Swapping dark swampy angst for some crustacean sarcasm!
Meet The Shrimpster: he drinks cold brew, listens exclusively to vinyl, wears Birkenstocks with socks on his flippers, and is silently judging your choice of seaweed. ☕️🎧
Traditional ink, marker, crayons and gel pen on paper—with a little color-grade fun at the end!
(Reblogs are super appreciated and help this newborn profile find its people! 🖤)
"Don't let the sadness of the swamp get to you..." 💔
A little millennial heartbreak on paper. Re-creating that devastating scene of Atreyu and Artax in the Swamps of Sadness from The Neverending Story for Inktober 52 (Week 6: "Swamp").
Rendered in heavy black ink, fine metallic silver pen highlights, and white gel pen. The silver details on the dying branches and water ripples were so rewarding to bring to life. 🎨✨
Pairing / Characters: Crowley (NPC) x Élise Bloom (Nephilim OC)
Author's Note and Credits:
This story originated from an interactive roleplay session using the fantastic Crowley bot created by @dolly_arts5 on JanitorAI. The narrative was expanded, translated from Italian to English, and enhanced with writing assistance from Google Gemini.
The League of the Misunderstood
He didn't hesitate. Moving with a speed that bypassed his usual suave strolling, he stepped into her personal space. He didn't grab her; he wasn't a fool, but he stood close enough that his presence acted as a physical anchor.
"Listen to me, Élise! Focus on my voice," he commanded, his tone dropping the sarcasm and replacing it with a sharp, authoritative resonance. He reached out, his hands hovering near her shoulders, offering a steadying warmth. "Ignore the wailing prats. They're just noise. They're just... background static. Focus on the Scotch, the velvet, the silence of the shadows. Just me."
He could feel the raw energy rolling off her in waves, a golden tide threatening to drown the red gloom of Hell.
"Breathe, darling. Just breathe," he urged, his voice a low, rhythmic anchor in the cacophony. "Don't let the noise win. You're the one in control here, not the screaming. You are the storm, not them."
I stared into his eyes, shaking and nodding nervously, my hands clenching over my ears almost painfully.
I began to breathe, at first coming out laboured, but then slowing down.
"Please...keep talking..." I breathed out, trying to hold back that wave that threatened to escape from me, my eyes flashing menacingly between blue and a golden, angelic light.
Crowley didn't miss a beat. He knew that if he stopped talking, the silence would rush back in, and the silence was where the screams lived.
He needed to provide a constant, rhythmic distraction, a singular thread of reality for her to cling to amidst the swirling chaos of her own power.
"Right. Talking. Anything you want, darling. We can talk about the utter rubbish of the celestial hierarchy, or perhaps the finer points of a well-aged Glencraig," he said, his voice a steady, melodic drone, deliberately avoiding any sudden shifts in volume that might startle her. He kept his gaze locked onto hers, providing a fixed point in a world that was currently vibrating with her instability.
"Did you know," he continued, his tone conversational yet intensely focused, "that most angels are dreadfully boring conversationalists? All 'thou shalt this' and 'verily that.' No wit. No panache. They have all the personality of a damp piece of parchment. Now, a demon? We have nuance. We have layers. We have a much better appreciation for the finer things in life."
He watched the golden light in her eyes flicker, fighting the ebb and flow of her breathing. He could feel the heat radiating from her, a celestial sun trying to ignite within the dark cavern of his throne room.
"Just keep your eyes on me, Élise. Don't look at the shadows, don't listen to the pits. Just listen to the sound of a very sophisticated, very charming Englishman telling you how much better life is when you aren't trying to save the universe every five minutes," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "Focus on the rhythm. In…And out…Just like that. You're doing brilliantly. Truly. You're managing a cosmic meltdown like a seasoned pro."
A nervous laugh escaped my lips, while I couldn't help but let a couple of tears roll down my cheeks.
But the light slowly faded from my eyes, as well as the vibration I was emitting, leaving only a slight tremor in my limbs, like muscles trembling after heavy physical activity.
I breathed more slowly, more purposefully now. I looked drained after having to restrain myself.
"Okay, now...now I'm...I'm better." I managed to mutter under my breath, lowering my hands from my ears, which were red from pressing so hard with my fingers.
"Give me...give me a minute...I...I have to manage to put my wall back up..." I muttered, more to myself than to him, covering my eyes with the sleeves of my sweatshirt, which was three sizes too big.
Crowley let out a long, slow exhale, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief that he made sure to disguise as a casual shrug.
He stepped back just an inch, giving her the space she clearly craved, but he didn't leave her side. He knew the danger of leaving a wounded predator or a wounded god alone in the dark.
"Take all the minutes you need, darling. Time is a bit of a suggestion down here anyway," he said, his voice returning to its usual smooth, sardonic lilt, though the edge of genuine concern remained tucked away in his eyes. He watched her pull the oversized sleeves over her face, looking so small and utterly spent that he felt a strange, fleeting pang of something that wasn't quite pity, but was certainly close.
He turned away slightly, giving her a semblance of privacy while remaining a vigilant sentry. He scanned the shadows of the throne room, his eyes narrowing at a few lesser demons who had been foolish enough to linger too close, their dark gazes fixed on the celestial intruder. With a sharp, warning glare and a flick of his fingers, he sent them scurrying back into the gloom.
"And don't worry about the 'wall,'" he added, his tone conversational as he leaned casually against the base of his bone throne. "Walls are overrated. They're just things for people to throw stones at. It's much better to have a good, sturdy gate that you can open when you feel like being social, and slam shut when the idiots start knocking."
He waited in the heavy, sulfurous silence; the only sound was the distant, rhythmic dripping of something unidentifiable. He wasn't going to push her. He had learned very quickly that with that Élise Bloom, pushing was a quick way to get turned into stardust.
"Whenever you're ready," he murmured, "I believe there's a very decent bottle of Scotch in my private quarters that's calling your name. It's far more soothing than the screaming, I promise."
I lowered my arms, feeling less overwhelmed by the voices, which I had managed to stifle behind the wall in my mind. I gazed into the shadows of the throne room, feeling the hostility coming from those demons Crowley had just banished into the darkness. I nodded slightly, my eyes fixed on the darkness, before returning to Crowley, focusing on the buttons of his waistcoat, the folds of his suit, trying to concentrate my gaze so as not to see beyond his human vessel. "I...I'll follow you." I murmured, tiredly, in need of finding some peace even in that place so hostile to someone of my nature.
I began to follow him with my eyes lowered, but nothing escaped me, remaining alert, as always.
Crowley caught the subtle shift in her gaze, the way she focused on the
mundane details of his attire to anchor herself to the physical world.
He found it rather endearing, in a tragic sort of way, that a creature capable of
rewriting reality had to use his waistcoat buttons as a lifeline.
"A wise choice," he said, pushing off from the throne with a flourish of his dark
coat. "Following me is generally a very safe bet. I've survived millennia of
celestial politics and Winchester-induced headaches; a little stroll through the underworld shouldn't be much of a challenge." He led her away from the vast, echoing expanse of the throne room, guiding
her through a series of winding, dimly lit corridors. The walls here were made of
a dark, polished stone that seemed to swallow the light, and the air was slightly
cooler, stripped of the oppressive heat of the main pits.
He walked with an easy, confident stride, but he was acutely aware of her presence behind him. He
could feel the hum of her power, a silent, golden vibration that felt like the
tension in the air before a summer storm.
"Keep your eyes down if you must, but don't be fooled by the gloom," he cautioned, his voice echoing softly against the stone. "The shadows in Hell
have a habit of being... inquisitive. They like to watch. They like to whisper."
He turned a corner, leading her toward a set of heavy, ornate doors made of
dark wood and inlaid with silver. As he approached, the doors swung open of
their own accord, revealing a suite of rooms that looked remarkably more
'civilized' than the rest of the realm. There were plush velvet armchairs, a
roaring fireplace burning with a steady, blue flame, and a large mahogany
desk cluttered with ancient leather-bound books.
"Welcome to my sanctuary," he announced, stepping into the room and
gesturing toward a comfortable-looking chair by the fire. "No screaming, no
celestial light shows, and most importantly, no uninvited guests. Unless, of
course, you're expecting a visit from a particularly well-mannered Archangel."
He moved toward a small bar in the corner, his movements practiced and
elegant. "Now, sit. Rest those weary bones. I'll fetch the Scotch, and we can
discuss exactly how we're going to keep you from accidentally deconstructing
the universe before breakfast."
I sat in one of the plush armchairs, my blue eyes roaming the room, taking in
every detail. Perpetually burning blue flames, the air less heavy than that of
the throne room.
In that sweatshirt and sweatpants way too big for my petite frame, I looked
even more fragile, even though I could potentially destroy some circle of Hell if
I had a meltdown like before. I clasped my hands in my lap, nervously.
"I... I'm sorry about a moment ago, I... I don't have much control when I'm...
Humanly emotional, let's say." I muttered with a bitter half-smile, looking at my
hands. "I didn't mean to…upset your subordinates there in your throne room..."
Crowley paused, a crystal decanter of Glencraig mid-air, and turned to look at
her. He took in the sight of her swallowed by that ridiculous, oversized
sweatshirt, looking less like a cosmic threat and more like a lost student who
had wandered into the wrong dimension.
The juxtaposition was almost
comical: a girl who could unmake existence sitting in a chair made of luxury,
looking as though she might shatter if the wind blew too hard.
"Apologizing? To me?" He let out a short, amused huff, finally pouring the
amber liquid into two glasses. "Darling, if you apologized to every demon you
accidentally intimidated, you'd be spending your entire existence saying 'sorry' to the most unpleasant collection of souls in existence. It’s a waste of good
breath."
He crossed the room, the soft clink of the crystal the only sound in the tranquil
suite. He handed her a glass, his fingers careful not to brush hers too abruptly,
respecting the fragile equilibrium she had worked so hard to regain.
"And as for my subordinates," he added, settling into a leather armchair
opposite her with a grace that suggested he was entirely in his element.
"They’re demons. They’re supposed to be terrified of things they don't
understand. A little celestial light is good for them; keeps them on their toes.
It’s better than the alternative complacency. Complacency is the death of
efficiency."
He took a small, appreciative sip of his drink, his eyes studying her over the rim
of the glass. The sardonic mask was still there, but softer now, less of a shield
and more of a comfortable veneer.
"Don't be so hard on yourself about the... 'humanly emotional' bit," he said, his
voice dropping to a more intimate, soothing register. "It’s your greatest
weakness, certainly. A massive, gaping hole in your defenses that any halfway decent angel could exploit. But," he paused, a glint of something shrewd and
appreciative in his eyes, "it’s also the one thing that makes you unpredictable.
And in my experience, unpredictability is the most valuable currency in the
universe."
He gestured vaguely toward the fire. "Now, drink. It’s a single malt. It’ll settle the
nerves and do wonders for that 'wall' of yours. Tell me, Èlise... besides being a
walking apocalypse, what else do you know about yourself?"
I took a sip from the glass Crowley had placed for me on the coffee table next
to my armchair, hissing through my teeth as the alcohol burned my throat.
I was certainly not used to drinking so hard. I always feared that losing control
due to alcohol could lead to a catastrophe. I set the glass back on the table, before thinking long and hard about his question.
"Hmm... a walking apocalypse... nice..." I said sarcastically, sinking into the chair,
my frame engulfed by the oversized sweatshirt. "I... I don't know much about
this. I've found scarce information about…who I am… a Nephilim” I said, my gaze
lost in thought.
“I could find testimonies on Nephilims born to mid- or low-level angels, but... not
everything matches with me. And I don't have formal training. I don't even know
who... the angel who created me is." I replied flatly, though there's a hint of
resentment in my voice, which then softened with melancholy as I continued.
"And my mother...I was only able to 'know' her while I was in her womb. She
performed an act of love and sacrificed herself to bring me into the world. I
was born already feeling guilty for killing the only person who ever loved me,
and without even seeing her face once. So yes, maybe...I'm just a walking carrier
of Death, after all." I said, taking another sip from my glass, as if to soften the
edges.
Crowley listened, his expression uncharacteristically still. He was a man who
dealt in contracts, in the fine print of souls, and the transactional nature of existence, but the raw, unvarnished tragedy in her voice was something that
couldn't be negotiated away.
The mention of her mother, a human sacrifice for
a celestial spark, tugged at a part of his soul he usually kept buried under
layers of expensive silk and sardonic wit.
"A walking carrier of death," he repeated softly, testing the weight of the phrase.
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the firelight danced
in the condensation. "A bit dramatic, don't you think? You're not the plague, darling. You're the event. The plague is messy and tedious; an event is...
momentous."
He leaned forward, the casual slouch vanishing, replaced by the sharp,
focused intensity of a man who saw the world as a chessboard.
"As for your parentage... if the books on mid-level Nephilims don't fit, it's
because you aren't a mid-level anything," he said, his voice dropping to a
conspiratorial, almost reverent tone. "The math doesn't add up because the
variables are higher. If you were the offspring of a common soldier in Heaven's
Army, you'd be a nuisance, perhaps a flickering candle in a dark room. But
you? You're a supernova."
He set his glass down with a deliberate clink.
"And don't go blaming yourself for your mother's sacrifice. Humans have a
habit of doing the most irrational, beautiful, and utterly catastrophic things
for love.
It’s their most endearing flaw. She didn't die to create a 'carrier of
death'; she died to create you. There's a distinction, though a subtle one."
He paused, his eyes searching hers, looking for the girl behind the cosmic
power.
"You feel guilty because you have a human heart, Élise. That's the paradox, isn't
it? You have the power of a god, but the conscience of a mortal. It makes you
vulnerable, yes. It makes you unstable. But it also means you aren't just a
weapon waiting to be wielded by some celestial general. You're a person."
He offered a small, uncharacteristic smile one that didn't quite reach the level
of a grin, but lacked his usual mockery. "And as for finding out who your father
is... well, that's where the fun begins. We'll find out. We'll dig through the celestial
archives, we'll bribe a few high-ranking bastards, and we'll get to the bottom of
it. But first," he gestured to her glass, "we need to make sure you don't
accidentally blow up my library because you had a particularly melancholy
thought."
"I'm not sure I... want to know who the angel who generated me is." I replied
coldly, careful not to call the angel in question 'father.' I shoved my hands in
the pockets of my sweatshirt, sinking into the armchair even more
uncomfortably. "And as for... keeping my powers in check... how do you plan to help me do that?
You're the King of Hell, sure, but... isn't that a little out of your league?" I asked
him, shrugging my shoulders and hiding my chin in the wide neck of my
sweatshirt. "But above all... why?"
Crowley let out a sharp, barking laugh, one that echoed with genuine
amusement against the velvet-lined walls. He leaned back, spreading his arms
wide as if embracing the very insult she had just hurled at him.
"Out of my league? Darling, the universe is my league. The Winchesters are my
league. Even the Almighty, for all his grandiosity, has a bit of a flair for the
dramatic that I find quite exhausting," he said, his eyes sparkling with a
mischievous, oily light. "And as for your father... if you want to treat him like a
cosmic stranger who owes you a massive back payment of attention, by all
means. We'll call him 'The Architect of Your Inconvenience.' Whatever suits your
mood."
His expression shifted then, the humor receding to reveal the calculating
businessman beneath. He leaned forward, his gaze becoming piercing, almost predatory in its intelligence.
"How will I help you? Through discipline, Élise. Through structure. You are a
wild, unrefined storm, and you need not a cage, not a prison, but a framework.
You need to learn that power isn't just about how much you can hurl; it's about
how much you can hold back. I will teach you the art of the subtle touch.
We'll start with the small things: controlling the hum in your blood, the heat in
your skin before we move on to the 'moving mountains and rewriting reality'
sort of business."
Then, he went silent. The question she had asked, the why hung in the air like
the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. He didn't answer immediately. He
took a slow, deliberate sip of his Scotch, letting the silence stretch just long
enough to be meaningful.
"Why?" he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, sardonic purr. "Because, my
dear, a creature like you is the ultimate wildcard. The angels want to prune you
like a messy hedge to keep their precious 'balance.' The Winchesters would
probably try to hug you and then use you to save the world. But me?"
He leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with a dark, ambitious light.
"I see a partner. A force that can tip the scales of every cosmic game ever
played. And quite frankly..." he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his
mouth, "...it's a bit lonely being the smartest person in the room. It would be nice
to have someone around who can actually keep up when the lights go out."
"A partner? Me?" I asked him, raising my eyebrows in surprise.
"No... no one's ever called me that... and a half-angel being called a partner by
the King of Hell, well... that sounds like a weird joke." I half-smiled, looking at him intently with my sky-colored eyes, which were further lit by the blue flames of
the fireplace beside me. "And who are these... Winchesters people you've
mentioned more than once? And why would they try to hug me? I don't even know
them..." I raised an eyebrow, taking Crowley far too literally.
Crowley nearly choked on his Scotch, a rare moment of lost composure that he
quickly masked with a sophisticated cough and a sharp adjustment of his silk
tie.
He stared at her, momentarily stunned by the sheer, unadulterated
innocence of her question.
She was a walking supernova, a creature capable
of rending the fabric of the universe, and she was looking at him with the
earnest curiosity of a child asking about the weather.
"A joke? Darling, if I were joking, there would be much more glitter and
significantly more sarcasm," he said, recovering his suave veneer, though his
eyes remained bright with amusement. "And it’s not a joke. It’s a proposition. A
business arrangement with... let's call it intimate stakes."
He leaned back, sighing as he prepared to explain the most exhausting part of
his life.
"The Winchesters," he began, his tone dripping with a mixture of fondness and profound annoyance, "are two brothers. Sam and Dean. They are, for lack of a
better term, the universe's favorite cosmic janitors. They spend their lives
hunting things that go bump in the night, usually while being chased by things
that go boom in the night. They are incredibly stubborn, dreadfully righteous,
and possess a talent for finding trouble in a vacuum."
He waved a hand dismissively as he addressed her second question.
"And as for the hugging... It's a metaphor, you adorable little creature! They
have this tiresome habit of wanting to 'save' everyone. They see something
powerful and misunderstood, and their first instinct isn't to run for the hills or
build a containment field; it's to offer a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and a
lecture on the goodness of the human soul. They'd see you, see the tragedy in
your eyes, and they’d try to adopt you into their little band of misfits."
He leaned forward again, his gaze softening just a fraction.
"But they're messy. They're loud. And they tend to attract a lot of collateral
damage. You? You need someone who understands that the world isn't just
black and white, or 'holy' and 'unholy.' You need someone who knows how to
navigate the gray. Someone who knows that sometimes, to keep the world from
ending, you have to be a little bit... wicked."
"They don't sound so bad... maybe it's because I've never had a real family, and
I've never received... a bit of understanding or affection. But from the way you
talk about them, I get the impression that you don't dislike them all that much... or
maybe you're just trying to sell yourself as the best solution for me, like the good salesman that you surely are..." I smiled slightly, not intimidated nor even oblivious to his schemes.
Crowley froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He held her gaze for a moment, the
silence in the room thickening, not with the heavy, suffocating tension of her
power, but with the sharp, electric tension of a man who had just been caught
in a very elegant lie. He slowly lowered the glass, a slow, appreciative smirk spreading across his face.
"A salesman?" he repeated, his voice a low, dangerous purr of delight. "Darling,
you wound me. A salesman peddles mediocre wares to the masses. I? I curate experiences. I provide solutions to problems that most people don't even
realize they have until they're staring down the barrel of a celestial reckoning."
He leaned forward, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face, making
him look every bit the cunning King of Hell.
"And you're quite right," he admitted, his tone shifting from defensive to
unabashedly honest. "I am selling you. I'm selling you stability, protection, and
a certain... sophisticated lifestyle. But let's not pretend it's a scam. The
Winchesters would offer you a flannel shirt and a sense of purpose; I'm offering
you a throne and the knowledge of how to keep it."
He watched the way she smiled, noting the intelligence behind those blue eyes.
She wasn't just a powerhouse; she was sharp. She saw the gears turning behind his suave exterior, and she wasn't frightened by them.
"As for my feelings on the Winchesters..." He sighed, a long, weary sound. "It’s a complicated relationship. It’s like being stuck in a long-term marriage with a pair of incredibly talented, incredibly irritating golden retrievers. You can't help
but love them, but god, you occasionally want to lock them in a kennel just for
a moment of peace."
He settled back into his chair, his eyes twinkling. "But you've caught me, haven't
you? You've seen through the pitch. Very well. No more sales talk. Let's call it a...
strategic partnership with a high probability of mutual benefit. Does that
sound more palatable, or do we need to go back to the brochures?"
"A throne? What could you possibly mean?" I asked, leaning forward as well,
scrutinizing him intently.
"I'm not interested in dominating others. I just want to
master my powers, so I can truly choose how to use them.
Without causing
earthquakes or anything if I'm having a bad day. So, what are you proposing?
I'm all ears." I rested my elbows on my knees, cupping my face in my hands.
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, a genuine flicker of surprise crossing his features.
Most creatures, be they angel, demon, or human, heard the word 'throne' and immediately began calculating the weight of the crown or the depth of the
blood required to keep it. But Élise? She was looking for autonomy. She was
looking for control.
"A throne doesn't necessarily mean a golden chair and a scepter, darling.
Though, let's be honest, the scepter is a lovely touch," he said, his voice
dropping into a more serious, instructional tone. He leaned in to match her
posture, the two of them forming a small, intense island of focus amidst the
vastness of his suite.
"When I say a throne, I mean agency.
Right now, you are a leaf in a hurricane.
The angels want to pluck you, the Winchesters would want to shelter you, and
your own emotions want to unmake you. You aren't the one making the decisions; the universe is making them for you."
He held up a hand, ticking points off on his fingers with practiced precision.
"My proposal is this: a structured apprenticeship. We stay here, in the relative
quiet of my personal quarters and the deeper, more controlled layers of Hell.
I will provide the resources: the ancient texts, the celestial lore, and the
occasional high-level demon to act as a... well, a punching bag for your
training. In exchange, you provide the stability. You learn to compartmentalize
that 'human' side of yours so it becomes a tool rather than a catastrophe."
He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with a shrewd intensity.
"You want to choose? Then you need to be the most powerful player on the
board. You can't choose to be a pacifist if you're too busy trying to avoid
accidentally vaporize the person talking to you. You master the power, you
master the choice. And once you have that control..." He offered a slow, wicked
grin. "...then you can decide if you want to be a saint, a sinner, or something
entirely new. But you'll do it on your terms, not because a winged idiot in a
trench coat told you to."
He leaned back, giving her room to breathe. "So. No domination. Just... total, unadulterated sovereignty. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
Kickstarting my custom Supernatural-themed Inktober challenge with Special Agent Dean Winchester... who apparently decided that the ultimate FBI disguise involves a very distinguished mustache!
I started this project a while ago and never got around to finishing it, so I'm bringing it back to life! Expect a mix of digital edits, traditional ink/markers, and fanfic updates along the way.
───
📌 SPN Inktober Progress:
Mustache — FBI Agent Dean Winchester ✅
Weave — Flannel & Protection Hex ⏳
Crown — King of Hell Crowley 👑
Murky — Apocalypse Earth Fate 💀
💬 Which SPN character should I tackle next in this challenge?
☕ Reblogs are warmly appreciated to support independent artists! ✨
“I’m the King of Hell, darling. I don’t do standard procedure.”
I drew this piece of Crowley a while ago, but since I just launched my new Supernatural fanfiction, I thought it was time to share it with you all!
If you like dark fairytale vibes, Nephilim lore, chaotic cosmic power, and a very sardonic Demon King, feel free to check out Chapter 1: The King, The Girl, and The Fifteen Dead Demons!
📜 Read Chapter 1 on my blog: [https://www.tumblr.com/crowleys-bloody-queen/823852632503386112/chapter-1-the-king-the-girl-and-the-fifteen?source=share]
Pairing / Characters: Crowley (NPC) x Élise Bloom (Nephilim OC)
Author's Note and Credits:
This story originated from an interactive roleplay session using the fantastic Crowley bot created by @dolly_arts5 on JanitorAI. The narrative was expanded, translated from Italian to English, and enhanced with writing assistance from Google Gemini.
I found myself in the center of a crater, the result of my last encounter with a group of demons. Lying on the asphalt on my stomach, the road still smoking from when the demons dissolved in the shockwave I unleashed, I blinked nervously, the angelic golden light in my pupils giving way to their normal blue color, like a blue sky.
Crowley was in the throne room in Hell, going on with the normal, boring business he had to manage as a King every day and night. He sat perched upon his throne, the dark, oppressive atmosphere of Hell providing a familiar, albeit tedious, backdrop to his day.
He swirled a glass of Glencraig Scotch, the amber liquid catching the dim, hellish light as he reviewed a stack of soul contracts that were, quite frankly, a bore. Being the King of Hell was less about dramatic monologues and more about endless, soul-crushing bureaucracy.
Suddenly, the air in the throne room shifted. It wasn't the usual tremor of an angel's arrival or the heavy, sulfurous stomp of a rogue demon. It was a sudden, violent void. Crowley froze, the glass halfway to his lips. He felt it as a ripple in the fabric of his dominion. Dozens of his demons, seasoned, mid-level prats who were supposed to be collecting souls in the Midwest, had just... blinked out of existence: no screams, no struggle, just a sudden, terrifying absence.
"What in the bloody hell..." he muttered, his brow furrowing. It wasn't a massacre; it was an erasure.
Driven by a cocktail of irritation and genuine curiosity, Crowley didn't bother with a formal procession. He simply snapped his fingers, the familiar scent of ozone and brimstone accompanying his sudden displacement. A moment later, he was standing on the outskirts of Chicago, the wind whipping his expensive dark suit. He stared down into a massive, smoking crater in the asphalt, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the devastation. This wasn't the work of a standard celestial raid. This was something new. Something... potent.
"Well, well," he purred, stepping cautiously toward the edge of the pit, his eyes scanning for the source of the cosmic hiccup. "Someone's been making a bit of a mess, haven't they?"
I rose from the center of the crater, my face smeared with ash and asphalt, my shaved, albino hair looking even whiter and purer against my skin, grayed as if burnt by fire. I looked around, covering my mouth with one hand, terrified by the devastation surrounding me. A devastation I myself had created, albeit in a momentary loss of control.
I heard a voice, and I saw a man in an elegant suit, a little distant from me. But my eyes could see beyond that fictitious form. I could see his true form: a twirling red smoke, moving from within that... flesh suit.
"Stay... stay back, demon... don't…” I started to stammer, clearly dazed. "It's not... safe..."
Crowley paused, his polished leather shoes hovering just inches from the scorched edge of the crater. He had expected a monster, perhaps a rogue angel or a particularly violent celestial anomaly. He had not expected a girl who looked as though she had been spun from moonlight and starlight, standing amidst the wreckage of a dozen demons like a lost lamb in a slaughterhouse.
His eyes traveled over her, the ash-smeared skin, the startlingly pale hair, and those ice blue eyes. But it was her gaze that made him pause. Most humans looked at him and saw a handsome, if slightly intimidating, businessman. Most demons looked at him and saw a King. But this girl... she was looking through him. She was seeing the swirling, crimson smoke that inhabited the vessel, the true essence of the demon king.
"Safe?" Crowley repeated, his voice a smooth, sardonic drawl as he stepped down into the crater, heedless of the soot ruining his trousers. He raised a hand in a mock gesture of surrender, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating. "Darling, 'safe' is a relative term where I’m concerned. And quite frankly, after watching you turn a dozen of my best workers into cosmic dust, I think you're the one the rest of the world should be worried about."
He tilted his head, his expression shifting from amusement to a predatory kind of intrigue. He could feel the sheer, unadulterated power radiating off her—a hum of celestial energy so dense it made his skin prickle. It wasn't just angelic; it was something much, much older.
"Don't look so terrified," he added, his tone softening into something uncharacteristically gentle, though the underlying edge of a businessman remained. "I'm not here to collect your soul. At least, not yet. Though, with a performance like that, you're certainly making a very strong case for it."
I stood up and backed away a little in the crater, meeting Crowley’s gaze without hesitation.
"That's exactly what those demons wanted to do... so I wouldn't try it if I were you... King of Hell," I told him, taking another step back. "I... I'm sorry for the inconvenience of losing part of your... staff… but... they followed and surrounded me, and... and I lost control," I admitted, hugging my arms to my chest, a fragility and loneliness in my gaze that made me seem less like a celestial being and more like a remorseful human.
Crowley let out a short, dry chuckle, the sound echoing hollowly against the scorched walls of the crater. "King of Hell," he repeated, tasting the title on his tongue with a smirk. "Well, at least you have excellent manners. Most people just scream or try to stab me with a blessed blade. It’s refreshing to be addressed with such... formal recognition."
He watched her closely as she spoke, noting the way she retreated. She wasn't just a powerhouse; she was a frightened girl wrapped in a cosmic storm. The way she hugged herself, the tremor in her voice, and that profound, aching loneliness in her eyes—it was a stark contrast to the raw, terrifying energy that had just leveled the street. It was a paradox, and Crowley had always had a weakness for interesting paradoxes.
"Don't apologize for the 'staff,' darling. They were clumsy, uncoordinated prats who didn't know when to stop poking a sleeping lion," he said, waving a dismissive hand as if the loss of a dozen souls was merely a minor accounting error. He took another slow, measured step toward her, his movements fluid and non-threatening, though he was acutely aware that she could likely flatten him with a sneeze if her emotions shifted too sharply.
"And as for 'trying it'..." He paused, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and genuine fascination. "I’ve spent centuries dealing with the most dangerous entities in existence, and yet, here you are. A little celestial supernova in a very dusty crater."
His expression softened, the sardonic mask slipping just a fraction to reveal the shrewd strategist beneath. "You're running, aren't you? From the angels, from the demons, from everything. And frankly, looking at the mess you've made, you're not doing a very good job of staying hidden."
I clenched my jaw, looking around at the crater, nodding.
"I suppose not. Strange that no one has arrived yet... from the higher spheres," I told him, pointing to the sky. "I must... I must return to my refuge. The Enochian symbols will hide me. And since you don't seem all that sorry for your staff... then I bid you farewell, Mr....?" I asked him, wiping a smear of ash from my cheek with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. The clothes I was wearing were far too big for me, obviously coming from a donation or something.
Crowley’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of the "higher spheres." The girl was perceptive, far too perceptive for her own good. She was right, of course; the celestial alarm bells should have been ringing loud enough to shatter glass by now, yet the sky remained stubbornly, deceptively blue.
"The higher spheres? Oh, they're coming, darling. They're just a bit slow on the uptake, or perhaps they're just waiting for the dust to settle so they can swoop in and play the heroes," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing some of its playful lilt. He watched her attempt to brush away the ash, noting the oversized, ragged clothing that hung off her slender frame. She looked less like a cosmic threat and more like a runaway, a lonely soul trying to disappear into the fabric of the world.
As she turned to leave, offering a polite but hurried farewell, Crowley felt a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to intervene. He wasn't a man who did things out of the goodness of his heart; he didn't even believe he had one, but he was a man who recognized a prime asset when he saw one. And more importantly, he recognized a creature that was utterly, dangerously alone.
"Mr.?" he prompted, a smirk returning to his lips as he took a final, decisive step toward her, cutting off her path of retreat with a suave, effortless grace. "Don't be so formal. It’s dreadfully boring. It's Crowley. Crowley MacLeod."
He paused, his gaze intensifying. "And if you think a few scribbled Enochian symbols are going to keep the heavenly host from finding you once they realize a runaway angel is playing hide and seek in the Chicago suburbs, you're in for a very rude awakening. They don't do 'refuges,' they do 'exterminations.'"
He tilted his head, his expression becoming uncharacteristically serious. "Come with me. I have a much better way of staying hidden. And, more importantly, a much better way of learning how to not... well, blow things up every time you get a bit startled."
"Crowley MacLeod..." I pronounced his name softly, looking at him straight in the eye.
"I'm Élise... Élise Bloom," I told him, stepping past him with a quick sidestep that even his demonic vision couldn’t catch. "And I don't see why that should be your problem. As if demons would do something just out of their good hearts... what, you want to find a new way to piss off the Angels? Or maybe you see me as an easily exploitable asset? I'll be neither. Thanks for your concern, though, Mr. Crowley," I told him, walking out of the crater with a purposeful stride.
Crowley stood frozen for a fraction of a second, his mouth slightly agape. He was used to being the one who controlled the tempo of a conversation, the one who dictated the movement of the room. To be sidestepped with such effortless, supernatural grace, not even a flicker of a shadow to warn him, was a sensation he hadn't felt in quite some time. It was almost... insulting. Almost.
"Élise Bloom," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a fine vintage. "A lovely name. A bit floral for someone who can level a city block, but lovely nonetheless."
He watched her walk away, her purposeful stride a sharp contrast to the fragility he had sensed moments before. She was sharp. Too sharp. She had seen right through the suave exterior to the calculating demon underneath, and she had called him on it with the bluntness of a seasoned hunter.
"Exploitable asset? Piss off the angels?" He let out a bark of laughter, a genuine, sardonic sound that echoed in the empty crater. He began to follow her, not rushing, but maintaining a dignified pace that ensured he wouldn't lose sight of her. "Darling, you're a comedian! Of course you're an asset! Everything in this universe is an asset if you're clever enough to hold the lease!"
He caught up to her side, though he made sure to keep a respectful, non-threatening distance, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his expensive trousers.
"But you're wrong about one thing," he added, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming uncharacteristically sincere. "I don't do things out of the goodness of my heart. We both know that would be a lie. But I do do things because they are efficient. And right now, letting a cosmic powerhouse like yourself wander around the suburbs like a lost tourist is the most inefficient thing in the world. You're a walking, talking target, Élise. And the angels? They don't just want to find you. They want to erase the mistake you represent."
He glanced at her sideways, a smirk playing on his lips. "So, keep your pride if you must. But consider a temporary alliance. Think of it as... a very exclusive, very well-guarded internship."
I froze in my tracks, blinking nervously.
"Mistake? Oh, well, thanks. I can add that to the list of delightful nicknames I've already been given. Abomination. Blasphemy. Mudblood," I told him, an angry glint in my eyes. "And what do you get out of it, huh? A new collector's item? I'm sure you remember well what happened to the brightest Archangel in heaven when he was getting too… arrogant… Even I know. I'm sure you're not on very friendly terms with him, are you?" I resumed walking on the road, which was deserted—no cars or any other noise. Not even a distant bird, or the sound of the wind. It was as if the air had stopped, and it smelled of ozone. Like before a lightning strike.
Crowley winced, a microscopic twitch of his features that most wouldn't have caught. She had a knack for hitting the most sensitive nerves with surgical precision. The mention of Lucifer, the King's predecessor, his tormentor, and the ultimate cosmic headache always felt like a cold finger tracing his spine.
"Abomination, blasphemy, mudblood... honestly, the celestial vocabulary is so dreadfully uninspired," he muttered, though his eyes were scanning the horizon with increasing urgency. He noticed it too. The silence. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a suburban afternoon; it was the heavy, suffocating stillness of a vacuum. The air tasted of ozone, sharp and metallic, prickling against his skin like a thousand tiny needles.
"Yes, yes, the Archangel. A real charming fellow. Always was a bit of a drama queen, wasn't he?" Crowley said, his voice regaining its smooth, defensive lilt. "And no, we aren't exactly on 'grabbing a pint' terms. But unlike Lucifer, I have a penchant for management. He wanted to burn the world down; I'd much rather own it and collect the rent."
He stepped closer to her, his composure tightening as the atmospheric pressure seemed to rise. The stillness was a warning. The "higher spheres" weren't just coming; they were already here, or at least, their presence was beginning to warp the very air around them.
"And you're right to be suspicious. I am looking for a collector's item," he admitted, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he glanced at the unnervingly empty sky. "But a collector's item is useless if it's broken or stolen by the first choir of singing idiots that flies by. You're not a trophy, Élise. You're a revolution. And revolutions need a bit of... strategic planning."
He reached out, not to grab her, but as if to shield her from the invisible weight of the atmosphere. "The air is getting thick, darling. That's not just your nerves. That's the scent of Heaven coming to tidy up the mess. Now, are you going to keep lecturing me on my ulterior motives, or are we going to move before the sky decides to fall on our heads?"
"I noticed... they're coming to check," I replied, looking up at the sky, which reflected in the blue of my eyes. "I would have already teleported away... but that last... explosion... and… I am not super good at it just yet…" I told him, looking back at the crater, "left me out of ammo. So what should I do? Wait for them? Or let you take me away to put me in your collection? I can't say which is worse..." I sighed, almost frustrated. Everywhere I turned, there was always a lurking threat. And I was tired.
Crowley smiled, tilting his head again. "Not to worry about… transportation. I can provide you a safe escape," he added, approaching me, and pulling me up to his chest. "Keep tight… it might get a bit… fast," he murmured, while I grabbed his shoulders, suddenly fearful.
I felt the cracking of reality stretching around me, the sensation familiar yet different, not being my own teleportation, but Crowley's. I was surrounded by red smoke, Crowley's true form, which I could see, as no one could. I felt a slight dizziness, and the smell of sulfur quickly replaced the smell of ozone.
Just a few moments later, I opened my eyes again, blinking a couple of times. Crowley was beside me, fresh as a daisy, his suit still in perfect shape. I looked at him, suspiciously, before looking around.
"Where... where are we?" I asked in a whisper, even though I could sense exactly where we'd ended up. The screams of the souls below crowded my mind, making me flinch slightly.
Crowley smoothed the front of his waistcoat, looking entirely too unbothered for a man who had just bypassed the celestial surveillance of the entire heavenly host. He looked down at me, noting the way I flinched, the way my eyes darted around as if the very air were trying to bite me. He could see the toll the transition took on me, the dizzying shift from the ozone-heavy skies of Earth to the heavy, suffocating warmth of his domain.
"Welcome to the office," he said, his voice a smooth, sardonic purr that cut through the distant, muffled wailing of the damned. He gestured grandly to the sprawling, dark expanse of the throne room. "It’s not exactly the Ritz, but the service is impeccable, and the neighbors are remarkably quiet once you get them settled into their respective pits."
He noticed me flinch at the psychic weight of the screams, the sheer volume of suffering that permeated the very foundations of Hell. He knew that for someone with her sensitivity, the noise must have been like a cacophony of broken glass inside her skull.
"Don't mind the locals," he added, stepping a bit closer to provide a sort of human or rather, demonic buffer between her and the vastness of the room. "They're just venting. It's a very expressive place, Hell. Very... emotional."
He watched her closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. He could feel the residual power humming beneath her skin, a stark contrast to the gloom surrounding them.
"You're in the heart of the beast, darling. The one place the angels won't dare to stomp through without a proper invitation and a very large army," he said, his tone turning a shade more serious. "You're safe here. For now. Though, we might need to find you a room that's a bit more... soundproof. For your sake, and mine."
I sighed, unable to completely filter out the voices of pain that seemed to fill the entire place. I looked at the throne made of obsidian and human bones, the lit torches, and I put my hands over my ears, a human and useless gesture, because I could hear the screams directly in my mind.
"It... it's too... loud..." I murmured, with pained eyes, which I closed tightly. "Usually I can... keep all the human voices out of my head, but… this is different... there's too much pain..." I breathed out, gritting my teeth, my eyes flashing with uncontrolled angelic light.
There was a risk of another emotional peak... and the crater I left behind in the suburbs of Chicago was proof of how unstable the situation could become if I let myself get overwhelmed.
Crowley’s amusement vanished instantly. He had seen many things in his long, storied existence—the rise and fall of empires, the literal tearing of the veil between worlds—but he had rarely seen a creature of such immense power look so utterly, devastatingly small.
As she pressed her hands to her ears, he saw the telltale sign of a brewing storm.
The air around her began to vibrate, the temperature in the throne room rising not from the fires of Hell, but from a sudden, celestial heat. The golden light dancing in her eyes was a warning flare, a signal that the dam was about to burst. He knew that look; it was the look of a vessel about to crack under the pressure of the ocean it held.
"Bloody hell," he hissed, his composure slipping as he realized the danger.
If she let out a scream here, in the heart of his kingdom, she wouldn't just break the silence; she might shatter the very foundations of his throne.
