Ineffable (Crowley x female OC)

In which Jenna Meets the Gangs

Jenna jolted awake from a terrible, very abstract nightmare in which flashes of black, green, orange, white and tan light pursued her through dark corridors. Her heart was racing and she was drenched in sweat, so she spent the first five minutes of the cloudy morning laying in bed, trying to breathe evenly and slow her heart rate. Habitually she reached out for her phone and checked the time: 6:07am on Thursday, November 19 in Mayfield, London, England. Two days before her birthday, exactly 41 hours and 53 minutes (give or take a few seconds) until her Evolution into a fully-fledged Celestern would commence and last 24 hours.

The young Nephilim sighed. She was relieved her nightmare was over, but something still felt wrong, painfully wrong in her chest, like someone was squeezing her heart with a vice. Jenna always felt like this, given her OCD, anxiety and other challenges, but this was different, more like panic than existential dread. She had no idea what could prompt her to experience such sharp terror.

At least, she had no idea until her phone rang at 6:10am.

Jenna glanced at the screen and smiled upon seeing Crowley's name. Sometimes he would call her from other parts of the house, to help them pretend they lived in separate quarters "like normal bloody couples," as he explained it. She knew he still felt guilty about her living with him out of necessity rather than choice, so she humored him even though she actually loved the arrangement, especially now that they were dating and spent nearly every second together. His calls and texts were very cute, however ("Did you get home alright?", "Want to see that new film downtown?", "Oh, I'm just bench-pressing 300 lbs. in my [nonexistent] home gym. You?", etc), and occurred so frequently that she'd started to look forward to at least a heart emoji text from Crowley each morning, if not an actual phone call that would end up lasting about 2 hours and consist of random musings or stories the two had regarding, well, everything and nothing.

"Good morning," she sang, laying back against her pillows and twirling her hair around her finger.

"Well, good morning to you as well, Miss Kingsley. How lovely to hear your melodious voice once again."

Jenna's blood immediately froze solid in her veins, and she forgot how to breathe, but not how to move as she got out of bed so fast it made her dangerously dizzy, upon hearing the deep, menacing voice, so unlike Crowley's, on the other end. As she held her forehead and waited for her blackened vision to clear, the unfortunately familiar voice on the other end sniggered indulgently.

"Oh, come now, my dear. Don't be so shy," the male voice simpered. Jenna cringed and fought the urge to vomit. "We went to such great lengths to speak to you again, the least you could do is--"

"JENNA! DON'T DO ANYTHING THEY SAY, I'M FINE, JUST STAY INSIDE--ugh!"

"Crowley!" cried Jenna involuntarily. The male creature sighed. "Just a moment, dear." She heard some static, then a rougher, much more authentic version of the male-shaped being's tone barked to someone else, "If you can't keep the flash bastard quiet, I'll shove your kidneys down his throat!!"

Jenna's blood thawed into a steady boil so fast in hurt her veins and skin, but she didn't care. "What the fuck do you want, Hastur," she hissed venomously, glaring out the window even though he had no idea where he or Crowley was.

"That's Lord Hastur, duke of Hell to you, you abominable freak of nature!" said a third voice, much higher and whinier than Hastur's or Crowley's. Jenna's blood bubbled into magma as she heard other voices laugh at his remark and her silence. So, she was on speakerphone, was she?

"Oh, we're using titles, then?" she spat back sarcastically. The voices immediately shut up. "Well, since my father was a duke of Hell and my mother an archangel, you can refer to ME as Lady Jenna, Archangel of San Diego, Your Disgraces," she finished in a mocking, nasally tone that made her meaning quite clear. "I find either that, or Your Graceful Disgrace, far preferable to--what was that you shouted so eloquently? "You Abominable Freak of Nature?" I mean, come on!" she laughed mirthlessly, feeling more powerful as fury flowed freely through her body. "That's not even creative!"