The song here is "Bad Company" by Bad Company

Bad Company

Clara walked into her apartment shared with Crowley and kicked off her shoes. When she had first walked into the place long ago, it was clean and neat. Of course, it was amazingly stunning. Now, her clothes were a little here and a little there, mostly because of many exhausting nights of paperwork. Lately, she's been feeling tired, as weird as it was; she didn't think much of it. Anyway, Crowley never complained about her leaving her things lying around.

However, if they stayed on the floor longer than a couple of days, Ginger was bound to chew it to shreds in seconds. On the other hand, Crowley would replace what was lost with a snap of his fingers, literally. So it didn't matter.

Clara zipped out of her dress and let it fall to the floor, walking out of it and over to the bed. She crawled in, still wearing her undergarments, and relaxed. Crowley enjoyed taking off her undergarments and it was becoming a habit, a ritual even. These days, she wore mostly red and black, but she would sometimes find a new outfit lying on the bed. She didn't mind Crowley dressing her; he had good taste. He even got her some jeans which were sexy as Hell. Yeah, he got her designer names, but it's not like she couldn't still wear her good old torn jeans, t-shirts and leather jackets. She just liked dressing fancy.

When simply lying in bed began to feel so damned good, Clara let the fatigue pull her in. Even though she grew stronger, to the point of having black eyes and amazing limitless abilities, her humanity lingered and reminded her that she still had physiological needs. It annoyed her, but at times, they felt good once satisfied. What was better was the fact that Crowley provided her with everything she needed and wanted. Then, naturally, the best was her sex drive. No one could dish it out like Crowley. If Clara was to tell this to a stranger, it would make Crowley seem selfless. On the contrary: to have a happy Queen was to have a happy King. In the end, it's Crowley that benefits, not that Clara's complaining.

Once she fell asleep, it was long and deep, blissful even.

Although, even deep in the darkness that was her sleep, she felt something that she couldn't ignore. She sensed it no matter how hard she tried to disregard it; it lingered and it annoyed her so much that she woke up, tossing and turning in bed.

She sat up and immediately felt queasy. In all her years, she had never been sick or felt queasy like this. Panic filled her and drove her to leap out of bed and to practically sprint to the bathroom. She had never been sick and come to think of it; never exhausted so often.

Clara just made it to the toilet where she vomited and felt the inside of her body convulse and squeeze hard. It made her feel like her insides would fall out of her mouth, along with the bile and bits of undigested food.

Once it was over, Clara had a head splitting migraine and she simply sat on the floor, wanting to just curl up and shiver on the cold bathroom floor.

However, there was something terrifying about this and Clara had to force herself up onto her feet to figure it out. When she looked at herself in the mirror above the sink, she looked like shit. She had never in her life felt like this. Something was really wrong and her stomach still felt uneasy.

When she placed her hand over her stomach, hoping that she wouldn't vomit again, that's when a horrifying thought hit her. There was no way that it was possible, but her senses weren't lying to her. She knew what she was feeling and it ignited her rage.

She cleaned herself and rinsed her mouth out a couple of times with the bottle of mouthwash on the bathroom counter. Once she looked and felt better, she pulled on the nearest clothing which was a black dress, and threw open the door.

Ginger got up and turned around rapidly as if surprised, but then stood there staring at Clara, tilting her head slightly and sniffing her owner. Once Clara walked into the hallway, slamming the door behind her, the Hellhound followed her closely, still sniffing.

As her office with Crowley was nearing, Clara's rage was boiling. She imagined him sitting there, clueless, and it pissed her off. She stalked to the door and threw it open, taking a couple of steps in and slamming the door behind her once Ginger hurried in before getting the door in her face.

Crowley looked up as if surprised, but his eyes lingered on her body. For a second, his expression was blank, but then there was a darkness brewing in his eyes as a grin slowly formed on his lips. He could sense it as well and apparently, it pleased him.

The bastard.

When he met her eyes, the grin only grew, as if her rage amused him. As if it made him proud.

The bastard.

She was ready to unleash her power and make him feel the agony she had back in the bathroom. He did this to her and he was going to suffer for it. Then, Clara stood firmly and crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at her lover.

"You're glowing stunningly." He said and that was it. Ginger whimpered and moved away from Clara as if she could feel her owner's rage about to explode. Crowley, on the other hand, just sat back in his chair with that stupid grin on his face!

"You know, dear," she began, her voice cold and sharp. "When I suggested we raise a little hell, I didn't mean literally." She said and his grin now grew into a smile. "What do you have to say for yourself?" she asked him harshly and his smile turning into a grin.

"Oops." He said and her eyes narrowed and the fires of Hell behind him in the fireplace roared. It seemed the fires of Hell reflected in her eyes; either that or her rage was literally burning in her eyes.

"That's it? Fucking oops?" she asked him. "I'm pregnant and that's all you fucking say?" she added. When he said nothing and continued to grin at her, she glared. "You fucking bastard."