I was here for years and now I'm back again. NB trans masc. Just 2 autisms and a trans in a dirty 70s blazer jacket. They/Them Old. Profile pic is by the well missed CarrotFricker. The collage is mine.
Dean's Side of The Week of Silence and Tales from Sonny's Farm
Here's a peak:
The sound of gross, wet sniffling is so unexpected that if Dean’s head could snap up it would, but all he can manage is a pathetic, wobbly tilt. Is Sonny…crying? What the fuck?
The old hippie looks at him and it reminds Dean of how a scared dog looks, all wet eyes with the whites showing.
What?
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sonny says, ripping some tissues from the table next to him and wiping at his dripping nose, making sure the ‘stache stays clean.
Wait…Dean’s not in trouble? The smallness doesn’t leave him and his heart is still galloping but the clutch on his throat eases.
“What?” Dean wheezes. Sonny blows his nose, getting himself under control.
Shaking his head again he clears his throat, “This isn’t fair to you. I should’ve seen you were sick. I should have noticed. It’s my job to notice and I didn’t and I’m sorry.” Dean doesn’t know what to say, he’s the one who went and got sick.
He’s going to say as much but Sonny starts back up. “I uh, I called your dad. He’s...” Sonny diverts his gaze, wags his head loosely, “an interesting guy.”
“What…did he say?” Dean asks though he doesn’t want to. He’s not going to ask if John wanted to visit. He’s not here, that’s the answer. What he wants to know is how he got John to answer the damn phone but what he says is, “Anythin’ about my brother? Sammy?”
Sonny doesn’t look at him as he answers, preferring the wad of tissues in his hands, “We didn’t talk long but he knows you were sick and that you’re going to be okay. He didn’t mention your brother, I’m sorry.”
Dean lets his head fall, closing his eyes for a second. His hair sounds loud against the cheap-ass pillow.
Of course his dad didn’t. He’s probably still stroking his ego about what a ‘good lesson’ this still is. Look what happens, when you don’t act right.
Look what you get.
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Chat, is it considered “abusive roommate behavior” to release a raccoon into the living space after you have asked your roommate for months to please clean up their messes (they do not pay any of the mortgage)
For context, when I used to live alone I would do something called “Princess Time” where I would do an initial sweep (to remove any significant hazards) and then I would release a raccoon into the living area and clean. This helped because I would 1) feel like a princess and 2) the raccoon would bring attention to things my ADHD brain had decided to ignore and I’d quickly clean that stuff up.
So like, if I’m expected to clean the house now, I will be doing it in the way that is most effective for me. And anything that has not been cleaned up after months of having sit-down talks and sending reminders and being promised things will change, might be deemed “trash” by the trash panda and thrown away.
We haven’t done since we moved into the house, because I didn’t want to cause my roommate or their cats destress or have their things destroyed by a raccoon
I am a raccoon biologist and one of the few people in the state allowed to take in captive bred raccoons that had been possessed illegally. The raccoon in the photos is Moonshine, but she is currently at the animal sanctuary where I work as I had been quarantining multiple new intakes from an abuse case. I still have two males (Rum Tum Tugger and Electra) left in my home enclosure as we are getting them neutered and then hopefully sending them to an AZA accredited zoo.
I wanna make things very clear that underneath all the whimsy, I am a trained professional.
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
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For the @gabrielbigbang I managed to snag this awesome story by @walkingaline . I hadn’t planned on doing art, but this? This story had it all. My muse was practically salivating.
First we have one of the amazing OCs. Her description was so compelling I just had to draw her!
And of course I could not not draw our archangel!
And the main protagonist is Crowley! Anything to draw our King!
Why are they all Tarot cards, you may ask? To get the answer to that question, you’re just going to have to read the story!
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Request: Anonymous asked: crowley and angel!reader? not x reader but maybe more of a father daughter bond? you just KNOW he spoils her rotten
Summary: Crowley finds an angel in the chaos of a dilapidated church. Instead of killing her, he does the unthinkable. [wc 2.9K] [ao3]
Warnings: Parent! Crowley, fluff, some angst in the beginning
Crowley had never wanted children. Children were loud, expensive, demanding, and incapable of appreciating a good bottle of scotch. They also had a terrible habit of growing up.
Crowley had spent enough of his human life worrying about other people. After becoming a demon, he had made a conscious decision to abandon the concept of responsibility altogether.
Then he became King of Hell. Apparently, the universe had a sense of humor.
Still, there were certain things Crowley had always been certain of. Angels were not his responsibility. Angels belonged to Heaven. Demons belonged to Hell. Humans belonged to the Winchesters, which was punishment enough for everyone involved.
Everything had its proper place.
Until the day he found an angel sitting alone in a ruined church. She was surrounded by dead demons. Crowley stopped in the doorway. His eyes moved slowly over the scene. One demon lay sprawled across the altar. Another had been thrown through a pew. A third was missing its head. There were scorch marks across the stone floor.
And in the middle of it all sat a young angel. Her wings were visible, though she'd tried to fold them tightly enough to conceal the damage. Several feathers were stained dark with blood. Her coat was torn at the shoulder, and there was a shallow cut across her cheek. She looked exhausted. She also looked extremely annoyed.
Crowley liked her immediately. "Well," he said.
Her head snapped toward him. She reached for the angel blade lying beside her.
Crowley raised both hands. "Easy, sweetheart."
"You're Crowley."
He smiled. "Depends who's asking."
"The King of Hell."
"That's usually how introductions go."
She stood.
Crowley's amusement faded slightly when he noticed how carefully she put weight on one leg. "You're injured."
"I'm fine."
"You're limping."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding."
"It's not mine."
Crowley looked at the corpses. Then back at her. "That is somehow both reassuring and deeply concerning."
She tightened her grip around the blade. "Why are you here?"
"I was following a trail of murdered demons."
She glanced around. "There were thirteen."
Crowley frowned. "Excuse me?"
She pointed toward a collapsed pew. "There's another one underneath there."
Crowley stared. Slowly, he walked over and looked underneath. There was, indeed, another dead demon. He straightened. "Thirteen."
She nodded.
"Thirteen." Crowley looked at her for a long moment.
"You know, most angels I've met are insufferable."
"Most demons I've met are worse." She quipped back. Her stare unreadable.
"Fair."
He looked her over again. "Where's your garrison?"
She didn't answer.
Crowley noticed. His expression softened by a fraction. "Where are the others?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"They were killed." She replied through gritted teeth.
That explained the bodies.
Crowley glanced around again. "All of them?"
She nodded.
He expected grief. Instead, she looked numb. That was worse. Crowley knew numbness. He knew what it meant when someone had been hurt too many times to keep reacting. He lowered his hands. "Come with me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because you're injured."
"I can heal myself."
"Clearly." He scoffed.
Her mouth tightened.
Crowley sighed. "I'm not asking you to pledge allegiance to Hell."
"You aren't?"
"No."
"Then why?"
Crowley looked at the blood on her sleeve. He didn't have a particularly good answer. Perhaps it was because he'd been human once. Perhaps it was because she'd looked far too young to be sitting alone in a dead church. Perhaps he simply couldn't stand the thought of leaving her there. Whatever the reason, he held out his hand. "Because no one should have to sit alone in a place like this."
She stared at his hand. Then at him. Finally, she took it.
---
She stayed for one night. Then three. Then a week. Crowley told himself she was recovering. That was all. It had nothing to do with the fact that she was polite. Or that she thanked the servants. Or that she never complained about the castle. Or that she'd somehow managed to make Hell's oppressive silence feel less oppressive. She had been assigned a room. She barely used it. Instead, she tended to fall asleep in the library.
Crowley found her there one evening. She was curled up in a chair with a book open across her chest. Her wings were tucked around herself. Crowley stood in the doorway. He should have left. Instead, he walked over. He picked up the blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it over her.
She stirred. "Mm."
"Go back to sleep."
Her eyes opened halfway. "Crowley?"
"Yes."
"What time is it?"
"Late."
"Are you going somewhere?"
He paused. "No."
She relaxed. "Okay." Her eyes closed again.
Crowley stared at her. That little answer shouldn't have mattered. But it did. She trusted him. That was dangerous. Crowley had spent centuries making sure nobody trusted him. It made things easier.
People who trusted you could be disappointed. People who loved you could be hurt. People who mattered could be taken. He'd learned all of that once. He had no intention of learning it again. And yet, when he walked away from the sleeping angel, he glanced back. She was still there. Safe. For the moment.
---
The first sign of trouble came over tea. Crowley was sitting at breakfast when she took a sip from her mug and grimaced. He looked up from his newspaper.
"What?"
She stared into the cup. "This is awful."
Crowley lowered the paper. "That's imported."
"It's awful."
"Do you know how expensive that is?"
"Apparently not expensive enough."
He stared at her.
She stared back. Then she smiled.
Crowley sighed. "What do you actually like?"
"Tea."
"I gathered that."
"Floral."
"How floral?"
"Lavender."
Crowley snapped his fingers.
A demon appeared. "Your Majesty."
"Find me the best lavender tea available."
The demon hesitated. "From Hell?"
Crowley slowly lowered his newspaper. "Do I look like I want lavender tea from Hell?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Then why did you ask?"
The demon vanished.
She stared at Crowley. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know."
"Then why did you?"
Crowley picked up his newspaper. "Because I'm tired of watching you drink terrible tea."
She smiled.
Crowley pretended not to notice.
That afternoon, six different kinds of lavender tea appeared in the kitchen. She tried all of them. Crowley watched from the doorway.
"This one."
She held up a box. "This is my favorite."
"Excellent." He snapped his fingers. The entire shelf filled with it.
She blinked. "Crowley."
"What?"
"That's enough tea to last a year."
"Two."
"Two years?"
"Possibly three."
She laughed. He smiled. Neither of them noticed the demon standing in the hallway staring at the shelves in disbelief.
-----
It happened slowly. That was the problem. There wasn't one moment when Crowley decided she was his. There were dozens. She started sitting in his office while he worked. She would read on the sofa while he dealt with Hell's bureaucracy. Sometimes they went hours without speaking.
He liked that.
She didn't demand his attention. She simply liked being near him. She began stealing his blankets. Then his books. Then his food.
Crowley complained every time. He also started buying extra.
She discovered that he hated cinnamon. She discovered that he liked old jazz. She discovered that he pretended not to care about animals but would feed every stray cat that appeared near the castle.
He discovered that she cried at sentimental movies. He discovered that she hated thunderstorms. He discovered that she had a habit of humming when she was happy. He discovered that she liked flowers.
So he had a garden built. Not a Hellish garden. A real one. Roses. Lavender. Lilies. Wildflowers. Trees. Running water. Sunlight.
She stood in the middle of it the first time he showed her. She stared. Then she turned around. "You did this?"
Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets. "Don't make a fuss."
"It's beautiful."
"Obviously."
"You built a garden in Hell."
"I had someone build it."
She laughed. Crowley looked away. She threw her arms around him. He froze. Nobody hugged Crowley. Not like this. Not without fear. Not without wanting something. Her arms tightened around him. "Thank you."
Crowley's hands slowly settled against her back. "You're welcome."
She pulled away. His arms lingered for another second. Neither mentioned it.
------
The first time she called him Dad, Crowley nearly dropped his glass. They were in the library. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by books. Crowley was at his desk.
She had been attempting to repair a damaged volume for nearly twenty minutes. "Dad?"
Crowley's entire body went still. Silence. She froze too. Slowly, she looked up.
Crowley stared at her. "What did you call me?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, no."
She immediately returned her attention to the book. "You heard nothing."
"I heard something."
"You imagined it."
"I assure you, darling, my hearing is excellent."
She refused to look at him.
Crowley leaned back.
"Dad." Her cheeks turned pink. "It slipped."
He should have laughed. He should have teased her. Instead, something painfully warm settled in his chest. "Does that mean you think of me as..." He stopped.
She finally looked at him. "As family?"
Crowley swallowed.
"Yes."
She smiled. "You are."
He looked down at his desk. "Right."
She returned to her book.
Crowley stared at the papers in front of him. He couldn't read a word.
After several minutes, she spoke again. "You okay?"
"Perfectly."
"You look weird."
"I always look like this."
"No. You look..." She smiled. "Happy."
Crowley scoffed. "Don't be absurd."
But when she wasn't looking, he smiled.
-------
Heaven noticed. Of course it did. Heaven had an astonishing ability to notice everything except the things that actually mattered.
Castiel arrived at the castle one afternoon.
Crowley opened the door. "No."
"I haven't said anything."
"I know what you're here for."
Castiel stepped inside.
Crowley sighed. "You really need to learn how to knock."
"You opened the door."
"Technicality."
Castiel looked around. "Where is she?"
"Library."
"Is she safe?"
Crowley gave him a look. "She's safer here than she was with Heaven."
Castiel didn't argue. That was telling. "She seems happy."
Crowley looked toward the library. "Yes."
"Because of you."
Crowley snorted. "Don't start."
"I wasn't criticizing you."
"You're an angel. It's difficult to tell."
Castiel studied him. "You love her."
Crowley went very still. "Careful, Feathers."
"I'm simply stating an observation."
"Then observe somewhere else."
Castiel's expression softened. "You have given her a home."
Crowley looked away. "She deserves one."
"She thinks you're her father."
Crowley swallowed. "Yes."
"Do you think of her as your daughter?"
The answer came too quickly. "Yes."
Silence. Castiel nodded. "Then I suppose Heaven should be grateful."
Crowley looked at him suspiciously. "For what?"
"That she found someone who loves her."
Castiel left shortly afterward.
Crowley remained standing by the door. He hated angels. He really did. Mostly.
------
The trouble began several months later. She had been away on assignment. Crowley had hated it. He told himself he was annoyed because she had gone without telling him. Then he realized he'd checked the clock twelve times. Then twenty. By midnight, he was pacing.
A demon appeared. "Your Majesty?"
"Where is she?"
"We don't know."
Crowley's eyes went red. "Find her."
The demon disappeared.
Twenty minutes later, the doors opened. She walked inside.
Crowley stopped.
There was blood on her clothes. Her wings were bruised. She was limping.
Crowley crossed the room instantly. "What happened?"
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
"I'm okay."
"No, you aren't."
She looked exhausted. "Dad..." The word nearly broke something inside him. Crowley reached for her. She collapsed into his arms. He caught her. For a moment, neither moved. Then she whispered, "They knew about you."
Crowley's jaw tightened. "Who?"
"The demons."
"What did they say?"
She hesitated."They said you don't love me." Crowley's expression went cold. "They said I was just a possession." He stared at her. "They said you kept me because having an angel obey you made you feel powerful."
Crowley said nothing. She looked up. "I didn't believe them." His hands tightened around her. "But it still hurt."
Crowley closed his eyes. He had faced Lucifer. He had faced hunters. He had faced the Winchesters. He had been tortured. Killed. Resurrected. Betrayed. He had survived all of it. But this? This was different. He touched her cheek. "Listen to me." She looked at him. "You are not my possession." Her eyes filled with tears. "You are not a trophy." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "And you are certainly not some convenient little angel I keep around because it amuses me."
A tear rolled down her cheek. Crowley wiped it away.
"You are my daughter." S
he broke. Her arms wrapped around him.
Crowley held her tightly. "You understand?"
She nodded against his chest.
"Say it."
"I'm your daughter."
"Again."
"I'm your daughter."
"Good."
He kissed the top of her head. "And I'm your father."
She cried harder. Crowley held her until she stopped shaking. Then he looked over her shoulder. His eyes were red. The demons who had hurt her had made a catastrophic error. They had assumed Crowley would react as the King of Hell. They had forgotten that Crowley was also a father. And fathers, as humanity had demonstrated for thousands of years, were remarkably irrational creatures.
-----
He didn't kill them. That would have been merciful. Instead, Crowley summoned them. They were dragged into his throne room. She wasn't there. Crowley wanted her nowhere near it. He sat on his throne. "Do you know why you're here?"
One demon shook.
"You attacked an angel." Crowley smiled. "No." He stood. "You attacked my daughter."
The demons went pale.
Crowley walked slowly down the steps. "You see, I can forgive quite a lot." He stopped in front of them. "Disobedience." A step. "Insult." Another. "Betrayal." Another. "But you hurt her." Crowley's smile disappeared. "And that was very, very stupid."
The punishment was severe. Not fatal. Just long. Very long. When Crowley returned to his castle, he found her asleep in his chair. He stopped. She had been waiting for him. Crowley walked over. He crouched beside her. For a moment, he simply watched her breathe. Then he carefully lifted her.
She stirred. "Dad?"
"I'm here."
"Did you..."
"No."
She relaxed. "Good."
Crowley carried her upstairs. He tucked her into bed.
She caught his wrist before he could leave. "Stay?"
Crowley looked at her. "Of course." He sat beside her. She fell asleep holding his hand. Crowley stayed until morning.
------
After that, the spoiling became worse. She mentioned liking a particular book. Crowley acquired the first edition. She complained that her coat was getting old. Three new ones appeared. She mentioned missing hot chocolate. Hell's kitchen staff spent two weeks perfecting it. She once stared at a necklace in a shop window for three seconds. Crowley bought it. She stared at him when he handed it over.
She sighed. "You know that's what makes it worse?"
"How?"
"You're not doing it because you expect anything."
Crowley smiled. "Darling, you're my daughter." He shrugged. "What would I possibly want from you?"
She looked at him. Then she hugged him. Crowley smiled into her hair.
-----
Years later, people in Hell had learned several important rules. Never touch Crowley's whisky. Never insult the King. Never interrupt him during a meeting. Never, under any circumstances, make his daughter cry. The last one was considered the most important. There were demons who had never seen Crowley angry. There were demons who had. And there were demons who had made the mistake of hurting her. Nobody spoke about those demons. Not because they were dead. Because they wished they were.
----
One evening, she returned from Earth.
Crowley was waiting in the foyer.
She walked through the doors.
He looked her over. "You're late."
"I was busy."
"You said you'd be back by six."
"It's eight."
"Precisely."
She smiled. "You missed me."
"Don't be ridiculous." He scoffed with a short roll of his eyes.
"You did."
"I was enjoying the peace and quiet." He grumbled.
"You checked the clock every fifteen minutes."
Crowley stared. "Who told you that?"
She laughed. "Demons gossip."
"Traitors." He mumbled.
She walked closer. Then she opened her arms. Crowley rolled his eyes. But he stepped into the hug. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I missed you too."
His arms tightened around her. "I know."
She pulled away. "I brought you something."
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "For me?"
"Yes."
She handed him a small paper bag. He opened it. Inside was a bottle of expensive scotch.
Crowley stared.
She smiled. "You always buy things for me."
"So?"
"So I wanted to buy something for you."
Crowley looked down at the bottle. Something warm flickered across his face. "You didn't have to."
"I know."
He laughed softly. Then he pulled her into another hug. She smiled against his shoulder. For a man who had spent centuries insisting that love was a weakness, Crowley had become remarkably bad at hiding it.
He had an angel in his house. A daughter in his heart. A garden in Hell. And a ridiculous amount of lavender tea in his pantry. He had everything he had once believed he didn't need. And perhaps that was the strangest punishment of all. The King of Hell had finally found something worth coming home to. And every evening, no matter how busy he was, Crowley made sure the lights in her hallway were left on.
Just in case she came home late. Just in case she needed him. Just because she was his. Not his possession. Not his servant. Not his weapon. His daughter. And if Heaven had a problem with that? They were welcome to take it up with him. Crowley would even put the kettle on.
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