anthony crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demonicmiracle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
logsville2021-01-13 10:51 pm
demonicmiracle) wrote in logsville2021-01-13 10:51 pm
(open) to feel anything deranges you
Who: Crowley & you, perhaps??
When: First half of January
Where: Around town
What: Hanging about town, feel free to run into him wherever!! Prompt 2 is less for immediate interaction but I'm cool with anyone saying they've seen his "serial". Alternatively: HMU if you'd something specific I'M BAD AT OPEN POSTS
Warnings: Alcohol in the first prompt. Torture in the second prompt
a) day-to-day routine; open
[Before the Antichrist, back on Earth, Crowley's routines were often defined in years, decades, rather than in days. It was defined by assignments, by travel, by the occasional evening spent with Aziraphale for every half dozen years that passed. Moving in to the Dowling's residence to raise Warlock had changed that, routine became dressing the boy, feeding him, playing with him outside of his lessons, popping him into a bath at night and then reading him stories before bed. The evenings had been reserved for Aziraphale, when Crowley could sneak out to the little gardener's cottage, where wine and company would be waiting.
In Santa Rosita, the routine has shifted again.
Made woefully human and aware of the dangers present in town, he's taken up new habits. Running being one of them, as loathe as he is to do it. He often goes in the morning, hair tied back in a bun, hating every moment of it even as his stamina improves. On the days he sleeps in accidentally, or is distracted in the mornings, he ends up going once he's home from work, sticking to the sidewalk and nature strip to avoid running afoul of any cars, when it's dark.
The rest of the work week is relatively simple. He stops for coffee on the way to work, and while he often nips home on his lunch break to eat with Aziraphale, sometimes he'll grab something at a nearby diner or café, stopping by a park to toss crumbs to the pigeons, or taking up a spot at a diner counter. Throughout the week, he visits the butcher or the grocer, picking up supplies for the week, mulling over whether Aziraphale would prefer pork chops or steak. They've got better at cooking, the both of them, the simple act of taking care of bodies that were suddenly too human, too fragile, that need so much upkeep.
There's the occasional deviation from the routine. As wonderfully domestic as it is, living with Aziraphale, sometimes it gets a bit too much. It's too nice, not the type of thing a demon should be allowed to have. Those are the evenings he finds his way to a bar, nursing a drink and getting lost in his thoughts. If he spots anyone he recognizes, someone who isn't local to the town, he'll offer a little wave or nod in greeting. He's not opposed to company, he just needed to get out of the house.]
b) Science Fiction Double Feature; CW Torture, mostly vaguely described but it's Hell, y'all. They aren't nice!!!
[It had seemed like a safe enough idea; go to the drive-in, catch a movie with Aziraphale, eat terrible junk food. And he always loves a good spooky movie, even when apparently living one.
He isn't expecting to see himself on the screen.
Immediately, he knows what memory is being played out. He wore that particular style of tunic for a long time, but the fact he's sitting on a cramped chair in a dimly lit room, fingers twisting anxiously around the fabric of his belt, tells him everything he needs to know.
Crawly. Come. The voice is deep and rich, seeming to emanate from all sides. On the screen, Crawly gets to his feet quickly, eager to get this over and done with, walking through the open door at the end of the room with his head respectfully bowed.
Inside the room, it's all darkness and fire, and Crawly looks uncomfortable, in pain and trying to hide it. There's a roar from somewhere in the room, and he falls to his knees as if pulled down, fingers scrabbling at the cold stone beneath him as he forces himself not to make a sound.
You failed. It was a simple job, Crawly. I expected better from you.
The version of himself on the screen turns as if looking to the camera and winks, yellow eyes fully on display. He started wearing glasses, once he got back on Earth, but he'd relied on the veil when necessary, until then. Crawly opens his mouth as if to speak, but another roar cuts him off and he simply bows his head in supplication and pain, nearly on all fours on the floor.
The Dukes Hastur and Ligur will be responsible for punishing you. And then it's five years in a pit.
No one needs to come drag him away. Crawly staggers to his feet, gathers his tunic up so he doesn't trip on it as he returns out to the hall, where two men are waiting. They're dressed in tattered robes, one with white hair and a toad atop his head, the other dark skinned with a chameleon plastered to the side of his face.
The way they smile at Crawly is a threat. They grab him roughly by the shoulders, bind his wrists and drag him to the wall, where he's pinned against it, arms strung up above him. The look on his face is the look of someone determined not to show a single flicker of emotion, even when the first knife plunges into his arm.
He's lost track of the times he's been tortured, but he remembers this being one of the worst, because after the knives and fists and hot brands burned into his skin. After Ligur has taken a few fingers and Hastur has cut out his tongue, a third person enters the room, wearing thick leather gloves and carrying a single, large metal nail. The sort of thing used in construction.
Do you know what this is, Crawly? Ligur, the dark skinned man, asks.
Crawly spits blood at him, because it's expected, because he can, because it doesn't matter that Hastur punches him in the stomach in retaliation.
I wonder what it'll do to you. It's got his blood all over it.
Hastur pulls on a pair of his own leather gloves, takes the nail and drags it along the exposed skin of Crawly's bicep. Smoke hisses up from his skin and he makes a sound for the first time, a pained whimper as he tries to pull away from it, his attempts useless with how tightly he's bound. The Dukes laugh, even as Ligur is moving beside Crawly, grabbing a fistful of his long hair, using it to yank his head back despite his struggles.
Ligur lines the nail up against the soft hollow of Crawly's throat, and the screen goes black with the sound of his ragged, wet scream.]
"Tune in next week for the thrilling second part!"
/end content warnings
c) [insert Hozier reference here]
[In the wake of everything, his wings returning, being with Aziraphale, the awful display at the movie theater, Crowley finds himself going for a walk on a Saturday afternoon, his feet carrying him towards the nearest church without any input from his brain. It's not his first time coming here, but that had been a quick visit, testing a theory about his current predicament and consecrated ground.
That isn't why he's here, now.
The church is quiet, any stragglers from the morning service seem to have filed home, and if there's a minister, he isn't around right now.
Uncomfortable is the most appropriate way to describe how Crowley feels, walking between the pews. It had been different rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, he'd had a purpose then, was all flash and distraction until the bombs fell. This time, he's alone, here for a reason he can't quite name, searching for something he isn't certain he wants to find.
He sits somewhere in the middle, hesitant to stray too far from the exit. He doesn't kneel, doesn't clasp his hands together, doesn't bow his head. It's tipped back, instead, staring up at the ceiling and to the sky past that.
At least until he hears the door open and footsteps at the entrance, at which point he hastily gets to his feet, planning to slip out and pretend he was never here at all.]
When: First half of January
Where: Around town
What: Hanging about town, feel free to run into him wherever!! Prompt 2 is less for immediate interaction but I'm cool with anyone saying they've seen his "serial". Alternatively: HMU if you'd something specific I'M BAD AT OPEN POSTS
Warnings: Alcohol in the first prompt. Torture in the second prompt
a) day-to-day routine; open
[Before the Antichrist, back on Earth, Crowley's routines were often defined in years, decades, rather than in days. It was defined by assignments, by travel, by the occasional evening spent with Aziraphale for every half dozen years that passed. Moving in to the Dowling's residence to raise Warlock had changed that, routine became dressing the boy, feeding him, playing with him outside of his lessons, popping him into a bath at night and then reading him stories before bed. The evenings had been reserved for Aziraphale, when Crowley could sneak out to the little gardener's cottage, where wine and company would be waiting.
In Santa Rosita, the routine has shifted again.
Made woefully human and aware of the dangers present in town, he's taken up new habits. Running being one of them, as loathe as he is to do it. He often goes in the morning, hair tied back in a bun, hating every moment of it even as his stamina improves. On the days he sleeps in accidentally, or is distracted in the mornings, he ends up going once he's home from work, sticking to the sidewalk and nature strip to avoid running afoul of any cars, when it's dark.
The rest of the work week is relatively simple. He stops for coffee on the way to work, and while he often nips home on his lunch break to eat with Aziraphale, sometimes he'll grab something at a nearby diner or café, stopping by a park to toss crumbs to the pigeons, or taking up a spot at a diner counter. Throughout the week, he visits the butcher or the grocer, picking up supplies for the week, mulling over whether Aziraphale would prefer pork chops or steak. They've got better at cooking, the both of them, the simple act of taking care of bodies that were suddenly too human, too fragile, that need so much upkeep.
There's the occasional deviation from the routine. As wonderfully domestic as it is, living with Aziraphale, sometimes it gets a bit too much. It's too nice, not the type of thing a demon should be allowed to have. Those are the evenings he finds his way to a bar, nursing a drink and getting lost in his thoughts. If he spots anyone he recognizes, someone who isn't local to the town, he'll offer a little wave or nod in greeting. He's not opposed to company, he just needed to get out of the house.]
b) Science Fiction Double Feature; CW Torture, mostly vaguely described but it's Hell, y'all. They aren't nice!!!
[It had seemed like a safe enough idea; go to the drive-in, catch a movie with Aziraphale, eat terrible junk food. And he always loves a good spooky movie, even when apparently living one.
He isn't expecting to see himself on the screen.
Immediately, he knows what memory is being played out. He wore that particular style of tunic for a long time, but the fact he's sitting on a cramped chair in a dimly lit room, fingers twisting anxiously around the fabric of his belt, tells him everything he needs to know.
Crawly. Come. The voice is deep and rich, seeming to emanate from all sides. On the screen, Crawly gets to his feet quickly, eager to get this over and done with, walking through the open door at the end of the room with his head respectfully bowed.
Inside the room, it's all darkness and fire, and Crawly looks uncomfortable, in pain and trying to hide it. There's a roar from somewhere in the room, and he falls to his knees as if pulled down, fingers scrabbling at the cold stone beneath him as he forces himself not to make a sound.
You failed. It was a simple job, Crawly. I expected better from you.
The version of himself on the screen turns as if looking to the camera and winks, yellow eyes fully on display. He started wearing glasses, once he got back on Earth, but he'd relied on the veil when necessary, until then. Crawly opens his mouth as if to speak, but another roar cuts him off and he simply bows his head in supplication and pain, nearly on all fours on the floor.
The Dukes Hastur and Ligur will be responsible for punishing you. And then it's five years in a pit.
No one needs to come drag him away. Crawly staggers to his feet, gathers his tunic up so he doesn't trip on it as he returns out to the hall, where two men are waiting. They're dressed in tattered robes, one with white hair and a toad atop his head, the other dark skinned with a chameleon plastered to the side of his face.
The way they smile at Crawly is a threat. They grab him roughly by the shoulders, bind his wrists and drag him to the wall, where he's pinned against it, arms strung up above him. The look on his face is the look of someone determined not to show a single flicker of emotion, even when the first knife plunges into his arm.
He's lost track of the times he's been tortured, but he remembers this being one of the worst, because after the knives and fists and hot brands burned into his skin. After Ligur has taken a few fingers and Hastur has cut out his tongue, a third person enters the room, wearing thick leather gloves and carrying a single, large metal nail. The sort of thing used in construction.
Do you know what this is, Crawly? Ligur, the dark skinned man, asks.
Crawly spits blood at him, because it's expected, because he can, because it doesn't matter that Hastur punches him in the stomach in retaliation.
I wonder what it'll do to you. It's got his blood all over it.
Hastur pulls on a pair of his own leather gloves, takes the nail and drags it along the exposed skin of Crawly's bicep. Smoke hisses up from his skin and he makes a sound for the first time, a pained whimper as he tries to pull away from it, his attempts useless with how tightly he's bound. The Dukes laugh, even as Ligur is moving beside Crawly, grabbing a fistful of his long hair, using it to yank his head back despite his struggles.
Ligur lines the nail up against the soft hollow of Crawly's throat, and the screen goes black with the sound of his ragged, wet scream.]
"Tune in next week for the thrilling second part!"
/end content warnings
c) [insert Hozier reference here]
[In the wake of everything, his wings returning, being with Aziraphale, the awful display at the movie theater, Crowley finds himself going for a walk on a Saturday afternoon, his feet carrying him towards the nearest church without any input from his brain. It's not his first time coming here, but that had been a quick visit, testing a theory about his current predicament and consecrated ground.
That isn't why he's here, now.
The church is quiet, any stragglers from the morning service seem to have filed home, and if there's a minister, he isn't around right now.
Uncomfortable is the most appropriate way to describe how Crowley feels, walking between the pews. It had been different rescuing Aziraphale from the Nazis, he'd had a purpose then, was all flash and distraction until the bombs fell. This time, he's alone, here for a reason he can't quite name, searching for something he isn't certain he wants to find.
He sits somewhere in the middle, hesitant to stray too far from the exit. He doesn't kneel, doesn't clasp his hands together, doesn't bow his head. It's tipped back, instead, staring up at the ceiling and to the sky past that.
At least until he hears the door open and footsteps at the entrance, at which point he hastily gets to his feet, planning to slip out and pretend he was never here at all.]
Will it ever end? Signs point to no
[Maybe a little, but in his defense he's a serpent who never entirely adjusted to the concept of hips or ball joint sockets. He's doing the best he can.
Which cannot be said for Archer. Crowley wrinkles his nose at him for just - so many reasons.]
Oh, I lied to him about what we were doing. M'not getting him involved in this business.
he's a bad person brent
Oh. Seriously? He seems like he'd be down to kick a guy around. Actually, he kind of seems like a serial killer?
rated 1/10
Yeah, well, he doesn't like you, is the thing. He's like one of those — what are they called? Those big white dogs that guard flocks of sheep and'll absolutely fuck up a fox or wolf if it starts something?
[Maremma sheepdogs are what he's thinking of, and he yes, he knows in the metaphor here it means he's the flock that Aziraphale is getting protective over. It is what it is.]
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I believe he was making a point.
[He won't argue about the climbing in the window, assuming Archer won't believe the teleporting thing.
But also, there's a door to a room that lines up with where the projectionist should likely be; Crowley tries the handle, finding it locked, and curses under his breath.]
You got a lock pick with you?
[He is a spy, after all.]
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[badum dum. archer snorts, shaking his head.]
I didn't come here expecting this Twin Peaks bullshit, genius, so no, I don't have one on me!
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[Harsh. But perhaps fair?
He presses a little weight against the door to test it; the lock isn't particularly fancy, maybe they can just break it down.]
How does that cane come with a taser and not something useful for opening doors?
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[He's chuckling as he steps out of the way, gesturing in the universal sign for Archer to do his best.
There's nothing like watching someone make an arse of themselves to cheer him up.]
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archer... bounces back off it and lands on his ass with a grunt.]
Ow.
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That's exactly what he wanted to see, thank you.]
Not seeing the comparison, mate.
[Dale Cooper wouldn't kick a door and land on his ass.
But at least he's nice enough to offer a hand up.]
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Yeah, just standing around will get the door open, asshole. [he kicks it again, breaking it open.] Come on, Elton.
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Don't want to scuff my boots.
[Which is bullshit, judging by his grin, but whatever.
He makes a face at that nickname, smile falling away to be replaced by a splutter, even as he follows after Archer.]
Wh — Elton? That doesn't even fit.
[RUDE]
elton i'm so sorry about this tag
[anyway:] Yes it does, you're like... his phase before he got on the drugs and started dressing like, uh. You know. Like he did. Watch the door.
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[He's going to carefully ease the door shut, actually, so that if someone looks down the hall they won't see it wide open.
He's smart sometimes.]
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I'm starting to come around to the killing idea. You know, I do try to avoid harming civilians, but this guy is really pissing me off.
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[He says it like obviously, like he's suggesting Archer is a little stupid for conflating the two, despite the fact that a) he hasn't made any indication of how he identifies before this point and b) he doesn't really understand the whole range of labels humans use and is just guessing at the best one.]
He's probably gone home to his wife for the night, you want to wait here to get him in the morning?
[He's being sarcastic, because as angry as he was at first, it's mostly faded to resigned annoyance, especially when he knows the projectionist likely had little to do with what they saw.]
cw internalized homophobia
he pointedly ignores how his own thoughts briefly touch on ramon. he's not--
okay, whatever.]
This one looks-- familiar. Kind of. It's hard to see. Hang on. I need a light.
it never ends
Flatly:]
Oops, sorry.
nope!
[he starts going through each roll he's uncovered, shining the light through the thin film just long enough to make sure he ruins each one.]
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Not a single frame is anything interesting. All of it seems to be the movie and shorts that played before it, at least from what he can see so far.]
S'all what it's supposed to be. The proper movie, I mean.
[What he definitely can't see is someone outside the room, noticing the light coming from within, and turning around to go call the police, since clearly some hooligans have broken into the projection room.]
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it's not until the red and blue lights start to shine from behind the room's blinds that he stops.] Shit! They don't have silent alarms yet... right?!
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[He'd sort of assumed that Ray and Archer were roughly contemporary to he and Aziraphale, considering some of the things they've mentioned, but sometimes he wonders.
He doesn't have much time to wonder, not with those lights.]
Dunno, could've had something to do with you kicking the bloody door down. We should go.
[No shit.]
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[mid forties. ambiguously. time is fake, actually. archer looks out, frowning, then drops the reel.]
Shit. I'll come back later. [said to himself, mostly. what if they have something of his?] Different way-- go out the back!
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Oh, he's gonna kill me.
[There's really no doubt who "he" might be.
So out the door he goes, casting a quick glance the way they came, before taking off in the other direction, hoping for a fire exit they might be able to slip out of.
And there is! Which is great! Except Crowley pushes it open to reveal a handful of police officers.]
Fuck.
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