Title: Day 8 – Card Writing
Word Count: 664 words
Warnings/Tags: Established relationship with Crowley, possible OOCness, fluff, no smuttiness in this one, just a bit of adorableness.
Prompt: On the eighth day of Christmas, that bitch Fate gave to you, eight difficult family members card, seven Doctor Who seasons watched, six different cultures, five parcels sent, four broken decorations, three hours shopping, two issues sorted and one argument over Christmas Day.
Notes: The eighth instalment of the Twelve Days of Christmas Crowley/Reader request!.
Your Name: submit What is this?
Day 8 – Card Writing
Dear Marie, Sylvia and Jono,
Dear Maggie and Sarah,
Dear Daniel and Jarod,
“Bloody hell!” You shout, throwing yet another balled up piece of paper into the overflowing garbage tin, different names written in different brightly and sparkly and scented pens, the latest joining the group read ‘Dear Sam and Dean,’.
“Having a spot of trouble, luv?” Crowley asks from his spot on the floor, currently on gift wrapping duty.
It had to have been the most adorable thing you’d ever seen. Crowley, in all his King of Hell magnificence, sitting cross-legged on your crappy, London-apartment carpet surrounded in gifts and Christmas-themed wrapping paper, pieces of sticky tape stuck to his forearms and rolled up sleeves, his tie, waistcoat and jacket all in the other room and the top four of his buttons undone, giving you a peak of his amazing tattoos. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight.
“Struggling with the last eight of my family members. Hate writing Christmas cards.” You mutter, mostly to yourself, grabbing a new sheet of paper.
“We could switch, poppet.” He offers, making a move to stand up, pieces of green and red ribbon and colourful homemade bows that look way better than anything an arts and crafts shop could offer fall to the ground.
“No. If you write in these cards, God knows what’ll make it’s slimy way into them.” You tease, standing to brush your nose against his in an affectionate eskimo kiss.
“I thought we agreed not to bring the big man upstairs into our bedroom.” He mutters before claiming your lips in a passionate kiss, your tongues instantly falling back into an all-to-familiar dance, arms loosely wrapped around your waist and yours around his neck. “And slimy? Y/N, my love, I’m not that cruel.”
“Who said anything about cruel?” You ask, leaning back in his embrace. “Crowley, my darling King of Hell, you have done way worse.”
“But I wouldn’t to your family, no matter how much you dislike them.” He vows.
“And no matter how much I beg?” You add, to which you just get an amused look. “I must admit though, there is nothing more frightening than seeing the King of Hell making bows and wrapping gifts.” You nod towards the already wrapped and tagged gifts by your dodgy Christmas tree, the two somehow complementing each other even though they are vastly different. “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
“I was a tailor once, pet.” He reminds you. “You learn all sorts of useful skills when you’re a tailor.” He purrs. You smile up at him.
“Yeah, like how to make me a dress appropriate for lunch next week?” You ask only half-jokingly. His gaze glides over your body, eyes slightly glazed over as he starts to mentally prep your new dress.
“I can do if that’s what you want.” He offers.
“Would I have to trade my soul?” You tease, stepping closer to him.
“For you? I’d do it simply for a kiss.”
“And how do I know that the kiss wouldn’t take my soul away?”
“Well then, I’d guess you’d just have to trust me.”
“Trust a demon?! Not very hunterly of me.”
“Oh, trust me dove, I’m a very trustworthy demon. A king never backs down on his word.” You smile.
“And that’s what got you in this predicament.” You bop his noise playfully before looking back at the massive basket of scrapped Christmas messages. “I’ll think of something.” You finally decide, turning back to him. “How many gifts have you got left?”
“Five.” He murmurs before you press yourself against him, your lips meeting for a chaste kiss.
“I feel like going out tonight for dinner.” You eye the clock. Half past six. “New place just opened down the street, wanna come with? If you do, it’s jeans and a shirt, no bloody suit, no matter how sexy it is.” He smiles as he unbuttons up his shirt.
“Of course luv.”
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