#fascinating collection of character traits here!

[aegagrusscholarship]

people don’t have to sound like their personalities lol

okay, no, let me be less farcial. also because that opening sentence isn’t quite correct.

alright. yes, people’s voices do reflect their personalities via tone of voice and in world choice, yeah. but also “logical” isn’t a personality, it’s a trait. and being logical does not always mean you are stoic and calculating. so this isn’t quite right about sanford’s personality in the first place.

so. first off: people, in terms of personality, can be (and are often) contradictory.

sanford can be logical and smart and also the only one of the dissenters with an actual braincell (yes. i know doc exists. no, i did not speak wrong) while not sounding… calm and collected, i guess. because sanford isn’t. he straight up isn’t. he can be loud and boisterous and taunt people in the middle of a fight while still, you know, being the brains of the (on-field) operations.

secondly: no, sanford is not “supposed to be the stoic logical one of the gang”. yes, his most defining moment of characterization is during deimos’s engineer prank, yes, he’s fed up with his partner, yes, he’s more serious compared to deimos, all that. the key words here are “compared to deimos”. because dei is, to put it bluntly, a walking shitpost. anyone would look serious next to him.

however, sanford has many more moments of characterization. the scene where he steals one agent’s shot glass in the middle of a fight, for one, because hey! deimos isn’t the only one who can find a moment to slack off on the job. sure, dei does it a lot more often. but sanford is just as capable— and willing, too.

what about the shopping spree sanford and deimos go on? oh, but the biggest moment for sanford is when he’s handed that “i covered wars, you know” shirt and is highly unamused about it, isn’t it? yes and no. yes, he’s sure unamused about the shirt, but he puts it on (for however short a while it may be) nonetheless. and then promptly uses deimos’s distraction to throw it into a corner. if he really didn’t think it was fun, he’d simply have refused, and that would be that.

the rest of the scene, too! the part where he gets his glasses— deimos holds up a mirror, and sanford decides to take a good, long look and go “damn, that’s nice”. or something along those lines. not like we can hear dialogue in the episodes, after all, but hey! that’s the part where he gets his iconic lip, so the inferral can be made. if sanford were more stoic, he could easily… not have done that.

also, he seems perfectly fine taking a minutes-long shopping break in the middle of a mission. seriously. no protest at all, just romps right in there alongside his partner and decides to get a new outfit.

hell, shopping aside, he goes into that locker and steals a pair of pants (er, his pair of pants now), doesn’t he? absolutely no reason for him to do so, but he decides to do so anyway.

my main point about all these scenes is… sanford is 100% capable of being silly. he enjoys doing such things, too— otherwise he wouldn’t even bother. he’s just overshadowed by deimos in that department.

those are just scenes from the main series. he also shows this in his dialogue from project nexus as well. i mean, everyone knows the hot dog conversation— yes, deimos is a whole lot more exuberant about it, but sanford’s going right along with it. yes, he’s being a bit more logical about it! he’s breaking down the arguments and pointing out the inherent silliness in the debate. but he’s still going along with it. he’s not trying to shut the conversation down. he’s having fun with it in his own way.

but he’s still being much more calm! and yes, that’s true. you have to be aware, though, that the majority of his voicelines are meant to be quips in the heat of battle. of course he’d be more boisterous during then.

something to note, throughout all these examples, is that sanford tends to take smaller moments of levity. he tends to keep his focus on the mission, only doing something stupid if he knows he 100% can afford to take the moment.

and, well… talking is a free action! well, taunting your enemies is. being a bit overdramatic is, too. sanford knows he can take this opportunity, so… i’m pretty sure that’s why his voice lines are like that. he’s fighting, he’s mowing down the enemies (or gettin’ kicked himself), he sure can afford a couple of quips.

so i don’t think johnny utah’s portrayal of sanford is inaccurate, nor do i think he became a himbo due to that. he can be loud and boisterous while still having a good head on his shoulders.

can we as a community agree that dushaun thompson is the one true sanford and that johnnyutah is a hack fraud

[threepandas]

Bad End: Hidden Heir

Next ->

The Duke's family had very distinct eyes. It was genetic. An aggressively dominant trait at that, though it tended to die off, after a few generations out of the family. Supposedly a "blessing of the Gods". Spring to be exact. Bounty and luck. And the family certainly WAS bountiful.

In all the best and worst ways.

Wealth, corruption, children and bastards. It was a family so aggressively ALIVE, it could only be Spring's blessing that made them so. Pouring mania and madness into their veins like sweet sunlight. Whispering glory and riches, into power addled ears. They burst with life. Even as they endlessly destroyed themselves.

They were fictional.

Fascinating set dressings, for the stage play of someone else's story. Unimportant beyond their role in world building. As the origin story and power base of a character lead.

The Story ITSELF didn't even occur here. But rather, in the capital. Where the players of significance had gathered.

And I? Oh I was some minor antagonist, so insignificant to the plot, I genuinely could not remember which of seven different women I actually WAS. It had been an ongoing series. Otome Isekai. Reverse harem.

And I was either in the ORIGINAL original novel, the isekai'd plot novel, the anime adaption, OR a horrifying fever dream. My memory was largely useless. But? I did remember the characters. The archetypes.

And the fact, that the author had clearly been going though a Yandere phase.

My region of the Reverse Harem collect-o-thon? Horrifying! Red flags everywhere! No one here should date, leave room for fantasy Jesus, have we considered the joys of being a NUN? Yes. Yes I HAVE thought about it.

I was pretty sure I'd never make it. End up dead or captured by some sort of Nun Yandere. Or God Yandere. Possibly both. Assuming the bandit yanderes don't get me first. It... it was very stressful, living here.

Luckily? I knew when I could leave.

Or so I thought.

Because my house? The Dukedom? Had the "yandere butler who is secretly an heir." Who starts out with loyal dog behavior. A little highly possesive master and servant play. Then rises to become a Duke. Presumably? That is when I die. Or am disowned.

Death is most likely. Since my role was "minor antagonist" and I was to be mean to the sweet, earnest, Harem possessing Protagonist. Don't see WHY I would. Live and let live. Good for her etc etc. But regardless? Best to avoid, just in case.

The problem? Who do you think Mr Illegitimate Heir serves before she gets here? The OTHER possible heirs? Of course not! They'd "oops! Hunting accident~☆" him in a heart beat. Father isn't stupid. And my sisters? Issues. Violent, violent, issues.

He ends up with ME.

Father, WHY.

Obviously, I ignore him. I see nothing. I hear nothing. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. Mmmmm, tea. Good book. Ignore his creepy staring. His creepy, creepy staring.

Thankfully? I never really ran out of Totally Legitimate reasons to send him away to learn or do something. Proper tea making. Door maintenance. Eastern embroidery. Something, anything, and off you go! Bye bye~☆!

Unfortunately. He got faster. Better and better at learning. Mastering skills. Coming BACK. Showing up to stand in the corner, silent and looming, like an omen of death. Those damn eyes. The fucking family eyes!

I don't have them. And NOT as, my Father would have me believe, because I "take after my Mother". But because I am not genetically related to the Duke. I have GOLD eyes. When I wear the right shade of green? I pass. So I am condemned to forever wear green. Don't even really like it much. But?

I am pretty damn sure? I was just... pretty.

A lovely, orphaned, golden eyed child that COULD pass as his. So why not? It was a whim that payed off. Unlike in the original stories, I imagine. Since I am by FAR the best behaved child in this entire house. Ha! Suck it, bio-kids, the adopted one's the favorite! Maybe should have been less lil bitchs.

....I carefully do not say.

Those are INSIDE thoughts.

Fuck. He's still LOOMING. Isn't he? Go awaaaaaay. Where is Protag-chan? Come be doe eyed and busty! Trip adorably! Go "kyaaa~" or something! I feel body heat and freeze. He's leaning over my shoulder to pick up the teapot, pour me another cup. I can FEEL the barest graze of his knuckles against my back, from where he's gripped my chair. The smell of his aftershave almost hauntingly pleasant.

Like he KNEW exactly what smells I liked most. Went out of his way to find one that best suited my preference. Coincidence. Please, PLEASE be a coincidence! I do not turn my head. Keep my eyes locked straight ahead. Barely breathing.

He steps back.

The new pot is sharp and herbal. Almost bitter. I force myself to drink. Can't see a sugar dish, and REFUSE to turn around and ask for one. Ignore. IGNORE. My pounding heart calms. My muscles slowly start to relax.

It... it IS weird, though, now that I think about it? That Protag-chan hasn't reached the Dukedom yet. She should have. God only knows I sent Creepy to the capital enough times, with enough highly specific instructions, that he should've had his meet cute's and dates by the dozen. Been half way in love. So... why...?

Huh.

Dizzy.

The taste of tea sits wrong on my tounge. I stop drinking as the world sways. Letting the cup fall from my hand. Splatter, roll, and shatter. I try desperately to stand. A gentle gloved hand catches my elbow, supporting me. I turn. Giddy eyes. Triumphant, wide, spring green eyes. Too green to be gold, too gold to be green.

An almost cruel, mocking, yet loving grin.

Another hand slides around my waist, braces me against his side. Gleeful little murmurs, too pleased to be reassuring. You. You did this! You DRUGGED ME!

I can barely move, body relaxing against my command, going limp, as he draws me close. Presses his face against the side of my head, against my temple. A deep, shuddering breathe, that he savors like wine. I try to pull free but can not. Feel his lips pull into a vicious grin against my skin. Hands begin to run in gentle, claiming, exploration.

And at last the drugs kick in... the wo..rld..

G..oes..

Dar..k........

[durgetavoc]

Yes I really want to know the horrors of the shit bucket. I’m quite surprised that he isn’t obsessed with cleanliness. He always struck me as the type but then again… I guess I’m wrong.

Oh god, here we go then.

SPOILERS FOR THE HOUSE OF HOPE

(CW for...The Shit Bucket Guy, obviously)

So, if we ever decide to go steal the Orphic Hammer, we can go visit The House of Hope, there, we obviously find Raphael's collection of artifacts, his eternal debtors, and one of them is… This guy.

You should know that all eternal debtors are condemned to a certain task/action. It's difficult to know if this has anything to do with their contract with Raphael, if it is a distortion of an already existing trait of their personality (for example, the Perfect Eternal Debtor, the Theologist Eternal Debtor or even the Voyeur Eternal Debtor) or if it's a way to completely dehumanize them (Loyal Eternal Debtor…My beloved :( ). It seems to be a mix of everything, that wouldn't be surprising if Raphael did what seemed most entertaining to him.

But let's focus on the Shit Bucket Guy, since he's the one that interested us today.

As our affectionate nickname for him indicates, we find him in front of a chamber pot with a visible green odorous cloud above it, which confirms us that it has been used (when you interact with the pot, here what the game says : "An overpowering stench singes your nostrils. Nothing good happened here."). The debtor doesn't appreciate us getting closer to it, and if we ask him if he is its guardian, this is what he answers:

His "name" in the game is "Unclean Eternal Debtor" and if you're taking a look at his face... Yeah, I guess he's not just guarding the pot. When we observe the animation of the character, he walks around the pot, makes a hand gesture to smell it, and that's it.

It has become a running joke in the fandom, particularly for us, little mouses. Those who have been to the House of Hope know about the Shit Bucket Guy... But nobody talks about him.

(Yeah I couldn't help it.)

It's not really surprising, the presence of the chamber pot, and not just any one, RAPHAEL'S, raises other questions. One might wonder if it's not a little OOC coming from someone like him.

Let's take advantage of this question to dig... A little deeper.

Here's, imo of course, why it's somehow relevant to show Raphael's chamber pot and what this tells us about him.

Shall we?

1. Don't be fooled by appearances, he POOPS like us!

Raphael. Raphael. Raphael who embodies sophistication, intellect and danger... Alluring and at the same time fearsome, a fascinating mix. Goddamnit, he's a suave motherfucker, and he fucking knows it.

In video games, it's part of the suspension of disbelief to not talk/show toilet, unless you're in a life simulation game like sims. It's not just taboo since it's one of the most private aspects of our life, but it's also... Not relevant to the intrigue most of the time.

Showing us something that intimate about him disintegrate his mysterious aura. We learnt that Raphaels shits. Yeah, absolutely astonishing. Reminding us that he's exactly at the same level as us. Like the title said, despite his charming manners, his eloquence, his theatrical gestures... He's still human, hells, part human.

2. In the Devil's house.

The first time we meet Raphael, he wastes no time in bringing us to his home, on his own terms. We only see one room, and this is what we see:

Luxurious place, lavish displays of food, ordered furniture... Promising, right? This is how Raphael wants to give as a first impression. I think this scene is perfect as a metaphor. Remember what Gale said? He's taking us to dinner! Like a date, he wants to impress us, seduce us.

But when we're back to this place during our improvised visit, what do we see?

Rotten food. Blood. Skeletons. Mess. Remind me of my room before I have to rush to clean everything because a friend comes over.

By choosing to enter Raphael's home, into his privacy, the game takes us on a tour of his home: we discover what is hidden behind Raphael's character. It is of course expected that we discover his secrets and/or aspects of his personality that he would not wish to reveal, at least not before we make a deal with him.

Haarlep, his incubus, also participates in this demystification. Through them, we can learn about Raphael's sexuality (I'll be quick on this since @bitethedevil did some really good analysis posts about it):

Raphael is only attracted to himself (hence Haarlep's appearance)

He is a bottom pillow prince

And he doesn't last in bed (a valuable information that can be used to anger Raphael later)

Once again, this is another very intimate aspect that is revealed to us. I'm sorry to say it, but Haarlep basically plays the same role as the chamber pot to accentuate the intimacy of the place and also to ridicule Raphael, thus revealing to us what he really is.

3. Raphael hates his father.

Our favorite cambion is having daddy issues, and the chamber pot seems like a nice response to the statue his dad gave him. It's a "blink and you'll miss it" kind of detail, but it's funny to point it out. Show don't tell as it's finest.

4. How bad it is to sell your soul to Raphael.

This one is easy... The Shit Bucket Guy is an example of Raphael's cruelty : "This is what could happen to you if you make a contract with Raphael."

Sure, it's funny because the whole thing is ridiculous: "Guardian of his chamber pot? Seriously?", but it's hard to really laugh at it if you take into account the other eternal debtors. The whole place is designed to make you uncomfortable, because it's not treated as a joke. They had a life, had to ask Raphael for help, and are now reduced to doing something degrading until the end of time. They don't even have a name anymore. They could be your Tav/Durge or your companions...

Suddenly, the temptation to make a contract with Raphael is less appealing after seeing all this, isn't it?

Conclusion : Now the question that burns our lips : What could this guy have done to him to be reduced to this? And why?

My first instinct when I met this character was to think, "oh boy, you must have really pissed off Raphael..." let's be honest, it's the kind of torture you could imagine to your worst enemy or at least a very annoying one.

It could be that, or maybe, mayyybe...

Remember Mephistopheles' statue?

What if Raphael was SO annoyed by this gift that he woke up one day thinking "fuck my dad, fuck his gift" and decided to literally shit on him by putting a chamber pot in front of this statue to express his thanks. And just like any narcissist/paranoid guy, he named a "guard" to be sure no one would spy on him through this (it sounds delirious, but again, we learn that Haarlep was send to distract Raphael, so why not?)

Sure, maybe Shit Bucket Guy annoyed Raphael in the past, but wouldn't that be kinda fucked up that this guy didn't do anything that would justify this treatment? He's just a dude, and Raphael is just a pissed-off daddy's boy (and a very mature one).

Or maybe, Raphael just thinks it's funny. And who are we to discuss a devil's sense of humor?

In any case, sorry Shit Bucket Guy, but it wasn't your lucky day.

PS: Hush, I can hear you wondering "do you think Raphael is scat???" and on this subject I would say: I don't think so, his narcissism is there after all, but he also seems really into humiliation. So maybe it's for the best we don't really know the answer to this question.

After all, only Haarlep can judge him (so the bar is already on the floor).

[sindar-princeling]

I am still baffled by some of the choices made by rop so far, and in a big part it is because. there is such a good story right there. and unless they had no rights to literally any plotline ever described in any of tolkien's works... why fix something that isn't broken, you know? ESPECIALLY if you're not actually fixing it ajsjdjdjdfjffj

I can't really get (yet, at least. benefit of the doubt until the whole story is told) what justifies adding Isildur's sister or those women dressed in white or Sauron pretending to be Just A Human Guy On A Raft while the story we have, however generally described, is fascinating

elves get tricked by Annatar because he says he's an emissary from Valinor - the HOME they're banned from just got brought to them! you can show why and explain just how big of a deal it is that they can return at the end of LotR so much better than "we're told it's a big deal but Galadriel jumps and returns anyway". AND this way it's the elves' collective mistake, not just hers. were they too hubristic to believe Annatar's offers? did they just miss home too much? there's a big, deep story here about AGES of middle-earth's history. and even if you wanted to tell a new story in this show - it IS new to most people who know LotR anyway, because most people know it from the movies and have never read the book, let alone the Silm! this is a new story for them!

maybe things could get wrong slowly even before Sauron creates the one ring - at first deniably, until it can't be ignored anymore. maybe there's some agitation among the free peoples, and elves can see that their mortal acquaintances are different, they're not sure what is happening, but it's wrong. there's a growing, nearing sense of dread, and by the time the one ring is forged, by the time they realise the threat was right under their noses this whole time, it's too late, and it has been too late for a long time. by having made the three, the elves managed to create not a solution, but barely a means to stop MORE damage, but they only managed to help themselves anyway.

the world starts to grow smaller, weaker, diminish into the third-age middle earth that we know, and there's some sweetness in it for us as viewers because this is the world we're most familiar with, but it's first and foremost bitter and tragic. it's not a happy ending. the war will continue, and many of our characters will have no choice but to continue seeing it through because they're elves. they will live to see it, or they will die, or they will run - and not all of them can run

series fucking ends.

anyway, I will. try. to not make this blog into a pool of bile in the next few days after s2 comes out, but as it turns out I'm still pissed about the "stronger than the foundations of the earth" bit coming from sauron and not galadriel in s1 and stripping her of her best character trait so! 👍

[too-many-rooks]

What's the deal with Patrice?

Patrice is such an intriguing but enigmatic character in season four the show; I ended the season pretty fascinated by him (and how he fits into a certain type *cough* Yassen *cough*) so flocked to the books for more details. In ‘Spook Street’, he's one of our POV characters, so we get a much more internal perspective of his thinking, his character, and his history at Les Arbes.

So I've collated some quotes from the book that I think shine an interesting light on him, for general information, and as a fic writing resource.(please please write fic about patrice pls pls pls)

Under the cut are some book spoilers from 'Spook Street'. I've not yet read past this book, so there are no further book spoilers, and nothing here spoils major plot points that you won't already know if you've seen season four, though I highly recommend the books!

This is broken down into sections about...

His relationship with his mother and his father (Who is not Frank in the book,)

His attachment to Bertrand, (And how that connects to his interactions with River,)

His general character traits,

His indoctrination and relationship with Frank.

General Character traits.

One of the things that particularly struck me about Patrice, is how normal he's described as being, at least on the surface. He is careful, measured, and rational. He's clearly very good at what he does, but doesn't seem to derive too much pride from his skills, he wants to complete his targets, report his successes, and move on.

Starting with a more generalised collection of quotes, these passages give insight into his thought process, perspective, and relationship to his work and general character.

In pretty stark contrast to River, who spends most of his time flailing about without a clue what's going on, especially during his time in France -

'He knew precisely where he was-wouldn't dream of setting foot on hostile land without memorising routes-' p.223

His connection to his cold body, Paul Wayne, is something ingrained in him from his earliest memory; Paul doesn't seem to be a persona or someone with a notably different character and behaviour; Paul both is and isn't Patrice. Also, he can speak without a French accent.

“None of which was news to Patrice. Who wasn’t Patrice today, but that was hardly news either. His passport proclaimed him Paul Wayne, and this required no mental adjustment: Patrice had been Paul Wayne for as long as he could remember. And Paul Wayne was as much at home in London, even the bad parts, as anywhere in France; could order a drink either side of the river, and nobody would bat an eye. Because Paul Wayne didn’t just speak English, he spoke English English, the same way he spoke French French. He’d have tied Henry Higgins in knots, and if that wasn’t enough to piss Higgins off, Paul Wayne could have gone on to kill him with his bare hands in about fourteen different ways, because that, too, had been part of the training that had been taking place every moment of Patrice’s life. Patrice’s life was about being Paul Wayne. And today Paul Wayne was taking one Sam Chapman off the board.” p.279

In a fight, he's able to keep his head, and stay focused on the facts. In the garage when he's trying to kill Sam, he manages to take down -

“Two of them, and both down. It had taken seconds. There was no pride in the thought. He was simply monitoring the situation.” p.306

We see again his calm, unemotional response to combat during his attack on Slough House.

“He sensed that the woman’s gun was empty, because there was fear in her eyes, and she did not look like someone who would be scared holding a loaded gun. Microseconds, these thoughts took. Less. It was part of what he’d learned at Les Arbres, in its woods and in its cellars; that you measured a situation in the moment you became part of it, and that what you did next was less action than response—you became part of the inevitable: that was what he had been taught. What would happen next was fixed from the moment he’d kicked the door down. All that remained was for the bodies to hit the floor.” p.455

Natasha and Yevgeny.

In the book, the woman from Les Arbes that River meets, Natasha, is a bit different. Instead of Bertrand's mother, she's Patrice's. Similarly, Natasha was a local girl, who was impregnated when she was around 18, by an older man from Les Arbes, though in the books he's a character called Yevgeny. Deviating from the show, Natasha doesn't seem to have any particularly negative feelings toward Yevgeny, though she recognises their age gap, and how constricted her life would be if she stayed with him.

Yevgeny is Russian, 'of course', (p.256), a former KGB spy who had worked at the Russian embassy in London. (p.320). In his interrogation, Frank mentions a KGB member 'who specialised in what Harkness called mental calibration.' (p.495) It's unclear exactly what this means, but seems to suggest Yevgeny played a pretty central role in forming the minds of their home-grown assassins.

Natasha and Yevgeny meet in a bar, in the summer of 1990, and she eventually becomes pregnant.

'"My parents are very angry with me, and with Yevgeny too. He was much older than me. In his thirties." "And how did he react?" Her eyes became faraway again. "He is happy. He say he will be good father, and we will live happily ever after."' p.257.

Aware that this version of a happily ever after constricts her world to the two bridges that mark her village, and the next one along the river, Natasha feels constrained. She wants to go to Paris, wants to see the world - but doesn't seem to want to leave Yevgeny, instead, she wants -

'"Yevgeny to take me away. Not keep me here." "Did you have the baby?" "Yes. A boy, Patrice. And he does what babies do, which is cry a lot, and I was just eighteen... So one night... I leave the house with some money I have saved and I catch a train to Paris, which is how I get to see parts of the world which are not between these two bridges."' p.258.

During this time in Paris, she became a prostitute. She comes back to the area, after ten years or so, because her father has died and she's able to come back.

'“All that time Yevgeny has [Patrice], at Les Arbres. My parents never see him, my father because he does not want to, and my mother because my father. But Yevgeny sends her photographs. I have these pictures still. I will show them to you.” “I went there, of course. To Les Arbres. But they do not let me in. Yevgeny, he comes out. He tells me I am not welcome, that I am no longer Patrice’s mother. That he has a family, and does not need me.” “I’m sorry,” River said. “I too. Because I know he is right, I am not Patrice’s mother. I give him birth, that is all. But still, I want to see him, I demand to see him, and then Frank comes, and Frank, he is very clear, very direct. He tells me that unless I leave, he will have police arrest me. He will tell them that not only am I a prostitute but a drug addict also, and other things like that. Threats.”' p.260.

Yevgeny sends Patrice's grandmother pictures of him until she dies when he is ten. This is the last photo she has of her son, and the last time she has seen him, but she seems keen to be reunited.

‘“If you find my son,” she said, “you will tell me, yes? You will tell me where he is?” River lied to her, as sincerely as he knew how.’ (p.265).

Later, after being taken captive by him, River mentions both of his parents to try and sway or disrupt Patrice.

During the initial assault on the convoy, when he's about to shoot Flyte, River repeatedly calls him by his name, and tells him "It's not what Yevgeny would want." (p.359.) This is enough to make Patrice pause, not shoot Flyte, and question who this guy is.

River gets kidnapped, and him and Patrice have a weird date (which we will go into in more detail about below), and as he's taking him to Frank, River goes for another attempt at using his family to throw him off.

'“I met your mother today,” he said. “Natasha.” Patrice said nothing. “She misses you.” Patrice shook his head, but still said nothing. “She wants to know you’re all right. It worried her, when Les Arbres burned down. Any mother would worry.” “I have no mother.” “She didn’t abandon you, you know. Or at least—she came back. She wanted to see you, to be with you. They wouldn’t let her.” “I have no mother,” Patrice repeated. “She was there for years. Never far away. In case you needed her.” Patrice looked at him and said, “Those things never happened. Stop talking.” “I will if you want. But I don’t think you do.” As casually as if he were swatting a fly, Patrice reached out to slap River’s cheek, but River had been expecting this, or something like it, and blocked the blow. But not the second, which was aimed at his throat. Patrice pulled it at the last second, or River would have been laid out on the pavement. Patrice said, “Stop now. Or I’ll make you.”' (p.406)

From this, we can understand that any mention of his mother wanting to be re-united was kept from him. His insistence that he has no mother, seems to suggest he was told nothing about her at all, other than that she abandoned him, not even Frank's story of her being a drug-addicted prostitute.

Patrice is unwilling, or unable, to consider that his mother was so close all that time, and still wants to see him and cares about him. He defaults to violence to make River stop voicing these challenging ideas.

His connection with Yevgeny is less clear, but what we hear of him is interesting. His wanting, and being excited for a child, which might have been him fulfilling Frank's orders, keeping Natasha away after she abandoned them, again fits with Frank's wishes to keep the mothers away, but possibly reflects a genuine sense of betrayal, and belief that he is giving Patrice all the family that he needs.

And the pictures; taking a picture of his son every year to send to a woman he doesn't see, who doesn't approve of him, but who is also so clearly in her husbands's control that she wouldn't be in much of a position to kick up a fuss about it if he didn't, creating a potential security risk in circulating evidence of them all together, of the children all together, it's a hell of a thing to do. It introduces this really compelling nuance about how much, if at all, the men at Les Arbes loved their children.

Bertrand

In the pictures Yevgeny sends Patrice's grandmother, sometimes he is in the company of the other children raised at Les Arbes. The book tells us -

“The eldest two, they were at Les Arbres from the beginning. I do not remember their names. And here,” and she plucked a photo from the pile of her son at five or so, with another boy, slightly younger, “this is Patrice with Bertrand. Bertrand is Frank’s son.” “There are six or seven children in the end. All boys. The first two, and then Patrice and Bertrand and two or three more.” p.261

This seems to suggest Patrice and Bertrand were born at a similar time, and possibly constitute their own age group separate from the older two, and younger two(or three).

It's clear that Patrice and Bertrand were close, and he's upset about the likelihood of him being killed, and the possibility of him being taken captive by Mi5, but he can rationalise his death, based on the mistakes he had made. He feels his emotions, expresses them, and then moves on.

'Patrice loved Bertrand like a brother, but facts were facts; Bertrand had been known to falter at critical moments.' p.223 'Squirting cleanser onto the wind-screen, he watched as the wipers smeared the seagull's mess into a grey film. Another clean-up job that made things worse. Then he cried, very briefly, for Bertrand, who was probably dead; squirted more cleanser, and ran the wipers again.' p.225

When River comes back to London using the Adam Lockhead passport, unlike in the show, in the book Patrice thinks it might be Bertrand; here his connection to Bertrand, being the only emotional connection he has left, is displayed again.

"Attachments were encouraged only because without them, there was nothing to purge. Bertrand, though, had been the attachment Patrice had never purged himself of. If Bertrand was alive they could complete this mission together and get the fuck off this godforsaken island.” p.350

Re-uniting with, or freeing Bertrand, finishing their mission, and leaving the country is therefore a top priority.

“Life at Les Arbres had taught him to grasp what needed doing, which here meant reaching St. Pancras before the action moved on. If Bertrand’s passport was flagged, there’d be security waiting. And of all the things that couldn’t be allowed to happen, Bertrand falling into the hands of MI5 ranked way up high.” p.351

Attacking the convoy and discovering the prisoner MI5 have isn't Bertrand, is evidently an upsetting experience for him.

“Because he wasn’t Bertrand, but in that first moment, Patrice thought he was: they had the same features, almost; the same hair. Eyes. Something was going on; crawling under the skin, like a worm inside an apple.” p.350

“Who are you?” Patrice repeated. “Adam Lockhead,” River said. The name cut a groove through Patrice’s expression. “No. Where’s Bertrand? And why . . . ” p.360

And thus kicks off Patrice and River's weird little kidnapping date, a sequence that is significantly longer and juicier in the book than being shoved in the back of a stolen car.

River

River and Patrice have a really interesting dynamic. They're both clearly fascinated by the other, and want to know what's going on. Patrice has technically kidnapped him, and is threatening and hurting him, but River's not exactly trying too hard to run away.

During the attack on the convoy, Patrice tells him they will be leaving together.

'Patrice spoke so calmly he might have been choosing fruit. “We. You and me. Or I’ll kill you here.”' p.361,

River tries to punch him, but he's not totally opposed to the idea -

‘Last thing he was doing was leaving Patrice’s side; not until he’d had a chance to question him about Les Arbres, about the commune, and about why Patrice’s comrade-in-arms had come to kill the O.B.’ p.387 “Not quite a prisoner, then, though hardly an accomplice, he stayed by Patrice’s side." p.387

The two travel by tube, where phone connection means any news about the attack on Pentonville Road would travel slowly, and anyone who thinks they might recognise them easily dismisses it. Also, Patrice pretends to be River's boyfriend.

“Patrice stayed close; one hand on River’s shoulder, as if for balance.” p.387

“Patrice hit him so quickly that nobody saw: not the passers by, hurrying through the rain; not the fellow travellers still sheltering from the downpour. Certainly not River. First he knew about it was, Patrice was lowering him into a sitting position, murmuring calm words. “He’s okay.” This for the benefit of those nearby. “He gets claustrophobic, that’s all.” To River: “Maybe put your head between your knees?” Somebody said, “Are you sure he’s all right? Should we get help? “He’ll be fine. I’m always telling him, we should take taxis. But no, he insists on the underground, and here we are again.” “My boyfriend’s just the same.” Any other time River might have protested the emphasis on My, but at the moment he was coping with a lot of frazzled nerve ends, as if Patrice had laid into him with a cattle prod rather than his little finger, or whatever it was he’d used to do whatever it was he’d done.” p.389 “Patrice maintained the fiction established for them by sitting next to River and putting his arm round his shoulders. He leaned close, as if whispering sweet consolation, and reminded River: “That required no effort on my part.” River said, “Last time someone hurt me like that . . . ” He paused for breath. “Yes?” “I knocked half his brains out with a length of lead pipe.” Patrice made a show of looking here, there, in front, behind. “Don’t see any lead pipe.” “You won’t.” Patrice’s phone chirruped. “Do you mind? I really ought to take this.” He stood and walked a few paces off. River looked around for a length of lead pipe, but his heart wasn’t in it.” p.389

Patrice and River's weird dates continues on to his meeting with Frank, River leading the way when he knows the destination, on a boat painted to resemble dazzle boats from the first world war.

“Patrice said, “That’s something.” River, as if explaining an object of national pride to a tourist, said, “They were painted like that to confuse submarines. It made it harder to sink them, to pinpoint them as targets.” “And that worked?” “Well, this one’s still here.” p.404

Meeting with Frank, Patrice gets some kisses and a pep talk we don't hear, then comes back to say goodbye to River and tell him how they ought to do this again sometime, and melts away into the rain to go murder all his friends & and his Grandpa.

“Patrice paused, then leaned forward, hands in pockets, and kissed River on the cheek. One cheek only. He said, “We will speak again soon.” Then he walked back the way they’d come; just a man hurrying through the rain, eager for the next place of shelter.” p.409

Frank

Patrice's most notable moments of internal fucked-up-edness come from when he's reflecting on his past, his education at Les Arbes, and his connection with Frank. His loyalty is unshakeable and goes as far as hurting himself when he thinks critically about him.

What we learn about a childhood (or the absence of one) at Les Arbes, is also very notable.

Like Patrice, like Bertrand, like all of them, Yves had had his childhood removed even while it was happening, and replaced by qualities Frank favoured: obedience to him, and reliance on no other. p.350

We can see this focus on total obedience to Frank being ingrained very early on, with orders, or 'instructions', being performed without question.

“And an instruction from Frank, who had been giving him instructions since he was a toddler, and who had ensured, way back then, that there was no question of Patrice not carrying them out.” p.428

And then there's the cellar.

“For one brief moment, he remembered the cellar. Each of the boys, on their twelfth birthday, had been locked in a cellar at Les Arbres, with no natural light and just one candle. Every morning, a single bread roll and a beaker of water was delivered. And every morning, they were told they would be released as soon as they asked for their freedom. Bertrand, Patrice remembered, had lasted just seventeen days before asking to be released. Patrice remembered Frank’s look of disdain at his son’s reappearance, as if it were an act of cowardice, or betrayal. Patrice himself had lasted a full month: at the time, a new record. Yves had lasted two.” (434)

I'm fascinated by the cellar. I'm fascinated by how long a boy is supposed to stay in the cellar. Bertrand, at seventeen days, clearly does not last long enough. Before Yves, no one had done better than Patrice's record of a month.

(Also, a brief note bc I spent too long fretting over it when I was writing my fic but; just one candle? How are they meant to light the candle? Is there a way to start a fire in the basement? Do they need to ask? Is asking for light also a reflection of weakness?)

From this passage, we can infer quite a lot about these three boys. Bertrand, who had been 'known to falter', does poorly, with his seventeen days, and Frank is clearly very disappointed in him.

(Diversion again bc I'm curious if this sets a trend for the rest of their relationship, where in conversation with River later on, he's able to discuss his son's death very unpersonally, their connection being as vague as "Someone he shared a lift with once," being dissapointed that he'd managed to let the an old man get the best of him, "It's like, lesson one. Don't let your guard down just because the target appears harmless." p.410 He tells River he's 'screaming inside', and hurting over Bertrand's death, but needs to focus on the mission, and that mission having pivoted recruiting River, is also cracking jokes about doing his whole 'I am your father' speech in a Darth Vader voice. (p.425, p.410)

Back to the cellar and Les Arbes. Patrice sets a record; lasting a whole month is evidently seen as an achievement, and doesn't seem to earn any of the scorn and disappointment Bertrand does.

Yves two months, though, is apparently somewhat alarming - from the books we learn that Yves was basically too into everything at Les Arbes, and took his terrorist training too literally, too extremely. Natasha is unnerved by her memories of him, and singles him out from the others as being creepy, looking at people 'like they are a different species... Like they are insects, or worse. Lower than insects.' p.264

We see Patrice's opinion of Yves carried on in this extract, when he talks about on his seventh birthday, being handed a photo of his mother who he'd never met, staring at it for five minutes, and then being handed a box of matches by Frank, and burning it with no hesitation, and 'glee in his eyes.'

"Patrice had been frightened of Yves, a little. He sometimes wondered if Frank had been too." p.350

Reflecting on their time in the cellar, Patrice briefly thinks about how...

“Frank should have known that there would come a time when Yves’s desire to prove he could go further than any of them would see him step over each and every line there was.” p.435

This thought, that a child-soldier radicalised from birth and pushed to the edge in every conceivable way, might end up going a bit far, and the all-knowing figure of total obedience in their life should have realised that, requires instant self-inflicted punishment from Patrice.

“But this thought, that Frank should have known, demanded punishment, and Patrice submitted to the moment, lashing out at the pebble-dashed wall, then licking the resulting blood from his knuckles. He had deserved that. Nobody could have known where Yves’s demons would take him. It was this place that was breeding such ideas: rainy London, its blues and greys seeping into his soul. Well, Patrice wouldn’t be here much longer. This last task done, he and Frank could vanish back to the mainland: Les Arbres was smoke and ashes, but they’d find somewhere. And the others would return—except for Bertrand, of course; except for Yves—and life would start again.”

Here, we have this moment of self-flagellation for thinking critically about Frank, which seems so instinctual I have to believe it's another thing drummed into them from an early age, also backed up by Patrice hurting himself again during his assault on Slough House -

“Deliberately, he banged his head against the wall, twice. Clarity of a kind returned.” p.450

In addition, we also see how Patrice can rationalise Frank's failures as not his fault. It wasn't Les Arbes that corrupted Yves, but London, and being in London was corrupting him too. He can't escape with Bertrand, and the only home he's known is gone, but he wants to reunite with the others and have his life start again.

But we all know that never happens.

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 70 – American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis

I’m honestly not sure I ever would have gotten around to reading this on my own, but ended up buying it through the ‘blind date with a book’ thing a bookstore in New York was doing when I was visiting (incredible gimmick, for the record). The fact that it then took me a solid three months to actually finish probably tells you something about how genuinely difficult a read I found it. Not in the sense of being bad, but just legitimately difficult to stomach at points. Overall I’d call it a real triumph of literature.

Not that anyone doesn’t already know, but; the book is spent inside the head of Patrick Bateman, high-flying wall street trader and Harvard blueblood at the close of the Reagan era. Also a serial killer. The story is told as a series of more or less disconnected vignettes, jumping from dinner conversations at one exclusive bar or club or another to the brutal torture and murder of a sex worker to several pages of incredibly vapid pontification on Nina Simone’s discography. The story vaguely tracks Bateman growing ever-more alienated and out of control as the year goes on, but there’s very much not any real single narrative or cathartic climax here. - most stuff just happens (stuff that’s either incredibly tedious or utterly nauseating by turns but still just, stuff).

So yeah this is an intensely literary work (obviously), a word I’m here using to mean one that is as much about the form and style of the writing as about the actual events portrayed. Bateman is a monster, but more than that he’s just an utterly boring and tedious husk of a man, traits which are exaggerated to the point of being fascinating– if you told this story in conventional third person narration without all the weird asides, it would be a) like half as long and b) totally worthless. The tonal whiplash of going from an incredibly visceral depiction of Bateman cutting out the eyes of a homeless man to six (utterly insipid) pages on the merits of The Doors is the selling point here (well actually I think Ellis goes back to that specific well probably one time too many, but in general I mean).

Bateman is a tedious, unstable monster, but as far as the book has an obvious thesis it’s that he differs from the rest of his social milieu only in degree. A symptom of a fundamentally rotten society, not a heroic devil among sheep. The book’s climax, such as it is, involved Bateman getting into a drug-fueled gunfight with the NYPD, shooting multiple people in the middle of the street, and then stumbling home and leaving a rambling confession to every crime on his lawyer’s answering machine – but despite very clearly wanting and trying to get caught and face some sort of consequence or justice, people just refuse to believe that someone like him is capable of anything like that. (It’s not, it must be said, an especially subtle book).

There is, as far as I can recall, not a single character who gets enough screentime to give an idea of their personality who I’d call likeable. Sympathetic, sure, but that’s mostly because it’s pretty much impossible not to sympathize with someone getting horrifically tortured and torn apart (at one point a starving rat is involved). The upper crust of New York yuppie-dom is portrayed as shallow and vapid, casually bigoted towards quite literally everyone who isn’t identical to them, status-obsessed to the point of only being able to understand the world as a collection of markers of class and coolness, and totally incapable of real human connection. Bateman is a monster not because of any freak abnormality, but just because he takes all of that a few steps further than his coworkers.

The book is totally serious and straight-faced in its presentation, and absolutely never acknowledges any of the running gags that are kept up through it. Which shows impressive restraint, and also means that none of them exactly have a payoff or a punchline – it’s just a feature of the world that all the expensive meals at trendy restaurants everyone competes for tables at sound disgusting when you think about them for a moment, or that the whole class of wall street trader guy are so entirely interchangeable that ostensible close friends and coworkers constantly mistake each other for other traders and no one particularly cares. Or – and I’m taking this on faith because fuck knows I’ve got no idea what any of the brands people are wearing are – that the ruinously expensive outfits everyone spends so very much time and money on for every engagement all clash comically if you actually looked up what the different pieces looked like. The book’s in no way really a comedy, so the jokes sit a bit oddly, but they’re still overall pretty funny, at least to me.

I like to think I have something of a strong stomach for unpleasant material in books, but this was the first work of fiction that I had genuine trouble reading for content reasons in I can’t even remember. I’m not sure it’s exactly right to call the violence pornographic in a general sense, but as far as American Psycho goes the register and tone Bateman uses to describe fucking a woman and torturing her to death are basically identical (and told in similarly explicit detail), and all of Bateman’s sexual fantasies are more or less explicitly just porn scenes he wants to recreate, so. Regardless, the result’s pretty alienating in both cases – his internal monologue never really feels anything but detached and almost bored as he relays what he does, sound exactly as vapid and alienated as when he is carefully listing the exact brands and designers every person he ever interacts with is wearing at all times, or arguing over dinner reservations for hours on end with his friends and lovers (though both those terms probably deserve heavy airquotes around them). He legitimately sounds considerably more engaged when talking about arguing over sartorial etiquette. It all adds up to a really strong alienating effect.

Anyways, speaking of sex and violence – perhaps because my main exposure to the story before this was tumblr making memes out of scenes from the movie, but I was pretty shocked by just how explicitly awful Patrick is ‘on screen’. The horrible murder, sure, but also just the casual and frequent use of racist and homophobic slurs, the pathological misogyny, the total breakdown he has at the idea of a gay man being attracted to him and thinking he might reciprocate – all of these are entirely in character for an asshole Wall Street ‘80s Guy even if he wasn’t a serial killer, but it’s still oddly shocking at first to see it so thoroughly represented on the page. It makes how comparatively soft-pedaled the bigotry and just, awfulness, of villains in a lot of more modern books stand out a lot more, I suppose? I have read a lot of books that are in some sense About queerness and/or racism in the last year, and no one in any of them holds a candle to good old Patrick Bateman.

Part of that is just the book being so intensely of its time, I suppose. The New York of this book is very much one of the late ‘80s, incredible wealth living side by side with social rot and decay, crippling poverty everywhere and a society that has to a great degree just stopped caring. Absolutely none of which Bateman or any of his peers care one bit about, of course – they’re too busy showing off the latest walkmans and record players, going to the newest clubs, and just generally enjoying all the fruits of Reagan’s America. Recent history has made the fact that Bateman’s personal idol is Donald Trump almost too on the nose to be interesting, but in 1991 I’m sure it was a bit more subtle in how telling it was.

Anyway, yeah, horrifying and exhausting read, triumph of literature, my god did Easton Ellis hate America (this is a compliment). Now time to go watch the movie!

[t00nyah]

so...here's my part for scugshroom colony because i think it's a very fun designing challenge

@mushroominaforest i hope you won't bite me for this

THOSE are my small notes i made to simplify information i saw as important. fungi i chose are lion's mane(Hericium erinaceus) and blood tooth(Hydnellum peckii), they looked cool and i went okay. okay.

this is the Empath, or Pompom. (she/he/they/it) she's VERY big and VERY fluffy. she has a very sweet and caring personality, while holding strange fascination with cycle of death and rebirth and, weirdly enough, interest in the Rot, despite being as terrified of it as others. as his name suggests he's very empathetic and is usually first to help, he's that one responsible adult who helps kids who are afraid of doctors face their fears (haha not that im that kid...). (and yes i am implying that he frequently helps slugcats figure out when they need help and how to get it. trust me that sentence makes sense. actually, read this as 'he's basically like calypso from bluey', that's the vibe.)

she's also secretly a gourmenot child but no-one's supposed to know that /hj

this...is...strawberry and cream duo...(get it...bc strawberries and cream...)

slugcat is the Colorist, or Cream. (she/they/it) they are not yet past their puphood, so they're small (but they won't grow much because ummm i decided so). their natural appearance tends to scare some off, especially their small blood-looking spot on their lower jaw, which gives them a vampire look. she's very bitter and can come off as snappy, but it's mostly because she's been rather lonely most of her life! she found a companion in Strawberry, or the Courageous One. (he/it) Colorist is the one who patched up his wound from another lizard, and the one who made his cape as a sign of friendship. they formed a rather symbiotic relationship in which they, both seen as weaklings or outcasts in their homeland, help each other be stronger.

they're basically double trouble lol

the Colorist has incredible interest in fabric and likes making useful and fashionable items like bags or simple scarfs. they usually tend to isolate themself from others but it doesn't mean they don't see themself as a part of a collective, they're just used to not being well-liked. i can see Strawberry trying to make her interact with others more while she's just being all grumpy but still goes along with it haha.

this was a lot of fun i love thinking about how to convert facts into character traits soooooo yeah that was very fun :)

[homestuckreplay]

Week 1 Retrospective: Who Is John Egbert?

It’s official - Homestuck is one week old today! And while a week is not a long run for a comic, it’s already got more pages than the author’s earlier work Bard Quest, so maybe it’s something worth recognizing. So I wanted to mark a week of Homestuck by doing a deep dive on what we’ve learned about our protagonist John Egbert so far. It’s some fact collection, some wild speculation, and some ongoing questions. It’s over 3000 words, so it’s under a readmore for anyone who’s interested.

If that doesn’t sound like a fun time to you (or even if it does), you can take the John Egbert Big 5 Personality Test to see how you score on John’s five key personality traits. It’s 14 multiple choice questions, so a much quicker read.

We’re introduced to John on page 4, where we’re given five key interests of his: bad movies, programming computers, paranormal lore, amateur magic, and gaming. I’ll take these one by one and use them as a framework for John’s character so far.

“You have a passion for REALLY TERRIBLE MOVIES.”

John has eleven (11) movie posters on his walls. Of these, three star Matthew McConaughey and two star Nicolas Cage. More notably, six have a Rotten Tomatoes rating below 50%, and two of these are below 10%. I haven’t seen any of these movies, but as far as I can tell, here are the one sentence summaries [broad spoilers for all these movies].

Little Monsters: A boy befriends a monster and visits the monster world, where they try to convert him into a monster too.

Con Air: A paroled man disrupts a gang of prisoner’s escape from a prison transport plane.

Deep Impact: Earth tries to prepare for extinction after a comet is found on a collision course with Earth.

Ghostbusters II: After going out of business, the Ghostbusters reunite to combat a negative energy slime monster.

Mac and Me: A boy befriends a young alien who gets separated from his family and lost on Earth.

Contact: An Earth scientist successfully discovers alien life and travels to an alien world.

A Time to Kill: A father is acquitted in court for killing the perpetrators of racial hate crimes against his daughter.

Failure to Launch: A 35 year old man’s parents hire a woman to persuade him to finally move out of their home.

Face/Off: A terrorist and a FBI agent go through facial transplant surgery and temporarily swap identities.

Armageddon: A group of space workmen go on a mission to stop an asteroid from destroying Earth. 

Ghost Dad: A man temporarily dies but is able to interact with his children in ghost form.

From this we can see that John really likes science fiction movies related to aliens, ghosts and monsters, as well as action comedy. We also know from page 21: ‘Films about impending apocalypse fascinate you’. A Time to Kill and Failure to Launch are the only ones that don’t fit his taste. The implication here is that John really loved Matthew McConaughey in Contact and so watched his other movies even though they were things he wouldn’t usually watch.

I’m curious if these movies are intended as clues to John’s character, the future of the comic, or both. In terms of his character, they make me see him as someone who’s imaginative and goofy, young and carefree, not concerned with other people’s opinions, more interested in watching movies for their surface meanings and exciting stories, maybe wants to escape to a different world, might be a little bit gay. 

In terms of the future of the comic, it could be that we’re going to see literal aliens or monsters - they could even be already here, keeping John ‘homestuck’. Slime monsters are particularly highlighted, with Slimer from Ghostbusters appearing on John’s shirt and computer background, and his chumhandle, ectoBiologist, relating to slime. Slime invasion honestly feels too obvious, and anyway, several of John’s movies are about befriending a more benign supernatural force - could John’s Pesterchum friends be something other than human? Or maybe it’s a more metaphorical meaning, referring to John having a very different life to his friends? 

Two of these movies feature Earth extinctions by giant space rocks, but there’s absolutely no indication of this being a real world threat John is dealing with. Again, it could refer more generally to a sudden, life changing event that’s about to happen to disrupt John’s current state, something that would fit thematically with this being John’s 13th birthday, a milestone age.

There’s also a theme of crime and the legal system in several movies, including Con Air, the one that’s been most highlighted. The most obvious interpretation of John’s dad right now is that he’s a clown or performer, but there’s an outside chance he could be in law enforcement, or a criminal. It’s even possible that he’s currently in hiding or some kind of safe house. This would explain John being ‘homestuck’ and sick of spending time with his dad.

Speaking of John’s dad, I’m concerned for him based on the Ghost Dad summary - the comic keeps teasing his presence, but we haven’t actually seen him yet. Could he be a ghost? Or become one at some point? Alternatively, we know John has an already dead relative - could his nanna be a ghost? Did John dropping her ashes release her ghost? Family is a really common theme in movies, so I don’t know if a large number of these movies being about family (especially fathers) is relevant, but I’m noting it all the same.

“You like to program computers but you are NOT VERY GOOD AT IT.”

John claims he ‘likes to program’, but it actually seems to make him angry. We first learn ‘[y]ou were never all that great with data structures and you find the concept [of the stack modus] puzzling and mildly irritating.’ We then see three files on John’s desktop, two in ^CAKE - ‘pff.^CAKE’ and ‘FUCK FUCK FUCK.^CAKE’ and one in ~ATH - ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH.~ATH’. These tell a clear narrative of John trying to work on his programming and getting increasingly more frustrated with his attempts, until inevitably giving up. Both of the programming languages are puns, too. ^ is often called a carat (carrot cake) while ~ is a tilde (til death). 

I know this is wild speculation, but… John started off coding in a harmless programming language, was already struggling, then for some reason switched over to the most ominous possible sounding language, screwed it up even worse, and now… he’s constantly haunted by the ghost of failed programming attempts in the form of his sylladex, which he appears to be new to using (he had no prior understanding of it on page 7 - although this could be handwaved due to video game tutorial logic), and which operates similarly to a computer program and seems to cause John endless frustration. He’ll have to figure out how to exploit the inventory system in ways that help him, which involves actually figuring out some stuff about coding, in order to partake in some real life ghostbusting, or monster hunting, or dealing with whatever threat he’ll have to deal with by using inventory hacks.

“You have a fondness for PARANORMAL LORE,” (...)

By far the interest of John’s that we’ve seen the least of so far, John’s love of the paranormal is mostly inferred through his movie preferences, and we don’t see any direct evidence of an interest in lore. However, I can’t stop fixating on John’s chumhandle: ectoBiologist. The comic’s first act was to draw attention to giving John a name, and for many 2009 kids, the names they go by online are more meaningful and representative of them than their real world names. 

‘ecto-’ means ‘outer, outside, external’ according to dictionary.com, and it’s actually a common prefix in a variety of fields of biology, but there’s no such thing as ‘ectobiology’ as a field, or an ‘ectobiologist’ - neither term has any search results prior to Homestuck. I think it’s way more likely that this refers to ectoplasm, a term from both cell biology and spiritualism that was popularized by Ghostbusters to mean any substance secreted by a ghost, in practice often manifesting as green slime. Slimer, who we can guess is John’s favorite, is a benign ghost made of pure ectoplasm. I love the idea that John loves this dumb ghost so much that he’s memorized all the lore about them in their appearances throughout the franchise, and devised this username based on being an expert on these ghosts right down to their biology (or at least thinking he is). 

The only catch is, ‘fondness for paranormal lore’ is very passive and doesn’t even imply much knowledge, much less action, while ‘biologist’ implies that John has been doing actual experiments. The idea of John trying to create a real life Slimer the same way other kids make slime in their kitchens is really entertaining, if an off the wall theory. Does ‘homestuck’ just mean John is grounded for an unethical science project? 

(...) “and are an aspiring AMATEUR MAGICIAN.”

The magic chest is one of the biggest, most eye catching and most colorful objects in John’s room. We see its contents on page 8, which lean more into joke store items than things a magician might use, except for the trick handcuffs and perhaps the collapsible sword. The narration on this page states that John is neither a skilled magician nor a cunning prankster. I’m nitpicking definitions here, but everything John has done so far has been way more about pranks than about magic. 

John’s uses of the magic chest to date are…

various putting things into his inventory and removing them (funny, but unintentionally)

combining fake arms with cake (p.36) out of necessity, which ‘makes the cake at least 300% more hilarious’

merging hat with beagle puss to create a clever disguise (p.45) and wearing it for 25+ pages, which he acknowledges is a ‘shitty disguise’

attaching fake arms to harlequin doll (p.65), which makes it ‘AT LEAST a million percent funnier’

All of which are definitely not magic tricks, and honestly not even pranks. Arguably John’s best and most successful prank so far has been when he pretended not to have arms for the first six pages, before revealing his arms after the interface had gone to the trouble of moving the cake off his magic chest to get him some arms.

John keeps thinking about reading Colonel Sassacre’s Guide to Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery, but always finding some excuse not to. He can’t read it until he captchalogues it, but once he does that, it gets buried in his inventory. He assumes that the book can tell him the exact percentage increase of hilarity a prank leads to, but it’s too big for him to actually look anything up. 

An outside theory for this that I don’t think is likely simply because it’s so much darker than the comic has been so far, is that John loves this book, but since the incident where his nanna was killed by a copy (perhaps even this copy?) he hasn’t been able to bring himself to read it. A far more likely theory is that while John is an aspiring amateur magician, it’s more of a big idea, and he hasn’t actually done any magic yet. This also tracks with his weaksauce pranks above. And if that’s true, then it says a lot about John that he defines himself by a hobby he aspires to but doesn’t actually practice - he’s someone with big dreams and less motivation, just like his big dream of going to collect the mail from his father despite the lack of motivation that’s kept him messing around for 70 pages. 

“You also like to play GAMES sometimes.”

Potentially most important of all is Gamer John. We get a list of games John likes to play from inspecting his CD tower the same way we get a list of movies from looking at his posters. 

Bard Quest

The Caper Havers

Problem Sleuth

And It Don’t Stop

What Pumpkin?

Ghostbusters II MMORPG

Little Monsters (for Nintendo)

Harry Anderson: Call My Bluff!

The first five games all reference previous work by the author of Homestuck, and as such probably don’t need in depth analysis. However, the fact that within the world of Homestuck, these are all games (instead of comics) is one of several suggestions that we should think of Homestuck as a game, something that needs further analysis. 

The next two games are video game adaptations of movies we know John likes, and the last is a branded video game from Harry Anderson, whose book we’ve already seen in John’s magic chest. Notably, none of these are real video games in our world either. It says a lot that John plays game versions of things he already likes (he’s put ‘countless manhours’ into this assortment of quality titles). 

However, it’s undeniable that the most important game in John’s life right now is Sburb. The poster is behind his head in the first panel, placed centrally with one of the only two splashes of color in the panel. The beta release is the only thing marked on his calendar for April besides his birthday, and the Sburb logo is even the picture printed on the calendar - perhaps it’s a calendar themed around new game releases? There’s clear delight on John’s face when he thinks about getting the beta, and his quest to fetch it from the recently delivered mail is the closest thing to a story this comic has so far.

Unfortunately, we know almost nothing about Sburb, so we don’t know what it says about John that he wants to play it. It’s publicized as the Game of the Year, and according to GameBro, the game may be about houses and the player may not get to thrash anything, although these details are provided by someone who hasn’t played the game so I’m not taking them as expert opinion. It might be multiplayer - TT has been pestering TG all day about playing it with her. Maybe John just wants to share a game with his friends.

Speaking of GameBro, John can’t stand the magazine, although he for some reason has a copy on his desk. He describes the publication as ‘a joke’ to TG, and he makes the effort to take it downstairs to the fire and burn it, presumably releasing asbestos fibers into the house and causing serious lung damage to himself and his father. Does he read this because it’s the only games magazine that exists? Or did he like it just fine until now, when it trashed the game he’s excited about, and now he’s furious with it? Either way, it tracks with John’s overall fondness for critically panned media that he would be angry about contrarian critics. 

–

All of this has left me with a few questions about John as our main character. These are the things that I’m keeping an eye on and trying to answer as the story continues.

What is John good at?

We hear so much about what John is bad at. He’s explicitly stated to be bad at programming, pranks, and magic. He’s bad at using his sylladex. He’s clumsy and knocked over his nanna’s ashes. He’s got bad taste in media. He’s funny but only when he doesn’t try to be, and even then he’s sometimes the butt of the joke, where the joke is how not funny John’s joke is. He was tempted to squawk like an imbecile and shit on his desk. He has like six different prankster props and he doesn’t even use all of them. I’m saying all this with love and kindness because he also just seems like such a sweet kid, but so far he doesn’t have any defined strengths or skills. 

Is he going to turn out to be really good at gaming and kick ass at Sburb? Are we going to get a curveball where it turns out John is an amazing baker, and he hates the cakes in his room and the smell of Betty Crocker because he can do so much better than that packet mix? Or is he starting off from this low point so he can develop skills as time goes on?

What is John’s relationship with his dad really like?

John doesn’t want his dad to monopolize his time and feels trapped in his room, despite his dad baking cakes and leaving notes on gifts telling John he’s proud of him. John’s dad gets his son one great present that John’s really appreciative of, and one terrible present that John immediately hates. All of this feels very reasonable and normal for a teen feeling misunderstood by a parent who’s trying their best. 

And then there’s the clowns.

John can excuse magical frivolity and practical japery, but he draws the line at harlequins. He’s an aspiring magician, but his dad’s figurines are ‘fucking garbage’ and his dad ‘sure can be a real cornball’. John seems like somebody who gets angry at ultimately unimportant things, like bad reviews of games, too many cakes, and harlequin figurines, but because of the subject matter it reads like an intense rivalry between two highly specific subcultures that outsiders would group together. John is really making a huge deal of needing to disguise himself and mentally prepare himself to go down and face his dad, and I want to know if there’s any genuine reason behind John’s fear, or if it’s solely the overdramatics I’m starting to think are typical of him.

Is John ‘Homestuck’?

‘Sometimes you feel like you are trapped in this room. Stuck, if you will, in a sense which possibly borders on the titular.’ (p.30)

John clearly feels like he’s stuck at home, but is this the extent of the title’s meaning? His dad has recently returned from getting groceries, so leaving the house is in theory possible. Reasons why John might be homestuck include: he’s not allowed to leave the house (for example, he’s grounded, or his dad is very controlling), he can leave the house but there’s nowhere to go (he lives near major roads, bodies of water, farms, or other obstacles, and there’s no public transport to get anywhere), or he can leave the house but it’s not safe to do so (there’s some sort of external threat, either supernatural like a monster or alien invasion, or mundane like a criminal or bomb threat). Seeing out of John’s window and into his front yard does not provide any clues; it looks like an extremely average front yard with a tree, swing and mailbox, and we know the mail was recently delivered, so there can’t be anything too world-ending happening in the neighborhood. Right now John’s goal (the Sburb Beta disc) is inside the house, so this might not get answered right away - in fact, my running theory is that the game itself might hold the answers, as its logo is a house.

What’s the differentiation between John and the narrator?

My biggest question of all, and one that probably deserves its own essay. I’m fascinated by the lines ‘In a kid's yard, a tree without a tire swing is like a proper gentleman without a monocle.’ (p.27) and ‘In a home, a FIREPLACE needs a fire, because that's what FIREPLACE is for.’ (p.50). These lines carry so much opinion, but because the narrator is constantly addressing John with the second person ‘you’, I don’t think these are John’s opinions. The narrator does have a window into John’s thoughts, so the line between them can be blurred, but there's clearly a distinction somewhere, because there have been pushbacks and disagreements between the two of them. 

One theory is that John’s dad is the narrator - John’s at home a lot for whatever reason, and so the constant and overbearing presence of his dad means that he can’t get him out of his head even when he’s alone, the commands at the top of each page reflecting John’s dad’s level of control over his son’s life. But I think this question is open ended enough that I’m not willing to commit to one theory yet. After all, we ‘examine 3rd and 4th walls of [John’s] room’ which is a directly meta allusion to the comic’s audience that only really makes sense if the narrator isn’t a character in the comic itself. 

–

I think John Egbert has been really well characterized so far. He feels like a real kid, one who keeps getting off track and forgetting what he should be doing, but one who it’s enough fun to get to know that I don’t really notice. While the main character in media often doesn’t end up being the most interesting character, I do want to keep an eye on John because I think he has a lot going on to analyze. Above the style and the world and the mechanics, John as a character is the aspect of the comic I’m most interested in right now.

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

The Remnants (A GO One Shot)

Dividers borrowed from wonderful @thecutestgrotto and their classic art collection and lovely @youre-ackermine.

Description: A soul. What even is 'a soul'? Many couldn't answer the question, except for two men roaming the Earth - an Angel and a Demon. Falling for a particular soul wasn't in the 'Good Angel's Guide to Earth' and yet there the Angel was - desperately and endlessly in love with one of them, following said soul through every lifetime. After their breakup and Aziraphale's leave, Crowley vows to watch over all of Aziraphale's remnants against his better will - including the human his ex-partner loved oh so much. And as it turns out...

Pairing: Crowley x afab!reader & Aziraphale x afab!reader (separately); (suggested) Innefable husbands x reader

Inspiration: The infamous 'She fell first but he fell harder' trope; in this case: Aziraphale fell first, but Crowley fell harder.

Warnings: | reader is afab | mentions of alcohol and drugs; usage of alcohol and tobacco products | themes of break-ups, grief and pain (angst) | mentions of explicit themes | mentions of sex (no smut included, only alluded to) | Aziraphale being a soft little bean I would die for | Crowley doing his best | Crowley being his best gender-fluid self and thriving | repeated mentions of Franz Ferdinand (cause I fucking love that band) | it's generally very long | Nina and Maggie making a guest appearance | Bentley being a little brat | Crowley is a mix of English (according to the cannon lore) and Scottish and I don't give a flying fuck (David's accent lives rent-free in my head) |

A/N: After three months, here we finally are - finished with the Good Omens mega-one-shot. Working with the characters of Aziraphale and Crowley was so fun and fulfilling, they are both so different in the ways they present themselves but deep down, they are very similar. While Aziraphale strikes me as a very gentle lover, Crowley just brings this flame and energy into the room, yet, their love feels equally warm. This might be my most grand project yet and I loved each second. It required a lot of research. Notably, a shitload of my questions was answered by the lovely Reddit community and various Tumblr theories and analyses. I've listened to the audiobook narrated by the one and only Michael Sheen and David Tennant and watched the show religiously (most of the main traits come from it). I'm sorry if anyone finds my versions of the characters unenjoyable. But honestly? I'm so proud of this. I poured my heart and soul into this little silly story. Hope you'll enjoy reading the OS as much as I enjoyed writing it. 🤍

Word count: 45.3K The one-shot is divided into parts for a better reading experience and clarity. The parts go as follows: Part I: Lost & Found (Long, Long Time) (11.8K) Part II: The Remnants (I'll Be Your Mirror) (16.3K) Part III: The Discovery (... A Strange Addiction) (14.6K) Part IV: The Aftermath (2.4K)

Specific music inspo (divided into Aziraphale's section & Crowley's section): The entire playlist: H E R E

Can't Take My Eyes Off You (by Frankie Valli) ☁️

Everyday (by Buddy Holly & The Crickets) ☁️

Escape (The Piña Colada Song) (by Ruppert Holmes) ☁️

It's Been a Long, Long Time (by Harry James & Kitty Allen) ☁️

Turning Page (by Sleeping At Least) ☁️/🔥

Pale Blue Eyes (by Velvet Underground) ☁️/🔥

Rumors (by Fleetwood Mac) - mainly I Don't Want to Know, Dreams & Go Your Own Way🔥

Boogie Wonderland (by Earth, Wind & Fire) 🔥

Right Down the Line (by Gerry Rafferty) 🔥

I Think We're Alone Now (by Tiffany/Tommy James & The Sondrels, both versions fit) 🔥

Literally anything by ABBA (Lay All Your Love On Me) and Queen (I Want To Break Free - Single) 🔥

Shut Up And Dance (Live In The Lounge) by Walk the Moon 🔥

Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy (by Queen) 🔥

Part I: Lost & Found (Long, Long Time) March of 2024, Baked Bliss, Oxford, England:

Until this very day, Crowley hadn't successfully deciphered the Angel's fascination with humans, not even after thousands of years. And even though the Angel left the surface of Earth, Crowley struggled to understand. A deep love for human ways and pleasures of the flesh was something they shared - more importantly, they both fought to preserve it. They, as a team, stood against Heaven and Hell amidst Armageddon. Aziraphale's intrigue with humans themselves, however, Crowley never grasped.

The Demon himself found the humans intriguing and fun to play around with, yes, but he wasn't the one willingly bending his own comfort to serve them. Crowley cared for humanity in itself, but they got dull after hundreds of years. These creatures even outperformed Hell at its job, which was impressive.

Aziraphale's point of view was far from Crowley's. The Angel often retracted Crowley into various adventures connected to humanhood and lessons that could've been learned. Aziraphale had also been the only one (throughout the universe's entire existence) who repeatedly (and successfully) invoked and altered Crowley's conscience and moral compass. Yes, Crowley was a sap when it came down to hard decisions, but the Angel remained a constant working every damn time.

To be fair, Crowley wasn't your typical demon - and Aziraphale wasn't your typical angel. Even though they'd mostly proclaimed to stick with all the archetypes, they operated somewhere in all the shades of grey of good and evil. The duo went to great lengths for each other, bending their compasses at their will... Or so, Crowley always thought. He'd swear it without a second thought. That's what Crowley thought until he left. Before he offered Crowley to become his 'second in fucking command'. Before he vanished to do some mumbo-jumbo archangel bullocks... Before he'd turned all Crowley's feelings down and abandoned him.

Even though Aziraphale was long gone (sucked somewhere inside Metatron's arse), he left behind various material mementoes - objects and places reminding Crowley of his existence. Each time Crowley found himself in their vicinity, his entire body flooded with sudden pain and anger. At first, Crowley thought about destroying all of them, one by one, burning them into ashes. It wouldn't be Crowley's first arsonic rodeo, after all. He'd even prepared all the necessities - a gasoline canister and a box of matches, setting out for the mission on a quiet, hot summer night.

When he parked the Bentley in Soho and strutted towards the burgundy red door with the canister in his palm, the anger dissipated - memories taking its place, taking Crowley down memory lane. The end might've been bitter-sweet, but the centuries leading up to it weren't. Crowley hated Aziraphale, he was sure of it, but the mementoes of their shared past still brought relief, they brought memories filled with rainbows and sunshine. Despite his best active efforts, Crowley hadn't the heart to erase Aziraphale's remnants from the surface of Earth. Instead, he ought to protect and watch over them... In case the Angel would come back.

Firstly, there was A. Z. Fell & Co., Aziraphale's beloved bookshop. It was under Muriel's careful watch, meaning no need for Crowley to diddle around. Inspector Constable, as Crowley referred to her, was trying her damnest - but she wasn't fucking carved out for it. Certainly not until Crowley left behind a set of rules for her to follow. Not to ever sell any books, tell everyone to fuck off and irregularly collect moderate rent from the other shop owners, mainly Maggie. Those were just the ground rules. The actual guidebook counted 207 bullet points, even going through Aziraphale's strange sorting system. Even though he'd felt nothing but spite towards his former best friend and lover, Crowley couldn't just sit about and watch the bookshop fall in symbolic flames. His conscience and heart wouldn't stand for it.

All this could be attributed to Aziraphale's careful influence over the years. The one part of what Crowley hated - all the qualities the Angel had either discovered or awakened inside him and vice versa. Qualities like love for life, realistic optimism and worstly, unconditional fucking hope. Not even obscene amounts of alcohol helped turn it off. Hope still persisted. Even though Crowley understood Aziraphale fucked off to be an Archangel, Crowley remained hopeful that one day... One day he'd walk into the bookshop and see Aziraphale sitting inside, in one of over-the-top plushy chairs, smiling at Crowley from all the reading he'd indulge in.

To anyone's surprise, that hadn't ever happened. And each day it hadn't happened, Crowley felt betrayed. Forgotten. Left behind. But all the hope, the fucking hope, remained unbroken. The hope turned Crowley's need to ensure the bookstore wouldn't close down into an obsession. Just in case the angel would come back... In case they could get their infinity.

Secondly, there were all of Aziraphale's materialistic possessions. Boxes upon boxes of perfectly preserved clothes; Aziraphale's magician necessities; preserved works of art; vinyl records... And boxes of other shit Crowley hadn't got the balls to sort through. Making the adult decision, he'd moved all the belongings into a well-guarded warehouse he'd rented. The Demon realized his Angel would be broken if he lost all of his belongings; the belongings he'd collected over thousands of years and grown to love.

And, well, thirdly... There was the human, currently in a feminine form. Just like he'd left Crowley behind, he'd left her behind too. Circling back to Aziraphale's fascination with humans and their inventions (mainly arts, music and food), he found them intriguing in many more ways. Pleasures of the Flesh, right? Crowley had no idea how deep these pleasures ran and was positive he didn't need to know. The Angel and the Demon rarely talked about his human. Aziraphale would open up about her only if they both got drunk enough and Crowley learned not to ask about her. All the Demon knew about this particular soul was Aziraphale fell for it in all senses of the word. Aziraphale was in love with his human in both the ethereal, pure, unearthly and entirely human and flawed ways. As said, Crowley was aware of her existence (he'd even seen her in person), but never asked about her for his sanity. The last time he had the balls, the Angel hadn't spoken to him for ten years.

The ethereal duo even struggled to grasp they loved each other (until recently, that was), let alone open an option that there'd be a third person intervening in their small bubble. Let alone she'd be gone again soon-ish. Most importantly, there wasn't any need to talk about her. Crowley doubted Aziraphale'd mentioned his very existence to his human lover and the Angel certainly didn't bother telling Crowley about her.

The human never made the relationship feel crowded, she hadn't even intervened in whatever they had going on. It was like two different lives; two separate lovers Aziraphale neatly segregated with a fine line. And Crowley accepted this as a fact. Crowley also understood Aziraphale loved this human soul unreasonably and ineffably. It wouldn't feel right to tear the Angel apart from her.

Among billions, Aziraphale recognized her soul anywhere. After thousands of years and tens of lifetimes, the Angel became so accustomed to the aura and energy that he'd feel the shift when she reincarnated. Crowley felt it by proxy - Aziraphale was suddenly relaxed, happy, enjoying life a bit more. Like most souls claimed by Heaven, she'd been rinsed into "the cauldron" and reborn every couple of centuries (or so), again & again, until the end of times. It was an inhumane practice in Crowley's eyes, but Heaven was a cult of ball-licking assholes - was he shocked? No. Unlike demons, angels usually hadn't rolled new recruits from the souls they claimed, they didn't expand their ranks... On the bright side, she wasn't damned to Hell, serving as an accountant for all eternity. A win-win scenario, Crowley assumed.

And, well, there she was. Standing behind the counter, sending the Demon a proper furrow with palms on her hips, waiting for his order. One'd assume she was ready to pack Crowley a proper right hook. Yet another remnant of Aziraphale Crowley swore to keep safe and intact in case Aziraphale returned to Earth... To him... To them.

Autumn of 2017, Baked Bliss, Oxford, England:

It was raining heavily, as expected in early Autumn. Oxford's streets, as usual, were crowded with tourists who remained persistent with exploration despite the weather. Umbrellas and various rain jackets plastered the streets and Aziraphale loved all the colours and patterns. Preoccupied with a girl in a bright red, polka-dotted raincoat jumping into a puddle with a happy squeal, he'd caught a glimpse of you in the background. Just as the first time Aziraphale met you, your presence knocked the breath out of his lungs - your tenderness, softness and warmth soothed him, your aura bewitching the Angel.

The memory of first meeting your soul never left Aziraphael. The Angel liked to think it was one of his most prized memories, most of such spots taken with his memories of either you or Crowley. Big fireworks, m'friend, he recalled Crowley named it, figured we ought to see it. The year? 79 AD. What was to happen? Pompeii was to be destroyed the following day.

As the duo walked through the city side by side, conversing about the weather, surroundings and architecture, Aziraphale's eyes fell on you for a moment. Just by pure chance, tickle destiny coming through in unexpected ways. Like most of Pompeii's inhabitants, even you were intrigued by Crowley's wardrobe choices. All in all, the Demon stood out like a sore thumb (while still looking absurdly dashing). The choices weren't common, to say the least - very eye-catching. You've leaned towards your companion, grinning, pointing out all the strange accessories, let alone his eccentric outfit choices, jewellery, hairstyle... Everything was most unusual about this guy. Then, your eyes slid towards his trusty companion. The Demon might've caught your attention first if you'd have to be frank, but the Angel captured it harder.

Nothing about him screamed he hadn't belonged, but... You simply knew he didn't. Something inside you screamed neither of the men originated here; not Pompeii, but time and space in general. As you watched Aziraphale with undisguised interest, the conversation with your companion was long forgotten - your lips parted ever so slightly and eyes widened, your body posturing closer to his. Even though being Angel, Aziraphale wouldn't have to be blind to overlook how smitten you were. It was fair to say his reaction startled him - without thinking, he'd stepped in your direction. Crowley would've caught his elbow, thinking the Angel only stumbled.

You couldn't pinpoint it and Aziraphael couldn't either. It wasn't the appearances enchanting you. Despite never talking to the stranger, something repaired inside you. Like a black hole filled inside your chest, one you didn't know existed. A crooked puzzle piece completing yours. It was mental, but you were sure you already knew him - the personality and unsaid words allured you. Before this man, you hadn't met anyone you'd become enamoured by - let alone this fast... Like being struck by lightning that altered your entire existence.

After the Demon and Angel parted ways for the night, agreeing to meet in the morning to witness the spectacle, he'd searched for your house. It would take a ton of asking and awkward conversations, but he'd eventually learn your name, occupation (winemaker) and place of stay. It took until deep night to find your balcony. Aziraphael insisted on speaking to you, catching your attention by reciting Virgil and Horace with fiery passion, almost losing his breath by the end.

Even though it was deemed inappropriate, you didn't find the courage to send him away; instead, you found yourself leaning into the railing with a bright, soft smile. Your heart raced as you snuck into the gardens to walk with the stranger, talking and debating until the sun came out. Every second of it felt right. It was a long night, yet it couldn't get long enough for Aziraphale's liking. Talk about one night - how about forever? That'd be better. He realized it the second you took his palm and ran deep into the vineyard, giggling. The longer you've remained in Aziraphale's vicinity, the more he was enraptured by everything about you and vice versa.

Your soul felt timeless, as if you've seen it all and understood the intricacies of the world despite being thousands of years younger; as if you were ready to experience everything to come. Your aura was so innocent and fragile. It begged to be cared for by an entity such as him. Each look of your eyes warmed something inside him, igniting a flame he hadn't known existed. But now that he tasted it, Aziraphale wasn't keen on letting it go.

And then, there was everything else about you; the elegance you carried yourself with, your choice of words, your intelligence and your vast knowledge of everything (you've been very well-read and clearly educated), let alone your witty remarks and comments. And by God Devine, weren't you the most beautiful piece of art he'd ever laid his on? The eyes, your eyes. Those were something to behold. Every star in the universe was reflecting inside your pupils, the colours of every galaxy swirling around your irises.

Your spell and the soon-to-be-erupting volcano were the reason for Aziraphale to spill everything; about Hell and Heaven, his role as an Angel, the history of the Earth... Everything. And to his surprise, you believed him.

As Aziraphale felt the end of your shared night creeping about, he found the courage to warn you about the destruction to come. It was forbidden for angels to meddle in human affairs, such as this, let alone warn mortals. It could bear great consequences Gabriel learned about the gingerly attempt to save your life. Yet, upon hearing his warnings, you've just smiled and nodded. Without communicating aloud, Aziraphale understood your entire thought process. Without fear, you accepted the incoming doom as your fate. With a relaxed sigh, you leaned into the stone bench, eyes narrowed as you watched the sunrise, your nose wrinkled slightly.

"It's not all bad. If this 'catastrophe' wasn't to happen..." - You whispered, turning to him. Upon seeing your expression, Aziraphale gasped for air. Never had he seen a more attractive smile on a human. - "We wouldn't have met. And yet, here we are, awaiting my impending doom. I'm glad our paths crossed, Aziraphale... Whether for eternity or one night, it means all the same to me. I'll pray to the Gods after we're done and spend one last day with my close ones." "Well... I shouldn't be saying this and it's utmost secret, but there is a way we could meet again." - The Angel answered, a bit too eagerly. Nodding, you listened. - "Someone like you will surely be sent to Heaven, on my honour. I can feel it. That means your soul will be sent back to Earth." "Back to Earth?" "Think about it as a reincarnation of sorts." "What is a reincarnation?" "... Oh, yes. Romans aren't yet... Well, practically, you'd be reborn again. You'll become a new version of yourself some time in the future." "Will I still be me?" "More or less, yes. You'll just live a different life as a different person. But the core component, your soul, wouldn't change." "Ah, I've heard of such a concept. That's how it works..." - You nodded, sighing. - "Do my Gods even exist?" - At that question, Aziraphale smirked and nodded.

"Funny bunch, that one. You'd find them amusing, I'm sure of it." "What do you propose, then?" - You wondered, sending him a hopeful gaze. - "You said we could meet again. But I wouldn't be me and still remain the same at the same time. It's confusing." "You're holding up exceptionally well, my dear. And - I will find you." - The Angel whispered, catching your palm in his. The grip was warm, soothing and firm enough for you to believe he was real.

"But isn't there a... A lot of humans roaming the Earth, as you've admitted?" - The Angel might've revealed Native Americans and the extent of Asia's population to you. "Nobody said it'd be an easy task." "It could take you ages, Angel. I assume you have more important tasks..." "You're worth it." - Aziraphale ended topically, turning his upper body at you while still caressing your palm. He was breathless, opening and closing his mouth, finding the words. - "Believe me, I'm just as confused as you are, but something within you... It calls to me. In what way? I don't know yet, but I'd like to explore it. If you wish so, of course."

"You'd find me in another life? Would you truly do that?" - You murmured, the weight of Aziraphael's words slowly sinking in. Not just what he offered - all that was said slowly dawned on you. All the endless possibilities and crazy context the Angel introduced... There was too much information. Not to add most of it didn't sit right with everything you've learned about the world so far. "Without hesitation, dear." - The confession was quiet, shy; if he wasn't sitting right there, you'd shrug it off as a strange daydream. And yet, there he was - blonde hair, fair skin, blue eyes reflecting the sunlight, his palm drenched in cold sweat, his body trembling. A stranger that fits right into your life like a puzzle piece you never searched for. "Will I know who you are?" "Hardly." "Do you promise to remind me?" "Every time, again and again, until the end of times." - The Angel smiled, closing his eyes as you leaned forward, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead. It wasn't romantic by any means, it felt like a promise of things to come, a promise of the future.

Finding you after the fall of Pompeii wasn't easy. The longer he searched, the more horrified Azeriphael became - not like you'd remember his mere existence, but it pained to lose you. Especially when Aziraphale didn't have a proper chance to get to know you. Thankfully, after years of yearning and unreasonable regrets, it happened. It was the 6th century; officially marking 462 years since he'd met you.

And just as before, you appeared out of thin air - coming uninvited, but very much wanted and welcomed. Something was different that morning - the sunshine was warmer, the air was sweeter and birds chirped cheerful tunes as Aziraphale and his hunt returned to Camelot. He arrived for one of the Round Table meetings. And... There you were - one of the maids doing the laundry on a hot, sunny day, laughing about with your friends. Taking in your current form, Aziraphale nearly fell off his horse - caught by his squire at the last moment. You'd have a good laugh about his fumble about it, but soon, your expression softened as you watched the mysterious knight. Before you knew it, you fell under his spell once more. Your hair was neatly styled and even though your clothes were worn out, Aziraphael's breath hitched. A mischievous smile unarmed him and an endearing wink nearly gave him a cardiac arrest. In his eyes, your beauty overshadowed that of Guinevere's.

In this lifetime, you've had years (decades even) to get to know each other. Your relationship remained strictly platonic for its entirety as if your lifetime was just for courting you, learning to know you, all your intricacies and mysteries there were to discover about you. Accompanying you on your last days was a gruelling experience; watching your body slowly shut down day by day and get frail knowing he can't make it easier was horrifying. Yes, the Angel knew he'd see you again, but the fact couldn't stop either the tears or soft whimpers. When your heart stopped beating, Aziraphale wailed for the first time in his entire existence. The Angel grew to love this iteration of you, all the small details about you and losing you was agonizing. Just as before, he'd held your hand on your deathbed and promised to find you again; wherever you were, he would be. On the other hand, Aziraphael was positive he'd be able to recognize your aura and soul anywhere... It wouldn't be as much of a struggle to search for you.

He'd found you many times throughout history. Each lifetime bore a new experience and new exciting opportunities. Aziraphale didn't care about your background, lifestyle or gender - you being yourself was enough for the Angel. The longer he'd spent around you, the surer he became- he would follow you to the depths of Hell if asked. Each lifetime also brought excitement, usually in the form of a careful step forward and a sense of progression in your relationship.

It was natural you started to hold hands (that happened in the 9th century), started cuddling (13th century) and slept beside each other (15th century). His favourite memory took place in the 18th century. It was when Aziraphael asked if he could kiss you for the first time. After centuries of watching humans simply kissing, the Angel wondered - how did it feel? To feel your plush lips pressed to his, the warmth of your body spreading as you hold him in your arms. And oh boy, did Aziraphale remember every second of it?

You lived in Prague back then. The Spring was just ending, and soothing Summer was around the corner - everything was green, lively and drowned in golden sunshine. Aziraphale also remembered it happened on Charles' Bridge after a delightful evening in the National Theatre. And dear God Almighty, when you two kissed... Fireworks erupted inside him. His body was set ablaze with unknown, strange, exciting fire Aziraphael couldn't wait to explore. Your lips were so soft, your breath hot and sweet, you tasted so blissfully and the new strange sounds graced his ears that sounded like heavenly melodies... As Crowley would've put it - fucking Hell. The Angel was lost to you.

And now, he'd found you again; he'd been standing under a marquise, gazing at you absentmindedly. His expression was filled with unconditional love - anyone putting two and two together would think you'd been an item for years. Aziraphale was ready to run towards you, hug you tight and kiss you on your shoulder without a second thought. Truthfully, he'd grown fond of each little begging to your relationship. Each time, it was distinct; your life was different, your family was different, your history changed... He couldn't wait to learn it all again, to memorize everything about the current you.

Seemingly, you owned a bakery named Baked Bliss. You were listed as the owner, at least. And dear... Didn't you look tempting in your little outfit? Even though Aziraphale was a sucker for a crinoline and hot pair of stockings, the current fashion suited you. Despite your attire consisting of a comfortable pair of jeans, a perfectly fitted t-shirt and an apron with the bakery's logo, Aziraphale would've sworn he hadn't seen anyone dressed more tantalizing... Other than one certain Demon, that was.

Aziraphale's smile widened as he watched you take an order, joking around with a customer; your hair was messy, a spot of flour on your cheek possibly from when you tried to keep the hair off, circles under your eyes referring to an irregular sleep schedule. You looked happy. And Aziraphale couldn't wait to share the happiness.

That day's been a doozie. Your arms and feet hurt, you were running around like a rabbit with rabies but you couldn't yammer. Despite the awful weather, tourists came and went. England clearly became the Autumn vacation destination for students. The business was steady and good, you had to admit - even though you and your staff were tired to death, it was worth it.

You've even had to take over the register, for the time being, bloody hell. that's how packed the bakery was Baker Bliss. Holy fuck. You still remember the outing where you and Katie drank your asses off and came up with the name... Leaving college just a few days later, setting on a mission. And there you were. Right now, you were fucking grateful Katie talked you down into selling coffee too - it was a bit expensive to pay for all the barista courses and machinery, but now, your bakery had it all - amazing coffee, a great view of the University and Christ Church (Katie dubbed it a view 'to die for') and bloody brilliant baked goods.

"What can I do you for, Mrs Smith?" - This Mrs was one of your regulars, ordering a bunch of muffins each time her children were to visit. She was a sweetheart, always leaving a generous tip. Her strange scent, consistent with mint and spirits, always put you off though. - "Ah! Your order should be ready for pickup, I have personally overseen it. Phillip, our lovely assistant here, will hand it over and check it. If there's anything we could do to improve your experience, just let me know, alright?" "You're such a darling." - Mrs Smith grinned at you sweetly. Despite the impressive number of customers waiting to be served, you took time with each of them, chit-chatting around. Sure, some impatient customers left, but they mostly appreciated you and your staff's attitude. - "Since I'm here, lemme tell you about those bloody buggers..."

As usual, Mrs Smith gave you an extensive walkthrough of her current health issues and other unrelated struggles, having you nod and hum absentmindedly. The woman also ended your chat by pinching and slapping your cheek. Sighing, you smoothed the spot she'd touched, giggling when you realized you were covered in flour from head to toe. "Just a second." - Murmuring, you walked over to the sink to clean up. - "Excuse me, sir. I got too passionate with muffins this morn' and got the flour all over, I'm afraid! What can I... Do you... For?"

As your eyes took in Aziraphale's features, your expression changed. It got gentler, just as tantalized as the first time you've laid your eyes on him. Lips slightly parted, smiling subconsciously, eyes wide open. After knowing you so well for so long, Aziraphale also knew how flushed his presence made you; your brain blanked as you batted your eyes, subconsciously playing with the hem of your t-shirt. Blood rushed into every inch of your body as your heart thumped (you've always described the blood as 'boiling hot').

"That's quite alright, love." - The man grinned, dimples forming in his round cheeks. Something about his blue eyes felt so known, homey and safe. Fucking hell, his smile sent shivers down your spine as you've known it all your life. Pull your head out of your ass, fucking Christ, you cringed internally, it's just a man. - "I've got time. Plenty of it, actually." "Well then, okay, fine, brilliant... Umm... What is it you'd like to order?" "I'd like to..." - He murmured, gulping forcefully. Whatever he actually wished for had little to do with coffee or baked goods; you were positive about it. And yet... - "One of your employees kindly informed me your gingerbread latté is to die for." "Must've been Katie. Anything else?" "Make it two, actually. And two pieces of your best cake. If they are to die for, my friend will love them." "On it, sir. Walk with me?"

You'd pulled June behind the counter, asking her to take over for a minute - then, you started packing two pieces of your homemade iteration of Angel's Delight... And two Creme Brulees, on the house. You realized the man hadn't looked away as you waltzed over to the coffee machine. Not a care in the world about the cakes or the coffee. He only cared for you.

"Might I have a personal question? Might be a bit wacky." "I'm fond of nonsensical questions. Go on." "Do I know you? Never had this feeling before, but it's mental. Everything's fuzzy and I can't recall the details, I just know you're not a stranger. As if..." "This meeting was meant to be?" - The man finished, leaning his palms into the counter. Goosebumps ran down and up your spine, breath hitching in your throat. Nodding, you started working on his coffee. - "Would you wanna go out with me?"

You've never accepted offers like these before... And phew, you've had a lot of opportunities to do so. Hordes of customers asked you out and you never even entertained accepting. This man, however, had you smitten. Before you could stop yourself... - "I'd love nothing else." "Perfect!" - The man quite literally erupted with happiness, raising his fists happily, an enormous smile spreading lighting up his entire face. This made you smile too as you nervously styled your hair, your heart ready to burst. - "Ah, goodness, sorry. Makes me happy every time." "Excuse me?" - You burst with laughter, his overjoy making you joyous too. God, everything about him was infectious. - "... Every time? Whatcha mean?" "I'll explain everything when time's due." - Settling in front of the counter, the stranger carefully accepted the first latté. As your fingertips brushed his knuckles, your stomach performed a fucking flip, a spark of electricity running on your skin. - "All you need to know is that my name's Aziraphale." "What a lovely name." - Clearing your right hand, you reached out while masterfully whisking the milk. - "Name's Y/N. A pleasure to meet you." "Pleasure's on my side."

You wished you could spend more time with the acquainted stranger - before he left for London, you scribed your phone number onto the back of your business card, making sure you wouldn't mess up any part of it. Well, not that he wouldn't know where to find you, but communicating this was way more efficient. Until Aziraphale, his beige coat and white umbrella left your sight, your eyes remained glued to him. You must've been in a trance because Katie had to nudge your shoulder to remind you of a whole fucking bakery you ran.

"Earth to Y/N. You good, girl?" "Yeah, I just..." "Well, whoever this prince charming is, he sure as hell must be a magician because he got you like this." - To emphasize her words, she snapped next to your ear as you worked on orders side by side. - "Even poor ol' Evan was asking you out for weeks... And let me remind you, that boy had your dirty little imagination running when you first saw him."

"I can't describe it, I think." - You mumbled, shaking your head. Aziraphale felt ethereal, as he wasn't supposed to be real - and yet, his mind was set on you, his lips smiled at you and his eyes gazed at you, making you feel like a masterpiece... Well, at least you hoped you weren't delusional enough to dream him up. How he talked, smiled and... Everything about the man in front of you screamed tantalizing. - "It's like I already know him. That he's been here for me for centuries. My entire chest feels so warm as if he filled some black hole inside my chest... A hole I didn't know existed. Like I searched for him unwittingly." "Oh, so... You just went nuts, noted." - Katie mumbled, earning a rough nudge and a smirk. - "Sounds like some Jane Austen mumbo-jumbo." "Might be. Wouldn't it be nice, though? True cottage core, romantic walks, balls, huge gowns, silverware, drama..." "Sure." - Katie scoffed. - "Isn't he a wee old, though?" - The girl asked, handing all the cups to Phillip, the waiter for the day. - "A girl in her mid-twenties with someone like him? What's the bloke like - forty? Pushing fifty?" "What does it matter? Age's just a number these days. All I know is everything clenched inside me the moment he smiled." "And a prison cell's just a room. Also, you fucking vixen. Stop right there! That man surely has some fun coming." "Not like that! You're a bloody moron, Katie, you know that?" "Eh, you love me, so what does it matter?" "Exactly."

It took much longer than you'd appreciate to settle down on a true, serious date.

Aziraphale appeared to be a landline user - surely the last in England. He didn't possess a cellphone. Even though you were dying to text him, you physically couldn't. And you wanted to text him a lot. You stayed in touch via calls and postcards for the first two months. You struggled trying to keep Aziraphale out of your head. Each postcard found its way onto the fridge for you to look at, Katie sussing you're absolutely enamoured. 'A child painting exhibition,' she called it - secretly, her heart overjoyed watching you falling in love. His letters, though. The bloody letters. Never before had you turned into a girly who'd kick their feet in the air reading someone's correspondence... And there you fucking were, giggling like a kid, beaming after each over.

It all got critical after he'd send you a whole bouquet of white roses into Bakes Bliss, having you giggle and dance around in front of your customers. That was when you realised you yearned to finally see him. The sooner, the better. It had its perks, though. It felt very cutesy, like a romantic novel. You've found a corresponding rhythm of sending letters and postcards; you'd send yours every Tuesday and Thursday while he'd respond on Wednesdays and Fridays.

When the day finally fucking came, you were ready to throw a national holiday. You'd gather in front of the telly and watch some series while talking over the phone, mostly discussing the ridiculous plot lines and silly costumes. The sentence slipped past your lips as you absentmindedly stared at the screen. - "Are you free on Friday?" - Followed by a silent, soft. - "Yes."

You agreed to meet in London for a walk along the Thames, followed by a dinner. His establishment of choice was lesser-known, intimate and homey, hidden off the main street. It was one of the restaurants anyone but local residents would know about, an establishment with reasonable pricing and good-quality food. It was bougie, but still down to Earth; nothing like the Ritz, thankfully. Your cheap-ish dress from the mall didn't seem out of place. Aziraphale assured you, on multiple occasions, that you looked gorgeous. The man looked mindblowing too, wearing a forget-me-not shirt and beige tuxedo that complimented his light hair and baby-blue eyes. With batted breath, you fought an urge to kiss him out of the blue as he chatted about utter, cute nonsense.

Finally, after two fucking months of yearning, Aziraphale sat across you in the flesh, sending you excited smirks as he jolted around. Aziraphale was punctual and used strange, silly little words that made you giggle - just like over the correspondence. His small quirks warmed your heart, sending flashes of enjoyable heat throughout your body and jitters right into your stomach. Was it love? So quick? It must've been. Men like him weren't usually your type, but God - Aziraphale swept you off your feet.

Now that you've had proper time to study him, you noticed Aziraphale was something else in all the best ways possible. He was it. There were moments when his features softened, showing a vulnerable, innocent, almost childish side to him. Then, especially when he got passionate about certain topics, Aziraphale's features and posture changed, stealing your breath; he'd appear ethereal, almost translucent... As if he was something more than just a man - like he wasn't supposed to roam the Earth next to you. Despite that, one thing was certain - no matter what he did or talked about, he couldn't take his eyes off you.

"So, a bakery?" - He'd smile over a glass of wine, sending you a joyous wink. - "How'd that happen?" "Destiny, I'd like to think. Always dreamt of being a baker. While others chased imaginary monsters and dragons as knights and princesses, I baked biscuits. The idea was brewing for a long time until me and Katie drank our asses off at a college party and... Rest's history. We started as a stand with muffins next to the uni. Nowadays it's a merge of a coffee shop and a bakery. " - A simple enough explanation, you thought so. Then, you realized you also wanted Aziraphale to know the other reason; the one you hadn't shared as often.

"It also keeps me connected to my Nan. She meant the world to me and always looked after me for the weekend. Her bloody flapjacks were to die for. Everyone called her Ma Baker since I was little. Passed away two years ago." - Waiting for Aziraphale to laugh at your nostalgic joke, you watched him furrow a bit. The joke entirely flew over his head. "I'm sorry to hear that, dear. Watching your closest passing away is the utmost gruelling experience." "Found my peace with it a long time ago. She'd been sick for a long time and there's a certain point when you come to terms with it. You realize instead of lamenting about it, you should enjoy every last moment you've got... 's what me and Nan did."

"I like that stance." - Aziraphale muttered, leaning his head to his shoulder as he studied you. - "Never thought of death this way. It sounds nice, peaceful." "Still stings when you realize you won't see them again... Even to this day. But oh well, one has to keep it together. What is it that you do?" "There's this... Bookshop in Soho." - The man admitted, his cheeks tainted with a rosy blush. There wasn't anything to be embarrassed about, in your eyes. "Working in a bookshop is cool! Katie's a huge nerd, she'd love to take a look at your stock, I'm sure." - She'd also love to discuss our wedding and the names of our children, you thought with a scoff. "I own it, actually. And I also rent out a few shops around the block. You'd like it, I think."

This sat you flat on your ass. Christ. Just a year ago, you struggled to keep up with the rent in Oxford. Meanwhile, Aziraphale hadn't only owned a shop but also rented out multiple other properties. The perspective made you furrow. How lucky, successful and deep-pocketed must've he been? You wouldn't suspect books could make a living. "That must've been tough to come by..." "A few smart investments did the trick." - Aziraphale disclosed, nodding, twitching under your charmed stare uncomfortably. - "Property was much cheaper back in the day, frankly. What you've achieved is more impressive. I'm amazed by your sufficiency, truly. You had a dream, followed it and made it your reality. It's your merit - you're leading a life to be proud of." "You reckon?" "Oh... I know so."

Taking a long breath, you raised your eyes to look into Aziraphale's, sending him a soft smile. At moments, even throughout reading the correspondence, you've had a suspicion the man was pretending to meet you for the first time - taking his wording into consideration, it came across as if Aziraphale had truly known you for centuries. Even though Katie called you a nutter for believing and reading into the mythical romance tropes, you've felt the 'through all of universe, time and space' trope materializing in front of you.

Your mind drifted off as Aziraphale's gushed over the desert - while the man erupted about something as simple as a lava cake, you were leaning into the chair, playing with your glass of wine, letting your mind wander about. There was something about him; something timeless, infinite and definite.

"May I have a question?" - You murmured, leaning closer to him; he'd just swooned over the combination of vanilla ice cream, hot raspberry jam and runny chocolate dough. "Why of course." "Even if it sounds nutty?" "Yes." - The man chuckled, narrowing his eyes slightly. - "You already know I enjoy fruity questions." "Alright. Here goes... Who are you?" "I'm Aziraphale." - He'd chuckle, pretending the answer was clear as day - not quite comprehending the meaning and weight of your question. "No, I know that." - You chuckled in response, giggling over his innocence. - "What I mean is... Who are you? Truly?" - At this, Aziraphale smoothed the cloth napkin covering his knees, taking in a long, laboured breath. He'd been clearly stressed out.

"Are you worried I'm playing you?" - He'd whisper after a bit of thought. "What? No!" - His confusion made you laugh uncomfortably. Fuck, had you just opened up a topic that'd ruin this date? You sure hoped you hadn't. "Did I do something wrong, then? Something that'd scare you?" "Aziraphale, hey... Hey, please, look at me?" - Seeing him distraught upset you too. To pacify the fear in his eyes, you'd lean over the table and catch his palm in yours. As before, you could feel electricity sparking down your spine, the urge to kiss him swinging back in full force. As if you've done it hundreds of times sometime before.

"It was just a stupid question, a silly little idea... Nothing more." "Would you explain the silly idea?" - Moving in, Aziraphale covered your palm with his other, stroking it gently. "Well, it's stupid. I must be so awed that you seem... To go good to be true? Gentlemen like you are bloody hard to come by. I've noted you're using phrases that aren't very common these days, mainly when you get excited and ramble... And there's also this timeless elegance about you. Must've read too much fiction, nothing more." "What I'm about to ask isn't meant indecently..." - The man breathed, the gentle grip around your palm tightening. While your skin started to sweat, his remained warm and dry. - "Would you consider visiting my bookshop tonight? There's a separate bedroom you'd be more than welcome to use and a separate bathroom too. Wouldn't let you take the train back to Oxford alone this late at night on your own, anyway. Might be easier this way."

The invitation took you by surprise. Firstly, you weren't the one to do the do on the first date - but neither was, clearly, Aziraphale. Secondly, you'd suspect (based on the principles of his you'd noticed so far) it would take you longer than this for Aziraphale to invite you over or vice versa. Thirdly... Did this angel of a man just suggest he'd take the train back to Oxford with you just to see you safely off? Your heart was ready to fucking burst. "Are you certain it wouldn't annoy you?" "It's intricate to explain, but remember you wouldn't ever annoy me. Quite the opposite. I'd love nothing else. It's been a long time." - It's been a long time, you replayed in your mind. Strange way to word it. Did he mean the 'I wasn't with anyone' type of a long time or the 'you aren't a delusional scatty and I did wait for you through space and time' type of a long time?

"If it isn't too indecent, then... I'd love to stay over tonight. It's Sunday tomorrow and the bakery's closed anyway." The way Aziraphale's face burst with joy left you speechless for a bit. Your 'iffy alarm' was going off; you couldn't be insane. Based on his reactions, there was more to it all. And frankly, you couldn't wait to discover what it had been.

The bookshop was everything you'd expected and more - even though it'd been placed in one of the busy streets of Soho, it had a certain old-time charm. Massive bookshelves were filled to the brim with books, as one'd assume. As Aziraphale left you to explore the new space (presumably preparing the spare bedroom and whatever he was about to show you), you pulled out a book here and there... Just to find out most of these were insanely rare, first editions dedicated to 'Mr Fell'.

Digging deeper, you uncovered stacks of pigskin paper folded in casings, neatly hidden away. As you pulled some of these bad boys out, you noted names like 'Hamlet' and 'Romeo and Juliett'. The paper was very gentle, close to crumbling apart under your touch. And don't start on all the paintings, statuettes and decorations around the shop. You'd taken them in, staring with your mouth agape. Not only did they look fucking old, they also looked like originals dated to God fucking knows when. As you reached an impressive painting of some sort of an angel (uncannily similar to the man upstairs), Aziraphale sneaked behind you, giving you a proper fright.

"Oh, Dear." - He'd snicker gently, his fingers ghosting over the cutout on your shoulder blades. - "Everything alright?" Even though you had a hundred and one questions inside your brain, it all blanked for a bit. By simply stipping off the tuxedo and unhooking one bloody button on his neck Aziraphale awoken something inside you. Desire? Most likely. Would you do the do if asked? Definitely. How was it possible for someone so innocent to look so tempting out of nowhere?

You'd let him lead you to one of the sofas, taking a look at a massive wooden box embroidered with pure gold. It looked pretty and very personal. It was a handiwork that surely cost a small fortune. Based on its pristine polish, Aziraphale hadn't only looked after it but he'd taken active of it.

"Um..." - Clearing your throat, you downed an entire glass of water without hesitation. Was it you or did the air get hotter? - "It's just... I looked at your impressive collection of... Well... Everything." "Mhmh?" - The man nodded, smiling so widely that dimples formed in his cheeks." - "Found anything you fancy?" "Aziraphale, your collection blew my socks off. Anything I fancy - how about everything? Have you ever seen what you have lying around here? How much did it cost to assemble a collection of this bloody rarity and quality? And... How much time did it take?"

"Ah. That's funny." - He'd chuckle, bringing your attention back to the wooden box. - "... Didn't cost a pound." "I think... I'm sure I misheard." "I've collected it all myself." "So that copy Hamlet scribed on pigskin you're hiding back there..." "Original, not a copy. Gifted to me by Shakespeare himself, with a dedication. 'To my dear friend and loyal follower, Mr Fell. May luck and fortune follow thee on thyne journeys.'" - Aziraphel recited from his memory. He was fucking with you. Must've been. He must've caught a whiff of your delusion and played into it.

"The painting back there? That must be you, then?" "Well sussed." "Who painted it?" "Michelangelo." - The man answered, shrugging his shoulders like it wasn't a big deal. Michelangelo? The guy who... "Like the Sistine Chapel bloke?" - You wondered, the corners of your mouth twitching as you attempted to keep a serious expression. "Saying 'The Sistine Chapel bloke' doesn't nearly do him justice, but... Yes." - He'd agree, oblivious to the absurdity of it all. This straw broke the camel's fucking back as you burst laughing so hard that tears streamed down your cheeks.

"What's so hilarious about it?" - Aziraphale wondered, confused by your reaction. Keeping composure for even a second felt torturous, but you decided to humour him for a bit longer. "Are you listening to yourself?" "For your information, you've had one commissioned too." "As in commissioned from Michelangelo himself? I'm not even thirty and that bloke lived in..." "I keep it hung in my bedroom." - The man answered topically, looking away from you. Your reaction clearly hurt him. - "I recall the day the paintings were delivered. You were ecstatic and couldn't get enough of gazing at them. Always said he'd made you way prettier than you were." - Now it was your turn to stare in awe, a shadow of hurt lingering over your expression. Playing along, you whispered... "And what'd you answer?" "... He didn't even capture half of it." - His expression, filled with unsaid love and gentle passion, gave you goosebumps. - "Frankly, you've given him a run for his money - you'd always jolt about, humour him or talk to anyone willing to natter. My oh my, you were certainly popular back then. Poor Simoni couldn't keep you seated no matter how hard he tried." - And inexplicably, his words felt real. The confession felt oddly familiar, similar to a distant memory you've long forgotten, even though it must've been just a deranged lie and delusion.

"It all sounds wonderful, but..." "Let me take a guess before you decide on further action." - His blue eyes gave you a tender look, a sombre smile on his face. - "After I invited you on a date and left your bakery, you've disclosed to charming little Katie that 'I've just filled some black hole inside your chest, one you didn't know existed'?" - This took you back. All humour was gone like that as you stared at Aziraphale with confusion. That's what you've said, word-for-word. "Why..." - Chuckling with disbelief, you shook your head. A shock was slowly setting in as you tried deciphering how in the fucking world Aziraphale got to know. - "How do you know that? Did Katie tell you? Is this some sort'f prank?" "Well, that's what you always say... How you describe our first meetings, anyway." "First meetings?" "Let me show you something." - The man smiled softly. He finally opened the wooden box, pulled out a sketch, and handed it to you. Your eyebrows shot up high as you clocked the supposed 'date of creation': 1651.

Your heart dropped as you realized what you were looking at. While dressed in an over-the-top dress (the skirt was fucking devouring the depicted figure), with an equally horrible wig bumped onto the top of their head, it was clearly you sitting next to Aziraphale. Or at least someone uncannily similar to you. Based on the depiction, he'd been holding your hand in his, dollied up in a fancy ensemble accompanied by an equally atrocious wig. His eyes were glued to the profile of your face, staring at you like you've been a piece of art. The artist must've taken some liberties because, in the sketch, you displayed a rather tempting smile.

"Well..." - Clearing your throat, you'd hand the sketch back to Aziraphale. - "Strange coincidence, I agree. The lady is gorgeous, though. Good for you." - Without uttering a word, he'd exchange the sketch for a photograph. How were you to wiggle out of this one? No fucking clue. It was clearly you (some sort of a predecessor or a fucking twin), in Victorian clothing. It wasn't entirely feminine, though; despite what must've been the customs back regarding fashion, you clearly didn't worry... And Aziraphale didn't care by proxy, given he must've been the one to snap this picture. But God fucking damn, your twin was a stunner - hair let down, dressed in comfy pump trousers, white shirt, vest and black coat... Holding a top hat in your left palm, smiling very seductively - at least very indecently for that time.

"Ehm... Well..." "You were so proud of taking this picture." - Aziraphale chimed in, sighing dreamily. - "Photography was fairly new and it was the time of all sorts of fantastical fashion booms - this was when women started wearing trousers in England. You nagged about visiting for years and years... Until I broke and gave in. You loved England at this point in history. 'Feels so progressive compared to rest of Europe', that's what you said. We've been living in Prague at the time, and oh dear, what a wonderful city it was. Our little penthouse was charming."

"You're sticking to the story? This woman here who lived centuries ago... You're trying to convince me that this was me?" - With pure confusion, you'd hand him the photo - just to receive a small oil painting in return. It was hardly the size of a phone. You didn't even try to estimate how old it was. The answer was: older than half of London and three times the fucking price of your livelihood. And to his credit - again, yes. That was your fucking face. - "Aziraphale... I'm not sure how to react... It might've been a rushed decision to stay over, I'm sorry." "You asked me who I truly was. The answer is: not human." - He'd finally disclose, making you freeze. You didn't bother to cover the shock. Not human? The man seemed perfectly human to you... At least from this angle. Frankly, your brain short-circuited as you stared at him.

"Are you like some sort of a reptile, then?" "Huh?" - His mind immediately snapped to Crowley, to who he was. Could you possibly know the Demon? "Well, there's a conspiracy about lizard people ruling the world. Is that true?" - Aziraphale sighed, chuckling. You had no idea Crowley even existed. Good... Jolly. "No!" "Well, are you a vampire, then?" "Ah, no, but it struck me as an intriguing idea after I read the stroke of Briam's genius." "Are you some sort of a... God? Like in Percy Jackson?" - He'd visibly paled upon hearing 'god', looking over his shoulder... To see if someone's been listening, waiting for something - a reaction, perhaps?

"Do me a favour and don't mention her name again." "Whose?" "Hers." - He'd gritter through his teeth. "Like as in Go-" "Yes!" - Before you finished the thought, Aziraphale covered your mouth with his palm, shaking his head. So this man in front of you had something in common with the One Up There himse... Herself? "Is she a woman?" "It's not that simple. Human constructs such as gender and sexuality don't exactly apply to either Heaven or Hell. Neither to me, by proxy." "Well, you seem perfectly human to me..." "That's thousands of years of practice. While humans are born with the basis of their biological attributes, for the most part, we aren't created as such. It just helps us blend in better." "And which side are you on, for the record? The good or the evil?" - Even though it was meant as a jab, Aziraphale understood your question with utmost severity.

"I'm a heavenly principality, an Angel of the third sphere. Created and named Aziraphale by her among the rest of Angels." "Oh." - Was all you said for a while, leaning your head towards your shoulder while letting your eyes glide across his face. Even though you hadn't been entirely sold on whatever he was saying (yet)... You were halfway there. - "Does that mean you're a higher-up of some sort? Principality, third order, all that shebang?" - Trying to understand, you jugged your hands around. "That'd be tricky to explain. Just know I've been sent on important missions throughout human history." - The Angel proclaimed with importance.

"Oh?" - Chuckling, you nodded. - "Such as?" "Watching over the Western gate of Eden, for starters." "... And according to the book, that didn't fly so good, did it?" "It was complicated." - At first, Aziraphale started to furrow. You reminded him of Crowley; the Demon loved when the conversation stirred towards the Sword and the Garden. Poking fun at Eden was an old jab. Not funny. Well, he was annoyed until he noticed the jitters in your eyes. You were trying to make him smile. It was a joke. - "After, I also oversaught Noe and met with Job, who was a poppet by the way. Also oversaught Christ's crucifixion. And I've personally visited Pompeii before its destruction. What a wonderful, charming little city... Before the eruption, that is." - He'd proclaim proudly, sitting up. "But the volcano eruption of Pompeii wasn't any sort of Biblical event, no? Don't take it the wrong way, my memory isn't what it used to be. Must've missed Sunday school... Or ten." "No, but it holds great importance to me." "Why?" "We've met the night before your 'impending doom', as you dubbed it."

The conviction in his voice prompted you to keep eye contact. All the depictions of you, the absolute certainty Aziraphale spewed all the information and his serenity regarding the topic... It was too fucking much. Your stomach was shrinking, your palms sweated and your entire body quivered. Judging by your furrow and tears in your eyes, you were very uncomfortable. "Gotta admit, it's been a good jab on your part and you've committed greatly, but there's no need to keep it up..." "Promising I'd find you anywhere at any time has been one of the most important vows I've given to anyone in my existence." - The Angel muttered, shutting you down.

"Like... That 'through time and space' prompt?" - Peeping, your arms grabbed one of the pillows so you could hold onto something. Your knuckles burned as your fingers dug into the plushy fabric. Aziraphale would be better off dialling 112 - you were on the verge of a heart attack/anxiety attack. "If you'd like to name it as such. The culture and slang change fast these days..." - The man muttered mostly to himself, sighing. "Oh, my fucking Go... Nevermind. Can't say that either." - Sighing, you'd give Aziraphale an eloquent smile. - "I'm sorry if I'm worse-mannered than my other copies..." "There's no such thing as being a 'copy' of someone. You're you and that's plenty enough." "... But you admitted we met before the fall of Pompeii... And you have all these insane sketches, photos and paintings of me. I'm a copy of someone who existed centuries, fucking millennia ago. I'm not her."

"Nor would I ever expect you to be!" - The Angel blurted, his expression growing soft, a smile spreading. - "See, this is where it gets intricate." "Only now?" - Attempting to joke, you'd force a grin on your face. Aziraphale returned the gesture. "I've studied it relentlessly, so don't be worried - we're well informed regarding this matter." - We. The Angel just used the word we. We are informed. - "See, a soul is a matter that cannot be destroyed. It doesn't age, doesn't decay and never changes." "What should I imagine as?" "Whatever you prefer... You usually assume it's a ball of violet energy." "Why?" "Beat me to it." "Makes sense, though."

"Back to the topic. Since it doesn't change and can't be destroyed without the intervention of a higher power, most souls are trapped in a cycle. Everyone around you has lived tens, maybe hundreds of lives - one of my friends calls the cycle an 'environment-friendly recycling'." "So, reincarnation?" "Precisely." "And what happens to the others?" "Others?" - Aziraphale retorted, furrowing a bit. "Well, you definitely said 'most'. That doesn't mean 'all' as far as my grammar is concerned." - Now there you were; the soul Aziraphale knew and loved. The soul that wasn't willing to give up easily, fought until the bitter end, that hardly bent facing immediate danger. It was there, just hidden deep under your widely opened eyes and flustered cheeks.

"Souls deemed hopeless exist and these are usually condemned to the pits of Hell." - Aziraphale admitted silently, watching you squirm with a furrow. "What if I were... Deemed hopeless?" "Did you start a world war?" "Not that I can recall." "Have you intentionally mortally harmed thy neighbour?" "... No." "Are you a politician?" "Do I look like one?" "Then it's safe to assume you're not going to the pits, dear." - Aziraphale chuckled, watching a smile form on your face too. - "The point is, your soul is in a cycle of birth, life, death and rebirth, just like most souls roaming Earth. We've met casually and in an instant, I could feel a pull toward you. There's something about you, something that I resonate with. Now, after hundreds of years of knowing you, I'd find your soul anywhere... I even vowed to do so."

"That sounds romantic... And wacky." "Oh, it is utmost wacky." - The man chuckled, having you scoff and nod in response. "Why do I look like all the previous versions of me?" "Again, beat me to it. We never found out... But you're not the only one resembling your past existences." - Furrowing, Aziraphale sighed pensively. - "I've been a fan of certain Paul Mounet. He'd been an actor back in his prime and very talented. I wonder if Keanu Reeves..." "I have a question." "Hope it's wacky and whimsical." - The Angel smiled, having an enormous grin forming on your face. "Am I always feminine? You've said it's the soul that counts and makes me what I am. The energy's how you find me. It makes me. Does it come with, yannow, an assigned gender?"

"As I've said, it's more complicated than that... But generally no." "So, you've also known me as a man?" "All sorts of things, actually." - Beat you to it, you didn't know how to interpret this statement. Something about his tone, however, made you so flattered you chose to overlook it. "And was I still beautiful to you?" "Can't imagine a world where you wouldn't be... Or a version of you that wouldn't steal my breath away." - Aziraphale muttered, clearly blushing. If your curiosity and presence made him this happy, you wondered... "... Did you love me? No matter who I've been?"

Dropping the L word might've been wee but too much, you realized right after the words left your damn fucking mouth. Your whisper froze the man sitting opposite you and you could watch his eyes narrow and lips straighten. Well, you thought, there's this mumbo-jumbo about souls entwined - he must've loved you, no? "There's anything in Heaven nor Hell that'd keep me from loving you. Time or space doesn't matter to me, neither do other circumstances. On the contrary, 'all the circumstances' make you human." - The confession made you tear up. Whether it was an inexplicable feeling of being loved unconditionally or the lunacy of it all, that you didn't know. All you knew was that all your organs suddenly felt warm and fuzzy. Trying to dry your tears, you nodded.

"And is there only me?" - Now, this was a fucking ice-breaker, Aziraphale had to admit. - "If you're the... The principality or whatever, it'd make sense if I wasn't the only one. I'm not around the whole time, right? Wouldn't hold it against you. Just curious, really" He grew accustomed to all your curious little questions - who was I? Did you love me? What's your favourite memory of us? Were we married at some point in our common history? Did we... You know, fool around? Never (Aziraphale had to stress the 'never') had you asked if there was someone else. It slipped past your lips so casually, so easily; as if you truly didn't hold a grudge if there was someone other than you. And of course, there was someone else out there.

The Angel realized the depth of his emotions for Crowley in 1941, he could recall the moment in great detail. The books. Crowley had saved the damned books. Such an act of kindness could only subside from knowing Aziraphale so bloody well. It, also, was actually a selfish act. Crowley wanted his Angel to be happy, to save the god-forsaken books, as he'd put it. Their history and relationship had always struck Aziraphale as endlessly more complicated than the life he'd built with you. Aziraphale was an Angel. Crowley was a Demon. Could they ever work out? Could he be more than the Angel's friend? What if Aziraphale just had a tidbit of courage? However, the talk never came. The topic hung in the air for millennia, but neither took a bite, not even after Armageddon't. Yes, Aziraphale knew how to name the feeling. Crowley must've too. And yet... It was easier to just be with you and play pretend with Crowley. You weren't a threat in Heaven's eyes and the other Angels wouldn't set you ablaze if they'd get to know you were an item. In fact, the Angels would just take the piss out of Aziraphale. That couldn't be said about Crowley. Straight to the stake, the Angel assumed.

"It's..." - Aziraphale breathed out after a hot minute. He'd been blushed before, but he was rosy red now. You've hit a nerve, surely. "Let me guess - complicated?" "Indeed it is." - The Angel sighed, shaking his head. Crowley was aware of your existence - the Demon even asked about your well-being if he was drunk enough. What difference would it make if you knew of Crowley's existence? Would this be the lifetime Aziraphale finally erases the line between you and the Demon? No, he'd realise immediately. The spike of jealousy was a clear answer. For which one Aziraphale felt jealous toward, that he didn't know. "What are they like?" "Hmph..." - The Angel sighed, leaning his head to his shoulder. - "They aren't human either. That's why it's complicated." "Are they a reptilian?" "The reptile people don't exist, trust me." "How does the principality present itself?" "A human male. Currently Scottish, if I'm not mistaken." "Oh, now that sounds fun! Are you in love with him, then?" - Based on Aziraphale's scared gaze, you safely assumed the answer. So in love with hurt - without having the talk. Nodding, you changed the topic again.

"And do I know this Scot? Have we met?" "The two of you met twice. Once in Pompeii and the other time..." - Memories clouded Aziraphale's eyes as he went back in time. Crowley raided your home because he needed Angel's help and knew he was inside your shared home. Aziraphale did his best to forget as much detail he could - the smile on Crowley's lips, the adoring gaze in your eyes, the way the bastard kissed your knuckles and you giggled... No. You two were separate parts of Aziraphale's existence and he'd do his damnest for it to remain as such. It was a big fight they had after, Crowley and him. The duo didn't talk for ten years after. - "... Didn't fly so good, as you've worded it." "Oh, I get it. It's to accept other people's feelings when you've known someone for millennia. I bet he was jealous. Just a measly little human luring his Angel boyfriend away... Outrageous." - It was a joke, but Aziraphale hadn't relaxed, not even a bit. "Precisely." - The Angel answered thoughtfully.

"Listen, Aziraphale." - You whispered, holding your arm in his direction until he caught it with his. - "Knowing you are brave enough to confront me with the story... Our story, factually, is very honourable of you. But...Even though it all sounds awfully nice, almost too good to be true, it'll take time for me to believe and adjust to the situation." "I wouldn't ever force you to... Dear." - The Angel scoffed, slowly smoothing over the knuckles to ease you in. You were as tense as a well-tied rope. - "If you feel uncomfortable or don't want any part of this, you're welcome to leave me behind and live your best life. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself." - '... Even though I'd follow every step you'd take and assure your life would be smooth and happy. I wouldn't be opposed to forcing it with a few Miracles', Aziraphale thought but hadn't added out loud.

"I am uncomfortable." - You admitted with quavers. - "And I'm freaking out, just as I should be. This entire confession is wacky at best. This happens in fiction - books, movies and yes, it's nice to daydream about these tropes becoming true. But now? We're a heavenly principality and a human sitting across each other, holding hands. This confirmation shakes up my entire world, you see? Heaven and Hell are real. Angels and Demons walk among us and co-exist with us. There's a lot of adjusting ahead for me." - Shaking your head, you squeezed his palm tighter, biting your lip. - "But something within me screams that if I leave now, I'll regret it. The hole you've filled by waltzing into my bakery threatens to re-open if I don't give this a proper go... And I'd be an idiot if I let you slip through my fingers without a fight." "Sounds like an awful conflict. Perhaps I shouldn't have..." "Hey. Loosen up." - Your careful smile reappeared as you patted Aziraphale's palm. It ran jitters of happiness down his spine. - "Having an internal conflict is as human as it gets. Better get used to it, Angel. It'll turn out somehow."

Sometime later, you sat in the window in the second store of the bookshop, watching the lively Soho street under your dangling feet, hidden away in a tidied-up bedroom. The Angel prepared a two-piece sateen pyjama set and a warm cup of hot cocoa on the bedside table. Even though nothing made sense before him, everything in your life started making sense with his confession, all at the same time. As you've disclosed to Katie many fucking times, you felt there's something greater about the entire situation and the relationship between you. Sure, you hadn't hit it off properly so far (as Katie reminded you each time, without fail), but you've had a feeling it wouldn't take too long for you to give in. You've been hesitant your whole life and you've never loved with your entire heart - Aziraphale's aura, however, broke these walls easily. Too easily, you wanted to add.

As the Angel confirmed just an hour earlier, there were centuries of trust engraved into each word and gaze, into every gesture. Each tingle of feeling you've felt awakening inside your chest was justified and right. While Aziraphale also confirmed he doesn't know you, the current you, on a technical basis, he'd learned everything about your essence, swearing you were the best human he'd met (in his eyes, to quote him - what a silly little Angel with a biased point of view)... And you could live with that.

Part II: The Remnants March of 2024, Baked Bliss, Oxford, England:

Out of habit and boredom, you did the usual - looked at your phone (specifically at the empty lock screen) and then pushed it back into your pocket. A defeated sigh filled the silence of Baked Bliss as you stood behind the counter, leaning into a high stool. The business had been atrocious in the last few months - Oxford students were preparing for their exams, so they crawled out of their dorms for a coffee once or twice per day and tourism was still heavily marked with all the post-pandemic stress. The bakery hung on a thread, remaining afloat thanks to your impressive savings - but how long could that last? Perhaps you should've agreed with Aziraphale, take his word and let him grant you access to his banking account. Would save you a lot of bullshit, ey? Well, you were half a year late to that.

Az. Angel. Aziraphale. Love. Gulping down the dumpling forming in your throat, you sighed again, nodding with your jaw clenched, fighting tears. What was the emotion coursing through your veins? Was it anger? Disappointment? Loneliness? You couldn't distinguish it anymore - certainly fucking not after feeling it non-stop for 6 months. Each time you looked at the screen, you got your hopes unreasonably up - just to get them crushed each time. Until that day, you've eagerly checked your mailbox every fucking morning just to find it empty - just so you could stand in the quiet street without having an idea what to do with yourself or your life.

The monotone emotions and pain overtook you a long time ago. The black hole opened agape after he'd disappeared. The few years you've spent together, as partners, were the happiest of your life. Over time, you became his girlfriend - just as he became your boyfriend. The first time he'd introduced you as such at a merchants association meeting, you couldn't stop giggling. Aziraphale became your beacon of hope, your safe ground. The Angel would be there through bad and good times, cheering you up and consoling you anytime things got too tricky. You'd be coming home to a home-cooked meal, a glass of great wine and most importantly a loving embrace and a warm bed.

Even though you dated for 5 years, it'd felt like a small infinity. A small bubble you constructed piece by piece, your lives slowly intertwining until they merged, becoming one. The Angel never got old - the more you knew about him, the more infatuated you were. The man was so gentle and delicate with you, assuring you twenty times before he'd do anything - like taking you by the hand on a walk, sleeping in one bed, smoothing and playing with your hair... This Angel was all about comfort and consent. And bloody hell, you loved him for that. You could recall the day you first kissed - 2019 was one of the worst years you lived through. Nobody around you remembered the world going bloody mad for one quiet Spring morning. Nobody but a selected few... Well, you were a part of said 'few'.

On said Spring day, you saw and heard shit yourself and the rest of the shit you didn't see Az recounted in great detail. For half a year after the supposed End of the World, you still saw Satan's detailed bloody image when you closed your eyes at night - as if you stood beside Az and faced that slimy motherfucker (not to mention Satan was also a deadbeat father). Over your shared time, Az enlightened you about everything he knew. He started with the existence of Heaven and Hell, then told you stories about Angels, Demons and other principalities and existences roaming the world, about their history - at least his recount of events. The Angel also told you about how everything came to be, how it turned out and where it was headed. Therefore, this little bean didn't forget to mention Warlock and impending doom. It was hard to wrap your head around Armageddon, but you accepted it as a fact - opting to live a happy, good life until that day.

On said Spring morning, after Atlantis was rediscovered and Kraken started cruising the seas, you realized it started and the world was soon to end. You rang Az up without hesitation but nobody answered - leaving you scared to death for the entire Sunday. Opting for relaxation, you cooked a delicious lunch, had a glass of wine and then, gardened, waiting for everything to end in flames. It'd be quick, Aziraphale always assured, you won't even notice. Fast as falling asleep.

When he'd appear on your doorstep late afternoon (dashing as ever), you'd let go of the ceramic flowerpot in your palm, walking toward him with mouth agape - Az's heart skipped a beat upon seeing you in your gardening outfit, dirty from the clay, enormous gardening gloves covering your arms. Watching you gardening always did things to him. By the time you'd hug him, you were already crying, sobbing into the crook of his neck. If the Angel was here, home, it must've all ended. At least Aziraphale didn't lie about the Armageddon shebang. You didn't suffer. As fast as sleeping, just like Az promised. Without thinking it through, you palmed his jaw and kissed him like nothing else mattered.

Something as trivial took a literal Armageddon... Probably because Az admitted he finds kissing enjoyable, but doesn't know what stance to take. Was it considered temptatious, to kiss an Angel? Was it a sin to feel the rush coursing through his veins each time? How inherently wrong was it to let his mind ponder about other indecent topics? Yes, there were moments when you figured 'fuck, I'm gonna kiss this man so hard', but you never did. Not until you both perished, reunited in your personal iteration of heaven - your small house on the outskirts of Oxford. His lips, plush and warm, tasted like blooming flowers; like your favourite dish; a fizzy drink you liked; sweet and savoury at the same time. A simple kiss got out of hand fairly quickly as you palmed his beige tux, pulling him closer while his palms gently nested on your hips to keep you both grounded.

After you'd let go of him, you'd giggle like kids, both flustered and out of breath. - "Heaven must be a place on Earth. Who knew we'd spent the eternity together?" "What?" - The Angel stuttered, his cheeks rosy and eyes glittering with excitement and post-make-out adrenaline. "You said the soul determines its place of final rest autonomously. I'm glad we're here - you always loved Oxfordshire during spring." "Y/N, darling..." - What that, Az pinched your arm very carefully - having you squeal in pain. "What's that for?!" "We're at your house in Oxford. Nothing... Nothing happened." "But the Kraken... And Atlantis... And the horrible traffic jam at M25..." "Do you consider a traffic jam on M25 an event annunciating the end of the world?" "Meh. I mean, who knows? M25 usually gets horrid but that traffic jam? Demonic, I swear. Well... What happened? Since the... Armageddin't?" "I'll tell you all about it. Come, love, let's have a glass." - Az cooed and kissed your shoulder, leading you to the living room, the adrenaline rush caused Az to ignore the smudges of dirt on his favourite tux.

After listening to the entire story of Adam, the Four, some Londoners and the Scottish Demon, everything suddenly felt sweeter and easier. Knowing you've just survived Armageddon (and that your boyfriend personally oversaw it wouldn't happen) gave everything a brand new feeling as if everything was wrapped in a pink, glittery filter. Life was brilliant. Everything felt amazing, even the things that made you mad before. You were deeply in love, had amazing friends, a blooming business and a nice little house in Oxford. This was most of what you dreamed of having, of achieving. And the sense of fulfilment tasted sweet. It was all too good - until last summer.

You remembered the last day you saw Aziraphale - your last encounter haunted your dreams, leaving you restless. It was just another usual weekend Az spent with you in Oxford, you liked to think - nothing out of the ordinary. You watched movies, took Katie and her girlfriend for dinner, and listened to records. Stuff you did every weekend. You loved staying the weekend over in Soho, in the bookshop, but you couldn't entirely relax when you weren't around Baked Bliss in case your employees needed assistance. So you mostly opted to stay in Oxford for your sanity.

As usual, you escorted the Angel onto the train station and waved at him until the train left the platform. Sheesh, you couldn't wait - you've just made plans for your first vacation fucking ever. To say you were joyous was an understatement. After years of resisting Az's puppy eyes and wishful tangents, you finally agreed on a small weekend getaway in Paris. Just earlier that day actually. Convincing you wasn't easy, but you've finally cracked - you finally agreed to leave your beloved bakery for the weekend, leaving Katie in charge. It was meant to be a romantic weekend filled with everything Paris had to offer - visiting the monuments, listening to all the street performers you'd find, and tasting all the intriguing food and wines. You gave into the temptation with a sheepish smile, admitting you could get inspired to incorporate a new baked good into Baked Bliss' menu.

Frankly, a getaway in Paris sounded heavenly. You needed rest and relaxation, to forget the daily fuzz of being a businesswoman. You buzzed with joy and so did Aziraphale. Well... At least seemingly.

You hadn't seen him since the day he took the train back to London. When he hadn't called from the bookshop (to notify you he arrived safe and sound) it raised partial red flags. He'd called each time without a fail. Yet, you assumed he was busy. He was an Angel and, in the end, a heavenly principality. The boys (as you referred to the Demon and him) got wrapped up in some outward shebang, you assumed. You tried calling in the evening when Az didn't. And in the night. And the morning. And the other day... And the day after... And most days after that. You remained positive Aziraphale just got wrapped in another whimsical adventure with his Demon buddy, there was nothing more to it. It'd happened once before. Az went AWOL, coming 'home' after three weeks of no contact.

Hitting the mark of one month without Az was rough, but you remained hopeful. Well, at least until December. Around Christmas, you started to crumble. His absence marked something awfully wrong. Aziraphale, frankly, adored Christmas. Everything about the holidays pumped him. The Angel grew to love baking sweets along with a skilled baker such as yourself. He'd talked you down, year after year, to binge all the horrid Christmas movies and listen to carols. He loved cuddling in horrific sweaters and cherished taking pictures for cards, sending them to all your friends - you'd usually hug in these shots, showing off the sweaters, laughing happily. And, in the last few years, Az also loved kissing you under the mistletoe, gently booping your nose when leaning away.

And that year's Christmas felt bloody miserable. Az was nowhere to be seen. The Christmas spirit never arrived at your doorstep, despite all the decorations, typical food and horrid sweaters. Katie attempted to invite you to hers, but you remained adamant about staying put until Aziraphale came home. It was then that you turned into a bloody depressed mess. By then, you attempted everything in the books - texting, calling, sending a letter, even visiting the bookshop... Just to find a stranger (a pleasant young woman) sitting behind the counter. That Christmas, you remained seated at the dining table dressed in a horrid sweater with a dinner prepared for two - you attempted drinking the pain away with eggnog (out of all the alcohol you could've picked), crying your eyes out. New Year's, however, was even worse.

The void devoured you whole. No joy or love to be felt, lack of enthusiasm and desire to achieve anything new. Fuck, you never thought you'd be a co-dependent girly, but hey... There you fucking were. At the moment, you didn't even feel alive, you didn't feel entirely human - you'd be best described as an animated puppet getting through life, you liked to think. The coffee and baked goods, you felt, were also marked by Az's disappearance - everything got mediocre and repetitive. You lacked the fucking passion to change anything.

The door opened and the bell rang, drawing your attention. As some sappy old song poured out of the radio, you attempted to smile and watched the newcomer. This radio station was horrid, Katie informed you many times. Even now, she had a sour expression and slowly, inch by inch, shifted her lovely bottoms towards the radio. Frankly, you liked the song that'd been playing. But to each their own, you thought. The truth was, Katie couldn't stand your attitude in the last few months. A dramatic heartbreak, she thought, was not the end of the world. You've survived such breakups before, but any left you acting as lifeless. The girl was tempted to stalk Az's ass down just to stomp it into a square. Whatever he'd done to you was a job well done. He'd ruined you. Bickering about the radio station was the most fun Katie had with you in weeks.

Then, your gaze finally landed on the customer. Oh, dear, he wasn't local, couldn't have been - not in your wildest dreams. Something about him (in general) fixed your eyes in place, your entire being gravitating toward his pull. Who the fuck was this? Even though the sky's been cloudy, the man wore sunglasses covering his entire sockets - this meant you could only read his emotion based on the angle of his eyebrows (already curled in a strange, worrying angle) and the line of his lips (straight as a rule). Based on the tidbit of his face you could see (mainly his stunning cheekbones) and flaming red, meticulously styled, hair, you assumed he was young - more or less around your age. This lad was also probably the first person with a face tattoo you'd met face-to-face. The snake looked great, though. And dear God, his wardrobe was popping - this guy was a stunner. The black tux was clearly tailored, combined with a suiting black turtleneck, loosely tied silver tie and a pair of the tightest fucking jeans you've seen.

It appeared the interest was reciprocated as the man stared right back at you, his chin rising slowly as if he measured you. The staredown must've been hilarious - the man stood across you, hands in his pockets, seemingly deciding whether you were appalling or lovely - whether to ask you out or damn you to the pits of Hell. Not that you'd appear more approachable. Palms on your sides, one eyebrow twitching as you took the guy in, your entire posture asking 'wanna get punched or sum?'. During your staredown, he finally clocked in the song on the radio - something about nightingales if you heard correctly. Grunting, he surely rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers silently. The radio changed stations, making you turn to Katie.

"... asked you not to do that." "What?" "That." - You hissed, turning from the disinterested customer, a wrinkle forming between your eyebrows. "What are you on about, you wacko?" "Changing the stations. You know well it worsens my mood, Katie." "Hadn't touched it." "Huh?" "I didn't touch the bloody radio, you moron." - Just when your brain connected the dots, the man spoke - knocking the air out of your lungs.

"Excuse me, ladies?" - Now, the Demon leaned into the counter, sending you a childish, somewhat unpleasant smile. - "I'd love a coffee if you care for it?" - The accent was a dead giveaway, his demeanour cementing the discovery. This wasn't just someone - this principality standing before you was none other than the Demon you'd heard so much about. You lover's lover. The Crowley you dreaded. "Mhm!" - You squeaked, nodding with a very exaggerated smile. - "Welcome to Baked Bliss, a bakery with a view to die for!" "Thought's a coffee shop?" - The Demon muttered, taking a long look around. It was vacant and smelled of vanilla and coffee beans mixed with sanitiser. A sign of a good spot. But nothing he'd imagined based on the photos and stellar reviews online. "Does 'somewhere between' cut it?" "Suppose."

Your palms sweated and your breath was laboured. Why was Crowley, the Demon, in your fucking bakery? Something happened to Az, must've, and Crowley chose to bear the bad news. Why so bloody late, then? Seven months. For seven months you pretended Az would come home any second to hold you in his arms and sway you around while humming some tune he'd heard on the radio. For seven months, delusions protected you from gruelling reality. And Crowley was here to tear said delusions apart, to explain how dirty the Angel did you, that you didn't deserve mourning of suffering someone like Aziraphale... Crowley arrived to break you free - according to his words, not yours.

"So... What can I do you for?" - You chirped, the pretended tranquillity disheveling with each second the Demon stared at you. "Coffee." "What kind?" "Six shots of expresso to one cup." - The man answered without hesitation, only stopping upon watching your horrified expression. Six shots in one cup? That would kill an ox, let alone someone resembling a human. - "... With a smidge of almond milk? And a blueberry muffin, of course." "Of course." - You nodded. - "Anything else I could help you with?" "Twenty minutes of your time. Doable?" "Since you're asking so nicely..." - Muttering, you nodded in Katie's direction. - "Can you take over? Half an hour tops."

The girl looked around the bakery, utterly unphased. Sliding her glasses up her nose, she nodded with a sigh. - "Don't know if I can, boss, the shop's filled to the brim. Can't even hear you over the ruckus." "Oh, wow, you're funny." - Matching the tone of her voice, you answered with equal irony. "I've been told, yes. I'm hilarious." "Delusional if anything." "We're best friends thanks to my charming personality." "But I definitely didn't hire you because of it." "Love ya." "Love you too, dumbass." You've prepared Crowley's coffee just how he asked you - six espressos in one cup (you even picked the best blend your bakery offered) with a dash of almond milk and made a cup yourself too. Packing a few muffins (you've baked earlier in the morning), you took off your apron and nodded in Crowley's direction.

"Hadn't paid." - The Demon objected like a head-strong child, firmly standing before the counter. Katie was already operating the register, shooting a cautious look at you. Her eyes said it all - let him pay. You needed money, that much was true. But what impression would making Crowley pay? "'s my treat. Don't worry about it." "You do this often?" "Huh?" "Letting people go without paying a dime. How's the bakery still afloat?" "I'm not letting my friend's friends pay. Doesn't feel right." - Even though you refused Crowley's money, the Demon still pulled out his wallet and started taking out all sorts of banknotes. Even though Crowley hadn't answered your 'friends' remark aloud, you could clearly see him muttering.

"What are you doing? I just told you..." "Can't refuse a generous tip, can ya?" - The Demon smiled widely, shoving an entire bundle of banknotes into the tip jar. He was a Demon - of course, he had infinite money cheat code sewn in his wallet. "That we certainly can't, sir." - Katie cooed, not letting you answer as she took the banknotes out without hesitation. - "Have a lovely, most wonderful day." "Hadn't had one in years, sweetheart - just a steamroll of dread and agony." - Crowley smiled in answer, strutting toward you and the door. - "That radio station is atrocious, 'tween you and me." "Yeah, it's bloody sickening. Come again!" - Katie cried out, giving you the look - the 'I was right and you were dead wrong' one. Flipping her off, you followed Crowley into the gloomy day.

The two of you sat in a nearby park, five minutes away from Baked Bliss, watching the nearby pond in stunned silence. Neither touched their coffee or the blueberry muffins as if it were just a backdrop and nothing else. Pigeons and ducks quacked, serving as the only interruption. "Friends?" - Crowley asked simply, leaning his elbow into the back of your chosen bench. You've just turned your head at him, still watching the ducks. - "You called me a 'friend's friend'." "That's who you are." "You never met me." "Heard all about you, though." - You admitted, a bittersweet smile spread on your lips. - "When a chance presented itself, he wouldn't shut up about you." "How did you recognize me if we've never met?" - So he didn't doubt it - great, you assumed, the man next to you truly was Crowley.

"Anybody's trousers should be this tight. Ought to be a demonic power to walk in that thing. The rest was just me not being a moron, putting two and two together." "He ever shown you a picture of me?" "No. My imagination's just very vivid." "What gave me away, then?" "The accent." - With that, you finally spared Crowley a look - you also picked out one of the muffins and started picking it apart. Not to eat it, just to feel it crumble under your fingers. - "He always put emphasis on your accent. And, for your information, he wasn't wrong."

Even though you attempted to look fierce and brave, the forceful gulp gave you away. When on the topic of Aziraphale's depictions, yours was also uncannily accurate - even according to Az's 18th-century depiction. 'Oh, she's simply brilliant!' - The Angel stuttered, certainly drunk beyond acceptable. His face was flushed smile so wide it threatened to tear his cheeks. Crowley, while curious, was also a tidbit jealous. How amazing did you have to be to have Aziraphale looking like the luckiest man alive? - 'The dichotomy of humans never ceases to awe me. She's so delicate, like a flower, and yet one of the most intimidating fighters I bumped into. What you'd like, I'm sure, is how fiercely she defends her freedoms, thoughts and stances and yet, she managed to find enough of a balance to listen to your thoughts and take them into account. She's terrific with compromises... A gentle soul filled with love but... How beautiful she is... Her lips... Hair... Ankles...' Frankly, Crowley heard one and a million depictions of you (from Az's perspective) that night. He'd ignored all the biased descriptions of your physicality, but your personality and attributes were dead-on. Fierce, but delicate - and broken into million pieces. Just like the muffin you kept on crumbling.

You weren't a dunce either, Crowley realized with a slight furrow, you were aware of why he was in Oxford. It must've been connected to Aziraphale. "Cut the chase, will you?" - Closing your eyes, you'd clean your jeans from the crumbles. Your martyred expression said it all. You realized there was a reason Crowley travelled to Oxford and not Aziraphale. - "Is he... Dead?" "Principalities can't die, come on, the Angel surely explained. However, your description's dead on." "So... Unvencionally discorporated, then?" "That's not it either." "Speak your damn mind, then. Be quick. A clear-cut's the best for a break-up." - You wanted to be done - hear out whatever Crowley had on his mind so you could move on and smash a few plates to relieve the anger.

"You think the Angel sent me to break up with you in his name?" - The Demon hissed, bitter amusement palpable. "Well, he is a gentle soul. I doubt he'd let a word that could hurt me slip past his lips." "Oh, wow." - Leaning into the bench even firmer, Crowley shook his head. - "Seems we'd known a different man." - With this revelation, you stared at the profile of Crowley's face, realizing you weren't the only broken-hearted person on said bench. The giveaway wasn't easy to catch, but it was the voice crack of someone as headstrong and confident as the Demon seemingly was.

"What was it like?" - Asking about their relationship would be uncomfortable at best, you realized. Painful at worst, for both you and Crowley. "What do you mean?" - Sounding more like 'what-chu-mean?'. "What you had. I might be human, but I'm not fucking stupid. It must've been grand since you've hated me so much." "That's a strong word, lady. Hated you?" - Crowley reiterated, clearly confused. - "Who said anything about 'hate'?" "Always came across as such." "Huh?" "We're in love with the same entity, right? Why didn't we ever spend time together, then? It's always either 'you and him' or 'me and him', not a single story involving 'us'. Makes one wonder."

This straw broke the camel's back - Crowley stared you down as if you said the worst joke in existence and you reciprocated, furrowing with true disappointment and seeming fury. The Demon did his best, his fucking best, to approach the situation with composure and easiness - Crowley planned on protecting you from the worst of it (to ensure you'd stay safe and afloat as he vowed), he didn't shy away from protecting you from yourself if the situation would require as such. But hearing you admit you were positive Crowley hated you set his fuse ablaze again. He wasn't ecstatic or keen regarding you, true, but he was interested in meeting you. Always had been. Aziraphale certainly knew this and yet, he wouldn't allow it. Two separated lives - two split lovers.

The last time you met (sometime in the 18th century) Crowley wouldn't shy away from using the term 'captivated' (by you) and the Angel knew that - they'd even argued over you, hadn't spoken for ten years after that. Even now, as Crowley's eyes stared at your face, he felt the same faint, unnameable tension - you were one of few humans that had ever captivated his attention repeatedly and for longer than a few moments. The Demon couldn't pinpoint what pulled him in, ignoring your physicality altogether. He was trying to decipher what about your soul bewitched Aziraphale.

"Alright, human, listen here. He left. Both of us. For what, you ask? For being a fucking Archangel... I doubt we'll ever see his damn face again and it's probably for the better." - The Demon hissed (the 'bettah' took you by surprise), his reptile tongue showing for a bit - given your wide eyes, you took notice. He was about to ramble, not watching the words spitting out his mouth. If he'd pay attention, he'd realize each word cut like a dagger. - "Beat me to it, he never introduced us, even though I asked him to. He probably grasped it wouldn't make a difference. But there are millennia of history 'tween us and I suppose the Angel took us seriously. See, there was a team, something beyond you'd comprehend. The team was me and him, the two of us against the entirety of Hell and Heaven. A Demon and an Angel. We had our own side. Just Crowley and Aziraphale against the world. Hate to break it to you, sweetheart - looks like you've always been the third wheel." "Mr Crowley I..." "You're just a human. You can do all the lovey-dovey tosh with literally anyone else on this planet, don't let ol' bastard and his leave bring you down." - One shattered, broken lover's enough; Crowley wanted to add, but he grunted instead.

It wouldn't be too far-fetched if you'd just leave. His words cut like a dagger twisting inside your shoulder, sending flashes of uncomfortable heat throughout your body. You were so close to walking off and leaving Crowley in the park, along with Aziraphale and all of their shebangs in the past. The man's emotionality, however, opened a window to his soul - a little fraction of his true self hidden under all the sarcasm and cool-guy-factor. What you saw was eerily familiar - a void of solitude and inhuman torment. Crowley, whether you liked it, was your mirror.

For Crowley, this was all a mercy kill. For whom? Hoped for both. He planned on putting your hopes down, opening all the pain you've tried to avoid and letting you suffer for a bit. When he'd check up on you in a few years, you'd have a partner, be happy and have a proper life or whatnot, just as Aziraphale clearly wished for you. The Demon squirmed under your stare. It was filled with agony, yes, but there was a hint of softness creeping behind all the other emotions. Dear fucking Satan almighty, Crowley could name the emotion - hope. Unconditional fucking hope... And love. How resilient could humans get? What didn't you fucking understand about Aziraphale leaving you both behind? He clearly didn't care enough to stay (for either of you)... Let alone the fact that Aziraphale left you in complete darkness. He hadn't even said goodbye - he just left you.

"Mr Crowley, could you..." "No! No, I couldn't! Don't you understand, human? I'm setting you free." - He hissed, making you sit up. A new emotion crossed your expression - caution, as if Crowley had just physically threatened you. Attempting to bite on his feelings, Crowley took a long, shaky breath. His fingers were clawing into his trousers so forcefully it hurt. - "That bastard vanished and he isn't coming back. And you... You..." - Tears and sobs were constricting his throat. He couldn't believe what he was about to say. - "You deserve leagues better than what he'd put you through." "... And so do you." - You retorted finally, voice firm and gnarly; it made Crowley aware you wouldn't have any of his blood interruptions... A delicate flower and an untamed champ.

"I was trying to say, Mr Crowley, that I understand and appreciate your concern. The thing is, you're not here to just 'set me free', you're also seeking closure... Just like I am. It's not my intention to be rude, but we're an equal mess. I can see your pain, hurt and confusion because it parallels my feelings. What you're displaying matches everything I'm going through to near perfection; like I'm staring into a bloody mirror. And I greatly appreciate you're trying to put me out of the misery but to be clear... I don't think anything's changing my feelings for Aziraphale. Even though... He'd left... To serve as an Archangel. Whatever we had felt transcending of my humanhood and his ethereality, my existence on this Earth, my human body, even time and space... Nothing mattered. Anything mattered between us, really, we were just two souls entwined, bound for eternity... Just like you were too. Nothing more to it. Just like you'd find him anywhere, in every lifetime, Aziraphale'd find me. He did so without fault 'till now. There's no rebound from this 'tosh'. There isn't anyone I'd love more than him."

The Demon grew silent, giving you a firm look from under the glasses - his mouth hung open as he processed your words, furrowing upon any conclusion he'd started coming through. "Thank you for taking action and informing me about... Where he disappeared to, though. It's honourable." "It's not - common decency, I'd like to think. But... What do you mean by 'no rebound'? You mean you'll be stuck in place?" - Crowley wondered with horror. He was meant to set you free - so you could move on with your life. "Hey, 'stuck' isn't the right term here. But I won't move forward either. It's more of a free-existence type of situation. There won't be anyone else I'd want like I want him. No human on this Earth can make me feel the emotions Aziraphale ignited." - The sombre smile haunted Crowley, as he watched your eyes turning back to the pond. - "And you won't find anything like this either."

"None of this was about me. It was about you, human - your closure. My existence's far longer than yours and you shouldn't worry about the likes of me. You have eighty years ahead of you, woman, give-or-take." "Well then... Mr Crowley, you've been successful. You've given me closure - I finally learned what happened." "What will you do now?" - The Demon leaned closer, whispering. Crowley couldn't talk normally, his voice would give up on him. Your scent hit his nose. He could distinguish a few main components - vanilla, flour, coffee and you. You smelled sweet, like a blooming flower. The scent tickled his nose, making it shrink a bit. It was a nice one, however. "Cry my eyes out, probably." - As you laughed uncomfortably, first sobs already started pushing through your throat. Until then, you fought the urge to cry the best you could. The realization, however, that Aziraphale left to enact something he surely deemed a 'higher purpose' and that you won't see him again knocked you to the ground. - "Drink my ass off while listening to Velvet Underground is on the agenda, absolutely. But don't worry, it'll get easier. I won't be the same old me I was before Aziraphale, but I'll find a way to cope. Broken heart still beats the same." "Coping sure sounds nice." "Us humans are terrific at it - as you put it, we're fucking resilient." "Passion got the better of me."

"And what about you?" - You asked, drying your tears and finally sipping your coffee. "What about me?" "What are you going to do now?" "Ah, you know it." - Crowley sighed, snickering bitterly. - "Some mischief, probably, 's in my nature. Thought about bringing the entire optical network in central London down around lunchtime, just for kicks. I already have a decent costume and a good story to go with it. How does that sound?" - Whether you liked it or not, your teary eyes jumped to him. Crowley sounded fun to hang around. "Wow, now that's just evil." - Bringing the internet down for a few hours? That's what the Demon had planned? You'd imagine serious crimes and offences when a Demon announces he'd be up for 'mischief'. Not this. - "Fun way to cope. I wish I could do that."

"Velvet Underground sounds nice though, no shame in that. I like 'em." - The Demon muttered, bumping your shoulder carefully, cheering you up. "Yeah, my mom listened to them a lot. They're comforting, especially when you're sad - makes tears roll on their own." "You still get sad, even through all that love? Even though you've said you were the happiest girl on the planet?" - Crowley wondered, his expression soft. He empathized. "Oh, you get sad, especially when you're in love." - Bumping him back with your shoulder, you nodded to yourself. - "You're sad all the bloody time, actually, that's how love works. Sadness is a part of human nature. I'm sure the greatest art originates from people being sad. All you gotta do is listen to The Show Must Go On. Bloody masterpiece." - Your statement left Crowley in awe.

Let alone the Queen reference, this philosophy of yours was beautiful. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale hid that they weren't always aligned or understanding of human emotion... The full range of it, anyway. Finding beauty in sadness and pain, however, spoke to Crowley. Saying most art originated from sadness was an outlook Crowley never clocked until you simply announced it. But bloody hell, it made sense. What else could form from melancholy, the Demon wondered. Crowley switched the topic because he didn't know how to follow up on your profound statement.

"Just a quick question." "Shoot." "Is the Velvet Underground a bebop?" "Bloody hell, definitely not a bebop." "... If you took everyone in the world and asked them to describe The Velvet Underground, not one person would say bebop." - The Demon muttered, smiling bittersweetly at the memory of Aziraphale and the 'The Best Of' CD. "I second that."

Crowley left Oxford half an hour later - the two of you spent the rest of your time together sitting in silence and watching ducks, sipping on coffee and munching on blueberry muffins. His black Bentley had you shaken - you studied the car with your mouth open, amazed by how well-preserved it was. The car must've been loved by Crowley - its black paint polished so pristinely you could see your reflection, with no bumps or scratches in sight. It was rare to see cars such as this, let alone used as the main means of transportation. If the Demon clocked your amazement, he didn't comment on it.

Just before you'd walked over the street into your bakery, the Demon called after you. It wasn't your name (you doubted Crowley knew it) nor a nickname - simple 'Oy!' did the trick. "Want a coffee to go?" - You wondered, sending him a shy grin, hugging yourself tight. "There are other means of getting a heart attack." "Then what is it?" - You wondered, watching Crowley pulling out his wallet. If he was to give you money, again... To your surprise, it was a business card. His business card. Anthony J Crowley, that was his full name. A nice name too, you figured. "My number's right here. In case you'd... Yannow... Need help with anything. Or wanted to talk about..." - Shrugging his shoulders, Crowley started vaguely gesturing instead of speaking his mind. The gesture was, however, very touching. Everything about it felt sincere.

"Can I ring you up?" "Surely. That's why I gave you the card." "No. I mean now. So you'd have my number too." - With a smile, you were already tugging your phone out and putting the number on the dial. "Why would I need your number?" - Not like Crowley would have trouble finding it if he truly wanted to. "This goes both ways, no?" - The gaze and smile you spared him almost sent Crowley to his knees. Soft like velvet, warm like a summer rainstorm. The Demon thought about slapping his cheek to keep it in check. What was the emotion and where did it come from? - "That's how friendships, or alliances, usually work. You're here for me and I'm here for you." "'kay." - The Demon nodded, pulling out his phone, too, eagerly awaiting the call. When your number flashed on his screen, you ended the call, saving his deets.

As Crowley departed, you stood on the street, waving until he made a turn. Nothing about this meetup went as the Demon planned or expected. Something about you left Crowley wishing for more, to explore and discover who you've been. Never in his former life would Crowley ask a human to tell him a story about their lives. Never. As he sorted his thoughts, the Demon clocked in another unsettling fact - for the first time in the last seven months, he didn't hear Nightingale on Berkeley Square playing on the radio. The song was everywhere Crowley stepped - every pub, shop, establishment, even his own bloody car.

With a worried furrow, Crowley took off his glasses and threw them on the passenger's seat, speeding at 90 per hour. Queen shouted from his rolled windows, switching between three songs: I Want To Break Free, Somebody To Love and Fat-Bottomed Girls. "Don't you dare to insinuate something that hadn't happened because I won't fucking stand for it." - Crowley hissed at his car, the Bentley speeding up to 110 in response. What a stubborn fucking car. This was anything but good. Oh, bloody hell, it was really fucking bad.

Summer of 2024, Oxford, England:

The phone number. Your number. Eleven digits itched into his memory from staring at them so frequently. Were you staring at his number too, he wondered, did you memorize it? Why didn't you reach out, if you did? Not a text, not a call... Nothing. As if the session in the park hadn't occurred.

The Demon was on the verge of contacting you more times than he'd care to admit aloud. He balanced the line of drunkenly calling almost every other week and threaded the line of texting every day. The small things... It was always the small fucking details reminding him of his Angel. Usually, he would just take a nap to deal with any problem or emotional turmoil. A few decades-lasting, good ol' nap. But your factor kept him away from doing so. What if you need help - like right at that fucking instant and Crowley would sleep through it? The need to share his thoughts and emotions with you felt natural. You were one of Crowley's remnants of Aziraphale - specifically the only living, breathing one. You'd understand Crowley's struggles and internal turmoil - if not you, who?

His phone buzzed as Crowley sprawled over the hotel bed - a bowl of popcorn on his belly and a fourth bottle of the finest Chateauneuf de Pas that evening alone in his right palm. Bridget Jones (one of his favourite romcoms) was playing on the telly. Each time he'd get the inexplicable craving to watch this series, he rented a room - it wasn't as comfy to watch it in the Bentley. And for the love of anyone, Crowley wasn't to be fucking bothered. The entire world felt weird ever since the morning, it was gloomy and sad. Something bothered Crowley, but he couldn't name what exactly. People stared him down the entire day as if they never met a man with a good sense of fashion. Even the cashier in his favourite wine cellar gave him the eyes - and he bought wine there once a week for the last few months. Growling, he stretched for the phone, cursorily noting what was up. Noticing the contact name, Crowley choked on the popcorn. Drunkenly sitting up and putting his bowl aside, Crowley opened the app.

The text chain went as follows:

Y/N: u up, crowley Me: Yup. Y/N: thank god Y/N: oopsie Y/N: didn't mean to say her name, soz, hihi

Now that you've finally reached out, Crowley deemed this the most awkward texting ever. What was he meant to say? 'Still feeling like a piece of shite?' or rather 'Should I come? D'you need my help?'. Because, frankly, Crowley would come if you asked. Oh, he would drive like he had the entire Heaven on his bloody heels, drive like the wind.

Y/N: whatcha doing Me: Bridget Jones... Watching Bridget Jones, to clarify. You?

He ground his teeth after reading the last bit. What will you think of him? That he's a sappy sad little man, watching romcoms alone? Crowley had noticed the trend of toxic masculinity and what was worse - said masculinity was attractive to certain women. Yuck. On the contrary, you fell for Aziraphale - out of all the souls roaming the Earth. Aziraphale'd have a great run for the office of 'sappiness'. You must've been fond of soft men to some extent, no?

Y/N: need help. can you reschedule Me: Rrechedule what? Y/N: that bridget marathon. sounds like a bop, tbh, a nice way to cope Y/N: don't want to bother. shit's kinda urgent doe Me: Where are you? Y/N: in soxford Y/N: Xoxord Y/N: OXFORD HGOLY SHIR Y/N: ducking autocorrect Me: No shit. Where exactly? Your bakery? Your house? The park?

At that point, Crowley started sobering up real quick. It was happening, everything all at once. The bottles of Chateauneuf de Pas refilled again as if Crowley hadn't had a sip. Before leaving, he'd slip them into a small white hotel room refrigerator. Before you managed to respond, Crowley was halfway down the stairs, hastily putting on his black blazer and sunglasses.

Y/N: i meant it Y/N: i tbink I'm somewhere in Oxford

Oh, so you were also having that kind of a night - the 'piss yourself into oblivion' kind. Perhaps you knew what was wrong with Crowley? Maybe you knew why the world felt like everything was about to crumble?

Me: Is there a way to share from your phone? Y/N: YOU GENIUS Y/N: yes! Me: Aren't you supposed to be the tech-savvy human keeping up with trends? Y/N: ob a fifth rathole i think. Y/N: my liver hates me Me: No wonder. That drink was one of my worst inventions. Y/N: You bastard.

Crowley didn't spend more time texting - as soon as the location share popped up, he sped through central London with the wind in his back. Most deemed it impossible to drive through M40 at 110 miles per hour, but that was surely caused by their lack of driving experience with enough adrenaline in their veins. Crowley could speed through Central London at 90 miles without bringing harm or batting his eyes. M40 was a piece of cake compared to his usual stunts. Soon enough, he was getting off in central Oxford, walking into a club named DV8.

The club was jumping under a remixed beat of Heads Will Roll while the smell of alcohol, sex and sweat overtook all of Crowley's senses. As he descended the stairs, he realized he couldn't recall the last time he'd properly party; getting trashed and all the other activities coming with it. Very likely, the Demon hadn't been in such an establishment since his lash-out with the Prince of Wales twenty years ago. A night to remember, Crowley liked to think. Judging purely by your choice, Crowley liked your style - a well-enough-known club with various precautions making clubbing safe for everyone. The club went as far as giving away free cup covers... Progressive and thoughtful. The prices were decent as well and the music was fine. Not great, but fine enough.

Crowley didn't search for you too hard - he'd find you after checking out the bar. There you were - sprawled over it, your forehead leant into the sticky wood. Mascara ran down your cheeks, your eyes were puffy and your lips trembling - there was a pint of beer before you and a cocktail glass to your right. Rathole, must've been. Based on your foul stench, you must've been around six beers, five ratholes and seven shots of rum deep.

Pushing a barstool close to yours, he leaned impossibly close so you'd hear him. This close, Crowley's nose picked on your scent too. Sensing it after almost half a year felt heavenly. It was the same sweet scent he'd clocked in last time, the one still haunting him in his thoughts. Each time a similar scent tickled his nose, it drew his immediate attention, having Crowley thinking about you.

Pushing a barstool close to yours, he leaned impossibly close so you'd hear him. This close, Crowley's nose picked on your scent too. Sensing it after almost half a year felt heavenly. It was the same sweet scent he'd clocked in last time, the one still haunting him in his thoughts. Each time a similar scent tickled his nose, it drew his immediate attention, having Crowley thinking about you. You didn't know he arrived until his nose tickled the tip of your ear. Feeling someone's nose on your ear startled you - the Demon got to admit your speed of pulling out a pepper spray was impressive. Especially given how drunk you were. He finally spoke right after the club finished an enthusiastic roar - the DJ just pulled out a single called Take Me Out.

"Seem you're havin' a jolly good time. Don't even need a second brokenhearted mess." If you hid the pain away during your first meeting, it'd been plastered all over your damn face now. Crowley was used to spiteful stares and annoyed expressions, but yours gave him a run for his bloody money. The circles under your eyes were also impressive. One of your eyes was half-closed, your hair and make-up a mess, and despite your nice little get-up, you were slouched over like a gremlin. Like Crowley, you were going through it, whatever the 'it' was. As he enacted your mirror before, you reflected him now - and it wasn't a nice look.

"... You alright, luv?" - That was the first time he called you anything other than 'human'; it slipped past you (because you were zonked out of your mind) and it also slipped past Crowley (seeing you this distraught upset the Demon by proxy). "I texted you because it hurts, Mr Crowley." - Whining, you shook your head, another wave of tears running down your cheeks. - "... And because anyone else knows how that pain feels." - With that statement, you finished the pint in one go. Truly inspirational.

As he watched the dancing crowd, the Demon realized he felt lighter; the pull toward you was back, making everything else fade. And you felt it too. Now that Crowley sat next to you... Not that the pain would disappear entirely, but it subdued as if with a swish of a wand. Did the Demon just 'miracle' you or something? What was it? The black hole inside your chest stopped pulling your organs apart as you looked at the familiar sunglasses, admiring the flaming red of his hair.

"Good to go?" - Helping you off the stool, he'd ensured you had all the belongings women typically had when going out clubbing, such as a purse, a phone, her keys and the trusty pepper spray. "Hey, mate!" - The bartender called when the Demon paid your spending on the bar, including an impressive tip. You wanted to pay yourself, even pulled out your wallet with great trouble, but the Demon clicked his tongue dismissively. Crowley spared the bartender a quick nod, furrowing. - "Are you this lass' fellow?" "What's it to you?" "She'd been here four times this week alone. Don't know what you two have going on but I'd let her go before she drags you down too. Trust me, lad, some ladies ain't worth the hustle." - The bartender cried out.

As if you sobered in a fraction of a second, you pushed Crowley away, put your purse in his arms and started to roll up your sleeves. But before you could jump to your defence, the Demon was already on it. "Stick your bloody nose where it belongs, chap. You should be honoured a lady like her even considered this shite-hole as their final destination for the night. Other than that, you have no bloody idea what she's going through." - The sunglasses slipped down on Crowley's nose and his yellow eyes stared right at the chap, his teeth grinding - that sound felt so intense despite all the blasting music and general ruckus around you. The bartender paled upon seeing Crowley's reptilian eyes, but you'd gazed at them lovingly. Drunk as a fucking ox. - "Guess what? You can bet your entire bloody packet she won't be coming back."

The alcohol clouding your mind didn't let you figure out what was off about the man next to you, but there was something - as his tongue flicked, you'd swear it was similar to a reptile's. Instead of his usual 185cms, Crowley appeared taller and broader, a menacing aura spreading around him. A true servant of Hell, you assumed. You'd never seen Aziraphale looking exactly heavenly, but Crowley's demonic presence ran shivers down your spine. Therefore, you just stared at him with drunkard awe "What he said!" - You exclaimed, pointing up to the Demon. - "Moron!" "Okay, you joy, let's go." "Mhm." - Grinning happily, you accepted the elbow Crowley offered you, following him outside.

"Woah!" - You murmured as you approached Crowley's car. Frankly, your state was way worse than he first assumed; it was a miracle you stood straight. While taken aback by the Bentley the last time (yes, Crowley noted your fascination), you couldn't be bothered to hold your excitement back this time. - "'s that really yours? Hadn't seen a car like this since... Well, never, bloody hell. Look at that thing!"

"You hearing that, buddy?" - Crowley muttered as he let you shout impressed praises into the dark Oxford night - he was just putting your purse between the plants, preparing you a comfortable seat in the front. The car seemingly purred in answer. The Bentley liked you, Crowley assumed. - "Lass' smitten with you. We oughta not let her lose her lunch tonight, hm? Alright, joy, come here." - Now, Crowley was turned to you, putting his palms on your shoulders. - "Where to?" - A rhetorical question. Crowley was 59% positive he knew where you lived. "Could you take me home, Mr Crowley?" - You peeped, eyes ogling at him - the Demon would've sworn he could see all the galaxies he'd created reflected in your eyes. Your eye colour was stunning. - "... And stay the night?"

It was merely a whisper but it caused the Demon to properly look at you for the first time, that 'Take Me Out' song's base riff engraving everything about this moment into his brain. Sure, Crowley vaguely recalled what you looked like, but he hadn't taken interest in your features before. In fact, he ignored you physically as a whole. Your soul intrigued him - but that soul came out with a physical casing, the Demon just realized. Still holding your shoulders in his palms, Crowley finally took the first proper look at your form.

For starters, his eyes delicately traced the shape of your face, slowly circling around your chin and lips. Those were some very nice lips, Crowley had to admit against his better will. It hit him that he hadn't seen you properly smile or laugh. All the grins and scoffs were ironic, bittersweet. Seeing you smile must've been a near-heavenly occasion... And Crowley wished to be the cause behind it, crossed his mind. Your nose begged to be booped if Crowley could've been frank. This was also one of the most unusual and silliest thoughts he'd had. It took a lot of willpower not to drag his finger down your nose and squeeze the tip playfully. And your eyes, those two bloody marbles reflecting every corner of the galaxy for Crowley to look at. Staring into your eyes gave Crowley jitters, even made him shake imperceptibly. The rest of you was also a true delight. Your scent was pleasant. The burning heat of your body created a fresh sensation tingling on Crowley's skin. He'd found a slight fascination with your softness, all the small curves and imperfect details he could only see up close.

Something clicked inside him. A piece fell into a pre-carved place, spreading a delightful sensation through Crowley's chest, making his heart skip a beat. The Demon couldn't decipher 'the click' at the time, the grip on your shoulders tightening. Your offer didn't make him uncomfortable, far from it, but he was anywhere near accepting. On the other hand, he wasn't fiercely shutting it down. The Demon was in the figurative middle, entertaining the idea. The 'click' (whatever chain of events it was about to cause) had Crowley upbeat about entertaining the notion of you... Giving him the time of the day, to put it eloquently.

"Luv, not that I wouldn't be flattered by such an offer, believe me, but I don't think it's appropriate..." "I just don't want to be alone." - Your voice crack had Crowley pull his head out of his ass. You weren't talking about sex, of course, you weren't. - "Anyone but you can understand tonight, Mr Crowley. I beg you to stay the night. It's been a year on the dot since he... Since Aziraphale... Since the Angel... And I'm not sure I can survive the night alone..."

The anniversary, Crowley realized, growling. That's what's been different today. The reason behind everything feeling wrong since the moment Crowley stumbled out of the hotel bed. It was a year (on the dot) since Aziraphale agreed to be the Archangel in the Cult of Heaven. A year since the Angel pained Crowley beyond any dispersal. A year during which Crowley struggled to cope with all the heartbreak and suffering, the time when he barely kept himself in check. Although something bugged Crowley, he wasn't sure he'd connect the dots if you and your bulged, teary eyes hadn't reminded him vividly.

Acting solely on impulse, the Demon squeezed you in a tight hug - as if you were the sole lifeboat in an ocean of nothingness. Every muscle in his body was strained to bursting, incredible stress overwhelming every reason Crowley possessed. It was easier to crush you between his arms and let your sweet scent linger in his nose; definitely easier than admitting he hadn't made any progress over the past year. Pretending to be fine was much easier than admitting he hadn't moved on... That it was impossible to move on. Your palms drunkenly reached for his waist as you pulled him closer, boring your face in his chest; if he noted how sweaty and swept with tears you were, Crowley didn't comment on it. His arms grew tighter around you as if he attempted to swallow you whole. This was certainly the tightest hug you've received - one palm crushed your shoulder, the other pressing the back of your head, letting you sob freely. You could feel him nodding frantically, his breath laboured.

"Ya, I'll stay, lass. Either of us should be alone tonight." - He'd mutter, slowly letting go of you, his fingers smoothing your upper arms. Frankly, Crowley wouldn't mind holding you for just a bit longer. The physical contact felt nice. There was a sense of belonging - you were just two existences hurt equally by the same person, feeling equal sorrow, both fighting the same unfair fight. A fight that couldn't be won. "You're a sweetheart, Mr Crowley." "Just tune't down to Crowley. No need for pleasantries, I think." - Certainly not tonight, Crowley thought. "I'm Y/N, then." - Upon hearing your name Crowley hissed, clearly amused. "I know your name... Always did." "Oh, did you really?" "Naturally. I know all sorts of stuff. I'm a Demon." - Fair. "Never called me it, though." - Calling Crowley out was seemingly one of your hidden talents - each time, you'd hit the nail on the head, leaving him speechless for a second. You were right.

He hadn't used your name; naming or using said name always led Crowley to the deepest pits of Hell (in case you need a reminder, all it takes is to mention the entire 'history of Adam and Dog'). He was cautious with all the bloody names. It was always the naming. Using someone's name also created unwanted attachments, and gave the object power over one's mind... And Crowley wasn't the one to get attached.

"Only called me 'you' or 'she' and 'her' depending on context - sometimes 'human' or 'woman'.." - Before answering, he'd look up in search of the setting behind your statement - just to be taken by a storm. You weren't angry, let alone hurt by Crowley's ignorance of earthly goods and customs... You were teasing him. One of your eyebrows was arched, your eyes piercing into his, a very subtle smirk on your face (flushed with all the alcohol coursing through your veins).

Was Crowley misinterpreting the subtext or were you truly pretending to blame him? How would other humans call it? Could it be flirting that you weren't aware of? You were drunk as a fucking ox and in incredible pain (if it was similar to his as you've said), so there wasn't any chance the Demon would take a single syllable seriously, but entertaining the idea, again... Flattered Crowley greatly. Scoffing with disbelief, he'd turn away to hide the fact he gushed over the entirety of you for a bit - your tone, expression, the twinkle of pain and love in your eyes, your posture, hair all messed up, cute little get-up... Humans. You humans were intriguing beyond any logical reason. You guys were fun to hang around - one had to be on their toes without letting up.

Even though Crowley felt like fucking dying (he was dying inside), he'd conjured a smile that had brought other humans to their knees. Crowley was a walking paradox... Walking mixed signal. His posture (mainly the palms in his pockets) screamed 'no' but the smile said 'when the time's right'. "What would you prefer, then?" "Call me by my name maybe? That's what humans generally do." "Alright then, luv. Your name it is." - Crowley ended topically, grinning as you gasped. "You got it wrong again." "'s that, hun?" - Opening Bentley's passenger side, he offered a palm to help you sit down. - "These nicknames also bother you? Pity. Secretly hoped you'd favour these." "No, they're fine." - ... More than fine, the look in your eyes added. With this statement, you'd close the door in Crowley's face. The Demon took a moment to get composed, to sleek all the contradictory emotion inside him. It was all a bloody mess - you turned him into a bloody mess. What on Earth was happening? How, where and why was Aziraphale hiding you away like a damn secret? Crowley liked you and you seemingly enjoyed being around him too.

All the agony was blending into feelings of hope, depression got repressed by intrigue, and broodiness switched with... Enjoyment. Crowley was enjoying himself, which hadn't happened since... A year ago. Could he accidentally stumble onto a saving grace inside the purgatory he'd found himself in? Could you, hypothetically, become the spark of light Crowley'd been desperately searching for? The answer couldn't possibly be this straightaway... Or could it?

A minute later, after he let the cold Oxford night cool him a bit, he'd sit behind the steering wheel - finding you furrowing at him. "Sensing something iffy?" "Other than sitting next to a literal demon?" "Not a literal one. Just a fallen angel, nothing more to it." "Well, that clears up the air." - Again, you must've been coqueting, whether you realized it or not. And in case you truly weren't, this night marked Crowley losing his marbles. - "The plants." - You explained in a simultaneous statement and question.

"What about them?" "Why do you have plants in your Bentley?" "Why wouldn't I have plants in my Bentley?" "Nobody in their right mind has plants in their car... Let alone a Bentley." "I just like it that way... Feels lively." "Oh, yes, so that's why you keep them in paper boxes?" "First, you ask about the plants and now question my paper boxes. There isn't anything wrong with driving around a Bentley filled with plants." "There's nothing right about it either." - You opposed, crawling deeper and deeper under his skin. All his hissing and silent grunts, with all his incoherent mumbling, weren't a sign of irritation. Quite the opposite. It felt like ages since Crowley had a proper banter with anyone other than his Bentley, his plants or himself. Muriel, bless her heart, was too pure to be mean... And you seemed to recognise the thrill in his face.

"Weren't you supposed to be drunk, joy?" "Oh, mister, believe me - I certainly fucking am." - As if out of habit, your eyes flash to Crowley for a second - searching for signs of disapproval. That was Aziraphale's influence, Crowley figured. He wasn't a fan of swearing, that one. "Then why on Earth are you pestering me 'bout my plants?" "Because it's strange." "Angels and demons ARE a bit strange if you haven't clocked it yet." "Never met a Demon who'd appear homeless." - Hissing back, you seriously furrowed at Crowley. You've hit a nerve. Clearly, you hit some fucking nerve, because he widened his eyes at you, opening and closing his lips. Oh. Something's happened, something that caused Crowley to live in his car.

"'m not technically homeless... Demons can't be homeless, silly. It doesn't work like that. We don't work like that." "Uh-uh." - Nodding, you'd listen to his ongoing tangent about his history with Hell, with being a diplomat and owning a Mayfair residence for centuries until they'd switched their diplomatic connections. You didn't remember a single word. Concentrating was hard when you were in fucking ruins.- "... So, all in all, you're homeless." "Have you listened to a word I've just said?" "Yes. That's why I'd like to mention the spare room in my house... Would've mentioned it right after the plants, but someone had to speak their mind about how settled they are."

All logical reasons melted inside Crowley's mind once more as he spared you a look, one filled with awe and astonishment. Everything about the moment felt magical. A spare room in your house. Your flushed face filled with expectation. The tone of your voice. The endearing look in your eyes. Your scent. And that clear fucking invitation - a helping hand directed to Crowley.

"You're drunk." - Crowley muttered, starting the car. The motor purred gently, the tachometer stopping at 20 miles per hour. The Bentley surely, took a liking to you... It usually refused to drive under 90 miles, acting like a stubborn bloody child. "What would change if I was sober?" "You'd be serious." "Who says I'm not?" - You deadpanned, rolling your window down to stick your hand out, pretending it to be a plane. - "I wanted to invite you to be my roommate. I gave it a lot of thought but never had a proper reason to... Well, you know. Felt like I'd be bothering you. Until now. Figured it could kill your homelessness and our shared loneliness. Solitude isn't good for anyone."

All these fucking pearls of wisdom slipped past your lips so nonchalantly and easily, each one leaving Crowley awestruck. How could Heaven or Hell ever believe they were superior to humans if people like you roamed about? Had any of the representatives (of either side) ever spoken with someone like you? The whole lot could just take a break and put their careers on hold because a) humans could be purer and more noble than Heaven could ever make them and b) figured events so horrid, that Hell wouldn't come up with them in a thousand years. Sighing and leaving the topic be, Crowley stepped on the gas and headed to your house. Crowley hadn't asked for your address, mostly because he already knew. Somehow. Bloody Angels and Demons and their entire miracle mumbo-jumbo, you thought, staring out the window.

Your house was lovely, Crowley had to admit. A small, two-story structure consisting of red bricks, large windows in white frames, a lovely dooryard and a decent driveway which just about housed your Beetle and Crowley's Bentley. The house was detached, so you wouldn't have to worry about your neighbours that much. The suburbs were quiet and calm - no speeding cars or drunkards, so there wasn't much that could harm you around these parts... Other than a lack of a functional internet connection and boredom. Crowley followed you through the silent driveway, shadowing your movements, ready to catch you in case you'd decided to drop dead into the bush of roses you kept in tip-top shape. Your windowsills were decorated with countless white pansies annealed by indigo blue. Aziraphale's favourites. For Satan's sake, you didn't move on. Not by an inch, just like Crowley.

Watching drunk women in their natural habitat was an activity Crowley found utterly endearing. After conquering the front door, you'd kick your heels off in the hall and let go of your purse with a loud bang, drunkenly leaning into the wall. Since you invited him in before, stepping through the door wasn't a fuzz. The aura of your house was nice and uplifting - as Aziraphale put it once, this place was loved. It was mostly tidy with only signs of actual life (such as a few used dishes and unfolded clothes and blankets) ruining the picture-perfect setting. Even though Crowley was into modern and darker colours, he had to admit that creamy pastel colours and cottage-core-like furniture and decorations had their charm.

A large comfy sofa dominated the living room. Bookshelves filled with cookbooks, fiction and plastic categorizers (supposedly for all your tax files and papers connected to the bakery/coffee shop) framed most of the walls. As far as Crowley was concerned, you must've had an obsession with scented candles. Those bloody things were plastered all over. As the Demon studied your home, you'd collapsed on the sofa, furrowing at the screen of your TV - typing with your controller while having over-the-roof alcohol content in your blood was fucking difficult. Soon enough, you'd put the remote down victoriously, music filling the silence.

"Coffee?" - You'd ask over your shoulder, taking off the uncomfortable pencil skirt - revealing a pair of biking shorts underneath. "Would be lovely, yeah." - The Demon nodded absentmindedly. He'd take off his sunglasses and blazer to mirror your actions, the act feeling domestic - like coming home after a lifelong party. It reminded Crowley of Aziraphale's Soho bookshop and all the emotion coming with it. Now, however, Crowley didn't feel like a bloody piece of shite.

Even though you'd been blasted, your work with your little homey coffee maker set on the kitchen unit wasn't short of graceful. The process was obviously itched into your brain - you didn't need to watch your fingers, your eyes narrowed, humming some song. Frankly, Crowley liked watching you grinding the beans, measuring, sticking your tongue out, taking a long breath with your palm on your waist... Fucking Hell, weren't you a dolly bird? And wasn't Crowley a silly little man bewitched by you?

"Six shots of espresso?" - So you've remembered his order, even though you couldn't even look straight. How sweet. "Don't complicate it. I'll have whatever you're having." "A cappuccino! Wouldn't that be weak for a di-distinguished co-cono-... Bloody hell, can't even speak." - You giggled so hard you couldn't finish the sentence. Crowley suspected you were trying to say 'connoisseur'. "Cappuccino will do. With a splash of chocolate syrup, if you have some? Thanks." - Crowley retorted, having your head pop from behind the machine. If you wanted to poke fun at his sudden change of preferences, his eyes let you forget it.

This was the first time you saw him without sunglasses, Crowley figured while returning the stare with a subtle grin. Keeping intense eye contact with you for the first time was uplifting. Now, you could see Crowley's soul, just like he spectated yours earlier. Eye for an eye. Soul for a soul. Your head leaned toward your shoulder, your interest peaking. Watching your sweet smile widen had Crowley's heart skip a beat. You were dangerous without knowing so... So bloody dangerous.

Frankly, you liked his eyes - you hadn't personally seen anything so out of the ordinary before. Katie, a huge sci-fi fan, spent a lot of time on various cons, showing you photos of people with elaborate costumes, outstanding makeup and special lenses that changed their colour and shape, in some cases. It was cool. Of course, you'd also seen such makeup on the internet, but there was something about Crowley's eyes, something the cosmetics couldn't substitute.

Reptilian eyes, you smiled, somewhat fitting for a Demon. The slithers widened and contracted, adapting to the contrast of the dim lighting in your living room and the sharp white light in the kitchen. The eyes of a snake never made you feel fuzzy... Until that night. You could understand why Crowley wore the glasses (even though, let's be honest, he wasn't obligated to in the modern day), but it was much easier to determine and understand his thoughts when he didn't. His eyes were so affectionate, deep and... Luminous. The principality in front of you was a former angel, you remembered, of course, that his eyes reflected millennia of memories, emotion and experience. Suddenly a part of his unapprocheability was gone, undermined by a sense of vulnerability.

The shade of yellow felt oddly familiar. It was comforting - your mind automatically associated it with safety, even though you didn't own a thing in this specific shade... Or remotely close to it. The revelation hit you like a fucking train. Your stomach contracted with pain, palm clumsily shooting up - letting out a batch of steaming hot water from the coffee machine's frother. Drunk women in their natural habitat - your moods were bound to switch, Crowley remained himself.- "Fuck, sorry." "You scald your palm and apologize? You humans... It's the eyes, innit?" "No." - A resolute no. It was definitely the eyes. "Should I put the shaders back on?" "That's not it! Your eyes are fine! And I want you to feel comfortable... It's, yannow, a safe space here and all that jazz." "What threw you off, then?" "Can you let it go?" "No?" "It's nothing - I'm just fucking smashed." "You sure?" "The walls." - You muttered as Crowley joined you in the kitchen, watching as you reached for cups, wobbling on your toes. Without a word, the Demon pushed you back to the ground and started pointing at various mugs - his eyebrows curling up and down as a means of non-verbal communication.

"Walls of what?" "Isn't it obvious?" "Do I look like 'it's obvious'?" "The rooms. It was everywhere. Even on the fucking duster..." "Could you not speak in riddles, luv?" "The Bookshop!" - You'd mutter angrily, pulling the mugs out his palms and strutting back to the coffee machine. "What about it?" - Crowley retaliated, shaking his head in confusion. "The colour of your bloody eyes - the paint in the bookshop. In my former bedroom, on the bloody duster, the lights..." - Shaking your head, you'd start frothing the milk skillfully, movements memorized to a dot. - "He'd always said his favourite colour's yellow. Now I know why." "Oh."

Crowley deemed it best to leave you in the kitchen, so he'd sat in the living room, sprawling on the sofa. Soon enough, you carefully brought the mugs, set them on coasters and next to them, you set strawberry Angel cake you'd presumably also crafted by hand. Aziraphale's favourite - of course, you learned the recipe by heart. Of fucking course, you'd bake it on the anniversary of his leave. Realizing how precious you were made Crowley wish he could take some portion of your pain on himself.

"How are you holding up, lass?" "Shite." - You'd scoff in response, rubbing your eyes. - "Would you mind if I take a shower?" "Absolutely not." "Do I smell that horrid?" - Ah, there you were - the flirty, giggly drunkard. Mood swinging, Crowley chuckled. His response was automatic, he didn't even register the words leaving his mouth. "You smell like you always do." "I don't usually smell like vape and cheap liquor." - Sending him a smile, you were already standing on the heels of stairs. The Demon realized his response could disclose facts he wasn't ready to face himself, but he said it anyway. "... But you always smell like vanilla and blooming flowers." "Someone's perceptive. It must be the bakery rubbing on me... And my shampoo, I assume. Anyway, I'm off... Peak freely to wherever. No secrets around this house." "I'm good."

Even to his surprise, Crowley sat on the sofa like the good boy he ought to be, sipping on his cappuccino while listening to the album you left playing. The Demon always assumed he was a man of good musical taste. He'd enjoyed listening to soul, lately R&B in general, and sometimes jazz and rock classics, such as the Beatless. Crowley would even put on modern music from time to time, enjoying the 2000s' Scottish and British scene post-punk era - when nobody knew the sounds the crowds wanted. One of his latest additions to the collection was 'AM' by some Sheffield blokes.

The album you put on was, however, smoothing his soul. It was rock, that much was for sure, but it wasn't as loud and fierce as, for example, Queen's sound. Half of the album's tracks went by before you came back, Crowley idly listening to each one, stomping his foot in the hypnotic rhythms. Dressed in a comfy pyjama set, the undone makeup swept off your face, hair tied up in a towel. The shower seemingly helped with sobering.

"You let Fleetwood Mac on?" - You wondered, collapsing on the sofa next to Crowley with a heavy, relaxed sigh. Fuck, you felt heavenly. - "I always play Rumors when I'm too stressed." "I can see why." - Crowley nodded thoughtfully. - "It's rather cheerful. Anything wrong with leaving it on?" "Nothing, I'm simply surprised. I'd assume you'd put on The Kooks or Sex Pistols?" - Sending him a smile, your ankles swung atop the coffee table as you grabbed a slice of cake along with "I strike you as this kind'f bloke, hm?" "Have you seen your outfit?" - Crowley scoffed, nodding. Fair point. "First impressions are always deceiving." "Mhm. Agreed."

The conversation unravelled itself. Just as both times before, the factor of enjoyment he'd felt while talking to you caught Crowley off-guard. When there were moments of silence, they weren't awkward but relaxed. Neither of you searched for words for too long, anything forced or uncomfortable. And your laughs? Pure, genuine gold. Crowley liked making you laugh - he liked the spark in your eyes, colour returning to your face as you covered your lips, your shoulders shaking. You were funny, too smart for your own good and your views of the world were grounded, but wise and agreeable. It was easy to see how Aziraphale spent centuries with your soul without growing bored. As the night progressed, you'd gloss over many topics - such as music, fashion, food, art and most importantly, romcoms. While you were fierce about 'Notting Hill' being the best you've seen, Crowley was more of a 'Pretty Woman girly', as you named him.

Naturally, the more you sobered up, the more you came to. Your expression grew more serious and tired every five minutes... Until you sobered enough to talk about memories and the past. You'd been on a third mug of coffee, the clock announcing 5 in the morning. To Crowley's surprise, you hadn't talked about Aziraphale at all - there was a melancholic smile on your lips as you described your former house, your family and mainly, your grandma - the sole inspiration behind Baked Bliss.

"She'd always baked for my school events, best strudels I've fucking tasted. And don't get me started on her Christmas sweets, man. Fuck, she was the greatest baker ever. Everyone called her Ma Baker for that." - You muttered, not expecting Crowley to appreciate the joke - if he was as old as Aziraphale, he surely wouldn't get it either. And yet, the man smirked, shaking his head. "Ah, that's a sneaky reference. After the Boney M song, I assume? Must've been a hell of a baker. Meanest cat of ol' Chicago town." - Crowley recited, reproducing an awful American accent. You'd snort in amusement, making Crowley's grin widen. "Her biscuits were to die for... That's where our catchphrase comes from by the way." "Stroke of a genius, that one. 'tween you and me? Yours ain't half bad either." "Was that a backhanded compliment? I'm honoured." "No." - The Demon muttered, sending you an amused look. - "That's a regular compliment, lass. Take it or leave it." "Might as well, no?"

As you continued nodding at Crowley's compliment, a playful smile painting your face, both of you felt the atmosphere shift. You furrowed, letting your eyes glide across his form for the first time. Sure, you remembered how Crowley looked like, but... Never paid much attention to it. Just like with the Angel, Crowley felt celestial and eternal. He'd had the aura of a millennia-old soul, but it hadn't matched the seeming purity of Aziraphale's. There was something wickedly fun about Crowley. He was the cool guy you always thirsted after but never talked to - the person you wanted to befriend but never got the balls to address. And yet, even through his apparent wisdom, there was something boyish about his smile - something rascalous, adventurous and curious. Crowley's eyes, reminding you of liquid gold in the dim lighting, also reflected his inner child and its naughtiness. Your heart skipped a beat.

His face was fucking pleasant to look at. Sharp features created a perfect picture, the rascalous smirk tying everything nicely. You liked it when Crowley smiled, you realized. You'd seen him ironic, snarky, annoyed, angry and melancholic - but the genuine relaxation suited him. And... His body was also very nice. Aziraphale mentioned all Angels were 'issued' a physical body, proving Crowley always had a sense for drama and fashion. Anything he'd wear would pop... Especially when taking it off. The last thought had you choking on your coffee.

Based on your flustered expression, parted lips and darkening eyes alone, Crowley would consider paying any price to hear your thoughts. The time flew at its own pace as your eyes hypnotized him - he'd remained seated (one arm thrown over the back of the sofa, face turned to you and a daring smile on his face) and maintained eye contact with equal absorption. You were utterly dear, sitting on the sofa's edge with your mug between your fingers, wet hair farming your face and legs comfortably stretched. As you gathered enough courage to articulate the words in your mind, Crowley's attention faltered, his head turning to the TV at the speed of light. A new song was playing - the one he'd heard earlier that night.

"That's it!" - Crowley exclaimed with amazement, looking over to you, pointing at the telly. "Huh?" "That's the song... From the club." "Yeah, that's Franz Ferdinand." - You agreed, looking at him. - "What about them?" "Their sound and energy are rather catchy." - The Demon explained, sounding convincing enough for you to nod in agreement. There was no way he'd openly admit to being sappy. So sappy, in fact, that he decided to put this song on his personal playlist just because he'd first noticed how beautiful when it played. - "What's its name?" "Yeah. They always make the crowd erupt, especially if the crowd consists of drunk women." - As you chuckled, a long yawn announced the end of the night. - "Take Me Out." It was Crowley's turn to 'Huh?' you. "Name of the song... It's Take Me Out." "'f course." - He would, Crowley realized, or at least heavily considered doing so. Where were these thoughts and urges even coming from? Dearest Hell, Crowley must have lost his marbles from all the grief and pain.

"Well..." - Yawning again, you put the empty cup on the coffee table, picking yourself up from the sofa. - "That's my signal to head into bed. Be good to yourself and head to the guest room. This sofa's no good for the back." "Might as well." - The Demon guessed, following you to the second store. The stairs were framed with dozens of pictures - of you, your family, friends, important life moments and him. Of course, you had a picture of you and him. And bloody hell, Crowley even stopped to ogle at it. The two of you standing side by side created perhaps the most attractive pair Crowley'd seen.

The Demon assumed it must have been one of those shop owners' association meetings - you were standing in front of Nina's coffee shop (back when it wasn't Nina's shop), dressed rather informally and yet, surely stealing all the thunder. Both of you sent a bright smile to the camera, Aziraphale's palm gently snaked around your waist, bringing you closer to his chest. Your forget-me-not blouse matched Aziraphale's bowtie and his beige shirt matched the ribbon woven into your hair. Sappy couple bollocks, Crowley grinned. Let alone that happy wide smile and a quirky pose... You looked like a fucking goddess. And Az... Well... He looked as dashing as ever.

"Oh." - You sighed, noticing what had stolen Crowley's attention. The Demon was worried you'd burst into tears. Instead, you smiled stepping down to him. You'd straighten the frame with your fingers, sighing. - "It was a nice day, that one." "Yea?" "Mhm. There was this meeting in Soho and he invited me to as the bookshop's co-owner... He introduced me as his girlfriend for the first time. It was a play pretend, but I had fun." "Play-pretended you were his girlfriend?" - You looked like the best thing ever happened to that poor bastard, Crowley thought. "No, silly. Being the bookshop's co-owner. But, most swore Aziraphale's gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide. Nearly brought them a heart attack by pulling me off." "Ah see. Glad to hear that." - Crowley muttered with a serious expression. The Demon was sincere. - "Lead the way."

Shortly, you'd open the bedroom door for him, showing him the fully equipped room - even though you couldn't know Crowley's taste, this room suited him. Again, it felt loved. The wallpapers, fabric, and furniture were meticulously picked with attention to detail—from the mirror to the curtains and decorations. A few Poes and Kings, accompanied by the Discworld series sat on the shelves. Even the bloody lampshades suited Crowley.

As he smacked his lips in disbelief and glanced at you, he realized you were already ogling at him with a wide, warm grin. - "Told you so, Anthony." - You'd never called him by his chosen name, but it felt so cocky when you did. "You hadn't said a thing." "About the roomie thing." "... You were serious." - Crowley furrowed, his eyes boring to yours. You nodded mindlessly, sending him a smile. "Problem with me is... I can't come up with proper bollocks, even when zonked. I mean everything I say, even remember it the day after. Oh, the shite I've spat during my college years fucking haunts me. You can trust me, you know?" - It was a rhetorical question, sure, but the Demon wasn't far away from answering. 'I don't, actually,' he wished to say, 'but I'm starting to believe I could'. - "It's a part of human nature to consider loneliness and feeling unwanted the most horrible poverty. This bedroom's yours and the door to my home will always be opened for you... I bloody mean it."

The man straightened, took a long breath and simply looked at you. Everything of importance was alluded to in his eyes - all the love, gratefulness, pain, grief, suffering, but most importantly... Sense of belonging. "Thank you." - He'd mutter simply. "Good night, Crowley."

The morning was quiet, slow and calm... As was usual in this corner of Oxford. The Demon slept for three bloody hours - after that shite of a nap, he remained seated on the bed, knitting his fingers nervously. What was he to do now? There was no way in the world he'd just skip down the stairs, singing at the top of his lungs, giving you a full-blown Broadway performance... Despite Crowley being fairly sure you'd enjoy such theatrics.

To count the facts, he was nested in your bed. It wouldn't be off-topic to mention the bed was in a guest bedroom personalized for him... By his lover's ex-girlfriend. If that alone wasn't a shit-storm, Crowley would better mention he'd also realized how wonderful you, Aziraphale's ex, were. Not only wonderful but also bloody beautiful. Crowley was losing his mind and roots because you were blowing him away. The panic fully settled as he heard you walking down the stairs, yawning, preparing coffee - given the clacking of porcelain, you brewed two cups. The Demon had to leave. Now, before he'd see you and your drowsy, vulnerable and definitely adorable form. In the other case, if Crowley would accept the mug of coffee and everything it presented, there was a chance he wouldn't leave... Ever.

Crowley'd given you a proper fright as he stormed into the living room, hastily putting on his glasses and throwing the blazer over his shoulders. Keys to the Bentley were hanging on his index finger, clacking as they swayed around. Something was off. Even though your relationship wasn't anything special (it was just beginning to develop), the absence of eye contact and lack of acknowledgement felt weird. The Demon was keen on any form of contact, you learned so far - Crowley's head darting in all directions as you set the coffee in front of him with a sweet smile rang all the bells. "Thanks for letting me stay the night." - No nickname either? Strange. "Uh-uh. The least I could do after dragging you all the way from..." "Nae bother, don't mention it." "Did you sleep well?" "So-so, 't was fine." - That bloody tone didn't match Crowley and the state of your friendship either. "Well, nothing a cuppa wouldn't make better?" "I'd better not. I have... Places... To be." - Oh, that hissing just gave him away. This was an excuse. With that, he nodded over to the entrance. - "I'll see myself out, no need to make a fuzz out..." "Listen, are you mad at me?" "Huh?" - The Demon finally paid attention - he was with you, still doing his bloody best to look everywhere but at you.

"Did I do something?" - Well, except you were positive you couldn't have. You both slept for the past four hours. - "Or said something you didn't like?" "Why would you think that?" - His tone heavily hinted at the inner turmoil - should he leave before giving you a chance or sit down, accept the coffee and see where it all goes? What was appropriate for you? Which would ensure your safety and comfort? "The attitude you're giving. The vibe's off." - Despite your best tries at easing the tension, Crowley's expression hadn't budged. "Told you I have places to be." - Crowley explained, tapping his fingers on the table. The longer he stood in the living room/dining room, the less he wanted to leave. Your scent lingered all over, details he hadn't noticed last night coming through - Crowley soberly realized he loved your home and its energy. It felt safe. Aziraphale nor the past could get to Crowley while under your protection.- "... Didn't say it would be pleasant."

"Oh." - Sadness crossed your face as you fought to keep the smile on. With a jolt of new-found energy, you picked yourself up and walked to the kitchen, fetching something. - "There's this little something I'd love to give you if you're in a hurry. It'll surely make your travel a bit less insufferable." "Don't bother, sweetheart." - Before you returned Crowley was already out the door, strutting down the driveway. The Demon prayed you wouldn't try calling out for him, but in the next second, all he could hear and concentrate on was that sweet, high-pitched...

“Crowley!” - You cried, standing in the doorframe. The Demon stopped, keys jingling between his fingers. Before falling asleep, Crowley vowed he wouldn’t turn around and look at you in the morning. No matter what would happen that morning he wouldn’t face you. The Hell could break loose for all Crowley cared but he wasn't allowed to look you in the eyes. So far, he was strong - but the tone of your voice was weakening his determination. It was plenty enough that he was tempted more than once in the last five minutes alone, this moment was crucial in defining the next course of your relationship.

Meeting you sober but broken was one thing. Escorting you home while you were zonked beyond reason was something else. Talking to you while you sobered and cried was, again, an utterly different occasion. ... But seeing your drowsy vulnerable form Crowley dreaded. If there was a quality about you the Demon learned so far, it was your resilience and forcefulness. You were nothing short of a fighter who did her bloodiest not to succumb to loneliness and abandonment. And the Demon liked to think of you as such. Seeing your morning face would shake everything up.

One particular fact Crowley was positive about? Everyone looked softer in the morning. No matter whether Angel or Demon; feminine, masculine or androgynous; everyone’s features changed into something blissful - to what God planned for her creations to truly look like. Whether it was the messy hair or patterns of crumbed sheets printed onto one’s face, flushed skin drenched in soft sweat, mismatched socks or missing pieces of clothing, Crowley didn’t know. The aura was simply different. Softer. Warmer. Inviting. Worth falling for. In this case, your eyes would be the trigger, that much was Crowley sure of. It would be those bloody eyes - those two beautiful marbles reflecting the entire bloody universe accompanied by lazy batting of lashes and a sleepy stare. It would pave Crowley's road right back to Hell.

He heavily debated on whether to turn around. All the colliding emotions clashed inside him, putting him in the middle of a figurative storm. The Demon and his company couldn't be the best you could do and yet, he gravitated back toward the house - mainly to you standing in the doorway. He'd pay a mighty price for spending another night talking to you, learning about you and just doing stuff with you. But wouldn't that condemn you to a path Crowley tried to avoid? Could you remain friends, which would let him oversee your happiness? How long until you'd see too much of Aziraphale in him? How long until you'd throw him away? And yet, you’ve resolved his conflict so simply - all it took was to call his name again for the Demon to finally give in to the temptation. Fuck it, Crowley thought, the Hell could swallow him whole for all he cared. With one motion, he'd turn on his heels, take off his sunglasses and strut right back. Since you remained on the porch, the Demon had to look up... And he found the sensation amusing. Just as he feared, you were darling - face sleepily flushed, hair put into a messy style, plushy robe sliding off your shoulder. Just as he worried, the sight of you was godly.

“There’s this something I’d like to give you. Prepared it before I hit the sack.” - With a proud smile, you handed the gift over, watching Crowley's reaction. He'd spin it between his fingers, furrowing. “A… CD? What’s that about?” “You said you’d never heard of them - until yesterday. That base riff you went off about? Well, I wanted to thank you for all the care. It's just a memento.” “Hits To The Head by Franz Ferdinand?” “My very own copy - bought it on a filling station two years ago during a late-night trip to Warwick. Track 2, if you're wondering, that's the one... And maybe you'd also like track 12?” - You winked, pulling the plushy robe back on your shoulder. Oh, for the love of Satan, you were dangerous. Very dangerous. Fucking temptatious.

It took a lot of Crowley's will not to ask you to hop into the Bentley and invite you for breakfast somewhere in London where you'd be isolated in public, so you could share stories and simply talk and get to know each other better... And not even for Aziraphale's sake, but for Crowley's. Not asking you out so he could freely stare at you was almost at the brink of Crowley's inner strength. Instead, he'd nod and lick his lip, bouncing the CD on his fingers.

"Could I see you again?" - The Demon muttered, his eyes boring into yours. "Manageable." - Sending him a flattered smile, you hugged yourself as you bounced on your heels expectedly. What were you expecting, that Crowley didn't know. "Soon-ish?" - Crowley continued guessingly, clearly pushing some invisible boundary. "How about you just say soon?" "See you soon - sounds better to you?" "It sounds perfect, Crowley." - Nodding you pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. - "I'll text you, okay?" "Looking forward to it." "Drive safe, please." "Always, joy." - With a last demonic grin, Crowley bowed his head and walked toward the Bentley.

With a sigh, Crowley looked at the CD and then the stubborn Bentley. There was a matter to be solved. “Listen here, punk.” - The Demon hissed as soon as his arse touched the leather seat cover. Bentley’s motor fired up despite the keys hanging off Crowley's finger. The resilient car surely gave him a good old mean look, likely thinking 'Spill it, old man'. “We’ve got this CD from her.” - Pointing toward your house, Crowley was sure the Bentley knew well who he had in mind. His other palm waved around the Franz Ferdinand CD you’ve gifted him. As if the car realized, it suddenly felt timid, the motor purring silently. - “Don’t you dare turn it into The Best of Queen. In case you’d act funny, I’ll make sure to get your seats dusted.”

Part III: The Discovery (A Strange Addiction) February of 2025, Oxford, England:

Bumping into Anthony J Crowley in your vicinity became a regular occurrence almost strangely fast. Nothing about your friendship felt unnatural or rushed, the two of you just jumped over milestones others took months and years to accomplish. It was as easy as breathing having Crowley around. For you, at least. Katie commented on the matter at first, but she soon learned how to appreciate Crowley for who he was - especially after his tips started to make a considerable portion of her tips for the day. The two of you regularly argued about his paying ethics, but the Demon refused to admit he was in the wrong. Other than that, she'd also learned to like his personality and cutting sense of humour.

Soon, Katie wasn't even surprised when she ran over to yours during the latest run of Love Island just to find Crowley spread on the sofa with a facemask, hair in a towel, dressed in a plushy robe as you painted his nails. Usually, he'd also hold a glass of Merlot in his other palm, lamenting about the contestants. It was a routine, a habit, nothing out of the ordinary. Katie didn't comment on the oddity and speed at which you grew closer - the old you was shining through around Crowley. You beamed, seemed well-rested, happy, eager to humour and be humoured, and became interested in topics you seemingly lost interest in... With Crowley, you simply let time and life flow at its pace, enjoying the little things.

The Demon quickly became a third wheel in your friendship - an utmost welcomed one. He'd hang about most of the time and honestly? Anything was as fun when he wasn't around. You'd opt for various activities - singing while he played the guitar, filling out taxes, movie nights, cooking sessions, watching pouring rain sitting on your porch while drinking hot cocoa, take-out nights and many more. Crowley even took the two of you fishing, for Hell's sake - the photo of you freaking out (dressed in waterproof, sunshine yellow bib & brace) with Katie screaming in the background was currently on his lock screen. You'd just caught your first carp in that one. Your most prized moments were your late-night joyrides around the countryside - you'd mostly drive your Beetle around, listening to your playlists while chatting about anything and everything. While Aziraphale was a creature of habit, mostly well-predictable and calm, Crowley was a sucker for sudden change of plans and last-minute calls. His spontaneousity rubbed on you, letting you enjoy the freedom and adventure.

There were lots of last-minute outings Crowley talked you down to, such as your midnight trips to London - you'd walk around, talk, enjoying the metropole slowing down for a bit. The city had a different atmosphere during nighttime and you were a sucker for it. You'd taken many pictures during said trips - selfies, Crowley taking photos when you wouldn't pay attention or having tourists take them... You've had it all. Your camera roll was filled with him, Katie, aesthetic photos and baked goods for promotional materials... And you loved it.

The man spent an ungodly amount of time over at yours - whether you had horrendous-sounding karaoke sessions, watched the latest romcoms or simply talked, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that you two were together, exchanged thoughts and opinions and got to know each other. He couldn't count the number of nights he'd stay over, carrying you to bed on most of them - always spending a good minute getting strands of hair out of your eyes and tugging you in. When Crowley wasn't over at your house or became busy (doing mischievous deeds, you assumed), he'd at least drop by the bakery for coffee. It was just a poor excuse but neither of you disputed it. Disputing such a weak argument was like walking on thin ice - it would destroy the illusion of you being 'just friends' and hanging out because 'you simply enjoyed each other's presence, nothing more to it'.

Crowley noticed how you looked at him and giggled at his jokes. He'd have to be blind to overlook your eyes fondly copying the curves of his face whenever you'd assume he wasn't paying attention. He'd have to be an absolute moron to ignore how you lit up whenever he'd give you a compliment. And an absolute bloody wanker to overlook how cosy and relaxed you were around him. The Demon didn't go as far as naming the reason behind your mutual behaviour, even though it was painfully obvious. Katie saw it. Your employees saw it whenever they'd have to endure yet another of Crowley's 'coffee visits'. Your customers saw it whenever Crowley leaned over the counter and sent you a mischievous smile with a cheeky compliment. Explicitly naming this banter and tension was out of the equation. Naming the feelings and suggestive hints would also mean Crowley would admit his feelings... And as mentioned, Crowley wasn't a fan of naming and all the additional attachments.

Both of you knew something was unravelling, an unnamed emotion hanging in the air and chose to live with this knowledge. We're in a bloody rom-com, Katie muttered once - hitting the nail on its head. Watching romcoms, in general, was your go-to activity. Crowley, despite his goth attire and 'Hell can lick my arse' attitude was a sap under the wraps. You couldn't count the times you'd watch him cry over Notting Hill or argue with Reneé Zellweger when you opted for Bridget Jones. He'd also recite some of the quotes he liked daily. When the nights grew dark, you'd idly sit on the sofa and sip wine, candles shining through the darkness. A few glasses deep, Crowley'd bump his head into your shoulder (usually criticizing the main character's behaviour), silently asking you to play with his hair... And you happily obliged each time.

The atmosphere would get heavy whenever you got to the mornings, though. The sight of drowsy Crowley wondering about your place and trying to find something to eat got you feral at times. Loving Aziraphale was easy, soft and warm - but Crowley, dear God, was great at starting guttural reactions that threatened to burn you alive. Whether he was innocent in all this (you doubted) or did it on purpose, you didn't know.

More importantly - did he even know what sex was? Was it a viable option for principalities or did they evade it altogether? Did they feel such needs? You and the Angel did all the cutesy couple things, of course - you were aware holding hands, cuddling, kissing and making out wasn't off the table. The flame was there (palpable) and the line was almost crossed before he left - meaning you didn't actually learn how it worked Could such behaviour be explored and discovered? You've been informed it was mostly you who taught Aziraphale about humanity, specifically the pleasure of physical touch such as embracing and kissing. Was Crowley, to put it simply, a virgin? Since you never asked and didn't want to bother Crowley, you never chose to act on your instincts. Those usually consisted of stripping Crowley out of his damn fucking pyjama bottoms and preferably taking him right there and then, anyway he'd like. Since you couldn't speak up, you usually just bit your lip, shake your head and run off to work. There was no way Crowley didn't see you were ready to head right into the ER each time he'd send you a coquette smirk, drowsily standing in front of the coffee machine.

It became a habit to pick you up after your shift in Baked Bliss - it wasn't hard to hear Crowley coming either. First, there was the squealing of Bentley's tyres and just a second later, you'd recognise Franz Ferdinand playing on full blast, windows rolled all the way down. It wasn't unusual to spend evenings in London either, just walking about and talking or going for dinner. The first time Crowley suggested Ritz (fucking Ritz) as your dinner destination... Let's just say, that after seeing (and hearing) your reaction, he hadn't the balls to suggest it again. Ever. You'd find spots of your own, though, a few nice pubs and fast food stalls framing the collonade around the Thames.

The Bentley also became your good friend, no matter how mental that sounded. When Crowley muttered 'f course you're going to behave when she's around, ungrateful bastard' for the first few times you drove in his Bentley... You'd swear you're crazy. But over time, you learned the Car behaved a certain way, depending on whenever you were around. There were afternoons when Crowley went on and on about how insane the Car was, what dog pieces it had trotted and how misbehaving it was. And yet, whenever you hopped onto the co-driver seat and smoothed its leather seats and dashboard, the Car behaved like a well-raised kid.

The first time you realized Bentley was its own entity happened when you were waiting for Crowley to finish some business, scrolling through your Instagram as you waited about. The motor suddenly came to life, purring like a little kitten - playing you a couple of romantic ballads. Ever since knowing God, Angels and Demons exist, a Bentley with its own mind and consciousness wasn't nearly enough to throw you off the rails. You, in fact, started befriending it - figuring out what car scents it likes, what treatment it welcomes for its leather seats or what programmes it prefers at the car wash. If the Car liked you before, it was surely obsessed with you by that point.

"It's a ladies' night." - Smirking at Crowley, you picked your pieces and started putting them down on the board. The Demon knew what word you were spelling - the childish grin and tongue poking out your mouth always gave you away. With a certain level of disappointment, he started writing down points for the word 'arsehead'. "And... Where's the issue?" - He'd mutter in response, not even looking at you as he started planting another word on the board. While your words mostly consisted of profanities, Crowley's were mostly non-existent. But since he was an eternal principality, he'd always managed to justify his spelling.

"The point of ladies' night is... That it is for the ladies only." "I'm technically not a male." - Crowley objected. "But you're technically not a female either." "I could be." "Oh, come on. You truly don't have to go to such lengths." "Clearly, I do." "Or, you could stay home and watch the Holiday as I recommended?" "Where would be the fun in that?" - Crowley argued, clicking his tongue as he finally finished 'camelopard'. You didn't even bother objecting, just shook your head and let him count his points.

"What would you even do in a club?" "I'm a Demon, joy." - Crowley muttered half-assedly and watched as you tried figuring out what curse word hadn't been put on the board yet. Watching your eyebrows crook was delightful, the task genuinely absorbing you. - "Believe me, I'll figure out a thing or two." "Yeah, but..." "Drink and dance, preferably,'s that what you want to hear? What on Earth are you planning to do there?" - This question caught you off-guard. Good question, actually. What was your fucking plan? Preferably chatting up someone (anyone) who'd distract me from my obsession with you, you wanted to say. Someone I can act out my fantasies with because I don't know if you'd be into it and having you in my life is more important than ruining 'us' with low, human desires. And yet, you just smiled. "Having the entire club perform a choreo to Murder On The Dancefloor. Been a dream since I was a babe." "Ah, surely." - Crowley nodded, scoffing with disbelief. - "Am I invited, then?" "Crowley..." "We never clubbed. Could be fun!" "Crowleeeeyyyy...." "Please, pretty please, please, please, please, I'll do the dishes until the end of the month." "Two." "Month and a half?" "Two. Last offer." "Fine!" "You're in, love." "Wahoo!'" "Don't get ahead of yourself." - You hissed, rolling your eyes. The Demon sent you a victorious smirk, leaving your head vacant for a few beats. This damn man could be so annoying at times, especially at getting what he wanted. And blood Hell - didn't he memorize everything that softened you up rather quickly? This man had you in his palm. - "You can come along! But it's a ladies' night. Fuck, you can be annoying, you know that?" - You emphasized with a serious expression. Crowley nodded like a happy-go-lucky idiot. - "And... What the fuck is a camelopard?"

"Where's your beloved roommate?" - Katie wondered as you both sat at the kitchen table, waiting for Crowley to arrive - not the iteration of him you were familiar with, but Crowley nonetheless. As usual before going out, you started warming up with a few shots of vodka. Seeing your house empty was eerie at best. In Katie's eyes, you've already become a double-pack, not to be seen separately. This girl was your biggest shipper, constantly going off about whether he'd already confessed - for you to shut her down immediately each time. If she'd have to be honest, she'd been expecting wedding invitations anytime soon. Katie wrote down an entire list in case you'd be looking for babe names. Therefore, not seeing Crowley around made Katie physically uncomfortable.

"Oh, he has some business in London. Needs to wrap it up. Nothing to worry about." - Giggling uncomfortably, you'd pour down a shot of vodka. - "His twin sister is coming along, though." "Crowley has a twin sister? That's the twist of the century." - The girl hissed in disbelief, pouring a large shot down her throat right after. - "Never mentioned her... What a bastard." "Yup." - You nodded, playing along. - "He'd run his mouth so much she's apparently dying to meet us." "That sounds believable." "What do you mean?" "Who wouldn't want to meet us? Looking like a piece of cake, both funny as shit, businesswomen atop that... We're the catch, sister." "And I'll drink to that." - Before you could toast to Katie, however, the doorbell rang - excusing yourself, you ran off to open the door.

All the words in the world felt meaningless just after you opened the door, meeting face-to-face with the Demon. All sense evaporated as your eyes took in Crowley's feminine form. If Crowley usually brought you to the brink of going feral, this upped it a great notch. All you could muster was an awkward gawk and your mouth opened agape, not a word or articulable thought. He was delightful. Tempting. And very sensual.

Crowley's height remained the same - all 185 centimetres in their full glory. His figure and silhouette, however, shifted - the Demon possessed a pronounced waist and subtle, round hips. The stance and mannerisms felt familiar, but that's where the similarities ended. Crowley went as far as putting on killer heels, prolonging his already endless legs and instead of demonically tight jeans, he was showing off a very tight and very short cowl skirt. That tiny piece of clothing left nothing to the imagination and copied his newly obtained waist and hips in a way that made you salivate. As you moved up to his satin top, you were ready to be rushed to the ER. It was masterfully tucked inside the skirt to highlight his newly obtained feminine virtues. And the lace framing his cleavage? M A Y G O D F U C K I N G H E L P Y O U.

Even if the body changed, his facial features remained familiar - killer cheekbones, sharp lips and the kindest, prettiest reptile eyes filled with jitters, just how you liked it. You had no idea how he fucking managed, but his make-up was flawless - the contouring, highlights, blush, masterful choice of intense red lipstick... Bloody fucking hell, Crowley turned into the most tantalizing woman you've met. Let alone the make-up, he had long hair now. Waves of flaming red cascaded down his shoulders, bouncing up and down in curls as he leaned his head towards his shoulder, studying you as well.

"You good, joy? Seems your eyes are about to pop out." "Hmhm, yes, very good." - The longer you watched him, the more hot and bothered you became - sweat formed on your back and travelled down. Each drop tickled you, pushing you further to the edge. "See anything you fancy?" - The Demon murmured, lips pursing in a cocky grin. "Don't cheer yourself up, love." "So you don't?" "Hadn't said so either." "Oh, I know - you look like it." "Excuse me?" "Point is - is this feminine enough, your Highness?" - Crowley whispered, sending you a playful smile. His voice remained the same, but you'd swear it was sweeter, fuller now. As if he covered each word in honey. As he leaned closer, his perfume soaked into your nose. Fuck, he smelled so good. "Uh... Ye-yeah! You're definitely granted entrance into the ladies' club." - With that, you let him in, hypnotized by the perfect curve his arse swung in. Not only were you gawking at male Crowley, but you were even more mesmerized by his feminine form? You were so fucking done for, a hopeless mess' what you were. When 'Crowley's sister' appeared in the doorframe, Katie lost her speech (just like you) - the girl simply stared at the newcomer, taking them in. The woman scoffed playfully, leaning her shoulder into the wall.

"Hey there." "Oh." - Katie sighed, taken aback. - "S-sorry, it's just... The two of you look and sound so alike and it's..." "Ah, don't you worry, darling." - Crowley laughed, waving his hand playfully. - "People usually react like this when they meet me. I wonder what stories my baby brother says 'bout me since they're blown away each time." "He... Doesn't really talk about you much." - Katie stuttered, watching you down another shot of vodka. As the duo chatted, you had a small existential crisis - how you planned on surviving the night was beyond you. Concentrating on Crowley when he was so beautiful was plentiful enough, let alone when you'd have two perfect distractions under his collarbones. Damn you, damn him and damn everyone.

"I see. What bratty punk he is - always been. Rest assured I'm the better twin..." "Katie, nice to meet you." - They shared a handshake, Katie clearly unable to turn away from his eyes hidden under elegant sunglasses framed with gold detailing. "Lorelei." "Uncommon name." - Katie commented, her eyes darting to you. 'Are you seeing her?' her gaze asked 'Is she even real?'. - "Has a ring to it, though." "Our... Mother was fond of mythical and biblical names, that much's true. Anyway, let's not dissect that. Crowley asked me to be your driver for the night." "You staying sober?" - You wondered, catching Crowley's attention. "Don't be silly." - Lorelei squealed, laughing. - "I just know how to tip-toe the line, 's all. Are you girls ready?"

"But that's like... Super irresponsible." - Katie muttered, having Crowley stop in his tracks as he gave her a furrow. "You're safe. I know what I'm doing. Done it a dozen times before, this won't be any different." - Little did Katie know that the Demon could drink four endless buckets of Margarita and sober up in a minute on the dot. Neither informed Katie about this skill of Crowley's, not even now. All three of you soaked into your Beetle, Crowley automatically taking the driver's seat with you following suit, sitting right next to him. Despite looking entirely different, he'd performed the rituals and mannerisms Crowley'd always kept when driving your car - gently setting the rearview mirror, croaking the window open, straightening the seat... It was comforting.

"Crowley wouldn't have this." - Katie continued to protest. "Allow... What exactly?" "What had he told you about this girl right here?" "Her name's Y/N and she's wonderful - simply a delight to be around to quote. All I need to know." - Lorelei explained swiftly, sending you a sweet smile. So, you naturally smiled right back.

"And he clearly left out the juiciest bit." "The juiciest bit?" - Lorelei repeated, amusent clear in his voice. "He fancies Y/N quite a lot. That leads me to a conclusion - Crowley wouldn't stand for anyone hurting a hair of her head. Not even his sister." - Katie explained topically, stopping Crowley in his tracks. The Beetle halted with tyres screeching, everyone bouncing on their seatbelts. He hadn't answered right away - just pursed his lips into a straight line and stared out the window absentmindedly.

He fancied you. That much was factual. He'd also deemed it mutual. Based on your actions and behaviour confirmed as much. Being called out, however, wasn't pleasant. Katie's statement brought a whole new dynamic into a situation Crowley deemed deeply personal and intimate. Until Katie busted his bubble, he factually accepted his infatuation with you without stopping to think about it - it was as natural as sunlight. Hearing someone else poking around your personal business put everything into perspective.

If Katie knew, you must've known by proxy. Sure, he realized as much but never stopped to think of it. Hearing a confirmation so loud and crystal clear... The Demon didn't know what stance to take. He wasn't the best at talking about emotions. Crowley was, factually, quite terrible at it. And the last time he'd done it? Oh, boy, didn't it backfire? There were instances when it would be perfect to drop the bomb - like last week, when you strutted around the house, performing Queen's Break Free solely for his amusement. Or when you baked - both of you dressed in preppy aprons, beating about in a dough that turned into absolute shite. The sun shone through the windows highlighting the dust particles hovering about, the smell of blooming flowers and butter soaking through the kitchen. He'd look up at you to see you covered in flour and jam, furrowing while re-reading the recipe, trying to figure out what went wrong. It almost slipped past his lips. You looked like an angel. You'd also had perfect moments to open up the topic. Crowley saw the look in your eyes, that moment when your brain blanked and went 'oh'. Why did he recognize it? He'd had the exact same moments. But the push and the shove never came.

Why was it so difficult to make the first step? What could go wrong? The Demon was positive he wouldn't lose you even if he'd misinterpreted the situation and context. You'd navigate through it and communicate about everything, like every time. His eyes slipped in your direction, his chest growing tight. What a joy you were. Half a year ago, Crowley wouldn't suspect he'd make you this happy by sticking around. He'd stick to sipping while you'd go about your life. You were thriving, far removed from the ruin of your former self. What if he'd fuck it up? Everything that mattered to Crowley in the past always ended the same - in flames with his heart crushed to pieces. It was his bloody destiny as Demon - to be unforgivable, always take the last punch and end up alone. For the fucking love of God, Crowley couldn't do it again.

Aziraphale's presence was palpable; as if he was sitting in the car with you. That's why he never introduced you, surely. The Angel must've predicted the outcome. Aziraphale'd unknowingly built soft, invisible and impenetrable barriers between the two of you, ones Crowley didn't dare to cross. Said barriers weren't in place to protect Crowley - the Angel was protecting you from all the destruction Crowley brought. And Crowley would rather become an angel than fuck this up. Your expression and gaze made Crowley's heart skip a beat, pressing the wedge even deeper. That fucking light in your eyes intensified, the beauty of the universe coming through. The look was heavy, filled with adoration and hope. Expectation. Once again, Crowley didn't know what exactly were you expecting. He was positive, however, he wouldn't deliver.

"Those are some strong words." - Crowley hissed as the Beetle took off, his tone emotionally flat. His reaction surprised you, so you stared at the beautifully cut profile of his face. These slightly softer features suited him greatly. "Why do you think so?" - You asked, whispering. "I'm not sure my brother's got the guts to fancy anyone after what went down last time." - He muttered, putting the radio on, trying to escape the conversation.

You've never dissected what went down between him and Aziraphale. It was clear you've been on opposite sides of the spectrum. While you forgave Aziraphale and understood his decision, the Demon hadn't in him to simply let go. While you shared your history with the Angel openly, Crowley would rather rip his heart out than talk about that bastard. That meant you didn't know what went down in the Soho bookshop. You weren't aware Crowley laid down his cards and offered Aziraphale all of him. He'd give the Angel his heart if he wished so... Just to be rejected for 'the greater fucking good'. You didn't even know about the last-ditch effort Crowley sunken to. The Demon didn't disclose he'd kissed Aziraphale. You didn't even know that evening nightingales stopped singing for Crowley... Until recently, that was.

"Oh?" - As usual, you were ogling your eyes at him, face flustered as you innocently waited for an explanation. One you weren't to get. Hope and expectation in your face subdued. It dimmed, all of the wishes turning into an iteration of disappointment. "Anywho, let's not ruin our night by thinking about this, hm?" - His tempting smile returned as he winked at you. Crowley put both hands on the wheel, leaned his back into the seat and started to push the gas pedal to the floor. 60mph wasn't fast enough for his taste, but it was decent. - "Let's have a fun night out. And Katie, love, I promise I will only drink mocktails." "Deal."

Promises in general weren't Crowley's thing. He was horrendous at keeping them, as any reasonable Demon would be. This explained why he managed to down four Long Islands and six shots of rum barely an hour and a half after you entered the club. Frankly, you hadn't been sober either. Most of your drinks were paid for by handsome strangers who did their damnest to chat Crowley up. And... Who wouldn't? The Demon was a bombshell, a catch of the night if you'd have to admit. Knowing how the men behaved and looked at Crowley gave you a run for your money. Jealousy, jealousy... Katie parted ways with the two of you a few minutes after you entered - she'd bumped into some of her college friends and asked you if 'it was fine to have a drink with them'? Crowley's presence suddenly made your evening much more enjoyable.

"I like this place." - You admitted as you sprawled on the bar, Crowley holding another drink. A Mojito this time. "'f course. Knew you would, that's why I picked it." "A big party animal, are you?" "Occasionally, yes." - The Demon admitted, running his tongue on his lower lip as he looked around. - "Partied with all sorts of people." "Oh?" - Intrigued, you'd move closer and waited. Even though you'd talked all the time, Crowley never mentioned he'd gone through a 'party girl era'.

"Royalty, corporate animals, celebrities... You name it, really. 't was fun." "Comes as a part of the job when you're a Demon? Parties must be a great place for temptation and mischief." "You're tight 'bout the second part, but no. Not really, was just bored." - Sending you a warm smile, Crowley giggled. Just bored, so he decided to party with the royals? Who in the right state of mind could say that? - "This is already so much better." - The soft 'bettah' complimented with a warm gaze gave you butterflies, stomach erupting with waves of soft warmth. "How come?" "Company's much better around these parts." "You flirt..." - Laughing awkwardly, you took a long sip of your drink. - "That's the alcohol talking, trust me." "No, it's not, I promise."

"Humour me this, then..." - The warm glimpse in your eyes was back as you raised your gaze to him, moving closer. The perfume hit your nose. It differed from his usual smell - this scent was sweet and truly intense, sensual. Fitting with his new look. - "Why are you one foot out of the door?" "Huh?" "Why are you half in and half out?" "... Out of what?" - Crowley muttered, realising well what you were getting around. "You and me. It feels like you can't make up your mind. There are moments when I'd swear we're much more than friends then snap and it's like you wish you'd never met me. I'll respect if you tell me you don't wanna cross the threshold, but..."

Crowley's eyes opened wide as he looked down on you. If he'd put his arm a bit higher, you'd be cuddled up in his arms - that's how close you were. The expression on your face showed all the enjoyment you found in Crowley's proximity. The expression in your damn eyes shook the floor under Crowley's high heels - all the infatuation and desire palpable in your gaze. If Crowley wasn't scared and reluctant to break the walls and move into the next stage, he could smooth your cheek, simply lower his head and steal a kiss from you. It would express more than the Demon could ever say, especially about how much he loved you. Love. Love... Could it be? Was it truly love? Were you two ready for the truth? Would the truth hurt that something unravelling between you? What if Crowley was just a selfish bastard terrified of loneliness and rejection? Was that why Crowley couldn't let you go? What then? Was it love if he wanted you to be his, be with him, smile at him, love him... Or would this love just damn you to all eternity? Just like the Angel's did?

The expression (love) resonated in his head, your face moving a bit closer, time moving ever so slowly. Your eyes travelled between his and lips, a soft smile spreading on your face. Since he wasn't flinching, you assumed Crowley wanted the kiss too. The tips of your fingers even brushed his neck, caressing it. Suddenly, you heard a snap, the atmosphere in the club shifting drastically. DJ started frantically searching about as people put their drinks down and walked towards the dancefloor. You, despite not wanting to, stepped away. His body shot straight up as he woke from the trance, putting his Mojito down. It wasn't hard to guess what happened - the sound gave it away. It was engraved into the back of your head. It differed from the sound Aziraphale used to make, but you weren't stupid. The silent, soft 'pink'. Aziraphale rarely Miracled around you, but he helped you when there was too much on your plate. Most of Aziraphale's miracles were small - 'barely half-a-miracle!', the Angel used to argue.

Confusion filled your expression as you turned around, hearing a synchronized thud - Murder On The Dancefloor taking over the speakers. "What have you done?" "Whatcha mean? "Stop. Let me... Let go of my hand, Crowley." "I can't." - The Demon muttered, turning you around until you landed in his arms. "Crowley?" - His palm took yours as you felt your body inexplicably waltzing into the middle of the dancefloor, some higher power leading all your steps. - "Tell me you didn't miracle everyone in the club to dance out a choreo to Murder On The Dancefloor. Tell me I'm just drugged out of my fucking mind." - With that, everyone stomped the ground and clapped loudly, the music picking up.

"Joy, I..." - Crowley's palms reached for yours as he cuddled you into his chest, soft boobs bounding on your back as you danced out the choreo. Just like in the video, you thought sourly. "Are you seriously that afraid of rejecting me?" - You hissed as you looked into his face, Crowley's complexion turning a few shades lighter. The Demon turned you around animatedly, dragging you across the floor. "What in the world do you mean?" "You could've said no, you see?" - Putting your palm on his shoulder, the entirety of the club started spinning in pairs. - "Instead of this." "You said you'd like that." "I was joking, you twat." "I panicked, alright? That's it!" - Putting your palm on his lower back, you dipped him - just like the rest of the club. "Why would you panic? It's a yes or no question! And given how long we've been talking..." "Because I'm afraid this isn't the best for you..." - Crowley muttered, the chorus blasting so loudly you couldn't hear anything. Without a sweat, the Demon lifted you off the ground, spinning you around with your buttocks propped on his forearms. - "And the possibility of me not being the best for you mortifies me... Who am I kidding, I'm not nearly enough. Never been. And he knew. Never introduced us for a reason." - He whispered as you leaned into his chest again, clapping in the rhythm.

"And was Aziraphale the best for me? Was I truly the best he could do? Were you the best he could do?" "Seemed you were a match made in heaven. That's how you always went about it anyway." "Knowing we're compatible and work great together doesn't mean everything's perfect! There's no such thing as 'being the best'. Relationship requires constant fucking work, improvement and mutual growth. Everything's about the imperfections, actually. Those make it or break it." - Waltzing around, your nostrils were getting ridiculously huge. You were pissed. - "And for your fucking information, we work incredibly well, Crowley, if you hadn't noticed. We can grow, you see? We can work it out. You know - love's never perfect. It hurts. It's sad. It's filled with passion, drama and small infuriating details. It'll bring you to your grave... But it's fun. It both takes and gives; makes you rush and slow down; learns and teaches. It makes you fly in the skies. It sets you ablaze... That's also love. And that's what you deserve." "Y/N, luv, I... I..." - Crowley was choking on his words, panic almost sending him into fainting. The air was hot and heavy, the sounds too loud, your chest pressed to his, your arms clumsily hugging his waist as you led him across the dancefloor... Too much. It all was too much. - "I can't." "I see."

Two words, four letters and two syllables. Just this little to nearly bring Crowley to his knees - tears rolled down your cheeks as you continued with the choreo, the song progressing at its own, cheerful pace. Your expression almost tore Crowley's heart apart, your moves becoming animated as you let the Miracle do its thing. How quickly and simply you accepted his refusal was graceful, yet devastating. "It's not that I wouldn't want to..." "Crowley, I understand and beg you... Don't explain. It'd cut even deeper." "I doubt you can imagine how horrifying this is for someone... Something like me. I'm scared that..." "You've said enough." - Clapping into the rhythm, you also refused to look at him as you continued to dance, tears completely deforming your vision. - "As you've said before - let's not ruin our night. Forget it. I'll just need a moment to breathe." "You know I..." "Not so sure anymore."

As the song ended and the Miracle faded, your body instinctively pushed away from Crowley's. You'd speed away, drying your tears. You'd zigzagged across the club, bump into people, just rushing your way forward. You pondered about you and Crowley in this sense lots of times in the past. As said, the tension was mutual. And you could understand he'd be scared to let himself go - especially after what Aziraphale'd done to him. Over the past few months, you've learned to know Crowley - step by step, you figured out how to live next to him, to understand him and love him. He was... Specific, to say the least. A millennia-thousand-old Demon, who would've thought, huh? It wasn't always sunshine and rainbows and there were concepts Crowley's brain simply couldn't comprehend. But you found all these small pieces endearing. And there were certain moments when you'd swear Crowley felt the same about you. It was in his eyes, his actions, smirks and overall behaviour.

It took a long time to figure out how to approach him and even longer to bring it up. Right there, back at the bar? You just offered Crowley everything, all of you - your heart wrapped in velvet for safekeeping. You put your entire friendship on the line for a few heartbeats, to see how it'd turn out. Getting a reality check and hearing one of the answers you've dreaded hurt. Being rejected was painful. Heartbreak was one hell of a bitch. You've only stopped once you walked into the dark, freezing night. The snow drifted quietly as people smoked and chatted, standing around the entrance. One of the girls (a very pretty blonde) noticed your running mascara and approached you. She and her friends carefully wrapped you into her blazer over your shoulders and put her pack of cigs before you. You accepted without a word, simply hummed. "Fuck 'em silly little boys, huh?" "Yeah... Fuck 'em." - You agreed, taking a long drag. Drunk and smoking... Jesus. This was possibly the lowest of lows you found yourself at. "Attagirl."

The group was kind enough to treat you to a drink, staying with you until you deemed you were ready to face Crowley. You'd find him dissociated in one of the boxes, straw from another drink hanging on his lips. The Demon was sipping like his life depended on it. Sending him a tired, sad smile, you'd join him - stealing one of the drinks before him, sitting next to him, bumping your shoulder into his. He wouldn't speak at first, just leaned into the leather upholstery with a sour expression, waves of red hair cascading on his shoulders.

"How are you holding up?" - Sending him a careful glance, you smiled. It was a tight, miserable smile; but it was a clear peace offering, "Not holding up at all, haven't in the last few years... I think." "Couldn't have been all that miserable, was it?" "Oh, the last few months were brilliant." - Crowley admitted, pursing his lips - like a child fighting tears. - "... Just had to ruin it, silly ol' me." "Ruining is a strong word, truly." "You reckon?" "Can't force yourself to be with someone you don't really wanna be with. That's okay. We're still friends and that room's yours, if you want it." "I'd love nothing more." - There it was - the careful shoulder bump back. - "And for the record, you're wrong. Plain wrong with the first one." "Huh?" "I'm not sure I can explain - I would love to, trust me... But can't." "We have time. It's okay, Crowley." - The hope in your eyes was back, breaking Crowley's heart in halves. How much would he have to stomp it and snuff it out for you to understand? He was everything but the right choice.

"How long we have, you reckon? Eighty years?" - Scoffing, Crowley shook his head as he looked away. "That's a lifetime." "For you, maybe. For me, it's just a regular Friday at the gig. Will pass before I blink." "We can figure it out... And we will." "Joy, stop it." - The Demon hissed, having you straighten up, your eyes opened wide. There it was - caution as if Crowley just tried striking you. - "You better concentrate on yourself and your life. I'm not him and I won't ever be." "Nobody wants..." "I'll go take a piss." - Crowley hissed, drunkardly stomping off on his high heels. You'd sit about for a bit, trying to hold off the tears and panic overtaking you. When you felt like you won't fall flat on your arse, you'd go to the bar... And met a handsome brunette man who addressed you a few seconds later, making you smirk. Perfect.

Let go, just let go, you bloody moron, he'd mutter to himself while drying his hands - the jewellery clinking on his wrist. Stop thinking and jump in. Julia Roberts does it and Reneé too. She's good for you and you're good for her. All thanks to her, you can look yourself in the eyes for the first time in months. That girl stuck it out with you through thick and thin... And hadn't left. You've got through the worst together. "Shut up!" - He'd hissed at the mirror, taking a long breath to calm down - the entire bathroom was staring at him breathlessly. All the girls furrowed, one of them quietly approaching. A pretty, petite blonde with a tailored blazer. - "I won't fucking stand for this." "Oy." - The girl behind muttered, patting his shoulder. - "You fine?" "Dandy." "Let me guess... Boy trouble?" "Something like that, yeah." "We won't fucking stand for this, you're right. Wanna talk about it? Might cheer you up." "Well..." - Crowley took a second to think it through. He might as well. - "I've been told someone loves me. The trouble is, I'm not good for them. It's someone I cherish and hope to keep safe..." - Crowley admitted, breathing panicly. Drunk girls in a club's bathroom. What a cliché. - "I ken I'd ruin them."

The blonde watched him with empathy and compassion only drunk women shared, going as far as to lean her temple into his shoulder. If he'd be sober, he'd just push her away. Now, a humane touch didn't feel so bad. "That's just the alcohol talking, girly." "My point... My point is - I'm a Demon, a literal one. I lie, trick, manipulate and cause havoc.'s what I do for a living." "You're a girl boss, then. You go, girl." "... And she's a gentle ray of sunshine, so fragile and precious. Knows how to make me laugh, to take my mind off things and for the love of... That hot cocoa." "She's into it, then. Been a long-time occasion, you two hanging about?" - Another woman stepped in, caressing Crowley's hair and adjusting his skirt.

"Last few months, yeah." - Crowley admitted, nodding at the women. - "Almost every day." "See, honey, if she wasn't into..." - The girl muttered, gesturing to contain Crowley's entirety. - "... Into this very sexy package, she'd ditch you a long time ago." "But... I'm a lot. Annoying, moody, broody, my humour's cutting edge... No idea how she could tolerate me that long, but I feel like I'd dissipate if she left. The worst part is she only has about eighty years to live. And I'm selfish because I can't leave. That's what you people call toxic, innit?" - Crowley argued.

"Babygirl, people call it co-dependency these days. And let me tell you - she isn't as perfect as you think. None of us are." - Most women in the bathroom hummed in agreement. - "Most people are toxic in a way, we just love to think we aren't. Most of us find ways to curb the toxicity... And so will you." "You reckon?" "Yeah! I imagine you'll work it out together." "Look at me, darling." - The blonde smiled, turning Crowley to her, adjusting his clothes and jewellery, setting his glasses straight. - "You go find that girl and reconcile. With a kiss, preferably." "That's not appropriate." "Little kissy-wissie's always good. Gets the dopamine going." "... And then, you'll talk it over in the morning, sober. Trust her. She hadn't left yet - why would she now? You're obviously worth it." "I'm worth it." - Crowley repeated, enchanted with the magic of drunk women hyping and lifting one another in the bathroom. Witchcraft -must've been. "Hell yeah, girly." "That's the spirit. Go get her, tigress."

With a newly found confidence, the Demon strutted through the club in search of you. He planned to come up to you and kiss you like the Hell would swallow him whole if he didn't. Then, Crowley'd make the grand confession. By the end, the two of you would become an item. How hard could it be? Crowley was worth it. He had what it took to make you happy. Most importantly, you weren't Aziraphale - you already confirmed and proved time and time again you'd picked Crowley's side over anything. You wouldn't leave him, not like the Angel did. With you, he needn't be as worried.

His heart jumped when he spotted the bar, lovely as ever. Until the reality check hit. A man (a fairly handsome and well-built one in all fairness) looming over you with one of the filthiest smiles Crowley had seen on a mortal. Nearly drooling too. No wonder there - you looked like a goddess in the deep purple and green lights, especially with that sweet yet tempting smile.

His eyes widened upon a sudden realization, the high heels suddenly feeling unsteady. The 'click' from months ago made its presence known. This is where it was fucking headed. The longer he'd watched you two, the more upset Crowley was. Demon's palms sweated, itching to punch your new male friend square in his jaw. Everything about that situation, from your comfortable and captivated smile to the guy confidently complimenting you, infuriated Crowley beyond reason. Until this very evening and all of its revelations, Crowley liked you in the overall sense of the word. The former principality viewed you as a close friend - a safe harbour he could dock in. Your home became his. You were a good friend towards whom he sometimes felt an inexplicable sense of attraction... Which friendship hadn't awkward moments such as these?

Looking back, it couldn't been entirely ordinary. The signs were there all along, now that Crowley thought of it. Heavy looks while watching romcoms, inconspicuous forms of physical touch - you'd pat his knee or Crowley'd lean his head into your shoulder so he could inhale your scent while you'd play with his hair, your heart rate picking up anything he'd do so. All the fuss you'd make when you'd bump into his sleepy, drowsy form in the morning - the twinkles in your eyes, flustered expression, silent sigh, a bit lipe. You'd always excuse yourself and run off to work. And, mostly, your expression anytime someone asked Crowley if he's taken/if he fancies anyone or is free to go on a date. The emotion Crowley couldn't pinpoint was jealousy. You'd wait for his answer breathlessly, hanging on his lips until he conjured that demonically handsome smile and refused the offer.

The Demon sucked his cheeks in and pursed his lips, his nicely-filled eyebrows shooting up as his palms slid over his snatched feminine waist. Fucking jealousy, he thought sourly, shutting off some drunk bloke who came up to chat him up - even before the stranger said a single syllable. Living among humans finally started taking its toll. If Crowley wished to live among your kind, he had to learn how to run like it. Over millennia, Crowley discovered step by step what makes a human... And yet, he'd still bump into topics that left him confused. Certain emotions specifically.

He'd felt jealousy only a few times in the past and it was directed towards Aziraphale each time, mostly rendering it pointless. The Demon always patted his back - he thought he was good at controlling it. Now, he wasn't so sure. His patience was wearing thinner with every passing second. This jealousy felt justified. Someone stepped on 'his' territory and chatted up the object of 'his' interest. That bloke's been all over you, miracle he hadn't shoved his tongue down your throat.

Opening up to human ways of life also opened doors Crowley would've rather kept shut. Next to deep, platonic love, there was also its verso. Physical attraction, desire, lust... Whatever you'd like to name it, this was possibly the first time Crowley personally clashed with this aspect of humanity head-on. The thing about sex or physical attraction was that Crowley rarely felt such urges. Very rarely rather than sometimes.

As a Demon, he wasn't a stranger to any of it. Even though there wasn't an instance where he'd physically take part, Crowley was familiar with temptation and lust. The Demon was decent at awakening such feelings and desires in others when an effort needed to be made. It saved a lot of bloody time, especially when he'd have to report to Hell. Flirting sped up Crowley's 'grand projects', like the construction of M25. Being desireful and sin-worthy made manipulation much simpler. Crowley kept an objective outlook on this spectrum of activities, never taking an active part or wrapping himself up in it. He typically stood back, in the shadows, only taking the flirting and pleasures of the flesh to a certain point before stepping on the brakes and ejecting out of the situation.

But as he watched the bloke's hand caress your shoulder, Crowley discovered he'd do anything to be your suitor. Did it really take a third wheel for Crowley to realize how much a bugger he's being? Did it also need a whole bathroom of tipsy women to realise he's enough? Your infamous lip bite was on as the stranger whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his palm carefully resting on your silky skin. As you giggled, your palm reached for the bloke's elbow - your nails digging in. The sight and observation created a tight knot in Crowley's body; one he was itching to relieve... With your help, if you'd be with it. Was it always like that? Were you the fuse to Crowley's powder? Well, what would happen if you added some friction? Rest assured, a part of Crowley lived for arsonism and fireworks. And the two of you, well... You'd work it.

"Hey!" - Crowley'd strut next to you with the fakest half-assed grin, giving your suitor a death glare. - "I spent nearly twenty minutes running around, looking all over for you." "But you... Knew... I was here?" - You mumbled back, letting go of the guy. - "You left me here when you went to..." "Think I've had enough." - Crowley emphasized, leaning his head toward his shoulder while staring at you. The waves of red flaming hair cascaded over his shoulder, leaving you breathless (again). The Demon was fucking beautiful. - "Could we move on?" "Where to? Sorry, Dennis, I..." "'s fine." - The bloke laughed, offering Crowley a handshake. - "Nice to meet you, you must be Lorelei. Y/N told me she's here with friends."

"Ah..." - Crowley hissed, shaking Dennis' palm without care. As Crowley palmed his waist and protruded his gentle shoulders, his feminine truly appeared formidable - especially while he ran his tongue on his teeth, watching Dennis like prey. - "'s the bloke bothering you?" "What?" - You squealed, mouth agape. - "Crowl... I mean, Lorelei, what's gotten into you? Something happened? She's not usually like this, I swear." "Am I not, though?" - Crowley mouthed, sending Dennis an intimidating smile. "Don't apologize, that's a sign of a great friend!" - Dennis laughed, oblivious to Crowley's attempts at scaring him off. - "Girls need to look after each other, especially when they're so gorgeous." - The heart eyes Dennis gave you almost sent Crowley into the ER with a cardiac arrest. Was this even legal? Your giggle, on the other hand, dug Crowley a nice comfortable grave.

"Well, I'll let you two enjoy the rest of your night." - Dennis chuckled, leaving the bar. In all fairness, he seemed like a good catch; someone Crowley could see you with. The vibe was right. - "You got my number written down, yeah?" "Mhm." - You nodded. "I'll text you tomorrow to set it up?" "Sounds good!" - Kissing his cheek, you'd wave Dennis off and then send a death glare to Crowley.

"What in the fuck is your problem tonight?" "Let me drive you home. Let's chat." "Katie's still somewhere..." "I'll make sure she gets home safe." - Crowley muttered, eyes boring into yours. "You Angels and Demons and your supernatural mumbo jumbo." - Stomping out of the establishment angrily, Crowley sheepishly followed your lead, sobering up. This sort of conversation was to be had sober. Instead of the red Beetle, the Bentley was waiting for you two streets away from the club - almost eerily quiet and obedient. Pissed it got replaced, you thought.

The drive was uneventful, (silent) with a gas pedal on the floor, 90mph on the tachometer, Crowley furrowing, covering his mouth with his palm. You were pissed off, staring out of the window, clicking your tongue ever so often to remind him you sat next to him. The moment he entered your house and the door closed, you were bringing the entirety of Hell on his ass - didn't spare a breath before doing so. Everything felt hazy. All the emotions and confidence seemingly left Crowley as he started turning into aroused, drunk fucking mess. His cheeks were dark red as he stared at you, mouth opening and closing. Only 'uhm's and 'erm's coming out of his mouth.

"Can you tell me what's all this about? I'm drunk, confused and fucking pissed beyond belief." "Listen, I know it's complicated..." "Complicated? COMPLICATED my fucking ass, Crowley. Are we playing hot and cold? Or do you just fucking enjoy changing your mind every three seconds?" "I'm not great at communicating emotions." - Crowley admitted, nodding to both, taking the heels off. He'd sit his ass on the sofa, massaging his face as he looked at you standing in the hall. - "And I'm sorry, okay?"

"Oh, that was a half-assed apology at best." - You hissed back, shaking your head. "You're right. Is that what you wanted to hear? You're right." "I wanted to hear 'you're right' approximately three hours ago. I regret to inform you it's a tidbit too late now." "We're here." - The Demon argues with confusion, looking around - clearly taking the piss. - "We're sitting in your living room, communicating. Like Nina taught me." "Who is... Nevermind. I have a date planned with Dennis." "Huh?" "I said you're late."

Except... Crowley wasn't late and you knew it. The Demon would never be late. He could never be late in your eyes. No matter how toxic it was, you'd forgive and take him back any time. That's how much in love you fucking were. Absolutely fucking enchanted with this principality before you. This argument, however, was about your pride. The pride Crowley ripped apart repeatedly throughout the night. Hearing 'you're right' from Crowley felt heavenly, and realizing he was ready to negotiate and communicate felt good. It didn't, however, change the fact you were upset. This entire night was a fucking rollercoaster... You just wanted some fucking peace.

Sure, this was an interesting start to a relationship, but it was a start at least. A fresh one for both of you, far away from the Angel. A garden constructed according to your liking. A safe, loving place for both. This night needed to smooth and sizzle out first, however. You weren't giving into the warmth in his reptile eyes just because he looked at you pretty. Fuck that.

"Late?" - Crowley muttered. You barely heard it. "Are we acting surprised now? Did you hear yourself throughout the night? Pfff, I don't like you. Oh wait actually, the company's 'bettah' here. Oh no, I wanna be all cool and mysterious and not answer, let me just force people to dance to Murder On The Dancefloor! Actually, let me drink my heart out. Óh wait, you found someone who'd help you forget for a bit? Let me ruin that too." - Spitting word after word in a horrible Scottish accent, you threw your shoes off, stomping into the kitchen to make coffee. Crowley listened to the clinking of the porcelain. A rock fell off his chest when he heard two clinks. "Can you just... Give me a bit of time?" - Oh, his voice soft and expression gentle... Crowley was ready to beg. "For what? Crowley, you've had five hours to step up already. And you dodged left and right, back and forth. Saying something one moment and something opposite the next one." "Listen, look at me, please." - Stepping into your space, the Demon reached out for your palms, scratching your soft skin with his painted nails. Crowley was warm like a summer storm and his skin was as soft as satin. The touch and the sight of it almost sent you through the roof. Fuck. You two were holding hands in your kitchen.

One moment, Crowley was ready to scream into the void and world, to inform everyone he was irrevocably, inexplicably and ineffably in love with you. He could feel the words forming on his tongue, verbalizing and materializing - everything he wished to say, everything he should've said a long fucking time ago... It was there. In the last second, Crowley's lips sealed shut as he glanced at you, the courage evaporating. You reminded him of Aziraphale. So fucking much it hurt. The scar Crowley carried over his heart opened again, making his nose crinkle. The entirety of the universe shone in your eyes, lips slightly parted, the gentlest fucking expression on your face. Fuck, you were so beautiful.

He'd been here before - figuratively holding someone's hands, ready to confess and pour his feelings out. He'd also gone through with it last time - and where did it get him? To alcohol and misery, that's where. How long before you'd deem him too annoying and grow tired? How long until you'd realize nothing lasted forever? How long until there would be no nightingales to sing? The scar was burning Crowley alive. Even though he wanted to confess so badly, these words didn't slip through his lips. His consciousness wouldn't allow it.

"I'm sorry for playing dodge with your feelings. I'm sorry for fucking up your big night. I'm sorry for being a burden and, let's be honest, hard work..." "Not for me you aren't, silly." "You should be certain before jumping into this, joy." - Vaguely gesturing, Crowley pointed at himself. - "I'm a bloody fucking mess inside out. One that possibly can't be fixed." "I'm fucking certain. We're both hard work, okay? Everyone is. And atop that, we're not rushing anywhere - this is anything we couldn't solve. We're a unit, you and I, remember? Best friends. It'd be a change, yes, but... Not a big one. Everything we need, we already have here." - Squeezing his hands, you took a step closer. Your face lit up with a big smile, eyes tearing up - make Crowley tear up too as he carefully smoothed your cheek with his thumb. Fuck, you were a heart-throb.

"Joy... A few months ago, you said you wouldn't find anything like him again and you were right. I said you deserved leagues better than what the Angel'd put you through - and what I'd put you through." "We didn't give it a try. You can't know that..." - Tears spilt out of your eyes without a warning as you hoped Crowley'd take it back. Each word suggested he's already decided, but his actions were contrasting. "Oh, but I can, luv." - The Demon scoffed, stepping aside. - "Hot and cold, said it yourself. I've broken your heart three separate times this night alone. Now that I think of it, I must've driven Aziraphale insane, repeatedly, but he had millennia to put with my arse. Frankly, he was stuck with it. You aren't. And I won't stand for you dealing with shite you're not bound to." "Crowley..."

"Y/N, joy, trust me... I want to kiss you so hard right now. And then, a part of me fears it'll ruin everything we've worked for. A year ago, I'd be brooding in a hotel room and stick to sippin'. Look at me now. Look at us. And look at you, you're thriving. Your bakery's booming. Don't let me ruin it for you." "Okay..." - You whispered, nodding, forcefully gulping. There wasn't anything more to say, nothing you wanted to add. Crowley didn't feel like it. End of story. In a last-ditch effort, you opted to stick out your pinky. - "Can we remain best friends, then?" "I'd love it if you have me?" "Always, Crowley... I'd have you in any lifetime and any form."

You'd regroup at the sofa after you texted Katie, Crowley sending her money for an Uber back. As it turned out, she'd stay at her classmate's anyway - leaving you to watch some late-night telly.

As noted, Crowley was atrocious with promises. Over the next three weeks, Crowley would stay in moderate touch, trying to find a solution - he wouldn't expose you to more proximity than he deemed appropriate (not even staying the night) but still guarded over you restlessly. He wouldn't accept your invitations for dinner or the newest Wife Swap episodes and always ran out of your house when he felt he was overstaying his welcome. Baked Bliss felt empty without him - there were new cakes you wanted to show Crowley, but he hadn't barged through the door. It felt like the Demon was nought but a distant memory, a daydream from another lifetime. Crowley wasn't mentally with you, even when you sat opposite or beside him. Sometimes, you'd swear you heard laughter carrying through the empty, silent house - reminding you of the memories and the friendship you developed. Crowley was your best friend, you meant it - and it hurt to have your best friend just slowly fade away. He'd feel empty sitting in his Bentley, watching your house turn dark as you went to sleep. This, however, was what Crowley wanted for you... Wasn't it? Some prince charming who'd sweep you off your feet, who'd make you happy and love you. You'd get over Aziraphale and peacefully live the rest of your days.

What about Crowley, though? He was in a shit fucking position - this grave was a great one, Crowley had to admit. Also, one he'd dug himself, as usual. Demons didn't deserve forgiveness or love - certainly not from someone like you. Keeping distance was for the greater good. Aziraphale would wish as much, Crowley guessed.

"Well don't you look jolly?" - A harsh voice muttered above as he sipped his six-shot espresso. He sat in Nina's coffee shop (still named Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death), staring at A. Z Fell & Co. Convincing himself he's doing the right thing was tough work, especially for a deem. "Everything's wonderful, just great." "You seem like it." - Nina muttered back, scoffing. It was raining, making the cafeteria vacant. Other than Crowley, Maggie was sitting at the bar too, one guest in the far corner. The Demon asked Muriel if she'd care to join, but she refused saying 'Not feeling like staring at coffee, Mr Crowley'.

"Haven't seen your face around for some time." "Yeah, I was busy. I'm not anymore." "What kind of busy? Hell-related-busy or..." "Met someone, actually." "Oh?" Nina paused, looking up at him. - "How's he like?" "... Aziraphale's ex-girlfriend, Y/N, to be precise." - Crowley clarified, both women staring at him wordlessly.

Nina let go of the dish she was holding, the porcelain cracking as it collided with the wood. Maggie also closed her laptop and started paying attention. - "An ex-girlfriend?" - "A woman?" - Both women whispered simultaneously, confused. "Yeah." - Crowley nodded nonchalantly. There was nothing to explain about the situation according to him. "And did you two... Get along well, Mr Crowley?" - Maggie asked, sending a quick look to Nina - the café owner was staring at Crowley, mouth open agape. That piece of information fried Nina's fucking wiring. Also, it didn't seem to register for the Demon, but it wasn't common for two exes of the same person to just... Hang about. "You could say that." "Met her as in..." - Maggie muttered, trying carefully to research the meaning of Crowley's 'meeting someone'. Given he was a Demon, it could've literally meant anything. The second woman just looked at Crowley to guess the predicament. Oh, may Nina be damned... "How long?" - Nina whispered suddenly, having Crowley look up innocently. Both knew precisely what she was asking - how long do you fancy her? How long do you know you're in love?

"Had a suspicion ever since we started hanging out. Realized it recently but can't quite..." - Gesturing, the Demon made an undefinable hissing sound. - "We tried talking it through, but that didn't fly well." "That's why you're here - for dating advice?" "I'm here because I can't overcome myself. It's hard to just dive in... Like you guys did. Look at you, you're thriving. The bloody bookshop makes my blood boil... Hoped it would give me the drive, you see? Also, there's a feral goblin inside me, feeding off my fear. That bugger won't let me say what I'd like to. It's mental, really." "So you did... Confess? That's wonderful!" - Maggie cheered, but Nina shook her head, pointing her index finger at Mags. It clearly wasn't all. "Half-assedly, three times in one evening, mostly drunk." "Oh, wow." "Yeah. And refused her offers simultaneously. 's a bloody mess, let me tell you" - As he muttered, his cell started buzzing, jumping about on the wooden counter. It was you - presumably wondering if he'd stop by for dinner. You've already called five times this week to get turned down each time.

Nina with Maggie following suit, leaned over and turned Crowley's phone. The duo scanned your contact photo and... Gods, you were pretty. No wonder you pulled both the Angel and the Demon, really. A stealthy killer wrapped up in lace and satin, a flower that'd make one lose their mind without trying. There was something about your eyes, so true and regal it warmed Nina's heart.

"Are you going to pick up the phone?" - Maggie wondered, her voice and expression soft. Empathetic. Humane. "I should... But I won't." - Crowley smiled, waiting until the machine stopped. - "She's going on a date today. Dennis. Big ol' fella, seems decent." - That son of a snake, Crowley wanted to admit. He'd rather swallow it, though. "How do you feel about that?" "How should I?" - Crowley grinned with a flabbergasted sigh. - "Well, shite, 'f course."

"It's a mess you've created." - Nina muttered, having Maggie click her tongue in disapproval. - "What? Is it not? Am I wrong?" "We're trying to help here, angel..." - Maggie sang out, trying to ease the tension. "Listened to a word he said, love? Girl'd confessed, multiple times might I add, and our lover boy over here did too. What's she calling for?" "Inviting me over for dinner, I'd assume." "Then why on Earth are you here?" "Because I'm late." - Every syllable in the sentence was well-pronounced, hissed with consideration. - "I'm always late, it seems." "To that dinner, you certainly are." - Nina barked back, shaking her head. - "You and Mr Fell don't seize to surprise me. Principalities my ass. You two behave like bloody teenagers. For someone so old, you seem to understand so little about love." "Really supportive, you. Start some sort'f counselling, for Satan's sake." - The Demon clapped back, rolling his eyes. The other much gentler woman sat next to Crowley, patting his shoulder.

"What seems to be the issue?" - Maggie cooed, sending Nina a death glare. Assuming she wouldn't be needed, Nina turned on her heels and continued polishing the porcelain. "In case you hadn't noticed, the last time I confessed it was pointless. There's a lot I'd like to tell her, but I feel the result will be the same." "Hm... Let's look at it from my perspective, yeah?" - Maggie smiled, sitting up. - "Right now, you're not late, just in the nick of time. I understand where your fear comes from - and it's not stupid or unreasonable. It's very valid. You've been hurt by Mr Fell. Everyone feels vulnerable after feeling such pain. But love comes with all sorts of aches, trust me, this won't be the last one. What you fail to see, I'm afraid is Mr Fell brought you together, but he doesn't have to be the reason to fall apart. He didn't hurt only you, but her as well. And for her, you became the reason for moving on it seems. What I think's happening... You're associating him with Miss Y/N, a wee too much and fail to see what you've truly found with her. I can tell she's special to you... Your reason to move on." - The blonde giggled, dimples forming in her plump cheeks. She looked like a mischievous kid, making Crowley grin back. "How can you know anything?"

"For starters, she might be the first contact on your phone to have an actual photo." - She'd point out cheekily. - "... It's the look in your eyes. And that little smirk when you talk about her. Hadn't seen it on you in months. Suits you." "Am I that obvious?" - What a fool in love... Wouldn't you look at that? "Not at all, actually. Tough nut to crack, but always willing to listen." "What's your advice, then?" "... Well, we've noticed you're prone to big romantic gestures such as the ball. The rain also, as you admitted last Christmas after five bottles of Cherry..." - Nine jumped back in, looking at Maggie carefully. - "Don't do that, Crowley."

"Confession ought to be a big, dramatic gesture. That's what I always thought." - The Demon argued, his eyebrows raised, taking a sip and looking at his companion. The trio began hatching a plan and Crowley became enthralled with it. "Movies make it seem like it must be." - Maggie admitted, having Crowley nod. Ah, for the fucking love of misconception and miscommunication... Why were humans and Earthy affairs so complicated? - "But that's not always right. That's how you went about it last time, isn't it - like go out with a bang type of situation? This, I believe, is the reason for your hesitancy and fear. A lot of people actually don't like it that way. Let it be small, easy to understand and intimate. Is there an interest you share?" "I'd say so." - In response, Maggie gestured for Crowley to continue, name some. - "We both really dig romcoms and reality shows. Then there's food - we talk about her bakery a lot, about other food too, and sometimes cook together. She likes skincare routines - makes me wear bloody facemasks, exfoliates my skin, and paints my nails. We like to set out on late evening walks... We always stop by the pond and feed the ducks." - Then, something clicked for Crowley, his eyes widening. - "We like music." "Oh, that could be fun!" - Maggie smiled. - "Any particular band Y/N likes?" "She listens to all sorts'f things, but there are bands she'd introduced me to. Oh, that could work." - Crowley gasped, his former energy seeping through the facade. - "Ooooh, that might as well work." "I got it!" - Maggie squealed, both Nina and Crowley looking at her with interest. - "How about you..."

An hour later, Crowley parked the Bentley on your driveway, smoothing his hair as he rehearsed the entire speel Maggie and he came up with. Nina more or less simply provided directional commentary, but was satisfied nonetheless. He'd stopped by a flower shop, the visit resulting in a bouquet of dark red roses in his palm. No grand gestures tonight, just the two of you, Crowley reminded himself, but a flower couldn't hurt, could it? He'd accepted your dinner invitation - therefore the mayonnaise in his other palm. And, just like the fool he was, Crowley also agreed to drive you to London for your date... A date you didn't know wouldn't happen if things go according to plan.

First, you wouldn't answer the knocking. Crowley knew how to open doors, didn't he? The least the Demon could do after two fucking weeks of dodging you for sport was let himself inside a house he practically lived at. After five minutes of extremely persistent knocking, you took a deep breath and nodded. So Crowley wanted to be petty like that, huh? Throwing your dishtowel onto the kitchen unit, you strutted over to the door, huffing angrily. When Crowley called you an hour ago (to accept the dinner invitation) it wasn't a win either. He sounded distracted and distant - mentally checked out. Therefore, you'd prepared for the worst-case scenario - a break-up. While not an item, this would be considered a good ol' regular separation.

It looked like you were ready to argue with Crowley when you opened the door and despite that, you looked delightful. Your apron covered the dress Crowley loved dearly, especially how it hugged the area of your waist. It also prolonged your neck and created a pretty yet decent cleavage. Based on your hairdo and halfway done make-up, you were getting ready while cooking, hinting at your inability to take a clear stance. Initially, you'd notice the mayo in Crowley's palm. The brand you loved most - Crowley had it memorized, naturally. Your eyes then slipped to his face, sharp lips and killer cheeks. His hairdo was neatly gelled, possibly also freshly cut and styled. Fuck, he looks good, you whinced internally. Also, was it a leather jacket you hadn't seen on him yet? Because bloody hell, you wished to rip it right off. Taking a breath, the first words formed on your tongue along with a furrow on your face - that was when Crowley's other palm carefully shook the bouquet, sidetracking.

"Oh, that's so pretty." - It was a soft, touched whisper. The anger disappeared, your expression subduing with flattery. Then, a jolt of jealousy flashed in your eyes. You were such a doll, Crowley thought. - "Who's it for?" "Ah, you see... It's for your Nana." "Fuck, I forgot you're hilarious." - Pure irony in that statement as you leaned into the door. - "Might be because I saw you for a grand total of ten minutes since the club?" "... It's for this pretty girl I know." - The Demon whispered, offering it to you. He'd struck the right cord, based on the sweet smile on your lips. You'd accept it - hesitantly, but you did. That was a good sign.

"Do I know her?" "I hope you do. She's it." - The sharp hiss of 'it' made you giggle, even. Oh, this was going amazing. Maggie would be enthralled with how good Crowley was doing. "Really?" "I'm positive." "And is there anything you'd like to tell the girl? Heard she's going on a date with a pretty chill bloke? She should be getting ready instead of chattering away with a certain Demon." "I asked her for some time. So I could clear my mind, you see?" "Naturally. Makes sense." "But she'd told me I was already late." "That's because she hoped you'd know you could never be late... Or too much... Or hard work." - Reminding him of your last exchange, you both smiled somberly.

"I'd love to tell her... The Angel might've brought us on the same path, but we've created this ourselves." - Crowley started with a heavy sigh, having you nod supportingly. Based on how restless he was (constantly stepping over and clearing his throat, throwing jazz hands about), you understood how stressful it must've been. You'd feel like a dunce in his position. The underlying importance of such a simple moment was palpable, having you stay silent. You liked this simplicity. "Then, she needs to know I was a bloody moron for thinking he has power over us." - The 'us' was so quiet and fragile, having you in tears. - "Truth is: the last time I've done this, it backfired. It sent me to ruins and made me hate the entire bloody world and everyone in it. Given our shared history with the same Angel, it took a bit to see things clearly, you see? Distinguish between where he ends and we begin." "That's beautiful, Crowley." - Your heart throbbed, tears silently running down your cheeks, your tummy and chest filling with heavy, hot feeling - love. The love threatened to overflow any second.

"See, the point is... Demons are unforgivable. We aren't supposed to have a happy ending, we always take the last punch, joy. And, just imagining that, umm..." - Crowley growled, jerking his head with a frown. He'd yank the sunglasses off, looking you in the eyes. - "... Realizing I might get that happy bloody evening, especially with someone like you - that's frightening. I'm a spooky fan, me, but for Hell's bells... Joy, you have no idea how brilliant you are." By that point, you turned into a crying, softly sobbing mess. We. Us. Happy ending. All those meticulously picked human terms made you weak in your knees. "And your brilliancy gives me the bloody chills. It oughta not to be real. Guys like me don't end up with girls like you." - Oh, that made you scoff - what a rom-com line. - "And, frankly, I always mess things up. Especially the good ones. I'm just..." - Crowley nodded, having you nod too.

"First, let me agree - Aziraphale's not here and didn't have any influence over us. This..." - You gestured between you. - "Is our creation. We dictate the rules. I just wish you felt like you could admit so and not just... Blame yourself or say you're 'difficult'. We could talk about it." - Gently tapping his forearm, you started smoothing it gently. "I know, I know, I know. But it's..." "Mortyifiyng? Feeling like tearing you apart? Making your head dizzy?" "Yeah." - Crowley admitted, a few quiet tears rolling down his cheeks. - "Is all this what being human means?" "More or less, yeah. You'll get used to it. Don't worry." "There's something else I want to add." "Go on, Crowley, I'm listening."

"Fine... Uhm... I don't wanna stand 'tween you and love, hun." - You couldn't control the disbelieving giggle leaving your mouth. Ah, this was getting sweet. Despite his statement, there he was - at the door of your house, a mayo and a bouquet in his palm. Could this get more domestic? - "... I just want you to feel fine." You understood what Crowley alluded to - if you wish, you could go on a horrible date with some bloke you didn't like and date him for a few years while not being truly happy. Crowley laid down his feelings and what he attempted now was handing over his heart, carefully wrapped in velvet.

You weren't forced to accept Crowley's advances. It was your call. You could pick whether to take mercy on Crowley or turn him down. If the latter, the Demon would understand - especially after all the pain he'd put you through last week. He'd also stay close in case you'd need him... As your best friend. Looking at it objectively... Dennis was the rebound in this equation, that you both realised. If you go on the date, you will most likely see Dennis regularly. That would lead to a relationship, Crowley liked to imagine, but an unfulfilling one - one that wouldn't be healthy for either you, Dennis or Crowley. Instead of committing to Dennis, you'd spend your life away yearning for your lover's lover.

You'd ache after the irritating, bratty Demon you'd love to kick in his arse most of the time. Nothing happened yet and you already suspected the outcome. You'd spend years replaying all the memories of Crowley, all the romcoms you've seen, all your board game nights, outings to London, as well as all your excursions around England when Crowley managed to drag you out of the bakery - all three of you singing along to the radio. One day, you'd inevitably end up on Crowley's doorstep. If you'd send him to the deepest Hell with his offer, would he albeit your wish, secretly yearning for your company just like you would yearn for him? Could the two of you actually break free from the grief and pain albeit the reason behind your connection? Could you two be... Fine? This was your turning page. You had questions, many of them, but instead, you answered...

"Was that line from a Fleetwood Mac song?" "Might've been, joy." - The Demon chuckled, leaning into the wall by you. As Crowley wished many times before, he finally gathered the courage to caress your hair with his fingers, playing with it absentmindedly. Dear Satan, you were gorgeous. Then, he'd dry up your tears. "That's so awfully cheesy, darling." "You know me, luv, I'm just a good ol' fashioned lover boy." - The Demon whispered, having you flushed. Mainly because you knew the song by heart - Crowley loved it. Despite he wasn't a fan of Bentley's constant loop of the best of Queen, you two loved Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy. "For the love of..." "Don't cringe, I've got worse. Spent entire afternoon coming up with these lines." - Crowley muttered. Preparing for another wave of cringe, he watched your face squirm with second-hand embarrassment, a painful smile on your lips. "God, I already regret asking. Well, here goes... Spill it, lover boy." "... And if I stand between you and love, don't go wasting your emotion... Just lay all your love on me." - The moment these words left his mouth, he could see how you physically tense up, closing your eyes in cringe; you did your best not to laugh.

ABBA. Of course - out of all the bands around the world he could've quoted, Crowley picked out fucking ABBA. Thanks to this pick, you realized you couldn't possibly fall deeper in love with him. You've already been done for. Yes, you two might've been pretending you were just joking around. You portrayed there weren't any raw emotions on the verge of being spilt, threatening to burst out any second.

Factually, you'd have to be a piece of stone not to sense the weight Crowley's words truly had. It wasn't just song lyrics giving you second-hand embarrassment - it was a genuine offer. The bloke's wack anyway, Crowley's words meant secretly, why don't we cut to the chase and get to the ending now? I've been an arse, yes, but I'm in the nick of time and I want to fight for you, me... This. If you wanna wait 'round for fifty years, I'm down with that - it'd be nice to make you happy while you're still young and we have an entire world to explore. So... What's it gonna be?

"You're about to be bested, mister. I have an equally shite response. You're gonna love it." "Mhm? Spill it, joy." "If I choose to lay all my love on you..." - Your thumb lightly caressed Crowley's chin, ensuring he was looking you in the eyes. - "You have to promise you won't go breaking my heart."

The quotation meant everything Crowley hoped he'd hear. It was everything he was ready to beg for, to get on his knees for. That little silly yes. You've just said yes. Crowley batted his lashes, pupils dilating with excitement and realization. His smile and relaxed expression reflected the serenity washing over him, ensuring all the emotion exploding inside your chest was reciprocated. Sure, it still stung Crowley that he couldn't be with Aziraphale (and by proxy accepting you into their small bubble), but your admission (yes) made him the happiest Demon on Earth, even if for just a bit.

"For the record... Was that a wahoo?" - Crowley muttered, a disbelieving smile spreading on his face, all the emotion finally flooding out. You weren't Aziraphale and you weren't leaving any time soon. "Don't know, was it?" "Definitely felt like a wahoo." "Oh, trust me, it was the wahooest of wahoos." "... Just for the record, I dig Elton John." - Crowley muttered, finally stepping into your personal space. After all those fucking months, you could touch him without being weird about it. Sure, you touched him before - but those moments were feeding, scarce. Now, you could touch him all you wanted. And it felt... So fucking good. It felt right.

"Yeah, totally, mhm. Seem like the type." "Keep up the banter and you'll be forced to sit through an entire reenactment of Red Aid..." - The man leaned closer, biting on his lower hip as he attempted to contain all the childish excitement. Judging by the jitters inside your eyes, you've been both on cloud nine. - "I've got the costumes and everything, joy." "That a threat or a promise, Demon? Cause it sounds tempting to me." "Whatever you want it to be, luv." - Carefully setting the roses and mayo aside, his arms snaked around your neck, bringing you in for a hug. This one was gentle as he cradled you, inhaling your scent, a content smile on his lips.

Crowley'd done it. He'd face his demons and overcome them with help from his friends and your understanding. Truly an inspiring story right out of a romcom. Crowley's heart was beating so fast, you realized as you listened in, tightly hugging his waist. As usual, he smelled so fucking good and his body felt delicate to touch. His body was surprisingly cold, not boiling hot as you'd expect.

"Welcome home... Finally." - Stepping aside, you let him in, picking the bouquet up and taking a whiff. Your smile was worth a million bucks. "Oh, shite. Forgot something, silly ol' me." - Crowley muttered, clinking his tongue. "Your plants?" - You guessed, turning to look at him. It happened fast... Very fast. Before you could react he had already pulled away, a playful smirk on his face.

Your brain didn't register Crowley's kiss at first. You could see his eyes closed right in front of yours, his lean body hovering over you as he palmed your jaw, you could taste his lips on yours and feel them... But it was over before you truly understood what was happening. "Oh." - You whispered, looking at him, face starting to flush as you realized. Watching the fireworks go off inside your body filled Crowley with pride and undefinable heat spreading out of his chest, your eyes growing wider. "Was that okay? I probably should've..." "Could you remind me again?" - Whispering, you set the flower aside - carefully approaching him. It tickled when your palms smoothed the back of his next, your body pressing itself into his touch. - "About what you forgot, I mean?" "Oh, there's a lot that I forgot." "Kiss me like you missed me then, handsome." "Bet I will, luv."

Part IV: The Aftermath Present day, Oxford, England:

"Come here. No-no! No buts of ifs! Immediately, you arse!" - You cried out somewhere into the darkness of your house, leaning your bottom into the boot rack. Was the Demon fucking with you? Surely, he must've been. You had the conversation just a week ago. It was dead important to change Bentley's tyres, especially given winter was fast approaching. What you didn't understand, however, were all of Crowley's charades accompanying the task. One would think it's impossible, given all the fuss.

Over the past few years, Crowley found many unintentional small things that drove you temporarily insane. And oh boy, wasn't he brilliant at it? Like now - leaving his bloody toolbox in the hall, knowing well you'd stumble your fucking toe into the metal casing because you never turned the light on in the morning. You left for the bakery early and didn't want to wake Mr Princess up. Well, not this time around. The lights were blasting as you glared at the toolbox, almost as if you could break it into atoms with your stare. There were moments when Crowley was 50% sure you could do it.

This winter felt different. Crowley felt something shifting and his uneasiness gave you anxiety too. Specifically, because the Demon seemed hesitant to confide in you. You didn't push him yet, but your patience was wearing thin. This year, you've been at it more often than any other previous years - it wasn't any significant fights, but they were fucking frequent. "'s the ruckus for?" - And there he was - Crowley in his full drowsy glory, massaging his eyes, grinning at you sleepily. Fuck, Crowley still looked so good in nothing but his dark grey pyjama pants and with his hair all messed. It reminded you of everything you've done last night. May God grant you the strength to remain furious with the Demon before you... Amen.

"Awh, no, did I wake you up, princess?" - Meowling ironically, you put palms on your hips to emphasize how much in trouble Crowley was. - "I remember asking you three, THREE separate bloody times not to forget your damn toolbox in the hall. Sounds familiar?" "'f course, the bloody toolbox. Let me guess, luv, you didn't bother turning on the lights, did you?" - Crowley protested, clearly unbothered, leaning his shoulder into the wall as he yawned loudly. "... I never turn the lights on in the morn'. One'd think you'd remember after living with me for six years." "'m not perfect, luv. Also, told you it won't wake me up when you turn the bloody lights on." "Are you implying it's my fault then?" "Well..." - The man shrugged, letting out one of his indeterminate sounds.

"Anthony J Crowley... You bloody cunt." - With that, you were determined to leave the house, fuming angrily. God damn his looks and all the emotion the sight awakened inside you - this guy knew how to crawl under your fucking skin. - "I let you move in and that's the thanks I get? Getting my toe broken every December? Fuck this, I'm done." "Whoa, whoa, whoa - hold your horses, luv. You don't mean that, not really." - Crowley protested. When he realized you weren't stopping, his fingers caught your palm, making you close the door with a slam. - "Are you seriously that upset over a stupid toolbox? We have arguments like this every bloody winter, but I haven't seen you this upset."

"'Cause it feels like you're ignoring me." - Whispering, you let out a long breath. You didn't need to specify for Crowley to understand the subtext. It wasn't just the toolbox - you caught onto the fact something was off and didn't know how to deal with it. - "Felt like it for some time. It's like you want to spite me sometimes - like you're doing it all just for me to lose my marbles." "Doll, you believe I'd do that?" "It's just... You're used to him and his endless patience... You're used to him knowing what you're feeling based simply on your posture and the position of your mouth; the angle it's opened in, the position of your lips and such. God forbid, I wouldn't ever hold it against you, you've known him for thousands of years. But I'm not him. My patience isn't endless. The opposite, in fact. I'm just a bloody human."

After your admission, there was a long pause as Crowley thought of your words. Truth be told - you argued about silly little things often, but you've always agreed unanimously on important decisions. Crowley understood your disagreements as a way to communicate so the relationship wouldn't get stale; he didn't have any ill intent, let alone want to cause any harm. He'd hoped you realized how much you meant to him, how full you've made his heart. Crowley hoped you realized he didn't know how to live without you. Not by this point, after a measly six years. Not once got a taste of what Eden could've meant. The Demon had grown fond of you, infatuated by you - he dreaded the day you'd grow old and...

"Hey, look't me." - His voice was soft, apologetic. He didn't use this tone too often, ensuring you knew how much he'd screwed up. When you shook your head lightly, Crowley's fingers travelled up your arm, ghosting over your sweater. A second later, you could feel his chest bump into your shoulder blades, his hands rubbing your shoulders. - "I don't plan on breaking your heart, joy. Hearing you're hurt makes me feel..." "I'm just... Irritated, Crowley, not hurt... Not yet. You promise one thing and do the other... A lot. And don't bother pulling out your 'but I'm a Demon, lassie' excuse. Shove it up your arse right with the other ones." - To your credit, your impersonation of his accent was impressive and true to the source.

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better, hun?" "Anything I ask for?" - You murmured, hearing a silent knock on the front door. It must've been either your neighbour (with yet another issue surely connected to Bentley's tyre change) or Katie, who always took the drive to work with you. "Anything in the whole world. Just mention it and it's yours." "We're listening to Elvis tonight, then." - Crowley had to suppress an eye-roll - you finally turned toward him with a shy smile, putting your palms around his waist.

Over time, you learned how Crowley dealt with issues and problems. As an ethereal entity, quite literally a fallen Angel, Crowley had a differing outlook on sins, problems and conflicts. While he did his best to deal with issues as a human to match your outlooks and emotions and understand your reactions, it wasn't easy. Once you've done something upsetting the Demon, all you had to do - sincerely apologize. There wasn't any issue Crowley wasn't willing to dissect and discuss. He lived through it all, he'd seen and heard it all. Even though he might've been hurt, he was selfless enough to look past your flaws, accepting you for who you are. Sure, you wouldn't hear the end of it whenever you'd call him a 'good man', but that's who Crowley was. The best of them, in fact. All it took to earn forgiveness was to perform a task to brighten up his mood, one that you might've not found enjoyable but one that wouldn't make you feel disrespected or disgraced. It was usually pretty funny, innocent little amusing tasks to brighten the mood and prepare the ground for the incoming discussion. Over the years, you've learned to do the same for Crowley - just like he tried his damnest to match your humanity, you attempted to match his etheriality. You've had a hard time understanding all his flaws and quirks, mainly because he wasn't entirely human and his outlook on problems could've differed - you'd usually talk it through with him to make him understand what exactly gave you the 'ick'.

For example, Crowley wasn't a fan of Presley... But he knew of your extensive vinyl collection with Elvis' face on it. And sometimes, when he deemed he fucked up badly enough, Crowley'd agree to listen to them - not only that, he'd also give you a full-blown performance with a costume and everything. Just to make you sure he truly meant his apology. Just to hear you laugh.

"Alright, luv. We're listening to Elvis tonight." "... And a teeny tiny wee thing you can do right now." "Oh, yeah?" - The Demon grinned, his smile growing wider and bolder... Tempting. God knew what's been going on inside that head of his. Well, not that you didn't know - not that Crowley hadn't shown you last night in great detail. "Oh, yeah, handsome." - You nodded, showing him the puppy eyes - the look you usually gave Crowley when you wanted a kiss or cuddles. In response, Crowley licked his lips, nodding. A second knock resonated through the hall. - "Coming!" - You shouted. - "Whatcha gonna do for me, lover boy, is that you'll tidy up that bloody toolbox before I lose my marbles and shove it up your arse." "Aw, no kissie-wissies then?" "Fine, but only because I love you so much." "Lucky me. Wahoo." - Whispering, Crowley scoffed when you planted quick pecks around his chin. The Demon beamed despite his best attempt not to. He'd end the act by pressing a long, loving kiss on your lips. - "Go on now... The toolbox." "On it, ma'am. Pick you up at four?" "Can't wait."

That's when a third knock resounded through the quiet hall. As you fixed your boots and scarf, you bit your lip while watching Crowley's lovely bottom giving you a run for your bloody money. That bastard knew well what effect he had on you. It was nearly enough for you to slap that ass. "I'm out!" "Right! Luv ya!" "Right back at ya!" That was when you opened the door, ready to joke around with Katie. Instead, you almost got a heart attack - the handbag fell to the ground and all of your belongings rolled out all over the fucking floor. A fucking feather could've knocked for all you cared - you couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. You just stood frozen still in the doorframe, staring at your Angel.

Without thinking, you'd reach your palm out to determine whether he's real - the tips of your fingers slipping on solid tartar, his heart beating under the clothes, his warm blood spreading through he veins, hot and alive. You wouldn't pull the hand back, taking comfort in his heartbeat. That's when the waterworks broke - having you stare at him while bawling your eyes out. Aziraphale was standing in front of your fucking door in Oxford, smiling at you - an equal part of discomfort and confusion written on his face. A shitstorm unravelled inside you.

First, you felt the warmth... All the love you felt for him came back like a boomerang. It was still there, the entire time - neatly hidden away. Ready to be re-ignited. You loved both him and Crowley, you realized. Second, there was an agonizing pain overtaking your entire thorax, spreading through your veins like boiling hot blood. The gutwrenching punch in your stomach was back. Aziraphale left you and he'd also left Crowley. The pain and dread cursing through your body wasn't directed towards protecting you, you'd deal with it. You dreaded the moment Crowley'd realize. Helping the Demon regain confidence and curing him took years. Thirdly, you couldn't decipher whether you wanted to hug and kiss Aziraphale or give him a good ol' proper punch. Both, probably.

"I'm too late, aren't I?" - The Angel whispered, heartbreak palpable in his voice as his palm wrapped around yours. It wasn't easy to understand what exactly Aziraphale meant by 'being late'. Was he worried because you seemingly moved on with your life, found yourself a partner and did your best to forget him? Too late to be re-introduced to your life? Too late to be forgiven? "Oh dear." - You mumbled in response, face contracted with pain.

Was there a world in which anyone would be too late to be forgiven? You couldn't squeeze any form of an answer out of your bloody mouth - not before you'd hear Crowley's footsteps coming back from the garage. He was approaching the hall at a lazy, morning pace. Based on his soft grunt, he'd just pulled a sweater over his head so as not to shock Katie or the poor bastard living on the other side of the street. Without peeping a letter, your eyes widened in horror as you turned your head towards the living room, counting the seconds until Crowley reached you. "Who's that, luv? Anyone botherin' us?" - He'd cry out, making you realize Aziraphale understood everything in the same instant. - "That mess outside's my fault, I'll tidy it up once my partner leaves for work, alright?" - The Demon groaned, surely rolling his eyes.

That's when Crowley reached the hall and finally saw the stranger on your doorstep. The reaction was immediate - Crowley's eyes widened, pupils dilated with anger matching his nostrils. His face grew pale, and his teeth started to grind as he quite literally growled at Aziraphale. "Oh blimey..." - Was all the Demon said, distraught. Blimey indeed, you agreed internally.

Well... An inevitable talk that needed to happen - either ending in tragedy or with hope. You three had a ton of shit to figure out. Aziraphale had presumably returned to Earth... But everything he'd left behind, all the small miracles contrasting his world, all the tiny things he knew and loved, had fallen apart in flames. Everything had evolved and transcended beyond his wildest imagination during his absence. The two lives he'd spent thousands of years separating had merged and worked in harmony, in perfect unison. Old connections shifted - they got severed and rekindled. You accepted Crowley's advances (something Aziraphale didn't even deem a possibility) and agreed to be his partner. It was impossible to tear you apart, to have you both separately, which would be incredibly selfish yet so known and comforting. Nothing was going to be the same. Oh blimey fucking indeed.

Fun fact: Franz Ferdinand (named after the Archduke of Austria) is an indie-rock Scottish band hailing from Glasgow. David Tennant appeared in their 'No You Girls' performance, a part of 'Top Of The Pops (TOTP)' collab with Comic Relief (2009).

Fun Fact No 2: David Tennant presented Sophie Ellis-Bextor and her performance of 'Murder On The Dancefloor' during the BAFTA Film Awards 2024 along with (perhaps involuntary) cooperation of Rosamund Pike. The song regained popularity thanks to the release of the movie Saltburn (2023).

Fun Fact No 3: Romans held strong beliefs regarding reincarnation. It was vital to think of the past and keep the souls of the dead in mind because they also believed if they didn't mourn on designed days (Parentalia & Lemuria), the spirits might haunt them or enact revenge. Ancient Greeks used the term 'Metempsychosis' but I'm unsure whether Romans adapted it. It's played for laughs here, but I believe Romans did not know the word 'reincarnate' (in this context). Meanwhile, Aziraphale was knowledgeable about the rest of the world, such as India, and therefore educated on this topic and other worldwide religious concepts.

Explanation: When Aziraphale and the reader dated and he outed her to his 'fellow merchants', Nina or Maggie had their shops yet.

[luthinks]

Lack of nuanced conversation around Rafayel

(Bit of a rant, which i posted on reddit, but wanted to share here as well 🙈)

This is just sort of a rant incoming, might contain some spoilers for Rafayel's myths, anecdotes and main story appearance, so please proceed at your discretion ...

Recently I feel like the conversation around Rafayel has gone from him being "bratty" to him being a "murderer" ... The thing that pesters me is, it's always one or the other with these discussions ...

This is just my opinion but I don't think that either of those "personas" are fake. I don't think he's being silly to hide that he has murdered people in the past or that he has some other sinister plans for the future. As I see it, when he is genuinely happy, the silly part of his personality comes out ... The whimsical way he approaches life, he isn't faking that either. Those emotions are also genuine, his dedication towards art all of those are a part of his personality ... Him acting cute and clingy for affection is also not a front because he actually yearns for MC's affection ...

And when it comes to how he has murdered people, I think a lot of nuance is omitted while mentioning that. He isn't going around killing people for the fun of it ... The underlying pain and the years of harm endured by lemurians at the hands of people he goes after aren't talked about enough ... Sure killing humans is messed up, but he has to, for protecting his people who he has failed multiple times who are still being attacked by the said humans ...

"He hates humans". Sure, he says so. But as we have seen, from his anecdotes, he genuinely appreciates his students while he was teaching. Gives inputs that would actually help them. From his cards, he repairs sculpture that means so much to a village. Is definitely cordial to most of the people he comes across... The only time he shows negative emotions towards regular humans is when he talks about their greed or taking for granted the things he finds fascinating ... At his core he's an inquisitive child, who is just fascinated with everything around him ...

Can you imagine a Rafayel, if he wasn't traumatised with everything he had to go through, how he would be, like a ray of sunshine going around experiencing the wonders of human world. Which he was so eager to explore as a child, raising his hand over ocean surface half scared, going around collecting human trinkets ...

Thing is Rafayel is a very layered character. It isn't one or the other with him, all his character traits co-exist. Bitter lemurian who is cynical about how humans are "bad", whimsical lemurians who gets excited by experiencing rain. Is scared or cats, calls them monsters ... Gets attached to one, takes care of it and calls her heartless when she forgets him after getting adopted ... Full of contradictions, this guy, but that's the beauty of him ... And getting to know him ...

And also it is very understated how difficult of a choice he has to make every single time when he choses to save MC's life over lemurians ... I guess the gravity of it can be explained by placing yourself at his position where you have to kill your lover or your entire family, everyone you have known since you were born, dies. I don't know how one recovers from that... And he had to make that decision multiple times ... How hard must it be for him to face the lemurians who are alive but being hunted for their life ... Or how after everything, the one who he mad the sacrifice for, doesn't even remember him ... He knows it's not her fault, but still how can you not hold a grudge after that ... It's all just contradictions with this guy

Well, that's about it. I was just a bit (maybe a lot 😅) bothered about the lack of context when it comes to these discussions. I have seen his lore being dismissed as something "not as painful" as the others and that's simply not just true ... Yeah he gets to be with MC (dubiously unfinished myth says) but at what cost!

Okay I'm done now 🙈

P.S. Cute Rafayel and Serious "Serial Killer" Rafayel both co-exist, neither is more real than the other.

[macabr3s]

(   gemma  chan  .  cis  woman  .  she/her   )     —     blasting  the  four  seasons:  winter  by  antonio  vivaldi  down  main  street  we’ve  spotted  HERA  LEUNG  sporting  their  imperial  jade  ring  .  the  forty1  /  three  hundred  &  eighty5  year  old  VAMPIRE  who’s  been  in  town  for  ten  years  often  can  be  seen  coming  and  going  from  portum  ,  enjoying  a  drink  or  two  at  the  old  haunt  ,  searching  for  pieces  to  add  to  her  art  collection  ,  or  working  as  a  DIRECTOR  at  PORTUM  ART  MUSEUM  .  people  say  they  display  sophisticated  and  unyielding  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  red  bottomed  heels  clicking  against  the  pavement  ,  the  sound  of  typing  ,  a  casual  air  of  nonchalance  that  never  seems  to  go  away  ,  vintage  wines  saved  for  special  occasions  .  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  COLLECTING  VINTAGE  AND  RARE  WINES  &  LIQUORS  !  aren’t  they  fascinating  ?

[ ✰ ]  WANTED  &  ESTABLISHED  CONNECTIONS  (  WIP  ).

penned  by  HECATE  (  she/her  ,  21+  ,  pst  )

001.     ↻     BASICS  .

[  ✰  ]  full  name:  wong  mei  ling [  ✰  ]  alias/nickname(s):  hera  leung [  ✰  ]  age:  41  (  physically  ),  385  (  mentally  ) [  ✰  ]  date  of  birth:  01/16 [  ✰  ]  place  of  birth:  imperial  city,  beijing,  china [  ✰  ]  ethnicity:  chinese [  ✰  ]  nationality:  american,  british  (  formerly  ),  hong  konger  (  formerly  ),  china  (  formerly  ) [  ✰  ]  gender:  cis  woman [  ✰  ]  pronouns:  she/her [  ✰  ]  orientation:  bisexual  /  biromantic [  ✰  ]  language(s)  spoken:  mandarin,  cantonese,  english,  latin,  greek,  french [  ✰  ]  mbti:  ENTP [  ✰  ]  element:  fire [  ✰  ]  western  zodiac:  capricorn [  ✰  ]  character  inspiration:  shiv  roy  (  succession  ),  ah  toy  (  warrior  ),  blair  waldorf  (  gossip girl  ),  emma  frost  (  marvel  comics  ),  tegan  price  (  how  to  get  away  with  murder  )

002.     ↻     BACKGROUND  .

NOTE:  this  is  a  quick  summary  /  tldr  of  hera's  background  .  for  a  more  detailed  bio  ,  please  CLICK  HERE  !

(  tw:  mentions  of  death  )  hera  leung  was  born  wong  mei  ling  in  the  mid-seventeenth  century  as  the  daughter  of  an  emperor  and  his  favored  concubine  .  she’s  born  a  fiercely  resilient  figure  with  life  defined  by  ambition  ,  loss  and  in  essence  ,  transformation  .  she’s  forced  to  flee  to  hong  kong  with  her  mother  and  grew  up  in  a  world  where  power  was  everything  .  after  suffering  the  devastating  loss  of  her  loved  ones  ,  mei  ling  was  slowly  starting  to  move  on  .  she’d  unknowingly  fallen  in  love  with  a  vampire  who  eventually  transformed  her  while  she  was  on  her  deathbed  .  now  immortalized  as  hera  ,  she’s  forced  to  embrace  this  new  identity  .  she  travels  through  europe  and  ultimately  settles  in  america  where  she  makes  quite  a  name  for  herself  in  the  supernatural  community  .  and  over  centuries  ,  hera’s  experiences  have  hardened  her  .  in  her  pursuit  of  power  of  influence  ,  she’d  garnered  enemies  and  after  barely  surviving  an  ambush  ,  she  finds  herself  in  the  town  of  portum  .

003.     ↻     HEADCANONS  .

NOTE:  this  is  a  work  in  progress  so  more  will  be  added  at  a  later  time  !

established  herself  as  a  figurehead  in  san  francisco’s  supernatural  community  and  became  a  benefactor  to  various  tong  organizations  in  chinatown

went  to  college  some  point  in  the  19th  century  and  took  multiple  classes  to  get  herself  degrees  in  history  ,  chinese  literature  ,  art  history  and  anthropology

hera  still  occasionally  made  trips  back  to  china  and  hong  kong  .  at  some  point  ,  she  became  an  urban  legend  among  villages  as  a  virtuous  figure  that  helps  the  town  every  now  and  again

extensive  knowledge  of  chinese  art  and  antiquities.  probably  even  knew  some  of  the  artists  tbh  !

speaks  with  a  slight  english  accent  due  to  living  in  hong  kong  for  most  of  her  human  life  and  learning  english

prior  to  living  in  portum  was  living  in  new  york  and  posed  as  the  head  curator  at  the  met

[nikkiiiscute]

Frank Frankly's Character Analysis !TW! Metal Health, M4ss4cr3, death

Eddie got his analysis so of course his husband would have one! (Fun Fact! despite Wally being the main character, Frank shows up in 18 outta 53 images!) fun facts outta the way, HERE WE GOOOO!!!

He likes Honesty and Truth - quote from his bio "He enjoys being frank, even if it means being Frank" i love this quote on his bio and this is the main reason they're my kin.

2. Frank is an Asperger? - Although he is confirmed to be autistic by @partycoffin , his personality makes him an Asperger (My tito has Aspergers so i know the gist of it). His official Bio points out his Bookworm Tendency, and his Grumpy attitude and that points it to Asperger Syndrome. So here's the traits

Resistance to or Obliviousness of Social Niceties, Blunt Honesty ("Frankness")

Non-Instinctual Facial Expression (his neutral face is a frown and not a smile like the others)

Comprehensive Academic Knowledge, with unique Specialist Subjects (Bookworm who loves Butterflies)

Periodic Emotional Volatility, "Meltdowns" (His Head Physically Spins when angry, to the point he is exhausted and dizzy; he also flaps his arms when excited)

Adherence to Formal/Traditional Decorum to navigate social situations (he has a few costume changes of his own, talk about that later)

Sensory Sensitivity and rigid dietary habits (Frank is shown making Green Gelatin Salad on two separate occasions, I'm guessing he likes the Color and Softness)

Anxious in otherwise Moderate Stress events (he was freakin out when carpooling with Wally)

Friends in different age groups (Poppy and Julie are confirmed as autistic so poppy might be older and julie maybe younger. i have friends a grade below me)

3. Entomologist job from a university??? - Y'all prolly already know this, Frank's love of butterflies isn't just a hobby non non, he is infact an entomologist, we can confirm this with the spinning head GIF, there's mounted butterfly specimens on his wall. Alright alright, Bug Collecting won't buy you a can of beans and traumatizing Howdy from the Bodega, UNLESS your an employee from a University to research the nearby Insect Wildlife. (It's not rlly mentioned in The Show but most of them have some sorta job) I think thats how Eddie reunited with Frank bcuz the university might be working in the military program Eddie enlisted in back in 1953. What is obvious is that This University MUST exist or frank and eddie wouldn't reunite.

4. Ethnicity Analysis Time!!!!! - Frank showed his ethnicity through his Valentines Card (thx frank!). Frank is wearing an Old-Time Safari Costume when catching Butterflies, but it's not just a stereotypical costume non non, the design is inspired by a VERY specific Uniform. he's wearing is a British Expedition Bush Jacket, topped with a matching Safari Pith Helmet, Light Tan Fabric of the Indian Variety. Although the card is in a pinkish hue, I can tell that the uniform is a tad bit lighter so its a Light Muslin Fabric. Yeah Sure, the British Invasion of the 60s revived the Shacket look for Women's Fashion, but Frank's pragmatic personality made it clear that he was issued that Expedition Uniform with Function planned in it. In addition with his Grey skin, Black hair and his iconic Unibrow, He is designed to look like The Stereotypical Depiction of a Gentleman Scientist of Hindoo Colonial Heritage or to simplified it, he came from Hindu / Indian origins.

5. Frank's Story - Frank Franklin was born in 1942 and was born Half Indian from his mother, He was fascinated with bugs and specifically Butterflies as they represent change and rebirth. He was teasedfor having his name as his last name (Have u guys even heard of Tweek Tweak?) even with his blunt honesty he made friends and even became childhood sweethearts with eddie. One day in Senior High, Eddie said that he was gonna enlist and may return 2 years later, Frank was worried as to add salt to the wound his soon to be Ex sunny became toxic and mean-spirited so ofc they broke up. 2 years later he was working as an Entomologist at St. Marioneta University (I made that up) and then he ran into Eddie, they were happy to see each other still okay so on an unknown date in 1969 they married in secret (THANKS ALOT TIME PERIOD D:<). months later in October 11 1969 a man named Ronald Dorelaine Isekai'd Frank, Eddie and some friends you know to the World of Welcome Home, but tragedy struck 4 years later, An event known as The Playfellow M4ss4cr3 killed the crew and the stars of the show but Dorelaine's body was not found and was reported MISSING and presumed dead, This marks the 50th year they were stuck in the void, Are they longing for Freedom or The Sweet release of DEATH?

Wanna hear a wholesome fun fact? In Hinduism, Butterflies are symbolic of birth, ancestry, marriage, deceased soul, death and divinity. No wonder why frank is so attached to Butterflies.

Thank you for reading! o(*￣︶￣*)o

[geneticcatalyst]

okay. just trolley problem things:

at this point in the novel the tension and the emotional weight is wound up really high and things are really just primed for the impending mess to say important things about the characters in new and interesting ways. i think the main piece is the contrast between zzs' careless attitude in the carriage post Jiang assassination sort of smugly dismissing jby's veiled reservations and the version of him in jby's courtyard in the middle of the night, disheveled and shell shocked because he really hadnt thought this would happen. he was fully confident he could keep ljx in the dark forever, and even then maybe didn't expect ljx to condemn him so thoroughly.

i try really hard when considering jby and zzs to not extrapolate too far beyond the bounds of the characters as presented in the (somewhat notoriously biased) narration. both are presented as and also shown at times to be cold, ruthless, unfeeling etc. that's a starting point. i do think we can look at the whole picture and see the other more human aspects of these characters too, both explicitly stated and not, but if you rush into those hidden emotional depths and forget the rest you get word of honor really woobie really fast and that's SUCH A SHAME to lose sight of these characters who are so fascinating BECAUSE of their worst traits and actions. so I always try to start by explaining their behavior the way they would explain it- in terms of political gain, calculation, masks, power.

the really fun part comes when none of those things are enough to explain anymore, at least not in entirety, and you get to peek at the really raw soft inner shells of the remorseless war criminals <3 i'm getting into the weeds here let's go back to the courtyard.

zzs is in jby's courtyard in the middle of the night and he's visibly a wreck. this is wild because up until this point zzs is rarely visibly Anything. he's in the background, he's going unnoticed, he's this perfectly cool and collected tool of the empire.

but something unthinkable just happened, which was a risk that he was taking blew up in his face. and the first thing he does, maybe the only thing he can do, after trying to contain the problem (ljx), is go to jby.

so, the narrative explanation. jby is an ally but he's also very smart and seemingly good at dealing with people, very politically savvy. zzs has a potential threat to their shared mission which is hly's ascension, if ljx tells everyone how much blood is on the party's hands that's not going to happen. so logically zzs specifically needs his partner in crimes' help to mitigate that threat to their goal. additionally jby knows the situation, he knows ljx well and he also understands the relationship between zzs and ljx. all logical and true and as such it only makes sense that the first thing jby does is say okay hold on let me handle this.

aaa. okay. yeah no despite the fact that it's the middle of the night and theoretically ljx is imprisoned and could probably be kept at least until the morning. he just tells zzs to bring him to ljx. yes this is like mission critical politics, for sure, but i think also he's very driven to resolve things as soon as possible for emotional reasons.

what emotional reasons? well. there's the vividly fresh parallel to ji xiang, whose recent corpse is also in the courtyard. just for extra devastation zzs pulls back the sheet and says "you brought him along to go to the guangs, and you didn't keep him?" and jby says. "i wanted to keep him. but i couldn't." ji xiang was a good servant to jby for a decade, but when he tried to betray jby (and zzs) to su qingluan to save his girlfriend, he got himself killed. ji xiang is nowhere on the level of ljx who is both shidi and the only scrap of normalcy/link to zzs's past, but they're both young innocents who are pulled into the deadly political morass that jby and zzs are wading in by proximity (and crucially by exposing its corruption). jby is privately pretty depressed about the incident and explicitly states to wu xi (as explicit as he gets, anyway) that he hates seeing this happen, but can't do anything to stop it. i think, even so, he wants to do everything possible to try to keep ljx from the same fate.

there's also the question of favors and debts. after all this is over, zzs offers to take jby for a drink in exchange (understatement). jby replies that he owed zzs. now in the current timeline zzs has uncovered jby's estate purchasing property outside the capitol and it's not quite clear but i think zzs correctly surmises that this is some sort of backup plan or escape framework. in another scene that makes me !?!?!!? about them zzs confronts jby about this and jby can do nothing but ask zzs to cut him some slack. and. zzs. does. just shrugs and torches the evidence right there in the candle flame. jby certainly owes him for that. i think that's something of a smaller parallel to first life zzs warning jby about the plot against him. again, scene isn't perfectly clear, but i think zzs meant that conversation as a warning- cover your tracks better, people are watching. that's why he so easily acquiesces to letting jby off the hook. point made, he destroys the evidence to protect his friend, or even to gain a favor in the future. what im saying is that zzs has had jby's back before, in multiple lives, and jby doesn't take that lightly.

(on reread it's also pretty clear also that jby thinks the incident is his fault, having kept ljx at his estate overnight but no later- ljx still managed to slip out early enough to discover the bodies. so jby definitely views this as trying to fix his own mistake here, although zzs never seems to hold it against him. possibly this is what he means when he says he owed zzs, but i think there's a lot more there as well.)

and finally i have to get into a little more esoteric take but it's actually the way the scene really hit me the first time i read it. what came across from the way jby handles the situation was defensiveness. he correctly reads the situation as a threat and he storms into ljx's holding room and scolds him (violently! no relying on charm here) for his childish ideas of righteousness. ljx said that zzs should pay with his life for his crimes and jby says no, you don't understand the context. jby is defending zzs's actions to ljx and trying to get ljx to see zzs in a more understanding if not forgiving light. jby is doing this because 1. it's key to keeping ljx from exposing them and destabilizing the precarious political situation 2. zzs is his friend and he doesn't want to see him harmed 3. zzs and jby are the same. they are wrapped up together in this. they are in this so much deeper than anyone else and are bound together by it. when ji xiang spoke up to reveal their plot to su qingluan, which ljx overheard, he mentions them both in the same breath. jby defending why zzs has done the things he's done is jby defending his own actions. it's personal. he's defensive of zzs but he's really defending the both of them. because they are the same.

[theoldaeroplane]

I inbox you the following: I must know what compels you about Link. I trust that he is Good and Excellent, but I simply yearn for an essay on what little niche trait makes you wanna fandom the fuck out of this little guy. 5-10 paragraphs of hyper fixated ramblings preferred, but not required.

ohhh starkid you've given me A GIFT. a GIFT.

So some background first, I think. I've always liked the Zelda games, in the way you play a mainstream game and are like "yeah that was good!" I played Ocarina of Time and Windwaker as a kid. I played Breath of the Wild when it first came out and had a fun time with it. Yeah. Good games! Fun mechanics. Characters seem a little flat, but they aren't why I'm here. What was the story again? Oh, right---yeah, they gave Zelda an actual personality that doesn't start and end with "princess" in the new one! She's a scientist! How neat.

Then Tears of the Kingdom comes out. I've just gotten a Steam Deck for my birthday and wow, turns out you can emulate TOTK already?? I try it out immediately. It's janky, but I love messing with emulators, so I keep going. I certainly don't have the cash to buy TOTK properly.

And in TOTK, for me, it starts with Zelda. It starts with this young woman barely out of her teens being flung into a horrible, frightening situation, and being forced to make an absolutely terrifying choice. And it turns out if you start looking at her more closely, that choice only becomes more and more viscerally upsetting as you incorporate things about her from the previous game.

It got me invested, and I still adore Zelda. I could probably write just as long a deliberation about her. But we're talking about Link.

I read a little bit of BOTW fanfic back when it first came out. It was almost all Sidon/Link stuff, because I liked the ship for a number of reasons, and one evening after another night of mainlining TOTK I decide to go look and see if I can find some that I remembered being good. I did, and they were still mostly good! But there was one in particular, with one line in particular. "You're Always Almost There," by Polyhexian. (On mobile so no link, sorry!)

'One hundred years ago,’ Link signed, 'A Guardian shot me through the chest,’ he grimaced as if in pain from even mentioning it, 'I died with everyone else, and then someone else decided to bring me, and only me, back to life to fix everything, to save everyone. I have to stop the Calamity. I have to save Hyrule. I have to fix the world. I am not a real person. I am everyone’s unfinished business.’

I had read it before. When I read it this time I closed my browser, opened Typora, and started writing. It wasn't more than a random narrative sifting through half collected ideas, and I neither finished nor posted it, but it got me started. A few weeks later I started writing To Be Well, which among other things directly addresses the idea that Link does not think of himself as a "real person"---and that he isn't sure if he wants to.

As I've written him, I've found more and more about him and his setting that fascinates me. Part of this is certainly that Link is intentionally designed as a "placeholder" character (word of God is he was deliberately designed to be androgynous to make it easier for more people to project on him). At first I was really fascinated by his relationship with Zelda, and wanted to look at that through a queerplatonic lens. In doing that I found myself trying to work through some problems of my own, which it turns out is just how I write fanfiction I guess: projecting! Huzzah! I decided to lean into it, and wrote "You do not have to be good," which is a story that takes some liberties with the canon to explore the subject of toxic purity and the toll it takes. Also, the logistics of kissing someone with a beak.

What makes Link compelling to me is ... what do you do, when you aren't allowed to be a person? What do you do when you've been told all your life things are like this and this and this, and that you must behave thusly?  What if you learn it was never true? How do you go from "perfect" to "real"? What does it even mean, being a person? How do you start? Is it even worth it?

I feel like I'm only scratching the surface, haha. I also love Link for whatever the hell he's doing with gender, and I've been having an absolute blast writing him as predominantly communicating via sign language. I'm playing fast and loose with a lot of things that only get half-mentioned in canon, and having a good old time playing in the sandbox of Hyrule. They're huge games and there's a lot of space for me to set up shop!

[eric-the-bmo]

Hello I saw your tag PLEASE tell me about Annabelle Von Gears she seems right up my alley

OUGIYGH OH BOY LET ME RAMBLE ABOUT MY OC, THIS IS PROBABLY GOING TO BE STRUCTURED HORRIBLY LMAO—

So! Annabelle von Gears is my character for an upcoming homebrew campaign my friend's been wanting to run for about a year; She's put so much work into it, it's fascinating! (So sorry if u weren't expecting ttrpg stuff, but the floodgates have opened, and as a man with a special interest in ttrpgs I'm not going to shut up now—)

In very simple terms, Annabelle is a porcelain warforged/robotic wizard (bladesinger, specifically) who grew tired of her life and runs off to go adventuring. I adore her and this WILL be an infodump under the readmore!!!

[Art by @teefs_art on twitter!]

Augh okay I have no idea if I'll be able to get everything down, especially her thoughts on her family and herself, but here we go-

In terms of personality, I've been keeping it a bit vague; I'd like to have some room to build upon it when we finally play, and I've found it's easier to go off a general vibe.

So: Annabelle, at the start, is really just trying to do her job as a secretary and is very bored over the whole thing. While disruptions in the day can annoy her, she secretly delights in a few of them, because hey- that's another break in monotony, baby! After discovering free will later on, she's a lot more impulsive and upbeat, but still attempts to maintain her air of formality and fanciness. She most likely has a very strong sense of what's considered "fair." Due to Annabelle's upbringing, she'll probably be a bit rude and insensitive to others and their plights at times- and despite her sarcasm, she seems unable to detect it in others?

I definitely need to think more about how to include some knightly traits for her, and yknow, the whole thing of self vs duty, but... eh, yknow. Just vibes so far ☆

Anyway, the fact she's not literally built for a life of adventuring does nothing to dissuade her, btw; she'd rather do this than go back to a boring job.

Fun(?) facts:

Annabelle was based off the idea of "hey, what if a porcelain robot got hurt a lot and had to be fixed up with gold? Wouldn't that be cool or what"

Annabelle has programmed codes! Some of them include not being able to enter certain parts of the Von Gears manor, and being physically unable to harm her father figure (She can certainly try, but it's extremely difficult to break through those instructions)

She can sleep standing up, and yes, this probably will unnerve her party members very much ☆ (She can also stand completely still! More than once she's startled a foreign diplomat by blending in with the various statues and automatons in the manor, and so she's not allowed to go into those rooms anymore lmao)

Annabelle would really like collecting vinyls <3

She has the emblem of her home kingdom painted on her shoulder blades/upper back (it's an eagle with its wings outstretched!)

She can remove her face plate, and getting fixed by an artificer or mechanic is a bit uncomfortable :-/ It's like going to the dentist.

Annabelle is supposed to have a German accent- but I'm unable to do one. 😔

Her favorite term of endearment is to call someone "butterfly"; but so far she exclusively refers to only her sister with it.

She's unable to cry; she's not built with tear ducts! :-(

She's probably got a list full of silly little things to do while adventuring- like sneak into a building, or take part in a bar fight.

Taking heat damage is flavored as such: Her porcelain coverings are actually pretty heat-resistant! However, her insides aren't. It almost acts like an oven... (good luck venturing the kingdom of Helosh, love! ouch)

I'm absolutely going to find out how she can stim with her magic. No one can stop me /lh

And now for her general story: (note: I'm only putting in the most basic information for this. There's so much worldbuilding, but I sadly don't have time to ramble about all that. Again, sorry if this is incoherent, augh)

On the continent of Mysterra, most warforged reside in the country of Tectonica, which is ruled by Warrick von Gears (I forget his exact official title), a warforged who's been around for a very long time- definitely more than 100 years.

Following Mysterra's calendar, in 1835 Warrick decided he wanted a family with his wife Eleanor (also a warforged), and on the 19th of the Month of Talis, he commissioned the construction of Aria as his daughter– Annabelle was then added as a sudden addition. It took a year to complete the both of them, at which point artificial souls were placed inside their chests, and they were taken home to Tectonica's capital of Skysummit.

Despite being awoken at the same time, Annabelle is considered the more mature out of the two- mentally being in her 20s, with Aria being around 12- and primarily functions as Warrick's secretary. She arranged meetings, schedules, etc, and traveled along with him to diplomatic meetings to the capitals of other countries- along the way she picked up how to speak Gnomish and Draconic, as Windberg and Balaur do frequent dealings with Tectonica.

But eventually, she got bored with... well, just about all of it. It all began to seem monotonous, with only traveling for meetings, chess games with Warrick, and the shenanigans of Aria to break it all up. (She cares very much for her sister; it's almost the energy of "If this one favorite coworker wasn't here I would've quit a Long Time Ago" /hj). She wasn't really allowed to leave the estate without permission- and the thought to do so anyway had never occurred to her- so she had to find a few ways to avoid completely losing it.

Despite the fact she was built with a variety of coded spells to ensure self-defense, Annabelle began to study the variety of spellbooks and fiction in the Von Gear estate to stave off her boredom and restlessness- as well as daydreaming, becoming a lover of gossip, practicing swordfighting with some decorative blades hanging up on the wall, etc; all while wondering if something was wrong with her. Because she was built for this job, so surely she shouldn't be dissatisfied, right? [And what's with that strange tugging in her chest sometimes..?] But nothing ever seemed wrong when the mechanics showed up for yearly checks, so she didn't really ever bring it up in conversation to Warrick.

[While she loves the other Von Gears, her discontent with her current life makes her feels separate from them. Combined with her job as a secretary, she tries to be formal towards them and keep a distance– but she makes a few exceptions. She has fun with Aria, and despite her insistence she's really not part of the family, she does participate in family game night, and has accidentally called Warrick "dad" more than once. Anyway...]

And so, in the year of 1842, Annabelle von Gears is still the secretary of Tectonica's ruler— that is, until a famed Artificer is late for his scheduled meeting with Warrick. This catapults the events of the campaign, as well as Annabelle meeting her future party— an artificer searching for her missing father, a barbarian seeking revenge for the destruction of her town, a ranger with the last known dragon egg, and a paladin trying to prevent his kingdom from being destroyed by a volcano.

She’ll be sent by Warrick to join them for a quest, much to her surprise, and will discover that adventuring is just what she needs in her life. She runs off to join them, promising her sister she'll write to her.

Being an impulsive woman once she's discovered she has free will, Annabelle's bound to get into trouble and gain all sorts of scars- and probably a lot of them, since she literally isn't built for adventuring– as well as probably gaining... odd visions? And passing knowledges of skills previously unbeknownst to her? Strange...

While adventuring, Annabelle will occasionally feel guilt for leaving her job and family behind.

And oh, the Reveal! During her journey, Annabelle von Gears will eventually discover the truth that her soul isn't artificial like she was told: She had been a flesh-and-blood person whose soul had been ripped out (either from a living body or the afterlife) and rewired, just like every other warforged.... Which would explain all the odd memories and possibly even her want for adventure- she had been a person before. And surely Warrick must've known this whole time, right? (cue, hopefully, a climactic daughter-father fight)

(There's also an idea the DM and I have where Annabelle encounters the "resurrected" body of who she used to be, possibly leading to the body attempting to kill her so it can get its soul back. We're going to have so much fun with the horror elements)

Anyway augh this was A Lot, thank you for showing interest and allowing me to Ramble ;-;✌️🫶💕

[rawlinacademia]

The Book Thief

One of the recent books I had the fortune of reading was the Book Thief. Written by Markus Zusak, a historical fiction, suitable for any age. First most, the narration has my heart. I am not a huge fan of first person point of views but the wonderful storyteller here, Death, changed that for me. What a character, absolutely enigmatic and charming. How he insists that this story can be cheerful, even affable but not nice. Haunted by humans, yet still fails to de-attach himself from them. After doing this job since the beginning of mankind, an awfully long period of time, he still manages to get affected by the tragedies that humans inflict on each other. Hunger, war, famines, love. Now that is very humane of Death. I will not refrain from saying the truth but he is most definitely my favourite character in the book. His commentary, his remarks, the dialogues and callbacks along the lines of, ‘I know what’s going to happen, and so do you’ have been exhilarating and chill worthy for me. As a figure with no feelings of remorse or guilt, the emotions he acknowledged he felt, be it while collecting souls, or while pondering about the fate of people or him confessing how he doesn’t understand the duality of humans. Absolutely brilliant! A part of me saw glimpses of Sherlock in him, the book and Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, but for the most part of the book, I kept him as stereotypical as ever and an avid dementor fashion enthusiastic guy in my mind. The theme of the book in my opinion is him. How he is present everywhere, especially in the set time. He is not dangerous, nor wishes you harm. All he is doing is his duty, which is, as natural to him as he is to us. Death is not a punishment but rather a relief.

Being set in the N a z i Germany era, the historical fiction this novel possess is truly a delightful sorrow. Destiny and a young girl, Liesel Memminger, with a mother and brother. Neither of them with her for long. (I am sorry). The timeline if I am not wrong, correctly aligns with the real-life events and the mentions of the camps and tortures are true to the bone. Liesel Memminger, fascinated by novels and books since when she couldn’t even read a single thing. A girl truly just filled with passion and burning desire, enough to steal books from frosted graveyard to sizzling bonfire to the comforts of a mayor’s wife’s library. Liesel accesses the true powers of words. Or at least begins the journey to it. It is her reading that calms the neighbourhood taking shelter in the basement from the fireworks in the sky. It is her reading and writing which saves her life.

The Hubermanns…oh dear me! As I started the book, I was under the impression it was going to be a typical foster home that treats the foster kid poorly. Which then contributes to the child’s trauma and makes its life worse and the book longer. But how wrong I was! I was expecting Hans to act extremely abusive and shady with Liesel. That’s the initial impression I got from him. But I was bound to love his character, what a father figure. Former WWI soldier, the best accordion player, and a painter with the biggest heart. A man of his word truly, despite having conflicting thoughts in his mind. To stand with his country and son or with the man who he owes his life to? I wouldn't say he was flawed or had many bad traits but the ideals and morals he stood up for, what he bled and broke for, were truly remarkable. This man has my utmost love and respect. My mind sort of fan cast-ed David Thewlis as Hans and I am very happy that is did. Wonderful character designs, I must say.

Oh, Rosa Hubermann, I expected her to be an evil stepmom who constantly abuses her daughter and is only after money. I mean, yes, we do get the impression of her being a sharp tonged mother with a bad temper,for a long time but like Death says Rosa is a good woman for a crisis. How she gathers herself and protects everyone who was near her. She won’t let anyone sleep hungry, and she won’t let Liesel grow up too fast, whom she abuses, quite a lot of times…but that is just her love language. Just as Hans's love language for Liesel is to spend time with her when she needs it. Be it waking up in the middle of the night to soothe her, to change her soiled bedsheets or to teach her how to read and provide her with a book any chance he got, despite the financial situation. And for Rosa, his love language was to irritate her with his accordion playing and more. I was absolutely broken at those moments when the same Rosa who used to shout and curse at Hans for playing the accordion instead of finding jobs, used to hug the very thing she despised, for she missed the man she so dearly loved. Hats off to Markus Zusak to have created such multi-dimensional people in this story. So realistic. Very much along the philosophy of everyone has both good and bad sides. Soft and hard insides.

Which reminds me of Rudy Steiner. Damn him. Liesel’s neighbour, from her arch enemy to her best friend. God, I truly felt like a teenager reading those moments with him and Liesel. The first encounters, Jessie Owens incidents, the funny banters, the thieving, the standing up for each other and the asks for a kiss. Oh! How Death used to mock us with the words like how Rudy will finally get his kiss, but it would be too late for him.  Death’s way of teasing the reader about what they wish would just happen and how it wouldn’t, the way they want to, by disclosing just enough details to keep them turning and tossing in the bed. I really hated and loved this style.

Love, heals, be it from the hands of Hans and Rosa or from Liesel’s. Concept of family and relations have been one of the key points I found being highlighted. Be it the relationship of Hubermanns and Liesel, or with Steiners or with Max Vandenburg, the Jew in the basement who writes two books for Liesel which helps Liesel understand people, friendships and devlopes her skills as a reader and writer, and who indirectly saves Liesel’s life through this way.

And I loved this book. I found happiness and joy while reading the saddest of the scenes, set in such a depressing phase of Human History. And with this, I was able to pick out the sadness and grief in the happiest of moments. This is what life is all about. Love, relations, problems, conflicts, joy and grief. How Death is not as fearsome as it is passed on. How a false propaganda and elitist views and ideals can cause havoc and vast genocides. How fun and laughter gets us through the hardest of times. And how we as humans, have the lifespan of a mayfly in comparison to the wonderful universe which surrounds us. Yet still, human life and relations we make along the way are as important as ever.