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You always knew something was... off about Crowley.
Not in a bad way. He wasn’t cold or cruel—not to you. But there was a depth to him that ran darker than anything you'd ever seen in another person. A clever sort of sharpness, like he was always five steps ahead in a game no one else knew was happening.
Still, when he leaned against your kitchen counter and called you “darling,” when he showed up with overpriced wine and kissed the back of your hand like a 19th-century gentleman, you found it hard to care what he wasn’t telling you.
But tonight?
Tonight, something was different.
“I want the truth,” you said, arms crossed tight, fingers digging into your own elbows. “All of it, Crowley. No dodging. No smug half-truths.”
He was unusually still. No snarky comment. No teasing glint in his eyes. Just a quiet sigh as he set down his scotch. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Try me.”
Another pause. Then, softly, “Are you quite sure?”
“I don’t care if you’re in the mafia, or a spy, or if you’re actually a hundred years old. I’ve let you into my life, my bed, and I barely know who you are.”
Crowley flinched. Almost imperceptible—but you saw it.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “You asked.”
The lights flickered—once, twice—then dimmed to a low golden hue, though you hadn’t moved a switch. The air thickened, heavy with something ancient. And Crowley… changed.
His posture sharpened, no longer slouched or casual. He radiated something close to power, or presence. Something not quite human. Not even close.
His eyes gleamed red, just for a heartbeat.
The shadows behind him twisted unnaturally, and the fireplace flared with a whoosh, the flames spiraling into symbols you didn’t recognize.
“Crowley,” you whispered, barely able to breathe. “What are you?”
He looked at you, and this time—he didn’t smile.
“I’m the King of Hell.”
You sat down hard on the arm of the couch, legs weak. Your voice came out thin. “I thought you were British. Not biblical.”
Crowley rolled his eyes but didn’t smile. “I was born Fergus MacLeod in 17th century Scotland. Sold my soul for three inches more… well. Irrelevant. When I died, I took the long way down and climbed my way to the top.” He gestured around casually. “Now I command legions, strike deals, and play politics with creatures that would make your skin crawl.”
You just stared at him.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to look at me like that,” he added, more quietly.
“Like what?”
“Like you are now. Like I’m a monster.”
You blinked the tears out of your eyes. “You kept it from me.”
“To protect you.”
“No. To control the story. So I couldn’t run if I wanted to.”
“Would you have?” he asked. “If I told you on day one that I ruled Hell?”
You were silent.
He stepped closer.
“I care about you. Deeply. And that frightens me more than anything that slithers through the pits below.”
Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You should’ve trusted me with this.”
“I’m trusting you now.” The weight of his gaze nearly crushed you. There was something real beneath it all, something aching. Vulnerability that he’d buried beneath centuries of snark and fire.
“I love you,” you said, and for the first time, his expression cracked.
A flicker of hope. A flash of pain.
“And I’ll try to understand… but you have to let me in. No more masks.. No more secrets, Crowley.”
He exhaled. “You already see more of me than anyone ever has.”
Then, with a snap of his fingers, the lights returned to normal. The fire dimmed. And Crowley—the terrifying, ancient King of Hell—stepped forward and gently pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Still want me, even after all that?” he murmured.
You wrapped your arms around his waist and whispered against his chest, “You’re lucky I do.”
He chuckled into your hair. “Oh, darling. I know.”