Idea: Something I came up with while listening to Mr. Crowley by Ozzy Osborne.
Prompt: Reader sold soul, but continued to be human after ten years due to helping around Hell and being Crowley's assistant. You fell for each other, and boom came the rise of Lucifer, who forced you to be his new toy and assistant.
"Won't you ride my white horse? What kind of bloody garbage is this?" Crowley demanded, his red eyes glowing hauntingly in the motel room. The only light was the sun that seeped through the blinds of the scratched windows. You had seen Crowley angry, of course, but he appeared ten times worse now. He was livid... and frightened.
"I don't know, Crowley," you responded, a bit of an edge weaseled its way into your voice. "He just gave me the papers to deliver to you."
You rubbed the side of your temple, exhausted. Lucifer had you working just less than twenty four hours a day. You were only human and needed sleep. Crowley noticed and his eyes flashed back to normal, softening instantly. He nodded and scanned through the packet again.
You knew the two of you were an odd pair; you sold your soul at twenty because you had lost almost all despair once your cat Marney died - she was the last family you had. You had been visiting a friend with Marney at fifteen when your parents and brother all died in a car wreck. So you found a demon and made your ten year deal, demanding and receiving your cat back. Once you died, you met the King of Hell to determine your fate. He thought your story was stupid, so he wanted to teach you a lesson and hired you to be his assistant, while also giving you your life back. A couple years passed, and you had fallen for Crowley.
Here you two were again, supposed to be on opposite sides. Crowley was on the run after Lucifer rose, decapitated his mother, took his throne, and forced you to be by his side. Of course you had tried to escape, with and without your lover's help, but Lucifer had managed to find your soul and kept a leash on it. You went where he went unless he summoned you to do his bidding. And his latest order just happened to be to find Crowley and deliver the letter, without knowing the intimate connection the two of you shared.
"This is practically written in gibberish. Look at this." He flipped to the third page and you were expecting something completely different. Your fingers touched as you held the papers, trying to decipher a code. However, you quickly realized you recognized the words.
"Crowley," you released a small, genuine laugh, the first one in at least a month. "This is a song, from a few years ago, by Ozzy Osborne. It's called Mr. Crowley. It's supposed to be in the biblical sense. I don't know why he would give this to you. It doesn't seem threatening."
You both held the lyrics into the light to get a better look.
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"Maybe not. But a song? Are you sure? About me? Why in Purgatory would someone do that, biblical or not?" Crowley asked, seeming flabbergasted, though more calm. His eyes danced to yours.
