anthony crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[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!
no subject
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.
no subject
problem is, in the split second between him doing this and jumping back himself, one of the cops gets him. he's tranquilized and slumps against the wall for a moment as the usual emotions he feels are replaced--]
no subject
Howdy, neighbour!
[shit. fuck. fuck.]
no subject
So sorry, officers, my friend and I must have gotten a little turned around.
[His voice is pitched slightly softer, closer to his Ashtoreth inflection.
He goes without a fuss when the police officers direct them out, reaching out to curl his fingers in the crook of Archer's arm, an easy, friendly gesture.]
My husband will be so worried, thank you so much for coming to fetch us.
no subject
Maybe we should get Avery some popcorn while we're here... [he says, tone odd, even for the tranquilizing, like his voice isn't used to actually emoting in the overly cheerful way it's being forced to.] Well, either way I know which way not to go again! Come along, Crowley.
[archer allows the hook around his arm, unbothered, and walks back with crowley, stopping for a moment to point at the upcoming movies board with a noise of excitement.]
no subject
To say Aziraphale is worried is a slight understatement. He can't imagine what's happened to those two idiots, or, rather, he can, and it's all awful. Crowley had said they were just going to "investigate," but why, Aziraphale wonders now, did he believe that? Archer. Crowley. Going off together, alone.
It was never going to end well.
Aziraphale's pacing by the time the two of them emerge, looking — goofy? — with police in tow.
His blood pressure spikes in such a way that he nearly feels dizzy.]
...Crowley.
[Said with a tone of, WHAT DID YOU DO?]
no subject
The composure doesn't even slip when he's greeted by a worried Aziraphale using that particular tone. He simply smiles, patting Archer's arm as he releases him.]
Angel! [It's an odd look on him, the too-polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes.] Sterling and I wandered down the wrong hallway. These lovely officers were kind enough to escort us out.
[Said officers treat Aziraphale with a wary look but give Crowley and Archer a final warning to be careful where they go walking, before leaving them in peace.]
no subject
archer unhooks his arm from crowley, moving to let him move forward to his husband. speaking of...]
Terribly foolish of us, but I suppose I best get going, now. [he says with a shrug, expression vacant for a second.] Too bad we never found whatever it was we were looking for... ah well! Can't have been important.
no subject
peels one of his eyes open to check his pupil. He'd do the same to Archer if he wasn't concerned about another potential stabbing, but then again, maybe Archer wouldn't care in this moment.
He's not about to find out, though. After a pause:]
Right. Guess I'm driving you both home. Sterling, be a good lad and come with us, hm?
no subject
I'm not drunk, you silly thing.
[Clearly that's what he thinks is wrong.]
no subject
no subject
[No. No. You know what? He can get the details later. It's fine. Nothing he could possibly find out now would help this situation at all; the best he can do is throw Crowley in bed and wait for this to wear off.
He cuts himself off. Pinches the bridge of his nose, inhales.
It's fine. They may be drugged, or whatever, but at least they're in one piece.]
— yes. Well. You be a good husband, then, and run along. Ta.
[History's most aggressive "ta," as if somehow Archer is the one to blame for this.]
no subject
It was, wasn't it? We really should do this again sometime.
[He even gives him a little wave. Everyone is probably grateful that he didn't go for a kiss on the cheek.]
Drive safe, give my best to the missus.
[He's never even met Rapunzel.]