Twisted Paths - It's Good to be the King - Chapter Four
Mid afternoon you’re collected for another spa appointment and you blush in shame at the state of the room when Clara comes knocking. You make sure to only open the door wide enough to slip outside; then you pad down the stairs in your slippers and a fresh robe, leaving the wrecked room behind. Your emotions are a bigger mess than what’s upstairs and this time you appreciate the solitude of the empty spa room, because you really want to sort out what you’re thinking. It’s some sort of facial and the mineral-soaked discs they have on your eyes are soothing, relieving the puffiness and heat from your crying; it’s quite nice. The expensive massage chair they have you nestled in is super comfortable and it’s gently caressing your back like a friendly hug while you attempt to loosen up and ease the tense emotions from your muscles. That prick! It’s hard to relax when your heartbreak has solidified into anger, which is easier to manage, but it’s making you hate the fuck out of Crowley right this moment. What an A-one douchebag; what kind of asshat fucking disappears right after something like that? Sigh…. A demon, that’s who. You frown because that self stated proclamation blows the wind right out of your sails and your body starts to go slack, a physical testament to admitting defeat. You grimace, blowing out a frustrated grunt. You wish it was just a lame excuse made up to give him a pass, but really truly, it’s pretty damn legit. You used to be terrified of demons, now you’re pissed off because a demon acts just like a demon. You’ve officially entered crazytown and you should run away screaming before you go any further down this nutso rabbit hole.
Why in the hell did that bastard have to kiss you back in that warehouse… what has it been… two months ago now? If he had kept his lips to himself, you wouldn’t be sitting here pissed off at the world and you’d still have a healthy fear of damned souls; but that stupid spell had to be broken so it was kind of unavoidable. Ugh, demons. There’s a deep scowl decorating your face; good thing no one is around to see it because you probably look terrible with your face covered in mineral goop and a frown that puts Jeff Dunham’s puppet Walter, to shame. Sigh. Damn it. You keep finding arguments for him and you hate that, but it’s not like either of you really has a choice in this. It’s that damn Cupid’s grace, so you shouldn’t be pissed at Crowley for being… well… Crowley. You haven’t been around him very much, but he’s pretty easy to peg in the personality department. He’s pompous, selfish, self-righteous, and extremely confident in his own abilities, and also totally assured that he will always get what he wants. He’s the kind of guy that makes you feel like you’ve won first prize if you catch his attention, but in the end you’re left used and wanting… because he’s a demon. Not to mention demons don’t cuddle; no matter how much of yourself you give or he takes from you, he isn’t a cuddly fluffy teddy bear… because he’s a demon. Yeah yeah, demon schmeeman, that was still a major douche move on his part; but what’s done is done, now you have to decide what to do next. Do you stick around and see what happens… or do you tell him to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. That is the question, isn’t it, and it’s a tough one to answer because…. Reasons.
You sigh heavily again, and shift in your chair. He wasn’t the only one being an asshole in all this; what happened to poor innocent Sam was a joint effort. You stifle a snort of laughter. Ok… innocent is probably not a good word to describe a Winchester, but that’s not the point. In this particular case he really was innocent, oblivious, a complete dupe. You should feel absolutely terrible; what you did while Sam was on the phone with you was so many levels of wrong, and if he ever found out… well that would not be a good thing. You’re pretty sure Sam would blame Crowley for everything and it would probably end very very badly for the King of Hell. Part of you likes the thought of the boys getting hold of him, kicking his ass for the pain he’s put you through; however, the other part aches at the prospect of never seeing him again, so you remain torn. But what if they do find out? Sam and Dean are definitely good at killing, and even if Crowley was telling the truth about the boys being his besties, you can’t really see them being ok with sharing their toys. Ha. You’re even starting to think like that devil bastard. You aren’t Sam and Dean’s toy, you’re their… um…. Hmmm… well whatever the fuck you are to the Winchesters, it’s not a toy.
Speaking of toys, that’s exactly what you did with Sam; you played him pretty hard. You should’ve hung up, or stopped Crowley, or told Sam what was happening, or… something. Ugh. Shoulda woulda coulda; again, what’s done is done so stop dwelling on it, right? Yeah right, good luck with that. The worst part about this whole thing is that you’re more upset with yourself than at Crowley. It’s your fault for expecting more from Crowley and your fault for being surprised when he disappeared, but you still hate him for it. It’s also your fault for toying with Sam while Crowley took you hard and hot… and it’s also your fault that you kinda don’t really feel guilty about it, at all. Well that’s not true, you do feel guilty, but not in the way you’re supposed to. You feel guilty because you don’t feel guilty, how fucked up is that? It’s because underneath all of this, there is a thread of naughty appreciation. Every moment you spend with Crowley is a terrible thing, you’re perfectly aware of that; but no matter how wrong you keep telling yourself this whole things is, no matter how much you know you should feel guilty and bad, you don’t.
You should leave and get far away from him, but you can’t. You just can’t. You’ve enjoyed everything Crowley has done to you, the way he’s taken control of you, even the way he leaves you craving and begging for more. What’s worse is the hot shiver of pleasure you get at the thought of how you got away with Crowley secretly claiming you when Sam was right there on the phone; it was all so…. so amazingly hot as fuck! The icing on the cake is Crowley’s self-assured carefree nonchalance; it’s seriously sexy, albeit incredibly frustrating. What is it about bad boys? They always seem to get a girl all hot and bothered. Damn it Crowley. You shift in the chair again, this time because you’re body is heating up in ways it shouldn’t. Damn, damn, damn! What in the hell has that devil done to you? Have you always been this screwed up? No. Yes. Maybe. You sigh heavily again, and then you spend the remainder of your time trying to bottle up your salacious thoughts and you try to think of a way to get away from all of this before it’s to late; before you’re to far gone.
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Eventually the discs are removed and the attendant peels the unattractive facial mask off your face; physically you feel refreshed, mentally… meh. You have no idea what to do and your desire has ebbed, but it’s still there, always a tease. Clara appears and you figure she’s going to take you to the next treatment; instead, she lets you know there are refreshments on the terrace, and you have a bit of time to enjoy the grounds before the next appointment. Oh. Refreshments on the terrace, how classy. You chuckle at yourself, and after saying thank you to both the attendant and Clara; you meander towards the terrace doors. Somewhere in the back of your mind there is a tingle that says this is some sort of setup; and you instinctively brace yourself just in case. Crowley seems to like setups and he is all about showmanship, which can be a nice quality in a person, in a demon, debatable. If you can manage to stay away from him for a while, then you can sort out a way to leave. Of course you could always call on the boys, but you don’t want Crowley dead, you just need to get away before… before… what exactly? You aren’t sure what, but you feel like it’s what you’re supposed to do. In every story, everywhere, it’s written that you’re supposed to fight evil, not submit to it. Which is why you should leave, right? Yes. No. Maybe. Ugh. This is so damn complicated.
As you get closer, you can see a gorgeous little garden just beyond the two huge glass doors that swing open on silent hinges; you relax when you find it empty, no sign of Crowley anywhere. Just like out front, there is a little fountain nestled in amongst beautiful vegetation and it’s a soothing sound. An ancient looking stone patio spreads out in a semi-circle from the doors and it branches out into small paths that meander around the entire structure in a loop. A third path wanders amongst the plants ahead of you where it finally ends at a little bench perched on an outlook. A willow tree brushes lightly against its back and rolling mountains full of wild beauty stretch to the horizon beyond it, picture perfect. Your focus returns to the nearby surroundings and an intricate set of wrought iron chairs with a matching table is set off to one side of the patio. You see a silver tray with a dome lid, and it looks exactly like what your lunch was served on. You blush hot at the memories that suddenly roll over you. His hands, the taste of his skin, the feel of Crowley inside you hot and throbbing; you close your eyes for a moment, breathing deep and desperately trying to remember that you’re mad at that bastard and that you’re going to run away.
Bad Crowley. Mean Crowley. One more deep sigh later, you’ve managed to box up those tantalizing memories and you decide that some nibbles will help take your mind off things. Wandering around outside in your bathrobe feels a little odd but you feel so alone in this place that you figure it doesn’t really matter, because who’s around to see you anyways. You shuffle over to the little table and gingerly lift the lid up and off expecting to see cheese and crackers or a bag of chips or something, but your breath catches and your stomach does a summersault at what’s underneath. Indeed there is food; cheese on crackers, a lovely cup of mixed fruit, little delicate cakes on miniature plates, but what has your attention is the centerpiece. A little stuffed dragon is perched on a raised pedestal right in the middle of the platter. He’s black as soot and his eyes are shining red, like drops of blood in the afternoon sun. A lacey red ribbon is draped around his neck and it’s attached to an envelope with your name on it.
For a moment you’re frozen; so many thoughts flooding your mind that you aren’t sure what to do. Finally, you push through the shock and gingerly take the envelope, the ribbon easily releasing from its keeper. The handwriting is beautiful and it reminds you of the note that was attached to the dress you were given. Damn it Crowley! You’re supposed to be mad, you’re supposed to be leaving; and you consider walking away because you shouldn’t open it, but your legs betray you and remain rooted in place. You know what kind of present this is supposed to be and curiosity is eating at you to open the envelope. You take a deep breath and then gently pop the old style wax seal that adorns it. The card is made of the same heavy, yellowing parchment as the envelope. It’s plain, no adornments or filigree, no doodles or crests, just jet black ink in scrawling letters that read, ~This is Mr. Cuddles, he belongs to you.~ No signature, no fluff, just that one short sentence. It says nothing special but yet it speaks volumes as you run a trembling finger across the long delicate lines of Crowley’s handwriting.
You lay the envelope down and with both hands you tenderly lift Mr. Cuddles off the pedestal. Oh god, he’s adorable and he’s stuffed with the perfect amount of fluffy filling to make his name a legitimate statement. His eyes really are blood red and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear they were made from real rubies. He has tiny little wings that dial up the cute factor and he feels good, and strangely familiar, against the palms of your hands. You pull Mr. Cuddles into your arms and the scent of fresh cinnamon and spices fills the air. Your pulse quickens as you stand there on the smooth stones of the patio while the breeze pulls lightly at your hair, oh Crowley. Any lingering anger you had evaporates, because this simple gift says so many things at once; the most prominent statement being that demons don’t cuddle, but this little dragon does. It’s your monsters way of apologizing; the only way he can say sorry without saying it, and like an idiot you’re accepting it wholeheartedly.
Still snuggling Crowley’s gift tight to your chest, you wander down the narrow path and sit on the bench under the willow. You cuddle that little black dragon like he’s going to fly away while you take in the view of the mountains. Damn it. Why did Crowley have to go and do this? Hating him was such a good thing to do, the right thing, proper and wholesome; now, well now you’re back to feeling seriously fucked up, naughty, and maybe a little masochistic. You shouldn’t; those feelings are why you got hurt, you should stay mad. You should stay away from Crowley, far away; run away screaming before… before it’s too late. You keep saying that, but maybe it’s already too late. Sighing seems to be the order of the day because you blow out another heavy breath as you pull the stuffed dragon away and lay it on your lap. You stare at it long and hard, your fingers idly running along it’s wings and arms. Familiar, why does it seem so familiar? It reminds you of your monster; not just the delicious smell, and the bright red eyes, there is something else and you can’t quite figure it out. You really should run far, far away.
“Hello darling.” You swallow a yelp, jumping at those unexpected words. Oh no, it’s him. Warm familiar hands scoop at your hair, causing you to relax back into your original state, and you instinctively bare your neck when Crowley’s warm breath, tickles just behind your ear. You press into his kiss, hating yourself as you do. You should run away, stay mad at him, but you can’t; why can’t you just be mad at him? “That’s a very good question love.” It’s unnerving whenever he references thoughts that were never spoken aloud, and you grip Mr. Cuddles tight as Crowley nudges and nibbles your neck. His left arm glides down over your shoulder, his hand slipping under your robe so that he can knead your bra-covered breast. Hot shivers race across your skin, heating your body to the core with feelings that you’re trying desperately to fight. Don’t. You bite your lip so that you don’t moan; but oh god, how you want to moan. His right hand tucks under your chin and he gently forces your head into a tilt, his thumb running firmly along your jaw line while his hot lips suck little purple marks into your skin. Please. Desire flares up, running from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair and your body is aching for Crowley’s attention. You fight it, hard. Please don’t. You try to stomp it down into a little place in the back of your mind where it can’t control you, but you’re failing, because the feel of his heat against you is intoxicating.
Crowley is fighting to hold back too, and it’s odd. His lust isn’t rolling over you like usual, it’s not drowning out the world and clogging your mind with the delicious feel of his need for you; instead it’s dammed up, walled off on the other side of the thread. You have your own reasons for fighting this, but why is he holding back? Crowley’s stubble scrapes against your skin, stirring your core again. Stop. Is it because he hopes it will torment you? Please stop. If so, he’s right, the anticipation of that wall crumbling down so that you drown in the feel of him is both torturous and perplexing. Please. Haven’t you been tormented enough? Crowley’s voice comes out like sharp gravel, a deep contrast to the soft warmth of his lips against your neck, “Angels are a curse to mankind.” You choke back a whimper when he pauses to make another purple mark, and his voice holds less venom when continues, “and demon-kind.” That accent is so magnificent. No. Stop, he needs to stop, but the feel of Crowley’s words purred against your skin is setting every nerve on fire and your sex is aching from his unexpected attention. You’re trying so hard not to want it, to not want him; it’s one hell of a battle to fight and you’re loosing as you silently beg for mercy. Tense, yet pliant, you remain still in his grip; tendrils of pleasure curling throughout every nerve wherever his lips go. It takes everything you have to keep your lips and hands to yourself and just when you think the fight is lost and you’re going to break, his touch is gone, leaving you cold and breathless.
It takes a moment before you realize he’s now sitting next to you on the bench; and when that sinks in, you cinch your robe shut and pull the dragon in tight to your chest as you stare at him. You have no idea how to feel right now and Crowley just leaves that sentence, and the situation, hanging while he looks out across the landscape in sudden silence. You want to nibble his stubble and massage his tented crotch, but you should run away. You want to feel his hot naked skin pressing against yours; but no, no you shouldn’t. You’re so frickin’ confused right now and you wonder what he’s thinking. Did he hear you begging him to stop? Does he sense your confusion and how torn you are right now? What you really want to know is why he left you like he did, naked, alone, and used. Was he forced to go, or was it something else… something personal? Then you want to know the motivation behind his apology gift, followed by why he just appeared out of nowhere, stirred you up and then sat down like that was nothing but a simple hello. So many questions.
You look down at Mr. Cuddles and you can’t help but hope that the little black dragon will start talking and answer all those questions. He doesn’t, because he can’t; he merely rests in your palms, soft and adorable. Or can he? Looking closer, you study him hard; what is it about him that reminds you so much of Crowley, and why did he give you this gift? You should give him back and leave, because this is just a lame attempt to make up for that dick move back in your bedroom. You need to be mad at him, but… you already accepted this as an apology, wholeheartedly. Be mad, come on, stay pissed off; because this little stuffed thing is just a token gesture to keep your anger at bay, a bit of fluff to placate the emotional human so the demon can play some more. You wish you could be mad, but the will and drive to hate him just isn’t there. Damn it, why does it remind you of Crowley so much? Your eyes move away from the dragon and up to the King as he gazes stoically out at the mountain scenery. Is he listening in on your inner monologue? Probably. Your gaze moves back down to the dragon, up to Crowley again, and then down once more. You let out a quiet gasp and you look one more time, just to make sure. Oh god.
Your grip turns to a reverent cradle as your fingers gently caress the black fabric. You won’t leave; you can’t, because it’s to late. You understand now; both of you are too far gone, and the proof is resting in the palms of your hands. You didn’t realize how familiar you’d become with the fabric of Crowley’s suit jacket but now it’s yours to keep; a strange narcissistic gift from the heart. The soft skin of the dragon is an exact match, and as you run your fingers across the fine threads, you become absolutely certain of it. Your fingertips come around and as they slide across the dragon’s belly your pulse quickens until it’s thundering in your ears. You see it now. From just under the dragon’s chin, down its neck, belly, and to the tip of the tail is a different material. It’s a smooth satin of dark silver adorned with black print accents; it’s Crowley’s tie. Jesus, it’s his goddamned tie! You sit there mute, your thumb gently stroking the satin underbelly of Mr. Cuddles. You will never run from Crowley because this isn’t a trifle; not a random stuffed bit of fluff to appease you, this is… there are no words for what this is. Holy shit, how are you supposed to feel about this?
“I pride myself on being an honest man,” Crowley’s voice is sudden and wistful; his attention still focused on the scenery as your head slowly twists so that your eyes come to rest on the demon King of Hell. “Well… honest demon,” He gives you a little half smile before returning his eyes to the mountaintops, “But that doesn’t mean I always divulge the truth to others. So when I tell you that I’m mostly to blame for this whole predicament, I hope you appreciate that’s its rare for me to admit that.” How is this his fault? You don’t have to say it out loud, because your damned curiosity is screaming that question at full volume inside your head. Crowley chuckles to himself before continuing, “They always say curiosity killed the cat.” He looks at you, his tone turning preachy for a moment, “Words to live by. Trust me.” You can’t do anything but stare; and yes, you’re really frickin’ curious right now and you don’t need a lecture about it, least of all from him. Crowley softens as his eyes capture yours, and you swear he’s fighting the urge to pull a hand from his pocket so that he can skim it across your cheek. You wish he would. “Not your curiosity love, mine.”
Oh, he wasn’t talking about you. So wait, what does that mean? You sit in silence; knowing that he heard your thoughts and saying it aloud would only be redundant and pushy. “I truly meant what I said the first night we had dinner together peach. I really wasn’t expecting what happened in that warehouse. I do believe we surprised each other just a bit when I kissed you.” A wistful smile pulls at his lips, your insides warm at the memory of that unexpected moment, and then Crowley changes the subject. “When it comes to stopping diabolical plots and the sort, planning out a variety of possibilities is necessary. Strategy and contingence plans are something I’m particularly good at, lucky me.” He shrugs, trying to play it off as casual but you can tell he likes talking, especially about himself; and honestly, you don’t mind listening. Crowley tilts his head; those auburn orbs still intently locked with yours, and his tone goes suggestive, “I know the Winchesters. I’ve been around the block with them on more than one occasion and I’m fully aware of what they’re capable of.” You don’t have the capacity to react; all you can do is listen as you sit there on a bench, under a willow, with a demon. Crowley notices your silence and he smirks, making you vaguely wonder what expression you’re wearing, “So, they should’ve been a decent backup plan.” He breaks away so he can gaze back out at the view, shifting the focus, and like a game of ‘made you look’, you can’t help but do the same, and the landscape is breathtaking in the afternoon sun.
“As far as nefarious schemes go, this one was pretty straight forward. For you it all started when the boys found themselves a lovely little trollop laying in an alley, and they took her home to play with.” Your head snaps back in Crowley’s direction at that. How does he know about that? He glances at you, “I have eyes everywhere love.” Then he continues in a distracted voice, his gaze wandering away again, “Admittedly it was a tiny bit out of character for the Winchester’s to whisk you away to their secret decoder ring clubhouse; even Dean knows better than to take his bar tarts home to play. He certainly wouldn’t keep them around either, much less share them with Moose; but come to find out, you were more than just the run of the mill flavor of the week. I should’ve caught on then; but I just assumed they were taking advantage of the situation, using the threat on your life as an excuse.” He pauses, lost in thought. “I would have.” That sentence hangs for a moment and then he looks at you, chuckling lightly, “Oh peach; if you only knew how much danger you were really in at the time.” You don’t smile back. From the outside you’re like a statue, emotionless and calm; on the inside, you’re a tumultuous mess of confused disarray. He’s twisting you in so many directions at once; questions still run rampant, and now they’re mixed with memories of your time with the Winchesters, both good and bad. Everything is swirling into a stewed blend of arousal, fear, and anticipation, and it’s locking you in place.
“I saw you at Biggerson’s with Dean.” How? Your eyes go wide at that statement, the only outward indication that Crowley is blowing your mind right now. “I remember smirking at the afterglow you were sporting as you strolled out the front door; adorable.” You aren’t sure how to react to that, and Crowley doesn’t seem to mind your silence as he moves on by sighing dramatically, “I thought you were just another notch in Dean’s belt,” Pausing, his tone loses it’s playfulness, “But… well… I saw what happened after that.” He looks away again, his sight turning inward while he recounts his memories. “It got my wheels turning; the way Dean fawned over you. Such concern, it was almost embarrassing.” Crowley’s sarcasm pulls you away from the dark memories that spring to mind and was that… jealousy in his voice? You clearly remember Dean, and Crowley is being overly dramatic because no “fawning” occurred. However, Dean was pretty amazing, and you’re mind calms at the thought of him; Dean was your white knight as you’ve so fondly labeled him in your mind, there to save you and make sure you were ok when you really needed him.
Crowley snorts, ducking his head down so he can stifle either a laugh or a wretch and he’s gracious enough to refrain from making snide comments about that little title you’ve given Dean. “The boys are always fond of their damsels, but only to a degree. Naturally I was suspicious, so I had them watched.” The King pauses and smiles, “I always keep tabs on those two, but in this case, I told them to keep an extra close eye on those Neanderthals.” Crowley shifts on the bench, leaning a little closer before continuing, “My intention isn’t to make you feel bad love, but… you almost got them killed. Their heads were so far out of the game when they raided that nest of demons.” Crowley’s fake concern is almost comical but you aren’t laughing. “Castiel is what saved their ass on that little field trip.” How could you NOT feel bad about that kind of statement? Jesus Crowley! Why is he telling you all this? Crowley ignores your silent question as he plugs along through his monologue, seemingly without a care. “The information they extracted was very useful though; and distracted or not, the boys wiped out that nest of crazies, which was a definite advantage. Kept me from having to do that dirty little deed myself.” You cringe at the sudden image of them stabbing and killing. You remember Dean’s heartless eyes in the alley; you hear Sam’s gruff voice yelling for Dean to hurry up and kill her while he held a struggling woman with black eyes in the warehouse. You don’t really like to remember those moments, regardless of the fact that those were evil demons they were killing. “Oh yes pet, that’s about how it looked. Very dirty and very violent,” Crowley’s being crass and you don’t appreciate it. “Prefer not to think of them like that I see; well peach, it’s who they are and what they do most days, so don’t get squeamish now.” Your eyes narrow, and Crowley just smirks. “Regardless of your discomfort darling, their violent tendencies allowed me to figure out exactly what those little Luci loving pricks were planning. After that it was simple to sort it all out; like following an easy bake recipe, just less domestic.”
How could it be easy? You and Sam, mainly Sam, worked long and hard to piece that insane puzzle together, and you never did come close to finding a way to stop it; well, other than keeping them from completing the individual pieces that is. Crowley huffs out a chuckle, finally taking his hands out of his pockets to smooth the lapel of his long black jacket. “I’m the King of Hell darling, information is my currency.” You can’t help but be impressed and it’s written all over your face, damn it. He’s so self-righteous, but you kinda like it. Damn it again. He’s so pompous; how can you like that? Sigh… because reasons. Crowley keeps going, loving the sound of his own voice, and you hate to admit that you like it too. “Trust me. I tried the easy way first; but as you can guess, that did not go as planned, so I bet on the Winchester horse. They were a bit less reliable this time.” Crowley shakes his head in disappointment. “They botched the virgin kills, and apparently didn’t even know about the murder of an entire lineage in Nebraska.” Crowley sighs dramatically, again, “I’m not at all like Moose and Squirrel; I don’t like things coming down to the wire, but in this case I had no other choice, and those louts let me down.” Crowley growls out the next sentence, his annoyance apparent, “They had one job. One. Which was to keep you away from the ceremony and the key… and what did they do? They buggered it up, that’s what they did.” He’s making it sound like Sam and Dean were under his management the whole time, that this was somehow his plan. Crowley is spinning the entire story so it sounds like he was in charge of the whole situation and Sam and Dean were just his incompetent minions. Wow, just wow. What a load of shit! Crowley looks at you in surprise, “Such language.” You can hear the playful tone in his voice and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was happy that you called him on that. “Well peach, you must admit one thing,” Crowley straightens up, a gleam in his eye despite his mocking tone, “I did look pretty spectacular when I came in to save the day. Waiting till the very last moment is hard to achieve but my timing was impeccable.”
You call bullshit again, because you’re certain he didn’t wait around for the perfect moment to come swooping in. You smile at Crowley anyways, because you do remember; and honestly, he was pretty notable. Dark and mysterious, commanding and confidant, Crowley certainly made an impression. He was very memorable indeed; and remembering him is certainly saying something, because at the time you barely registered anything past the angel attached to your lips. That was some seriously heavy mojo you were under, and Castiel was truly a delightful distraction, a wonderful, beautiful, mind-blowing distraction. Suddenly you blush, and immediately you bottle up any and all thoughts of the angel, because… well… in the presence of a demon, a demon that you really want to lick, kiss, and otherwise fuck right now, well, it’s not the best place to bring up thoughts of angels. Besides, your brain can only handle one crazy otherworldly man at a time.
It’s almost shameful how easily Sam, Dean, and the beautiful Castiel are pushed from your thoughts. It’s because Crowley’s brown eyes lock with yours and you’re pulled back into his story, back into him. “It was easy enough to fix that kind of spell, I wasn’t worried about that part at all” Ok, now he’s just being pompous, and you don’t really mind. “But, I was hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to be the one to do it.” He frowns for a moment at the memory of Castiel, and you recall Crowley’s little hissy fit after kissing the angel that you so desperately wanted back in your arms. “The two of you forced my hand on that one… fucking angels.” The last part comes out as a growl as he tilts his neck, like he’s uncomfortable at the mere thought of it. You chuckle, because you remember that part pretty well; and now that you aren’t in dire peril, it’s kinda funny. Crowley gives you a flat look, and your chuckle turns into a full-bellied laugh. For the first time ever, the King of Hell has made you laugh, and perhaps it nerves, maybe it’s the emotional roller coaster you’ve been forced to ride, maybe you’re just tired of everything just being so frickin’ heavy; whatever the reason, you laugh, long and loud.
Crowley leans back a little, raising an imperious eyebrow while watching you; but after a few moments he breaks into a truly genuine smile, one that brightens his eyes and lights up his features. Your laughter dies away, replaced by silent awe because Crowley looks astoundingly handsome when he smiles. Breathtaking. He’s smirked, sneered, and leered a hundred times before now, but this time it’s different. Completely different, and you admire this rare sight you’ve been allowed to witness. Crowley suddenly seems uncomfortable and he shifts in his seat, his gaze dipping to the ground while his right hand runs down his face, seeming to wipe the mirth from his features. It was beautiful while it lasted and your eyes stay locked on him in hopes of another glimpse, but his tone turns serious again, deep with that smooth accent rolling his syllables, “I didn’t have to kiss you.” A look of surprise replaces your grin; that curveball doing it’s job to distract you.
What? He glances over at you, leaning in a little bit, “I didn’t have to kiss you in order to break the spell.” Holy…. Ok. He’s saying what you thought he was saying and you’re dumbstruck. “The whole thing should’ve been quick and simple.” You hold your breath when his deep brown eyes meet yours, because you realize this has all been a build up; Jesus he’s melodramatic; and you suddenly have no idea where this is going. “I’d already seen the Winchester’s posh totty from a distance; and while you were mildly interesting, I thought I knew what to expect.” Mildly interesting? Oh. You shrink back a little bit, something inside you silently breaking at that casual brush off, and your eyes drop to the empty space on the bench in front of you. Crowley reaches over, using a gentle finger under your chin to tip your head back up. He stays in place until you meet his gaze, then his tone turns soft as he continues. “I knew the boys and their angel would be there, and I assumed they would be the center of attention.” Crowley is still mostly walled off on the other end of the connection, but something’s bleeding through. You can feel it; warm comforting threads of affection and… something, something deeper. What is it? “I knew how many demons were in that warehouse, I knew exactly what needed to be done; I even knew the name of the demon that started all this crap.” His tone is still gentle, like he’s soothing a frightened child as his thumb grazes back and forth across your chin. “I knew exactly what to expect.” Your jaw clenches because there is a glint of something deep, hungry, and… what else? You can’t place it and you clutch that silly little stuffed dragon because you’re suddenly wound tight, the anticipation of what he’ll say next, causing a tense silence. “I was wrong, because I didn’t expect you.” Your heart skips a beat.
“You were a thing of beauty.” Oh Crowley. There is so much reverence in that sentence and that strange warm feeling becomes stronger as the wall he’s built begins to shudder and crack. Crowley’s hand moves from your chin and he gently brushes your cheek. A note of regret rolls across the thread as he caresses the spot where he smacked you so long ago; you’d forgotten about that. Memories come flooding back to you in vivid clarity and you remember that moment, the first moment he ever touched you, and the permanent connection that was made with that violent action. You feel seriously screwed up that it makes you happy, but Crowley has you so twisted and upside down that you don’t care whether this is right or wrong anymore; you only care about him. Crowley’s features soften at that silent statement, “Surprising exquisite beauty.” Your pulse thunders in your ears as you lean into his soft touch. “I truly was not expecting you.” Tears well up and you close your eyes, refusing to let them spill as Crowley gently runs his thumb across your cheekbone. Can demons have this kind of emotion? Should you have these feelings for a demon? How is that he’s done such terrible things and you don’t care? You don’t give a damn about anything, except the right here, and the right now, and it’s horribly wonderful. Crowley’s your monster. He’s your wickedly terrible beast, yours and yours alone, and you want him so badly; truly, madly, deeply want him so fucking much.
A quiet sigh escapes your lips when the King’s power wraps around you. Vaguely, you register the sensation of it sliding you across the bench until your thigh is flush against his; then you melt when Crowley’s mouth presses tenderly against yours. So good, it feels so good, so right, and so perfect. Like two magnets finally snapping together, you know this feeling; you’ve felt it before with Sam and Dean, and it’s magnificent. His fingers tenderly card through your hair, causing shivers as his lips massage yours. He’s being so… delicate. It’s strange and new and you moan as his tongue dips between your lips, lightly playing as you bask in this new sensation. It’s a moment suspended in time, unending. You feel the wall that Crowley built trembling and you brace yourself for the outpouring of lust and need that’s about to overwhelm everything, but it doesn’t come; he’s holding on to it with everything he’s got. Why? Why isn’t he claiming you hot and hard like he has been? You know he wants you, you know he needs you, you know he… he… you can’t say it; but where’s the Crowley you’ve come to know? Suddenly you ache for it, wanting so badly for him to use you up hard and you don’t care if he throws you away afterward because he’ll come back, you know he will. You want to be overpowered, claimed, owned; but Crowley remains docile, gentle, and tame. It’s maddening.
You can’t take it. Your entire being aches for your monster, so you press into his kiss with hunger and you drown him in your essence, pushing all of your feelings of need, desire, lust, craving, want, everything, through the connection and into him. Crowley’s entire body stiffens with heat and pleasure but he’s still not letting go; like a stubborn dog that won’t release a toy, he’s fighting hard and you suddenly want to break him. That urge flares up hot and immediate and the little stuffed dragon gets tossed aside, laying sideways on the bench seat as you twist, swinging your leg over Crowley so that you’re straddling him with your ass firmly planted on his knees. Still rigid, his hands grip your shoulders while your tongue invades his mouth with fervor, and your arms encase his head so you can pull him in deeper while you drown him in salacious affection. He’s fully accepting, and you feel his enjoyment from each lick and moan and, oh god, you want him so fucking bad. Your hands come alive, sliding off his shoulders, under his coat, mindlessly unfastening his suit jacket. So many fucking layers; damn it Crowley. Your tongue never stops tasting him while your fingers work to undo each and every one of those damn buttons on his dress shirt, and he moans as his hands move down so that they’re sliding along your naked thighs. Fucking yes. You moan that into his gasping mouth as you shift so you can grind your aching sex against his trembling leg. The last button is undone and you grab his dress shirt, yanking hard, so that it pulls free of his belted pants; no undershirt, sweet Jesus yes, there is one less layer and you are so damn happy.
You finally pull free of Crowley’s delicious lips and you watch his eyes roll upward with a moan when you bite his chin. “Peach,” Your pet name comes out as a reverent sigh, heating your body to the core as you nibble his jaw. Crowley’s hand is shaking when it slides up into your hair as you work slowly down to the tender part of his neck, his breath hitching with each scrape of your teeth or press of your lips. He’s unnaturally warm and a strange heat fills your mouth when you suck a purple mark into the King’s flesh. He tastes so damn good and it’s comforting, like hot coffee on a cold day and you want to feel it again. You move down and repeat, hearing your moan match his while you worship the taste of his skin. “Beautifully surprising; so fucking… mmmm.” Crowley whispers to the sky, his hand a trembling fist in your hair while you work your way down his chest. You suck, bite, lick, nibble, and nuzzle, feeling your monster shiver with each show of attention, and you drown him in another wave of desire. You’re no longer on his lap, so you sink to your knees between his spread legs; he tilts his head, those eyes locking on you as he slides down, giving you better access. Crowley’s pants are easy to unbuckle and you’re trembling with pleasure as he quietly watches every move you make with a wicked gleam in his eye.
You’ve seen it, felt it between your legs, tasted it, and stroked it, but you still gasp when his cock is finally freed from his pants. It will always be impressive, and right now it looks painfully hard. You know he’s aching for you; you can feel it through the connection despite the wall he’s so desperately trying to hold together. Equally, you ache for him, like an itch you can’t scratch. You’re finally connected with him, it’s been missing from all of your encounters with him before, until now; and it’s suddenly beautiful. A new level of connection overwhelms your senses as your lips slide down his cock; Crowley feels it too, along with your hot mouth taking him in, and the sensation of him coming apart so quickly is divine. “Jesus fucking Christ!” You feel Crowley flinch at his own curse, mixed in with his shuddering moan while your mouth glides up and down his throbbing shaft. You thought things were intense before; now, it’s…. Jesus it’s extraordinary; and you want more.
Crowley’s eyes are glazed and unfocused when you pull your lips from him with a teasing pop, but he still manages to follow your movements as you climb back onto his lap. You savor your control over him as you thrust your tongue between his parted lips and revel in the feel of him pliant and submissive beneath you. Mmmmmm, all of him tastes so goddamn good and you want nothing more than to feel him inside you. Mmmm Crowley, you’re going to take him in deep and it’s going to feel so fucking good; and that’s exactly what you whisper against his lips before shoving your tongue back into his accepting mouth. You feel him tense, the wall he’s built crumbling till it’s almost broken; oh god, the anticipation. You want to feel it; you want to feel him. Please Crowley, just break; let it happen and ride the wave that follows. His fingers tighten where he’s gripped your sides and he’s cracking, delicious warmth and heavy desire beginning to pour out across the thread. Good, it feels so fucking good; you press your body against his and you slide your slick lips across his stubbled cheek so you can nibble his ear and suckle the soft flesh of his neck.
Suddenly there’s a hot blast of air against your face, strong enough to fluff both your hair and Crowley’s; you freeze in place, your blood turning to ice in an instant. “What the…” Crowley snaps out of his stupor and into annoyed anger in a heartbeat, and you don’t move because you’re gripped with an unexplainable fear that has every nerve in your body on edge. “Juliet!” Crowley’s head twists so that he’s looking at something right next to you, “Was that necessary?” Who’s Juliet? In answer, a deep guttural growl grinds out of an angry throat right by your head. You remain perfectly still, terrified by Juliet; but Crowley’s hands push on your sides, forcing you to move. Reluctantly you comply by straightening your spine with as little motion as you can possibly manage. Your whole body remains stationary but your eyes dart from left to right, trying desperately to see who or what Juliet is as you sit trembling on Crowley’s lap. Another reproving growl rumbles and you’re certain it was right next to where your head was moments before, but there’s nothing there. Crowley twists his head back towards that spot, and the look on his face resembles an aggravated parent whose about to scold a child. “You daft beast, does she look dangerous to you?” Still terrified and now totally confused, you watch, as Crowley turns so that he can look you up and down, and then back to that space of growling empty air. “Let me rephrase that, does it look like she’s hurting me? Do I look like I’m in pain to you?” His tone is condescending and his annoyance is palpable. He stares at what looks like nothing for a moment more and then the growling stops, followed by an almost pathetic whimper and the rustling of grass. Crowley’s tension disappears but he’s still very much annoyed; you’re still terrified, every hair standing on end as you try and make sense of what’s going on.
“Bloody hell, you witless pooch; you really know how to ruin a moment.” Crowley turns his attention to you and he chuckles lightly, probably at whatever expression is currently frozen on your face. He taps your legs and shifts, “Come on peach, time to get up.” Somehow you move. You aren’t sure how and it doesn’t matter, but you find yourself standing, and you watch while Crowley zips up his pants, buttons his shirt, and straightens his tie; all while he’s gazing back at you with a smirk still decorating his features. When he’s done, Crowley steps forward and pulls your robe together, tucking it neatly, and tying the belt snug and secure. “There, now that we’re back in order; would you like to meet Juliet?” Your eyes go wider than they already were and all you can manage is a jerking shake of your head; because no, you do not want to meet her, you just know that you don’t. “Suit yourself, but if you’re polite to her, then she’s less likely to kill you.” What the fuck Crowley! What… the… fuck! What is going on? Crowley flashes you a crooked smile and he pats your cheek, “Don’t move, ok.” You weren’t planning on it anyways.
You don’t even turn your head, your eyes the only part of you moving as you watch Crowley circle around behind the bench. You hear another pathetic whine and then a snorting grunt when Crowley reaches out a hand and…. pets something… but there’s nothing there. He’s petting empty space? A blast of air flips his tie to the side when he moves closer and gets both hands going and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was scratching an animal behind it’s ears. What the hell? “Who’s my favorite doggie?” Baby talk. “My most naughty houndy woundy? You are. Oh yes you are Juliet.” If you’re blood wasn’t still ice cold and your hackles raised, you’d laugh at this ridiculous display; instead you stand there watching in silence and you swear you hear happy panting from the space in front of him. “That’s my girl.” He stops scratching the air and switches to gentle petting as he straightens up; his voice back to normal as he says, “Now, why don’t you go sniff out a fresh damned soul and have yourself a bit of a chase,” Then it turns back into cooing mush as he finishes, “It’ll be so much fun. Go on girl, go on.” The panting stops; quickly followed by a whimper, as Crowley tucks his hands in his pockets and steps back. You feel the displacement of air and the sound of heavy footsteps receding into the distance as invisible Juliet bounds off into a patch of trees, the trunks shivering as she scrapes past at full speed.
Crowley looks on with pride as he watches her streak off into the woods, and then he saunters around the bench until he’s standing in front of you. “Well peach, I’ll see you at dinner.” He comes in fast, his lips pressing heavily against yours and he steals your breath, his tongue diving in to tangle with yours with no resistance. You’re shocked from your frozen stupor; probably his goal, and you pull away from him, your eyes searching his face with a desperate need for answers. “Heh.” Crowley thumbs your cheekbone with a smile, “That my dear, was a hell hound. I happen to have raised and trained a few in my time.” He shrugs, “Everyone needs a hobby.” You still can’t react, you’re just… nope… you just can’t. “Dinner. I’ll see you. Don’t be late.” He plants another kiss on your silent lips and then he’s gone, leaving you standing by the bench as you stare blankly at the spot he just occupied. What in the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
Why in the hell did that bastard have to kiss you back in that warehouse… what has it been… two months ago now? If he had kept his lips to himself, you wouldn’t be sitting here pissed off at the world and you’d still have a healthy fear of damned souls; but that stupid spell had to be broken so it was kind of unavoidable. Ugh, demons. There’s a deep scowl decorating your face; good thing no one is around to see it because you probably look terrible with your face covered in mineral goop and a frown that puts Jeff Dunham’s puppet Walter, to shame. Sigh. Damn it. You keep finding arguments for him and you hate that, but it’s not like either of you really has a choice in this. It’s that damn Cupid’s grace, so you shouldn’t be pissed at Crowley for being… well… Crowley. You haven’t been around him very much, but he’s pretty easy to peg in the personality department. He’s pompous, selfish, self-righteous, and extremely confident in his own abilities, and also totally assured that he will always get what he wants. He’s the kind of guy that makes you feel like you’ve won first prize if you catch his attention, but in the end you’re left used and wanting… because he’s a demon. Not to mention demons don’t cuddle; no matter how much of yourself you give or he takes from you, he isn’t a cuddly fluffy teddy bear… because he’s a demon. Yeah yeah, demon schmeeman, that was still a major douche move on his part; but what’s done is done, now you have to decide what to do next. Do you stick around and see what happens… or do you tell him to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. That is the question, isn’t it, and it’s a tough one to answer because…. Reasons.
You sigh heavily again, and shift in your chair. He wasn’t the only one being an asshole in all this; what happened to poor innocent Sam was a joint effort. You stifle a snort of laughter. Ok… innocent is probably not a good word to describe a Winchester, but that’s not the point. In this particular case he really was innocent, oblivious, a complete dupe. You should feel absolutely terrible; what you did while Sam was on the phone with you was so many levels of wrong, and if he ever found out… well that would not be a good thing. You’re pretty sure Sam would blame Crowley for everything and it would probably end very very badly for the King of Hell. Part of you likes the thought of the boys getting hold of him, kicking his ass for the pain he’s put you through; however, the other part aches at the prospect of never seeing him again, so you remain torn. But what if they do find out? Sam and Dean are definitely good at killing, and even if Crowley was telling the truth about the boys being his besties, you can’t really see them being ok with sharing their toys. Ha. You’re even starting to think like that devil bastard. You aren’t Sam and Dean’s toy, you’re their… um…. Hmmm… well whatever the fuck you are to the Winchesters, it’s not a toy.
Speaking of toys, that’s exactly what you did with Sam; you played him pretty hard. You should’ve hung up, or stopped Crowley, or told Sam what was happening, or… something. Ugh. Shoulda woulda coulda; again, what’s done is done so stop dwelling on it, right? Yeah right, good luck with that. The worst part about this whole thing is that you’re more upset with yourself than at Crowley. It’s your fault for expecting more from Crowley and your fault for being surprised when he disappeared, but you still hate him for it. It’s also your fault for toying with Sam while Crowley took you hard and hot… and it’s also your fault that you kinda don’t really feel guilty about it, at all. Well that’s not true, you do feel guilty, but not in the way you’re supposed to. You feel guilty because you don’t feel guilty, how fucked up is that? It’s because underneath all of this, there is a thread of naughty appreciation. Every moment you spend with Crowley is a terrible thing, you’re perfectly aware of that; but no matter how wrong you keep telling yourself this whole things is, no matter how much you know you should feel guilty and bad, you don’t.
You should leave and get far away from him, but you can’t. You just can’t. You’ve enjoyed everything Crowley has done to you, the way he’s taken control of you, even the way he leaves you craving and begging for more. What’s worse is the hot shiver of pleasure you get at the thought of how you got away with Crowley secretly claiming you when Sam was right there on the phone; it was all so…. so amazingly hot as fuck! The icing on the cake is Crowley’s self-assured carefree nonchalance; it’s seriously sexy, albeit incredibly frustrating. What is it about bad boys? They always seem to get a girl all hot and bothered. Damn it Crowley. You shift in the chair again, this time because you’re body is heating up in ways it shouldn’t. Damn, damn, damn! What in the hell has that devil done to you? Have you always been this screwed up? No. Yes. Maybe. You sigh heavily again, and then you spend the remainder of your time trying to bottle up your salacious thoughts and you try to think of a way to get away from all of this before it’s to late; before you’re to far gone.
<<< >>>
Eventually the discs are removed and the attendant peels the unattractive facial mask off your face; physically you feel refreshed, mentally… meh. You have no idea what to do and your desire has ebbed, but it’s still there, always a tease. Clara appears and you figure she’s going to take you to the next treatment; instead, she lets you know there are refreshments on the terrace, and you have a bit of time to enjoy the grounds before the next appointment. Oh. Refreshments on the terrace, how classy. You chuckle at yourself, and after saying thank you to both the attendant and Clara; you meander towards the terrace doors. Somewhere in the back of your mind there is a tingle that says this is some sort of setup; and you instinctively brace yourself just in case. Crowley seems to like setups and he is all about showmanship, which can be a nice quality in a person, in a demon, debatable. If you can manage to stay away from him for a while, then you can sort out a way to leave. Of course you could always call on the boys, but you don’t want Crowley dead, you just need to get away before… before… what exactly? You aren’t sure what, but you feel like it’s what you’re supposed to do. In every story, everywhere, it’s written that you’re supposed to fight evil, not submit to it. Which is why you should leave, right? Yes. No. Maybe. Ugh. This is so damn complicated.
As you get closer, you can see a gorgeous little garden just beyond the two huge glass doors that swing open on silent hinges; you relax when you find it empty, no sign of Crowley anywhere. Just like out front, there is a little fountain nestled in amongst beautiful vegetation and it’s a soothing sound. An ancient looking stone patio spreads out in a semi-circle from the doors and it branches out into small paths that meander around the entire structure in a loop. A third path wanders amongst the plants ahead of you where it finally ends at a little bench perched on an outlook. A willow tree brushes lightly against its back and rolling mountains full of wild beauty stretch to the horizon beyond it, picture perfect. Your focus returns to the nearby surroundings and an intricate set of wrought iron chairs with a matching table is set off to one side of the patio. You see a silver tray with a dome lid, and it looks exactly like what your lunch was served on. You blush hot at the memories that suddenly roll over you. His hands, the taste of his skin, the feel of Crowley inside you hot and throbbing; you close your eyes for a moment, breathing deep and desperately trying to remember that you’re mad at that bastard and that you’re going to run away.
Bad Crowley. Mean Crowley. One more deep sigh later, you’ve managed to box up those tantalizing memories and you decide that some nibbles will help take your mind off things. Wandering around outside in your bathrobe feels a little odd but you feel so alone in this place that you figure it doesn’t really matter, because who’s around to see you anyways. You shuffle over to the little table and gingerly lift the lid up and off expecting to see cheese and crackers or a bag of chips or something, but your breath catches and your stomach does a summersault at what’s underneath. Indeed there is food; cheese on crackers, a lovely cup of mixed fruit, little delicate cakes on miniature plates, but what has your attention is the centerpiece. A little stuffed dragon is perched on a raised pedestal right in the middle of the platter. He’s black as soot and his eyes are shining red, like drops of blood in the afternoon sun. A lacey red ribbon is draped around his neck and it’s attached to an envelope with your name on it.
For a moment you’re frozen; so many thoughts flooding your mind that you aren’t sure what to do. Finally, you push through the shock and gingerly take the envelope, the ribbon easily releasing from its keeper. The handwriting is beautiful and it reminds you of the note that was attached to the dress you were given. Damn it Crowley! You’re supposed to be mad, you’re supposed to be leaving; and you consider walking away because you shouldn’t open it, but your legs betray you and remain rooted in place. You know what kind of present this is supposed to be and curiosity is eating at you to open the envelope. You take a deep breath and then gently pop the old style wax seal that adorns it. The card is made of the same heavy, yellowing parchment as the envelope. It’s plain, no adornments or filigree, no doodles or crests, just jet black ink in scrawling letters that read, ~This is Mr. Cuddles, he belongs to you.~ No signature, no fluff, just that one short sentence. It says nothing special but yet it speaks volumes as you run a trembling finger across the long delicate lines of Crowley’s handwriting.
You lay the envelope down and with both hands you tenderly lift Mr. Cuddles off the pedestal. Oh god, he’s adorable and he’s stuffed with the perfect amount of fluffy filling to make his name a legitimate statement. His eyes really are blood red and if you didn’t know any better, you’d swear they were made from real rubies. He has tiny little wings that dial up the cute factor and he feels good, and strangely familiar, against the palms of your hands. You pull Mr. Cuddles into your arms and the scent of fresh cinnamon and spices fills the air. Your pulse quickens as you stand there on the smooth stones of the patio while the breeze pulls lightly at your hair, oh Crowley. Any lingering anger you had evaporates, because this simple gift says so many things at once; the most prominent statement being that demons don’t cuddle, but this little dragon does. It’s your monsters way of apologizing; the only way he can say sorry without saying it, and like an idiot you’re accepting it wholeheartedly.
Still snuggling Crowley’s gift tight to your chest, you wander down the narrow path and sit on the bench under the willow. You cuddle that little black dragon like he’s going to fly away while you take in the view of the mountains. Damn it. Why did Crowley have to go and do this? Hating him was such a good thing to do, the right thing, proper and wholesome; now, well now you’re back to feeling seriously fucked up, naughty, and maybe a little masochistic. You shouldn’t; those feelings are why you got hurt, you should stay mad. You should stay away from Crowley, far away; run away screaming before… before it’s too late. You keep saying that, but maybe it’s already too late. Sighing seems to be the order of the day because you blow out another heavy breath as you pull the stuffed dragon away and lay it on your lap. You stare at it long and hard, your fingers idly running along it’s wings and arms. Familiar, why does it seem so familiar? It reminds you of your monster; not just the delicious smell, and the bright red eyes, there is something else and you can’t quite figure it out. You really should run far, far away.
“Hello darling.” You swallow a yelp, jumping at those unexpected words. Oh no, it’s him. Warm familiar hands scoop at your hair, causing you to relax back into your original state, and you instinctively bare your neck when Crowley’s warm breath, tickles just behind your ear. You press into his kiss, hating yourself as you do. You should run away, stay mad at him, but you can’t; why can’t you just be mad at him? “That’s a very good question love.” It’s unnerving whenever he references thoughts that were never spoken aloud, and you grip Mr. Cuddles tight as Crowley nudges and nibbles your neck. His left arm glides down over your shoulder, his hand slipping under your robe so that he can knead your bra-covered breast. Hot shivers race across your skin, heating your body to the core with feelings that you’re trying desperately to fight. Don’t. You bite your lip so that you don’t moan; but oh god, how you want to moan. His right hand tucks under your chin and he gently forces your head into a tilt, his thumb running firmly along your jaw line while his hot lips suck little purple marks into your skin. Please. Desire flares up, running from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair and your body is aching for Crowley’s attention. You fight it, hard. Please don’t. You try to stomp it down into a little place in the back of your mind where it can’t control you, but you’re failing, because the feel of his heat against you is intoxicating.
Crowley is fighting to hold back too, and it’s odd. His lust isn’t rolling over you like usual, it’s not drowning out the world and clogging your mind with the delicious feel of his need for you; instead it’s dammed up, walled off on the other side of the thread. You have your own reasons for fighting this, but why is he holding back? Crowley’s stubble scrapes against your skin, stirring your core again. Stop. Is it because he hopes it will torment you? Please stop. If so, he’s right, the anticipation of that wall crumbling down so that you drown in the feel of him is both torturous and perplexing. Please. Haven’t you been tormented enough? Crowley’s voice comes out like sharp gravel, a deep contrast to the soft warmth of his lips against your neck, “Angels are a curse to mankind.” You choke back a whimper when he pauses to make another purple mark, and his voice holds less venom when continues, “and demon-kind.” That accent is so magnificent. No. Stop, he needs to stop, but the feel of Crowley’s words purred against your skin is setting every nerve on fire and your sex is aching from his unexpected attention. You’re trying so hard not to want it, to not want him; it’s one hell of a battle to fight and you’re loosing as you silently beg for mercy. Tense, yet pliant, you remain still in his grip; tendrils of pleasure curling throughout every nerve wherever his lips go. It takes everything you have to keep your lips and hands to yourself and just when you think the fight is lost and you’re going to break, his touch is gone, leaving you cold and breathless.
It takes a moment before you realize he’s now sitting next to you on the bench; and when that sinks in, you cinch your robe shut and pull the dragon in tight to your chest as you stare at him. You have no idea how to feel right now and Crowley just leaves that sentence, and the situation, hanging while he looks out across the landscape in sudden silence. You want to nibble his stubble and massage his tented crotch, but you should run away. You want to feel his hot naked skin pressing against yours; but no, no you shouldn’t. You’re so frickin’ confused right now and you wonder what he’s thinking. Did he hear you begging him to stop? Does he sense your confusion and how torn you are right now? What you really want to know is why he left you like he did, naked, alone, and used. Was he forced to go, or was it something else… something personal? Then you want to know the motivation behind his apology gift, followed by why he just appeared out of nowhere, stirred you up and then sat down like that was nothing but a simple hello. So many questions.
You look down at Mr. Cuddles and you can’t help but hope that the little black dragon will start talking and answer all those questions. He doesn’t, because he can’t; he merely rests in your palms, soft and adorable. Or can he? Looking closer, you study him hard; what is it about him that reminds you so much of Crowley, and why did he give you this gift? You should give him back and leave, because this is just a lame attempt to make up for that dick move back in your bedroom. You need to be mad at him, but… you already accepted this as an apology, wholeheartedly. Be mad, come on, stay pissed off; because this little stuffed thing is just a token gesture to keep your anger at bay, a bit of fluff to placate the emotional human so the demon can play some more. You wish you could be mad, but the will and drive to hate him just isn’t there. Damn it, why does it remind you of Crowley so much? Your eyes move away from the dragon and up to the King as he gazes stoically out at the mountain scenery. Is he listening in on your inner monologue? Probably. Your gaze moves back down to the dragon, up to Crowley again, and then down once more. You let out a quiet gasp and you look one more time, just to make sure. Oh god.
Your grip turns to a reverent cradle as your fingers gently caress the black fabric. You won’t leave; you can’t, because it’s to late. You understand now; both of you are too far gone, and the proof is resting in the palms of your hands. You didn’t realize how familiar you’d become with the fabric of Crowley’s suit jacket but now it’s yours to keep; a strange narcissistic gift from the heart. The soft skin of the dragon is an exact match, and as you run your fingers across the fine threads, you become absolutely certain of it. Your fingertips come around and as they slide across the dragon’s belly your pulse quickens until it’s thundering in your ears. You see it now. From just under the dragon’s chin, down its neck, belly, and to the tip of the tail is a different material. It’s a smooth satin of dark silver adorned with black print accents; it’s Crowley’s tie. Jesus, it’s his goddamned tie! You sit there mute, your thumb gently stroking the satin underbelly of Mr. Cuddles. You will never run from Crowley because this isn’t a trifle; not a random stuffed bit of fluff to appease you, this is… there are no words for what this is. Holy shit, how are you supposed to feel about this?
“I pride myself on being an honest man,” Crowley’s voice is sudden and wistful; his attention still focused on the scenery as your head slowly twists so that your eyes come to rest on the demon King of Hell. “Well… honest demon,” He gives you a little half smile before returning his eyes to the mountaintops, “But that doesn’t mean I always divulge the truth to others. So when I tell you that I’m mostly to blame for this whole predicament, I hope you appreciate that’s its rare for me to admit that.” How is this his fault? You don’t have to say it out loud, because your damned curiosity is screaming that question at full volume inside your head. Crowley chuckles to himself before continuing, “They always say curiosity killed the cat.” He looks at you, his tone turning preachy for a moment, “Words to live by. Trust me.” You can’t do anything but stare; and yes, you’re really frickin’ curious right now and you don’t need a lecture about it, least of all from him. Crowley softens as his eyes capture yours, and you swear he’s fighting the urge to pull a hand from his pocket so that he can skim it across your cheek. You wish he would. “Not your curiosity love, mine.”
Oh, he wasn’t talking about you. So wait, what does that mean? You sit in silence; knowing that he heard your thoughts and saying it aloud would only be redundant and pushy. “I truly meant what I said the first night we had dinner together peach. I really wasn’t expecting what happened in that warehouse. I do believe we surprised each other just a bit when I kissed you.” A wistful smile pulls at his lips, your insides warm at the memory of that unexpected moment, and then Crowley changes the subject. “When it comes to stopping diabolical plots and the sort, planning out a variety of possibilities is necessary. Strategy and contingence plans are something I’m particularly good at, lucky me.” He shrugs, trying to play it off as casual but you can tell he likes talking, especially about himself; and honestly, you don’t mind listening. Crowley tilts his head; those auburn orbs still intently locked with yours, and his tone goes suggestive, “I know the Winchesters. I’ve been around the block with them on more than one occasion and I’m fully aware of what they’re capable of.” You don’t have the capacity to react; all you can do is listen as you sit there on a bench, under a willow, with a demon. Crowley notices your silence and he smirks, making you vaguely wonder what expression you’re wearing, “So, they should’ve been a decent backup plan.” He breaks away so he can gaze back out at the view, shifting the focus, and like a game of ‘made you look’, you can’t help but do the same, and the landscape is breathtaking in the afternoon sun.
“As far as nefarious schemes go, this one was pretty straight forward. For you it all started when the boys found themselves a lovely little trollop laying in an alley, and they took her home to play with.” Your head snaps back in Crowley’s direction at that. How does he know about that? He glances at you, “I have eyes everywhere love.” Then he continues in a distracted voice, his gaze wandering away again, “Admittedly it was a tiny bit out of character for the Winchester’s to whisk you away to their secret decoder ring clubhouse; even Dean knows better than to take his bar tarts home to play. He certainly wouldn’t keep them around either, much less share them with Moose; but come to find out, you were more than just the run of the mill flavor of the week. I should’ve caught on then; but I just assumed they were taking advantage of the situation, using the threat on your life as an excuse.” He pauses, lost in thought. “I would have.” That sentence hangs for a moment and then he looks at you, chuckling lightly, “Oh peach; if you only knew how much danger you were really in at the time.” You don’t smile back. From the outside you’re like a statue, emotionless and calm; on the inside, you’re a tumultuous mess of confused disarray. He’s twisting you in so many directions at once; questions still run rampant, and now they’re mixed with memories of your time with the Winchesters, both good and bad. Everything is swirling into a stewed blend of arousal, fear, and anticipation, and it’s locking you in place.
“I saw you at Biggerson’s with Dean.” How? Your eyes go wide at that statement, the only outward indication that Crowley is blowing your mind right now. “I remember smirking at the afterglow you were sporting as you strolled out the front door; adorable.” You aren’t sure how to react to that, and Crowley doesn’t seem to mind your silence as he moves on by sighing dramatically, “I thought you were just another notch in Dean’s belt,” Pausing, his tone loses it’s playfulness, “But… well… I saw what happened after that.” He looks away again, his sight turning inward while he recounts his memories. “It got my wheels turning; the way Dean fawned over you. Such concern, it was almost embarrassing.” Crowley’s sarcasm pulls you away from the dark memories that spring to mind and was that… jealousy in his voice? You clearly remember Dean, and Crowley is being overly dramatic because no “fawning” occurred. However, Dean was pretty amazing, and you’re mind calms at the thought of him; Dean was your white knight as you’ve so fondly labeled him in your mind, there to save you and make sure you were ok when you really needed him.
Crowley snorts, ducking his head down so he can stifle either a laugh or a wretch and he’s gracious enough to refrain from making snide comments about that little title you’ve given Dean. “The boys are always fond of their damsels, but only to a degree. Naturally I was suspicious, so I had them watched.” The King pauses and smiles, “I always keep tabs on those two, but in this case, I told them to keep an extra close eye on those Neanderthals.” Crowley shifts on the bench, leaning a little closer before continuing, “My intention isn’t to make you feel bad love, but… you almost got them killed. Their heads were so far out of the game when they raided that nest of demons.” Crowley’s fake concern is almost comical but you aren’t laughing. “Castiel is what saved their ass on that little field trip.” How could you NOT feel bad about that kind of statement? Jesus Crowley! Why is he telling you all this? Crowley ignores your silent question as he plugs along through his monologue, seemingly without a care. “The information they extracted was very useful though; and distracted or not, the boys wiped out that nest of crazies, which was a definite advantage. Kept me from having to do that dirty little deed myself.” You cringe at the sudden image of them stabbing and killing. You remember Dean’s heartless eyes in the alley; you hear Sam’s gruff voice yelling for Dean to hurry up and kill her while he held a struggling woman with black eyes in the warehouse. You don’t really like to remember those moments, regardless of the fact that those were evil demons they were killing. “Oh yes pet, that’s about how it looked. Very dirty and very violent,” Crowley’s being crass and you don’t appreciate it. “Prefer not to think of them like that I see; well peach, it’s who they are and what they do most days, so don’t get squeamish now.” Your eyes narrow, and Crowley just smirks. “Regardless of your discomfort darling, their violent tendencies allowed me to figure out exactly what those little Luci loving pricks were planning. After that it was simple to sort it all out; like following an easy bake recipe, just less domestic.”
How could it be easy? You and Sam, mainly Sam, worked long and hard to piece that insane puzzle together, and you never did come close to finding a way to stop it; well, other than keeping them from completing the individual pieces that is. Crowley huffs out a chuckle, finally taking his hands out of his pockets to smooth the lapel of his long black jacket. “I’m the King of Hell darling, information is my currency.” You can’t help but be impressed and it’s written all over your face, damn it. He’s so self-righteous, but you kinda like it. Damn it again. He’s so pompous; how can you like that? Sigh… because reasons. Crowley keeps going, loving the sound of his own voice, and you hate to admit that you like it too. “Trust me. I tried the easy way first; but as you can guess, that did not go as planned, so I bet on the Winchester horse. They were a bit less reliable this time.” Crowley shakes his head in disappointment. “They botched the virgin kills, and apparently didn’t even know about the murder of an entire lineage in Nebraska.” Crowley sighs dramatically, again, “I’m not at all like Moose and Squirrel; I don’t like things coming down to the wire, but in this case I had no other choice, and those louts let me down.” Crowley growls out the next sentence, his annoyance apparent, “They had one job. One. Which was to keep you away from the ceremony and the key… and what did they do? They buggered it up, that’s what they did.” He’s making it sound like Sam and Dean were under his management the whole time, that this was somehow his plan. Crowley is spinning the entire story so it sounds like he was in charge of the whole situation and Sam and Dean were just his incompetent minions. Wow, just wow. What a load of shit! Crowley looks at you in surprise, “Such language.” You can hear the playful tone in his voice and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was happy that you called him on that. “Well peach, you must admit one thing,” Crowley straightens up, a gleam in his eye despite his mocking tone, “I did look pretty spectacular when I came in to save the day. Waiting till the very last moment is hard to achieve but my timing was impeccable.”
You call bullshit again, because you’re certain he didn’t wait around for the perfect moment to come swooping in. You smile at Crowley anyways, because you do remember; and honestly, he was pretty notable. Dark and mysterious, commanding and confidant, Crowley certainly made an impression. He was very memorable indeed; and remembering him is certainly saying something, because at the time you barely registered anything past the angel attached to your lips. That was some seriously heavy mojo you were under, and Castiel was truly a delightful distraction, a wonderful, beautiful, mind-blowing distraction. Suddenly you blush, and immediately you bottle up any and all thoughts of the angel, because… well… in the presence of a demon, a demon that you really want to lick, kiss, and otherwise fuck right now, well, it’s not the best place to bring up thoughts of angels. Besides, your brain can only handle one crazy otherworldly man at a time.
It’s almost shameful how easily Sam, Dean, and the beautiful Castiel are pushed from your thoughts. It’s because Crowley’s brown eyes lock with yours and you’re pulled back into his story, back into him. “It was easy enough to fix that kind of spell, I wasn’t worried about that part at all” Ok, now he’s just being pompous, and you don’t really mind. “But, I was hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to be the one to do it.” He frowns for a moment at the memory of Castiel, and you recall Crowley’s little hissy fit after kissing the angel that you so desperately wanted back in your arms. “The two of you forced my hand on that one… fucking angels.” The last part comes out as a growl as he tilts his neck, like he’s uncomfortable at the mere thought of it. You chuckle, because you remember that part pretty well; and now that you aren’t in dire peril, it’s kinda funny. Crowley gives you a flat look, and your chuckle turns into a full-bellied laugh. For the first time ever, the King of Hell has made you laugh, and perhaps it nerves, maybe it’s the emotional roller coaster you’ve been forced to ride, maybe you’re just tired of everything just being so frickin’ heavy; whatever the reason, you laugh, long and loud.
Crowley leans back a little, raising an imperious eyebrow while watching you; but after a few moments he breaks into a truly genuine smile, one that brightens his eyes and lights up his features. Your laughter dies away, replaced by silent awe because Crowley looks astoundingly handsome when he smiles. Breathtaking. He’s smirked, sneered, and leered a hundred times before now, but this time it’s different. Completely different, and you admire this rare sight you’ve been allowed to witness. Crowley suddenly seems uncomfortable and he shifts in his seat, his gaze dipping to the ground while his right hand runs down his face, seeming to wipe the mirth from his features. It was beautiful while it lasted and your eyes stay locked on him in hopes of another glimpse, but his tone turns serious again, deep with that smooth accent rolling his syllables, “I didn’t have to kiss you.” A look of surprise replaces your grin; that curveball doing it’s job to distract you.
What? He glances over at you, leaning in a little bit, “I didn’t have to kiss you in order to break the spell.” Holy…. Ok. He’s saying what you thought he was saying and you’re dumbstruck. “The whole thing should’ve been quick and simple.” You hold your breath when his deep brown eyes meet yours, because you realize this has all been a build up; Jesus he’s melodramatic; and you suddenly have no idea where this is going. “I’d already seen the Winchester’s posh totty from a distance; and while you were mildly interesting, I thought I knew what to expect.” Mildly interesting? Oh. You shrink back a little bit, something inside you silently breaking at that casual brush off, and your eyes drop to the empty space on the bench in front of you. Crowley reaches over, using a gentle finger under your chin to tip your head back up. He stays in place until you meet his gaze, then his tone turns soft as he continues. “I knew the boys and their angel would be there, and I assumed they would be the center of attention.” Crowley is still mostly walled off on the other end of the connection, but something’s bleeding through. You can feel it; warm comforting threads of affection and… something, something deeper. What is it? “I knew how many demons were in that warehouse, I knew exactly what needed to be done; I even knew the name of the demon that started all this crap.” His tone is still gentle, like he’s soothing a frightened child as his thumb grazes back and forth across your chin. “I knew exactly what to expect.” Your jaw clenches because there is a glint of something deep, hungry, and… what else? You can’t place it and you clutch that silly little stuffed dragon because you’re suddenly wound tight, the anticipation of what he’ll say next, causing a tense silence. “I was wrong, because I didn’t expect you.” Your heart skips a beat.
“You were a thing of beauty.” Oh Crowley. There is so much reverence in that sentence and that strange warm feeling becomes stronger as the wall he’s built begins to shudder and crack. Crowley’s hand moves from your chin and he gently brushes your cheek. A note of regret rolls across the thread as he caresses the spot where he smacked you so long ago; you’d forgotten about that. Memories come flooding back to you in vivid clarity and you remember that moment, the first moment he ever touched you, and the permanent connection that was made with that violent action. You feel seriously screwed up that it makes you happy, but Crowley has you so twisted and upside down that you don’t care whether this is right or wrong anymore; you only care about him. Crowley’s features soften at that silent statement, “Surprising exquisite beauty.” Your pulse thunders in your ears as you lean into his soft touch. “I truly was not expecting you.” Tears well up and you close your eyes, refusing to let them spill as Crowley gently runs his thumb across your cheekbone. Can demons have this kind of emotion? Should you have these feelings for a demon? How is that he’s done such terrible things and you don’t care? You don’t give a damn about anything, except the right here, and the right now, and it’s horribly wonderful. Crowley’s your monster. He’s your wickedly terrible beast, yours and yours alone, and you want him so badly; truly, madly, deeply want him so fucking much.
A quiet sigh escapes your lips when the King’s power wraps around you. Vaguely, you register the sensation of it sliding you across the bench until your thigh is flush against his; then you melt when Crowley’s mouth presses tenderly against yours. So good, it feels so good, so right, and so perfect. Like two magnets finally snapping together, you know this feeling; you’ve felt it before with Sam and Dean, and it’s magnificent. His fingers tenderly card through your hair, causing shivers as his lips massage yours. He’s being so… delicate. It’s strange and new and you moan as his tongue dips between your lips, lightly playing as you bask in this new sensation. It’s a moment suspended in time, unending. You feel the wall that Crowley built trembling and you brace yourself for the outpouring of lust and need that’s about to overwhelm everything, but it doesn’t come; he’s holding on to it with everything he’s got. Why? Why isn’t he claiming you hot and hard like he has been? You know he wants you, you know he needs you, you know he… he… you can’t say it; but where’s the Crowley you’ve come to know? Suddenly you ache for it, wanting so badly for him to use you up hard and you don’t care if he throws you away afterward because he’ll come back, you know he will. You want to be overpowered, claimed, owned; but Crowley remains docile, gentle, and tame. It’s maddening.
You can’t take it. Your entire being aches for your monster, so you press into his kiss with hunger and you drown him in your essence, pushing all of your feelings of need, desire, lust, craving, want, everything, through the connection and into him. Crowley’s entire body stiffens with heat and pleasure but he’s still not letting go; like a stubborn dog that won’t release a toy, he’s fighting hard and you suddenly want to break him. That urge flares up hot and immediate and the little stuffed dragon gets tossed aside, laying sideways on the bench seat as you twist, swinging your leg over Crowley so that you’re straddling him with your ass firmly planted on his knees. Still rigid, his hands grip your shoulders while your tongue invades his mouth with fervor, and your arms encase his head so you can pull him in deeper while you drown him in salacious affection. He’s fully accepting, and you feel his enjoyment from each lick and moan and, oh god, you want him so fucking bad. Your hands come alive, sliding off his shoulders, under his coat, mindlessly unfastening his suit jacket. So many fucking layers; damn it Crowley. Your tongue never stops tasting him while your fingers work to undo each and every one of those damn buttons on his dress shirt, and he moans as his hands move down so that they’re sliding along your naked thighs. Fucking yes. You moan that into his gasping mouth as you shift so you can grind your aching sex against his trembling leg. The last button is undone and you grab his dress shirt, yanking hard, so that it pulls free of his belted pants; no undershirt, sweet Jesus yes, there is one less layer and you are so damn happy.
You finally pull free of Crowley’s delicious lips and you watch his eyes roll upward with a moan when you bite his chin. “Peach,” Your pet name comes out as a reverent sigh, heating your body to the core as you nibble his jaw. Crowley’s hand is shaking when it slides up into your hair as you work slowly down to the tender part of his neck, his breath hitching with each scrape of your teeth or press of your lips. He’s unnaturally warm and a strange heat fills your mouth when you suck a purple mark into the King’s flesh. He tastes so damn good and it’s comforting, like hot coffee on a cold day and you want to feel it again. You move down and repeat, hearing your moan match his while you worship the taste of his skin. “Beautifully surprising; so fucking… mmmm.” Crowley whispers to the sky, his hand a trembling fist in your hair while you work your way down his chest. You suck, bite, lick, nibble, and nuzzle, feeling your monster shiver with each show of attention, and you drown him in another wave of desire. You’re no longer on his lap, so you sink to your knees between his spread legs; he tilts his head, those eyes locking on you as he slides down, giving you better access. Crowley’s pants are easy to unbuckle and you’re trembling with pleasure as he quietly watches every move you make with a wicked gleam in his eye.
You’ve seen it, felt it between your legs, tasted it, and stroked it, but you still gasp when his cock is finally freed from his pants. It will always be impressive, and right now it looks painfully hard. You know he’s aching for you; you can feel it through the connection despite the wall he’s so desperately trying to hold together. Equally, you ache for him, like an itch you can’t scratch. You’re finally connected with him, it’s been missing from all of your encounters with him before, until now; and it’s suddenly beautiful. A new level of connection overwhelms your senses as your lips slide down his cock; Crowley feels it too, along with your hot mouth taking him in, and the sensation of him coming apart so quickly is divine. “Jesus fucking Christ!” You feel Crowley flinch at his own curse, mixed in with his shuddering moan while your mouth glides up and down his throbbing shaft. You thought things were intense before; now, it’s…. Jesus it’s extraordinary; and you want more.
Crowley’s eyes are glazed and unfocused when you pull your lips from him with a teasing pop, but he still manages to follow your movements as you climb back onto his lap. You savor your control over him as you thrust your tongue between his parted lips and revel in the feel of him pliant and submissive beneath you. Mmmmmm, all of him tastes so goddamn good and you want nothing more than to feel him inside you. Mmmm Crowley, you’re going to take him in deep and it’s going to feel so fucking good; and that’s exactly what you whisper against his lips before shoving your tongue back into his accepting mouth. You feel him tense, the wall he’s built crumbling till it’s almost broken; oh god, the anticipation. You want to feel it; you want to feel him. Please Crowley, just break; let it happen and ride the wave that follows. His fingers tighten where he’s gripped your sides and he’s cracking, delicious warmth and heavy desire beginning to pour out across the thread. Good, it feels so fucking good; you press your body against his and you slide your slick lips across his stubbled cheek so you can nibble his ear and suckle the soft flesh of his neck.
Suddenly there’s a hot blast of air against your face, strong enough to fluff both your hair and Crowley’s; you freeze in place, your blood turning to ice in an instant. “What the…” Crowley snaps out of his stupor and into annoyed anger in a heartbeat, and you don’t move because you’re gripped with an unexplainable fear that has every nerve in your body on edge. “Juliet!” Crowley’s head twists so that he’s looking at something right next to you, “Was that necessary?” Who’s Juliet? In answer, a deep guttural growl grinds out of an angry throat right by your head. You remain perfectly still, terrified by Juliet; but Crowley’s hands push on your sides, forcing you to move. Reluctantly you comply by straightening your spine with as little motion as you can possibly manage. Your whole body remains stationary but your eyes dart from left to right, trying desperately to see who or what Juliet is as you sit trembling on Crowley’s lap. Another reproving growl rumbles and you’re certain it was right next to where your head was moments before, but there’s nothing there. Crowley twists his head back towards that spot, and the look on his face resembles an aggravated parent whose about to scold a child. “You daft beast, does she look dangerous to you?” Still terrified and now totally confused, you watch, as Crowley turns so that he can look you up and down, and then back to that space of growling empty air. “Let me rephrase that, does it look like she’s hurting me? Do I look like I’m in pain to you?” His tone is condescending and his annoyance is palpable. He stares at what looks like nothing for a moment more and then the growling stops, followed by an almost pathetic whimper and the rustling of grass. Crowley’s tension disappears but he’s still very much annoyed; you’re still terrified, every hair standing on end as you try and make sense of what’s going on.
“Bloody hell, you witless pooch; you really know how to ruin a moment.” Crowley turns his attention to you and he chuckles lightly, probably at whatever expression is currently frozen on your face. He taps your legs and shifts, “Come on peach, time to get up.” Somehow you move. You aren’t sure how and it doesn’t matter, but you find yourself standing, and you watch while Crowley zips up his pants, buttons his shirt, and straightens his tie; all while he’s gazing back at you with a smirk still decorating his features. When he’s done, Crowley steps forward and pulls your robe together, tucking it neatly, and tying the belt snug and secure. “There, now that we’re back in order; would you like to meet Juliet?” Your eyes go wider than they already were and all you can manage is a jerking shake of your head; because no, you do not want to meet her, you just know that you don’t. “Suit yourself, but if you’re polite to her, then she’s less likely to kill you.” What the fuck Crowley! What… the… fuck! What is going on? Crowley flashes you a crooked smile and he pats your cheek, “Don’t move, ok.” You weren’t planning on it anyways.
You don’t even turn your head, your eyes the only part of you moving as you watch Crowley circle around behind the bench. You hear another pathetic whine and then a snorting grunt when Crowley reaches out a hand and…. pets something… but there’s nothing there. He’s petting empty space? A blast of air flips his tie to the side when he moves closer and gets both hands going and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was scratching an animal behind it’s ears. What the hell? “Who’s my favorite doggie?” Baby talk. “My most naughty houndy woundy? You are. Oh yes you are Juliet.” If you’re blood wasn’t still ice cold and your hackles raised, you’d laugh at this ridiculous display; instead you stand there watching in silence and you swear you hear happy panting from the space in front of him. “That’s my girl.” He stops scratching the air and switches to gentle petting as he straightens up; his voice back to normal as he says, “Now, why don’t you go sniff out a fresh damned soul and have yourself a bit of a chase,” Then it turns back into cooing mush as he finishes, “It’ll be so much fun. Go on girl, go on.” The panting stops; quickly followed by a whimper, as Crowley tucks his hands in his pockets and steps back. You feel the displacement of air and the sound of heavy footsteps receding into the distance as invisible Juliet bounds off into a patch of trees, the trunks shivering as she scrapes past at full speed.
Crowley looks on with pride as he watches her streak off into the woods, and then he saunters around the bench until he’s standing in front of you. “Well peach, I’ll see you at dinner.” He comes in fast, his lips pressing heavily against yours and he steals your breath, his tongue diving in to tangle with yours with no resistance. You’re shocked from your frozen stupor; probably his goal, and you pull away from him, your eyes searching his face with a desperate need for answers. “Heh.” Crowley thumbs your cheekbone with a smile, “That my dear, was a hell hound. I happen to have raised and trained a few in my time.” He shrugs, “Everyone needs a hobby.” You still can’t react, you’re just… nope… you just can’t. “Dinner. I’ll see you. Don’t be late.” He plants another kiss on your silent lips and then he’s gone, leaving you standing by the bench as you stare blankly at the spot he just occupied. What in the fuck have you gotten yourself into?