#yeah I just wanted to draw another hot crowley

[hansoeii]

vampire crowley 🦇

[alice-angel12x]

Tokyo ghoul x Twisted wonderland

Rook hunt x ghoul reader

"Y/n senpai, I've noticed something. I never see you eat anything, but drown in coffee. Why is that?" Epel asked his 2nd year senior.

"Well, I'm dieting and I'm trying to hold back on some things, and I really like Coffee," Y/n smiled as they took a sip of their hot coffee.

"How do you even get away with that with Vil?!" Epel gasped.

"What Vil doesn't know can't hurt him. Plus he should worry about those who actually want his help," Y/n said as they took another sip of coffee.

"Evening my Roi de la nuit," Rook greeted as he sat next to Y/n suddenly, as he pulled them close by the waist.

"Ughh, Hello Rook," Y/n sighed.

"Rook senpai, g-good Evening. I didn't know you were very friendly with Y/n senpai," Epel said.

"A little too friendly," Y/n said as they tried to move away from Rook.

"Oh, why must you be so cruel, my Roi de la nuit?" Rook said dramatically.

But Rook had an Iron hold on Y/n's waist, so Y/n sat as they watched Rook and Epel finish up their dinner. As they sat in the Dorms dinning area when Vil entered the room, looking for Epel. As he scanned the room his eyes landed on Y/n, he glared at them as he quickly walked in and dragged Epel away.

"I've over stayed my social welcome, I'm going back to my room," Y/n sighed as they stood up, and headed down the hall to the Sleeping quarters.

As they felt Rook could hear the quiet rumbles of Y/n' s stomach. In Y/n' s room they tossed in pain as their Stomach grumbled and grained for a proper meal, just some Human flesh. Yet that though sickened them as they tried to ignore the pain, putting off the hunt for as long as possible.

Rook hummed to himself as he held a pheasant he hunted by his side. Some off the new Dorm members were slightly disgusted by the animal carcass Rook was bringing into the Dorm. While the Older ones didn't  even bat and eyelash. As Rook continued down the hall with his signature smile, he was stopped as he passed a miffed Vil.

"Still feeding that monster," Vil glared at the dead animal.

"What are you talking about?" Rook asked innocently, not even turning to Vil.

" Don't play Coy with me, I know what that "friend" of yours really is," Vil growled, " Their a ghoul."

"Vil, don't  make such baseless accusations," Rook said.

"I've read about them once, they are dangerous beasts that feed on humans and beastmen alike. They were hunted down all over the kingdoms, and know days only remain in The Afterglow Savanna," Vil said.

"So knowledgeable as ever, beautiful Vil," Rook smiled, still not turning to look at him.

"Is it true that people in the Afterglow hunt those creatures for sport, and as a right of passage for warriors?" Vil asked.

"Umm, yes. Your point?" Rook asked as his grip tightened.

"Why haven't you gotten rid of them, and instead put all our Dormmates and school in danger?" Vil asked.

"They aren't-"

"They need to feed on human flesh, and they haven't eaten in a long while. Its only a matter of time before they snap and eat someone. Or is the lives of a few people don't matter," Vil glared.

"That won't happen, well good night Vil," Rook said through a strained smile.

He continued on his way till he reached Y/n's  room, and quickly letting himself in. Only to see Y/n curled on their bed holding their stomach in pain.

"Roi de la nuit ! Hold on I'm here. With food too," Rook smiled as he tried to comfort Y/n.

Y/n's eyes turned black with red irises as they devoured the pheasant in an instant. But it did little to make them feel better, as their Stomach demanded its main sustenance.

"Rook, you need to leave, Now!" Y/n begged.

"You need proper food, let me help," Rook offered.

"No, I don't  want to hurt anyone," Y/n sobbed.

"I know, but this isn't the first time, and I know it needs to be done," Rook said as he revealed his left shoulder.

It was covered in past bit marks. Y/n slowly turned to see Rook offering his shoulder, but before they could think their body moved on it's own. Y/n quickly bit down on Rook's shoulder, their teeth sinking into the skin and drawing blood. Rook winced at the pain, but kept composure as he stroked Y/n's hair gently and hold them close.

"Wake up Y/n, you are stronger than this," he whispered lovingly.

Y/n's body froze as they slowly took control as tears slowly ran down heir cheeks.

______

"You shouldn't have done that," Y/n sniffled as they wrapped Rook's bitten shoulder.

"Well know your hunger has been settled for a little while. So I don't mind," Rook winced.

"Your insane you know that," Y/n sighed.

Rook slowly leaned toward and his lover and gently kissed their cheek.

"I guess I am Insensé for you, my Roi de la nuit," Rook smiled as he pulled them down to lay next to him.

As the two laid is silence, a question slowly came to the front of Y/n's mind.

"Why are you even protecting me? Like Vil said, I am a monster," Y/n mumbled into Rooks chest.

Rook remained silent for awhile as he gently held Y/n' s hand.

"Remember when we first meet?" Rook asked, " Back in the After Savanna."

"Yeah, we were about 11," Y/n said.

"Around that time my father wanted to prove his skills and be granted the title of master hunter. In order to get that was to hunt down a Ghoul. To hunt down our predator, and like a Garçon insensé I followed him out in the danger zone," Rook sighed.

"Oh yeah, I remember. The lone boy who only had his bow and arrows by his side," Y/n chuckled slightly.

"You spared me that day, you could have killed me. But you protected me from the others," Rook said.

"I still attacked you and bit you. I could have killed you," Y/n argued.

__________

A young Rook Hunt stared up in horror at the young figure on top of him. They looked slightly younger than himself, but he couldn't  be sure with the mask covering his attackers face.

All he could see was the Red crimson irises staring down at him through the Eye holes of the mask. Rook tried to wrestle the young ghoul off him, but red tendrils sprouted from their back to hold him down.

"I'm so sorry," they whispered as they bit down on Rooks shoulder.

Rook cried out in pain, but soon the figure released him and quickly stood up. Rook sat up and backed away for the young ghoul, but as he looked back at his attackers eyes. He didn't  see a blood thirsty monster, but someone just as scared. They slow removed their mask, revealing their tearful face.

"Get out of here, and don't  come back," They figure said as they ran off into the savanna.

__________

"True, but you didn't, I could see it in your eyes, even if your mask hide your beauty at first," Rook said.

"After that you proceed to stalk me for the next 3 years," Y/n groaned as they thought back.

" Je ne aurais jamais, I was simply observing you. Why must you be so cruel with your words," Rook said dramatically.

"Then when you revealed yourself to me, you presented me with roses and "serenaded" me with a very long and flowery poem," Y/n sighed in embarrassment as their face turned red from embarrassment.

"Fufufu, your face was so red. You were so beautiful," Rook sighed with a smile.

"I am not beautiful," Y/n mumbled.

"Ne dis pas ça, your a mysterious and dangerous beauty," Rook said as he kissed Y/n's forehead," And I'll protect you. From those who wish to harm you, and from the monster within you."

Suddenly their was a crash and screams could be heard outside. Rook and Y/n quickly sat up as Rook quickly grabbed his Bow and Arrows. Just as he was about to run out of the room, he turned to Y/n.

"Reste ici (stay here)," Rook said as he quickly ran out.

But as they sat in the room they could smell the blood as the sound of thrashing continued. Y/n turned to their nightstand and hesitantly pulled out their mask; hiding it inside their clothes. They ran down the hall too see it was a ghoul attack. The Ghoul had a plague doctor mask, who had taken a large bit out of an unfortunate Pomeifore dorm member. Epel was frozen in fear as he tried to help the attacked student, Rook and Vil were trying to take down the rampaging Ghoul.

The two managed to chase the ghoul out of the dorm, but the School was already on alert as the staff, a few dorm leaders, and some vice leaders try to trap the creature. Y/n, with their mask set on their face quickly tracked down the invader and stood proud and tall as they stared them down on main street.

"Who are you? Where did you come from?!" Y/n shouted.

"This is my turf," he said simply as he charged Y/n.

The battle between the ghouls were violent and bloody, as blows and bites were received on both parties.

As the battle raged it brought the attention of the staff and students as they came rushing to see two ghouls fighting each other. They watched in horror as the staff and Headmatser quickly arrived. He was horrified to see not only that two ghouls had gotten into the school, but one of them were a student.

Rook could only watch in horror as his lover and friend continue to be bloodied and bitten. Y/N continued to fight till they finally get had landed a killing blow to the chest of the intruder ghoul.

Y/n refused to turn around as they could feel the hatful and disgusted glares staring down on them. They already knew that they were reading their magic pens, raised and aimed at them.

"Who ever you are foul creature, surrender immediately," Crowley demanded.

"It would be wise that you surrender, it was foolish of you to think that you could sneak into our school as a student," Crewel sneered, " if you come quietly, we'll give a quick and painless death."

"Je ne veux pas mourir.(I don't want to die)," Y/n said in shaky amateur French.

"fuyez...loin..dans un endroit sûr. ( Run away... Far Away... somewhere safe)," Rook said slowly.

The other students and staff were to busy worrying about the ghoul the didn't realize That the ghoul and Rook were having a conversation.

"Je te trouverai partout où tu iras. (I'll find you wherever you go)," Rook said quietly.

Y/n nodded as he quickly pulled out their own and summoned a mist, clouding the students view. With the opening Y/n quickly ran into the night.

[dothwrites]

15.14 coda: a gift

“Every day is a gift. But some days are packaged better.” ― Sanhita Baruah

---

Castiel bites back bitterness and hurt as he stares at Dean’s phone. They’re in the kitchen. Being in the library, around that table, was too much. There were still beer bottles scattered everywhere, party hats tossed down like landmines. 

The kitchen’s not necessarily better. Smears of flour still decorate the countertops. Sugar crunches underneath his shoes. A mixing bowl sits unwashed in the sink, remnants of frosting clinging to the sides and top. Sprinkles litter the ground like fallen soldiers. 

Somehow, in the time where Castiel was out in the world and failing once more, someone else managed to move into his empty place and usurp his position. Someone else took over in his stead and took care of his family better than he ever could, gave them what he never had. 

Happiness. 

Wild hurt claws at his chest, but Castiel beats it down. He’s no better, really, than them. He keeps his own secrets, forces others into his lies. He stands in front of Dean, accusing him of betrayal, when every word he speaks to Dean is tainted with falsehood. The word hypocrite nips at his heels; the word failure is not far behind. 

“His birthday,” Castiel says stupidly. He can’t wrap his mind around it, though the evidence exists, stark as the truth, on Dean’s phone. The words Happy Birthday Jack are written in icing, shaky with an unsteady hand. 

Castiel has thought about birthdays before, and the profoundly human nature of them. Only humans could think to carve out a specific twenty-four hours to celebrate themselves and the day they entered into the world. Only humans could think they mattered that much, that the date of their creation should be celebrated and marked as something unique. 

Castiel was not born. He was created, breathed into existence by a father who never cared about the creatures he made, other than to see how interesting it would be when he unmade them. No one has ever offered songs in gratitude for his existence, no one has ever thought to give him a gift for no other reason than the acknowledgement of his continued presence. 

Castiel has never felt the lack of it, until now. 

He looks again at the picture. Love radiates from the cake, love and acceptance and joy and belonging and countless other things that Castiel never knew to wish for until it was clear he could never possess them. There has always been a wall between him and the Winchesters, but it was built by hands other than theirs. For the first time, he feels the press of Sam and Dean in the immutable fabric of their separation. 

This, birthdays and cake and belonging and family, are for someone, something else. Not for him.  

“It wasn’t his birthday,” is all Castiel can think to say. Dean puts his phone away. Castiel would thank him for the small mercy, but he doesn’t trust his voice. “I know Jack’s birthday. His birthday is May 18th.” 

Dean’s face undergoes an interesting journey. He replies, shortly, “I know. I was there.” 

Castiel thinks about what else happened that day, about Crowley’s death, and Kelly’s sacrifice, and Mary’s disappearance. A piece of the puzzle slots into place. “Oh,” he says, uselessly. 

“Yeah, oh,” Dean mocks, but not cruelly. He continues on, his eyes staring at a place just beyond Castiel’s shoulder, “I couldn’t even look at him. For weeks, all I could see was everyone we lost.” His eyes shift down to look at Castiel’s face. Very carefully, as though approaching a wild animal or a bomb, Dean reaches out. 

His thumb lands at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. The pressure of the digit causes the slick flesh of his lips to press against his teeth. If Castiel wished, a mere turn of his head would bring that thumb into his mouth. 

He remains still. 

“All I could see, every time I looked at him, was how unfair it was that he was here and you weren’t. It shouldn’t have been that way.” Dean’s voice cracks open with something more than honesty. Castiel wants to examine it, but then he thinks about the whisper of impending empty, and he restrains himself. 

“And then later, after Mom,” Dean’s voice cracks again, this time with something closer to pain, “all I could see was the same thing. How he kept on taking from me, how unfair it was that he just took and took and took and left me with nothing.” 

Castiel says nothing; the raw wound of Mary’s death is too close to the surface for either him or Dean to examine objectively. If he dared to speak, he would tell Dean that take is what children do. They reach out and unthinkingly take from their parents and their parents keep giving, in a never ending Gethsemane.  

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I should have known. You deserved to be there, more than any of us. You’re family, and I don’t say that enough. I just wanted...” Dean’s sigh is explosive and frustrated. “I just wanted him to have one normal thing. And he’s never had a birthday, a real birthday, and part of that is because I can’t be happy knowing that his birthday was the same day you died.” 

Dean’s thumb remains at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. 

Castiel is treading through dangerous waters. He should play the game which he has been playing for months, which is to deflect, to draw Dean’s attention elsewhere, to obfuscate and leave. But he finds himself tired. He’s tired and hurt and aching, and he wants so badly, just for once, to take a single shred of comfort for himself. 

“Hey,” Dean says, in a deliberate attempt to lighten the mood, though his eyes are still serious, searching Castiel’s face for something that Castiel wouldn’t know how to hide, even if he were sure it existed in the first place, “You’ve never had a birthday, have you? You want to pick a day? I could bake another cake; I’m getting pretty good at it. I know the kid would be thrilled.” 

The truth rushes in Castiel then, like a wave crashing to shore. Inevitable. His mouth opens; Dean’s thumb slides away. He can still feel the imprint, glowing hot, against his skin. 

Castiel’s voice tumbles out, well beyond his control. 

“Dean, there’s something you should know.” 

---

“If you think about it, birthdays are really pagan rituals about chanting around a flaming object that represents the amount of years taken off your life, upon which the flames are blown out and a knife is stabbed through it.” ― Fuad Alakbarov

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Hey, everyone! I’ve been saying for a bit I want to get some fics from prompts I’ve written onto AO3 but...it’s so hard...ok it’s not hard, Executive Dysfunction is just kicking my butt. I’m going to post some of them to Tumblr today. If you want to help these babies get on AO3, they need: titles, tags, you pestering me in the comments. If you don’t think they’re good enough for AO3 - fair enough, just hit the little heart if they make you smile!

Prompt: Aziraphale reading to Crowley

(Requested by @zadusk and @lyricwritesprose)

“Sorry, can’t help you,” the innkeeper said, “just rented out our last room.”

“What?” Crowley crossed his arms, huffing through his nose. This was Bethlehem all over again. “This town is in the middle of nowhere, it has three inns, how can they all be sold out?”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” The innkeeper shut the ledger. “Everyone’s headed down to London, and we’re on the way. Now. I can offer you a hot meal, and for, let’s say, half the price of a room you can sleep in the stables. The hay loft is clean, apart from the mice—”

“Stablesss!” Crowley hissed, slapping his hand on the counter. “Do I look like someone who sleeps in stables?”

The innkeeper didn’t appear remotely impressed. “You look like someone who is going to be sleeping in a hedge. Looks like a storm tonight. Good evening.” And he spun away, calling out to the cook in the back room.

“Oi!” Crowley shouted. “Get back here, you—!”

“Crowley! Whatever are you doing here?” The familiar voice was half delighted, half scolding. Aziraphale appeared beside him, same white suit as the last time they’d met, top hat tucked under his arm. “I thought I made it clear we shouldn’t see each other so often. Since I opened the shop, it’s been—”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley waved a hand and turned away. “I’m not here for you, Angel, I have actual business in York.”

“Really?” Despite his words, Aziraphale trailed behind him. “How interesting. I’m just returning from York – oh, no, you don’t think they’ve sent you to undo all my work again, do you?”

Crowley snorted. “No bet.” He dropped his voice into a low whisper. “This is why we need to meet up more often. Look at all this time we’re wasting! And now I have to march through the bloody night in the rain because there’s no place to sleep—”

“Oh! Well, I wouldn’t dream of it. You can share my room.”

“Ngk?!” Crowley’s brain crashed into his skull with all the speed and grace of a train wreck. “Mf. Yk. No I can’t – Aziraphale!”

“Oh, my word – obviously, I’m not planning – that!” His voice dropped even lower and he tugged on Crowley’s elbow. “Don’t be crude, dear fellow. I have a room with a bed that I’m not intending to use. You can have it. I just need a chair to sit in while I read.”

“Jgk.” Crowley turned away, taking a deep breath through his nose. It made sense. He could sleep. Aziraphale could read. No getting soaked, or lost in the dark, or needing to fight off highwaymen or anything of the sort. “Fffine. We can. Er. Do that.”

“Jolly good.” He could practically hear the angel straightening his waistcoat. “Now that’s settled. I’ve already had my supper and was about to head up. Unless you’re hungry—”

“No, no, now is fine.” He still couldn’t quite meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Lead the way.”

The room, it turned out, was nearly as advertised.

A double-sized bed with a straw-tick and a quilt. A little stand with a pitcher of water and bowl for washing up. Windows that could be tightly shuttered to block out some of the city noise.

The only thing missing, really, was the chair.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s fingers tapped on his book and he glanced around, as if a seat might be hiding in the corner. “Well, er…”

“It’s fine. I can leave.” Crowley turned on his heel and reached for the latch.

“Absolutely not! I won’t hear of it. You get settled and I’ll – ah – I’ll miracle in a chair.” He peered around the narrow room. “Somewhere.”

“Look, I can—”

“No. Miracle yourself a nightgown or whatever it is you need.”

“I—”

“Hush!”

Resigning himself, Crowley waved his clothes into something more comfortable for sleeping and crawled under the blanket. It was…slightly better than sleeping in the stables, he supposed. The straw was lumpy and the sheet covering it coarse, but the pillow was well-stuffed with goose-down, a luxury he could get used to. He shifted onto his back, trying to find a comfortable angle.

Instead, he found Aziraphale, standing beside the bed, staring blankly at the wall. “There…well…it would appear there isn’t room for a chair,” he confessed. “Not one that will fit my, er…my current corporation comfortably, that is.”

Crowley looked at the ceiling. He could sleep up there, but it would mean abandoning the pillow. Or. Or.

“Look, Angel,” he said as casually as he could. You can, um, you can sit on the bed. I’m not going to be offended or anything. It’s fine.”

“No, I couldn’t – couldn’t possibly—”

“Aziraphale. It’s really fine.”

The quilt tugged, folded back, and with a rustle of straw Aziraphale settled into the mattress. He sat straight, stiff, and so close to the edge he might topple off.

Even so, he was alarmingly close.

“You, um. You need the candle?”

“No, my own light will be sufficient, thank you.”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Crowley tossed his glasses onto the little table and waved a finger at the candle, which immediately snuffed out, leaving the room dark except for the soft glow of Aziraphale, gently illuminating his book.

Crowley closed his eyes and prepared to fall asleep.

He turned onto one side. No good, too close to the edge.

He turned the other way, or started to, freezing when he felt how close the angel’s warmth was.

Then he lay on his back again. The whole room fell very, very still.

“Bless it, Aziraphale, will you relax?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can practically hear your muscles creaking. How am I supposed to all asleep with all that – that tension barely six inches away!”

“I don’t know what you might be referring to. I am – am perfectly relaxed here, reading my book and you – you interrupt with these – these pointless accusations.”

Crowley gave up and turned on his side, facing Aziraphale, giving him as hard a stare as he could manage. “Your book is upside down, Angel.”

“Is it?” He swallowed. “I mean, of course it is. I am training myself to read upside-down text, a highly useful skill, which I’m sure—”

Crowley shut his eyes. “This was a terrible idea.” He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Look, Aziraphale, neither of us is actually comfortable with this. So I’m just going to head out. If I leave now, I might make it to the next town before the rain starts, and maybe they’ll have a room. You can have this one and—”

“Crowley,” he said, voice much softer than expected. “My dear fellow. I won’t be able to relax knowing you’re out there. I know you won’t be in – in any real danger but…I would rather know that you’re safe.”

He stared ahead, sitting perfectly still in the way that only beings who aren’t really alive can – no breath, no heartbeat, no tiny motions.

Then, slowly, Crowley pulled his legs back under the quilt and lay on his back.

“What’s this book about, anyway?” he asked.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“It’ll help. Trust me. What is it – poetry? Ancient epics about glorious wars? Not Hamlet again, I hope, that play is a gloomy mess of—”

“No, nothing of the sort. It’s…well, it’s a sort of love story.”

That didn’t sound too bad. “Sort of?”

“Well, yes, it’s more a – a study of the manners and traditions of courtship. Our heroine is the second of five sisters, and there’s a great deal riding on finding them suitable husbands, but her choices are, well…not especially appealing.”

“Does she tell them to go jump in a lake?”

“Not in so many words,” Aziraphale said disapprovingly. “But yes, she has so far turned down two proposals quite bitingly. Although I think she was a bit hasty in her judgement of one of the young men.”

“I like it.” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, and found the angel had relaxed, and moved just a little closer. “What’s it called, anyway?”

“Pride and Prejudice.” His fingers tapped against it. “Just released last year. I must try and find the author’s other work when I finish.”

“Well, you’ll have to tell me how it ends.”

“Oh, are you…interested?”

“Hmm,” Crowley settled his head a little further into the pillow. “I do like a good drawing room drama. Perhaps I should pick out a few dresses and spend a year or two back in those circles.”

“As I recall, you were always deceitful and wicked and caused many a scandal.”

“I should hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Aziraphale smiled down at him, and it made Crowley feel light-headed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “Then I imagine you’ll be brilliant at it.” He suddenly turned away, looking at the shuttered window. “Oh! Do you hear that? The rain has started.” The first drops were tapping against the shutters fitfully.

“Good thing I didn’t go out.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked at the book again. “Er, would you like me to…to read it to you? Just the first part, until you fall asleep.”

“I…” Crowley cleared his throat. “Yeah. I mean, your voice puts me to sleep half the time anyway, so…”

“Oh, yes, absolutely wonderful. Let me just get the first volume.” He hopped out of bed and hurried over to his jacket, rummaging in the pocket to pull out another hardcover book. When he returned to the bed, it was with almost no self-consciousness, wriggling comfortably against his pillow only a few inches away from Crowley.

“Now, let’s see…yes, here. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife…’”

It was strange, seeing the angel from this angle, round face slightly lit by his own glow, little smile curving up his lips as the words bubbled out excitedly. His voice rose and fell as he read, trying to paint a picture of Longbourne and Netherfield and the lives of the Bennet sisters. Crowley could get used to it, the look, the sound, the soft familiarity of it all. Not that he was likely to have an opportunity.

He didn’t close his eyes. Not yet.

--

“‘But I can assure you,’ she added,” Aziraphale was quite enjoying the voice he had chosen for Mrs. Bennet, raising it now in slightly erratic excitement. “‘that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.’” He shifted again, raising his arm to better articulate the dialogue. “‘So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with!’” He dropped his voice into a vicious hiss. “‘I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set downs. I quite detest the man.’”

He glanced to his left, grinning, hoping to see Crowley’s reaction to his bit of acting, but the demon had at some point fallen asleep. He lay half on his back, still facing Aziraphale, shock of red hair across the white pillow. His mouth hung slightly open and something emerged that was almost a snore, but rather too small to really qualify. It was drowned out by the wind and rain outside, rattling the shutters. Now and then, in the distance, thunder rumbled.

“Well. I suppose…yes, you sleep now.” Aziraphale turned to put the book down, thinking to find the second volume and pick up where he’d left off.

“Nf.” Crowley turned onto his side, one arm flinging out towards Aziraphale’s waist. “D’n stp,” he mumbled. “Jus’ gettn gud.”

“Er, are you…awake?” The arm tightened slightly, and Crowley pulled closer, pressing himself against Aziraphale’s side. “Crowley, er, dear…you’re…”

“M’fine.” He sighed, not seeming aware of the world at all. “S’nice.”

For a long moment, Aziraphale stared at the demon who had – had invaded his space. Had settled against him in a most – most awkward and undignified way.

Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Aziraphale slid a little lower against the pillow, until he’d surrounded Crowley in the crook of his arm. “Is that better, dear?”

“St’ry.” But he settled into that space between Aziraphale’s side and his arm with a content sigh, arm now draped across the angel’s chest.

Oh, dear. This is not going to be easy to explain when he wakes up. But that wouldn’t be for several hours, at least, and right now, there was a very small smile on Crowley’s lips.

“Well. Chapter four. ‘When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister how very much she admired him…’”

--

Thanks for reading! Pride and Prejudice was initially published in three volumes, in 1813, attributed simply to “The Author of Sense and Sensibility.” I have no idea what was going on in York in 1814 - I mostly needed someplace they could walk to but would take several days - so feel free to attribute whatever historical events you can think of to these dummies! 

[nanoland]

Title: Besyd the scarcety of bread amowngst us

Fandom: Supernatural 

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester

Summary: In which Dean asks a question.

Warnings: Crowley being Extremely traumatized and kind of oblivious to that fact + SPN demons being SPN demons (i.e. remorseless bodysnatchers) + Dean being his casually misogynistic self + graphic descriptions of starvation + exhibitionism (sorta?) + sexually explicit content because this was MEANT to be straightforward smut and then Crowley happened, the prick.

Also on AO3!

0  

“So how come you aren’t a hot chick?”

The glass stills an inch from Crowley’s pale lips. “I humbly beg your pardon?”

It’s late. The bar’s quiet. He doesn’t need Dean to repeat himself. Just a moment to decide on a response.

Well on the way to utterly shit-faced, Dean gestures vaguely, meaninglessly. “You offer people stuff. Then, ten years later, you drag ‘em to Hell. And – and they know that’s what’s gonna happen if they make a deal with you. Which means that you gotta be real fuckin’ persuasive. Which you are. Grade A Bullshit Artist and don’t I know it. But... uh, what was I gonna… yeah, wouldn’t it be easier, right, just way easier if you were a hot chick?”

Crowley can tell he’s not done, so he keeps his silver tongue behind his faintly yellowed teeth for the moment.

While Dean is usually delightful company, in his surly, macho way, this evening there’s an uncommonly obnoxious edge to everything he says. That almost certainly means his insecurities over what he’s been letting Crowley do to his arse lately are acting up.

Understandable. Still annoying.

So Crowley’s more than willing to let his favourite human dig himself a wee bit deeper before pouring boiling tar into the pit.

After quickly throwing back the last of his drink, Dean goes on: “Now, I didn’t go to some dickslurp business school. I ain’t that brand of asshole. But I’ve seen enough beer ads in my time to have an idea of how marketing works. You got something you want people to buy? Fastest way is to get a hot chick in a bikini to hold it up. Because guys have most of the money in this shitty world of ours and guys think with their dicks. I know I do. So why did you decide to possess someone who looks like a balding, middle-aged banker going through a stressful divorce? That ain’t enticing. That ain’t capturing anyone’s interest. Y’know?”

“Mm,” says Crowley, and stands up.

“Fuck’re you doing?” Dean slurs, watching him take off his tie.

“Ever heard of the Seven Ill Years, Squirrel?”

“Nope. Seriously, what’re you doing?”

Draping his overcoat over the back of his chair along with his tie, Crowley sets about taking off his jacket. “‘The Seven Ill Years’ refers to a particularly shitty time in early modern Scotland; the 1690s.”

He tugs off his costly leather shoes and places them side-by-side under his chair. “I was in my… early thirties at the time, I think. Thirty-two? Maybe thirty-one. Whatever.”

Dean is gaping now. He’s never seen Crowley without his outer layers, much less the growing slice of exposed chest as Crowley unbuttons his shirt.

“For a lot of complicated reasons relating to oceanic thermohaline circulation, solar activity, and a few ill-timed volcanos, the weather turned rotten. These days, it’s called the Little Ice Age. Us pigshit stupid peasants who lived through it didn’t know anything about all that. All we knew was that it was freezing bloody cold and the crops kept dying.”

“Dude,” Dean hisses, red-faced as Crowley sets his shirt alongside his jacket and overcoat. “Stop it! We’re going to be thrown out!”

“No. Look around. Is anyone paying attention to us? Precisely. We’re invisible to them at the moment, Squirrel. One of my little tricks.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s good. But that’s still not an excuse to take your fucking pants off in public oh my God oh my God!”

They’re expensive pants and Crowley takes care to fold them before putting them down. “To cut a long story short; famine struck. And famine, it’s…”

Crowley pauses, thinking, ignoring Dean’s pathetic attempts not to gawk at his dick.

“It’s hard to describe famine to someone who hasn’t lived through one,” he says eventually. “Language – English, at least – isn’t equipped to convey what it feels like to be so hungry you’ll try to boil and eat someone else’s shoes. Then someone else’s children. Then your own children. There are no words for it. Or, if in some distant corner of our monstrous universe there are, then they’re words that would drive a human raving mad to speak them.”

Naked now but for his black socks, Crowley scratches his stubble. “Sometimes I think that’s why I got on so well in Hell.”

He sits back in his chair. Folds his legs. Taps his fingers on the side of his empty glass. “Don’t get me wrong; having someone cut open your lungs, fill them with scorpions, and sew them up again isn’t fun. But – how can I put this? – you can process it. You can grapple with it. You know why you’re suffering; because you’re in Hell, and that’s what Hell is for. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is going about your everyday life and watching all the people around you – the baker, the priest, the prettiest girl in the village – go about theirs while they turn into walking skeletons. And knowing they didn’t do anything to deserve it. Couldn’t have done anything to deserve it, because no crime, no matter how vile, warrants that kind of punishment.”

Dean says nothing.

After a moment, Crowley pulls himself from the dark, sucking well of memory to add, “Anyway, to answer your question; I don’t want to be a hot chick because a. I’m a man and b. hot chicks are skinny, and I will cheerfully burn this world to the ground before I endure living in a hungry body ever again.”

He glances down at his unclothed meat suit and smiles proudly, running a hand up one of its thick thighs. “Also – y’know – I personally think this long-deceased lad of mine is sexy as Hell.”

Gazing at his shoulder, Dean says roughly, “Didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“Oh. Those. Yeah. Can’t stand them. Worst decision the stupid bastard ever made.”

“I think they’re kinda cool.”

“Do you? Well, you do have incredibly bad taste so perhaps that’s not surprising. Now, are you going to get over here and put that erection to good use?”

Oh, bless him; he’s adorable when he squirms.

“Here?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“Here.”

He says it like a challenge, for Dean can never resist one of those. Immediately, those wide eyes become narrow and determined.

The boy stands. Looms over Crowley, who casually flicks both their glasses to the floor and moves to sit on the cool wooden table. It’s clean, more or less, thanks to Dean (for once) agreeing to follow Crowley to a semi-respectable establishment.

“These hands,” Crowley murmurs, running them across Dean’s broad chest, “don’t have a single callous or scar. See? Soft as butter. Not a single day’s honest work, either of them.”

Dean swallows. Leans in to kiss him, hesitant and gentle.

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley likes gentle. Or, more accurately, Crowley likes being pampered.

He goes on: “And these legs…”

A groan escapes Dean’s lips as one presses up against his crotch.

“…these legs haven’t walked more than ten miles, collectively, since I moved in. No muscles. No blisters on the undersides of their feet. Not so much as a splinter.”

“Jesus,” Dean mumbles, drawing him in and latching onto his neck.

“And this stomach is never empty. Never even close. Never once forced to digest anything that isn’t purely, perfectly delicious. I treat my meat suits better than most people treat their family heirlooms.”

“Crowley. Fuck.”

He squeezes Dean’s arse and growls, “Because this is my reward, Dean. I won this. This softness, this safety. This nurtured, nourished flesh. I endured the seventeenth century and all humanity’s horrors. Endured my mother. Endured Hell. Built myself a reputation and a kingdom. All for this. And isn’t it wonderful? Say that it is, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean moans, even though he can’t understand a word; Crowley slipped into Gaelic a while ago.

(The things Crowley wants to tell Dean and the things Crowley wants Dean to know are categories that rarely overlap.)

Crowley takes Dean’s leaking cock in hand.

“Say I’m beautiful.”

Dean’s knees buckle as he whimpers, so Crowley wraps an arm around his narrow, underfed waist.

“Say you love me.”

Dean comes in his palm, gasping and cursing.

“Say you love me more than anyone else.”

“I’m guessing that was all Scottish dirty talk?” says Dean when he has his breath back. “You were – what? Calling me your bitch?”

Crowley smirks, licks the sweat off Dean’s jaw, and gives his backside a pat before reaching for his clothes. “None of your business. Go get me another drink, would you? Ta.”

 the end

NOTES: The title is taken from a quote found in Karen Cullen’s ‘Famine in Scotland: the ‘Ill Years’ of the 1690s’ (you can find extracts via googlebooks). Yes, canonically Crowley WOULD have been about thirty when this happened. Just in case his origin story wasn’t horrific enough wheee :D

[anonniemousefics]

Sleepless

So, Carry On Countdown 2020 is happening on Tumblr right now, and I’m not participating, but the other day @milo-fanarts posted that absolutely heart-wrenching fanart of Snowbaz based on the “Sleepless” prompt of the day, and I was seized with the need to write a ficlet based on it. Here’s the art - go give them a follow. :) 

Fandom: Carry On/Wayward Son | Simon + Baz

Words: 1,567 

Rating: Teen and Up 

CW: Angst (and fluff! :) )

BAZ

Sleeping with Simon Snow is weird. I don’t mean sleeping with sleeping with – we’re not ready yet. (Or, let’s be honest, he’s not ready yet. If I came home one day and he was ready, I’d be naked before the front door even finished closing behind me.)(It’s fine – he doesn’t need to know.) I just mean this. Simon Snow taking up half my bed, warm and snuggly, with his tousled bronze curls all in his freckled, sleeping face. His giant red wings casting enormous black shadows in the moonlight.

My entire family doesn’t have enough fingers and toes among them to keep count how many times I used to lie awake at night at Watford, aching to be this close to him. How many nights I’d think if I could just have this, I’d never ask for anything else for the rest of my life.

Turns out, I don’t seem to do much sleeping now that I have it, either. Maybe it’s just because we don’t do it very often. The logistics of sharing a bed with your partial-dragon boyfriend are complicated at best, and Simon’s a bit of a violent sleeper these days. I’ve taken a wingtip to the eye more than once. (And once is already one too many times.)

It’s also a little distracting how handsy my brain wants me to be. (I just – Crowley, I am the greediest bastard. I want to run my hands up and down the curves of his shoulder muscles. I want to trace all the freckles around his lips. I want to watch him fall asleep while I run my fingers through his hair.) I don’t think Simon’s ready for all my handsiness, either.

So, I’m staring. I’m still fucking staring. Like it’s sixth year all over again, and I’m back to fantasizing that if I stare long enough, I’ll somehow incept his dreams and convince him to break up with Agatha and give making out with boys a try. (Huh. Maybe it worked after all?)

And that’s what I’m doing when he starts twitching in his sleep. (This isn’t new. Sometimes he talks, too.)(The last time we tried this, he full on tried to punch me in the face in his sleep.)(I was a little wary when he’d expressed an interest in staying tonight.) I start to preemptively roll away, in case he starts fluttering his wings, because I’d rather have him jab me in the back than the eye (again).

But that’s when he whimpers, a high, plaintive sound that threatens to break a few heartstrings. I look over my shoulder at him.

He’s still deep asleep, but his arms are crossed in front of his bare chest (lucky me, he sleeps shirtless) and his tawny brows are drawn together tight. I’m gutted by the way he huddles in on himself. I just want to hold him. I start to roll back to him, but stop short at the sound of his wings shuddering. (It brings to mind the method cowboys in old Westerns use to soothe wild horses – whoa, there. Easy, big fella. Like that would work.)

I’m ready to ignore them altogether, though, when Simon lets out something that sounds like a distant cry. It’s haunting. It’s horrible. It can’t go on.

“Simon,” I whisper into the dark. I try to reach out a hand to nudge him, to gently wake him out of it, and when I do, he draws in a shuddering breath. And starts to moan out something that sounds like Help.

“Hey, wake up.” I’m more insistent now – rising up on an elbow, giving his sleep-warmed shoulder a little shake. “Snow, wake up.”

He draws in a rasping gasp then, his eyes flaring open. His wings rustle and flap; I hold out a defensive hand.

“You were dreaming,” I tell him. He’s panting hard and shaking. “It was just a dream.”

He folds his wings in, then, spreading out onto his back with one hand pressed to his chest. It’s rising and falling fast with his shallow breaths – it sounds cacophonous in the dead of the night.

“You’re okay.” I keep reassuring him. I just want to hold him. Before I can move, he grabs my arm, like he’s steadying himself. His hand is clammy. “It was just a dream.”

“Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm into one eye. And lets out a shaking breath.

“What happened?” I ask. I wonder if my clear voice is betraying how little sleeping I’ve actually been doing.

For a moment, I think that Simon isn’t going to answer. Or he’s going to say, “It’s fine” or “I don’t remember” when neither is true. He’s going to try to tack up another wall between us, because that is what we do lately. He’s just pinching the bridge of his nose, squishing his eyes shut tight, and I feel like I’m drifting further out to sea.

But, this time, he lets out a breath.

“I killed him,” he says, in a strained whisper. He means the Mage. In the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of the first tear that leaks from the corner of his eye.

I brush it away with the pad of my thumb.

“You saved us all, love,” I remind him, softly. “He was going to kill Agatha. And probably you and me and Penny, and who knows where he would have stopped.”

“He’d always been so good to me,” Simon whispers, like he hates to admit it. I would, too, if I were him.

It’s a complicated thing, this grief he carries (or mostly avoids). I don’t mourn the Mage – there’s no one else I know who does. But it’s something else entirely for Simon. The Mage had appeared in Simon’s life with hope and promises and a whole new life when Simon desperately needed one. And while he knows the Mage had gone on to deal in some extremely shady shit, that’s not something a person just easily puts aside in light of new information.

“You did the brave thing,” I remind him. “You did the right thing.”

There’s a steady stream of tears now. I wipe them with the backs of my fingers – they’re scalding hot, like he’s been boiling them in a dragon’s belly.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. He’s still gripping my arm with one hand, the other hand pressed to his eye. I don’t know what good this is doing, and I just…

“Don’t be daft,” I say. “Will you just come here?”

And I open up one arm – an invitation. He can turn me down if he wants – I’ve survived worse. (I just want to hold him.)

And maybe it’s the magic of the moonlight or dream inception is truly a thing or Simon’s for once willing to let me in. It doesn’t matter. He rolls over into my arms, his lean body on top of mine, his head pressed to my chest.

This. This. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Just this.

(Tears aside, of course.)

I pull him tighter against me when I feel the heat of his tears begin to wet my shirt. (I don’t actually sleep shirtless – I’m too cold all the time.) I push my fingers into his curls, press my head to the top of his. He’s trying so hard to keep from openly weeping, but little good it’s doing him – I can feel how his muscles contract with each sob.

I hold him through it.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again.

“Would you stop apologizing?” He’s so warm beneath my cold hands. “You’ve seen me cry, too.”

“Yeah, once,” Simon complains, petulantly. “And it was so beautiful, I made out with your snotty face.”

That makes me chuckle, and the fact that my laughter makes Simon’s head bob up and down on my chest makes him start to give a sniffling laugh.

“I’ll make out with your snotty face,” I offer, and he laughs again. (And I will. I have no shame.)

“That’s okay,” he says, and raises his head a moment. Looks down at the bloom of damp tears on my white t-shirt. “Sorry I got your shirt all wet.”

I just shrug.

“I like it – it’s Simon Snow art,” I tease, and double over my chin so I can inspect it. “Look – it looks like you’ve made a flower.”  

“Oh, yeah?” He rests his head back on it, snug beneath my neck. Crowley, this is perfection. “You like wearing flowers now?”

“Maybe I do. Don’t you judge me, Snow.”

His chuckle rumbles through him and through me, too. I run my fingertips up the valleys of his back muscles. Slowly. Gently. Easy now. And his body starts to relax against me. I’m warmer than I’ve ever been in the night.

“Is this okay?” he whispers to me. I’m relaxing, too, growing heavy in the mattress. Comfortable. Soothed.

“It’s perfect,” I tell him, and press a kiss to his hair. He wraps his arms around me. He’s not going anywhere.

“Sorry in advance for drooling on you in my sleep,” he says as I’m starting to doze.

“Mmm. Sexy.” I grunt.

Snow laughs, and so do I – and again when his head bobs up and down with my laugh.

It’s the last thing I remember before finally falling off to sleep.

----------------------------

Tagging: @loveyatopluto, @raging-bisexual-alert, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @annejulianneh111, @whosanxiety, @raeisgaeandahalf, @bookish-mind, @juliazato

[rizlowwritessortof]

Never Look Back

Bethany Rae Cooper didn’t realize when she met the Winchesters in her family’s bar and grill that her life would never be the same. But she’s always believed that everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not exactly what you were expecting…

“Bethany Rae!  Get your butt back in here!”  Beth heard her stepfather’s voice clearly through the front door as she strode angrily away from the bar, her long dark ponytail swinging with each step.  "Beth!  I mean it!“

"I’m out of here, Rick.  I’m done.  See you around,” she shouted back, unlocking her dingy-white beat-up ‘65 Ford Fairlane and climbing behind the wheel, slamming the door.  She threw up a cloud of dust as she backed up and tore out of the dirt parking lot, fishtailing a little as she hit the main road.

Her thoughts flew furiously as she drove.  Seriously!  Did Rick and her mom think she was going to let them treat her like a child forever?  She was twenty-freaking-five years old, and they had the nerve to try and tell her who she could go out with!  The guys that left about a half an hour before her were both–well, hot, with that sense of danger around them that seemed to draw her like an alcoholic to his whiskey.  And when the one who introduced himself as Dean had asked her to leave with him, her mother had come unglued and ordered them out of the bar.  Actually, unglued was an understatement–she had never seen her mom so upset, and accusing her of overreacting just made things worse.  Dean had slipped her his cell number as he left, winking, and she had stuffed it into her pocket so her mother wouldn’t see.  Beth reached for her pocket–the scrap of paper was still there.  She smiled defiantly to herself, then reached for the ipod and cranked some tunes, driving a little too fast as usual and letting the music wash over her, fitting her angry mood.

She came to a screeching stop in the driveway of their faded two-story house, slamming her car door and walking with determination to the front door.  She took the stairs two at a time, grabbing a suitcase from her closet and throwing clothes into it with abandon.  She filled a duffle bag with more, then grabbed a box and added her CD’s, laptop, a few books and pictures, and anything else she could think of on the spur of the moment.  She had threatened before, but this time she was really leaving, and she wanted to be gone before her mother or Rick had a chance to catch up to her.  She loaded her car quickly, then left her small Midwest home town in her rearview mirror, not even caring about a destination.  All she cared about was getting away.

She thought with frustration of the two years she had been gone from home, free, pursuing what she wanted to do with her life.  It had been two–no, three years now.  Nursing school.  She did well, too–and then her mom had the heart attack, and she came home to help out, then let them guilt her into staying to help run the bar and grill.  Gave up her dream to help her family, and in return they tried to run her life.  Well–no more.

It was already 1 a.m., and she knew she needed to find a motel room for the night.  Hopefully they wouldn’t follow her out of town.  They’d think this was just a tantrum, and by the time they realized differently, they hopefully wouldn’t be able to find her.  Not that she didn’t plan to let them know she was all right–just not for a few days.  She spotted the motel sign, lights partly burned out, about 30 miles from Lovell, just on the edge of Greybull, and pulled into the parking lot.  She walked into the office, reaching for the cash in her pocket, and stopped dead as she met the green gaze and wide smile of Dean Winchester, who was standing near the front door.

“Well–look who just crashed our party, Sammy,” he said, his voice husky and warm.  "Beth, right?“

Beth felt herself blush a little, nodding with a half smile.  "Yeah.  And you’re Dean, and you,” she said, turning towards the taller man, “are Sam.”

“Right,” Sam answered, nodding with a friendly smile.  "I take it you continued that shouting match with your mother after we left.“

"You have no idea,” she answered, shaking her head as she stepped up to the desk.  "Single room, please.“  She registered and paid for her room, then turned to face the brothers, who stood waiting for her to finish.  Dean’s smile was gone from his face, and she looked at him quizzically.  "Something wrong?”

He shook his head, squinting a little as he looked at her.  "Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble for you.  Didn’t even know that was your mother, in fact.  I hope you’re not burning any bridges here.“

She looked back at him, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.  "Don’t worry about me.  This has been coming for a long time.  Tonight was just the last straw.”  They walked out of the office together, grabbing bags from their vehicles and heading for the doors to their rooms, which were next door to each other.  

“Want to come in for a drink?” Dean threw the invitation over his shoulder as he entered their room, then turned to wait for an answer.

She stared at him, tempted for a moment, but then smiled and shook her head.  "Look, no offense, but I don’t really know you guys.  But thanks for the offer.“

The smirk was back on Dean’s face, and it made her heart falter a little.  "Smart girl,” he countered, and Sam smiled as he waved goodnight, closing the door behind them.  

Beth entered her room, throwing her bag on the bed and shaking her head at the hideous early-70’s decor.  She dead-bolted her door and headed for the shower, hoping it wasn’t too disgusting.  She was pleasantly surprised at the cleanliness, which helped somewhat to make up for the ugly.  She put on an old threadbare t-shirt and a pair of shorts, brushed through her long dark hair, and crawled into bed, sighing with relief and exhaustion.  It didn’t take long for her to drift off to sleep, deciding that morning would be soon enough to figure out where she was going.

A loud crash jolted Beth from a deep sleep, and she lay there, not sure if she had really heard it or if she had been dreaming.  She squinted at the alarm clock, which read 4:23; then another crash and a muffled shout startled her completely awake, her heart pounding.  The sounds were coming from next door, Sam and Dean’s room, and she scrambled out of her bed, heading for the door.  She stepped outside, planning to knock and ask them if they were all right, but the door was standing wide open.  She moved aside barely in time to avoid being flattened by a body flying out of the opening, and stood open-mouthed as Dean looked up at her, his face bloodied.  "Get back to your room!“ he ordered harshly, launching himself up from the ground and rejoining the chaos inside.  Beth backed up, her eyes wide, and did as she was told, listening, horrified, to the noises coming through the walls.  

A few seconds later, it seemed as if the silence was deafening in contrast.  Beth debated with herself, but concern for the men next door won out, and she left her room again, going to their door.  Sam was slowly getting up, while Dean was–holy crap, he was pulling a knife from the body he knelt next to on the floor.  A small sound escaped her lips, before she had time to clap her hand over her mouth.  Dean’s expression as he looked towards her frightened her almost more than the scene before her, and she turned and ran back to her room, Sam’s voice calling out her name behind her.  She grabbed her phone, shaking with shock, and heard Sam calling her name, banging on her door.  "Beth, please–just let me talk to you.  I need to explain what’s going on.”  He sounded very calm, but she was scared out of her wits.  

“Leave me alone!  I just saw your brother stab someone!  I have to get the police!”

“No, Beth–please.  Just let me explain.  Please.”  She was hesitating, and she didn’t understand why.

“How do you explain him pulling a knife out of someone’s body?”

The next voice she heard was Dean’s.  "Beth–open the door.  We need to talk.“

"No freaking way!  You are not getting in here!”  The door flew inward with a crash, and Beth backed away with a small shriek, dropping her phone and backing into the wall.  The panic she felt was so intense she was seeing spots before her eyes, and she could hear Sam’s voice trying to calm her.

“Beth, please listen.  We’re not going to hurt you.  Just calm down and let us explain.”  Sam walked towards her slowly, stopping to pull a chair out from the small table nearby.  "Please, Beth.“  He nodded towards the chair, and Beth peeled herself from the wall and perched there, ready for instant flight.  She glanced, terrified, at Dean, who sat on the bed next to his brother, staring at the floor, the muscles in his jaw working.  He picked that moment to look up, and she was relieved to see that the murderous, chilling expression he had worn earlier was gone.  He looked frustrated and tired, and he spoke softly to her.

"Beth, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but what we just killed in there–they were demons.”

Her dark eyes widened in disbelief.  "Demons.“  She turned her gaze to Sam, who looked back at her calmly, and nodded as he answered.

"That’s right–demons.”

“Demons?  Like 'The Exorcist?’”

Dean’s voice was quiet but tense.  "Yeah.  Demons.  Head-spinning, pea soup-spewing, pain-in-my-ass demons.“  His cell phone rang just then, and he grabbed it roughly from his pocket, standing and moving to just outside the door of her room.  "Bobby–got anything?”

Beth looked at Sam again, her mind reeling.  "Sam, seriously?  Those things are real?  I mean, I thought they were, but not here.  In hell.  Where they belong.“

"They’re real.  Unfortunately.  And their boss is kind of pissed at us.  He thinks we have something that belongs to him, and he wants it back.” “Satan is pissed at you?  That’s great.”

“Not Satan.  Crowley,” Dean answered as he entered the room.  "Bobby’s got nothing right now, Sam.  But he’s working on a better way to hide us from them.  Apparently he’s found a way around our hex bags.“

"Crowley?!”  Beth’s voice was incredulous as she stared back at Dean.  "Hex bags?  You guys are seriously yanking my chain.“

"No, we’re not.”  He met her gaze full-on, and she almost flinched.  "I know how crazy this sounds, believe me.“

"If those are demons, why don’t they disappear when you kill them?”

“This isn’t 'Charmed,’ sweetheart.  They don’t disappear.  At least the bodies they’re possessing don’t.  What we have in there,” he nodded towards their room, “is what’s left of the poor sons of bitches they possessed.  Most of the time the only thing keeping the bodies alive are the demons inside.  They just wear them like a rental tux for the prom.”

A single tear was making its way down Beth’s face, and she brushed it angrily away.  "You’re telling me that those things can get inside anybody?  Every person I meet could really be a demon?  They just stroll around up here like they own the place?“

"Look, we’re not trying to scare you, Beth.”  Sam spoke in a soothing voice, but she looked at him, eyes wide with fear.  

“Really?  You’re scaring the crap out of me.  Good job.”

Dean approached the table, pulling the other chair out and sitting down in front of her.  "Beth, I’m sorry.  I wish you had never seen any of this.  But you have to believe us, we are the good guys.“

"How do you know those things aren’t going to possess you?  How do you…”  Dean’s hand went to the neck of his t-shirt, and he pulled it down to reveal a symbol tattooed on his upper left chest.  She looked over at Sam, who was doing the same.

“Anti-possession symbol,” Sam answered quietly.  "We had amulets, but we figured in our line of work, we needed something more permanent.“

"And what exactly is your line of work?” Beth asked, her voice shaking a little.  She looked up into Dean’s green eyes, and was surprised to see a brief flash of vulnerability, quickly masked.

“We’re hunters.  We hunt demons, and monsters, and ghosts.  Whatever evil thing we run across.  We try to save as many people as we can.”  He looked back up at her, unflinching, waiting for her reaction.

Beth stared back at him, her eyes wide.  A few seconds passed before she shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment.  "You guys have to be crazy.  That’s the only explanation.“

"Well, darling, I suppose you could be right.  But what they just told you is the truth.”  Beth almost fell to the floor as she leapt from her chair and whirled around to see where the sarcastic voice was coming from.  Dean’s chair hit the floor as he stood, an angry sneer on his face.

“Crowley!"

"Good.  You know me, and I know you.  Now tell me, who is this charming new friend of yours?”

“Where did you come from?” Beth stammered, backing up by the headboard, as far as she could get away from this new threat.

“Hell, darling–and I need to get back.  You can’t find good help these days.”

“Then you should go, don’t you think?” Dean growled.  "And she has nothing to do with this, or with us.“

Crowley’s brows raised, and he threw a disbelieving look Dean’s direction.  "Really?  Seems like you were all getting rather cozy together.  Breaking the ice, as it were.  And she does look like your type, Dean.”  After a few seconds of silence, he sighed impatiently.  "All right.  I can see we’re getting nowhere like this.  Why don’t you just tell me where it is, and we can avoid any more unpleasantness for the time being.“

"Screw you,” Dean ground out between clenched teeth, barely getting the words out before Crowley sent him flying with a wave of his hand.  He crashed against the far wall, landing with a thud and a grunt of pain.  Sam took a step towards the demon before Crowley spoke again.

“Really, Moose, do you think that’s wise?”  He looked towards Beth, who was still cowering by the bed.  "You try to raise them right, teach them how to behave, and this is the thanks you get.“  He twisted his hand in the air, clenching it into a fist, and Sam cried out in pain, dropping to his knees on the floor.  

"Stop it!  What do you want?!” Beth screamed at him, running to Sam’s side.  Crowley flashed an evil smile, and released Sam, who leaned back on the bed, breathing heavily.

“I like her, she’s got spirit.  Hope she can keep it.”  Crowley folded his arms and continued.  "Now, boys, I grow tired of this little game.  Where is the Colt?“

Dean was sitting up slowly across the room.  "We don’t have it, you brain-dead dick.  Remember a couple of years ago, the hunters that killed us and sent us to heaven?  They cleaned us out.  Haven’t been able to find them since.”

Crowley sighed again.  "Lovely.  I think you Winchester boys had better get your priorities straight.  I need that gun.  And you need me to take you off my most wanted list.  Sounds like a fair exchange, don’t you think?“  He tilted his head and grinned, then focused on Beth, who still knelt next to Sam.  "It’s been a pleasure meeting you, ducks.  I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.  I look forward to it.”  As she gazed back at him, quaking with fear, he vanished.

“Sam, are you all right?” Beth asked quietly.  Sam nodded, and she rose to cross the room, kneeling next to Dean, who was leaning back against the wall under the windows.  "Dean?  How about you?“

Dean looked at her, his brows drawn together in frowning disbelief.  "I’ll be fine.  Sammy, my shoulder’s dislocated again.  I could use a hand.”

Beth stood and moved away as Sam came to help his brother.  She grabbed the ice bucket from the dresser and headed out to the ice machine a few doors down from their rooms.  She was only gone for a moment, but as she drew near her door with the ice, Dean came flying out towards her.  A look of pure relief crossed his face, followed by another frown as he grabbed her arm and pulled her into the room.  "What the hell were you doing?“

"Getting some ice for your shoulder!  Why the hell are you yelling at me?”  She jerked her arm from his grasp, her dark-lashed eyes spitting fire back at him before she turned to go to the bathroom for a towel.  She made an ice pack and, despite her anger, positioned it very carefully on his shoulder.  He raised his other hand to hold it in place, glancing up at her with an abashed expression.  

“Thank you,” he muttered, then fired off a glare at his brother, who stood behind Beth, trying unsuccessfully to smother a grin.

“You’re welcome.”  Beth’s voice was short, but her hands were gentle as she put them on his face, tilting it to one side, then the other as she examined the cut on his forehead and one on his lip from the previous demon fight.  "These need to be cleaned,“ she murmured, turning to go back to the bathroom for the first aid kit and a clean cloth.  Sam cleared his throat, and Dean shot him a murderous look, but his brother turned his back, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, as Beth approached.  She took the warm washcloth and cleaned the cut on his forehead, then his split lip.  He spoke softly as she dabbed antibiotic ointment on his forehead.

"You clean up after a lot of bar fights?”

“A few.  And I went to nursing school for a couple of years, just didn’t get to finish.”

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice held a warning, and Beth looked down at Dean’s face in time to catch a leering grin.  

Beth looked at him sternly.  "Really?“  But the corners of her mouth teased at a smile in spite of her efforts to stifle it.

"Could have used you in a couple of hospitals I’ve been in,” Dean teased, and Beth shook her head as she gathered up the first aid supplies.  "So, when do I get my sponge bath?“  That earned him a wet washcloth in the face, and Beth walked to the bathroom to put away the kit.

Sam shook his head, a disgusted look on his face.  "Jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean retorted, tossing the wet rag at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

[holycatsandrabbits]

#ButterOmens submission!

ButterOmens explained

For future works: no max word count, all types of fanwork welcome! 

Snow Angel

Crowley knew the angel was gone. He knew it outside on the street. He knew it inside the burning bookshop. He would know it forever. But it wasn’t just the sense of loss that made him sob there, on the floor, in the flames. It was the thought of what Aziraphale had faced at the end. Had he been scared? Had it hurt? Had he wished for Crowley to save him, the way Crowley always had before? Imagining Aziraphale being alone at that moment was worse than Crowley being alone now himself.

It was hot in the burning shop, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. It was hot—and then slowly, in a oddly soft, sort of breezy way, it wasn’t. Crowley looked up and a falling snowflake lighted on his eyelash. Crowley had lost his sunglasses a while ago, and he wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d had them off in a snowfall and had caught a snowflake just there. Another snowflake landed on his nose, and he watched them fall, filtering through the smoke, down over the flames of the shop. They should have melted. Everything was burning, books, tables, chairs, wine, everything except the snowflakes. They fell gently, and where they came to rest, they doused the flames.

They weren’t made of holy water—they were as harmless against Crowley’s skin as regular snow—but they were obviously angelic in origin. Crowley could feel that, he could see it in the way the clearing smoke revealed a soft white glow in the air, an ethereal aura. It grew brighter, until Crowley knew what was coming. He wasn’t surprised to see Aziraphale walking through the burning shop, glowing brightly, and so very, blessedly cold in the middle of the fire. The last of the flames winked out as he passed, his bare feet taking measured steps across the floor, white robe trailing behind him, swishing in the gathering snow. His wings had a glittering look to them, like they might be made of ice crystals.

Crowley pulled up his legs and rested his head on his knees, looking at the angel sideways. Even with the new perspective, Aziraphale remained.

“Did I crack finally?” Crowley asked. “My nightmares can’t even hold together anymore? Guess I don’t care, if you’re in this dream now.”

Aziraphale looked worried and compassionate and sad. “Let’s not stay here, my dear,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “Care for a walk in the park?”

Crowley shrugged, but he stood up and took Aziraphale’s hand. The angel’s skin felt soft and cold against Crowley’s heated fingers. Their next steps were on the path at St. James Park, and the snow fell down around them even faster now.

“Oh, you look better already,” Aziraphale said with a pleased smile. “Here, darling, let me see to you.” He waved a hand and Crowley found himself in clean clothes with no holes burned in them, light fabric that hardly protected him from the welcome cold of the snow. He still had no sunglasses, and snowflakes landed on his eyelashes again. Aziraphale twined their fingers together more tightly and leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder. His left wing curled around Crowley, a physical representation of the angelic aura that was completely surrounding him.

They walked for a few minutes, and Crowley felt himself gradually calm. His breathing slowed and his steps grew more sure, black boots on the snowy path beside Aziraphale’s bare feet. Crowley’s heart kept racing, of course, but what else could it possibly do when Aziraphale was holding his hand?

All was well until Aziraphale gave him an adorably hopeful look and said, “Darling, do you think you’re ready to wake up now?”

Crowley missed a step and stumbled, nearly tramping on Aziraphale’s foot. He tightened his grip on the angel’s hand. “I’m not leaving,” Crowley said forcefully. “If you’re here, I’m not leaving. I’m going to sleep for the next century.”

Aziraphale looked amused. “Oh, I’d rather you didn’t, my dear. I’d miss you terribly.”

Crowley wavered a little, and Aziraphale reached out his other hand to steady him. “Aziraphale?” Crowley breathed. “Are you actually here? In my dream?”

“For the moment, yes. But I’m afraid that I need to open the shop shortly, so—”

Blackness washed over Crowley’s eyes. “Don’t leave.”

Aziraphale frowned in concern, but he also looked determined, and as strong as Crowley had ever seen him. “Let’s try something,” Aziraphale said. “Can you feel me holding your hand?”

Crowley looked down at where their fingers were clasped together. “Yeah.”

“All right. Now do something for me, dear. Let go.” To say that Crowley didn’t want to do that was a terrible understatement, but it was difficult for him to deny Aziraphale when he—well, it was difficult for him to deny Aziraphale anything ever, really. It was clear which one of them was the better tempter. Reluctantly, Crowley let the angel pull away.

“Now,” Aziraphale said softly, “can you still feel me there?”

“I—” Crowley looked down at his empty hand. Somehow, he didn’t feel the wind against his skin, and the falling snow diverted around his fingers as if something was in its way. There was the faintest feeling of Aziraphale’s hand still caught up with his.

“I’m holding your hand in the waking world,” Aziraphale told him. Crowley met his eyes in confusion and Aziraphale smiled at him. “I know you only trust one person, Crowley, but it’s me. I won’t lead you astray. Wake up into my arms, darling. Please.”

Despite his terror, Crowley closed his eyes and felt himself jump, throwing away the dream, the vision of Aziraphale as a sparkling creature of blessed cold and ice, leaping into the unknown and not sure if he’d be caught.

When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was still there. Crowley’s entire body was folded up on the angel’s lap, with Aziraphale’s arms and wings wrapped around him.

“Welcome back,” Aziraphale said, with a very relieved smile. 

Crowley took a couple of shuddering breaths, and Aziraphale soothed him through them, rubbing a hand against his back. 

“Guess I was the one to leave this time,” Crowley whispered, weary and almost ashamed.

Aziraphale kissed him softly, on the lips and then on the forehead. “Doesn’t matter, darling. Wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”

*******************************

*Crosses her fingers and hopes someone will draw Snow-angel!Aziraphale in the burning bookshop*

Thanks to @n0nb1narydemon and @acuteangleaziraphale for coming up with ButterOmens!

Find this work on Ao3

[roguecas]

buffy supernatural? buffy supernatural? buffy supernatural? yes this is a real and coherent ask haha i just got so excited seeing someone else clearly haunted by a buffy supernatural crossover or even comparison! i've literally described supernatural episodes to friends as 'if you want to see dean larping buffy circa buffy season 6 ...' skdlfjkfjllksdjflksj also the jumping into a big flaming magical hole to close the dimensions ... so many fun potential connections

BUFFY AND SPN THE ONLY SHOWS THAT EXIST!!!

buffy and dawn EXTREMELY dean and sam in terms of sacrificial tendencies and buffy and dean are SO similar wrt having the entire weight of the world on their shoulders, also people pegging buffy as not the “smart” one when she’s insanely smart just like dean!! but also oddly enough there’s an element of buffy in sam as well bc of the reluctant hero trope buuuut actually i change my mind she’s just dean bc she fucking LOVES slaying like he loves hunting even though they both sometimes hate and push against the responsibility. GOD i love them

and ok yeah so obviously cas is angel, specifically s4 cas is angel on buffy where he’s mysterious and hot and there’s like tension and s5+ cas is angel on ats where he’s like humanized and made a fun character. angel will NEVER be cas though bc angel has an inherent darkness and amorality to him that is just not present in cas. also he’s an incel

forgive me @god for this cursed thought but crowley is spike. unfortunately.

charlie is willow for obvious reasons bobby is giles for obvious reasons. i’m not sure who xander and anya are.

also addendum that the fanon claire/jack sibling dynamic IS also buffy and dawn.

another cursed thought that benny is riley PURELY for the narrative love interest placement and like there absolutely being love there but never as much as the True Love

joyce in seasons 1-3 is a LAUGHABLY terrible mom and therefore is mary winchester bc i DO love both of them for their complexities in being bad moms and interesting women

i’m trying to think of who faith might be but i’m drawing a blank hmmmmmmm

ok anyway that’s my absolutely incoherent thought process about all this lmao i love this concept so much as you can tell

[yamisnuffles]

The Ecstasy of Anthony J Crowley

Aziraphale smites a demon and inspires Crowley's best impression of Teresa of Avila.

Rated E. 2809 words. Read on Ao3

- - - - -

The smell of ozone permeated the air. It made the hairs on the back of Crowley's neck stand on end and triggered something bone deep in him, something forged in sulfur and ruin. It told him to shed his skin, burrow into the wet, loose soil and become part of the loam. You are a snake. You are oil. Go back to the earth and be consumed. Get out of the light.

The ground in front of him was an obsidian streak. All that remained of a demon, now but char and smoke. That could have been him. Countless times over the millennia, that should have been him. Babylon, Egypt, Greece, and more. They’d been at odds for so long and yet Crowley had survived it all. His chest rose and fell with every frantic gulp of air. Fear, yes, but something else, something that pooled molten hot at his core.

He couldn’t look away from the hard, angry line of Aziraphale’s shoulders nor from solid fingers with their neat trimmed nails now crackling with residual energy. A spark skipped from one knuckle to the next. Crowley wanted those hands on him, no matter how they might burn. Especially because they might burn. He wasn’t entirely fireproof, not when it came to Aziraphale. There wasn’t a shred of him that was safe from Aziraphale.

Sulfur burned a vibrant, violent blue. Crowley could feel the memory of it in his skin as he looked in Aziraphale’s eyes. Then Aziraphale blinked and that blue cooled to a river, an ocean. In the space of that blink, his face went from coolly impassive to terrified.

“Are you alright?” he asked. His hands ghosted just above Crowley’s arms, his shoulders, in search of injury. “You’re shaking. I didn’t hit you, did I?”

“No, it’s not—”

Crowley shook his head but he felt lost in a fog. He could still feel it in the air, the strain of Aziraphale’s ethereal might against this mortal plane. If he raised his hand he could just about touch the protective curve of a wing that pressed against the fabric of reality, just beyond reach but close enough that they both shivered.

Crowley all but lunged at Aziraphale. He wanted to taste. He needed it. He missed his mark and had to drag his hungry mouth across Aziraphale’s jaw to find his lips. Once there, he pressed in, in as far as he could go. Words of divine command remained there like an echo, on tongue and teeth. It was something electric that numbed and enlivened all at once. Crowley couldn’t get enough of it.

There was a question on those lips but Aziraphale was quick to respond, sinking in with a groan. It was messy and delicious and it only made Crowley want more. He was beyond the point of caring that he had an erection that was straining ever more against too tight denim. What did he care if Aziraphale felt the hard press of it on his stomach when the taste of the angel made his teeth and tongue tingle? It was the taste of that first storm and a wing over his head. It was surer to destroy him than a swan dive into holy water and he was more than happy to leap.

Aziraphale gasped when he came up for air. The hand he pressed to Crowley’s chest was the only thing that kept them parted as he spoke. “Should I ask what spurred this?”

“Probably shouldn’t.”

A soft laugh was paired with an even softer smile. “Alright then, what do you say we continue this back at the flat?”

“Lead the way, angel. You know I’ll follow.”

“Will you now? Anywhere?”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow and Crowley arched one right back at him. “Yes? Is that even a question.”

“Oh, but there are so many possibilities.” Aziraphale looked down at their discarded picnic blanket. “We’d been enjoying a nice meal before we were so rudely interrupted. Perhaps I’m in the mood to eat something more.”

“Whatever you want.” Crowley’s voice jumped an octave with each word. He took a moment to quickly pack the remains of their prior meal into the tartan lined basket, leaving only a wide expanse of inviting blanket. The smiting had lit the sky like a beacon that warned any mortals away. The danger of it rolled thick through the air. They could do whatever they liked without fear of prying eyes. Not that Crowley particularly cared one way or another at the moment. “So, uh, yeah. Could do that. If you’re still hungry.”

“For you? Always.” Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. With a snap of his fingers, the blanket was rolled on top of the basket. He walked onward, trusting that Crowley would grab their things. “But there is a bit of a chill in the air. It could be unpleasant,” he mused as he found the path out of the park.

“Could be…”

That always was caught somewhere between Crowley’s third and fourth ventricle. The angel could be insatiable but it still felt impossible to Crowley that he was on the menu. Months after the averted apocalypse and he had no clue if there was bottom depth to that hunger. He knew his own want was endless. If there was any end to it, he would split himself apart to make more room for Aziraphale. He wanted to consume and be consumed, now more than ever.

He drifted helplessly in Aziraphale’s wake until it led them back to the Bentley. A drive to either the shop or his flat seemed impossible. He had no idea how he’d survive the wait, no matter how fast he drove, but he’d go as slow as Aziraphale needed.

Aziraphale took both basket and blanket and tucked them safely onto the floor in front of the back seat. He remained stooped, eyeing the interior.

“This seems spacious,” he mused, as though out shopping for furniture and not a place to fuck. Crowley barely heard him over the blood pounding in his ears. “I know how you are about this beastly contraption, though.”

“Just what part of you do you think would sully my car? Any bit of it can count itself lucky to be blessed by your backside.”

Aziraphale sidled up close and kissed Crowley’s neck. Then his ear. “And just where,” he asked in a low rumble, “is it that you want my backside?”

He palmed at Crowley through his jeans and the demon’s hips stuttered in response. He pinned Aziraphale against the car so that any remaining space between them dissolved. That serpentine part of him that existed just below the surface ached to taste the celestial scent that clung to centuries old fabric. Perhaps then he could untangle that intangible, ineffable something that marked Aziraphale as an angel like no other. 

“Whatever you want to do. Wherever. I told you.”

“I know.” Azirphale kissed either cheek then pressed a hand to the small of Crowley’s back to pull him closer still. His breath brushed the shell of Crowley’s ear. “But you never told me what this was about. So tell me now— what do you want?”

What did he want? He wanted to bend Aziraphale over the hood of the Bentley. He wanted his mouth on Aziraphale and Aziraphale’s mouth on him. He wanted Aziraphale inside him, taking him apart piece by agonizing piece. He wanted everything and he didn’t know where to begin choosing.

Crowley panted. He could barely find air through his desire. He wasn’t entirely sure his lungs were even working as they should anymore. He abandoned it all— lungs and heart, mind and soul— to Aziraphale. Let them move as all. That’s what he really wanted.

“You,” he said.

“I could tell that much, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, pressing his own growing hardness against Crowley’s. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

A growl rose from the back of Crowley’s throat. He used what little willpower he had to step away from Aziraphale. “Lay down in the backseat.” Aziraphale moved to comply only for Crowley to stop him. “Wait. Actually. Just…” Crowley took the blanket and spread it over the seat. “There. That leather can be murder on bare skin.”

“Bare skin,” Aziraphale repeated. He slid into the seat and as soon as he was reclining, a miracle had his clothes folded in a neat pile in the front. “So, like this then?”

Aziraphale’s knees were up and parted to perfectly frame his blushing cock as it rose from amongst golden curls. Crowley felt like the air had been pulled straight from his lungs. He clambered into the back of the Bentley with as much grace as he could manage. As soon as the door was shut behind him, his own clothes vanished. He might have sent them to the front seat or to Mars. He neither knew nor did he care.

He slid beneath Aziraphale’s legs so that they were perched on his shoulders. He kissed pale thighs and nipped the tender flesh just enough to draw out a gasp. He pressed his nose into skin, fat, and muscle. He knew these bodies were only shells but what a glorious one Aziraphale had. He had to remind himself that he had an eternity to explore it all. Later. Now he had that electric feeling to chase, the one that hung like a dissipating shroud around Aziraphale.

He let his tongue fork and followed it like a divining rod down across downy flesh to what he desired. He pressed it deep into Aziraphale with a moan. Thighs clamped tight around his ears when he pushed deeper still. It should have been enough to hurt but all he could think was strong. Aziraphale was so strong and yet he was willing to make himself vulnerable to a demon. No, not just any demon. One particular demon. One demon who got to breathe the petrichor after the storm.

“Crowley.”

He would sooner tire of the beating of his heart than the sound of his name dripping off Aziraphale’s tongue. He lapped it up, got drunk on it. He was insensible to all else beyond his name mixed in heat and sweat and the needy twitch of muscle. He could have stayed that way until every last syllable was wrung into that heavenly choir but he couldn’t ignore the throbbing desire for more, more, more.

Crowley let fingers slip in the place of his tongue. He resented the distance but was more than repaid for it by the sight of Aziraphale. The angel’s hair was a mess of fluffy curls. His skin was dewy with sweat that glistened in the dull glow that lingered around him. Crowley didn’t remember much of Heaven. Hadn’t spent much time there, really, but he had spent a lot of time amongst the stars. Aziraphale was as pale and luminous as some of the best swathes of the Carina Nebula. Crowley wished he could run his fingers through that celestial substance. In a way, he supposed as he hooked his fingers just enough to make Aziraphale cry out, he still could.

But still, still there was that drumbeat in his head for more. Closer. Deeper.

Aziraphale looked at him when he stopped his ministrations. “What— Do we need to… did you already...”

His eyes were blown black and looked unfocused as they travelled over Crowley’s form in search of answers to his half formed questions. Crowley couldn’t help the pride that swelled in his chest any time he reduced Aziraphale to incoherency.

He took Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “Come here.”

He pulled Aziraphale up so that the angel was straddling his lap. It was an awkward position. Crowley’s knees dug into the seat back in front of him and Aziraphale had to stoop to stop from hitting his head against the interior roof of the car. Already, though, it was better. Aziraphale’s arms and legs were wrapped around him and torsos were pressed together. There was, however, only one whisper of touch on the head of Crowley’s cock, one final gap between them that was bound to drive him mad if they didn’t cross it. His fingers dug into the meat of Aziraphale’s ass and he swallowed hard under the watchful gaze of smiling eyes.

“Like this?” Aziraphale asked, wiggling just enough downward to send Crowley’s head crashing back.

“Yeah. Yes. If you want. That’s—”

Aziraphale sank down onto him in one smooth, excruciatingly slow motion. Crowley swore he saw another flash of divine lightning. He certainly felt one jolt down his spine. Sight, sound, smell, all of it vanished for a moment as his body seized to an immediate stop. His heart was the clap of thunder that followed.

He realized vaguely that somewhere beyond the pulse of blood in his ears, Aziraphale was talking.

“Wuh?”

“I asked if you are alright.”

Crowley thrust up and groaned as a frisson of energy danced over his every nerve. “Fuck. Yes. In the name of everything holy or unholy or who even cares, yesss.”

Aziraphale wrapped steadying hands around the back of Crowley’s head. His thumbs were tucked behind Crowley’s ears and his fingers raked along the short, bristley hair under the base of his skull. It made the hair on Crowley’s neck and arms stand on end and sent him skittering on the razor’s edge of too much and not enough.

When it came to Aziraphale, he would always err on the side of not enough. He pressed forward into a kiss that landed like the first tumbling flakes in a rolling avalanche. Before long, he was buried in the sensation of rolling hips, teeth, tongues, and the continued hum of divine energy that electrified every movement. He had the vaguest notion there were fingers tugging a bit too hard on his hair, that the blanket had slid away and he had leather sticking to places he’d later regret, and that a million other imperfect things were happening. Yet none of it, not a moment of it, took from the perfection of Aziraphale on him and around him.

“Aziraphale. This is— I— Fuck.”

“I rather think I know the feeling,” Aziraphale replied, a laugh on his breath.

A star was born in the too tight cavity of Crowley’s chest. “Angel, you have no idea.”

How could he? Crowley wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say. There was probably something he should say but even at his best, words could be elusive around Aziraphale. All he knew was that this was perfect. That Aziraphale was perfect. Aziraphale was good in ways that should have been agony to him and instead brought only exquisite, blinding ecstasy.

Aziraphale slammed down once, twice, and Crowley had just enough time to wonder if he could get another body if he was discorporated there before he felt the warm, sticky spill of Aziraphale’s release between them. That was his undoing. There were heels in his back and nails in his scalp and all he could feel was the spread of Aziraphale’s pleasure marking him.

He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. Every time he thrusted up in search of more he felt a bit of himself caught on Aziraphale and remained there inside him. He was on fire with it. In agony so hot that it wrapped into an exquisite ecstasy. He let it tear out of him in a silent scream. By the time it was over he was barely aware of his body. He was just a pleasant haze drifting from that celestial fire.

He was brought back to his boneless body when Aziraphale shifted and pulled him down with him. And what a wonderful feeling it was in that body when he could no longer tell what parts belonged to him. He was one of a pair in a sweat slicked tangle of limbs.

Aziraphale swept a soaked strand of hair off his forehead. “Better?”

Crowley buried his face in a salty expanse of chest hair. “Much,” he mumbled.

“In any mood to tell me what that was about?”

Crowley considered. Telling could be fun. Telling could lead to more.

“Nah.” He snapped his fingers and the Bentley’s engine purred to life. “Not right now.” He managed to wriggle out a stretch without disentangling himself. Another snap and the Bentley was on its way to Mayfair. “Right now, sleep. Maybe for a week.”

Aziraphale sighed and Crowley could feel the curl of a smile on the top of his head. “Alright then, but I’m not sitting about that empty flat of yours for a week.” Another snap and the Bentley veered off toward Soho. “A change of course. You can sleep in my flat.”

“Wherever you want to go, angel,” Crowley said with a yawn. “You know I’m with you.”

[mygalfriday]

and i just want to love you, to love you, to love you well

{ao3}

Aziraphale is still getting used to being in his own body again when he and Crowley stumble into the demon’s flat somewhere well past one in the morning. While he’s very grateful for Madam Tracy’s hospitality, there’s nothing quite like being back in one’s own corporation, well-worn and comfortable after thousands of years of breaking it in — like a favorite pair of shoes. He’s still feeling a bit wrong-footed but after the day he and Crowley have had, it’s to be expected. Nothing a strong drink and a few chocolate biscuits won’t fix.

He sways on his feet, standing in the entryway to Crowley’s study and staring at the puddle of holy water and melted demon simmering on the floor. At the moment, he can’t be sure if his imbalance is from the stress of discorporation and an averted apocalypse or simply from the horrid images currently flashing in front of his eyes. He’d spent so long fretting over what might happen to Crowley once he was in possession of a heavenly weapon like holy water and now here he stands, staring at the evidence.

One wrong move and the puddle at Aziraphale’s feet could have been Crowley.

His stomach heaves and he shuts his eyes briefly, pressing his fingertips to his mouth in an effort to quell the sudden bout of nausea. From the other end of the flat, he can hear Crowley rummaging around in the kitchen fetching wine and glasses for them. Aziraphale clings to the sound of his voice as he mutters irritably to himself, drawing strength from the auditory proof that Crowley is perfectly safe. They both are. For now.

He evaporates the demonic remains and the holy water with a snap of his fingers. And then he sets about cleansing the whole study just in case, walking every inch of it and muttering incantations under his breath. He tidies up as he goes, gathering the papers strewn about on the floor like confetti. Strange, considering Crowley usually keeps all of his things in such pristine condition and frequently takes great joy in mocking Aziraphale’s magpie ways.

Tutting to himself, Aziraphale shuffles the papers neatly and drops them onto Crowley’s desk. His eyes fall absently to the page on top of the pile and he stops short, staring at the star system known as Alpha Centauri. We can run away together. Aziraphale goes cold, realizing with a pang that the uncharactertistic clutter is the result of Crowley searching frantically for an escape.

All this research and then he’d simply…stayed.

“Angel?”

He starts at the sound of Crowley’s voice, glancing up to find him lounging insouciantly in the doorway. Crowley holds a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. Wedged beneath his arm is a package of Aziraphale’s favorite biscuits. He’d shed his jacket somewhere between the kitchen and the study, the sleeves of his henley pushed up his forearms. Wearing a slight frown, he peers at Aziraphale over the rim of his sunglasses.

“All right?”

Mustering up a weak smile, Aziraphale says, “Oh…dandy. Just tidying up.”

Crowley glances around, sniffing the air. “Smells like you in here now. All…holy.”

“Oh.”Aziraphale feels his cheeks heat. He hadn’t even thought about how the use of his magic in a demonic space might effect Crowley. “I do apologize-”

“No, s’fine.” Crowley makes a show of inspecting the floor where the puddle used to be, peering at the shiny floor grimly. “Doesn’t smell like melted demon anymore. I’d call that a step up.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale drops his gaze to the page on Alpha Centauri once more, spotting a note scribbled in Crowley’s hand in the margin. Transport books?? His heart swells in his chest and he bites his lip, overcome with a wave of fondness strong enough to sway him on his feet again. He grips the edge of the desk to keep himself upright. When he looks up again, Crowley is watching him warily. “You said you were going to leave.”

If it had been anyone but Crowley — anyone Aziraphale had not spent six thousand years learning like a favorite book — then he might have missed the subtle stiffening of his spine or the flex of his fingers around the neck of the wine bottle. But Aziraphale knows Crowley backwards and forwards, the way an academic knows his life’s work. He sees everything — the tightening of his jaw, the slight lift of his brows, the muscle that ticks in his cheek. And so he isn’t surprised when Crowley affects a nonchalant shrug and asks, “When?”

Willing to let him pretend ignorance for now, Aziraphale says, “In the street. When we were-” He drops his gaze again, studying Crowley’s handwriting in the margin of the paper. Aziraphale had already refused to leave with him and he’d still been planning to have him along, making plans to bring all of his books too. “You said you were leaving.”

“Told you.” Crowley sniffs, glancing away. “Stuff happened.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale fidgets, tugging at the sleeve of his coat and smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle. “I remember.”

He hadn’t been able to see Crowley’s face but the anguish in his voice had been enough of a clue all on its own. It’s been hours since then and Crowley has certainly managed to pull himself together admirably but Aziraphale hasn’t forgotten what Crowley sounded like when the demon had thought him lost for good. He doesn’t think he ever will.

He lifts his chin, feeling unexpectedly brave at the memory. “But that didn’t really change things, did it? You were planning to go without me anyway.” With a blush, he amends, “That is, I assume you meant I was your best friend and not Ligur-”

Crowley makes a face, nose wrinkled and mouth exasperated as he snaps tiredly, “Ligur, seriously? Course I meant you, numpty.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Hell knows why sometimes.”

“Yes, I quite agree.” Aziraphale clasps his hands together, a futile attempt to still his fidgeting. “I was hardly behaving like a friend at the time. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had gone.”

Crowley sighs, scrubbing a hand over his cheek. “I was never gonna leave without you, angel. Would’ve dragged you kicking and screaming if I had to. Fuck knows what those bastards would’ve done to you if they’d actually succeeded in bringing about Armageddon.”

Aziraphale wobbles again, dangerously unsteady on his feet, but this time he hasn’t the energy to cling to the nearest available surface until the world rights itself beneath him again. His knees buckle and he sinks down, right into the throne behind Crowley’s desk. His eyes sting and his face feels hot and it’s been so long that it takes him a moment to realize he’s about to cry. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he whispers, “I don’t deserve you, Crowley.”

Crowley makes an alarmed noise and drops all his efforts at being aloof, crossing the space between them the way he always does when he knows Aziraphale needs him. What is a simple office space compared to the continents and oceans Crowley has crossed for him before? The wine glasses clatter as he deposits them on the desk, the bottle of wine thunks heavily against the wood, and the package of biscuits winds up somewhere by their feet. Neither of them pays any mind as Crowley drops to his knees in front of Aziraphale and curls his hand over the angel’s thigh.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is gentle but slightly panicked. “Angel, it’s fine. We’re fine.”

He shakes his head, sniffling. “No, I was awful to you.”

Crowley’s grip on him tightens. “It was a stressful few days for everybody. Neither of us were at our best, yeah? It’s forgotten. Look at me.” He strokes his thumb soothingly over Aziraphale’s leg and waits for him to glance up warily. When he sees Aziraphale’s tear-filled eyes, he groans. “Don’t — don’t cry. You know I’m useless when you cry, angel.”

Aziraphale chokes out a wet laugh and says, “Yes, I know.” He sniffles. “You’re my best friend too, Crowley.”

With a tired smile, Crowley nods. “I know.” He looks away suddenly and Aziraphale blinks the tears from his eyes, watching with concern as that tiny smile fades. “I’ve always been able to feel you, angel. Out there in the world somewhere, doing your good deeds.” His lip curls and he shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice is almost as unsteady as it had been in that pub. “And all of a sudden it just…disappeared. Like a light going out.” He sighs and it comes out more like a hiss as he grits his teeth. He looks up then, his mouth a grim, angry line. “You scared the heaven out of me, Aziraphale. Don’t ever let me catch you with those fucking candles again, got it?”

Lips pursed tightly together, Aziraphale nods and blinks back another wave of tears. “Yes, darling.”

Crowley’s eyes widen at the endearment and Aziraphale can see it even through his dark lenses. His mouth goes slack for a moment before he snaps it shut again and firms it into a tight line. He sniffs and when he speaks, his voice is a soft rasp. “Did you know, Hastur’s trademark is setting fire to things. Regular pyromaniac, he is. S’like his calling card.”

Aziraphale frowns, puzzled by the sudden change in subject but willing to go with it. “Oh?”

“Hmm.” Crowley doesn’t look at him, staring somewhere far off and to the right. His face betrays nothing of his thoughts, a blank mask that does little to put Aziraphale at ease. “And right before I drove to the bookshop and found it in flames, I’d just succeeded in royally pissing him off.”

With a sharp inhale, Aziraphale feels his world tilt again and this time, there is nothing to hang onto. “You thought-”

Crowley finally looks up and his mouth quivers so dangerously that Aziraphale can only stare, longing to brush his thumb over his lips to quell their trembling. “Yeah. Thought I’d killed you.”

“Oh, my dear Crowley. Of course you didn’t.” He lifts a shaking hand and when Crowley nods hesitantly, he slips the sunglasses from his eyes. The fear and adoration shining in equal measure through Crowley’s naked gaze is breathtaking. Aziraphale swallows but the lump in his throat won’t leave this time. “Quite the opposite, really.” He breathes in deeply, forcing the confession past his numb lips. “With you I’ve always felt terribly…safe.”

Crowley doesn’t take the compliment in the spirit in which it was intended, sighing wretchedly instead. “You’ve never been safe with me, Aziraphale. That’s the bloody point. I was so busy pushing you I didn’t stop to think what might happen if anyone actually found out-”

“You were right to push me.” Aziraphale strokes a gentle hand over Crowley’s sharp cheekbone, watching fondly as he shudders at the contact. “In fact, I wish I’d listened to you centuries ago.”

Crowley shakes his head, swallowing. “I could’ve gotten you killed, angel. Or worse, disgraced.”

“It would have been worth it.” Aziraphale smiles tearfully when Crowley lifts his head to stare at him, lips parted in stunned silence. “Crowley, I-”

Crowley shakes his head again, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “Don’t,” he says, his voice strangled and desperate. “Not unless you mean it.”

“I always meant it, Crowley,” Aziraphale promises. “Even when I was too afraid to say it.”

Crowley breathes out shakily, a sigh that turns into a quiet, disbelieving laugh. His eyes crinkle at the corners and Aziraphale can see that elusive dimple in his cheek as he presses a gentle, reverent kiss to his palm. He pauses briefly to nose at Aziraphale’s fingertips, dragging his hot mouth over the angel’s palm and stopping at the inside of his wrist to press another lingering kiss just over the erratic pulse there. And when he turns his head and leans up on his knees, Aziraphale meets him halfway.

They sink into each other with ease, as though they’ve had thousands of years of practice instead of longing in silence and trying not to touch too often. Crowley is warm and trembling against him, his mouth carrying a searing heat the likes of which Aziraphale has never known in the stark coldness of heaven. He still smells faintly of brimstone and burning rubber and when Aziraphale lifts a hand to cradle his cheek, he feels stubble and the smudge of ash beneath his fingertips.

And it’s perfect. Better than any fantasy Aziraphale has managed to conjure over the years because it’s real and Crowley wants him and Crowley loves him. Crowley had sat in a pub determined to drink himself into oblivion instead of facing the end of the world without Aziraphale. Crowley had driven a burning car through the M25 because Aziraphale had asked him to. Crowley had stopped time because the idea of never talking to Aziraphale again had frightened him more than even Satan’s fury.

Still kneeling before him, Crowley curls his fingers tightly around the back of Aziraphale’s neck and arches closer as though terrified of losing him even now. Lost in his kiss, Aziraphale makes a silent promise. Before Crowley and the Almighty herself, he vows that with whatever time they have left, he’ll make certain Crowley feels every bit as loved and cared for as he has always made Aziraphale feel.

Without breaking their kiss, Crowley rises sinuously to his feet and almost slithers into the chair until he’s straddling Aziraphale’s lap. His lanky legs bracket Aziraphale in, knees digging into his hips. He barely weighs anything at all, a slight weight against Aziraphale’s thighs and oh, he adores it. Wants to cradle his fragile, darling demon in his arms and keep him safe and happy always.

“Crowley,” he breathes, trembling. “I love you. I love you so-”

“Shh.” Crowley strokes his knuckles tenderly over his cheek, his eyes half-lidded and gleaming golden in the soft light filtering in from the corridor. “I know, angel.”

Aziraphale huffs out a shaky laugh into the hollow of Crowley’s cheek. “Long before I did, I’m sure.”

“Nah. Figured it out eventually though.” Crowley licks his lips and Aziraphale stares, following the movement of his tongue with interest. “And…uh, you know, don’t you?”

Aziraphale blinks and it takes him a moment to stop staring at Crowley’s mouth and realize just what he’s referring to. And then he smiles brightly, thinking of a revelation in the middle of a ruined church. “It’s as you say, my dear. I figured it out eventually.”

Crowley laughs and when he leans in again, they’re both grinning like fools. Fools in love, Aziraphale thinks dizzily, and curls his fingers into the soft material of Crowley’s black shirt. Crowley drapes his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, leaning heavily into his chest — kissing him and kissing him and kissing him until Aziraphale feels like crying again.

They stay there, curled around one another and trading soft, wondrous kisses for a short eternity before Crowley finally drops his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder and shudders. “Been imagining this for thousands of years,” he grumbles, ignoring Aziraphale’s surprised little noise. “And when it finally happens, I’m too knackered to even take you to bed.” He groans, equal parts frustration and exhaustion. “Want to ravish you.”

A little thrill shoots down Aziraphale’s spine at the idea of Crowley leading him to bed. Of being ravished. He wriggles a bit in his seat, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s snake tattoo in apology when the demon whimpers miserably. He clears his throat, silently telling his corporation to behave itself.

“Not to worry,” he says, stroking a hand over Crowley’s back. He can feel the notches of his spine over his thin shirt and thinks fleetingly again of how fragile Crowley is beneath all that bluster and the prickly words. “Plenty of time.”

“Is there?” Crowley hides his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, defeat in his tired voice. “You and I both know they’re coming for us, angel.”

Aziraphale thinks of the prophecy tucked away in his pocket and says with confidence, “Then we’ll be ready. Trust me, my dear.”

Though he would probably deny it to Satan himself, Crowley nuzzles at Aziraphale’s ear and mutters, “Always have.”

Wishing he could say the same but knowing deep down that there were very early days when he’d wondered when the demon Crawley would turn against him, Aziraphale doesn’t try to lie. He can only try to be better now, to trust Crowley as implicitly as he had always trusted Aziraphale. It isn’t much but at the moment, it’s all he has to offer.

Clearing his throat softly, he ventures, “We could… move somewhere more comfortable if you’d prefer to sleep.”

Instead of actually replying, Crowley makes a hissing noise Aziraphale assumes must mean move at your own risk.

He huffs, settling in as best he can in Crowley’s straight-backed throne. “Yes, yes,” he says, tutting. “All right. No need to be dramatic.”

Crowley mumbles something that might possibly be insulting and settles more firmly against him, his fingers stroking the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. And Aziraphale sits completely still beneath him, marveling at the feel of Crowley’s fingers in his hair and Crowley’s warm breath against his neck. This is happening. He is holding Crowley and unafraid of the consequences. If this truly is his last night alive, he must admit it’s a rather marvelous end to things.

“Crowley?”

“Hmm?”

“Earlier, you said…you said it smells like me in here.”

“Yeah…”

Aziraphale bites his lip, turning over the question that’s been on his mind since Crowley had mentioned it days ago. “What do I smell like to you?” Crowley had mentioned that he smelled holy and Aziraphale cannot help worrying that perhaps it pains Crowley, like stepping into that church in 1941 had burnt his poor feet. “Does it…hurt you?”

“Hm, course not.” Crowley slurs, a hiss slipping into his words. He must be nearly asleep by now. “S’just you. Sort of…bookish and soft. Like, dunno, sunshine in a dusty library. An’ cocoa.”

Knowing Crowley would never admit such a thing out loud if he were even a bit more awake at the moment, Aziraphale swallows back a radiant smile and closes his eyes. “Oh,” he breathes, inexplicably relieved. “Good.”

He wraps Crowley tighter in his embrace and as he settles in to wait for dawn, Crowley turns his face into his neck and breathes him in one last time. “Home,” he whispers. “You smell like home.”

Aziraphale feels his fragile human heart swell. “Sleep, darling.” He smooths his palm over Crowley’s back, pressing a firm kiss into his fiery hair. “I’ll still be here when you wake.”

He holds vigil for the remaining hours until daybreak, a demon asleep in his lap and a scrap of ancient paper burning a hole in his pocket. By the time the sun rises over Mayfair, slanting in through the windows in warm yellow stripes, Crowley is just beginning to stir.

It’s the first day of the rest of their lives and as Crowley lifts his head to blink at him sleepily, Aziraphale is loathe to break the hush of dawn. But he’s been waiting hours for Crowley to wake up, sitting in the dark and missing him despite holding him as close as their human bodies will allow. In a giddy whisper, he says, “Good morning.” 

Crowley grunts.

Undeterred, he confides, “My dear, I do believe I have a plan. How do you feel about… Oh, what do the humans call it?” He beams. “Roleplay, I believe.”

Suddenly far more awake, Crowley offers him a slow smirk and drawls, “Got a safeword?”

Blinking, Aziraphale begins, “What-”

“I’ll explain later, angel.” Crowley slides gracefully from his lap, his swagger returned, but there’s no concealing the hint of pink in his cheeks. He stretches lazily, yawning. Aziraphale doesn’t bother trying not to stare. “Think I can manage some crepes if you’re hungry. Then you can tell me all about your clever plan.”

“Oh. Yes.” He’d been so wrapped up in the prophecy and well, Crowley that he’d entirely forgotten to eat a thing last night. “I am a bit peckish.”

“Right. I’ll just-” Crowley jerks a thumb over his shoulder, already beginning to retreat.

“Darling?”

Crowley pauses mid-step at the endearment and he lifts a hand to adjust his glasses, realizing belatedly that he had allowed Aziraphale to take them off last night. Right before they had kissed. Crowley stares and Aziraphale takes great delight in watching the previous night return to him all at once. Running a hand through his rumpled hair, Crowley mutters under his breath, “Not a dream, then.” He clears his throat, straightening from his usual slouch. Slowly, he says, “You and I - we…”

“Yes.”

“And you’re…” He squints at Aziraphale, possibly looking for some hint of angelic guilt. “All right?”

Aziraphale smiles serenely. “For the most part. Though there is one thing that could do with improving, if you’ll indulge me.”

Crowley’s reply is immediate. “Course. What?”

He arches an eyebrow expectantly. “I haven’t much experience in the matter, but I’ve come to understand most lovers exchange a certain type of greeting upon waking together.”

Mouth dropping open, Crowley stutters. “Ngk. Oh.”

And then he’s there, crouching in front of Aziraphale again and crushing those chocolate biscuits he’d dropped last night. For the second time in his very long life, Aziraphale couldn’t care less about the fate of a few biscuits because Crowley is wrapping his strong, slender hand around the back of his neck and swooping in to kiss him heatedly. He licks into Aziraphale’s mouth with that talented tongue and the angel is silently grateful he’s already sitting because his knees go utterly weak.

They part slowly, reluctantly. Their noses brush and when Aziraphale blinks open his eyes, Crowley’s gaze is fixed on him. In the morning light, his eyes are a soft amber and his red hair seems to glow. Voice a low murmur, he asks roughly, “Better?”

Overwhelmed and wanting, Aziraphale buries his face in Crowley’s neck. Lanky arms wrap tight around him. Recalling Crowley’s soft, sleepy confession the night before, he breathes in with a tremulous smile. Leather and brimstone and potting soil. “It’s very good to be home.”

[skyfall-good-omens]

Prompt: Ritz Hair

(inspired by this post)

“Temptation accomplished,” Aziraphale said, wiggling unconsciously before standing to follow Crowley across the park. He blinked a miracle – just a small one – and mentioned offhandedly, “what about the Ritz? I do believe a table for two has just miraculously become free.”

“Ah!” said Crowley, a lilt in his voice.

They moseyed across the lawn, without a care, without speaking. The world had reset, and it was as wondrous as always. Aziraphale was distracted first by the sky. What a beautiful color! That strange mix of yellow and cream that somehow blended into mute blue and orange. How was that even possible? He watched as a flock of pigeons circled them in a murmuration, shifting like the wind.

They ambled on under the delicately shuttering leaves of a maple tree. With every step, he felt years of dirt and gravel and cobblestone and cement layered beneath his feet. Around them, everywhere, life. Humans milling about. Going about the afternoon. Angry or ecstatic, or bored or triumphant. Every moment a gift. Every small expression of existence all but overwhelming because it was still here.

Aziraphale loved every second. He drank it in. He soaked in the happiness. Unbidden, adrift in his own thoughts, he glanced to his left.                  

Crowley sauntered, in the most exquisite expression of the word.* His chin was tilted upwards, his legs crisscrossing languidly with every stride. Aziraphale had to admit that, throughout their long and sometimes sordid history, he had not failed to recognize the demon’s innate hypnotic attraction. Well, what was one to expect from a tempter? This current incarnation though, he had to admit, was fairly perfection, at least where Aziraphale was concerned.

“You see something you like, angel?” Crowley said as an aside, not moving his head. Aziraphale blushed and looked away.

“I’m simply reveling in the existence of the world is all,” he said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and the smile remained in his voice.

They slipped into a comfortable silence, which was surprising in its own way. For so long they had relied on each other’s banter, the chattiness that would surround them whenever they got together. It was expected, soothing even. But now – with the apocalypse averted, this quiet between them felt somehow even more right. The cacophony of the street filled the space with its honking horns, the squeal of tires, the reassuring roar of engines. Everything felt proper. Back the way it should be.

Ahead of them, Aziraphale could just see the entry to the Ritz, and he picked up his pace slightly in anticipation. As he did so, though, he realized that Crowley had stopped walking, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk. He turned to confront him when the demon, oddly, snapped time still.

Aziraphale backtracked and approached him questioningly. “What is it?”

Crowley remained in place, but just as his inactivity started to cause Aziraphale concern, he spoke.

“I like going out to eat with you.”

“Well, why, yes,” What a strange thing to say! he thought. “So do I. I mean that is where we are headed.” He smiled warmly and gestured towards the Ritz.

“No,” the demon said, and his voice had changed. Lower. More introspective. “I mean yes, but not just that. I just wanted to say, I really like going to eat… with you.” He moved his head in a thoughtful swoop to aim his shaded gaze at Aziraphale. “I like you.”

Aziraphale felt his hands draw together, wringing a bit in front of the worn front of his waistcoat. He glanced to each side of himself, taking in the fact that yes, the street was in fact frozen around him. “I…” he started, and was struck by the fact that he was utterly unsure as to how to progress.

He had said some… horrible things to Crowley. He had wanted for so long to apologize for a multitude of indiscretions, but the most recent betrayal was the freshest wound. And if truly he no longer had a side, then, well, he felt he owed it to his friend to clear the air.

“I…” he started again, “I hope that my actions have helped to alleviate any doubt my misguided words may have produced.”

Crowley bobbed his head once, hesitated, then said, “what?”

Aziraphale worked his hands together tighter. Oh bother. “I mean, I’m sorry. I told you before I didn’t like you. I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, that,” Crowley said and shook his head. “Good. No problem. I know.” He took a step forward, at the same time appearing ever so bold, yet hesitant somehow. The way he held his shoulders high, his fingers dug deep into his pockets. Aziraphale stared at him as he approached. Specifically, at a part of him slightly above his chin, and below his nose. When Crowley spoke, it was as if his words came from another world altogether. “I want to kiss you.”

The angel’s heart thumped. His entire being – his earthly form, his inner self, whatever he was and however he existed - stopped. For a very long time he processed what had just been presented to him. At a certain point, good manners made him attempt to say something, but Crowley held up a hand.

“I know. It’s why I paused time.” He shoved the hand back into his pocket. He was willing to wait.

Aziraphale said finally, very quietly, the thing that passed through his mind every time he dared let his thoughts wander to such indiscretions. 

“That would change things, you realize.”

Crowley shrugged. “Things are always changing.”

He saw Crowley’s eyebrows raise over his glasses in expectation of an answer. 

Part of him wanted to rail against the demon for being so unfair – even the voicing of such a thing in the frozen space between them had moved the needle inexorably past the critical point. Part of him wanted to laugh it off, as so often they did when things became a bit too tense. Yet another part wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, pretend that nothing had changed, and demand that the dear boy simply stop being ridiculous, and get on with the day.

But none of those parts of Aziraphale ended up having any say in the matter.

“Alright.”

The air around them seemed to hum slightly as Crowley, his companion for 6,000 years, gave no immediate reaction. Then he moved in that smooth, sly, easy way he did, flowing closer to him, then orbiting in a slow and measured pace an ever-tightening circle around him. Aziraphale could feel his eyes on him as he completed his circuit, Crowley coming to rest standing face-to-ever-so-close-face with him. Aziraphale feel his cheeks grow hot, his heart pound as if to leave his chest, dash it all, but he couldn’t find the strength just then to augment these infernal human reactions.  

Crowley reached with his right hand and ran it up Aziraphale’s cheek. He would have closed his eyes to concentrate on the feeling if he wasn’t so focused at not missing what was directly before him. Leaving etiquette in the dust, he watched. He knew Crowley almost as he knew himself, he realized. The sharp edges of his jaw, the fine lines around his mouth, his warm breath and his hidden eyes. Knew his humor and his anger, his buried emotions and his brash exterior. He yes, knew his smell of leather and smoke, and he knew there were still secrets he didn’t know.

Like the way it would feel when he ran his fingers over his temples to brush a wisp of hair over his ear.  Like how patiently he’d lean in, with a little tilt to his head, to hover a mere wren’s-breath from Aziraphale’s lips. And how gently and effortlessly he closed that final gap and kissed him slow and soft, like clouds. Or snow.

Aziraphale felt blessed.

“You know I’ve thought about that?” Crowley whispered, like a feather brushing through the air, “You. What you’ve done to me.”

“My darling,” Aziraphale said, not really caring for words at the moment and drawing him back in. He spread his hands wide over Crowley’s back as he pulled him into another kiss. His hands ran up the back of his neck, through Crowley’s hair, dancing across his scalp until any remaining tenseness of the demon melted into a moan.

That moan was the sweetest thing the angel had ever tasted.

It was like the crack of dawn. A shooting star. Like the snap of a delicate biscuit. And Aziraphale consumed it and was desperate for more. Their bodies clutched together, Crowley breathing heavily as he kissed down the side of Aziraphale’s face, down his neck, nestling his nose into the space between his collar bone and shoulder. And they held each other.  

“Supposed we’d better get a move on,” Crowley mumbled finally.

“Mmmm, yes,” Aziraphale mused. “Possibly to be continued after lunch?” He gazed at him and furrowed his brow. “Oh my dear, your hair!” He reached to attempt to brush the wild ruddy mess back into some sort of shape, but Crowley stopped him.

“Leave it,” he said, “I think I like it this way.”    

-

*Footnote: (Spoken of John Muir, founder of the Sierra Club, in 1911) His blue eyes flashed, and with his Scotch accent he replied: "...People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike! Do you know the origin of that word 'saunter?' It's a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, "A la sainte terre,' 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them.

[transgenderboobs]

a/c 14?

14. Kiss on the neck

y’all really know the way to my heart

Crowley’s got mixed feelings about winter these days. He used to hate it; he’s never been overly fond of the rain or the wind or just the cold in general. He’s not sure if it’s the serpent in him, or the demon in him, or maybe if he’s just not a person who holds up well in cold weather. Either way, over the past six millennia he’s always had a preference for the summertime.

But, see, now he’s got the cottage, and all the thick blankets and fires built the human way in a rough brick hearth and cups of hot cocoa and thick knitwear he still won’t admit he loves that comes with it. 

Now he’s got Aziraphale, so really, he’s got plenty of ways to warm up, and that has really done wonders for his opinions of the winter months.

He still doesn’t like the cold, but loves the ways he’s found to chase it away, so it all comes up close to a draw.

Nights like these, when the wind rattles the cottage’s shutters, and rain from off the ocean pounds the roof, tend to tip him closer towards dislike, but he’s trying to turn things around. 

He’s gone through every room in the cottage, looking for one blasted thing, but the angel keeps his things in such disarray it’s a near impossible task.

Crowley gets why Aziraphale likes the clutter, he does. He saw heaven, and, jeez, talk about cold. To this day Crowley will shiver in the middle of a heatwave when the memory hits him. It’s empty and impersonal. It reminds him of an abandoned day trading office. Worst of all, it’s loveless. Crowley knows a thing of two about feeling loveless, so he truly can’t begrudge the angel for filling every nook and cranny of their home with things he loves.

It’s just that when he’s looking for one blasted sweater that he swears he saw on the back of the armchair in the study just earlier today he can’t help the string of obscenities that rest neatly on the tip of his tongue as he rummages around through pile after pile of centuries worth of things trying to find the bloody thing.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice from the doorway pulls Crowley from his thoughts. “I was just heading to bed,” he continues, “are you planning to come up anytime soon?”

Crowley checks the time and scrunches up his nose. Later than he thought. “Yeah, sure,” he answers, “just looking for something. Be there in a sec.”

Aziraphale hums. “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.”

“Er,” Crowley’s cheeks go warm. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. I’ll find it.”

Crowley’s distinctly not looking at Aziraphale, but he hears him approach anyway. A second later a hand on his lower back stills him. “My dear,” Aziraphale says, resting his chin on Crowley shoulder, “You can just tell me.”

Crowley bites his lower lip. “Uh,” he says, rather eloquently. 

Aziraphale does not make anything any easier by pressing a soft kiss to Crowley’s jawline. “I know that tone of voice, Crowley,” another kiss, feather light, to Crowley’s neck this time. 

Crowley almost shivers, bless it all. If the angel keeps up like this, there’s a low chance of Crowley even remembering what he’s looking for. He’s struggling to recall his own name at the moment.

“It means it is important, and you just don’t want to admit it.” He kisses the junction between Crowley’s neck and his shoulder, just shy of his collar bone. His hand slips around to hold onto Crowley’s hip, and, fuck, it’s been over a year of this and he still nearly fucking blacks out. “Please just tell me?”

Crowley swallows. “Nnh. Just. Uh. That old sweater you were wearing last week. Y’know, ratty old beige thing you got in the nineties. Saw it on the armchair earlier.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Dear, I put that in the wash.”

“You—” Crowley blinks, turns to face Aziraphale, frowns. “Angel. I’ve been looking everywhere for, like, an hour. You could’ve mentioned—”

“Maybe I would have mentioned something if you’d told me you were looking for it in the first place—”

“Okay, okay,” Crowley cuts in. He can still feel the ghost of Aziraphale’s lips on his pulse point, he’s not in the mood to bicker. “Truce. It’s in the wash. That answers that. I can come to bed now.”

Aziraphale softens, accepts the olive branch, settling back down and giving Crowley’s hip a little squeeze. “If you’d like to wear it, I’m sure I could persuade the dryer to finish up a bit early.”

Crowley leans in, steals a lightning quick kiss from Aziraphale and shuffling a few steps closer to his husband so he can properly invade his personal space. “Nah, s’fine. You can keep me plenty warm instead.”

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. “Oh, I can, can I?”

Crowley lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “If you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale gives him another kiss, this one lingering for one second, then another, and a blissful third before he pulls away. “I’d be happy to, my dearest love.”

[dlwritings]

Call Him Hers | Dean Winchester | pt 8

series masterlist found here

general masterlist found here

pairing - Mark-of-Cain!Dean x plus-size!reader word count - 3,100 warnings - language, violence, knives

summary - Just when they think they’re good to head home, (Y/N), Charlie, and the Winchesters find a piece to the puzzle they didn’t realize they were missing.

(previous) (next)

(Y/N) and Dean woke up to a knock at their door. Neither of them got up even though they were both awake. Dean pulled her closer to his chest and nuzzled his face in her neck. She sighed contently and wiggled closer to him, too drowsy to notice the morning wood Dean was sporting. When the knocking persisted, she sighed and pushed herself out of bed. Dean quickly adjusted himself in his boxers as he sat up and watched her walk over to the door. Sam and Charlie both burst in, and (Y/N) jumped back. “Jesus,” she mumbled. “What’s going on?”

“There was another kill,” Sam said. “We missed something.”

“Fuck,” she said, waking up quickly. “Was it another vamp?”

“Either that or a human decided to try sucking their friend like a juice pouch” Charlie said. (Y/N) gave her a look that silently said, Really? and Charlie just shrugged.

“So what’s our play?” (Y/N) asked, walking over to her suitcase to pull out some clothes to wear for the day.

“I say one of you stakes out the pool house again, see if we missed something,” Sam said. “I’ll check out the morgue, Charlie’s gonna talk to the police, and then one of you can snoop around Chris’ place.”

“Okay,” she said with a nod. “I’ll go to Chris’.”

Everyone moved quickly, trying to make up for the time they lost sleeping. (Y/N) was mad. She thought killing Chris was her ticket out of town, but now she was right back in. All she wanted was to head back to the bunker and forget that this trip ever happened. Instead, she found herself hotwiring a car and heading off to Chris’ house.

Chris was single and had no kids. It made sense that he would become a vampire for some sense of family. Then again, he had said the same thing about her. She shook the thoughts out of her head as she pulled up to Chris’ house. She got out of the car and moved quickly to Chris’ front door. He lived in a shabby area of town, so there weren’t any neighbors with prying eyes. She used her lock pick to get inside and shut the door quickly behind her.

Her footsteps echoed through the house, and she got a weird feeling being there. She pulled her gun out of her pants and held it at the ready, walking silently and checking around corners. She found Chris’ Macbook and logged on, hoping he had it connected to his phone. He did, so she was able to see his text messages. She saw the person he had been texting when they were at the pool house, and she felt her stomach drop. Just as she fumbled for her phone to call Dean, she heard someone behind her. She stood up and came face to face with Bryan.

“You know, you weren’t exactly the one I hoped I’d find here,” he said, circling her with a taunting smile. “I was really banking on one of those Winchester boys.”

“Chris said the rest of his nest died,” she said, gripping her gun tightly. Bryan eyed her gun and raised his eyebrow.

“Why don’t you put that down, and we can talk,” Bryan said. She considered ignoring him, but she knew her gun wouldn’t do her any good anyway. She wasn’t carrying vampire poison bullets. What an idiot. She put her gun down and slid it towards Bryan.

“So the rest of the nest,” she said, holding her hands up. “Not dead?”

“Nope, the others are dead,” Bryan said. “But I’m still kicking. I told Chris to tell you all we were gone.”

“So what’s your MO?” she asked. “You live here. You can’t kill the whole town.”

“See, I always told Chris not to go after the locals,” Bryan said. “I always go after the tourists. I stock up on their blood until the next round comes again. When I’m out, I take a little trip with the wife and pick up some outsider blood. Going after the locals draws too much attention. Chris was a newbie. He didn’t get it.”

He circled her, and she made sure she never had her back to him. “I’m just trying to live my life, (Y/N),” he said. “I’ve always just been trying to live my life.”

“You’re killing people,” she said back.

“It’s what I do,” he said with a shrug. “We’ve all gotta live.”

“Monsters like you don’t get to live,” she said back.

“You know, you’re really intimidating when you have no way to defend yourself,” he said. She clenched her jaw. She had an angel blade in her coat, but she wasn’t sure she was fast enough to get it out and gank him with it. He was stronger than Chris had been, and she didn’t know if she’d be able to hold her own if he decided to attack. “I’m sorry this had to go down like this,” he said. “This wasn’t my intention. After Amanda, I was going to tell Chris to stop. But then, once he stepped in-”

“He?” She hated when people played the pronoun game.

Right on cue, footsteps were heard, and Shawn walked into the room. She opened her mouth to say something, but Shawn blinked and revealed a black set of eyes. She immediately reached for the angel blade, but Shawn whipped her against the wall. She tried to stand up, but Shawn flicked his wrist, and she felt a sharp pain in her ankle. “That’s a sprain,” Shawn said, walking closer to her and crouching in front of her. “I can make it a break if you don’t cooperate.” She spat in his face, and Shawn clenched his jaw in anger.

“Shawn wasn’t always like this,” the demon said, wiping his face and standing up. “I know you’re wondering. No, I got in here long after he cheated on your sorry ass. Demons love possessing people who are already douchebags.” He grinned a moment. “Even now, Shawn’s just laughing it up. He always loved seeing you in pain.”

“So why’re you here?” she asked, still trying to figure out how to get out of the situation.

“Well,” he said, “when I heard there were vampires in Dewey, I thought it was perfect. Because, you see, I knew you’re from Dewey, and I knew you’re all buddy buddy with the Winchesters, and I also knew you and the Winchesters have this, this savior complex. You just can’t turn down a hunt.” She clenched her jaw. “You’re their achilles heel, (Y/N). Dean may not have the hots for you, but he and his brother would die for you in a second. So now, we bide our time and wait for them to find you.”

“What do you do when they find you?” she asked.

Shawn smiled. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Bryan fished in her pocket for her phone, and she reached out her leg (the one without the sprained ankle) and kicked him hard in the shin. It was a dumb idea, she knew, but she was running out of options. He kicked her in the stomach, and she groaned and wrapped her arms around her torso. Bryan got her phone out and harshly slapped her ass just because he could. He handed the phone to Shawn who swiped and unlocked it. She cursed herself for never giving it a password. Another rookie mistake. He scrolled through her contacts and called Dean, smiling as he put the phone on speaker.

“You find anything?” Dean asked as soon as he picked up.

Shawn scoffed. “Not even a hello, Dean? Where are your manners?”

Dean was silent for a beat. “Who the hell is this?”

“I’ve got (Y/N) here,” Shawn said, avoiding Dean’s question. “(Y/N), why don’t you give your hubby a little hello?” She clenched her jaw and sighed.

“I’m alright, Dean,” she said, knowing he probably cared about that more than anything.

“Now,” Shawn said before either she or Dean could say anything else, “I’m here at Chris’ house, and I’ve just been dying to meet you and your brother. So I’ll send you the address, you boys can meet us here, and we’ll let (Y/N) live another day.”

“He’s a demo-”

Bryan stepped on her wounded ankle, and she shouted out in pain. “You keep your hands off her!” Dean shouted on the other end of the phone.

Shawn laughed. “Well then you boys better hurry.”

Dean hung up the phone and immediately called Sam. “What’d you find?” Sam asked when he picked up.

“A demon’s got (Y/N) at Chris’ house,” Dean said. “He’s asking for us.”

“Both of us?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I don’t know what the game is, but he’s threatening to kill her. We gotta go.”

“Okay, let’s just think this through-”

“No Sammy!” Dean shouted, jogging to his Impala. “There’s nothing to think through. Whatever they want, we give it to them, alright? Nothing is happening to her because of me. Where are you?” Sam rattled off the address.

“I’ll call Charlie,” Sam said. “We can have her bust in after us and catch ‘em off guard. They didn’t ask for her?”

“No,” Dean said.

“Okay,” Sam said. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

Dean was glad (Y/N) was able to get out part of the word demon so he knew what he was walking into. When he pulled up to where Sam was, he also jogged around to the trunk to get out the demon knife. “I told Charlie the plan,” Sam said. “She’s already on her way over.” Dean didn’t respond, too focused on getting the knife and getting back in the car to get to her as quickly as possible. When both brothers were in the car, Sam said Dean’s name.

“I’m going to break your jaw if you keep talking,” Dean said.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Sam said. “She can hold her own. You know that.”

“They were doing something to her, Sam,” Dean said. “She was screaming. I don’t like this.”

The rest of the drive was silent.

(Y/N) jumped when she heard someone kick down the front door. Dean was holding the demon knife while Sam had an angel blade. Dean went to charge at Shawn, but both men were immediately thrown against the wall. Bryan laughed as he watched them struggle. (Y/N) wished she could do something, but she felt utterly useless. “You alright, (Y/N)?” Dean asked with a strained voice.

“‘M fine,” she said back.

“How cute,” Shawn said sarcastically. “Dean really does have a sweet spot for you.”

“So what do you want with us, huh?” Sam asked. “You working for Crowley?”

“Crowley’s a coward,” Shawn said. “90% of the time he’s so far up your Winchester asses, he can’t find his way out.”

“So what’s this about?” Sam pressed.

“Frankly?” Shawn said. “We want you, dead.” He pointed at Sam with a smile. “But Dean, well, we want him back.”

“You sound like a whiney ex,” (Y/N) said. Bryan kicked her again -this time in the face- and she had to spit blood out of her mouth.

“Stop fucking touching her!” Dean shouted with as much strength as he could muster.

“The power that mark gives you is unparalleled, Dean,” Shawn said, walking closer to him. “So I’m going to take you back with me, and you’re going to go back to doing our dirty work.”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Dean said, “my eyes haven’t been black for almost a year. Why the hell would I work with you?” Shawn’s smile widened as if he was hoping Dean would ask that.

“Because,” Shawn said slowly, “if you don’t go with us-” He walked back over to (Y/N) and lifted her head by her hair. She whimpered and closed her eyes. “-what do you think is gonna happen to your girl over here? Hell, she almost makes you weaker than Sammy.”

“It’s okay,” she breathed out, looking at Dean with tears in her eyes. “Don’t do-” Shawn lifted her up and pinned her to the wall with his hand, squeezing her throat tightly. She could feel her eyes rolling back, but she tried to stay awake. She needed Dean to stay strong. Her life was not worth him going to the dark side again.

“Stop!” Dean shouted. Shawn turned to him again, and just then, the door burst open and Charlie charged in. Shawn dropped (Y/N) as Charlie took a few steps towards Bryan and sliced his head off with her machete. While Shawn was looking away, (Y/N) used all her strength to kick him in the nuts, hoping that was a pain he’d still feel. It did enough for him to lose focus and drop Sam and Dean. While Dean immediately rushed to (Y/N)’s side, Sam grabbed his angel blade and stabbed Shawn in the chest.

(Y/N) was slumped to the ground. She was still slightly gasping for breath, but mostly her throat was sore from the tears she was trying to hold back. “Hey, hey, are you okay?” Dean asked, crouching in front of her and putting his hand on her chin.

“S’just my ankle,” she said. Dean looked down at her foot.

“Does it hurt when I do this?” he asked, gently pressing her ankle. She hissed.

“Well it doesn’t feel good,” she said through clenched teeth.

Neither (Y/N) nor Dean were paying Charlie and Sam any attention, so they were oblivious to the way they were silently watching the pair talk. Dean stroked (Y/N)’s hair and hung his head. “I’m so sorry this happened,” Dean said.

“It’s no big deal, Dean,” she said.

“You were in danger because of me,” he said. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

“I know what happens when I talk to a Winchester,” she teased. “I know what I signed up for.” Dean frowned, and she reached out and put her hand on his cheek. She lightly scratched his beard like she had last night, and a small smile appeared on Dean’s lips. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m okay.” Dean sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Charlie and Sam shared a look that went unnoticed by Dean and (Y/N).

“Alright,” Dean said. “C’mere.” He lifted her up and carried her in his arms..

“Dude,” she said. “Put me down. It’s a sprained ankle not a broken leg.”

“Would you just shut up and let me take care of you?” Dean asked. (Y/N) huffed but zipped her lips, knowing that she’d lose the fight in the end. Dean smiled and kissed her forehead again. He brought her into the Impala and helped her into the front seat. Charlie and Sam got in the back. They drove back to the hotel to pack up their stuff and check out. A part of (Y/N) was a little bummed she wouldn’t get to say goodbye to Nicole, Stephanie, and even Jennifer.

What a weird existence.

Dean insisted that she stay in the car while he go pack up their hotel room. Frankly she was feeling tired and didn’t care enough to protest. She knew she’d fall asleep on the way home, and she could already feel her eyes fluttering closed.

When Dean checked out at the counter, he ended up running into Jennifer. “Hey!” she said. “Where’s (Y/N)?”

“Oh, she slept pretty bad last night,” Dean said. “She’s in the car, probably knocked out already. We’re actually heading out.”

“Oh, I’m bummed I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she said with a genuine frown. “Would you tell her it was good to see her?”

“For sure,” Dean said. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” she said. Just as Dean turned away, Jennifer said his name again. “(Y/N) really loves you, you know that right?” Dean furrowed his eyebrows. What was she getting at? “There’ve been rumors going around,” she said slowly, “that your marriage isn’t-” Dean cut her off with a sigh, not in any mood to have this conversation. “I’m not saying I believe one thing or another,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying, whatever you have seems pretty real to me.”

He felt his shoulders drop a bit, growing a bit less defensive. He knew the tips of his ears were turning pink. “Have a good one, Jennifer,” he said. Jennifer gave him a small smile and a nod, then waved as he walked away.

When Dean got back in the car (Y/N) was already asleep. He hated the feeling in his chest when he saw her. Hated how much he ached for her to be his. Hated how he couldn’t count the number of times he had fucked up his chances with her. Hated that, no matter how many times he told her he loved her, she’d never really believed him. And sure, he allowed himself to imagine scenarios in which he told her how he felt -really told her- but the vulnerability scared him. Just like the vulnerability he felt when he held her as they slept. The idea of that kind of vulnerability scared him. He knew who he was with this mark, and he wasn’t a good man. Even if she believed that he truly felt that way about her -which, knowing her, she wouldn’t really- why would she want him?

Sometimes, he swore she loved him the way he loved her. When Chris was trying to hurt her at the pool house, all Dean could feel was the hope of her returning the feelings he had for her. And he wasn’t oblivious to her lingering glances, but -not to sound conceded- a lot of girls looked at him like that. There were never real feelings behind them. He guessed he was just alright to look at. But he didn’t want that to be why she was looking at him. He wanted her to have something more behind her stares.

Maybe it was just time he grew the fuck up. Life was short, and today was just another reminder of that. What would he have done if she had died and he never told her how he felt? He wasn’t sure he’d ever be the same. Dean wasn’t good at love. Didn’t know how to accept it. Didn’t always know how to show it. What he did know was he was dying to truly call her his.

----- ----- ----- -----

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[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #354

“swimming through the void, we hear the word  /  we lose ourselves, but we find it all”

The last time you washed your hair, did you use conditioner? I never do. My hair is naturally pretty oily, and conditioner just adds oil to it. Do you prefer light or dark jeans? Dark. I never liked light-hued jeans. When you listen to music, do you generally sing along, or just listen? I almost always just listen. Do you have any of your exes as friends on Facebook? Yes. Who was your first love? Do you ever miss that person? My first "real" boyfriend. I always do to varying degrees. How many cars are parked at your house right now? Just one. Do you have any Italian ancestry? No. Do you prefer water to be ice cold or at room temperature? The colder, the absolute better. I can barely stomach drinking water that isn't cold, like literally. Has anyone ever told you you’re a control freak? No. Do you know anyone who has gone missing? If so, were they ever found? I don't think so, anyway. What was the spiciest thing you’ve ever eaten? A certain hot sauce on the wings I used to get at Buffalo Wild Wings. It was close to the top of their little heat rating thing. It made me feel awful, and yet I enjoyed it still?? I think it was an adrenaline thing. I only get medium sauce now; I'm more interested in enjoying my food than feeling like I'm eating fire. Do you need to talk to someone? I'm ready for my therapy appointment honestly, but it's not 'til the start of June. Mom and I both don't want to go through the process of finding a new one, so I've chosen to just suck it up and wait. Is something confusing you at the moment? I'm always confused with myself and my feelings. When was the last time you had a real deep chat? Real deep, I'm sure that would've been during PHP. Who did you last see on webcam? My former group therapist. I miss him a lot and really wish he could treat me outside of the program, but he doesn't do that. :/ What’s your best friend’s pet’s name(s)? Doris, Martha, Crowley, Little Dot, Jane Marie, Buster, Beesly, Winter, and I believe only one of the fish is named: Raisha. Have you ever taken a picture while laying in the grass? No. Who’s your favorite Disney character? Dory, probably. Have you ever deliberately tried to get someone drunk? What the fuck, no. When was the last time you used a pay phone and who were you calling? I've never used one. Do you like being kissed on the neck? Whoa now buddy, we better be kind of serious by then for you to do that because it doesn't end "well" lmao. Have you ever had sex with someone you weren’t dating (but had feelings for) in the hopes that they would ask you out later? I almost deleted this question because I didn't want to answer it, but I try to leave more unique ones in, so... whatever. I haven't. But I would for "somebody." What’s the most you would be willing to spend on a good bra? Ugh, my relationship with bras is a hellish one because NONE FUCKING FIT ME CORRECTLY. Mom's tried so, so many places, so many different stores online and in-person, and even if the bra fits in the front, it won't go around my back comfortably. I guess my body is shaped weird, I don't fucking know, because I have literally ZERO bras that don't aggravate me. At some point, I'm going to some woman Mom knows who can size me properly and therefore buy some that don't piss me off. All that to say I'd actually pay more than the usual, but not a ridiculous price. Do you have any of your teachers’ personal cell phone numbers saved in your contacts list? My old Physical Science teacher, who is actually now a very close family friend and our landlord, is in my phone. Do you ever stalk peoples’ personal blogs, even if you don’t know them very well? No. What’s one thing about today’s generation that you just can’t stand? How ungrateful they can be. Be honest: how do you feel about abortion? I am pro-choice. Is there anyone you currently want to reach out to? There's a lot of people, actually. Old friends I miss. What is your favorite piece of art you own? It... sounds cocky, but it's probably the drawing I did in high school of Pyramid Head and the Halo of the Sun intertwined. I worked my fucking ass off and I'm extremely proud of it. What’s the one thing you apologized for this month? Hm. Probably just something minor, like bumping into Mom or something when passing her. My favorite color is ______? Pink, specifically pastel pink. I wish I had _____? A job. What did you buy today? Nothing. What has challenged your morals? Life, my dude. Live and learn. What made you pick up the last book you started reading? It's the sequel to the last book I read. What about your life concerns you the most? Concerns me, my physical health, especially just how weak my legs are. I'm terrified of them continuing to deteriorate. What do you find particularly offensive? Would you say you’re easy or difficult to offend? I cannot fucking stand the misuse of the word "retarded." Like just keep your damn mouth sewn shut if you have the audacity to say things like "hurr hurr this driver is retarded." ANY mental illness/condition is NOT to be mocked. Onto the next question, I'd say I'm more towards difficult to offend. It really depends on the topic. What was the last series you finished watching? Do you have any plans to begin another? I re-watched Fullmetal Alchemist w/ Sara. We're working on Avatar: The Last Airbender too, but I won't resume watching it again until we can do it together. What is one way in which you are different from a year ago? What is one way in which you are still the same? Well, I weigh a lot more. .-. I gained back almost all the weight I shed since quarantine started, and I'm forever fucking furious about it. I'm the same in most other ways. If you could learn about anything without the stress of grades or cost, what kind of classes would you take? Uhhhhh meerkat behavior? Idk. Name a song you’ve listened to today? I've got Halocene, Lauren Babic, and Violet Orlandi's cover of "Aerials" by System of a Down on loop right now. It's fucking gorgeous and so mesmerizing. When you were younger, did you have a swing set or a playhouse in your backyard? We had a small playhouse with swings and a slide. Is your mall nice? GOD no. You better accept the possibility of getting shot before you walk in there. There's nothing that cool at all there. Do you have a Sonic near you? If so, what’s your favorite drink from there? Yeah. I love the strawberry slushy, and the Reese's Blast thing if KILLER. Will you be voting in the presidential elections next time around? Yes. How do you feel about chocolate-covered strawberries? GOOD. STUFF. Did you ever stop having feelings for someone and then started having those feelings again for them? I think so. Do you hate the last guy you had a thing with? No, he's my closest guy friend. To whom did you last give the finger? Probably some idiot that ran a red light. I'm sure it happened in the car, whenever it happened What was the last musical instrument played in your presence? I've got no clue. Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream? No, I hate the texture difference. And just sprinkles in general. Honestly, have you ever crashed a party before? No. Do you know how to do the moon walk? No. Has anybody ever told you that you have a good singing voice? Yeah, but I beg to differ. Onion rings or french fries? French fries. I'm not a big fan of the other. Has anybody ever described you as a heart breaker? Nope. Has anybody ever told you that you talk too fast? When I'm excited, yes, it happens sometimes. Who is the best cook that you know? Uhhhhh idk. Which meal throughout the day do you skip the most? I don't really skip meals. What’s the largest amount that you can juggle at one time? I can’t juggle at all. What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid? Swings. I'd dash to those at recess to try to actually get one. Do you know how much you weighed at birth? How much? All I know is six pounds, no clue on the ounces. Which aspect of your daily routine takes the most time? What do you do? Sitting my ass at the computer, really... I don't exactly do much. Do you enjoy buying gifts for others, or could you do without this? It feels sucky of me considering whenever I do get someone a gift, it's because Mom is letting me use her money with me being without an income, BUT I still do LOVE the process of thinking of something meaningful for those important to me and hopefully seeing them love whatever I got them. I cannot wait until I actually can do that regularly. What is one thing you are expected to do, if anything? Take care of my pets. How do you tend to view driving? Monotonous or entertaining? I hate driving because you're in a speeding box of death, man. I do really want to start working towards my license though; I've long since reached the "enough is enough" point. But first I need new glasses so I can actually see five feet in front of me. Do you enjoy talking about music with others? Yeah! Is acting something you enjoy? No. I'm too awkward about it. When do you feel most accomplished? When I finish a big art pierce. Do you think Manwich is amazing or completely gross? I like 'em. Just messy, which I'm not a fan of. How many best friends do you have? One. Are you a smoker, drinker, pothead or none of the above? None of the above. If you have your ears pierced, when did you get them pierced? I don't remember exactly, but I was a kid. Do you own any exercise machines? No. I wish. On Facebook, do you have people listed as your siblings who aren’t really your siblings? Nah, but I used to do that. Have you ever drawn or painted a self-portrait? Painted, but only because it was a school assignment. Who was your last voicemail from? I don't get voicemails because mine isn't even set up. Have you ever been falsely accused of something serious? No. Did you ever set up a lemonade stand when you were a kid? No. When was the last time you spoke to someone in a different language? Not since I was taking a test in high school for my German course. My teacher was a Germany native, so she was a total pro and fun to learn from. Have you ever received an anonymous gift? No. Have you ever camped out somewhere for an event the next day? No. That's always sounded miserable to me. When were you the saddest in your life? 2016 was fucking miserable. Do you know anyone, personally, who is in an abusive relationship? Are you? I don't know if it's abusive, but it's toxic and dysfunctional as HELL. I don't know WHY she keeps going back to him, I feel awful for the woman. I'm definitely not, 'cuz I wouldn't tolerate that shit for half a second. If you have siblings, have they moved out or do they still live with you? They've both moved out by now. Have you ever gotten searched by the cops? Yes, as a safety protocol with mental illness stuff. Do you like fried rice? Yes. What was the last thing you drank? Would you believe me if I told you I have water right now?

[spooky-raccoon]

Road Trip (Finale-Part 14)

The finale!  Part 14 of Road Trip!

Rufo x Female Reader

Bold is Rufo’s Perspective

Non-bold is Reader Perspective

Tag List: @the-clown-crypt​ @chii2blog​ @booklover2929​

         I heard Albert walking around in the early hours of the morning and I figured I’d give him a little bit more time.  He could be a bit of a sourpuss in the morning depending on the day.  I was already wired from my now empty thermos of coffee and knew he would need his few cups too to get started.  (Y/N) seemed to be doing alright from what I could tell so I slipped out to take a bathroom break and see if he needed help with anything.  He had me help with breakfast.  Both of us were quiet as we cooked away.  The stress of the day was already so thick in the air that I could cut with the butter knife I was using on some toast.  

        Albert finally spoke though.  “After we all eat, I’ll start getting the living room ready.  You and her freshen up.  And Cecil.”

        “Yeah Albert.”  I looked over to him from my simple task.

         “I’ll need some of your blood for some of the symbols I put on her. You and her have a strong connection so it’ll help keep her anchored.”

        “Whatever you need Albert.”  I perhaps sounded more groggy and the yawn I let out didn’t help.

         “You didn’t sleep a wink did you?”  Albert said without missing a beat as he started to slice oranges for orange juice.  The man knew me well.  I couldn’t help but chuckle as I went to flipping the eggs.

        “No.  Not a single wink.  Been too wired after yesterday and what almost happened.”

        “Can’t say I blame you Cecil.  I’ve seen what this sort of thing does to someone.  It’s not pretty.  Not even your hands would have stopped what would happen if you were alone or still at that hospital.  Angry spirits get what they want after all and they don’t care how.  You know that very well.”  There was a hint of a smile on his face that I caught out of the corner of my eye.

       “I had a little bit of help.  Even the greatest escape artists has a great assistant behind the scenes.”

        “And it’s been one of the best investments I’ve ever made, Cecil. I consider you a friend besides just someone who works for me. You know very few have that title.”

       “Albert, I think you need more coffee.”  I cracked a smile, a genuine one since a few days ago.  “Either you’re still tired or you’re getting just a bit mushy in your old age.”

       “If that was the case I would be goo a long, long time ago.” Albert let out a chuckle while we wrapped up breakfast.  “Now, go make sure she eats and then we’ll get started.”

        I grabbed the plates he offered to me along with another cup of coffee for myself.  I probably didn’t need it after the thermos, but I have a hard time saying no to a good cup of coffee.  I didn’t really touch my food.  Instead I made sure she ate, and she seemed fine as she took each bite.  Almost like the other day didn’t happen and she didn’t almost spew some too powerful spirit energy from her mouth.  She was still like a limp doll but that would change soon. Soon she’d be back to normal and she would smile with that sparkle in her eyes.  She would hug me tight and I’d hear her voice again.  We could take silly pictures again on her phone and I can take her to diners when I go to bring her home.  I cupped her cheek and gave her a feather like kiss on her lips then looked into her eyes.  I hope she could see right back into mine.

       “We’re gonna get you right as rain (Y/N).  It’ll be alright soon.”  I knew she couldn’t answer me back, but I just wish she could say something.

       With a heavy sigh I scooped her up into my arms, bridal style, and made my way with her to the living room.  The furniture had already been pushed to the sides and Albert was busy drawing a variety of symbols on the floor in chalk.  For now he had me set her down on the couch.

       “Your hand Cecil my boy.”  He held out his hand and I offered mine to him.  “This will hurt just for a brief moment.”

       “Don’t worry about me Albert.  Not the first time I’ve been cut up.”

       Albert chuckled before grabbing one of his knives he had at the ready and gripped my wrist.  He made a few quick cuts and the blood that came from them he gathered in a small bowl. I had already healed as he knelt down by (Y/N) and collected some of hers.  Did it irk me a little as I watched the knife cut her next?  Maybe but I had to remember it would help.  I watched as he mixed the two together and pour in a mix of various concoctions.  I didn’t understand what he was doing but I didn’t need to.  As long as it got her back.

       “Lay her in the middle Cecil.”  He gestured and I did as instructed.

        He got beside her once more and with a small paint brush he started to paint symbols on her visible skin.  I was almost mesmerized as he made sure he got each one right.  I could barely hear him start to mumble under his breath, but he was saying some sort of chant.

       When he covered most of her chest that's when the screaming started. It wasn’t like the ones I heard in that run-down cabin that were hers.  No. These were like a beast got its leg stuck in a trap and was being stabbed by hunters.  She started to thrash, and Albert barked at me to get her pinned down.  I could barely hear him over the howling, but I moved.  I had her arms pinned down and he positioned himself to sit on her legs though she still managed to rock us both around.  That’s when I saw a light come from her mouth.

        “Albert!  Hurry up!” I moved quickly so my knees were keeping her arms down so my hands were now free to clamp her mouth shut.

        “Haven’t had anything so feisty in a while.”  I could hear Albert mutter as he dropped the brush and opted for a knife instead.  “She won’t like this but right now I don’t think she gives a damn.”  With her shirt hoisted up he started to cut into the flesh of her stomach more symbols and he spoke more words in forgotten languages. As he chanted he yanked my hands away just in time for her mouth to open and a series of orbs came from her mouth that flew around the room and fizzled away.

      The strange growls that were coming from her suddenly died down and I watched as her eyes came back into focus on the world around her.  I moved off her arms and stayed to her side, my hands going to cup her cheeks.  Her skin felt so hot and after the strange clamminess it had felt not an hour ago I was relieved.  She looked so exhausted and like she was about to pass out.  Though I couldn’t blame her if she did right there.

       “Doll?  Talk to me (Y/N).  Let me know it’s you and not some rube in there.”  I didn’t mean to sound hopeless or to beg but after everything I just wanted to see her back to normal.

       “Rufo?”  My throat felt sore, almost like I had been on roller coaster all day and screaming the whole ride.  “Where.. where am I?”  I tried to sit up, but my body felt stiff and weak.  Rufo moved to help me up and I saw a man standing in front of me.  Looking around I could see a bowl of a red liquid and then there was a pain in my stomach.  When I looked down I saw weird symbols etched into my skin.  “What the fuck happened to me?”

       “You, my dear, got caught in something nasty when you played hero for our dear Cecil.”  The man went to gather the items that were around.  With the things put away he offered me a hand for a handshake which I took.  He had a firm grip though I expected as much from a man who was built like a middle-aged truck driver.  His eyes seemed friendly, but something was off in them.  “Albert Miles.  You can call me a longtime friend of Cecil’s.”  His hand let go of mine and he helped Rufo get me up onto my feet then sitting down on the couch when we realized my legs weren’t ready just quite yet. “He brought you too me after the little incident with Crowley in the cabin.  It’s a good thing he did, or you certainly would have been lost.”

       “I don’t know how to thank you but, well, thank you.”  Rufo put a blanket around my shoulders which I held tighter onto me before grabbing something to clean my cut into stomach.

       “No need for thank you’s (Y/N).  It’s not often Cecil brings a friend over so I’m happy to help.”  There was that smile again that almost sent chills down my spine, but I smiled back at him.  His eyes went to Rufo who now slipped an arm around me.  “You two clean up then get some rest for a few days before heading back.  And take your time to bring her home.  We don’t need anything to be rushed.”  With that Albert turned on his heel and walked toward what I saw was most likely the kitchen.  “I’ll make us a lunch.  Exorcism’s always leave me hungry.”

       Lunch passed with a blur and the rest of the day followed suite.  Seeing the smile on Rufo’s face was the main thing that was consistent though.  Even as he helped me shower or get into bed there was always a smile on his face.  Albert had been a kind host and I found myself thanking him maybe a little too much as he and Rufo were getting the car ready for the drive.

       “Now, now (Y/N), I’m happy to help.  Besides, Cecil and I have an agreement so I’m always pleased when we can both benefit from it.”  Albert handed me a small leather satchel.  I could hear the clanking of vials inside as I took it.  “There’s some medicine in here in case you start to feel a little off.  There may be some aftereffects but keep up with it and you’ll be just fine.  Only a few sips each time mind you.”

       “Thank you, Albert.  For everything.”  I managed one final thank you before Rufo ushering me to the car.  We both gave Albert a wave goodbye and we were off.

        The drive was mostly quiet but the occasional song singing and light chit chat.  It was almost like nothing happened, but I knew Rufo was keeping an eye on me.  I could see from the corner of his eye how often it would flick over to me.  He even reminded me a few times to take the medicine before I realized I needed it.  It was good to be back again though I had questions.

        “What happened after I hit you out of the light?  I only remember pain and then not being here.” We were sat in a diner, far from others though it wasn’t exactly busy.  Rufo raised a brow while he was taking a mindful chew from his burger.

       “Crowley and I immediately took you to a hospital.  I was too angry to go inside so he took you in. We realized this was something regular treatment wouldn’t fix so he had me take you to Albert.”  He leaned back in his seat as he spoke, and he fiddled with his glass in his free hand.  “I honestly expected him to try to fight me while he had the chance but seems you said the magic word that turns that little switch in him when you just lost consciousness of yourself.”  He could see my confusion clear on my face and there was a small smile on the corner of his lip.  “You said one little word.  Please.”

       I sat there for the rest of meal, both a little confused and thankful. To be fair, a lot of this strange world I was exposed to left me very confused ever since Rufo revealed his clown face to me.  Even when Crowley first sat down across from me at that small diner and warned me about Rufo.  Maybe one day I’d get the answers about some things but for now I was ready to wrap up this vacation and get back home.

       It was almost nice to get back into my town and then to see my small home on the block coming into view.  Rufo pulled into the driveway and despite me saying I could get it, we spent a few minutes getting my things either in the house or in the garage where I could take care of it later.  The whole time though there was an odd look on his face.  He looked almost lost and perplexed.  When the last of it was put away we found ourselves standing in my driveway.

       “(Y/N) promise you’ll take care while I’m gone.”  His hands rested heavy on my shoulder and my gaze went up to his face.  He was already looking down at me.

        “I promise, Rufo.  Don’t worry too much about me.  Promise me that you’ll take care as well.”  That made him crack a bit of a smile.

       “Oh, don’t worry about me doll.  I’m hard to get rid of.”  His brows raised, eyes widening a bit like he remembered something, and he quickly reached for something in his pocket.  “I, well, I got this for you for when you woke up, but it slipped my mind to give it to you then.  I wanted you to recover and rest first.”  He slipped out a small box and he handed it over to me.  

        “Rufo, you didn’t need to get me anything.”  He slipped it into my hand, a move insisting I take it regardless my protests.  With everything that’s happened and how he’d been, I couldn’t really say no.  I opened it and revealed inside the lovely locket inside.  “Rufo, it’s beautiful.  Thank you.” I went to flip it open to make sure the hinge worked properly, and I saw a picture of the two of us inside.  The selfie from the cliff.

         “Albert must have put that in.”  Rufo chuckled and I could see him shaking his head.  “He’s always been a sly man.”

        “I’ll have to thank him again another time.”  Rufo slipped the necklace from my hand and helped me put it on.

       “I need to get going.  I promise to come back.”  Rufo’s eyes roamed over my face like he was trying to make sure he remembered every little feature.  “And when I do, I’ll take you on another trip and I’ll show you all the best sites out there. Coney Island, every fun little museum and we’ll do anything else you want.”

        “I’d like that a lot, Rufo.”  My hands went to hold the back of his neck and we shared one last kiss.  It was deep and I felt my heart skip wildly in my chest.  Everything in me didn’t want to let him go but I knew he couldn’t stay.

       I felt my heart sink as he gave me one last smile before turning and walking down the street.  I watched him until he was a speck on the horizon.  

 A FEW WEEKS LATER

        Rufo had been gone for a little over a month now and he kept in contact when he could.  Usually always by a different phone number but it was always nice to know he was both doing well and to just hear from him.  He always said he’d be back soon though it felt like it would take longer and longer.  Either way, I’d be patiently waiting.  Our last conversation he was nearly all the way across the states but the good news he was almost done with his job.  Almost.

        The next morning I found myself sitting at the dining table with breakfast fresh on the table.  And then a knock on the door.  Usually the newspaper delivery boy just hit the door but perhaps he was trying a different approach.  I got up, still in my pajamas and somewhat messy hair, and answered the door.

        “Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes doll.”  Rufo in his human look was there and he had a duffel bag in hand. “Miss me?”

       “Rufo!”  The duffel bag fell to the ground as I nearly tackled the man to the ground, and he had to quickly grab me.  “You’re here!”

        “I had to lead you on a little bit.  I needed to make sure you were surprised when I came back.  I think it worked pretty well, don’t you think?” He let out a laugh and he smiled down at me.  “Finish what you were doing and get ready to go.”

        “Where are we going?”  A look of confusion replaced my excitement but that only made him smile even wider.

        “Just on a little road trip.  I got it all planned out and set up for us.  It’ll be a blast (Y/N).”  He grinned before planting a gentle kiss on my smiling lips.  

       I used to ask myself if I would have agreed all that time ago if I would still let the man at the gas station into my car when he asked for a ride. As we drove down some random highway in the back way of somewhere that question popped into my head once more.  The answer has always been yes.