#this is so fucking good ive been listening to it on repeat

[ashiyn]

OLI'S CHRISTMAS MUSIC SHOW [2024] ↳ Bop To The Top — TheOrionSound ft. SolidarityGaming

[mintyvoid]

fuck yesssssssssssssssssssssssssss

[boydykedevo]

hey guys i just discovered this song danny gonzalez never released and i am kind of losing my mind over it

[phagodyke]

hour and a half unpaid overtime I think that's a new record for me. on a day where I was supposed to have no overtime no less. funny how I only have 3 of those this month and the 2 so far I've had to work overtime anyway 👍

[orcelito]

I am so curious what my stats r gonna be for Spotify wrapped. I only started using it in 2021 and so I only know my things for 2 years. Both years, Stray Kids was my top artist bc they're my fav kpop group

This year, I know without a doubt it's going to be IAMX. I have listened to them just about every day for Four Months Straight, often for hours and hours at a time. I have 102 songs liked from them, so I have not grown bored at all.

It's going to be a frankly ridiculous level of minutes played. I'm rly curious where I'm gonna rank in their listeners hfkdhdksbdk

[jackiietaylor]

i can see you being my addiction you can see me as a secret mission hide away and i will start behaving myself. well if you insist

[girlivealwaysbean]

sometimes i miss talking to that one person who didn't NEVER turned it into a competition about who has it worse and never told me well atleast you have [x]

[007reid]

hi aine! i love how you write spencer sooo much so i have a short request

i would looove sub/virgin spence where he’s been touch starved so he’s really sensitive and whiny but reader praises him and guides him through it

-🌹

hi rose 🌹 for one of my favorite asks ive ever gotten, i did a horrible job on this one so im so sorry ml 💔and sorry for the wait too...hope this is somewhat worth it😭enjoooyy!!

virgin. spencer reid

pairing: sub virgin!spencer reid x experienced fem!reader. 1k

summary: exactly what the req says

warnings: whining, loss of virginity, riding, creampie, nun too extravagant. yu like the picture?😏😏

"y/n...y/n!" spencer's crying, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes but he's moaning, humming his whines into your neck.

"easy, baby boy," you croon, slipping out of him and slowly lowering yourself on his cock again. spencer's pawing at you desperately, like he's never felt such a thing before.

it's because he hasn't. it’s exciting, being in a relationship with spencer; it’s exciting touching him and seeing him jump or freeze and then melt into your touch. he’s pristine, like a shiny trophy, untouched—touch starved and so unfamiliar to the idea of physical touch or intimacy.

"'s too much," he whimpers pathetically, voice halfway stuck in his throat. "can't, can't--"

"relax, spence," you murmur, pushing back the pieces of hair, damp with sweat from his face. spencer's eyes are squeezed shut, eyebrows furrowed like he's in pain or he's deep thought. you're not to sure which one. your hips continue snapping into his. "look at me baby." it takes a while, but spencer slowly peels his eyes open. they're glossy and his eyelashes are wet, and you're listening out for the word from him to stop but it never comes.

"y/n--" he gasps, right as your pussy clenches tightly around him. his eyes close again. spencer's breathing heavily, little hng, hng, hng's falling out his puffy lips. the sloppy sound of skin slapping against skin and spencer's whines and your quiet moans and the smell of sex clouds the room.

"you're okay," you reassure him, voice shaky trying to soothe spencer's nerves while trying to soothe your own. spencer's big and he practically splits you in half, the tip hitting the little button inside you that makes you want to scream without any maneuvering. he's not even trying, propped up against the bedpost as you ride him, hands pliant at your hips, the little slick of your wetness every time you lift yourself from him absolutely filthy. you lift his chin and he falls forward, planting a miss-aimed kiss at your jaw.

"you feel so good," he bambles. "so warm. i love you. feels so good but so much y/n, i--" he moans, cock pulsating inside you. his thumb flicks at your perky nipples.

"'m so full of you," you say, burying your face in his hair and wrapping your arms around him, trying to get as close as possible. "fuck. make me feel so good. my best boy,"

"best boy," spencer repeats eagerly with a soft little hitch of his voice. the tears resume. "y/n i can't it hurts, stomach hurts y/n please--"

you immediately know what he meant, and fasten your pace, hands on the base of his cock to make sure he won't slip out of you. spencer slides into you easily, your pussy stretched and wet for him and his fingers dig deep into both sides of your waist. spencer's moans cease and his hips starts bucking up to you, arms wrapping around your torso and he wouldn't stop talking. "gonna, think im gonna cum, yn please dont stop it feels so good, fuck!"

"cum in me," you coo, feeling that familiar buzz at the pit of your stomach too. "you got it. cum in me spence, so good for me, such a good boy,"

spencer's sobbing as he cums, warmness blooming at your core as he unloads his cum inside you. you follow suit, pressing at the sensitive nerves bundles at your clit, thighs shaking from the weight of your orgasm. spencer's shaking too, tears shiny on his rosy cheeks and you ride the both of you off your orgasms, the sweat on your skin cooling.

spencer's cum leaks outside the puffy walls of your pussy and down your ass when you pull off of him, pressing yourself at spencer's side and curling your body towards him. his chest is rising and his lips are parted. you watch your boy carefully, how his eyelids starts drooping as his breathing mellowed out. you should've saw it coming that spencer reid is the kind of man to get sleepy after sex.

but you've known him for long enough to know that spencer's mind never stops running, not when he's sleepy, not when he's asleep, not ever. "penny for your thoughts?"

he turn to you, smile debauched and eyes like marbles. he throws the sheets over the both of you and find your hand underneath the blanket, bringing it to his lips. "'m so grateful for you yn," he whispers like he's telling a secret. you strain your ear to listen. "so grateful. luckiest man alive. i love you. love you," spencer takes a long blink, and you know he's drifting off. you smile widely, so endeared. he weaves your fingers together. "i'll make it up to you. swear. after this. i swear."

spencer never speaks in choppy sentences, never speaks unless he's got the entire sentence planned out in his head and now he's babbling on like someone whose speech he would correct. amused, you reach out, smoothing down his hair with gentle fingers. "sleep, spencer," you say affectionately. he never needs to be told twice either, apparently, because his eyes flutter shut and he's out like a light, but fingers still tightly intertwined in yours underneath your blanket.

you'll just have to wash the sheets tomorrow.

[percivaljacksons]

preview

hi ive decided to stop taking myself so seriously -- when i finish this it'll go on ao3 as a oneshot, but this is what ive got so far of angsty divers au (no it still does not have a title). rated somewhere between t and m. can i get a hell yeah in the chat? um have fun lol.

..

NYT: A lot of headlines have already declared this as the discovery of the century—one even as the discovery of the millenia. Did you envision such a momentous breakthrough in your career?

PJ: Uh, no. I didn’t think I was gonna graduate high school. You can laugh, dude, but I’m not joking. This has all been one crazy ride. My life changed forever the moment I met Annabeth Chase. 

//

What Annabeth remembers, during the nights she tries not to:

The cold. The blackness so thick they might as well have been diving in ink. Percy’s mouthpiece, warm when he pressed it to her lips every twelve seconds. She’d breathe in, then tap his wrist twice, and it would disappear once more.

They’ve always been good at nonverbal communication. A twitch of an eyebrow here, a sideways glance there. She knows when he’s rolling his eyes without having to look. He always manages to pass her a tissue right before she sneezes.

Annabeth wonders if they’ll ever get out from beneath what they said to each other, down in the Pit, where neither of them could utter a single word.

//

The phone rings five times, tinny and faint in Annabeth’s ear as she waits. She’s breathing hard, her hair still dripping and her suit peeled down to her waist, a pair of sunglasses her only real protection against the late afternoon Mediterranean sun. 

The ringing cuts off, and a groggy voice says, “yeah?”

Annabeth glances down at her watch. “Percy?” She asks. 

There’s a beat. When the voice speaks again, it’s perfectly awake. “Annabeth?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I…I thought you’d be awake by now.”

“I’m in San Diego.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. Good, I’m good. Are you?”

“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, almost wistful. “Why the new phone number?”

“It’s temporary. I’m in Greece.” She listens to him breathe, feels her own heart settle. 

“Greece,” he repeats.

Her thumb smooths over the shard of pottery in her hand. “Yeah. How soon can you get here?”

“To Greece? Shit, Annabeth, I don’t—”

“I found it,” she says. A glance over her shoulder tells her that her two grad students are laughing as they organize her gear and not paying attention to her at all, but she lowers her voice anyway. “I saw it, Percy. It’s real.” She breathes in, then out. The boat rocks under her. “I found it,” she repeats.

Static crackles in her ear. “I’ll be there in 24 hours,” Percy says.

//

They’d gone down together, which was stupid. So much of it was stupid with even a few hours of hindsight. No one coming down after them, thinking they knew the cave too well to get lost, believing that doing everything right meant that they were safe.

Stupid. 

The light clipped onto her suit only illuminated about a twelve inches past her flippers. She could see the walls on either side, the familiar steadily making way for the unfamiliar as they descended to the section only Percy had explored. 

Percy’s flipper tapped her head. He was reminding her to stop and equalize her ear pressure, so she did. He was more experienced diving in salt water. It saved her life, in the end—she had her nose pinched and her mouth firmly closed when she got slammed into the wall regulator yoke first. 

The straps on her chest jerked from the release of pressure, but it was the feeling of the bubbles rapidly flowing up her that let her know she was really, truly fucked.

//

It’s been six months since the Pit, and three since they last saw each other in person. Annabeth thought he was in New York, Percy probably thought she was—well, Annabeth doesn’t actually know. Probably not where she’s been. 

She’s been in Sicily and Ostia and around sixteen different Greek and Turkish islands. She hasn’t stayed in one place long enough for her mind to settle, has managed to outrun every shadow that clung to her pumping heels, only now her throat burns and her muscles ache and Percy meets her at the arrivals gate in Athens with a fresh tan and an unsure smile and Annabeth is all too aware that her months of avoidance have come to an end. 

Percy comes to a stop a foot or so away from her, tantalizingly close. Within arm’s reach. “Hey,” he says. 

His hair is long enough that he needs a band to keep his bangs out of his eyes. She recognizes it—it’s the same one she’d used to keep her own hair from falling in her face when it started to grow back after she’d chopped it five and a half months ago. The duffel bag thrown over his shoulder is also hers, and so is the necklace peeking out from beneath his collar. 

Annabeth hugs him because she wants to kiss him. “Hi,” she responds. 

The duffel bag hits the floor. His arms wrap around her, fierce and firm, and she buries her face in the warm skin of his neck. Stubble scratches against her cheek; Annabeth breathes easy for the first time in something like twelve weeks. 

“I thought you might send one of your grad students,” he says. His arms stay locked around her. 

“You got on the first flight you could,” Annabeth responds, her voice muffled. “Least I could do was meet you halfway.”

His fingertips press the tiniest bit harder into her spine. “Thanks,” he whispers into her hair. 

Annabeth’s own necklace digs into her jaw. I’ve missed you, she says with the nudge of her nose against his pulse. 

He rocks them back and forth, just barely. I’ve missed you, too, he responds with the graze of his palms over her back. 

Annabeth takes a breath, takes in the unchanged feeling coursing through her blood, and finally manages to take a step back. “You ready?” She asks. 

Percy’s smile is dazzling. “You bet your bippy I am.”

Annabeth leads him to her rental with loosely linked fingers, her steps so light she’s half convinced she could walk right over the Mediterranean itself. 

//

The last time they saw each other—the last time she saw him—it had been in the artificial brightness of their living room. Annabeth hadn’t slept in days, Percy hardly ever looked her in the eye, and neither of them could muster the strength to turn off even their tiniest, most ineffective lamp. 

No matter how many times Annabeth took deep breaths, she was still gasping for air. 

Percy would turn on the shower and stare at the water hitting the other side of the curtain, the bathroom door firmly shut, and then turn the faucet off again without ever stepping in. 

They curled up together every night, their bedroom lit up like a department store, her fingertips leaving bruises in his hips and shoulders, and if they were lucky sometimes one of them could fall asleep. 

Annabeth left New York. Percy didn’t follow her. 

//

One of her grad students picks them up from the dock. They were the only passengers on the boat from the mainland, so she’s the only person waiting, leaning against a rusty pickup truck filled with scuba equipment. She’s also lazily smoking a cigarette, her bright blue hair lit up a striking cobalt by the sun. 

She drops the cigarette and twists her foot over it the moment she sees them approach. “Doctor,” she greets with a grin that’s a little too innocent. 

Annabeth glares at her. “Pick that up. We’re not here to litter.”

The grad student sticks a hand out to shake Percy’s. “Hey, I’m Lucy. You the pottery guy?”

“I leave for one day and your hair is blue,” Annabeth mutters, taking the duffel bag from Percy’s shoulder and tossing it into the back. “If you’ve been smoking in the truck…”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “No, Mom, I haven’t been smoking in the truck. My hair’s blue because Mitchell won our bet, don’t worry about it. I didn’t even stain the towels.”

“I like it,” Percy says. 

“See?” Lucy says. She bends down and picks up her cigarette butt when Annabeth keeps glaring. “The pottery guy gets it.”

“Um—” Percy tries to say. 

“This is Percy,” Annabeth explains. “He’s not a pottery guy.”

“When’s the pottery guy getting here, then?”

Annabeth goes around to the driver’s side and gets in the truck instead of answering. Lucy shrugs and moves the passenger seat up to slide into the rear bench, waving Percy away when he tries to get in. He sits in the front with a shrug once Lucy’s knees are out of the way, and the moment his seatbelt is buckled Annabeth tears out of the marina parking lot. 

“So.” Lucy’s fingers tap along the backs of their chairs. “If you’re not a pottery guy, who are you? ‘Cuz Annabeth found a piece of pottery on her dive two days ago and took off outta here like Icarus on his way to freedom.”

It’s a weird simile, but Annabeth doesn’t respond. When Percy turns to look at her, her eyes don’t even stray from the road. 

“You didn’t tell them?” He asks. 

Annabeth grunts. Percy keeps staring at her, wondering which question he should answer, and eventually says to Lucy, “Annabeth and I…” He sighs. “Well, we go way back. How long have you been her student?” 

“A few months,” Lucy says. 

Percy smiles and turns to look out the window. They’re along the coast now, and the ocean is blue like a jolly rancher. “She doesn’t need a pottery guy,” he says.

Lucy raises her eyebrows. She looks at Percy, then at Annabeth, then back to Percy again. “Totally explains everything,” she says, and the rest of the drive passes in silence. 

//

For weeks after the Pit, Annabeth was on the edge of a panic attack whenever she couldn’t feel Percy beside her. She knew why, logically. The therapist explained it, and everyone was so goddamn understanding. Grover, and Sally, and Piper, and Nico, and Clarisse.

Even her mother, under the thick layer of I-told-you-so that she didn’t bother to try and hide.

What can you say, when your head finally has broken free of the water? When all light is blinding, when you can’t get rid of the taste of salt on your lips?

What can you say to the person who pulled you back to life, when you’re the only reason his soul grazed the razor edge of death in the first place?

//

“Why are the vibes, like, literally rancid?” Mitchell mutters, loading the extra gear his advisor always insists on bringing onto the boat.

“Girl, if I knew,” Lucy responds, shaking her head. 

“You could help, you know.”

“I picked them up from the dock! No, don’t put the yoke by the O2—”

“You do it, then!”

“Fine.”

She joins him, loading in silence. After a minute:

“$5 they’ve boned.”

“You’re so on.”

//

They put their gear on together, her reaching out to zip him up without prompting and him holding her tank steady so she can slide her arms through the straps. They don’t have to look at each other to do it, so they don’t. 

Annabeth only glances over once they’re finished. His eyes are hidden behind his diving mask, and Annabeth’s heart migrates to her throat.

The last time she’d seen him like that had been—

“Ready?” She asks.

Percy nods. She goes in first, and he follows.

He’s still following, even now. But that’s Percy. 

From above the surface, it looks like a rock. A big rock, sure, but not dissimilar from the jutting stones that surround a lot of the Mediterranean, the jagged edges that contrast the white sand beaches. That’s been her main research tactic, recently—where do the tourists avoid? What stone has been left unturned, what looks so innocuous from above that no one would ever suspect it was an X, marking a very secret spot?

Under the surface, it’s a different story. Not an obvious story, but at this point Annabeth could navigate each curve and edge in her sleep. She does, on the nights she doesn’t dream of a blackness like tar. 

It’s a bright enough day that sunlight streaks through the water a good twenty feet down, exposing the imposing face of stone. There isn’t an entrance, really, but there’s nooks and crannies and crevices, and Annabeth is the particular kind of crazy to have wiggled her way through every single one she could. 

On instinct, she reaches down and clicks on one of her flashlights. With a confident flick of her feet, she propels herself towards the opening that started it all. 

There are three flashlights clipped to the straps around her shoulders. When she had zipped up Percy’s suit, she had noticed the four he had clipped to his.

She finds the optical illusion, the uneven meeting that looks like a solid wall. If you stare at it long enough, the ripples of light coming through the water reveal it for what it is. She presses forward, and just like six months ago Percy goes where she leads.

From there, it’s memory. Through the cave system, careful and slow, even as her heart pounds. Under the archway, chipped away from the rock, a little too even to be natural. She pauses under it and taps it with one hand. Percy nods in response. He sees it. He knows.

After the archway, it’s left until the opening below, leading down to darker and colder waters. Annabeth checks her backup flashlights, braces herself, and heads down. 

She doesn’t look to see if Percy follows. He either will or he won’t. 

The space gets smaller, then larger, jagged edges of rock cutting into the path. This wasn’t an entrance, as far as Annabeth can tell, but it’s the only way in she’s found so far. Everything else has been long since blocked off by time. Earthquakes, rockslides, storms, erosion, all of the above. It’s proper cave diving because of it, something that Percy has infinitely more experience in.

She reaches the air pocket and pops her head out. She takes a breath of stale, cave air and waits. A faint light grows steadily brighter.

Percy’s head pops above the water. He lets his rebreather drop from his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Annabeth, this is—”

Annabeth reaches through the water and grabs onto his rebreather with her left hand. Her right hand is busy clutching her own. They’re both attached to their diving tanks, obviously, but…

His hand covers her own. “I’ve got it,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Annabeth yanks her hand back. “Right,” she says. “Did you see the arch? I’m thinking 4,500, maybe earlier.”

Water drips from the low ceiling above them onto Percy’s diving mask. He doesn’t even blink.

“Plato said 9,600,” he teases.

“I know what Plato said.” Annabeth rolls her eyes. “What did he know?”

“4,000,” Percy says, shaking his head, “is neolithic settlers in Thera, precursors to the Minoans. Annabeth, that’s…that’s—”

“—the Older Peron,” she finishes. “The timing makes perfect sense, but I think there was something else. I mean, look at where we are. There were the rising sea levels during Holocene Epoch, sure, but—”

“—it was never at sea level,” Percy realizes. He gestures around them, splashing her with water. “It was already below sea level. Which is why—”

“—the rise was so devastating,” Annabeth continues, building on his enthusiasm. “They had fortifications of natural rock but—”

“—they were effectively trapped when the levels rose unexpectedly!” His voice echoes off the walls around them. “We’ve been going deeper and deeper this whole dive.”

“Probably a storm,” Annabeth says. “It was gradual, and then a big storm caught them off guard. They…they probably starved, if they didn’t drown. Those who didn’t made their way to Crete and kicked off the Bronze Age.”

The slow drip of water is the only sound between them for a long moment. 

“Where’d you find the pottery?” Percy finally asks.

“Up ahead. Ten minutes, maybe.”

“Is it all submerged?”

“I don’t know,” Annabeth admits. “Maybe, maybe not. I called you as soon as I had anything concrete.”

He takes his mouthpiece out of the water and slots it between his lips. Annabeth does the same, then heads back under to show him the way. She’s so excited to show him that she can barely even feel how the water has gotten gradually colder during their dive. It had freaked her out, her first few times trying to navigate the crags of the cave. 

Caves are always cold. It’s why they have wetsuits. Annabeth only wishes it wouldn’t take so goddamn long for her to warm up again once she was above the surface.

//

NYT: Your preliminary article talks a lot about the Holocene epoch. What does that have to you with your discovery?

PJ: Right, yeah, so that’s—we’re in that right now. That’s our current geological epoch. It’s an interglacial period equivalent to MIS 1, and started around 11,700 years ago. Basically, ‘Holocene’ is two Ancient Greek words smushed together meaning an ‘entirely new’ age. In terms of, like, humanity, it’s when all of our written history and technological revolutions have happened. It’s all happened since the last ice age ended those 12,000 years ago. In terms of my research—which is our research, really—it’s thinking about the impact of the vast warming of the planet after the last ice age and what that might be able to tell us about pre-Minoan civilizations in the Mediterranean.

NYT: Are you talking about global warming? I think of that being a lot more recent than 12,000 years ago.

PJ: Eh. It’s kinda relative. Pretty much anything is global warming after an ice age, you know? We do split the Holocene into three main eras of slight cooling and warming, but our sweet spot is around 7,500 years ago, when the Mediterranean especially was having to deal with rapid sea level rise and colder waters. Can I be honest with you, dude?

NYT: Of course. 

PJ: Everyone thought we were f****** crazy.

//

Later, back on the boat, Mitchell throws together some PB&Js for them to devour. The two of them eat quickly, tired from the dive, and don’t speak. Mitchell always uses a little too much peanut butter, and it sticks to the roof of Annabeth’s mouth, but that isn’t why she stays quiet.

There’s a lot between them besides the silence.

“This is everything I’ve ever wanted,” she eventually says, staring at the unassuming point of rock above the water. Just a rock that was really the cave that held the answer she’d spent her life searching for. Will they call it Chase Cave? Probably not, at this point. She’s glad. Something about that smarts—her greatest achievement marked by her father’s name.

“Is it?” Percy asks. His hair is wet, mussed up from when he yanked off his hood. There’s still a faint red oval around his eyes and nose.

She turns to face him more fully. They’ve never worn jewelry when they went in the water, and earlier she’d caught the faint tan line around the fourth finger of his left hand. He still wears it, or wore it recently enough to still have its mark.

Annabeth looks back to the rock. It’s much easier to stare at. “Almost,” she says.

//

NYT: Where do you go from here? Back to Berkley? Columbia? Are you staying in Greece?

PJ: Honestly… [Laughs] anywhere that offers us a tenure track. We’re open to suggestions! Our RateMyProfessor scores are through the roof, man. At this point, I’d even say yes to NYU.

//

“Berkley’s funding you?” Percy asks.

Annabeth nods, swallowing the mouthful of wine she’d been letting sit in her mouth. It’s easy to get lost in it—early signs of the sunset, Percy backlit by it all, wearing a loose blue shirt with the collar open so she can see his collarbones, her necklace nestled right in the middle. Missing him has been as frequent as breathing. She doesn’t quite know how to handle having him right across the table from her.

“Damn.” His mouth twists in that charming, trying-not-to-smile way. “What a coup.”

Annabeth snorts. “Right? I don’t know that she’ll ever talk to me again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Percy grabs an olive from their shared plate and pops it in his mouth. “She’s going to milk your relationship for every grant she applies for until the day she retires. Or dies.”

“Fuck.” Annabeth takes a larger sip of wine and closes her eyes. “You’re right. Goddamn it.”

“Hey, it’s been known to happen.” She opens her eyes again just in time to see the smile slip properly onto his face. “Good thing she made sure that you didn’t share any kind of name.”

Annabeth raises her wine. Percy grabs his water and follows suit, his tan-lined finger wrapping around the glass. “To Dr. Sofia Athena,” Annabeth says. “A name that has had no lasting impact on the study of archeology and the world’s shittiest mother.”

“Hear hear!” 

They clink their glasses and drink. 

The sun sinks below the ocean, pink orange red streaked across the sky, and below the table Percy rests the length of his leg against her own. 

//

Percy kept waking up with bruises on his wrist, his forearm, along the edge of his ribs. She never remembered grabbing him that tightly, hadn’t roused from sleep for a moment, didn’t even know that she was capable of gripping him like that.

She kept thinking about his life before she came into it, kept thinking about his childhood and his aversion to alcohol, and kept spending her mornings throwing up bile.

He held her hair back. He kissed the space behind her ear. He took it all, right up until the day she left.

//

They leave the restaurant as dusk slips into evening. Everything drips blue, and they could go back to the ramshackle house Annabeth’s been renting for three weeks and go to sleep. They should, really. Tomorrow all of the difficult stuff starts, the phone calls and the grant applications and fierce defense of their life’s work. 

But Percy takes a deep, sucking breath in, and his hands in his pockets. He lets it out again, a satisfied sigh, and jerks his head towards the horizon invitingly, and Annabeth already knows she’s going to agree to whatever he’s going to ask. 

“What?” She asks. 

“Want to go for a walk?” He asks. “It’s a beautiful night.” 

He’s right. She wants to. Still, she hesitates. 

“On the beach?”

“Why not? There’s a sandy bit down there.”

Annabeth can think of at least seven reasons that they really should not. Up against Percy’s relaxed posture and open expression, none of them put up a fight. 

“Alright,” she agrees. 

He doesn’t offer his hand, so she doesn’t take it, but when they start to walk towards the shore, their elbows brush with every other step. 

//

“Don’t be ridiculous, Annabeth.”

Annabeth’s head snaps back. “I’m not being ridiculous,” she says.

Her mother shoots her a look, her face half obscured by her office’s desktop monitor. “You’re turning one of Plato’s metaphors into a pipe dream of a discovery. It’s not like you.”

Annabeth takes a deep, controlled breath in. “I’m not basing the entirety of my research on Plato.”

“You’ve found another source that references Atlantis?”

“Not exactly,” Annabeth admits begrudgingly. “But—”

“Annabeth.”

“Just because they don’t call it the same thing that Plato did—”

“Lower your voice, please,” her mother says, turning her focus back to her computer. She starts to type, her face impassive.

Annabeth seethes. Quietly. “The study of Stone Age civilizations always requires careful historiographical reading into the Bronze and Iron ages. Their interpretation of history is a valid course of investigation for today’s scholarship.”

Her mother sighs and closes her eyes for a brief, devastating moment. “You’re a promising archeologist, Annabeth, but…”

Always a but. 

“...these caves, and the diving, well…” Her mother finally gives her undivided attention. “It’s not difficult to see where you got the idea.”

Annabeth digs the fingernails of her left hand into her palm and tries her best to keep the tears at bay. “I’m not plagiarizing research ideas.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“This research project just happened to pop up right as you started seeing a scuba diver? That’s a sheer coincidence?”

“He’s not a—”

“Oh, he wears an anklet.”

“He’s a marine archeologist! That’s literally part of your department.”

“They’ve tacked on an adjective before the word ‘archeologist.’ Is that supposed to—”

Annabeth slams her binder down on her mother’s desk, a savage satisfaction building in her chest at finally being the one who gets to interrupt. “I’m not debating this with you,” she says, her voice filled with finality. “My research has to do with Pre-Minoan Thera and early Bronze Age art and documentation. Read it or don’t. If you don’t fund me, someone else will.”

Her mother rises from her seat in one graceful movement, her eyes dark and swirling storm clouds. Annabeth realizes that they’re the same height; she’d never noticed that before.

“Who approached you?” Her mother asks. “USC? BU?”

Annabeth lets the smile that stretches across her face be as bitter as it wants to be. “I’m a Chase,” she says. She knows it’s a twist of the knife. “Who wouldn’t fund me?”

//

The sand is cold between her toes. The wind off the water is warm and makes Percy’s shirt flap around and hug the contours of his torso for brief, devastating moments. Annabeth focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and not on the way this whole night has felt like a date.

“I kind of want to get in,” Percy says. 

“What?”

“The water,” he clarifies. “I want to get in. Don’t you?” 

Annabeth gapes at him. It’s only been three months. He went in with her earlier, even followed her into a cave, but this is different. This is a walk along the beach with their shoes in their hands and stupid small talk that hasn’t been getting at any of the things they should probably be working through.

Percy drops his flip-flops. He only has to undo one more button to be able to pull his shirt off over his head. Annabeth keeps looking—obviously—as he shucks off his pants and adds them to the pile, too. 

There are little slices of pizza decorating his boxers. 

There’s a tiny, innocuous breath of hesitation. Is he thinking about stripping all the way down? Is he balking now that he’s facing the might of the ocean? 

In the end, he goes towards the water confidently, his boxers still on, and calls back once his ankles are submerged. “You coming?”

Annabeth slips the straps of her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the sand, kicking it over to join Percy’s pile of clothes. After her own moment of hesitation, she slips the chain around her neck off and wraps it around her hand, clutching the bulk of it tight in her palm. She won’t leave it on the beach, but she won’t lose it to the ocean, either. 

By the time she’s up to her calves, Percy’s already dunked himself under and come back up again, hair slicked back and water dripping down his chest. He’s got a slight t-shirt tan she hadn’t noticed before.

“How far do you want to go out?” She asks him.

“We’ll freeze if we stay like this,” he says, goosebumps all along his arms with his wet torso exposed to the breeze. A tiny wave crashes right behind him and sends him staggering a foot or so. “Past the break?”

The wave hits her next, soaking through her bra and splashing salt up onto her cheeks. “Sure.”

They wade out together and dive through the next wave in perfect unison. When she comes back up, brushing the water out of her eyes, all that’s left of it are bubbles bursting against her skin. The water settles around her shoulders; when she looks over, Percy’s eyes are lined up perfectly with hers. Bending his knees, probably. Staying under the water to stay warm, or stay on her level, or some mixture of the two. 

“Warmer than I thought,” Annabeth admits.

Percy smiles. She wishes the moon would rise, so she could see the emerald cut of his eyes better. “That’s almost like saying I was right.”

“Almost,” she agrees, smiling right back. 

“We probably could’ve stripped all the way down. When in Rome, and all that.”

“We’re not on Naxos.” She shudders. “Never again.”

That makes him laugh, finally. “Come on, it was a cultural exchange!”

“A-bah-bah,” Annabeth tuts, raising a finger. “It’s one of the sacred three.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Ice water, air conditioning, and we don’t have to look at wrinkly old dudes naked. U-S-A, U-S-A.”

“And don’t forget it.”

“How could I?” He replies softly. 

Annabeth resists the urge to curse. There goes their lighthearted small talk. 

She dreams of Naxos. Not of the famous nude beaches or Percy laughing at her horrified expressions, but of the crisp white sheets of their hotel room and the faint red imprints of her teeth against the perfect bronze of his tan. She dreams of the purest conversations they’ve ever had, the ones they had crammed together on their Juliet balcony and the ones that passed with skin pressed close and no words spoken at all. 

The dreams are always exact mirrors of memory, flawless from start to finish, loving and being loved. She never wakes up before an orgasm or before the sun had finally risen that first morning and lit up the muscles of Percy’s back like a goddamn Yuriy Petrenko painting. It’s complete contentment, morning breath and a sort of pulled hamstring halfway through, no detail lost.

But she always wakes up, and Percy’s not there, and reality feels like a nightmare.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” Percy breathes out.

“Neither are you.”

“I took it off to dive.” His head tilts, just slightly, and Annabeth’s eyes slide down his neck to her necklace. She catches the smallest glint of metal through the water and clenches her fist around her own ring, so tightly that the chain digs into the meat of her hand. 

“So did I,” she says.

His mouth quirks up. “Okay.”. 

“San Diego,” she starts, weirdly confident from the wine or the quiet or Percy being right in front of her again. “Did you get an—”

“I’m still on sabbatical. Staying with Tyson.” A wave laps up and covers his chin for a second. “He says hi, by the way.”

“He’s good?”

“Mhm. Trying to teach me pottery.”

Annabeth grins. “Are you any good?”

“Obviously not. It’s better than, like, baby goat yoga with Grover.”

“So that’s why you’re not in Portland.”

“Uh, that and the human baby they’re very enthusiastically trying to create. Barf.”

She splashes him in the face. “Shut up. What? Since when?”

He spits the water that got into his mouth out in a beautiful arch. “I can’t believe he told me before you! Like, a few months now. I think they maybe kept it hush-hush because…”

The waves crash against the sand. Annabeth knows what he was going to say. She can hear it in the squint of his eyelids, the exact angle tilt of his eyebrows. It’s kind of comforting—she still knows how. 

“That’s amazing,” she says, her voice quiet. “He’s going to be such a good dad.”

A swell of water builds towards them, and their toes leave the sand in the same moment, the tiniest push to keep their chins above the surface. 

“He accidentally synced our Google calendars,” Percy admits after a second. There’s a dangerous kind of glint in his eye, the one that Annabeth has always been a little bit in love with. “They, like, scheduled it.”

Annabeth gasps. “No.”

He nods, dunking half of his face in the process. “I know so much about Juni’s ovulation cycle that I can’t unlearn—”

“Percy!” Annabeth objects, as though she’s not laughing through it. “That’s such a violation of their privacy—”

“It’s not like I wanted to know it!” He laughs right back. “Grover apologized, like, six times. Juni called to ask if we ever did any fertility rituals. I did not need that boundary broken.”

Annabeth covers her face with one hand and ducks herself under the water. The muted sounds, the sting of the salt, the knowledge that she could reach out and touch him—she breaks the surface again. “Why would we have done a fertility ritual? We don’t have kids!”

“I think maybe she thought we’d done one to prevent it. Anti-fa, right?”

“I know you know that’s not what that is.”

His straight face breaks. “You thought it was funny, though.”

“No comment.” 

“Hey, don’t be mad. I told her our sexytime is exclusively based on passion. No scheduling involved.”

Annabeth wrinkles her nose. “A good excel spreadsheet is kind of hot, though.”

“Oh my god.”

“Like, a color-coded one.” She rolls back her eyes and moans. “With tabs.” 

It’s so easy to tease him, so natural to fall back into their rhythm, to turn off the filter in her brain and let the conversation go wherever it’s going to. It’s so easy to forget why they were half a world away from each other. 

He splashes her this time, only she’s already laughing, eyes closed and ready for it. She hears his laughter join hers before she sees it, low and infectious. 

Annabeth could stay here forever, high on her life’s mission accomplished and Percy right in front of her, both of their heads above the water, both of them laughing. She would make this second of air stretch on forever, only then she wouldn’t get what comes next.

She opens her eyes against the sting of the salt and sees him, the jut of his collarbone above the foam, his hair curling a little bit around his ears where it’s beginning to dry. She could look at him forever, watch as the crinkles around his eyes go soft and fade, as his mouth settles from a grin into something smoother, more familiar.

“Wanna kiss you,” he mumbles. The waves push him closer, or he moves closer, or Annabeth does.

“I thought we based our sexytime exclusively on passion,” Annabeth responds.

The heat of Percy’s torso presses up against hers. “Don’t be a dick,” he whispers.

Percy’s mouth slides hot against hers, rough-soft in the very particular way he always is, and waves lap at their shoulders and Annabeth thinks something about baptism and then thinks about nothing at all for as long as she’s able.

//

“Sometimes I think we never got out,” she whispers to him one night. 

They’re wrapped around each other in the blaring light from both of their nightstands. It’s some time past three in the morning.

“Like, this is all a dream?” He asks.

“No.” She presses her nose against his chest, breathes him in. “I just still feel it. I started down there and it never stopped.”

She feels the breath shudder out of him. “Yeah,” he agrees.

..

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

More erik?? Love a man who'll kill

You were on your knees listening to the monologue that was happening. Fighting for consciousness. Pain radiated from so many places you weren't even sure what was injured anymore.

Or why you felt cold. Was the room cold? Your head had been shaved. And the only reason you were upright was that your arms were bound above your head- you couldn't even light your head on your own anymore. It felt like lead.

It wasn't until you were staring down the barrel of the gun, to numb and too cold to feel fear. Repeating what you'd said before "No child should suffer." Through your voice cracked and trembled. From screaming in pain and for want of water- that you hoped if there really was a God he'd let you scream at him for a while.

Except the gun never went off. Not at you, anyway. And then there was nothing.

________

A human woman lay in the bed in front of him. Battered and tortured. And Erik felt a pang of kinship. And respect. She had stared her death in the face and never wavered. Never recanted.

Utterly degraded and physically broken, they couldn't take the heart- her conviction from her. And the defiance was still there. Her spirit remained- dented, perhaps, but unbroken.

He stroked the bare skin of your scalp gently and bent to kiss your forehead, "Rest," he said. "You're safe here."

This was a human who deserved to be protected. An example of humanity's best. Of that he was certain. Somethings, you would never understand- but you would try. And a human who would try was a human who was a worthy ally.

That was not something to be taken lightly in a world where there was so much hate- and apathy.

When you stir in your sleep, troubled if the crease on your brow is any indication, Erik strokes your head again gently, "Rest," he repeats. "No one here is going to harm you, little one."

And he took a seat, waiting. You'd slept for hours. But the pain medication you'd been given would only work so long. And soon you would need more. And food. And water. You were human. Fragile. It would be a poor way to repay your bravery having you wake up alone and leaving you frightened in this room too scared to call out for help- uncertain what would come through the door.

He listens to your breathing carefully. And when it becomes whimpers and when you wake, panting and terrified, he's there. "Easy," he soothed. "You're safe."

"I can't- oh god-" You cry out in pain and look up at the man in front of you. Your vision is blurry and everything is a jumble of events in your mind as you reach out. Nothing makes any sense. But- His voice is deep and soothing and the touch of the calloused hands on your face wiping away tears is gentle.

"Shhh," He administered the pain medication into your IV and glanced at your heart monitor concerned. Had they driven you mad?

"Fuck-"

"Be still, little one," he said as you started to relax. "You have broken ribs. And a broken clavicle- and countless other injuries."

"Where-"

"With friends," Erik said. He can see you struggling to make sense of that. Trying to grab your next question but you can't. The medicine is strong and your body is just too injured. Too over-taxed. "Drink," he said, smiling a little. "You need water. And I have something to eat coming. Soup."

And when he holds a cup to your lips and you drink like it's the first water you've had in years he nods, This is good. He let you drink until you were done and stroked your head, "Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"You're safe," he said, "on my honor. You'll not be harmed and you'll be taken care of."

[cookie-crumblr]

F!Reader x Therapist Yan OC Sheila~

Tigers in the Garden🐅✨

Her Info: 📋❤️‍🔥

Was a Drabble i swear… Part 1~

Next Part—>

!MINORS DNI!

CW: F!Reader, Reader has a vagina, reader referred to as she/her, use of strap on reader, fxf, strap in readers v, reader SH(Before it starts, not described, just mentioned and implied in convo), sub and slightly bratty reader, reader is a stoner, reader wears makeup, imbalanced power, DUB-CON(coercion and blackmail), reader has hair(not described), nipple play(a little), choking, not proofread, rough sex, rough with reader in general, spanking, lemme no if i missed any! :3 names for reader(brat, slut, whore),smut with barely any plot in this part, power imbalance

“Okay,” You shrug. “Whatever, i guess” The ‘good’ people in white coats guide you down a sea-green, sterile-smelling corridor.

Youre finally being let out of your mandatory three day stay at a mental health facility(more like prison). They’re letting you out on the condition you see the therapist they’ve set you up with.

Sheila Reichsgraf.

You’ve got nothing but the clothes you came in with in a plastic baggie with your phone, wallet, and keys. They gave you clothes that don’t quite fit or look good on you, and a piece of paper saying where you are to go tomorrow. For tonight? some well earned weed and munchies to go with. Maybe some masturbating too, you’ll see where the night takes you.

Now sitting in front of this woman(more like tigress), you slouch down into your seat. Her gaze is unreadable but scrutinizing.

“I’ve, of course, been informed of your admittance to Fir’s Rest. Would you like to talk about it?” She asks, while typing on her computer.

“Nope.” You sag further into the black velvet chaise lounge.

“I’d like you to talk about it.” She slides her keyboard out of her way, and folds her hands in front of herself.

“I’d like you to kindly shut it about that actually.” You snap.

“Take off your clothes.” Her voice is stern, but no louder than before.

“Ex-fucking-Scuse you!?” you exclaim, what the fuck is she on!? like sure you think she’s way too hot for this plane of existence but like ???

“Take off your clothes.” she interrupts your thoughts, repeating the same thing over again in the same tone. “Unless…” She continues before you can pipe back, “You’d rather go back to the facility.” she takes something out of a black leather padfolio before closing it, and sighing heavily.

You roll your eyes. “What, so you’re like, coercing me now? what’s next ?? threaten to tell my mother?” that would be terrible cause after all you’ve been through for that woman you at the very least want your share of the inheritance.

“Exactly that, darling~” As she walks toward you, you watch her in shock, or disbelief. She extends perfectly manicured, dark skin hands toward you, with a fan of polaroid photos of you in a mental hospital, butt hanging out of your polka dot gown, grippy socks and a trailing IV and all.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You’re sick! You’re a lunatic! If you even think that i’ll—” your voice is completely halted when she roughly grabs you by the cheeks and squeezes your lips into a fish mouth. You scowl up at her deeply. You think about spitting on her, but think better of it. thankfully.

“Listen to you, a brat like you needs to be put in her place.” A smile spreads across her cheeks, dimples pop out near the angled tips of it going into her cheeks.

She really is hot.

You swallow.

She roughly lets go of your face as you pull away. your hair muses and gets in your eyes but you don’t blink and lose eye contact for a second.

Sheila grips your arms to pull you up out of your chair, and throws you hands first into her desk.

Stunned by how fast this all happened, you remain there long enough for her to wrap herself around you.

You let out a cute little whimper as she pinches your nipple through the fabric. You weren’t expecting it, and the shock that got sent directly to your clit.

“Such a good whore under there, already whimpering for me~?” You hear the smile in her voice, as her head buries into the crook of your neck. It tickles and you jump, your ass slamming back into her body. she clings onto you tighter, to hold you still. Somehow you feel like she completely envelops you.

Your core is already hot as she quickly and roughly removes your clothes, feeling up your skin and grabbing everywhere she can as soon as it’s bare. From your hips, to your belly, down and even back up to your ribs, down your arms. Everywhere on you that enters the light, she roams. Her mouth isn’t far behind, kissing and biting you, devouring you fully.

Sheila spreads your legs, one at a time, and puts your hands back on her desk so that your leaning forward. You’re too out of breath and dumb right now to even think of moving. Your back is arched and your ass wiggles slightly on its own, beckoning her and her throbbing clit. She’s equally out of breath, dripping just like you are, her heels click on the wood as she removes her clothes, staring at your swaying backside all the while.

“You’re going to take all of this, aren’t you slut?” Her big beautiful strap on flings out to attention. Your head falls to one shoulder so that you can glimpse it… You swallow harder than before, your brows peaking as you start to imagine the stretch around that thing. You nod.

You don’t have to imagine for long before she’s grabbing your neck to pull your body up against hers. Hard nipples poke your back and you shiver. Delicious, you want those in your mouth, don’t you? “I won’t go easy.” She coos menacingly, and squeezes your throat gently until you see stars.

She rubs her cock against your entrance, prodding, and poking, slowly diving into your needy, wet hole. You’re already stretching around just her head and feeling so good at the same time, whining and whimpering until, she plunges it inside you. All at once and you bite your lip, unable to breathe anymore.

“FUCK!” You puff out the last of your air with one word.

“Soon you’ll be screaming Doctor…” She whispers into your ear before pulling away as far back as her arm will allow, so that she has a better vantage point. Watching your ass as she pulls her strap out, that looks like it’s as far in as your tail bone or further, her clit sends ripples of pleasure throughout her body.

She licks her lips and slams into you this time. She’ll have to savor watching it slowly get swallowed up by your tight pussy later. This time she pulls out faster and pushes back in just as fast. She sets a pace that’s both brutal and blissful to you, as the pain lessens the pleasure grows, and it grows exponentially.

Her nails dig into your throat and her other comes around to tweak your clit, it makes you start to shake and twitch, your arms wobble trying to keep you upright.. Her own orgasm building as the strap rubs her back with every thrust, she moans behind you, you tighten around her, and open yourself up more to take her better.

“D-Doctor!” You practically beg, not knowing what for; more, less, faster, slower! But she was right, and you yell, “Doctor!!” again. She gets faster and faster, your butt is hot from the force of her slamming into you. the slapping of skin against wet skin, combined with stuffed groans and more hoarse “Doctor”’s fill the office.

Blackened tears streak down your face as you cum around her cock you shake and convulse barley able to hold yourself up against the low desk, even with the help of her hand still wrapped around your throat. She keeps pounding you. Ruthlessly. Through your orgasm and straight into your crashing next two. “Who would have thought you’d be such a good girl under that attitude.”

Suddenly she pushes in deeper than ever before, stealing even more air from the depths of your soul. You swear you can feel her hitting there too. “Take all of me,” her hand runs down your hair and back. Then she slowly pulls out, letting you really feel the thick vein that twists around her length. You shudder around her, and whimpers keep falling freely from your open, puffy lips, you’re spent.

She plays with your hair gently, before spanking your already warm ass. You jump, “Wha-!” Your too dumb to even form one little word. Her hand rounds where she just slapped and you think she’ll slap you in the same spot when she pulls away, you brace for impact. You yelp! when she slaps your raw pussy instead.

The phone rings…

You don’t see her look at the caller ID, but you hear her sigh.

“This session is over. Come back next week.” She completely pulls away leaving you cold on the outside but still burning for her on the inside.

“What about—?” You start, before she interrupts.

“Session’s over.” she says while buttoning her shirt, then pats down her skirt, before turning back to you, and winks, “Like I said, come back next week” Your heart pounds. Can you even wait a week?

What are you even thinking right now!?

…

You glance back at her. She licks her lips.

She’s on the edge of her desk and watching you get dressed, you walk out the door with a slight limp and her eyes, practically ticklish on your back.

You have to catch your breath outside the thick wood doors.

Sheila groans before picking up the receiver.

“Hello, mommy dearest…” She makes her voice higher pitched and ready to please.

[otomehonyaku]

DIABOLIK LOVERS Haunted Dark Bridal ☽ Genteiban DVD Mini Drama Translation ☽ Side Story IV (Ayato, Reiji, Subaru)

Original title: DIABOLIK LOVERS 限定版 SPECIAL DISK VI Side Story IV Voiced by Midorikawa Hikaru (Ayato), Konishi Katsuyuki (Reiji), Kondō Takashi (Subaru) English translation by @otomehonyaku Click here for the audio (thank you to @uzi-boozii for providing the audio!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Please do not reuse or post my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

With this translation, all the Haunted Dark Bridal mini drama have been translated! The three mini drama that came with the second season of the anime, More,Blood, are up next ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡ Please look forward to them!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[The scene begins after Subaru fed on Yui in the rose garden.]

00:00 [A loud crash sounds in the distance.]

Ayato: Subaru, what’d I always tell you? It’s way too noisy when you use so much force. Tch. Oh? This scent…? Subaru. Did you suck her blood? What’re you up to, gettin’ your hands on things that aren’t yours?

[Ayato shoves Subaru.]

Subaru: Shut up. She’s not just yours, Ayato. When the fuck was that decided?

A: If Yours Truly says it’s mine, then it is.

S: Heh. Keep on babbling.

A: The fuck did you say? Subaru. Who do you think you’re talking to?

S: Her blood isn’t your property, nor is it anyone else’s. It doesn’t matter who feeds on her.

A: Like hell it doesn’t!

[Ayato grabs Subaru by the collar.]

A: Listen up. Don’t bite her again without my permission. If you do, I’ll fuck you up.

S: Go ahead and try.

[Ayato lets Subaru go.]

S: Besides, I’m not the only one who’s after her blood. Anyone in the vicinity would want to taste her and make her theirs when her blood smells like that.

A: Anyone in the vicinity? Who the fuck else’s after Pancake?

S: Tch. You’re dense, as always.

A: Shut up and answer my question!

S: Fuck off.

A: You asshole!

Reiji: What is going on here? The two of you are too loud. Fighting and bickering like children. It would do you good to think rationally for once, but that begs the question whether your simple minds even know what the word ‘rational’ means…

A: Reiji. I don’t even know what you’re yapping about, but Subaru went ahead and got his filthy hands on my Pancake.

S: Heh. Is that all you can say now, Ayato? Stop repeating the same idiotic thing.

A: The fuck?

R: Ah, Subaru, mind your words. Ayato is right to be upset.

A: See? I told ya!

R: Besides, Ayato. You are the elder brother here, so please keep yourself in check.

A: Fuck off! Don’t order me around!

R: You too, Subaru. You broke the door again, I see… Please refrain from recklessly destroying our things.

02:27 S: What? What’re you meddling in my business for now?

R: I must.

A: And why’s that? Don’t you always tell us to solve our brotherly issues by ourselves?

R: Indeed. That is the case under normal circumstances. However, these are no circumstances for petty brotherly quarrels.

A: What do you mean?

R: Ah. I expected the two of you to already know, but… Ayato. Subaru. Would you look at yourselves in the mirror?

S: Huh?

A: Why?

[Ayato and Subaru look in the mirror. They are surprised by their reflections.]

R: Do you understand now? Your irises are bright-red. You are acting on the unconscious and you are no longer able to control your vampiric impulses.

A: How’d this happen?

S: This makes no sense…

R: It cannot be helped. Her blood is at fault.

S: So that means it’s true. Her awakening is near. 

R: It seems that way.

03:42 A: That makes sense, then. It’s completely different from when she first came here. Even when I only drank a little of her blood, I could feel the power coursing through my body. Almost as if my body wasn’t my own.

S: Yeah. I’ve never tasted blood like hers before. She’s damn near irresistible.

A: Hehe. I won’t hand her over to anyone else. I’ve never felt so strongly that Pancake’s blood is mine. 

S: Never, really? It doesn’t sound any different from what you usually say. You’re just raising hell as you always do.

A: Subaru. You’re pretty cocky for the baby brother of the family. Stop complaining about everything I say.

S: 'Cocky'? That’s lame.

R: Hold on, you two. Subaru. You said she is irresistible. Irresistible how, exactly?

S: Huh? Tch… I want to make her mine, but… there’s something about her blood that’s making me think that way.

R: I see. 

A: That’s the reason? Laito and Kanato tried to pick a fight with me for the same reason. So that means her blood’s driving all of us mad?

R: That seems to be the case. Her blood, so close to awakening, is strong enough to drive us mad. And the ones who know that full well are Richter… and Cordelia.

05:30 A: What?

S: Richter’s been here often lately. So that’s why?

A: They’re scheming something?

R: The fact that Richter showed up right around the time of her awakening is suspicious. It simply cannot be a coincidence. Whatever he is scheming, we cannot let the two of them do as they please. Besides… I wonder whether Richter and Cordelia even share the same goal. They might not. We must find out.

A: So Richter is doing that bitch’s bidding. They probably have the same goal.

R: I wonder about that, because if they share the same goal, they are certainly beating around the bush.

S: They wouldn’t be working together if they didn’t share the same goal, right?

R: If they shared a larger goal, even superficially, they could simply be siding with each other as allies. Well, whatever the case, they came to the Sakamaki house even though they have no reason to be here, so if their scheme involves us, I will not stand idly by.

A: I don’t give a shit about what they’re scheming, but the thought of letting them do as they please really pisses me off.

S: Yeah.

07:03 R: It seems as though you still have not realised the gravity of the situation, Ayato. This is not a matter of this house. It is a Sakamaki family matter.

S: What’s that, Reiji? Are you telling us to improve our brotherly relationship?

A: That’s clearly impossible. D’you eat something strange, Reiji?

R: Not at all. I should not have to tell you this, but of all people, I should know. I am all for solving issues by myself, but in this case, there is no time.

S: Huh?

R: She is just about to awaken.

S: Well, we know that.

R: Take a look.

[Reiji opens the curtains.]

R: A moon this red… I have never seen it before.

S: A blood moon…

R: Whatever the case, we must make a move quickly. Her awakened blood has us at her mercy. It takes all reason away from us. It even poses the danger of making us lose control of ourselves.

S: That’s because no sacrificial bride has ever lived to see her awakening until now. Are you saying we have no idea what we’re up against?

08:26 R: That, too, must be part of Richter and Cordelia’s plan. To make us brothers fight over her awakened blood and lure us into killing one another. It takes away the need for them to get their hands dirty.

A: Hm. Seems like something they’d cook up.

S: Richter only needs to drive Cordelia out of this mansion, though.

A: That’s difficult with that bitch on his side.

R: Heh, indeed. So long as they are limited to this mansion, we must exploit that limitation.

A: Exploit it how?

R: Considering that they are too incompetent to accomplish anything, it seems quite extreme for the Sakamaki family to be their target. I know a way–my own, personal way–to make them regret it.

S: Heh. That sounds just the same as your complaining. I also feel a big change coming on, though. However, that doesn’t mean I’ll get along with you. I’ll do this my own way.

A: Hey, Subaru. Where’re you going?

[Subaru leaves the room.]

09:45 A: Huh. He straight-up ignored me. He pisses me off. Fuck. Ah, I’m fucking parched…

R: Did you not feed on her just now? Is her blood really driving us mad after all?

[Ayato starts to walk away.]

R: Ayato. Where are you going?

A: Fuck off. Where I’m goin’ is none of your business.

[Ayato leaves the room.]

R: Good grief. It seems impossible for us brothers to work together. Oh, well. I have never put much faith in their strength to begin with. I will do this my own way.

[Reiji heads into his laboratory. He is brewing something.]

R: If I can succeed in making this tincture, then… Heh. I will not let them do with her as they please any longer.

[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.

[whumpshaped]

a concept just rammed into my head and i will now share it with my fellow Ambac Rotators on this blog: beck and helle species(?) switch

beck as a (relatively) new vampire

helle as a vampire hunter

no idea where this is gonna go. i just had the sudden image of human!helle pinning down a vampire 🛐

good day anon. i finally have the tentative spoons to engage w the fantasy (that ive been meaning to write for FOREVER and ur ask served as a good reminder of my goals and aspirations thank u)

masterlist

vampire hunter beck

tw vampire whumpee, dehumanisation, pet whump

Beck had been overly cautious every time he went hunting. He had to be, as a stupid little runt without anyone to protect him.

He had crawled out of his grave and into the clutches of a woman he barely recognised, only to immediately be discarded once she realised he couldn't use magic. He had begged her to leave him alive at least, promising to stay out of her way and go 'hunt' on someone else's territory; not his proudest moment, but then again, he had little to be proud of lately.

He hunted as best as he could, picking off lone passerby and muffling their cries as he drank his fill, too frantic and hungry to really care about causing pain. Then he disappeared for days, sometimes weeks, terrified of drawing attention to himself. And the cycle would repeat.

Until one day, he slipped up and chose the wrong target.

Beck had never seen a hunter before, especially not so up close and personal — and now that they were straddling his waist and putting a stake to his heart, he decided he didn't fucking like them. He had his hands up on either side of his head without having to be told, completely still in an attempt to appease the hunter who had caught him.

"You're the runt," they stated, not even a hint of doubt in their voice, but Beck nodded anyway.

"Yes, sir," he breathed, very aware of the sharp point digging into his chest whenever he dared inhale.

The title wasn't a conscious choice, really. He'd had to talk his way out of quite a few confrontations before, and if there was one thing he'd learned throughout all of it, it was that manners never hurt.

The hunter looked amused, leaning down a little and inadvertently placing more of their weight on the stake. Beck tensed under them, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of his inevitable demise. "Sir? Have I gotten myself a polite little leech?"

"I can be very polite so long as I'm alive, sir," he said hastily, and they chuckled.

"Alive... as if. Don't flatter yourself. I've seen corpses that looked better than you."

Beck pressed himself even more against the ground. "You're right, sir," he squeaked. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, listen." They clicked their tongue at him, like one would to get a pet's attention, and he reluctantly opened his eyes again. "I've got a deal for you."

"A... a deal?"

Was this common? He had nothing to compare this to. Were all hunters like this?

"Only because you're so well-behaved." They pressed down on the stake a little, as a gentle reminder for Beck to keep behaving, and he was suddenly very eager to nod along. "You see, runts are pretty rare. And regular vampires... they can't really be kept. It's a one and done deal, I come in, I stake them, I get my money."

That was simple enough. Terrifying, but simple. But also– "K-kept?"

"Kept," they repeated, grin widening. "Like a dog."

Beck swallowed. He had a feeling of where this was going, and he did not like the implications. "I... I see."

"And while I'm pretty successful, as far as hunters go... This is a dangerous job. I could use a buffer."

"No," he said timidly. "Please, I can't do anything, I can't– I can barely hunt, I'm starving half the time–"

"I could do with bait, too," they interrupted, shushing Beck when they saw him open his mouth to protest. "And of course, because I deal fairly, I'd let you have some blood in exchange. Can't have a pet without feeding it."

That... That made the offer sound much better, all of a sudden. He hadn't had anything to drink in at least a week, getting by on whatever dead animal he could find in the parks at night. Drinking from roadkill. His mouth was watering at the mere thought of human blood, even though the hunter hadn't yet specified what they'd be feeding him.

"Mmm, what is it? Interested?" they taunted, and Beck couldn't resist nodding a little. He wanted someone to protect him so badly; apparently even if they were a hunter.

"What... what do I need to do, sir?" he asked as respectfully as he possibly could, already wincing when the hunter pulled out a collar from their coat pocket and threw it into his hand.

"First things first, put that on. We'll discuss the rest on the way home."

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @thecyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump @d-cs @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @tauntedoctopuses @blueyellow8green @typewrittenfangs @whumpsoda @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @auroragehenna @whumpedydump

[midwestemoismid]

Do you ever love a character so much you sorta steal your entire personality from them,,

<autism rant>

Cuz like I'm obsessed with Nicole from class of '09, if sorta stolen my whole humor from her, Which isn't really a good thing because shes kinda a piece of shit, the game revolves around her being a horrible person or trying to kill herself or something like that, I'm not like as mentally ill as her, but my humor has evolved to be similar to Nicole and ive sorta had this not care attitude. I've also been really jokingly mean to one of my best friends (he knows its a joke, thats our humor) but I accidentally did that to my little brother and felt SO bad lmao,, (he said something very obviously and I loudly go "yeah no fucking shit bitch" then started apologizing profusely) This other time I was playing blooket w/ that same friend and I did something that made him eat a fake burger and I went really loud "have this fucking burger you fat ass bitch" and hje just stared at me like wtf,, and the other person on the call (who I just met) was SHOCKED.

i'm not a bad person,, hes okay with me making those jokes btw

well im sorta a bad person but i'm working on that

i sorta hate having obsessions over character because i want to BE THEM. and it sucks even more when theyre a horrible person--and when theyre a girl,, cuz like i want to de-transition and become a terrible person and chane my name to Nicole WHAT THE FUCK WHY I DONT KNOW and like i had an alt acc on tiktok where i used she/her and named myself nicole and it was like a class of 09 fanpage sorta. and like i dont wanna be a bad person nor do i wanna hurt people feelings or be addicted to drugs AT ALL but like NICOLE🙏🙏🙏

this always happens when i have some sort of obsession. i dont typically have favorites but when i do its like an obsession

and like one other problem with being obsessed with nicole is i accidentally obsess over mental illness and (stuff i shouldnt obsess over), wich is really bad and unhealthy.

I gain little obsessions over certain things, like right now im REALLY obsessed with a game called "bad parenting" and it's a really really sad game. I wont spoil it but its genuinelly depressing and made me cry. after i saw it i wanted to hug my dad and tell him i loved him for being a good dad. ive been listening to the backround song on repeat for a bit, i might even draw fanart of it idk,, but i feel like i shouldnt be hyper obsessed with it

as a kid i also was really obsessed with "salad fingers" wich had a sadish theme to it, i kinda forget the plot but i thought it was interesting and how the main charecter was kinda messed up.

I also really like "little miss fortune" wich was also really sad. again i dont remember the plot my childhood is sorta a blur and i dont remember it well

"Sally face" is another sad game i liked. not gonna spoilt it but i loved the supernatural bit and there was a lot of death.

I also really love horror movies, ESPECIALLY horror movies that go into psychology. Like for example, saw is pretty interesting because its cool to see if people would rather cut of an arm or die. I know it's fake but it's still really cool.

Theres a lot i find interesting but i dont wanna sound like im actually insane lol

This ran went in so many placed i forgot what the original post was about😭 took me abt 2 and 1/2 class period to wright

If you read this all, thanks! If you relate reblog or comment (or make a new post and tag me) and tell me what charecter you relate to/obsess over