For theangel_cas
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.
"Castiel..."
Who else would he ever think to run to?
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.
"Castiel..."
Who else would he ever think to run to?