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Summary
“Yes, Crowley. Stay.”
And Crowley did—kneeling there in the firelight, a demon turned supplicant, his mouth a steady, unrelenting shrine to the angel who held his leash.
The rain battered the windows with unrelenting fury, a staccato roar that melded with the fire’s crackling heartbeat, but within the cottage, time seemed to stretch and warp, caught in the gravity of Crowley and Aziraphale’s shared orbit.