Whether you're in bed or in court, everybody gets off
Always Interested
It had been easy, getting inside of him, slipping into his skin like a well-fitted suit and there was something about him that for that first moment, almost made him consider staying. But, he very quickly dismissed that idea, as he felt it, that tense, iron will that caught his breath. My, this one was interesting. But, there was something he needed to do, another politician that needed just the right words whispered in his ear, but unfortunately not from his lips. He kept up a light dialogue to the promises of revenge in his head - it was less distracting that way - as he made his way through the White House corridors until he found his prey.

It was easy enough, a firm handshake, a drawled greeting in a voice that wasn't his, and a few minutes spent on a certain measure that wasn't really something Frank would have concerned himself with. But, he had access and enough power to make this easy, and while there were some deals that were sealed as simply as a snap of his fingers, there were sometimes where he enjoyed doing the legwork. Selling his soul to save his career, and it all hinged on one silly little measure going through the House. Certainly, he could just use a mix of possession and blackmail, but being so crass wasn't quite Crowley's style when there were other options.

He couldn't help being fascinated by the man whose body he was wearing, the low, almost sultry threats whispered into the connection between them. He was sharp and cruel and smart, unflinching and unbending, and it made Crowley consider staying just a few moments longer. His gait was Frank's usual casual, but purposeful step, but there was a spring to it, a hint of eager enthusiasm that was all Crowley as he slipped them away back behind the office doors.

"Now, calm down, darling. You've been such a co-operative doll about this I might even give you your body back." Amusement coloring his words, hands stroking filthy over the lapels of Frank's suit. "Although, I don't know... I am growing kind of fond of it."

Lines That Bind Us - For righteous_bro
Kink plz
Crowley hadn't been joking, but that doesn't mean that he'd expected Dean to accept his offer. The hunter had mentioned having a thing for priests. Crowley had been only too quick to offer up a sexual grin and a line about how if he wants to ravish a priest, they could always pretend. And that's why they're sitting close on the motel bed, Crowley looking over Dean with interest. He actually likes talking things out, hearing what his partner likes, as much fun as feeling things out can be. He does care about lines and limits- when he chooses to- and he has a few of his own, although granted they're nowhere near as firm as most humans.

"So, tell me what you want. What do you want to do to your priest?"

He smiled, tip of his tongue flicking against his bottom lip, because this is interesting. They've played with roles and power games before, but nothing to quite this extent. He's interested, fascinated to see just where Dean's are. The potential of catching glimpses of facets of the hunter he hasn't seen before. Lines define people as much as their desires.

Surrounded By Morons -- No Offense, Love
Kink plz
Crowley was not pleased when he caught wind of what the current running plan was for getting Lucifer in the Cage. Really, he'd liked Sam because he seemed at least passingly more possessed of common sense than his brother, and at least less likely to perform a stunning coup de grace on his own train of thought. He pops in silently, all crossed arms and a sharp look as he catches Sam alone. No doubt researching the next case of preventing their assisted suicide by anything fanged or clawed they can find.

"You know, darling, I get that you Winchesters are masochists, and if that's your thing, far be it for me to prevent you from buying yourself an eternity of the cornucopia of delights that Hell has to offer. If you like, I'll even get you a free ticket myself."

There was a flicker of actual anger, because say what he might, he was actually more than a little bit fond of the boys. Sam especially, their initial disagreements over his nature aside. The fact that he wanted to just pop off and say yes to Lucifer when he'd put so much time and effort into keeping them alive so that they could beat this... Well. It was more than a little frustrating.

"However, can we please leave our sexual dalliances out of the picture until we've, you know, stopped the bloody Apocalypse?"

He almost yelled the last part, taking a breath, his hand going to the bridge of his nose. Really, he almost couldn't believe how stupid they could be. Almost.

Not The King - For theangel_cas
It had put the Winchesters on edge when Crowley had appeared one day while they were on a hunt, bantering and just barely keeping them alive as if they were still working together to bring down Lucifer.  Then, at least, they'd known where his hand was, why he cared.  Now, Crowley just shrugged and offered something about how <I>maybe I like you</I>.  Which neither of them believed for a minute, even if it did actually have some truth to it. 

There had been more demons than usual before, ever since they locked Lucifer in the Cage.  With Crowley around, that number seemed to increase, and Missing-a-Soul-Sam was less inclined than even Dean was to believe this factors were unrelated.  And yet Crowley brushed it off, shrugged and acted as if it was meaningless.  Even as he talked to Cas about civil war and averting Apocalypse, he didn't tell him that he was on the run, neglected to mention that Heaven wasn't the only side that wanted to set that ultimate showdown of destiny back on track. He didn't tell Cas that the souls he loaned him were all that he'd managed to steal when he'd fled from Hell.

And then it was out of the mouth of some pissant demon; about how Meg had quite the prize on his head, wanted to put him on a Rack and tear him apart herself. He shrugged and tried to pretend it didn't change anything, that it wasn't like he was their friend or anything.  Sam was quick to point out that now Crowley needed them more than they needed him. He kind of wanted to punch him in the face, to be perfectly honest.

He sighed, leaning against the wall, and looked up at the angel as Sam and Dean filtered off to their respective distractions of sex with prostitues and alcohol. "What, nothing to add, angel?" He couldn't quite keep the tinge of irritation from his voice.

Fluffy Fluff Fluff. For theangel_cas
Demon with a Gun Darling
He's bleeding, and it's not stopping.  That's new.  After being a demon for several hundred years, longer, I'd one counts the passage of time in the Pit, and it's easy to forget just what being human means.  Cut off from Hell, on the run from Lucifer and every demon that might know his face, it had taken only the spell of a particularly powerful pagan god with a fondness for Lucifer to reduce him to a gun with iron rounds and a snappy attitude.  The strips of his soul, shattered pieces fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle; he couldnt seal a deal or any of the other conveniences of demonic existence.  The irony, of course, is that it's saving Dean of all people.  They get along like oil and water with just enough fondness to keep them from doing real harm to one another.

Dean had taken sick pleasure the first time he'd punched Crowley and the demon had actually felt it, cursed and had ice on his jaw for the next hour and a bruise for the next three days.  He's still all about survival, really, he should have known better.  He hears a flutter and it makes him grin, a soft laugh as blood stains his suit.  Really; he misses his tailor more every day.


Dubiously Loving For theangel_cas and iustiviri
Hello Darling
Crowley was perhaps a bit too invested in playing the villain.  Yes, he'd known the weapon to kill Dick would knock Dean and Castiel straight into Purgatory.  No, he hadn't told them.  If he had, Sam would have ended up there right along with them, because the Winchesters were morons like that, and there would have been no one to stop the distribution of Dock's deadly dairy creamer, or to prevent the unsightly little fish from reorganizing and continuing right along with master plan: enslave the human race.  But Crowley was all but incapable of admitting that he was doing something for someone else's benefit.  As he'd said years before; he liked the status quo.  He didn't want a country full of fat and stupid humans who had no desires but would probably barter their soul for a slurpee.  Really, where was the challenge, where was the fun?

The Moose wasn't entirely stupid, unfortunately, and had eventually pieced together that Crowley wasn't going after the Word of God for Absolute Cosmic Power or some rubbish -- as enchanting an idea as that might be -- but because it was the only way to bring them back. And that was why Crowley was panting for breath, his eyes dazed, glassy, slumped against the wall of his lab that had once held Alphas, had once held whatever pretty specimen it had been nessecary to cut up to try and get there.

It had been tempting to try and skim a few off the top when he'd cracked the door open, to steal just a piece of power, a little more.  But, really, he's not sure he wants to find out the hard way what other things the Almighty keeps in the cupboard under the stairs.  He doesn't think it's child wizards.  He'd kept his fingers to himself just used the spell to drag free one troubled hunter and one angel that isn't even worth killing.  If he really wants to.  It's... difficult, tryin to sort through his feelings about Castiel.  He did so much for him, gave so much, bent in ways he never had for anyone else, and an <I>angel</I> of all things stabbed him in the back.

That fact still hurt.  He'd like to say his response had been logical, based on survival, but that would be lying.  It was hurt and anger and wanting to see his face.  Really, he's lucky things had gone as they had.  Or else it would have been a snap of a particularly unpleasant archangel's fingers and Good-bye Mister Crowley.

He's not wearing his suitcoat, his tie is loose and his shirt is torn, his pale chest is streaked with blood.  These sort of rituals are never easy. It would have been easier to leave them there.  Crowley is painfully, unpleasantly aware of this.  Because he can't.

He's still trying to catch his breath when it closes and the light fades. Aware of two figures and he smirks a little. With spells like this, getting what you wanted and not dying in the process is always a job well done. He wishes he had a snarky remark and a fresh suit for the ocassion. 

"Hello, darlings."

It's the best he can manage. 

Long Way To Lost - for theangel_cas
Hello Darling
Well.  This was quite certainly not how he'd envisioned this going.  Pop in to check on the little darlings off doing his dirty work, a moment too soon, a few steps too close, and now he was staring out into the grim dark, with an angel at his side and a hunter.  Funny thing was that topside, Dean was the creature that everything under the sun wanted tortured, broken, and dead.  Here, where the monster souls of the world rested, it was Castiel and Crowley.

There was being a Hunter, and then there was hunting down family lines, torturing children, locking them in cages and using the corpse of the Mother of All Monsters to send waves of pain through every thing she had created.  There was Castiel that had once possessed every soul inside God's closet under the stairs for the bad children.  It wasn't the right moon phase for the ritual, even assuming they could put together the ingredients again.  And even still getting them back would be no simple task; this was picking up a grain of rice with tweezers, not sucking the whole lot up with a vacuum cleaner.  Of course, Crowley had faith that the moose would make sad canine faces at anyone who would listen until he found a way to free his brother.

So, as long as Crowley stayed with Dean, and kept them all alive, and Sam actually managed to pull through with that sickening Winchester panache, he wouldn't be left rotting in this prison forever.  They were holed up in some hole of ichor black; thankfully Dean was the only one that needed to sleep.  Crowley enjoyed his creature comforts, but the past year hadn't afforded him much in that respect.

He looked over at Castiel, still not quite sure what to make of him.  Had he ever been?  So many conflicting feelings.  He was worrying at a slight tear in the cuff of his jacket; Purgatory wasn't kind on eveningwear, it seemed.

(no subject)
Demon with a Gun Darling
Crowley's Headcanon
Tags: ,

For helosthisshoe
Hello Darling
"Really.  You hunters get so bent out of shape over one little soul."

All of a sudden there was a demon leaning against the wall of Sam's motel room, an arched eyebrow and a quirk of his lips; the words were almost teasing.  Dean, however, seemed to have considered this a battle won, and was traipsing off to sample the alcohol- and no doubt, the women- at the local bar.  Which was fine by Crowley; it had been a while since he'd gotten to check in on his moose. 

And so, here he was, with Bobby's soul again his own, and Crowley looking perhaps less frustrated by the ordeal than one might have expected.  Truthfully?  He'd rather enjoyed their little game.  He was smiling, in fact, looking smug and maybe just a little bit superior as he stood distinctly too-close-for-comfort to the younger Winchester.  Apparently Dean wasn't the only one with a supernatural creature that couldn't be bothered with those human conventions of personal space.  The difference was that Castiel didn't understand them while Crowley willfully disregarded them.

For theangel_cas
Hello Darling
Crowley had been caught.  He'd somehow expected anger, he'd expected destruction to come quickly; he'd been wrong on both counts.  Instead what he'd had was Lucifer's gentle voice, speaking in quiet, soothing tones as he tortured the errant, rebellious demon that had tried to put a bullet in his brain and erase him from the planet. 

However, the thing that Lucifer had been the most taken with had been his wings.

It had been one thing, having Castiel touch them.  Lucifer's fingers carding through the feathers with mock-sweetness was wrong.  It was an insistent feeling beating against the inside of his skull, a violation that was hard to explain or articulate, the chill of slender fingers tracing against the silky ebony dark of the demon's wings while Lucifer rent skin and bone.  Crowley had always done his best to stay out of Lucifer's way.  Now, like this, trapped and face with an archangel that was so cold, so brilliant and glittering with millenia of cruelty, Lucifer presses close and gives him nowhere to run.

Pain was something he was accustomed to, still remembered it from his time on the Racks, from the suffering that turned Crowley from an unscrupulous man into a demon that bartered in souls.  This was different.  The pain came in small measures, paired to words that were sinful, seductive, but it only served to make it more unbearable.

The first time he tries to escape is when Lucifer breaks one of his wings.

Fingers turn from gentle to a hard grasp, snapping fragile bones as chilled words whisper from the lips of that fading vessel. Fingers pluck feathers from his wing, forces the demons weight back on it as that feather drags across exposed skin.  It's agony there aren't words for, and when he goes to scream the archangel takes even his breath from him.  He's not sure if the pain is worse than the sharp-edge of deceptive gentility.

Lucifer's light escapes in frigid blasts too bright to look at; just another torture, scalding his eyes and leaving his vision drenched in strange colors that last for what might be minutes or days.  There is no time here, there's only Lucifer.

The archangel is a languorous, indulgent mood, and Crowley hasn't learned enough to stop trying to run.  His wing is broken, and his flight in unsteady and he isn't sure if the feeling of Lucifer closing in around him is real or just a lingering fever dream.  He crashes hard to the ground, a whimper as his other wing flutters, tries to right his body and gives up the attempt.


Who else would he ever think to run to?


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