sirenspull_logs | tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before

Entry tags:

crowley,
magneto

tremble for yourself, my man, you know that you have seen this all before

Who: Crowley [

integrity] and Magneto [

magnetic_magpie]
When: Tuesday, March 6th.
Where: Magneto's secret lair.
Summary: Crowley has been a little overly confident. It's time for him to pay the price.
Warnings: Horrific violence, torture, and ultimately, character death.

The dog hadn't wanted to let him leave the house today. Crowley, of course, didn't pay any attention to it. The dog was overly attached and though she had practically sunk her teeth into the edges of his long coat to keep him inside, he had told her to go, and so she had. The hellhound never disobeyed, after all, but as Crowley walked through the streets of Siren's Port, he couldn't help but feel bothered.

He was one of the more powerful beings in the Port, even if he didn't show it. He certainly didn't need his dog to babysit him for a walk through the proverbial park. Right?

Crowley had thought that until he turned down an alleyway, toward a park, and suddenly -- he couldn't move. His power was constricted. And as Crowley narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing down at the ground, he tested his strength -- and nothing. Telekinesis wouldn't work. The strength afforded to him by centuries of hellfire was dampened.

Exactly what would happen if Crowley had stepped directly into a Devil's Trap.

"Ohhh, who thinks they're being funny today," Crowley muttered, turning on his heel to glance behind him, aggravation slowly building as he stared around. He couldn't see the Devil's Trap, but it was certainly there. Nothing else could keep him in place so effectively. "Come out, whereever you are," Crowley called down the alleyway, though his tone was tinged with ice. "If it's one of the Winchesters, I'll have your guts for garters -- or Bobby, truly, you could ask me out in a far less date rapist fashion, this is bordering on rude."

He let the threats fall silent before he began to get truly aggravated.

"Don't make me call my dog, because she certainly won't show any mercy," Crowley said quietly, glancing back around him.

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Crowley almost laughed, as he looked around -- because a dark creepy room, with pipes, wires, a table here and there... it was almost reminiscent of Crowley's laboratory.

Where they had lost it all.

You said it perfectly. What an asshole.

It would only take one prayer for Castiel to break into this damnable place and free him from this trap, but Crowley remained silent, his eyes focusing on the man who stepped forward. He immediately pressed outward with his power -- a nearly suffocating pressure as he lashed out again with his strength, but his hands remained in his pockets, and he did not move a muscle.

"Anyone can draw a Devil's Trap, congratulations," Crowley said darkly. "Release me and I'll let you live. I won't offer it again."

Magneto settled against the wall, arms crossed lightly over his chest, and finally dropped his shield. Tanned, dark hair, dark eyes, younger, a milght slighter build, the man standing there looked nothing like Magneto. That was the plan.

"Perhaps. Almost anyone could figure out what to use against you. It wasn't difficult." Still, his voice held that unnatural calm.

"Death here doesn't mean much to Newcomers, does it?"

Crowley narrowed his eyes further at the individual. Unrecognizable, even in passing. But something wasn't quite right here -- something was off. A person Crowley didn't know, managing all of this? A nobody?

Unlikely. This person had a score to settle. Why else would anyone go through the trouble?

"Death means far more to me than you could ever imagine, actually, we take tea together every so often," Crowley said coolly. "He's quite the conversation starter. Has an affinity for pizza places in Chicago. Perhaps you should take up your complaints with his lack of fame with him instead of wasting my time."

"I was under the impression Death was a she?" Mildly curious but not really inviting more conversation on the topic.

He pushed off the wall, walking sedately. He wasn't in a hurry, he wasn't worried. Simply confidant, in this place and what he was doing. His movements were sure, focused. Despite wearing boots, his steps were light, almost silent, no wasted movement.

"Perhaps he got bored and had a sex change when I wasn't looking."

Crowley rolled his eyes slightly to the left.

"But let's cut to what's really important."

And the demon stepped forward, right to the edge of the circle, his tone lowering quietly.

"Congratulations. You can draw. I'm happy for you, truly. And I'm certain you want to tell all your little friends that you managed to drag Crowley here against his will and perhaps your girlfriend will be impressed by your actions as you're clearly overcompensating for something, but I have a slew of extraordinarily powerful people in this city that will happily tear out your heart and enjoy it when they arrive here. So, please -- "

And Crowley took out a hand from his pocket to gesture at the silver ring.

"Do us all a favor and let me out of this idiotic creation before you make an even larger fool of yourself than you already have."

"Oh. I know how to do a great many things." His voice remained calm, quiet. A tone for a library or whispering in a lecture hall. He walked over to the other side of the circle, his back to Crowley, and started fussing with a rather clunky, inelegant, bulky machine, with odd wires and the like sticking out. It looked like a really bad prop to some 70
s or 80's grade B sci-fi flick. Static crackled a few times, it whined in protest, and finally a few pink-purple arcs jumped between the wires and the air changed. It smelled a bit sharp, there was a feeling of a low frequency hum, although nothing was heard.

"And I have...associates, shall we say...who can do a great many more." He turned back to Crowley, foot crossed behind the other, toes to heel, and spun. A prefect military about-face. "Call any you'd like, they will have even less power than you inside that little drawing." It wasn't a bluff.

"I honestly can't wait for Castiel to explode your head like a grape between his fingers for the sheer level of egotistical insult spewing out of your mouth at how incredibly well off you are," Crowley said, unbothered and nonchalant, though his eyes moved toward the machine as it sparked to life.

What in the hell was going on?

"Castiel. Mhm." He stretched slowly, rolling his neck, before looking back at Crowley. "Pretty fellow with blue eyes?"

He had warned Crowley about being so free with information. It was something those in power, if they lived long enough, learned. Keep mum about allies and friends. Keep them close, but don't hand over information.

He watched Crowley's face, then followed his line of sight and patted the machine. "Tougher than she looks. Scrapped when Voids were invented but handy, don't you think?" And if Crowley were to go looking later, there was, buried in SERO's old paper files, ideas for voiding tech. The appearance was mostly for show - Magneto's own tech was sleek and elegant. This was not.

"I'm the only one who can call him 'pretty' or notice his eyes, don't over-familiarize yourself with someone who most likely couldn't give half a damn about your existence."

It was said boredly, but there was a warning in his eyes, especially as he glanced casually at the machine. So that was the hum in the air, the slight pressure on his skin -- aha.

"You're beginning to bore me," Crowley said evenly. "Get to your point. I don't like my time being wasted."

"I'm sure he'd love to know you are so quick to defend his honour." Had he not been concerned with Crowley knowing the full extent of his powers, he would have detailed how pretty Castiel really was. More so than most of his brothers, at least those in the Port, even if he hadn't voiced that thought to anyone.

He walked away from the table, fingers tracing over the ring. "Well. Since you are bored." He slide his fingers off, the ribbon snapping, flying backwards, snagging Crowley's wrists and pulling them behind his back, tying itself into a bow.

Crowley had his mouth open to detail exactly how far he was willing to go in the name of Castiel's honor (read: it wasn't very far) when the silver dragged his arms behind his back.

It burned -- and the demon that was Crowley lurched angrily within him, hissing and spitting at the sudden contact, but he remained calm save for the tiniest hiss as his flesh burned.

He had been born of Hell. This amount of pain was nothing in comparison.

"Well, if this is your thing," Crowley said with the slightest twitch of a smile, but his eyes didn't light up with any of the warmth associated with the action.

He was officially furious.

"It's not." His tone was still calm but just bordering on dismissive. It was part of why he was so calm. Simply shoving almost all emotion into some odd corner of his brain and locking it down. He didn't enjoy hurting others - generally, the exceptions were rare - it was just a tool to get information, of one type or another.

The ribbon twisted tighter, binding itself up in Crowley's hands, tangling around his fingers to prevent them from moving, leaving his hands almost completely wrapped - several times over in some cases - in the silver.

Most demons, when touched with things they were weak to, immediately lost control. Their eyes changed color, they reacted with a primal instinct, they lost it, resorting to the instincts Lucifer had instilled in them all -- to be animals, to be less than.

But not Crowley. When the ribbon tightened and wove between his fingers and the pain grew worse, he did not do anything save for grind his teeth together. As the flesh hissed and smoked, the metal having a negative reaction to his demonic entity, Crowley kept his eyes fixated on Magneto, almost eerily calm and passive.

They did not change color. He didn't even blink.

"I almost pity people like you. Arrogant children," Crowley said quietly, "who think that they can do idiotic things like this and feel some sort of power over it. You're nothing more than a wannabe Winchester -- and they know torture. So, truly, in the interest of saving time, if you're attempting to make me beg for mercy and cry for pleasure, you're going to have to get a lesser whore to do it for you. I'm certain they have them at the surrounding brothels."

Edited 2012-03-06 05:56 (UTC)

"Did I not just say I wasn't 'into' this?" Magneto didn't want someone weak. What he was facing at home wasn't weak. He didn't actually know if Crowley was even in the same league, but he suspected so. And Crowley was all he had.

"I simply don't need you to use your hands." Or his voice. But if Crowley could take this and not blink, there was no reason to remove his ability to talk. He picked up a length of iron chain - he didn't want to use metal cloth too much, too easy to trace back to him, so chain - and flipped it out, winding around Crowley's shoulders and arms, binding them into place.

For all his face was carefully schooled to calm, his eyes weren't. They were calculating. Like a tiger, plotting his pounce, his kill.

The iron had the same effect -- it hissed, burned, and cut, and Crowley's cheek twitched as he felt his demonic self weaken underneath the binds. He couldn't move as it was -- this just made it worse.

"People don't do this unless they're into it," Crowley said evenly, his eyes not moving away from Magneto's. "Tell me, really, and be honest, I'm an excellent listener, did your father touch you when you were younger? Not hugged enough by mommy? Beaten by a drunk uncle? Need to exert your power and significance on beings bigger than you are?"

He shifted slightly -- the chains clinked and burned, but Crowley didn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know how much it hurt.

"I've met hundreds like you, over the years. Victims of pedophilia, absentee parents, children of alcoholics and drug dealers and life just isn't fair, Mister Crowley, make it all better, I didn't mean to beat them over the head with a lead pipe, you understand, right?"

A rough chuckle.

"You're just like all the rest. Sick, twisted, mentally unstable, and you get off on torture like I get off on fine dining. Call it a spade if it's a spade, darling, we're all gentleman here."

Edited 2012-03-06 07:38 (UTC)

He just watched, evenly. Of all of them, Crowley had, in fact, managed to hit two correct traumas, if he'd missed the bullseye, he's been on target. His parents weren't there, because he'd lost them young, murdered in a mass grave in the Polish woods. And if he had learned the ugly truth of what happened to pretty little boys alone in a place like Auschwitz with no one to protect him, he'd killed the man who had attempted to assault him. He'd fully meant to, fully meant to cause his death, and certainly had never felt guilty. There were things he did feel guilt over. That simply wasn't one of them.

"I'm not a gentleman. I've never claimed to be." He was, mostly, completely comfortable with that. More lately.

He'd played these games with the Nazi's he had hunted. He wasn't bothered by them. Instead he picked up a throwing pick and tossed it. There was real strength behind it, more than what 'his' build suggested, sinking it two inches deep, just below Crowley's collarbone.

"I do, so you know, intended to remove," he gestured at the Trap, "at some point." When he was sure Crowley wasn't going to be able to attempt to rush the voiding machine.

Edited 2012-03-06 08:19 (UTC)

While being bound with iron was uncomfortable, being stabbed with it was excruciating. And Crowley gasped in pain, before the sound ended in a snarled curse underneath his breath, his entire frame shuddering with the contact of the metal with his host.

But no -- he refused to give into this idiot's demands and he drew in a trembling breath before he offered Magneto a lazy smirk.

"I wasn't aware torture had an itinerary. I must have missed the memo."

"Itinerary yes, memo no." Still, there was no real emotion, his tone bordering on robotic. Because this wasn't about torture for kicks - it never was, not with him. This was about obtaining information. Magneto was quite detracted, emotionally. People had iron in their blood, but normally in tiny amounts. Still, it had made him wonder if the amount was the key. Not the substance.

He walked around behind Crowley, picking up a nail gun and aiming. Not really it's intended use, but loaded with iron nail it would work. He squeezed the trigger five times - missed once, he truly wasn't a good shot when he didn't use his powers - and landed the other four on the back of Crowley's left calf. Two glancing, one deeper, one quite deep.

"The memo is what matters, sweetheart, it's -- "

But then a crippling pain as the iron embedded itself into his leg and Crowley abruptly went down onto one knee, forcing himself to remain standing, careful not to touch the edge of the circle. There was another trembling gasp of pain as he closed his eyes to focus.

" -- what causes things to run smoothly," Crowley continues after a moment or two to collect himself, as if nothing had happened at all, carefully forcing himself back onto his feet with a slight swat. "You're a horrible shot, by the way," the demon added, straightening as his eyes opened, still clear. "You probably should have thought about that before you decided to shoot me with a nail gun."

"Memos are only important if others are involved." And left paper trails. But stating such would make it very clear he was playing on killing Crowley. And those times were always when things become more difficult to control.

He didn't mention the fall, or the gasp. It was important, but over all not something he was aiming for. And speaking of aim, his really was bad. He hadn't been joking when he told John he needed lessons. "Four of five isn't horrible."

"Four out of five isn't perfection, therefore, it's horrible, and you should be ashamed of yourself."

Crowley let out another breath. The iron embedded inside his host was excruciatingly painful -- every centimeter of movement he allowed himself only made it worse. But it was manageable -- it was torture, but not unbearable. And so, Crowley continued to speak evenly, composed and level-headed.

"I'm going to rip out your esophagus for ruining this coat."

"What can I say. You were right. Daddy wasn't around to teach me how to shoot." He mimed a good - a damn good Deep South accent, though kept with his original Argentinian as well. It sounded funny.

He didn't respond to the threat, simply tapped the trigger repeatedly, emptying the rest towards Crowley's left leg. It was slow, but not enough to adjust for each movement, twenty shots in all. Six more nails were laying on the floor, and he took a moment to look where the others had landed.

Twelve in all -- and though the demon had a sizeable amount of power and strength, within the Devils Trap and the iron, he couldn't use his powers to heal his host, and he certainly couldn't maintain his bravado for that long. So the left leg crumpled abruptly, Crowley landing hard on one knee, hissing expletives as the flesh burned and snarled underneath the effect of the iron. He was furious -- angry -- murderous -- and his connection to his host was getting harder to maintain, because he wanted out -- but Crowley, after a deep ragged breath, managed to say:

"Clearly."

He set the gun down and picked up a pair of silver shears, giving them a causal toss, using them to cut the back of the pant leg free, to see the wounds. If they were like wounds on a person, or showed signs of an allergic-type reaction, using the tip of the blades to knock the fabric open after he had finished cutting. Magneto didn't take any effort to agitate the nails, but he didn't take any special care to avoid them either.

Crowley was silent, for a moment or two, before he felt the scissors begin to cut -- and that was the final straw of his patience. It wasn't the shooting, the casual torture, the idiotic nonchalance -- no, it was the examination -- and when he felt the silver prod at him -- the wounds burning and festering and hissing still -- he closed his eyes abruptly, allowing some modicum of instinct to take over --

-- and a massive shove of energy caused the shears to be thrown out of the circle -- and Crowley let out a ragged breath at the sheer amount of effort it took, but he forced himself to his feet once again, his left leg trembling with the effort, but he managed to stand again.

"I am not a lab rat," Crowley said, turning to face Magneto, chest heaving as he took breaths he did not need, his eyes opening to stare at him, now under control again.

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...I uploaded new icons JUST FOR THIS POST.

8D

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