Title: The Consequences of Bloody Manchester, or Why Summoning Demons is a BAD Idea.
Rating: PG-13, for liberal use of the word fuck
Pairings: nothing romantic, but if you want to get really specific...Crowley/Mrs. Black. Yes, that Mrs. Black, the same one from the ugly painting in OotP. Brain bleach will be supplied if needed.
Warnings: Crackfic. Total and utter crackfic, inspired by a work of GO fanart that was so lovely (and somehow this came out of it. Can't really explain it). Oh, yes, HP/GO crossover as well.
Crossposted to lower_tadfield, crossover_hp, stjamespark, crossoverfic. Many apologies if you see this more than once on your f-list.
The Consequences of Fucking Manchester, or Why Summoning Demons is a BAD Idea
It was safe to say that Anthony J. Crowley was an expert in decadence. The room he suddenly found himself in was a masterwork of decadence, although it was a little gaudy for his taste. There was fabric wallpaper in shades of silver and black, matching silver sconces on the wall holding candles lit with electric blue flames, and loads of dark wood furniture upholstered in an array of shades of green and brown. The centerpiece of the room was a massive bed, a four-poster with tapestry curtains and a silver satin bedcover. Lounging on top of the bed was a fairly attractive woman. She had strong, dark features with deep black eyes that made Crowley want to squirm just a little bit. She was wearing something that looked like a sheer mesh bathrobe (revealing things that, while they were very well put together, he felt should be kept hidden. Preferably at the bottom of the ocean where he couldn’t see it), and held a slender stick in one hand and a sharp metallic knife in the other.
Crowley gulped, and took a glance down at his feet. “Oh bloody Manchester,” he muttered, seeing the chalked sigils on the parquet floor. It was one of those wizards who had summoned him here. Bloody stupid magic users who had no clue where their powers really came from. Even Lucifer was still trying to figure out why God had decided to make the wizards. Aziraphale would say it was ineffable. Crowley said it was a total pain in the arse when some of the more unstable ones attempted to call up the absolute most vile demons and instead dragged him away from whatever tempting he was currently engaged in. It rather felt like being dragged through a spiny hedge backwards and blindfolded.
“I’m sorry, I think I must have made a wrong turn heading towards Knightsbridge,” Crowley said charmingly, motioning in a futile manner as to where he thought that little restaurant he was supposed to be meeting Aziraphale was at. The woman smiled a dangerous smile and leaned towards him.
“Oh, I think you’re exactly where I want you to be. I believe that according to typical lore, you’re bound to within that circle, demon, until I release you.”
Being Crowley, he tested the boundaries of the chalked markings. Unfortunately, the harpy was right. He was stuck within the lines until he was done with whatever she wanted. “This never happens to the angel,” he muttered to himself. He looked up at her again, watching her eyes dart back and forth between the dagger and the wand. “So, Miss…whatever your name is, why don’t you just let me go on my way, and I’ll send someone a little more agreeable along, hmm?” Hastur owed him, didn’t he? Maybe he could call in that debt from the Duke of Hell...
“The name is Olympias. Olympias Black. And no, you don’t need to send for anyone else. You’re quite a bit more attractive than these books,” she waved at a stack of very large, very dusty, and very old books on the nightstand that Aziraphale would have traded a few bottles of expensive Burgundy for, “say that incubi normally are.”
Shit. It had been many, many years since the last time Crowley had been called in place of an incubus (it happened more often than one thought it would—oftentimes incubi were preoccupied with attaining the perfect nightmarish look to prevent depraved housewives in need of a good shag from calling them up at whim—for creatures who fell because of their lust for women, they spent an awful lot of time now trying to avoid them). “Look, Olympias, I don’t know what those books are telling you, but I usually don’t operate like that. Hey!” The woman had sent a beam of red light at his feet, causing him to jump back and simultaneously slam into the invisible barriers caused by the chalk markings.
“It’s really quite simple, demon. I wish to engage in carnal relations with you. My dear...husband,” she gritted the word out between clenched teeth, “is what is commonly referred to as more than slightly bent, or any other sort of vernacular term for being flamingly homosexual.”
“Arranged marriage?” Well, if he was stuck, he might as well try to found out as many details as possible to make her life miserable at a later date. He could definitely have fun with that.
“The only way for a respectable pureblood to be married,” Olympias nodded. “Unfortunately, that means other areas of our marriage are sorely lacking. Which is where you come in.”
“Look, Olympias,” Crowley pleaded, one hand working rapidly behind his back to try and find some sort of catch in the circle, “I’m really not the one you want to be dealing with for this. There are lots of other demons down there who are far more adept at the sort of things you’re looking for.” He preferred to do his tempting in a far less hands on method. A few tweaks here, a wrench in the works there, and he could leave all of London in a seething mass of anger for hours. Tempting one on one took far too much time, and made him lose precious time he could be sleeping.
Olympias flicked her wand idly. “Accio glasses.” Crowley swore and made a grab for them as they flew into her hands. He tried to manifest a new pair but the bindings on the circle prevented him. “Shit,” he muttered.
She crawled forward on the bed, eventually flopping onto her stomach and propping her head in a hand. “You really are quite handsome, you know. I should think it would be quite a pleasure to bed you.”
“While I’m flattered,” Crowley sighed, “I really must be going.” Aziraphale was probably worried now. Crowley was never one to turn down the chance to get rip roaring drunk, so not seeing him turn up at the restaurant would be a sign of alarm. He got the feeling though that the angel, with all of his heavenly powers, would have quite a few problems even attempting to convince Mrs. Black over to the side of light. The woman was probably rotten all the way through. He’d definitely have to have someone look up her name down in the offices. Her humanity was doubtful at this point.
“You’re not going anywhere. My circle makes sure of that.” Olympias arched a perfectly arched and sculpted eyebrow. “You know, I’ve never ever had to force someone into sleeping with me. I have no intention of starting now. And while you’re trapped in my spell you really have no choice but to obey me.”
Fucking Manchester. The bitch was right. There was absolutely no way out of the circle. Evil as she was, Mrs. Black was a talented witch, and had locked him up good. So he had two options. The first was to try and escape, and most likely end up inconveniently discorporated for a few years. Not the best of methods as he rather liked his current body and didn’t want to part with his flat. The second was to suck it up and sleep with the old hag...and get revenge on her somehow. It would be pretty easy for a demon to make sure this mere witch would pay dearly. Crowley wasn’t the biggest fan of the truly dirty deeds, but Mrs. Black deserved whatever she would end up with. And hey, if he was going to get laid, he might as well have some fun.
Crowley pushed his sleeves back. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
* * *
When Aziraphale found Crowley two days later, the demon was in his shower, scrubbing his skin with what looked like a pot scrubber. “What on earth are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, turning his back and ignoring the reflection of the shower curtain in the mirror.
“Attempting to get the stench of that foul woman off my skin,” Crowley called back.
“Stupid witch thought I was an incubus.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Anyways, I was pretty much trapped, so I had to dust off some of the old skills and put them to use.” Even though he couldn’t see Aziraphale, he knew for sure that the angel’s face was beet red from blushing. For someone who had existed before Britannia was even a thought in someone’s brain, he was the quintessential British gentleman. “Pass me that towel, will you please?” A few seconds passed, and Aziraphale’s well manicured hand slipped inside the shower, a fluffy white towel clutched inside it.
“Thanks.” Crowley began to dry himself off, relishing in the feeling of soft cotton against his skin. He felt nearly clean. “However, I’ve got a bit of a plan for this woman.”
“Crowley, please don’t do anything I’m going to have to thwart in a day or so.” The angel’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling as Crowley stepped out and manifested himself a clean suit.
“Trust me, this woman is so corrupt Peter himself offering her the keys of heaven on a platter couldn’t sway her over to your side.” They moved out into the sitting room of the flat, a bottle of exquisite Bordeaux already open and airing on the coffee table. “I just put a little bit of a directive on her. Something so minor I don’t have to do any work or look at or think about that old witch ever again, but something that will make her life absolutely miserable.”
Aziraphale sipped at his wine. “So what are you going to do to her?”
“I’m just going to give her what she doesn’t want. The specifics of that is up to her. It’s great irony, isn’t it? She herself is going to make her life a misery.”
“Should I keep an eye out? You know, just in case there is a chance she can be
“Nah. I don’t want to even think about this woman ever again.” Crowley tossed his drink back, intent in obliterating all thoughts of Olympias Black from his memory.
* * *
Nine months later…
A man and a woman, both tall, black haired, and elegantly dressed, stood looking down at the cradle. “Well it’s obvious he’s not mine,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Yes. I think the yellow eyes might give it away, Cepheus,” the woman said, leaning in close to look at the slightly fussy baby. He was a strangely attractive child, not resembling a wrinkly potato or Winston Churchill as so many babies do. He had a head full of silky black hair and pale skin. Instead of having blue eyes, though, this little baby sported a pair of bright yellow eyes (obviously inherited from somewhere Olympias Black wasn’t going to admit to her husband).
Cepheus Black chewed thoughtfully on his index finger. “There’s got to be a way to tweak with things. As long as we can fool the masses and raise him to be a proper Black, everything should be fine.”
Olympias nodded. She raised her wand and passed it over baby’s yellow eyes. With a few muttered words the eyes transformed into a clear grey, the exact same shade as Cepheus’s. “There we go. Now no one will ever know the truth about little Sirius.”
* * *
Fifteen months after that…
“Fucking Manchester, not you again!!”