Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
integrity) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull_logs2012-03-04 08:23 pm
integrity) wrote in sirenspull_logs2012-03-04 08:23 pm
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.
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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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.
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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"Clearly."
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-- 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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"We're all lab rats. That's what this island is for. Didn't anyone tell you? Or did you miss the memo?" He'd seen the wounds, at least some of them. He would see more. He didn't need to force it right now.
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And suddenly, Crowley tensed himself, before a powerful wave rattled everything in the room -- and his eyes turned scarlet red as the chains around him began to crack -- the circle itself trapping him rattled in order to keep him in one place. Soon, the nails removed themselves from his legs, the chains lay at his feet along the ground, and Crowley was rubbing his wrists free of silver residue as the ribbons snapped like twine -- but that only lasted a moment.
He yanked out the spike in his collarbone and immediately threw it upward -- the disc with the Devil's Trap shuddered and snapped over, giving Crowley the split second he needed to step out of it, and with a shove forward of his palm, Magneto was sent into a wall, and with a curl of his fingers, Crowley had a hold on his internal organs --
-- or he would, if it weren't for that infernal machine robbing him of whatever he could have. And as Crowley curled his fingers into a fist, he narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Shame," Crowley whispered, seething, the lights in the building flickering with the power emanating off the demon, power dampened or not. "I was looking forward to seeing your brain ooze out of your ears. I suppose that can wait ten seconds or so."
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Magneto poured his attention into the void machine, it arced wildly, draining more or Crowley's power. He could either Void the space and damp Crowley, or he could Void Crowely and Damp the space. The choice was easy. Three seconds passed, at most, before he had worked the machine to do what he needed it to do, and drain most of Crowley's power down - Crowley wouldn't get his ten seconds, he could feel the power holding him lessen, abate. He could breath, not that he did just yet. Behind Crowley the cuff he had made earlier, the one with the Devil's Trap drawn on it, flew, and wrapped itself around Crowley's wrist, drawing in tight so it couldn't be slipped over his hand.
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It hurt. It felt as if something was being pressed against his soul -- what was left of his soul, anyway -- and with the metal reacting negatively against his flesh and the sigil reacting against him, Crowley wanted nothing more than to leave his host and find another, but he gritted his teeth against the instinct to abandon ship.
He had options.
> Pray for Castiel.
Ha. Over his dead body. For starters, Crowley wasn't going to pray to anything, and for another, even if Crowley could work up the gall to pray to an angel, bringing Castiel here would only trap him in the same position. If this individual had such knowledge as to dismantle a demon, he surely could know the same for an angel. And the last time Castiel had a banishing sigil placed upon him, he had had his angelic powers ripped from him in what Crowley assumed was an extraordinarily painful manner. Enduring this idiotic torture for himself was bad enough -- submitting someone else to it was out of the question.
> Call for his dog.
The surrounding area was proofed for hellhounds -- something only a few individuals in the Port knew how to do, which narrowed down the culprits significantly, in Crowley's whirring mind. Besides, even if they weren't, this psychopath could just kill her with a silver bullet or something even worse, and that, too, was out of the question.
> Break the seals and kill the idiot himself.
Crowley was a powerful demon, but there was only so much he could do when he was weakened. And with the Devil's Trap now on his wrist, he was as good as mortal, if not worse. His injuries were slowing him down, the effect of iron still stinging on his skin, and he was growing weaker. He needed to recuperate -- hide away, but in order to do that, he needed to get out of here.
That left only one option.
> Punch him in the face.
Which was precisely what Crowley did.
And, shockingly, he was actually rather good at it.
This is only the 2nd time I've gotten to use this icon!
"A-plus for effort. Not good enough." Magneto was careful, generally with his hands but he could afford a punch. He could turn nerves off if they hurt. And besides, he was better at hand to hand than he had been. So if his own return wasn't as completely clean as it should have been, what it was, was shockingly powerful, enough to stun far more durable opponents, much less someone mostly mortal.
bahahaha
"Wonderful," the demon murmured, unbothered by the pain or the blood. "Truly, condescending and you pack a punch, you would have made an excellent demon, brutal and animalistic to the last."
And Crowley flung his arm forward -- and with the last shreds of his telekinesis still working, the iron spike was throw directly toward Magneto's throat.
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The spike stopped several inches from his throat. It simply could not hurt him. He caught it easy in his fingers - they weren't even red from the punch - and twirled it lightly before causally lobing it Crowley. Backed by his own powers, however, it had more force than if it had been shot from a gun, slamming and impaling over half of it's ten inch length into Crowley's chest, aimed to hit between hit ribs rather than break bone.
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The pain was incredible -- and while normally Crowley would just yank it out and be done with it, he couldn't. His healing wasn't working properly, it was made out of iron, and for a brief second or two, his vision actually swam as the pain blacked out his senses. He drew in a ragged breath, laced with a gurgling sound as he coughed up a sizeable amount of blood.
Yanking out the spike would be more damage than it was worth, but Crowley grabbed it and pulled, coughing up more blood as he tossed it to the ground, the burns cutting into his palm, the clatter drowning out the wheezing breaths of the demon.
"Cute," Crowley said finally.
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He picked up Crowley with his powers and tossed him backwards, as if he was heaving a sack of potatoes into storage. He did, however, stent the blood flow to the wounds. That wouldn't fix the sucking chest wound, but it would prevent a pneumothorax from becoming a hemopneumothorax. Moving easily, no wasted movement, he picked up the iron chain and dropped it on Crowley's chest and stomach.
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This wasn't good. This was, in all actuality, very bad.
But he did not give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead, Crowley let himself hit the ground again, conserving his strength, focusing on anything but the weight of the iron pressing him into the ground.
"What do you want?" Crowley asked, finally, his voice quiet and hoarse, thickened by blood.
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Truly, he was. Crowley was impressive. It was almost a shame. Still, down was not out. He didn't under estimate Crowley - he had, earlier, and the Devil's Trap had been broken. It was not a mistake he would make again.
He walked over to the table and pulled the silver blanket off, letting it slip between his fingers. If it wasn't apparent before, how it flowed like silk in his fingers, almost flowing like water. He didn't do anything, yet, simply walked slowly back over to Crowley.
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It was said coldly, his eyes following Magneto toward the table, and when he saw the blanket of silver, his body tensed, but he said nothing about it.
He didn't flinch in the face of certain death during the Apocalypse, he wouldn't fucking flinch now
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He folds the blanket into a long strip and drops it over Crowley's shins. The chain breaks at a link and slides over Crowley like a snake, three folded lengths over his chest, three folded lengths over his hips. It's an old restraint trick - makes it that much more difficult - impossible for most - to get the strength behind their movements to kick loose. That leaves one hand he had to deal with, which he does to by flipping a broken piece of the Devil's Trap, heavy with iron, onto Crowley's hand.
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It was what he managed to gasp out, as the metal bound him together, like the old chains of Hell. And he felt something quell in his chest as he fought down the urge to writhe in pain, though he let out a series of short, pained, blood-laden gasps as he choked on the fluid in the back of his throat.
When it was done, when the iron had fallen, when the silver had finished, he wanted nothing more than to burst from his host, but he did not. No, he would not run away, because this person was young. And this person had absolutely no idea what they were fucking with. And if Crowley died -- and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he would die -- then he would come back and rip it out of this person's ass, because no one fucked with Crowley.
And soon, his breathing slowed, as he got a grip, and he continued to talk, his voice hoarse as he coughed up another mouthful of blood.
"Torture only breeds hatred and discontent and it is pointless, you pathetic little insect, and you may do whatever you like to me in your sick little games to attempt to get whatever you like out of me, you can keep in mind that you know nothing about torture."
And, Crowley, despite the fact that he was covered in silver and iron and Devil's Traps and inches from death, choked out a laugh, ignoring the blood.
"So, please, do what you want, kill me, torture me, but keep in mind that I will never beg for mercy and you are the animal."
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Seriously. He ignored the rest. Because information was what he wanted, and it's what he was getting. He was well aware you couldn't rule by it, and was, in fact, too aware of how much hatred it wrought.
How many had died under his boots, after Isabelle? Several dozen.
He walked over to the table and picked up a handful of knives. Other than being iron, there was nothing special about them, just standard hunting knives.
He threw one anyway, aim off but close to the other chest wound.
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"No -- you just -- want -- to kill a demon."
The thought had once been ludricus to humanity, but it had never been a secret to the demons that had bothered to learn how. The dreaded knife, the Colt, the burning of bones -- all easily accessible, if you knew were to look, which areas of the underworld to turn over, and the sheer amount of effort this individual put into this made Crowley sick.
"You have no fucking idea what a demon actually is, you ignorant trollop. And if you honestly think that I'm going to break down and spill enemy secrets because you know how to operate a bit of metal -- let me allow you into a tiny secret -- "
And Crowley closed his eyes, letting out a long shuddering breath, his fingers gripping the ground, slick with his own blood.
"Death. First."
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He didn't explain that yes, actually, he did know. Or that they were fairly common in his world as well. The only weapon proven to kill demons back home was the Soul Sword. Which he couldn't wield, as far as he knew.
Death by exsanguination or asphyxiation from one's own blood was cruel, even for him, time to end this quickly. He pulled the slimmest from the set in his hand, studying. The blade was hard enough to go through bone, a nick to the aorta quickest. But it would bleed through the other wounds. Not much to be done about that. He tossed it almost like a dart, again more powerfully than his movements would attest to, sinking it into the hilt, serving the aorta from the heart.
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