had also been consumed, but strangely alcohol never ran out in the South Downs cottage. They sat relaxed in their chairs, hand in hand.

The angel sighed quietly.

“My dear, have I ever told you I love you?”

Crowley felt a wave of warmth pass through his body. For a brief second, he marvelled at how bitter love had once tasted when it now flowed with such sweetness in his veins.

“What? No!”, he feigned surprise.

“What a shame. I have no choice but to say it, then” answered Aziraphale with a playful grin. “I love you”, he whispered, right as their lips touched.

An eternity spent trying every human joy, and finally Crowley and Aziraphale had mastered the greatest one. Oh, what a pleasure it was to love out loud.

[laurapora]

Crowley x Reader {Good Omens} Pt. 6

“I’m so sorry, Az,” You sniffled, “I’m afraid we have to cancel our plans for lunch. I’ve caught a cold or something, and it usually takes me a few days to recover.”

“Oh, dear, are you all right? Do you need anything?” The Angel’s distress was evident through the phone, “Is it serious?”

You stifled a laugh, “No, no, don’t worry about me, please. It’s the change in weather or perhaps I picked up something from one of my clients. It seems I can’t escape a case of the sniffles every now and then, but I assure you I will be fine.”

You appreciated your friend’s concern even if it was a tad unnecessary. To be fair, Aziraphale’s experience with human sickness was probably not a pleasant one. It wasn’t entirely unexpected for him to be so concerned when what started out as a stomachache for a few people in the 14th century turned into The Bubonic plague.

“Well, I’d still feel better if there was something I could do. What about soup? Humans find soup most comforting when sick, is that correct?”

This time your laughter escaped, “Yes, Az, soup would be lovely.”

“Consider it done,” he replied and you could almost see the delighted twinkle in his eyes.

There was some commotion on his end of the line and a voice that sounded suspiciously like Crowley’s. You blew your nose with a tissue and felt relieved that neither of them were present to see you in such a state.

“Sit tight, my dear, we will have it to you in a jiffy.” 

“We?” You sat up, scattering cough drops on the floor, a look of mortification on your face.

There was a click as Az hung up his rotary phone and you gulped. 

“Oh, no.”

__________

You weren’t sure what Aziraphale had meant by 'we', but you sincerely hoped it did not mean that he and the demon were planning a trip to your apartment. Tissues littered the floor beneath your feet and blankets were piled high into a makeshift den on your couch. The whole room smelled of eucalyptus that pumped from a humidifier in an attempt to clear your sinuses. You didn’t need a mirror to know that your nose was as red as a certain reindeer.

Perhaps Aziraphale would do the sensible thing and order soup from a local restaurant. That way it would be delivered to you by a complete stranger. Someone who wouldn’t care about your haggard appearance and subsequently forget about it in a few hours.

It’s not that you really minded if they saw you in disarray, but as two otherworldly creatures who were immune to the various inconveniences of being human you were worried they might find you gross.

It was silly to think, but the insecurity lingered nonetheless. Despite the friendship you shared with them you were all but convinced that you were one paper cut or bad hair day away from being deemed a bothersome human, a liability, that they no longer wished to converse with.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an incoming text on your cell phone. Picking it up from the coffee table you were a bit shocked to see Crowley’s name with the accompanying message, “Permission to enter?”

While Aziraphale seemed to prefer technology that was more suited to the early 20th century, Crowley had embraced modern day devices much to your amusement.

“What are you, a vampire?” You replied, thinking this must be some sort of joke on his part.

The next moment your door unlatched and in sauntered the demon himself.

“Bloody hell,” You jumped up from the sofa, clutching a blanket in your arms.

“I was trying to be polite,” he grumbled, “it was a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.”

“How about telling me you’re going to darken my doorstep in the first place, Crowley?” 

You sat back down with a huff and did your best to convey a general look of annoyance. 

“Not all sunshine and daisies when we’re sick, are we?” He smirked.

“You wouldn’t be either if you could--you know--actually be sick.”

“It’s not bad, is it?” He asked, genuine concern seeping into his casual tone.

You paused, your gaze softening, “No, it’s not, I promise. Humans get colds all the time. It’s just terribly inconvenient is all. I can’t even work on my commissions because I’m sneezing every other minute and my eyes are watery as a garden hose.” 

You shrugged, “I’m more likely to die from boredom than anything else.”

Crowley perked up, “I could make it go away, just a snap and you’re back to painting corgis in tuxedos.” 

“No,” you said firmly, “no miracles. We’ve been over this, I don’t want you or Az getting in trouble because of me.” 

“It’s hardly a miracle though, is it? More of a speedy recovery--”

“Crowley.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

“All right, fine, stay miserable then. I was only asking for the Angel���s sake, he’s going to be inconsolable until you’re better again.”

“Nice try, but I won’t be made to feel guilty either. Now, do you have soup for me or not?”

__________

You sighed happily, inhaling the wonderful aroma of vegetable soup. Crowley sat quietly, watching with vague interest as you enjoyed the meal. It was truly delicious, perhaps the best you’d ever had, just like mum used to make--

A thought dawned on you, “Do I even want to know how Aziraphale got this for me?” 

Crowley smiled and it was one laced with mischief. “Probably not.”

Frown lines settled themselves on your forehead, “You two are impossible.”

“Some would say so,” was his reply, “He also asked me to deliver these.”

He dropped a few books on the couch next to you, “You can keep them as long as you like. They should prevent death by boredom.”

Your eyes grew wide, “Oh, Az, you are too sweet!”

You picked one of them up and opened it eagerly, all ready to settle in and read for the next few hours.

You couldn’t help but notice that the demon had made no move to leave.

“Erm, Crowley, what are you doing?”

“Waiting.” 

“For what?”

“You to get better.” He said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You realize that will take a few days--”

“The Angel said not to leave your side until he closes the shop at which point he will stop by and take over.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“Like I said, inconsolable.” He arched a brow, “So if I were you I would try a little harder on the recovery front, eh, sweetheart?”

You smiled, realizing now that your doubts were unfounded. As ridiculous as you sometimes told yourself it was, these two truly cared about you regardless of your human limitations. The knowledge of it gave you a warm, comforting glow in your chest.

“I’ll try my best,” You snuggled into your cocoon of blankets, secretly hoping that your symptoms would persist long enough to have Crowley visit again tomorrow.

__________

Part 6 of ?

[hekate1308]

As We Go On

Yes, a Crowley survival story about the Empty. Enjoy!

He was convinced he had given up when he raised the blade to kill himself. After all, his son is dead (and that still hurts much more than he’d thought it would, since they hated each other when he’d been human), his mother is dead (he still stands by the fact that he’d have ended up killing her eventually, but it hurts nonetheless), and probably the only people he’d ever call his friends hate him, Dean punching him in the face the second he appeared in the bunker.

So, yes, suicide in a noble act of self-sacrifice to rid the world of the devil seemed a good way to go. Certainly not a shabby end to his story.

Crowley only forgot to take one thing into account, and that’ the fact that he’s a stubborn bastard, always has been, always will be, and so he wakes up in the Empty.

It doesn’t make any sense. He always assumed angels and demons simply stopped to exist when they were killed, but no, here he is in the never-ending darkness, walking because he has nothing else to do.

Can’t the Empty at least have a one decent bar? Considering he just rid his universe of Lucifer, he is of the opinion that he is entitled to more than this big.... nothing in his afterlife.

“No, I refuse. Not another one.”

He stands still. He knows that voice.

He turns around and sees... himself. Or at least the meat suit he’s been wearing for so long now that he considers it part of his identity.

“Another one?” he asks because frankly, any company in this place that doesn’t study him like they want to kill him all over again is good enough for him at this point.

The thing with his face rolls his eyes. “I had to send that annoying angel back to earth after he started whining about these Winchesters...”

There’s only one angel who would face an ancient entity to get back to the boys.

Castiel.

Crowley’s heart sinks even as he realizes this means Cas is back on earth because it also means he died. How? Why? This was exactly the sort of thing his own death was supposed to prevent.

“You know what” it decides, “If you don’t go back to sleep on your own you can stay here I have my methods to keep far away from you vermin at least”.

In the next moment it’s gone.

There’s nothing but darkness around him again. Crowley sighs. The least this thing could do is to give him some more answers.

At least Cas made it back to earth. He’ll look after the boys.

He could just go back to sleep, but the idea seems so... pathetic for someone who ruled Hell and faced Satan, God, God’s sister, Death, and whatever else the Winchester fought in the years since they met.

It’s almost a matter of pride to keep walking.

And maybe, if he finds the entity again, he will get the answers he’s looking for.

So he starts searching.

Crowley soon realizes the Empty is not solid. Despite the fact he can see and hear nothing, the darkness around him keeps changing, swirling around. It’s all bloody confusing.

But he’s got work to do.

Really, if this pathetic wannabe has nothing to tell him after all, he might just take over. The powers of millions of dead angels and demons must linger here somewhere.

What he could do with that...

“Jesus, you have literally been moving around here for months” the Empty version of himself complains, appearing in front of him. “Aren’t you tired?”

He is. Mentally, at least – he highly doubts a non-physical body can be exhausted. Furthermore, he knows that any tiredness he experiences is part of the Empty, trying to lull him back to rest. But he refuses to give in. He’s come too far.

“I assure you, I have no intention of stopping.”

“First the angel, now you – what is it about the Winchesters?”

“They are denim-wrapped nightmares, but they’re very efficient” he answers.

It grins. Crowley can’t help but think that if that is the expression he usually wears when he goes after his victims, he’s a rather unsettling sight.

“But that’s not all, is it?” It steps up to him, but he refuses to move away. “You’re just like the angel. You care about them. You think they’re your friends. And perhaps... there is even more.”

He chooses not to answer. He’s not here to play infantile games.

“Oh, just go back to sleep” it says. “There’s nothing for you anywhere, either here or back there. I have been in your head; I have seen every pathetic piece of your demon mind. He doesn’t care about you. He’s glad you’re dead.”

Crowley refuses to think about the older Winchester. That is all in the past, and furthermore it’s complicated.

He’d rather think of a way out. Because it has become rather clear to him that whatever stubborn streak refuses to allow him to give up is not going anywhere.

“I don’t think so” he says casually.

Its eyes narrow. “What do you think – “

“Listen to me. The one thing I can say you have is good taste, but that won’t save you. Because I’m here, and I’m not going to sleep. In fact, I’m going nowhere –“

“Well then, enjoy it! I already made one exception – I am not going to make another.”

And Crowley’s flung all across the Empty.

It’s only the second time he’s picked himself up from what he would have called the floor here, and he already had enough of it.

But now he’s furious as well. How dare this little scumbag.

He’s definitely going to get out of here.

Time to get active. Just walking will do him no good. What about those powers?

All these demons and angels, fast asleep. He can’t see them; they might as well be on another plane of existence all together, but if so, there has to be a way to get to them. After all, he woke up.

Not that he wants that. He’d rather not meet any of the angels and demons he ganked again. But he needs the power.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him. Time is of no essence here in the Empty, and at least it doesn’t show up to annoy him anymore.

He suspects it has to do with him having sat down and closed his eyes. It probably thinks he went back to sleep.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s slowly working through the layers that surround him, searching, biding his time...

He stumbles across the solution quite unexpectedly. He was following a pattern hoping it would lead him to something like a door or a hint where he should be focusing his attention, but instead, some unknown power touched his.

And then it wasn’t unknown anymore.

“You may rule Hell, but don’t interfere with Heaven. Otherwise I will smite you.”

“I understood the first ten times you explained it. So, do we have a deal or don’t we? Clock’s ticking.”

Raphael.

Thankfully there does appear to be no consciousness attached to the powers. The archangel is as deeply asleep as everyone else in this place except for Crowley.

It is tempting to try and draw the power to himself, but the risk of ending up like Cassie when he absorbed the souls from Purgatory is too back. Much as he doesn’t want to admit it, an archangel simply has too much mojo for a demon.

No, he needs other demons, normal ones, whose powers he can channel for as long as he needs to get out of here.

Crowley decides to be especially careful and ignore any demon he knows or even killed. Chances are they would wake up and still have a bone to pick with him.

He chooses the low-key powers of many simple, black-eyed demons, knowing he can take them any day; but put together...

He can feel himself growing stronger and grins into the Darkness.

Realizing he’s not alone anymore, he opens his eyes. The mockery of himself is standing in front of him, fuming. “What are you doing? This is not – you aren’t – this shouldn’t be possible!”

But it doesn’t attack. That can only mean he’s already strong enough to take it, or it’s unsure how powerful he is. Either way, he has to take his chance.

He gets up, swaying a little. His newfound capabilities are making him feel a little giddy and uncertain on his feet, almost as he remembers being drunk was like so long ago, but he still strolls up to the Empty confidently.

“Hello again.”

It’s glaring at him. “Look at what you’ve done! You’ve made a mess out of everything, and once you have gone back to sleep I’ll have to fix – “

“You still didn’t get the memo, I see. So I will tell you once again: I am not going back to sleep. Ever.”

He raises his hand and punches himself in the face with all his might. It feels better than he’d like it to. The Empty flies across the waste space, coming down with a loud thud. “That hurt.”

“Oh yes it did. You bet it did. And this is just the beginning.”

He slowly makes his way over to the whiny ancient entity. “I am going to build this place up according to my tastes, not yours. Don’t worry, you can stay. I’ll need something to torture in order to relax...”

He could actually do it, he’s aware, but what would be the point? He’s technically dead, for God’s sake, he night as well admit to himself that just like Feathers he has been hopelessly winchestered and will always end up near the boys again, no matter what he does.

No. Better to annoy this thing until it sends him away.

To prove a point, he punches it again, smiling as it sails through the air. He really could have used those powers when he was still trying to cling unto his throne.

That’s the moment the Empty finally snaps however, getting up and throwing his hands in the air. “I am not dealing with this. You won’t change a thing! You want to have a world so badly, take your old one, you horned menace!”

And with that, Crowley is thrown back to earth rather violently.

He wakes up at night in a field in the middle of nowhere. But at least it is earth, and he soon finds that it’s America, too. Jackpot.

It’s not too difficult to figure out where the boys are. Just find the nearest supernatural occurrence and they’re sure to look into it.

Soon enough, he’s standing in a small town that’s currently being prayed on by a lamia, if he’s correct, and why shouldn’t he be. It’s still night – not yet one am – and he could look for the motel the boys are sure to use or –

Seems like there’s only one bar in town.

Well then.

Sure enough, Dean’s right there, nursing a beer.

He could of course take a subtle approach, but he has just escaped the Empty, he is still brimming with the unfamiliar demon powers, and quite frankly, he needs a drink.

So in the end, he simply strolls up to the hunter and sits down next to him. “Squirrel.”

Dean, to his credit, doesn’t even jump. He simply turns to look at him, his eyes narrowing the only sign that he’s processing the sight in front of him. “Crowley?”

“In the flesh.”

Dean shifts a little in his seat, allowing him to bump into Crowley. “Hm. Not a hallucination or a ghost, at least.”

“Correct. The Empty...”

“Let me guess: you annoyed it into letting you go, too?”

“Sort of.”

Dean nods, then turns to the bartender. “One glass of Craig for my friend here, please.”

“That’s it?” he asks, a little surprised. After all the last time they met, Dean immediately went in for the punch.

“If you want. I mean – wait, just to be clear, you’re still glad you’re not king anymore, and you’re on our side for now, right?”

“I – I guess so” he says slowly. Look at that. Crowley on the good side. And with no real reason for it, this time.

“Well then.”

His glass of Craig arrives and Dean raises his beer. “Here’s to another win, I say.”

Crowley chooses to take a sip instead of answering.

Because Dean just made it clear that he’s glad he’s back, and for tonight, it is enough.

@dmsilvisart

@wholita

@shaonharryandpannisim

@treefrogie84

[runtosleepdreamer]

3x03

I can't believe I used I dislike this episode. Ok, not dislike, but for some reason I wasn't too particularly thrilled about it? But, as I told myself, I'd rewatch the entire show, including the episodes that had me tearing my hair out in frustration, and while this was never that bad, I seriously don't get why I disliked it now. Because it had. Me. Laughing. Every. Few. Minutes. Which is just so much of a fricking big deal because we just don't get episodes like that anymore!!!! But anyway, to talk about the actual episode First off, hats off to Jared and Jensen, for abso-fricking-lutely Killing. It. I guess cuz it's been such a long time since I've last seen the episode, but Jared was the most adorable puppy in this, and woah my fricking god whooowee did I not realize exactly how his face went during the 'I lost my shoe scene'. Needless to say, I lost it as well. And then Dean, haaaaaa omg he's like, such an older brother in this episode it just tore through me!!! Like he's torn between caring for his brother - helping him up, making sure he's ok every time he falls or Sam is suddenly quiet or whatever - but also between being like 'seriously' - for example, when he falls in those thieves' house, and he doesn't even bother turning around, just waiting for the clamor to go down before asking with the slightest hint of exasperation if Sam's alright, which was just. Amazing. And god back to Sam and his almost childlike petulance and all, especially when the AC that he was nowhere even close to bursts into fire and he goes all 'aw come on!!' - you can't help but at least grin at his performance throughout that scene - and he just kills his performance, Jared, with his facial expressions morphing perfectly through shock, horror, getting startled, and all that until he knocks himself out!!!! And back to Dean - and his almost childlike glee outside appearance wise - because you can never convince me that he wasn't worried about his brother whatsoever-he tells Bella in a brief moment of seriousness "my brother's gonna die" and you can just tell how much he's just. Not. Going. To let. That. Happen - throughout the situation - taking advantage of when Sam got the rabbits foot, by using him to win lottery tickets, and then when he got it, to, of course, save his brother in the most dramatic way possible (but honestly, that moment in Bella's apartment. When he enters - and what is it with me, Dean, and sticky notes that I just find absolutely hilarious??? Read; 12x11, 'witch killing bullets' - and that amazing note - which how did he even get the time for - reading 'then around', brilliantly placed and timed, if a bit too weirdly perfect at the timing - and then finally his dramatic exiting, what with Bella's inability to shoot Dean) But ooh does that come to the dilemma of omg Dean can't get shot but Sam can and cue older brother's incessantly crazily over protective rage!! And through all that, he still manages to display his smartness with the ability to think fast in dire situations (1x05, to this day, turning the mirror around on Mary herself, which I doubt anyone else would have been able to come up with that quickly) by throwing it to her. Sure, if she was thinking right, she would have made sure not to catch it and maybe dodge.. but ooh nicely played last moment of luck for Dean by making sure she catches it, eh? And on a last point, the dude Gordon hires, Kubrick? Wow.. haha I remember thinking that guy was just really weirdly religious or whatever (and honestly no offense meant to those who are religious, seeing as I am as well), and that moment when even Gordon goes "...ookaaay...", you can't help but fricking crack up, still caught up in the humor of the previous scene of Dean going all 'SON OF A BITCH!!' At finding out Bela stole the tickets and Sam just grinning in amusement. But wow... I thought that he was just weird or maybe yeah it was like there was a higher power or whatever, I didn't linger too long on the thought, too caught up with being at the moment of the show, but now, I can't help but be like, mentally smacking myself cuz hello? Dean literally answers it in the end - "no. Not destiny. Just a rabbits foot." Which just, ouch, cuz dang that rabbits foot led Kubrick's hunting partner to choose and find Sam's face on the Biggerson's(?) page, for Sam to end up in the same motel where they're staying in their RV... and of course, for him to pull down the curtain and reveal himself to Kubrick. Which just, now that I think about it, I can't help but raise my eyebrows and grin in skeptical amusement at this man's choice to look at this as all being the work of god, because let's face it. Overshadowing is a major factor in this show, yes... but I highly doubt Chuck would have been much invested in this particular moment... And huh. Now that I know what happens, and can actually take the time to enjoy the show instead of being too caught up in 'omg what's gonna happen next I needa see the next episode nowomgomgomgwhosgonnadiewhosgonnaliveidkthesuspenseiskillingmeomg' I kinda wish Bela and Dean hooked up? Idk.. I mean yeah, believe me, when I say I hated her so bad I wanted her dead, but of course, the Supernatural writers have got to make you favor most villains before killing them off, or at least making you go a bit soft on them (Crowley.. Rowena... hell even Lady Toni Bevelle whom I've still got mixed feeling about) but honestly, that moment when, on a light note real quick - ha. Ha. Dean made a model face at her when he's like "despite knowing what's going on in he real world you still become a thief" or something along those lines - but on a more angsty note, and coming back to - Overshadowing!!!! (I suddenly doubt if I'm using the right word) Bela says "We're all going to hell. Might as well enjoy the ride" and of course, at the moment we're thinking about how she must have unintentionally literally implicated Dean... but she also. Meant. Herself. Which just. Wow. So.. yeah. WishshegotatasteofDeansothatshereallywouldhavebeenabletoenjoytheride. Yup. That's all for now.

[lady-divine-writes]

I don't know if this was on the original drabble list but can I get "That's all I ask" for GO please?

Hey nonnie! Thanks for the prompt! I hope you enjoy this one

Lucifer in the Garden of Eden (1743 words)

Lucifer lures Crowley out of Eden, using his favorite principality as incentive ...

(This is a pre-Fall fic, that assumes that Crowley was an Archangel - possibly Raphael - who fancied Aziraphale before he became a demon.)

“Hey. You. Angel.”

The angel addressed stands in the shadow of an obscenely large apple tree, staring up at the wall surrounding Eden. Eyes tilted towards the Heavens, they gaze upon the silvery stars shining bright amid a sea of deep purple infinite.

And sneer at being disturbed.

“What?”

“You’re Raphael, aren’t you?”

The angel shivers when he hears that voice inches from his left ear, though its owner stands more than a foot away. It’s a sonorous voice … a dangerous voice. But an intriguing voice, too, if the angel is being completely honest. He’s never heard it for himself - not directly from the source, always in recountings by other angels. Its existence dates a bit before his time. The stuff of legends. But he knows it nonetheless.

Mostly by the way it makes him feel.

Anxious.

Expectant.

And slightly angry.

“Depends,” the angel says, sighing subconsciously as the object of his wistful gazing finally comes into view. Dressed in a flowing gown of pure white with wings spread, hair the exact same shade forming a halo around his head, outshining the golden one hovering above him, he is the truest vision of an angel those hiding hazel eyes have ever seen. With the cosmos behind him - a cosmos that his secret admirer helped create - the angel on the wall cuts a dashing figure.

The brightest star in the sky.

“Uh … you busy right now?” the voice obnoxiously persists.

“Maybe. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Perhaps over a drink?”

The angel glares over his shoulder, hoping to send the intruder away, but also to make absolutely sure the voice behind him belongs to whom he thinks.

Standing in a shadow darker than his own, a shadow this demon brought with him, the angel spots glowing yellow eyes; long black hair – raven black, a match to his glossy, well-groomed wings; pearly white teeth, his fangs in particular boasting an unsettling sharpness; and pale skin, smooth as cream.

Yup. The angel nods internally. That’s him.

Lucifer.

God, he is beautiful, the angel thinks. Of course that beauty is an illusion. It’s how Lucifer looked in Heaven before he fell. He chooses for others to see him that way now, uses his demonic power to achieve that look, cover up what he truly is, probably to lure angels out of Heaven.

But he’s not this angel’s type.

He turns back to the wall.

“No thanks,” he says, eyes following as the angel on high starts patrolling the Eastern Gate. “I’m good.”

And that’s the end of that. Or so it seems. The voice behind him goes silent while the angel continues to watch the guardian in private. For a moment, the angel forgets Lucifer was even standing there till he says softly, “You know, She won’t let you have him.”

“Hmm, what?”

“That angel you’re mooning over. God won’t let you have him.”

“What do you mean?” the angel asks, defensive of his God, but followed quickly by an insecure, “H-how do you know?”

Lucifer takes a step forward, his footfalls light, barely bending a blade of grass. “Because it’s one of Her rules. How She keeps you under Her thumb. You’re not allowed to love anyone but Her. And Her humans. The first man and the first woman?” The demon motions to where Adam and Eve lay beside a crystal clear body of water, regarding the stars. “She made them in Her image. She favors them over you, you know? You who made the stars in the sky. Heck, She’d probably let you have a human before She’d let you have him.”

The angel swallows those words hard as the Guardian of the Eastern Gate turns and starts walking back to his original post. The angel had always suspected as much, but to hear it out loud severs heart strings – ones that bound together tightly his deepest admiration of Her. But why should he believe it when it comes from the lips of a demon? This could be a trick!

What does he mean could? Of course, it’s a trick!

“Maybe She has Her reasons,” the angel says.

“Yeah.” Lucifer chuckles. “I just told you. She’s a huge narcissist.”

“Why should I trust you? How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Have I ever lied to you before?”

The angel scoffs. “You’ve never even spoken to me before. Besides, you’re a demon. That’s what you do.”

“You’ve got me there.” Lucifer’s voice comes closer, his body moving closer with it. “But answer me this – what about God?”

“What about Her?”

“Has She ever lied to you?”

“No!” the angel snaps.

“Honestly?”

“Yes!”

“Right.” Lucifer rolls his eyes. He knows blind obedience when he sees it. “Let me put it another way - does She answer your questions?”

The angel opens his mouth with another hasty response, but Lucifer jumps in before he gets a word out. “Really answers? Not that beating-around-the-bush backwards way She dodges answering, but truly answers? In a way that leaves you satisfied?”

The angel closes his mouth slowly, searching for an argument he can employ before his lips touch. He wants to defend Her, wants to find the logical spin to the way God does things. But he can’t. Because he doesn’t understand. She would say that he isn’t meant to understand, but that doesn’t make any sense. Her words have long since stopped filling him with confidence.

He’s beginning to linger in doubt.

The things God does defy logic, which infuriates him since She created logic! She has devised rules for all Her creations that She Herself does not follow. Of all the questions he’s asked, he’s never gotten a straight answer.

Not a single one.          

And he’s heard, he knows, She’s losing patience with him.

How much time does he have left in Paradise before he’s sent sauntering downstairs to join Lucifer’s ranks anyway?

Would it be better for him to fall willingly, make that choice for himself, then to have it thrust upon him?

“Why is She so opposed to us knowing the truth, hmm?” Lucifer presses. “Why this Tree of Knowledge no one’s allowed to touch? What is She hiding?”

The angel shakes his head – both in defiance and in response. But his defiance is growing weak. He doesn’t want what this demon is saying to make sense but it does. Shamefully, it’s something he’s thought himself more than once.

“If you come with me,” Lucifer whispers, sharp nails lightly brushing long hair from the angel’s shoulders, “you can have the best of both worlds. You’ll get your answers … and your chance.”

“My chance? At what?”

Lucifer snaps his fingers. The low branches pregnant with fruit that the angel has been hiding behind rise a few feet, revealing him to the moonlight … and to the angel on the wall. Frantically, he steps backwards into the darkness, but Lucifer’s body stops him.

“Him,” the demon says, forcing the angel out of hiding with a shove.

The angel on the wall startles at the disturbance. His attention turns to the garden, his pale blue eyes finding the tree, and its occupant, instantly. He peers down in alarm, raising a flaming sword in battle-ready position. But when he sees the Archangel loitering there, hands clasped in front of him, eyes darting nervously, the guardian angel smiles and gives him a wave.

His admirer gasps. That smile – it rivals the sun in its brilliance, takes his breath away. He waves back, heart fluttering in his chest like the beginning sparks of a new nebula, pulsing and stretching in its attempts to be birthed into the Heavens. The angel feels it just about burst through his chest, ready to join its brothers and sisters in the sky.

Lucifer puts a hand to the angel’s shoulder and squeezes. “Give it some thought. My offer will stand. I can wait an eternity. Can you?”

“You’re wrong,” the angel says, emboldened by that smile, that wave. “I don’t need your help to have a chance. I already have a chance.”

“Possibly,” Lucifer says, a shrug in his voice. “But consider this – he’s a principality. You’re an Archangel. He’ll get sent to oversee the humans as they evolve, guide them as they grow. You’ll get locked to Heaven, stuck creating stars till they crumble. Then, you’ll make some more. You’ll drift farther and farther apart as the Universe expands, and you might never see him again. Do you think God will care about your little crush? She’s wrathful. Vindictive. She might do everything in Her power to ensure the two of you stay apart. Do you really want to risk it?”

“And how will falling ensure that he and I get together?”

A grin of perfect deviance burns slow on the demon’s face. “Have that drink with me and I’ll tell you.”

Lucifer’s words weed their way into the angel’s ears like a thorny probiscus searching for blood, pricking his brain and bringing to light his fears and anxieties. During the time the angel has spent lurking beneath this tree, watching his guardian of the garden, he has never once found the courage to reveal himself, not even to speak a single word of greeting.

Because he’d been afraid of exactly that.

The Almighty would find out and send one of them away.

She seems to play favorites in the cruelest of ways. Being one among Her favored won’t necessarily protect you from Her judgement. On the contrary. It makes you more of a target. Perhaps because She expects so much of you. The angel doesn’t know.

She would never deign to tell him, and it’s sacrilege to assume.

And as She has begun to tire of him and his endless questions, the angel has begun to tire of walking on the edge of a knife between favor and disgust. He didn’t chose to be an Archangel, didn’t choose to create nebulas and galaxies. And where he is proud of the things he’s created, maybe it’s time he chose his own side for a change.

A side with the chance to have that guardian angel beside him.

“One drink,” the angel grumbles like a threat, stepping back into the shadows, keeping the angel on the wall ever in his sights.

Lucifer’s grin completes its journey across his face. He snaps his fingers, opening a portal underground, and thinks: This was almost too easy. “That’s all I ask.”

[thetunewillcome]

The Weight of Ice

31 Days of Ineffables Prompt #16: ice storm

Word Count: 1817

London lay under ice.  Everything was frozen in place, all the routines of all its citizens surrendered to the storm.  Schools and businesses had closed.  Most roads sat vacant.  Some motorways were littered with abandoned vehicles, not a driver in sight.  Fresh snow covered empty sidewalks.  Overnight, ice and quiet had spread in thin, fractal layers over the whole city.

The only sounds shattering the day’s silence came from parks.  The city’s normally-green spaces had become playgrounds for bored and adventurous children, excited by the prospect of a whole school-free day ahead of them.  In Greenwich Park, kids hauled sleds up the hill and then raced back to the bottom.  In Regents Park, they tested the edge of the frozen pond, shuffling away from land until fear took over and they skated, laughing, back to solid ground.  

And in St. James’ Park, a boy scraped together enough snow for a snowball and torpedoed it at his friend.  It flew through the air, narrowly missing an innocent bystander, and hit its target in the chest.  A chase ensued, complete with violent war cries, and while everyone else either ignored the boys or shook their heads in disapproval, a shivering figure in a dark coat, collar buttoned to his chin, watched with an amused half-smile.

Have you seen a sheet of ice seconds before collapse?  The surface laced with growing scars; the crackling groan of anticipation, barely audible but there.  The suspended moment when you realize it will all dissolve to ruin soon.  Don’t blink.  Don’t even breathe.  Perhaps you can hold it all together if you want it bad enough.  If you’re really still.  But suddenly, it fractures.  Shards fall, jagged edges that can never be patched together again.  You’ve lost.

To Crowley, the whole world was an endangered pane of ice.  In less than a year, a boy, who lived a few miles away and looked a bit like the one tackling his friend to the ground, would turn eleven.  If they had done their jobs well, nothing would change.  The surface would hold.  

If they hadn’t done enough – and, really, when had they ever done enough to prevent human suffering, to divert divine plans? – the world would break apart.  All this would shatter and disappear: the park, the people, the snow, the city.  For now, all existed in suspended animation.  Nothing to do but wait, keep still, and measure the cracks for signs of growth.

(Keep reading below or on AO3 here.)

From where he stood, leaning against a bare, frost-tipped tree, Crowley was barely noticeable.  His red hair stood out starkly against the white blanketing the land, but if Crowley didn’t want to be noticed, he wouldn’t be.  No one glanced in his direction, not even the parents, who were busy teaching kids to make snow angels or comforting little ones who had slipped on ice.  

Not even Aziraphale, who had wandered into the park, neck wrapped up in a thick tartan scarf, and was now standing by the edge of the ice-laced water.  Crowley smiled, tipped forward instinctively toward him, and then froze.  They hadn’t arranged to meet; they had separately been drawn to the park on this bright, brisk day.  With a hum of contemplation, he settled back against the tree.

On this day of rarities, when snow had stuck to London’s streets, Crowley seized the chance to study him.  The square, sharp shoulders of a soldier.  The light curls that matched the sunlight shining off the icy surface of the water.  The way he clasped one gloved hand in the other behind his back.  He felt pulled in his direction, but he resisted.  A few more minutes, he thought, a child in bed on a bone-chilling morning, willing extra seconds into the day so they can soak in heat just a little longer.  He’ll never know.  It was a delicacy, getting to look without being watched in return.  He was so used to keeping his guard up, minding where his eyes lingered, even when his lenses hid them, just in case Aziraphale could feel the fire of his stare.

Like a kid plunging a bare hand in the snow, covetous, foolhardy, Crowley let himself imagine.  What it would be like, walking down to stand next to him and not caring who might see.  Dusting snow off those rigid shoulders, feeling them sink a little, relax into his touch.  Tugging apart those worrying hands so he could hold one in his own.  Pressing his lips to the spot where a curl met his temple, forgetting himself in the smell of bergamot and book dust.  Hastening him home with tempting tongue until he could warm his chilled, pink skin behind closed doors.  

Aziraphale’s head turned to the side and a puff of frosted breath escaped his lips and Crowley watched, the familiar glowing embers of desire sparking to full flames.  Tell him, whispered that reckless voice in his head.  Tell him before this all falls to ruin.  While you still can.  The clock is ticking…  Crowley shut it up with a practiced shake of his head, his jaw clenched tightly to keep words from spilling out, even though Aziraphale would never hear them from this distance.  Someone else might.  Someone who could use those words against them.  So he kept quiet.

Then, somehow, Aziraphale noticed him.  Their eyes met, and his face lit up with recognition.  He waved - a little wiggle of gloved fingers - and then replaced his hand behind his back as if remembering he shouldn’t be excited to see the enemy.  Something in Crowley’s chest snapped.  Screw it, he thought as he let himself be willed down toward the water, toward Aziraphale.  Maybe I should tell him.  If we don’t pull this off… If this all goes up in flames and we’re forced into the war and he never knew…

“Crowley!”  His name on those chaste lips, something chiming in the ring of it.  Fresh from his self-indulgent fantasy, it licked wildfire down his spine.  Aziraphale turned in greeting and then went back to watching the water.   “Hello.  Should I blame you for this cold spell, then?”

“Nah.”  He may have taken advantage of the storm, bursting a few pipes here and there on his walk to the park, but he hadn’t started it.  “Too quiet.  Not my style.”

“It is quiet, isn’t it?  Rare to see the city like this, so peaceful.”

“Mmm.”  Crowley noticed that his eyes were the color of the icy water, then hated himself for noticing.  Say it, but in the dead quiet, with the city hushed and the snow muffling all noise, it felt as if finally spitting out those words would rattle it all to destruction.

A scream of delight came from behind them.  “The children do seem to be making the best of the storm.”

The boy with the snowball was now shoving a handful of snow down the back of a girl’s coat.  He swallowed a laugh.  “Yeah.”

Aziraphale studied him for a moment, a sad smile on his face.  “Remind you of someone?”

Behind his glasses, Crowley winced.  Always.  Why could he always read him?  He wasn’t one of Aziraphale’s precious books; if he was, he’d earn the touch of tender hands in exchange for all his secrets.  Instead, he felt like some flayed creature, killed and cut until his heart was on display, pinned in place.  He shrugged and shoved his chin deeper into the collar of his coat.

“I do worry about him, alone with his parents now.  Ten is a bit old for a nanny, I suppose, but he was so attached to you.  You did a wonderful job with him, you know.  Er – wonderfully evil, I mean.”  

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aziraphale’s admiring gaze.  Crowley knew he was picturing skirts and bedtime stories and spelling lessons in the garden, and he couldn’t stand it.  His dismissal and departure still stung; his short hair felt too light, made him untethered, bare.  “He’ll be fine.”  He tried to sound as cold as the water before him.  “Gotta grow up sometime.”

Aziraphale made a face that told Crowley he wasn’t fooling him.  Course not.  Still, the angel knew to respect the lines Crowley drew in the sand – or snow – between them.  Knowing what was coming, Crowley held his breath.  “Well, I had best be on my way.  I should reopen the shop for the afternoon, though I doubt anyone will brave the ice for a book.”

I’ll come with you, he wanted to say.  But first, let’s walk the park.  Make footprints in the untouched snow, yours next to mine.  I’ve something to tell you.  I’ll keep you warm, I promise.  But Aziraphale didn’t need him for that: he could will himself warm.  They didn’t live on the same grounds anymore, hadn’t since summer.  They were back to needing excuses, one for each stolen minute together, and on this grey-blue day, with everything at a stand-still, there weren’t any left.  “Alright, angel.  Be safe.  Mind the black ice.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at that.  “Ah, yes, one of yours, if memory serves.  I’ll be careful.”  

He still hadn’t moved from Crowley’s side, and Crowley still hadn’t exhaled.  Silently, Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it, reconsidering.  The warm breath behind his unspoken words dissipated into the winter air.  After a moment, he said quietly, “don’t be a stranger.”  And then he turned, walking stiffly away, shoes crunching on the snow and ice.  

When he was gone, Crowley let himself breathe out, watching the smoke-like vapor trail out of his mouth to be blown away in the biting wind.  Ice shifted on the pond, pieces breaking off to float toward deeper waters.  In the wake of Aziraphale’s departure, he felt splintered in places that had felt whole before, or at least numb.  He watched the water for a while longer, frozen in place with the rest of London.  

What hovered between them, persistent and powerful, was surely much too heavy for the fractured surface of their world.  Aziraphale knew it: that was why he didn’t press him, hurried back to his rightful place, let him be.  Nothing to do but wait.  Hold strong.  Hunker down.  Stay the course.  Never mind how the weight of ice can snap power lines, fell ancient trees if you let it build for long enough, layer upon heavy layer.  He glanced down at the collection of footprints to his left and sighed.  How he wanted to follow them.  Not smart.  Not safe.  May as well linger, then, in the quiet paralysis of the city.

Just before sunset, the crowd of children began to thin.  Stomping in their heavy boots, dragging sleds or siblings behind them, no one paid any attention to the figure by the water, snowflakes collecting in his auburn hair as he stood perfectly still, listening for something, perhaps, or waiting for the ice to thaw.

(Read my other 31 Days of Ineffables fics here on AO3.  A million thanks to @drawlight​ for the inspiration, and best of luck at your new job!)