#miracle blocking

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager-Ch 12

A little relationship development in the 1990s pre-Antichrist when Crowley lost his demonic powers to a hellish Accountability drive. This chapter is almost a one-shot from Aziraphale's POV-sweet, pining, a might conflicted while Crowley takes refuge in the Bookshop after a long and eventful 24 hours. Not that he's going to tell Aziraphale that's what he's doing.

For the second time in the last week, Aziraphale did not immediately recognize Crowley when a nattily dressed young man sauntered into his shop.  With the irritant of his demonic wiles nearly absent, and the camouflage of a young Scottish lad overlaying his corporation, Crowley just felt different, but also achingly, hauntingly reminiscent of other times.  Aziraphale’s heart flip flopped a bit.  Silly old angel, he remonstrated himself.  Those days when they were both angels together were long over and done.

Putting his feelings aside, Aziraphale sang out in greeting, “Hallo young sir! How might I be of assistance?” then dropping the affectation, said, “I do like this new outfit on you!  You pull off old-money-goes-to-University, quite dashingly,” the angel said, coming around to close up the shop.

“Hey yourself, angel,” Crowley sounded amused at Aziraphale’s over-the-top antics,  “I could do with a sandwich.  I’m famished,” Crowley replied, looking unusually stiff, as he lowered himself gingerly onto the Chesterfield.

Aziraphale couldn’t get over the unexpected enjoyment of sharing food with Crowley and it put everything else out of his mind for a moment.   “Oh!” he beamed and clasped his hands in anticipation,  “I laid in an afternoon tea!  You’ve never wanted to try one with me before and I thought…” he was starting to natter, it did happen when he got excited.

“Yeah, angel, that would be great,” Crowley smiled fondly at him, resting an elbow on the arm of the couch, hand dangling nonchalantly, but Aziraphale thought he looked rather done in.  Nevertheless, Crowley offered,  “What can I do to help?” probably trying to keep their accounts balanced, well, he’d let the demon do the dishes or some little thing that could be wrangled into compliance as a ‘fair exchange’.

Holding his hand out to forestall Crowley gathering himself to get up, Aziraphale said, “No, no, no, just sit!  You’ve been serving people all week.”

Crowley said, “Okay.  I’ll just sit here then,” before leaning carefully back into the couch with a little sigh.  Aziraphale hurriedly bustled off to the kitchen.

Aziraphale wondered why Crowley wasn’t responding to his nattering on with the demon’s usual snarky remarks, until the angel came back into the front triumphantly carrying a three tiered tray of sandwiches, quiches, scones, clotted cream, jams, and of course, a pot of tea.  Crowley was fast asleep on the couch, tie loosened, head resting in the crook of the couch, his hands crossed loosely over his stomach, with his feet still on the floor like the nap had snuck up on him.

“Crowley?” the angel set down tea and trays, a bit deflated that Crowley missed his big reveal but the demon didn’t wake.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said a bit more loudly.

“‘M awake!” Crowley sat up abruptly and blinked at the angel and the food.  “Wow!” he breathed, wreathing Aziraphale’s face with a smile before an audible grumble from around his midsection made the angel chuckle.  Aziraphale smiled at himself for a sleep rightly disturbed.  Loading a plate, he passed it over, enjoying Crowley’s inhaling of the food almost as much as he enjoyed the repast himself.  The way the demon’s eyes lit up as Crowley greedily accepted each plate of goodies nearly made up for him sleeping through the initial “Ta-da” moment.

Why had Crowley fallen asleep during mid-day?  Aziraphale thought Crowley had gotten his corporation better sorted out than this.  

Something else was amiss despite Crowley’s complete reticence on the subject of last night.  A subject that had been on the lips of nearly every Whickber Street shopperson Aziraphale had spoken with today.  All that couldn’t be true?   Surely Crowley wouldn’t have actually gotten hurt?  He was a wiley demon!  He could talk his way out of almost anything!    

While sipping his tea, Aziraphale looked Crowley over critically.  Oh, dear…

“I heard around the neighborhood, that the Dirty Donkey’s new barkeep caught some ruffians trying to slip the mickey into the drinks of a couple of young ladies.  He threw them out on their ear and the Dirty Donkey’s owner banned them!  Upbraiding his clientele to mark these ne’er-do-wells that he might call the constabulatory should they show their faces again!” he said, pinky raised just before taking another sip.

“Didn’t know you listened to neighborhood gossip so much, angel,” Crowley went rather still while side-eyeing the angel.

 A hit.

“And, the same young gallant notified the local brothel, so that they might protect themselves from the frustrated rakes!” continued Aziraphale.

“You’ve been reading that Empire era stuff again, it always does this to your language, angel,” Crowley groused, not making eye contact.

Another hit.

“I also heard that the same group of ruffians were turned off the neighborhood patch by a group of daringly dressed young ladies who came to the aid of an unfortunate young fellow whom the self-same ruffians were attacking.”  Aziraphale gossiped.

Crowley stopped breathing for a beat.  

Gosh, another hit.

“By all accounts, the young fellow was giving as good as he got,” Aziraphale indicated Crowley’s battered knuckles.  “But I do hope he’ll make a speedy and full recovery,” the angel laid his hand over his own collar, mirroring where the chain had bruised Crowley’s throat, eyebrows wrinkled in concern.

“You’d think the neighborhood watch would notice that the “unfortunate young fellow” was in a kilt, just like the new barkeep,” Crowley said sourly, flicking his hand in a, ‘forget it’ motion.

Dropping out of his light tone, Aziraphale replied, “Yes, they jolly well did!  No one has seen you, him, leave Madame’s, so there’s all sorts of rumors about him either being rewarded by epic lovemaking or secretly having gone to hospital.” Aziraphale tipped his head. “Have you been able to heal yourself at all? That’s excellent make up, but you’re fairly beat about and your ribs are cracked!”

“Damn! An’ here I thought they might just be bruised!” groaned Crowley, arm to his side, leaning forward over his knees.  “It hurts more when you diagnose it, you know!”

This was wretched, thought Aziraphale, always having to dance around the requirements of their opposing positions!  Crowley was hurt, why wasn't he asking for help?  But they didn't ask and they didn't tell.  Anything more was just inviting trouble.

Biting his lip, then looking determined, Aziraphale made a little gesture.

Crowley took his hand off his no longer sore side and touched his throat in surprise, looking up at the angel, “You healed…”

“The gallant young benefactor of a couple of innocents!” Aziraphale sat up primly, straightening his waistcoat, suddenly a buzzing bundle of nerves,  “Just helped things along a bit!  That’s certainly allowed!!  Anyone would do it!!!” he bustled anxiously, putting more food on Crowley’s plate. “Have another sandwich!  Got to keep your strength up!!” 

Looking at the nervous angel, askance, Crowley, nevertheless, kept his mouth shut, except to eat every morsel he was offered.

When they had finished the pot of tea and demolished the entire tray of tea treats, Crowley announced, “I can pay you now for my clothes, angel.  If you’ll take a check, that is,” he pulled out a brand new chequebook from his blazer pocket.. 

Aziraphale held out his hand for the chequebook, eyebrow raised, but refraining from commenting yet.  

Inspecting it closely, he exclaimed, “These are real!  My, but you did pick up a benefactor quickly.  Good for you!”  Aziraphale remarked, handing back the chequebook, then caught Crowley's pained expression.  “Anthony, good for Anthony.  Very bad of you, grift and forgery and whatnot, I've no doubt,” catching the demon’s devilish grin and muttered, “You don’t know the half of it.  Humans!”

“But how does Anthony have any money in the account?  Other than his work money, that is?”

“My benefactor gave me a ‘micro-loan’ while I’m getting back on my feet,” Crowley explained.

“Micro-loan?  Fascinating!  I’d like to hear more about those,” said the angel while directing Crowley on making out the cheque.  

“I’ll introduce you sometime.  Agatha Christie reader’s club member,” Crowley cherished the idea of the angel and the Madame talking about micro-loans to help raise up local people.  Damn, was that doing good?  Was it making trouble for an angel?  It was making his head hurt, so he probably needed yet another rest.  Bloody bodies were a lot of maintenance without unlimited miracles.

Aziraphale had succeeded in cleaning some of Crowley’s clothes, but several had become ‘regrettably tattered’.  Crowley assured him that he didn’t much care, just glad to be able to sleep in his own pajamas tonight.  Getting into the spirit of the ruse, Aziraphale considered that the tattered black suit was perfect!  With the addition of just a dark cap to cover his red hair, Crowley could walk down the street with a little wrapped parcel to a place where men often stopped.

Anthony walked into the front of Madame's, dressed in an outfit she hadn’t yet seen, sharp dark jacket and pants, fine craftsmanship, bespoke even, but sadly tattered.  Madame was working the front, but marked him immediately, “Thank you for coming by tonight!  Do come through.”

Taking his free hand and putting it into the crook of her arm, she was near enough to whisper, “A bold entrance.  Well done, Anthony!”

Anthony gave her a cheeky smile, “Mr. Fell sends his regards, and another book,” sounding surprised.

“You know the bookseller’s reputation, then?  Mr. Fell doesn’t go in much for ‘selling’ books, does he?  In this case it’s something of a hostage exchange.  I have some books that he’d very much like me to show him, so he’s trying to butter me up by lending me some of his extensive collection.  Let’s see what he sent.”  she held out her hand for the bookseller’s offering, “Ooo, Poirot!  With the author’s annotations!  Quite the master of temptation, that man!”

“Uh, not temptation.  Really, not his strong suit,” Anthony said.

“Maybe not to you,” Madame chucked the lad under the chin, “But to a bibliophile like myself, quite the sweet, sweet temptation.”

Turning at the entrance to her rooms, which she unlocked for him, Madame laid a hand lightly on his cheek.  “Go see to those injuries, there’s another meal laid out for you, and get some sleep.  I’m sure you’ll insist on working at the Dirty Donkey tomorrow.  Plus the neighborhood gossips are about to explode with curiosity.”Anthony gave her another stately bow, more graceful than last night's, perhaps his ribs had only been bruised, before closing the door behind himself.  When she stopped by the infirmary door later that evening, Anthony was well and truly asleep.

[technically-human]

A commission for @jeff-yoshi based on the fic Partridge in a Pear Tree by Vamillepudding (with their permission, of course!)

It's a sort of Cinderella story but also not really. Very good! reading it was a delight, and the pigeons are the stars of the show. So Disney princess coded, our dear Charles. And he's not even the prince here!

[zu-is-here]

Selfish request of Dreammare pls ?

Pygmalion

idea by @clownyclowns

Dream & Nightmare by jokublog

+ the perfect finger sketch :'D

[bryverros]

couch theory, we are really going through it rn

[lukass-r]

"Hey, you up for fruitcake?"

Inspired by— actually no, not inspired. This is based off Naughty List by Tuima11, again.

Sun Wukong wishes you a Merry Christmas! And a fruitcake-less death, maybe.

Bonus for those who care ↓

Lmao, these collection of doodles I made are based off @tuima11's fics (again). This was supposed to be just OSP Wukong since osp released a new ep of jttw, but I could not resist...

(I was too lazy to draw Pigsy, sorey fellas.)

[dorothywonderland]

May god have mercy on my soul for I have become addicted to another musical

[regression-1863]

Silly doodles of the bois

Oki that's all

Actually I lied here's Kim Dokja bein flustered

[drconstellation]

"Not Even At Gunpoint!"

Future Echoes of the Past #3

I didn't plan this meta. Well, maybe...just a tiny, weeny bit...I had been keeping a parallel in mind for a while...but not in this context. But it was kind of one of these moments:

Lets start at the beginning.

@beebopboom has been exploring the three magic tricks that appear in the S2 opening sequence recently, and speculating how the third one might appear in S3, and I've been exploring the paintball fight scene at Tadfield Manor in S1E2 and how that relates to the Great War in Heaven that formed Hell, and the events around the Fall. The two topics intersect, as you have echoes of the Bullet Catch magic trick from the 1941 minisode in S2E4 appearing not once but at least twice at Tadfield Manor.

But...then I realised, there's more than one pointed gun. Way more.

I'd always liked this throwback line from Crowley in S2E1, when Nina asks him if he is a bookseller as well:

Who would want to be a bookseller when this could happen to you?

Shadwell, turning up at the book shop in S1E4, disturbs Aziraphale contacting Heaven through the portal (a modified Solomon's magic circle) under the oculus, and breaks in to confront him. The historical implications of Aziraphale's lines here are that before homosexuality was decriminalized in the UK meeting places for such people were often disguised as respectable looking book shops. Which makes Nina's question in S2E1 and Crowley's denial to her all the more...loaded? Ah, well, you can't fool Nina, now, can you?

Anyway, mah point is...Shadwell literally has Aziraphale at gunpoint, er, fingerpoint here. Loaded fingerpoint.

But then, this isn't the first time Aziraphale has had a gun pointed at him. He had one pointed at him in the church in 1941 by the Nazi agent double-crossing Greta. His biggest fear, as always, isn't actually "dying," or standing in front of the guns, its the paperwork that he knows will go with getting a new body from the Ineffable Bureaucracy.

Crowley turns up to rescue him, because he "didn't want to see [him] embarrassed." With a bit of equivocation between the two of them, all the time while at gunpoint from Greta, they team up to save each other.

This was even before we got to the Bullet Catch - his "show stopper!"

Back to Tadfield Manor.

As they enter, Crowley is lined up in the crosshairs.

Er, wait a minute...

Only Crowley is shown this way here, not Aziraphale. He's a target. I'm starting to ask what point in time this is referring to - the present or the past? Both. Yeah, why not both! The work I did in this previous meta in this series showed that Crowley was considered a target for early removal by the other demons-to-be prior to the Fall.

Then they are both shot.

I pointed out Aziraphale gets shot by blue paint, representing Heaven, but its a colour we don't see used again by any one in the fighting to come. But what I didn't talk about was WHERE he got hit - in the back. That's synonymous with treachery. Heaven has stabbed Aziraphale in the back, so to speak. wow. Nice - not.

And Crowley? He gets hit in the heart - just like the Norman/Lucifer parallel on the Yellow Team does a short while later during his "fall" scene - with the red paint, betrayed by the Red Team who represent the management in Heaven.

Seems the Ineffable Bureaucracy wanted both them out of the way during the Great War...it get more and more interesting each time I look closer at it...

So was Aziraphale ever in the crosshairs? Yep.

And, as @vavoom-sorted-art points out, this is a time Aziraphale chooses to pick a weapon, and to fight. He didn't want the simple, safe deception trick with the ropes - he wanted a weapon. He really is much more the warrior than Crowley. Aziraphale, I think your nature as a principality is showing!

Firing that gun made Crowley sick to his stomach, and so did this metaphorical loaded gun - the Book of Life.

As soon as he found out from Beelzebub it was a real possibility of being played he went back to protect Aziraphale. Crowley hates fighting - watch how often he will try shut it down as quickly as possible or try to escape it when he can. To him everyone has free will, and the person picking the fight with the other is imposing their will on them. That's 'not on' in his books.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, is still reacting with his ingrained Heavenly instincts - that he should follow his morals because they are 'right,' and more sophisticated weapons add weight to the moral argument. He thinks. Maybe. (Yeah, keep working on that doubt, angel.)

Az: Impressive hardware. I've looked at this gun, its not a proper one at all. It just shoots paintballs. Cr: Don't your lot disapprove of guns? Az: Unless they're in the right hands. Then they give weight to a moral argument. I think. Cr: [laughing] A moral argument? Really? *tosses gun away* C'mon. [Heads into the Manor.] [later, after Crowley changes the paintball guns to real guns...] Az: But there are people out there shooting at each other! Cr: Well -  Lends weight to their moral argument. Everyone has free will, including the right to murder. Just think of it as a microcosm of the universe.

I'll think I'll end this here and leave you with a small montage of the aftermath of all this gun play - everything going up in flames and smoke.

Bring on S3!

If you didn't follow the links in the meta, and want to read the first two in this series, they are here:

#1: The Great War of Tadfield Manor

#2: The Newton/Crowley Mirror-Parallel in S1

[phoebe-delia]

For your eight nights of Drarry event, what about “I get drunk on jealousy.”

Drunk on Jealousy

And for the finale of Eight Drarry Nights 2023, I am honored to write this for @xx-thedarklord-xx. Sam, I hope you know by now just how much I love your work. Apologies that this is so late. It's been a rough week (shoutout to my discord friends for the sweet support! You guys are amazing). But I wanted to give this proper time, which I haven't had until now. So, without further ado, here we go! And, of course, Happy (belated, now) Hanukkah.

Featuring: a secret relationship, possessive!Harry, and a Draco who is determined to drive Harry crazy—in the best way—until he snaps.

At this point, I'm starting to think the pint in your hand is just for show. You've hardly touched it. I'd wager you're entirely sober.

You come to pub nights with our colleagues, every other Friday, yet you hardly drink anymore. Would you be surprised that I've noticed? When have I not noticed you, Potter?

I've seen you watching me. You're not being very subtle; if you want to keep this a secret, you're going to have to tear your eyes away from my arse. Not that I want you to, mind you. I always want your eyes on me.

Have you caught on to my game yet? You're an ex-Auror. Use your talents of deduction. I flit and flirt my way through the pub, talking to everyone but you, but it's always your bed I come back to, isn't it? Meanwhile, you stew and scowl and glare at me from the corner of the pub as if you don't know the foregone conclusion.

Silly Potter. There's an easy way to get me to end this; a quick, surefire solution to this self-inflicted torture. You'd just have to march over here with that big, tough Chosen One bravado, scoop me into your arms, and kiss me the way you usually do when no one's around. No one else would dare touch me again, and we'd finally be free from sneaking around. Win-win.

But you're trying to be a gentleman. You're trying to "give me my space" and let me bring our relationship out of the proverbial closet when I'm ready. It's admirable; very touchy-feely-sweet-Gryffindor of you.

But I've had enough. I'm ready for more. I'm sure you'd say that I could simply tell you. But where's the fun in that? It's much more entertaining for me to see you get all worked up, jaw clenching with every smirk I throw your way as I talk and laugh and flirt with other men.

Tonight, though, I think you've finally realized. Or, at least, you're going to lose it. I'm talking to—what did he say his name was? Greg? Thomas? I'm not sure, but it won't matter in a moment. You're gripping that pint like it's personally offended you; I'm almost afraid it's going to shatter in your hand.

From the corner of my eye, I see you all but slam it on the table, the drink sloshing a bit over the rim. While the rest of the pub is too rowdy to notice, your tablemates startle and look at you with alarm. But you're glaring at me. I just deepen my smirk and raise my eyebrow at you.

You rise from your seat, letting your chair fall over behind you, and stride purposefully over to me.

Good.

That's it.

Come and get me.

[sparkles-oflight]

"Omg, blanca"

source

[rcreveal]

The Trouble with a Keen Manager, Ch 14

In this pre Antichrist 1990's Through the Ages, Crowley lost his powers to a Hellish Accountability Drive. Develops more of the relationship that would allow them to work together so closely to oppose Armageddon in a few short years.

Chapter 14

Despite having little to no access to demonic powers, Crowley was gaining on Usher, he could feel it.  Over the next week, Usher’s denials got ever more nit-picky.  Yesterday, when Crowley complained that Usher had suddenly started making denials based on Strunk & White’s “Elements of Style”, Aziraphale sat up from his desk, looked over his glasses and growled, “Hand me that!”  Seeing the angel pull out his fountain pen (the red inked one) and a much thumbed copy of the grammatical reference reminded Crowley of a time Aziraphale had jousted with a particularly uncouth knight, faulting his lack of chivalry as bitingly as he landed blows with lance and sword.  The red-marked report looked almost as bad as the overmatched knight, “Let’s see him wriggle his way out of that,” the angel declared, almost as triumphantly as when he’d stood over the defeated blighter, sword to his throat, crying, “Yield, knave! For you lack the wit and mettle to be called a knight!”  No wonder Aziraphale’s manager had eventually caved to his requests and granted him that unlimited license.  The angel was relentless.  Made Crowley wonder about who’d organized some of the successful write-in campaigns that had miraculously led to good works.  

Crowley certainly was learning new levels of confustication.  A sneaking, furtive part of himself enjoyed the challenge: he had lodgings, a legal job, food, and even enjoyed crafting his persona as ‘the bloke in the kilt.’  Figuring out how to flannel his reports with ‘evil doing’ was a constant test of his (and Aziraphale’s) creativity, tho’ working in a pub and lodging at a brothel helped.

Looking up from his reports, Crowley said to Aziraphale, “You should come round for a drink.” 

“At your lodgings!? I think not!” the angel retorted, selecting his next tea cake from the tier.  Crowley had brought their repast this time.

“No, not at Madame’s!  At the Dirty Donkey! I am a barkeep, you know,” Crowley snagged a quiche off the lower tier.

“The Agatha Christie readers meet tonight and I’m sure they’d all love to have a glance at your annotated editions,” Crowley suggested waggling his eyebrows.

“A women’s book club meeting at a pub seems a little…” the angel said uncomfortably.

“Modern? Forward thinking? Egalitarian?” Crowley offered, “The ladies like a tipple as much as the men, angel.”

“I’ve noticed quite a lot of young ladies over at the pub lately, how did you tempt them all in?” Aziraphale asked between bites.

“Why don’t you come by and ‘thwart my wiles’ tonight and you can see for yourself?” Crowley teased.

Knock, knock, knock

“I’m sure I put the “Very closed” sign up,” Aziraphale said to Crowley, not moving from the tea-tray.

“Maybe it’s a package?  The delivery blokes don’t like to leave boxes on the stoop,” Crowley replied, getting up to peek around the shades.

Knock, knock, knock

The mail slot opened and a young female voice called, “Mr Fell? Mr Fell, may I please talk to you, Mr Fell?”

Looking over at Crowley and the door quizzically, Aziraphale called, “Just a moment,” getting up and brushing the crumbs off his lap.

Opening the door, Aziraphale saw two young ladies, probably University students, holding a sheaf of hand-made flyers.

“Thank you for talking with us Mr Fell.” the first young lady’s face lit up and she waved energetically on catching sight of Crowley, “Oh! Hi, Anthony!” the young woman said.

Aziraphale looked from the young woman to Crowley and back, “What can I do for you today?” he said graciously.

The second young lady said, “We were hoping you would be willing to put up these flyers to support our “Take Back the Night” event this Friday!” She handed him a couple of flyers.

Scanning the paper, Aziraphale inquired, “From whom would you be taking the night back?” and waited patiently with an encouraging smile.

“We think it’s not right that women still can’t feel safe out in the town of an evening!  We have to worry about blokes cat calling and not taking ‘No’ for an answer.  We even have to watch for them trying to put drugs in our drinks!  It’s real, Mr Fell!  It happened to us over at the Dirty Donkey!  Right, Anthony?”

“Yeah, hen, I was there,” Crowley confirmed.

“And if a woman does try and press charges, she’s likely to be put on trial herself!  Blamed for what she was wearing or that she wasn’t in the right place, or that she was having a pint herself.  It’s not right and we’re not going to stand for it anymore!”

“My word! So, what are you ladies planning on Friday?” Aziraphale asked the young women, seeing echoes of the suffragettes he’d assisted some decades before.

“We’re having a walk through the neighborhood at night with as many women as will come. Will you please post these fliers in your shop?” the young woman asked.

“Yes, I’d be happy to hang your flyers,” Aziraphale said, accepting several, “Good luck, ladies!”

Turning to Crowley, the angel speculated, “A bunch of young ladies frequenting a pub with a reputation for routing louts with malicious intent?”

“One could say those ladies were planning to ‘foment social unrest’,” Crowley suggested blandly, looking down at his nails.

“One probably could, if his reports are to be believed,” the angel shot back, rummaging in his desk.  Pulling out the Sellotape, the angel handed it and the flyers to the demon, “I’ll let the instigator of this unrest put up his own flyers, unless you fancy doing the dishes today?”

Grinning, Crowley said, “Nah, I did ‘em yesterday,” and neatly taped up the flyers to the bookshop windows.

Before leaving the bookshop with today’s pile of requisitions, Crowley called out to the angel, “So I’ll see you with the Agatha Christies tonight?”

“You told them I have annotated copies?” Aziraphale leaned out of the kitchen wearing an ironed linen apron.

“Didn’t tell them,” Crowley temporized, “Might’ve hinted that if anyone did, it would be you.” “Wicked old beast,” Aziraphale complained genially, thinking only to himself, that Crowley’s public confrontation of those brutes at the Dirty Donkey may have touched off another powerful movement for good.  But Aziraphale wouldn’t tell anyone.

In the Bentley, parked behind Madame’s, Crowley pulled out the sheaf of Usher’s denials and fed in his stack of requisitions and re-submissions, back-dated as long as possible.  He was rather pleased with the computer programming improvements he’d created that were making this escalating battle with Usher easier on himself.  Crowley wondered sometimes, how many demons had to be working away to combat what he was doing with one home computer and a fiercely literate angel.

Usher was barely allotting him any demonic powers, explaining that he should need less since he was still active with what he had.  Wretched awful bureaucratic nonsense.  

Crowley mentally checked his resources.  His experience, over a thousand years of the Arrangement and over 6000 years of being on Earth meant that Crowley wasn’t out of the game.  With the strong ‘feed him up’ signal his corporation was sending to anyone within range (the gruff fish and chips bloke had added an extra serving unasked), he finally had been able to find a feeding and sleeping schedule for his corporation that let him function well.  His charming personality had netted him human co-conspirators who supported his credentials as a demon by providing lodgings in a brothel and work with ‘demon drink’ at the pub.   He was still escorting Madame to the bank, so that was using a counterfeit identity to help launder money from the brothel into a legitimate foundation.  Subverting Home Office’s efforts to discorporate him had to count for something.  And he had a chief co-conspirator in Aziraphale. Not that he’d call the angel that to his face.

Crowley smirked to himself.

All in all, he figured he was set to oppose Usher indefinitely.

Thanks for reading! Your kudos and comments make my day.

More to read at my Masterlist

[curioussubjects]

fair warning to everyone that im about to be incredibly insufferable about dragon age for the next 4 to 8 fiscal months

[insert-cephalopod-joke]

Current #: 6/5 (answering a bonus ask ^_^)

Rook: 1

“Summer”: 2

Saturn: 1

Ember: 1

All: 1

[m45t3rc0mput3r]

More blinkies made on blinkies.cafe based on songs I associate heavily with some OCs ^^ Just like last time, I'm ok with these being used without credit.

Songs used in order (warning that some may have "explicit" ratings or jarring/potentially triggering album covers! Tread with caution!):

-Your Surgeon is Human, Too (Machinery of the Human Heart)

-We Will Commit Wolf Murder (of Montreal)

-You Liked This (Okay, Computer!) (Will Wood)

-Wait Until I Get My Hands On You (The Paper Chase)

-A Thought of You (AJJ)

-Am I Awake? (They Might Be Giants)

-Spiraling Shape (They Might Be Giants)

-Ghost (nelward)

-Willard! (Will Wood)

-Time Machine (Miracle Musical)

[infinityvalkariel]

✧・°・。・°・。・ we adore giroda. that is all.

[cath-piws]

Me when I finish something!!! Now time to actually draw arcane stuff oml