Pipistrella Felix

Native Seattleite, 28 years & continuing, makes theater and art and a pretty good grilled cheese sandwich. Industries include education admin, freelance editing, and being a magician's assistant. Pipistrella felix is a corruption of the Latin for "happy bat."

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When I asked for characters at the cafe table, Maggie (who didn’t know what roundwithcircles had given me) said, “give me Aphrodite hitting on Crowley.” So, um, I’ll combine these all. Thank you, I think? (Oh I’m so sorry…)

Crowley’s teeth are, he’s sure, currently sharper than they ought to be in public; but then again, he’s also sure that the details of his humanoid disguise matter quite a bit less when the woman sitting across from him is a goddess. She smiles again, lifting her glass, and Crowley’s blood heats up deliciously at the curve of her red lips. He can feel exactly what she’s doing to him, one eyefuck at a time, and he can’t bring himself to mind one bit.

“Cheers, then,” he says, raising his own glass and downing the champagne in one go. He peers over the rims of his sunglasses, yellow eyes boring into her sea-green ones. “You said you wanted to… talk?”

“Mmm,” Aphrodite hums, half an affirmation, half an appreciation. “Yes.” She slides off her stool in a fluid movement and reaches for his glass. “But I think something a little harder is in order, first, hmm?” Her wink is just a flutter of a perfect eyelash before she turns to pour him another drink.

“Hmm,” Crowley agrees, watching her body move beneath her clinging dress. This isn’t his usual cup of tea, he thinks, but why turn down a perfectly brewed lapsang souchong when it’s handed to you?

She turns neatly and hands him his glass, now half-filled with a smooth, thick amber liquid. “Ambrosia,” she says. “Careful; it’ll go to your head.”

“Which one?” Crowley grins, and despite the utterly cliched nature of the joke, Aphrodite laughs, low and throaty and perfect.

“Whichever you’d prefer,” she says, raking him with a glance before sipping her own drink, leaning against the table. He lifts his glass and tosses back a generous sip, only barely choking back a surprised cough as the liquid burns its way down his throat and rises to his brain in a fog.

Um, he thinks, blinking. Alcohol doesn’t usually get to him, not this quickly, not this deliciously.

“Go on,” Aphrodite breathes, leaning toward him.

He doesn’t need telling twice; the rest of the ambrosia disappears down his throat, warming his blood, making his serpent soul think of hot sun on desert, thrumming happily.

“That’s better,” she says, plucking the empty glass from his hand, and before he can move, she’s swung a leg across to straddle him, her weight settling on to his lap, her hair tumbling forward, her hands moving to his chest.

“Er,” Crowley says eloquently, looking down at the proffered cleavage and then quickly back up. “What was it you wanted to… talk about?”

“Oh, I just have a question or two,” Aphrodite says, her red lips curving. Her fingers move to the top button on his shirt, and slowly release it. “Nothing important, really.” The second and third buttons loosen and come apart. “Just about an associate of yours.” Now his shirt is open to the waist, and her hand moves to tease at the waistband of his trousers.

“Assssociate?” he asks, his tongue snaking out for a moment. “What assssociate?”

“I think, in your language, you’d call him… Angel,” she replies.

Crowley freezes, his hands inches from her body. “No,” he says, all the flirtation gone from his voice.

Aphrodite pulls back, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “No?”

Crowley pins her with a yellow stare. “No. I know who sent you, and you can tell her you’re not getting anything.”

Aphrodite tilts her head sideways to regard his face, settling her weight more comfortably on his lap. When she smiles after a moment, it’s a more genuine smile than he’s seen all evening. “I thought so,” she says, and gracefully swings herself off of him, then leans down to kiss the top of his head. “Too bad,” she whispers. “I think this could have been fun.”

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