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

[integrity]

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.

Comments

[magnetic_magpie]

The attempt at an insult - and he was aware he was being insulted - didn't bother him. He didn't care was Crowley thought of him, so the insults simply didn't land.

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.

[integrity]

And there went his right lung.

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.

[magnetic_magpie]

"Don't throw what you can't catch."

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.

[integrity]

Hitting the ground knocked what little air was out of his lungs completely out -- and the pain associated with the action caused him to snarl in pain, coughing up another mouthful of blood. He refused to stay down, though -- and he shoved himself up onto his hands just for the iron chain to knock him back down.

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.

[magnetic_magpie]

"That is the first time you've admitted you don't know." That actually, in this whole affair, made him pleased, even if his voice didn't lose that unnatural calm.

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.

[integrity]

"Pointless torture isn't my area of expertise, forgive me for not getting into the mindset of a madman."

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

[magnetic_magpie]

"It's not pointless." That tone, that unnatural, calm tone, cracks a little around the edges. Frustration and anger, but he soon as it under control again.

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.

[integrity]

"All torture is pointless."

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."

[magnetic_magpie]

He raised a brow. "I never wanted you to."

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.

[integrity]

The additional wound and iron made his vision black out again, and while Magneto was granted another gasping snarl of pain, he simply coughed up more blood and another weakened laugh.

"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."

[magnetic_magpie]

"I never expected you to spill anything." That calm tone was back.

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.

[integrity]

Death was unique.

He supposed he had died, once upon a time -- it was so long ago. So long ago. A tailor in Scotland, who sold his soul to a crossroads demon, born again in the racks of Hell. Endless torture and screaming and he had lasted so long before eventually giving into the pain.

Torture. It was a horrific business. Something reserved only for the most important of tasks. And, somewhere, in the fog that was oncoming mortal death, Crowley realized the hypocrisy in the action. How many monsters had he tortured, how many monsters had he murdered, sent to Purgatory on the wings of silver and electrocution and God knows what else. But that had been worth it. That had been for a greater purpose. That had been to open the goddamn doors of Purgatory and fix the world.

How incredibly naive and stupid, for Crowley to think he had managed to escape Death -- but no, that would be too kind. Eternal torment, that was what awaited Crowley, and it infuriated him, so much, because he had managed so many things, and here he was, on the floor, bleeding to death, like an animal.

And on the cusp of Death, when the blade, burning hot, severed the essential artery connected to his supposed-to-be-dead heart, Crowley choked on blood and the distinct taste of failure, because he was not supposed to die.

But death in how a demon was born was oddly poetic.

In tortured agonizing pain.

Exactly the way Crowley swore he would never die.

But it was on the cusp that something flickered in his eyes -- the tiniest look of recognition, the opening of his lips to say something, a word, but he didn't manage it before the last breath escaped in a gurgle.

[magnetic_magpie]

Magneto had killed many. Millions, really. A staggering number, under any circumstance. But more so, given that so many had resulted from one act of war, and all but a hundred others, the other hundred or so thousand, had occurred in less than forty years.

And he had helped to kill so many millions more, when he had been younger. He didn't think he had been young then. Nuremberg's Rallies had stripped that of him before he had been able to understand what he was losing.

And still. He didn't turn his head. He didn't look away, not until something caught his attention, and he turned his head with Crowley exhaling his last breath - in doing so, the inducer glitched, for just a moment. His face was turned but white hair and his large frame revealed before it kicked back on.